The Chalice of Death (9 page)

Now he found himself in an inner corridor. A televisor screen cast an invisible defensive web across the hall, but again Navarre had the considerable benefit of having devised the system himself. He neatly extracted a fuse from a concealed panel in the dark stone of the corridor wall, and walked ahead in confidence.

Joroiran's study door was unmarked by letter or number. Again, Navarre's doing. He huddled deep into his robes, listened carefully for any sound of conversation coming from within, and, hearing none, knocked three times, then once, then once again. It was a signal he had used with the Overlord for years.

Silence for a moment. Then: “Who's there?” in the hesitant, high-pitched voice of the Overlord.

“Are you alone, Majesty?”

Through the door came the petulant reply: “Who are you to ask questions of me? Speak up or I'll summon the guards to deal with you!”

It was Joroiran in his most typically blustery mood. Speaking in his natural voice Navarre said, “Have you forgotten this knock, Majesty?”

He knocked again.

Suspiciously, from within: “Is this a joke?”

“No, Majesty. I have come back.” He threw back his hood and let Joroiran's televisors pick up his face and shaven scalp.

After a moment the door opened perhaps half an inch.

“
Navarre
!” came the whisper from within. The opening widened, and Navarre found himself face to face with his sovereign, Joroiran VII of Jorus.

The year had changed Joroiran, Navarre saw. The Overlord wore a shabby gray lounging-robe instead of his garments of state; without the elaborate strutwork that puffed out his frame when he appeared in public, he looked vaguely rat-like, a little bit of a man who had been thrust into a vast job by some ironic accident of birth.

His eyes were ringed with dark shadows; his cheeks were hollower than Navarre remembered them to have been. He said, “Hello, Navarre,” in a tired, husky voice that had none of the one-time splendor of an Overlord.

“I'm happy to be back, Sire. My journey was a long and tiring one. I hope I didn't disturb your meditations by coming to you this way …”

“Of course not.”

“Oh. Kausirn said you were too busy to be seen just now.” Navarre chose his words carefully. “He told me you had recently said I was superfluous.”

Joroiran frowned. “I don't recall your name having come up in discussion between us for the better part of a year,” he said. “I recall no such decision. You've always been a valuable adjunct to the Court.” The sudden pose of regality slipped away abruptly, and in a tired voice the Overlord said, “But then what I recall doesn't matter. Navarre, I should never have sent you away from the court.”

Despite himself Navarre felt a sense of pity for the defeated-looking monarch. Evidently Kausirn had usurped more of the Overlord's power than Navarre had suspected.

“A year has passed since I was last here,” Navarre said. “In that time—”

“In that time,” Joroiran said mournfully, “Kausirn has taken increasing responsibility upon himself. About my only remaining official duty is to hold the Threeday audiences—and if he didn't fear the force of public opinion he'd soon be doing that himself.”

Navarre's face took on an expression of shock. “You mean that while I've been gone he's seized some of the regal power?”

“I'm little more than a prisoner in the palace these days, Navarre.”

“He said you spent your time meditating, in serious contemplation,” Navarre began.

“I?” Joroiran pointed to the endless rows of books lining the walls. “You know as well as I, Navarre, that I never touch these books. I stare at them day after day. They haunt me with their memories of the past—of Overlords who ruled, instead of being ruled themselves.” Joroiran flushed. “But I talk on too much. I sent you on a mission. What of it?”

Anticipation gleamed in the Overlord's sallow face.

“Failed,” Navarre said bluntly, at once.

“Failed?”

“The Chalice is a hoax, a legend, a will-o'-the-wisp. For a year I pursued it, searching trail after trail, always finding nothing but dreams and phantasms at the end. After a year of such pursuit I decided I could be of better use to Your Majesty back here on Jorus. I returned—and found
this
.”

Joroiran's face was bleak. Disappointment was evident. “I had hoped you might find the Chalice. But to live forever? Why? For what, now that—” He shook his head. “But you have come back. Perhaps things will change.”

Impulsively Navarre seized the Overlord's hand. “I feared Kausirn's encroachments, but there was no way of pointing out the pattern of things to Your Majesty a year ago. Now that I have returned—and the shape of events is clearer to all—I can help you. You let Kausirn poison your mind against me.”

“A fool's error,” Joroiran said bitterly.

“But not of permanent harm. The Lyrellan will certainly not be able to defy you openly once you restore me—”

The sudden sound of clicking relays made the Earthman whirl. He spun to see the Overlord's door fly open. Kausirn stepped into the chamber.

“Away from that traitor, Sire!”

Navarre stared into the snout of a sturdy blaster held firmly in the Lyrellan's polydactyl hand.

Kausirn strode swiftly to the center of the room and ordered Navarre to one side with a brusque gesture. The Earthman obeyed; it was obvious that Kausirn would relish an opportunity to use that blaster.

Suddenly Joroiran drew himself up with a pale semblance of regality and said, “Why the gun, Kausirn? This is most unseemly. I have reinstated Navarre. As of this moment he is your fellow Adviser. I won't tolerate your uncivil behavior in here.”

Good for him
, Navarre thought, smiling inwardly. At least he had succeeded in winning Joroiran over, then. But would it matter, with Kausirn armed?

Turning, the Lyrellan chuckled gravely. “I mean no disrespect, Sire, but I took the liberty of listening outside Your Majesty's door for some moments. He told you, did he not, that he had failed to find the Chalice?”

“He told me that,” the Overlord admitted. “What of it? The Chalice is only a legend. It was foolish of me to send him chasing it. If I hadn't listened to you—”

“
The Chalice exists
,” the Lyrellan said tightly. “
And Navarre would use it as a weapon against you
!”

“He's insane,” Navarre snapped. “I spent a year tracing the Chalice and found nothing but false trails. It was all a trick of his to get me from Jorus, Sire, but—”

“Silence,” Kausirn ordered. “Majesty, the Chalice is a crypt, located on the ancient planet Earth. It contained ten thousand sleepers—men and women of Earth, suspended since the days of Earth's empire. I tell you Navarre has wakened these sleepers and plans to make them the nucleus of a re-established Terran empire. He intends the destruction of Jorus and all other worlds that stand in his way.”

Dumbstruck, Navarre had to fight to keep his mouth from sagging open in astonishment. How could Kausirn
possibly
know?

“This is incredible,” Navarre protested. “Sleepers, indeed! Sire, I ask you—”

“There is no need for discussion,” said Kausirn. “I have the proof with me.”

He drew a gleaming plastic message-cube from his tunic pocket and handed it to the Overlord. “Play this, Sire. Then judge which one of us betrays you and which seeks your welfare.”

Taking the cube, Joroiran stepped to one side and converted it to playback. Navarre strained his ears but was unable to pick up more than faint murmurs. When the message had run its course, the ruler returned, glaring bitterly at Navarre.

“I hardly know which of you to trust less,” he said somberly. “You, Kausirn, who has made a figurehead of me—or you, Navarre.” He scowled. “Earthman, you came in here with sweet words, but this cube tells me that every word was a lie. You would help overthrow Kausirn only to place yourself in command. I never expected treachery from you, Navarre.”

He turned to Kausirn. “Take him away,” he ordered. “Have him killed. And do something about these ten thousand awakened Earthmen. Send a fleet to Earth to destroy them.” Joroiran sounded near tears; he seemed to be choking back bitter sobs before each words. “And leave me alone. I don't want to see you any more today, Kausirn. Go run Jorus, and let me weep.”

The little monarch looked from Kausirn to the stunned Earthman. “You are both betrayers. But at least Kausirn will allow me the pretense of ruling. Go. Away!”

“At once, Sire,” said the Lyrellan unctuously.

He jabbed the blaster in Navarre's ribs. “Come with me, Earthman. The Overlord wishes privacy.”

Chapter Eight

The lower depths of the Overlord's palace were damp and musty—intentionally so, to increase a prisoner's discomfort. Navarre huddled moodily in a cell crusted with wall-lichens, listening to the steady pacing of the bulky Daborian guard outside.

Not even Kausirn had cared to kill him in cold blood. Navarre had not expected mercy from the Lyrellan, but evidently Kausirn was anxious to observe the legal formalities. There would be a public trial, its outcome carefully predetermined and its course well rehearsed, followed by Navarre's degradation and execution.

It made sense. A less devious planner than Kausirn might have gunned Navarre down in a dark alcove of the palace and thereby rid himself of one dangerous enemy. But by the public exposure of Navarre's infamy, Kausirn would not only achieve the same end but would also cast discredit on the entire line of Earthmen.

Navarre cradled his head in his hands, feeling the tiny stubbles of upshooting hair. For a year, he had let his hair grow; the year he had spent in the distant galaxy that held Earth and Procyon. But at the end of the year, when the seeding of Procyon was done and already half a thousand new Earthmen had been born, Helna and Domrik Carso and Navarre had come together, and they had decided the time had come for them to return to the main starways.

“It's best,” Carso had growled. “You stay away too long and it's possible Joroiran may decide to trace you. You never can tell. If we remain here, we may draw suspicion to the project. I vote that we go back.”

Helna had agreed. “I'll return to Kariad, you to Jorus,” she told Navarre. “We can enter once again the confidences of our masters. Perhaps we can turn that to some use in the days to come.”

Now, trapped in a cell, Navarre wondered how Kausirn had found out his plans, how the Lyrellan had known that a new race of Earthmen was rising in Galaxy RGC18347. It was too accurate to be a mere guess. Had they been followed this past year?

Navarre frowned. Somehow his defenseless ten thousand would have to be warned. But first—escape.

He squinted through the murk at the Daborian guard who paced without. Daborians were fierce warriors, thought Navarre, but the species was not overlong on brains. He eyed the tusked one's seven-foot bulk appreciatively.

“Holla, old one, your teeth rot in your head!”

“Quiet, Sir Earthman. You are not to speak.”

“Am I to take orders from a moldering corpse of a warrior?” Navarre snapped waspishly. “Fie, old one. You frighten me not.”

“I am ordered not to speak with you.”

“For fear I'd befuddle your slender brain and escape, eh? Milord Kausirn has a low opinion of your kind, I fear. I remember him saying of old that a Daborian's usefulness begins below the neck. Not so, moldy one?”

The Daborian whirled and peered angrily into Navarre's cell. His polished tusks glinted brightly. Navarre put a hand between the bars and tugged at the alien's painstakingly combed beard. The Daborian howled.

“It surprises me the beard did not come off in my hand,” Navarre said.

The Daborian grunted a curse and jabbed his fist through the bars; Navarre laughed, dancing lightly back. Mockingly he offered three choice oaths, from the safety of the rear of his cell.

The Daborian, he knew, could rend him into four quivering chunks if he ever got close enough. But that was not going to happen. Navarre stationed himself perhaps a yard from the bars and continued to rail at the guard.

Maddened, the Daborian reversed his gun and hammered at Navarre with the butt. The first wild swing came within an inch of laying open the Earthman's skull; on the second, Navarre managed to seize the slashing butt. He tugged with sudden strength. He dragged the rifle halfway from the guard's grasp, just enough to get his own hands on the firing stud.

The bewildered Daborian yelled just once before Navarre dissolved his face. A second blast finished off the electronic lock that sealed shut the cell.

Fifteen minutes later Navarre returned to the warm sunlight, a free man, in the garb of a Daborian guard.

Verru, the wigmaker of Dombril Street, was a pale, wizened little old Joran who blinked seven or eight times as the stranger slipped into his shop, locking the door behind him and holding a finger to his lips for silence.

Wordlessly, Navarre slipped behind the counter, grasped the wigmaker's scrawny arm, and drew him back through the arras into his stockroom. There he said, “Sorry for the mystery, wigmaker. I feel the need for your services.”

“You are not a Daborian!”

“The face belies the uniform,” Navarre said. He grinned, showing neat, even teeth. “My tusks don't quite meet the qualifications. Nor my scalp.” He lifted his borrowed cap. Verru's eyes widened. “An
Earthman
?”

“Indeed. I'm looking for a wig for—ah—a masquerade. Have you anything in Kariadi style?”

The trembling wigmaker said, “One moment.”

He bustled through a score or more of boxes before producing a glossy black headpiece.

“Here!”

“Affix it for me,” Navarre said.

Sighing, the wigmaker led him to a mirrored alcove and sealed the wig to his scalp. Navarre examined his reflection approvingly. In all but color, he might pass for a man of Kariad.