Flandry left Chives in the boat at the main spaceport, and gave the portmaster a sizeable bribe to forget that his vessel was more heavily armed than a civilian craft ought to be. He and Ella caught a flittercab downtown and got a penthouse in one of the better hotels. Flandry never stinted himself when he was on expense account, but this time the penthouse had a business reason. You could land a spaceboat on the roof if a quick getaway became necessary.
He called the ducal palace that evening and got through to the chief social secretary. “Captain Sir Dominic Flandry of his Majesty’s Intelligence Corps,” he said pompously to the effeminate face. “I would like an audience with his Grace. There is some business to discuss.”
“I am afraid, sir, that—”
A telescreen buzzed by the secretary’s elbow. “Excuse me.” He spoke to it. When he faced back around, his expression was obsequious. “Of course, sir. His Grace would be pleased to see you at fourteen hundred tomorrow.”
“Good,” said Flandry. “I’ll buy you a lollipop sometime, Junior.” He switched off and laughed at Ella’s astonished face. “That does it,” he told her. “Someone was monitoring the secretary, and when he got my name, let the secretary know in no uncertain terms that my presence is urgently desired at the palace — or, at least, that an invitation would allay my suspicions for a while.”
There were no lights on, but by the radiance of Vor’s one great moon he saw her bite her lip. “That doesn’t sound good,” she said.
“It sounds very much as if my notion is right. Look here.” Flandry had been over all the points a dozen times, but he liked to hear himself talk. “The Intelligence Corps is highly efficient if you point it in the right direction. In this case, the kidnapping was so designed that Fenross is pointed in a hundred different directions, none of them correct. He’s tackling the hopeless job of investigating a million barbarian stars and the hostile Merseian Empire. But I, having a nasty suspicious mind, thought that there might be elements within our own territory which would not mind having the Emperor’s favorite granddaughter for a guest.
“That alien-type spaceship was meant as a clue toward Merseia, but I didn’t like it. Merseia is too far away from here for Wilderness barbarians to copy from them; and if the raid was their doing, why should they give themselves away so blatantly? Likewise, ordinary barbarian looters would not have come to Varrak in the first place, and wouldn’t have had such accurate information in the second place. Even Merseia was unlikely to know about the princess’ tour. Oh, they were genuine enough outlanders, you could see that on them — but who hired them, and who provided the leadership?
“That little gnome thing gave me a hunch. He was obviously in some position of authority, or he wouldn’t have been demanding loot in exchange for those girls — the raiders would simply have taken the women themselves. The files held no information on a race of that exact description, but I did find out that his Grace, Duke Alfred of Tauria, has a number of aliens in his household, some of them from unknown regions where only a few human ships have ventured.
“Well, it seems logical. Before long, some barbarian king is going to demand a goodly chunk of this sector as Megan’s ransom. She may be returned then, with her memory wiped clean of the circumstances, or she may not. The important thing is that the king will get the territory. The Emperor will suppose we can fight a war to get it back. But the king will be a puppet of Alfred’s, and it’ll be Alfred’s own army which bears the brunt of that campaign. The duke, pretending all the time to be on our side, will see to it that we’re beaten back and lose the rest of Tauria to boot. Then he can set himself up as an independent ruler, or he can make a deal with some rival empire like Merseia. In either case, we lose one of our main bulwarks.
“At least,” finished Flandry, “that’s how I’d work the business.”
Ella shivered, and there was something haunted in her eyes. “War,” she whispered. “Killing, burning, looting, enslaving — no!”
“It’s up to us to stop it,” said Flandry. “I can’t tell Fenross my suspicions yet; even if he believed me, which is doubtful, the Taurian division of the Corps is probably full of Alfred’s agents. He’d find out and take steps to halt us. We’d probably all find ourselves jailed for treason. Now by announcing myself here, I must have alarmed his Grace. He’ll want to know if I’m really on his trail—”
A shadow blocked out the moon and moved across the floor. Flandry peered cautiously through the window. Below the great skyscraper, the night city flared and blazed with a million jeweled lights, all the way up to the huge fortress-like castle on the hill. But there was a flitter landing on his roof.
“Quick work,” muttered Flandry between his teeth. His blaster slid from its holster. “I thought the duke would wait to see me, but apparently not.”
Ella cradled a repeater rifle in her arms. In the darkened room, a shaft of moonlight threw her face into white, unreal relief. “They may be innocent,” she said.
“They wouldn’t land here without asking if they were.” Flandry saw half a dozen dark forms get out and start toward the penthouse. Moonrays glittered on metal. “Local assassins, I daresay, hired to nab us. Let ’em have it!”
His blaster roared, a thunderbolt leaped through the windowpane and wrapped one man in flame. The others yelled, scattering. Ella’s rifle spoke, and someone reeled on the edge of the roof and toppled horribly over the wall. Bullets cracked against the house.
“If this were ordinary innocent robbery, the police would be down on us like hawks,” observed Flandry. “But they’ve been warned off here for tonight.” His nostrils dilated. “Sleepy gas! Get your mask!”
The fight snarled for minutes. Two men came behind the house, blew open the door with a grenade, and sprang into the living room. Ella cut them down as Flandry fired out the window. Then there was silence.
“That’s all,” said Flandry. His voice came muffled through the mask. “Clumsy job. Friend Alfred must be rattled. Well, we’ll give him time to think up something really fiendish for us.” He stepped over to the service screen and punched its button. “I trust the manager has also been told to mind his own business tonight … Hello, service? I’m afraid there’s a bit of a mess in our place. Can you send someone up to clean it?”
The audience hall was huge, and earlier dukes had furnished it with a luxury of gold and tapestry which was somewhat overwhelming. The present master hadn’t bothered to remove this, but his more austere personality showed in the comfortless furniture and the armed guards who formed an unmoving wall on either side. Flandry felt dwarfed, but he walked with his usual swagger up to the throne, where he delivered a sweeping bow. In colorful clothes and ceremonial sword, he outshone the man who sat there.
Duke Alfred was big, his muscles running toward middle-aged paunch but hardness still on the blocky gray-bearded face. Flandry had met him briefly, some years before, and marked him for a dangerous man. “Be at ease,” he said. His voice and the expressionless countenance did not echo the hospitable words. “Whom have you here?” He nodded at Ella, who crouched abjectly on the carpet.
“A small present for your Grace,” said Flandry. “She may amuse you.” There was nothing suspicious about that; one customarily brought gifts when visiting a noble, and both of them had been X-rayed for weapons as they entered.
“Hm.” Interest and appreciation flickered in the duke’s eyes. “Look at me, wench.” Ella raised a timid face. She was quite an actress, as Flandry had already learned. “Good. Take her to the harem.” A gigantic four-armed Gorzunian slave kowtowed and led her out.