The crowd, now become a mob, surged back and forth. He fell on one knee, lifted his arms to ward off being trampled on. But the mob had swarmed elsewhere. For the moment he was safe, and then, looking around as he began to rise, he saw the girl on the ground to his right. She was slender and slight and pale, a trickle of blood upon her face.
He started to lift her up. She opened her eyes, her face convulsed with rage; she struck at him, leaped away free. In another moment she was lost in the screaming crowd.
III
The mob did not manage to free the convicted man but did manage to wreck the Court House thoroughly, and was in the act of burning it when the hastily summoned soldiery attacked. The standing army of the City-State of Peramis was small, but it was disciplined and the mob was not. Hence the battle, though nasty and brutish, was also short. The plebs, still roaring defiance, scattered, leaving their dead behind them.
The murderer, who had killed the Gentleman in a fight over more compensation for his hunt-trampled crops, was executed as scheduled; and in the usual manner: bound and gagged and hanged by his feet in the main square, he was filled with arrows by a squad of masked archers.
Whether this was a mistake or not, was much discussed at the Lodge. Chief Commissioner Narthy, killing time until the arrival of the weekly aerospace ferry for ConfedBase — the only area of Earth under direct Galactic rule, it was located on the landmass which the Kar-chee had created out of the Andaman Islands—“Hunter” Narthy treating the lounge-bar to a farewell round of drinks, insisted it was a mistake.
“Why, they’ve given the mob a martyr,” he said, sipping. “Everyone of those poor, down-trodden plebs that witnessed the execution is a potential rebel leader. No… the execution should have been carried out privately, if at all. Then a program of education and land-reform, taking into cognizance the legitimate aspirations of the pleb-peoples—”
But an elegantly-dressed trader from the Blue Worlds shook his head. On the contrary, he said, to do in secret what had always been done in public would have been to admit to a fear of the mob. And nothing, he said, is more calculated to increase a mob’s power.
“Besides,” he went on, caressing his glass, “what legitimate aspirations of the pleb-peoples’ exist? Every Doghunter would like to be a Gentleman, and who can blame him? But who can agree that this is a legitimate aspiration? An armada can’t consist of all admirals, can it? As for the right of Hunts to go across plowed land — why, it’s part of the age-old principal of eminent domain. This planet has no other resource but its Hunts, no other justification for Confederation being here — or for anyone from outside ever visiting the place.”
A middle-aged Company PR man nodded. “And without us,” he said, “the place would sink back into barbarism. You can’t base a civilization on planting potatoes. No, we owe it to our ancient Mother World to continue our fructifying contact with it.”
However convinced the lounge-bar was, much of the population of Peramis thought otherwise. The atmosphere in the streets was hostile, several visitors were jostled or stoned, and that night a Gentleman’s country seat was attacked and burned and a number of its loyal servants slain. All in all, Jon-Joras thought he understood why Dr. Cannatin had decided to set up his base of operations elsewhere. He sought out Jetro Yi.
“What do you think of arranging my king’s hunt in another city-state?” he asked. “Sartor or Hathis or Drogue? It would not do for his visit to be disturbed by all this unrest.”
Jetro shook his head. “It would stir up jealousy, P.M. Utterly. We always try to avoid creating antagonisms of that sort.”
Jon-Joras scanned the map. His finger pointed. “How about this area called The Bosky? Base the hunt in Peramis, officially, but have it there, in no-man’s-land.”
However, Jetro even more earnestly opposed this. He doubted that such arrangements could be completed in time — he was, in fact, certain that they could not. Jon-Joras afterwards concluded that Jetro was likely much more concerned with the loss of his commission if the Hunt was held in another district… but he felt himself ill-equipped to argue against those who held the local ground. He allowed himself to be persuaded that the trouble was dying down (indeed, it did seem to be), and set to work on his own task of preparing for Por-Paulo’s visit.
The estate of Thuemorix seemed quite satisfactory, despite its distance from the town — more than twice as far as Aëlorix, for instance. He hired a flyer, contracted for food, equipment, extra servants, entertainment, and all the thousand and two things needful. It was not only that he wanted his efforts to be successful from a career point of view. He sincerely liked Por-Paulo. The elective kingships of M.M. beta were mankilling jobs. Por-Paulo needed the change.
Thuemorix himself, a middle-aged man with a wry sense of humor, had made the very courteous gesture of sending his family on ahead to Hathis-port, where they had close friends. He stayed behind to offer his assistance to Jon-Joras. “I find that the warmth of affection is often in inverse proportion to the distance between the friends,” he said. “As it is, they’ll give me such a hail-and-fare-well party in Hathis that we’ll never forget it. Between sea-sickness and the fact that we’ll have to spend at least four months with my wife’s aunt in Bachar, I’ll be needing all the pleasant memories I can get.”
He brought out his best from the strong-rooms and storerooms to furnish the quarters engaged for Por-Paulo and his aides and guests, moving furniture with his own hands to be sure it was arranged right. Jon-Joras had been helping him, and they were looking around them in sweaty contentment, when the signal of a flyer brought them out to the wide park-like lawn where the vessel had put down.
“What’s up, Roe?” the host called out as they approached. “Don’t tell me — an imprompt?”
Roedeskant nodded while several Gentleman called greetings. “Yes, your High. Wish you’d come along. A big drag’s been sighted by the river fallows what’s part of the Lie lands, and as its Gentleman’s owed me a drag this two-three years, why, he’s kind enough to have give me the hunt of it. Now, your High will recollect that I owes you a drag. So, if he don’t mind taking it now as an imprompt—?”
Thuemorix didn’t mind at all. His face lit up. “Just the thing for a send-off,” he said, directing his servants to get his huntgun. “And one for my young guest, too. I don’t think it improper for you to take a chance on a shot,” he said to Jon-Joras, “before your liege arrives, since it’s an imprompt, and hardly counts. Won’t give you a title if you pierce your dragon, you see. We are so particular about the dragons, you see,” he said, his manner suddenly becoming much more serious, “because the dragons used to be so particular about us. Do you know what I mean? The Kar-chee used them like dogs, to hunt us down. That’s why, I suppose, that we never use dogs to hunt anymore. Fact. Only of course they are a bit bigger than dogs, a bit fiercer… and, leaving sarcasm aside, infinitely more intelligent…”
Jon-Joras said, “I had really known nothing about all this—”
Thuemorix nodded. “It’s a wonder that there were any of us alive at the end, there, at all… Well.” He relaxed, smiled a bit, and with a wave of his hand invited the outworlder to admire the view below.
Over the forests, denser and denser as they proceeded upriver, the thick meadows and marshlands, the flyer made its way. The atmosphere was cheerful and relaxed. An impromptu hunt was evidently quite a different thing from a regular one. Many of those aboard were younger sons — some of them surprisingly young, including that son of Aëlorix whom Jon-Joras had seen at target practice. Evidently the archers today were all gentlemen amateurs.