Dave Duncan - Shadow_玖贝云文库

Shadow

PART ONE

CRIME

Chapter 1

"He who ever trusts a bird,

Never speaks another word."

--Skyman proverb

SALD HARL was running, running as hard as he had ever run in his life. He

clutched a bulky bundle in both arms and pounded along the ornate pavement

with

the low sun at his back. His long, spindly shadow jigged endlessly before

him,

running just as hard as he.

Running in the palace grounds was forbidden. Wearing a flying suit in the

palace grounds was forbidden also, but he had already broken so many

regulations

that a few more would not matter, and if he was going to be late for a royal

summons, then perhaps nothing would matter much anymore.

If he twisted an ankle...The roadway was paved in squares of white

alabaster

and black basalt, but generations of feet and hooves had worn the softer

alabaster into toe-catching hollows, and the carriages and landaus jolting

past

him set up a continuous clamorous rattle over them.

He had no time to admire the sculptures ornamenting the marble

balustrades

which flanked the avenue or the swans swimming on their reflections in the

ornamental lake on his right. To his left the gilded pheasants strutted

unseen

on silk-smooth grass amid the blazons of the rose garden. Sald had not

visited

the palace since he was a child. Contrary to his expectations, it did not

seem

smaller than he remembered; it seemed much, much larger, and he was very,

very

late.

Splendid ladies and elegant gentlemen strolled along, pouting in haughty

disapproval, as he zigzagged between them, dodged the wheeled traffic, and

ran,

ran, ran...

A flying suit was not designed for running. It was a great garment for

keeping off the cold at the top of a thermal, up in the nose-bleeding roof of

the sky. Down in the murderous heat of the rice level, swooping above taro

fields or date palms, he could unfasten it down to his crotch, but not here,

and

it was cooking him.

Then he caught his toe against one of the basalt edges and fell flat on

his

face.

The bundle cushioned his fall, except for his elbows. He winced, took a

couple of deep breaths, started to rise, and then saw that he was lying before

a

pair of very shiny boots. Military boots. His eyes flicked from side to side,

and he saw more boots. He scrambled to has feet and saluted.

Oh, God! Of all the officers in the entire Royal Guard, this one had to

be

Colonel Lord Pontly, Commandant of Training School--Pork Eyes himself.

Sald Harl was much better at making friends than enemies. There were not

many people in the world who disliked him and few whom he disliked, but Lord

Pontly qualified on both counts. On the occasion of Sald's class graduation,

for

example, there had been the episode of the pig in the bed...

Colonel Lord Pontly was a short man, no taller than Sald himself, but

twice

the width and thrice the depth. His uniform gleamed and sparkled impeccably,

and

his puffy face bore a very thin mustache, capable of registering extreme

disapproval at times. This was one of those times.

"Harl?" he murmured. "Harl, isn't it?"

"Sir!"

"And an ensign now, I see? When did that accident occur?"

"About a hectoday ago, my lord," Sald said between puffs. He blinked as

sweat trickled into his eyes.

"I think we can correct the error." Lord Pontly glanced at the commander

beside him, who smiled obediently.

"Disorderly conduct, my lord," he said. "Improper dress."

"Oh, surely we can find a few more atrocities?" his lordship muttered.

"Stealing washing, from the look of it. What exactly are you carrying,

Ensign?"

Sald was trembling with the effort of standing still when every nerve was

screaming frantically at him to hurry.

"Court dress, my lord."

Pontly's eyebrows were as linear as his mustache, and they rose in

graceful

astonishment. "Whose court dress?"

"Mine, sir."

The colonel looked at the commander, and the surrounding troopers looked

at

one another.

"And why would you be needing court dress, Ensign?"

"Sir, I am summoned to the Investiture," Sald said, trying not to moan

the

words.

Pontly's globular face flushed slightly. "If I recall correctly, Ensign,

you

are not of noble birth?"

"Sir, my father is a baronet."

Sald could sense their disbelief. A commoner never received a royal

summons.

He groped in his pocket and produced the royal writ. He tried desperately not

to

fidget as Pontly read it through from start to finish.

Pontly turned very red. "You are going to be late, Ensign!"

"Sir, that was why I was running."

Pork Eyes went redder still. Running within the palace grounds was a

trivial

indiscretion compared to insulting the king. "You will disgrace the entire

Guard! Explain!"

Sald gulped. "The courier sought me at my posting--at Jaur, my lord. I

was

on furlough at my parents' house, Hiando Keep. I did not receive the writ

until

yesterday."

At that news, colonel and commander exchanged thoughtful glances. There

was

little love misplaced between the royal couriers and the Guard. Sald could

see

the temptation fermenting in their minds. If Ensign Harl was late for the

start

of the Investiture, then he would not be admitted at all. There would be a

court-martial. The fault could be laid to the courier.

That would not save Ensign Harl, of course--nothing would--but it might

muddy the royal couriers a trifle.

"Hiando Keep is on Rakarr, is it not?" the commander said. "Eight hours'

flight from Rakarr to Ramo, more or less?"

"What time exactly yesterday did the courier arrive?" Pontly demanded, a

predatory expression on his rotund face.

"Just before two bells, my lord," Sald said. Get on with it! For a moment

he

considered an appeal to Pork Eyes's better nature: Let Sald go about his

business now and report back to him later. But he knew it would not work. The

sun would move first.

Pontly frowned. "And when did you leave Rakarr Peak?"

Sald could lie, of course, but if there was going to be a trial, then

there

would be witnesses called. "A little after three bells, my lord."

Pork Eyes's eyes widened; the charge sheet was filling up. Sald had flown

from Rakarr to Ramo faster than even the couriers did, perhaps faster than it

had ever been done, but time like that could be made only by detouring out

over

the plains, riding the giant thermals of the desert, risking immense changes

in

altitude, which could bring on sky sickness, crippling or even killing. The

desert was very much against Guard regulations. The desert was death.

"Six hours?" the commander muttered. The surrounding troopers were

pursing

lips and exchanging looks.

"Well?" Pontly barked. "Why did you delay so long after you received the

writ?"

"Court dress, my lord," Sald said desperately. He tried to explain

quickly

that he did not own court dress. Only the nobility ever needed it. Boots,

hose,

breeches, doublet, cloak, plumed hat--some of those he had scrounged from

neighbors in a hasty flight around the local manors and castles, and the rest

his father had rummaged out of the attics. But the coat of arms--his mother

and

sisters had worked all through third watch, while the rest of the world was

abed, sewing, embroidering, cutting, and stitching.

"Why would His Majesty summon a--a mere ensign in the Guard to an

Investiture?" the commander asked softly.

That was a very good question, and Sald would dearly have loved to know

the

answer. He could not expect an honor or a title or an award, certainly;

therefore he must have been called for an appointment of some sort. The

courier

had told Sald all he knew. The Investiture had been a surprise to the whole

court, but Prince Shadow was dead, killed by a wild in the line of duty. His

most probable replacement was Count Moarien. That would leave a vacancy in

the

king's bodyguard...and so on. Obviously the required shuffle had turned out

to

be large enough to justify a General Investiture, and when everyone had

rolled

one place up the bed, there was going to be a gap at the bottom, some very

humble slot into which Ensign Sald Harl would apparently fit. Assistant

Bearer

of the Royal Chamber Pot, perhaps?

Pontly looked at the commander. The commander looked at Pontly.

"I think he might just make it, my lord, on wheels."

His lordship's mustache curled in anger. Reluctantly he nodded: His prey

was

going to escape him. The couriers were evidently not at fault, and if there

was

a court-martial, then he might be asked why he had delayed the accused.

"Get him there!" he barked.

The next passing landau was halted, and its protesting occupant summarily

evicted. Sald Harl went roaring off along the avenue, wheels drumming on the

paving, hooves clattering, coachman's whip snapping, and pedestrians bounding

to

safety. Sald leaned back, clutching his bouncing bundle, sweat still running

down his ribs. He looked at the commander, who had boarded beside him.

"Thank you, sir," he said.

He knew the commander also. An elderly man, close to retirement, he

lectured

on pathfinding in Training School; Sald had flown with him a few times. He

was

studying Sald now with a quizzical expression. "How many hops?" he demanded.

"About twelve, sir," Sald said uneasily.

"And who chose the thermals--you or your mount?"

"I did, sir."

The commander hung on tight as the landau went around a corner. He looked

thoroughly disbelieving. "Six hours from Rakarr?"

Sald hoped that his face was already red enough that a blush would not

show.

"Er...I did let him give me a few hints, sir."

The commander shook his head angrily. "I warned you about that a dozen

times, Harl! And just because he didn't kill you this time, don't think he

won't

try in future!" He scowled. Then he smiled admiringly. "Six hours, huh?"

"More or less, sir," Sald said.

It had been much closer to five.

He made it with minutes to spare, reeling into the robing room with his

bundle, heart thundering and the inside of his head hammering like a smithy.

The room was packed with nobility being groomed and preened in front of

mirrors by teams of valets. The only space he could find was next to an

elderly

and obese duke, whose cloak was being arranged by his attendant as though it

were a priceless and timeless masterpiece of sculpture. Sald started to

strip,

ignoring both amusement and disapproval among the onlookers. Full court dress

was not designed to be put on without assistance; tight hose would not pull

over

sweaty legs. He grabbed a passing page, a spotty youth a full head taller

than

himself, and ordered him to fasten the buttons on the back of his coat.

Then he crumpled his flying suit into a bundle and stuffed it behind the

mirror and looked at himself.

It was even worse than he had imagined, from antique boots and wrinkled

hose

all the way up to tousled curls and a hat which fortunately he need only

carry,

as it fell over his ears if he tried to wear it. And the coat of arms--not

all

the red in his face was from hurry. The workmanship would probably pass, but

the

heraldry it displayed was ludicrous in this company: He had only two

quarterings. The fat duke next to him had at least thirty, his coat a

kaleidoscope of minute armorial symbols, an ancestry stretching from the Holy

Ark itself.

Two quarterings! He was a molehill among mountains. His left side was

just

passable, four quarterings. His mother had once been a lady-in-waiting to the

queen herself, qualified by that breeding, but on the right, his father's

side,

there were only two. Sald Harl was privately convinced that this whole

horrible

experience must be the result of some error by a palace scribe who had

somehow

put the wrong name on the writ. Even Lady Harl had admitted that she had

never

heard of a man with only two quarterings being presented at a formal court

function.

He was apparently the youngest man summoned to the dubbings, which could

be

a source of pride if the summons were not an error. He was also the shortest,

which was equally gratifying. But he was by far the most lowly.

Mirrors did not normally bother him. He was young, slim, and fit--and

short.

But what he could see in this mirror was going to create a scandal if it were

allowed into the Great Courtyard. He had not even thought to bring a comb.

The valet beside him had a portable table littered with all sorts of

equipment, including at least three combs. Sald braced himself to address a

senior peer, and at that moment the duke decided that he was perfect. He

turned

from the mirror in Sald's direction, and Sald bowed.

It was as if he were not there. The noble eyes passed right through him

as

their owner continued his turn and then moved off toward the center of the

room.

The mirror showed Sald's face turning even more furiously red than before.

The valet was an elderly, wasted, and elongated man, but he had noticed.

Watery old eyes gleaming with amusement, he produced a damp cloth and

silently

wiped the goggle marks from Sald's face; Sald had not seen those. Then he

splashed some liquid into his hands and applied it to Sald's hair, briskly

and

efficiently.

A door opened, and the noisy hubbub died a lingering death. Out of the

corner of his eye Sald saw that Feather King of Arms had entered with

followers.

God! They were ready, then. The valet started doing hasty things with a

comb--evidently this ramshackle young trooper was an interesting challenge

for

him.

And all this for what? Ever since the courier had burst in on the Harls'

dinner, Sald had wrestled with that problem, and he kept coming back to the

same

answer: He was about to be named equerry to some snot-nosed juvenile

aristocrat,

some duke's grandson who fancied himself as a skyman and wanted a private

instructor on hand. Yes, my lord, no, my lord, may I kiss your arm, my lord.

Royal appointments could not be refused.

Yet such a trivial indenture would normally rate only a line in the court

gazette, not a dubbing at a General Investiture. It just did not make sense!

King of Arms was lining them up by rank.

The valet was struggling with the coat, pursing his lips and still not

saying a word. Then he stepped back, his face inscrutable. Sald opened his

mouth

to speak, but stopped when he heard his own name spoken.

"Ensign Harl?" It was Feather King of Arms, supreme heraldic officer of

Rantorra; with parchment face and glacier eyebrows, he was stooped and

ancient

and dignified as death itself. His livery outshone anything else in the room.

Sald bowed and received a barely visible nod.

King of Arms swept his eye over that despicable coat. He could have

recited

every family represented after that glance, minor though they all were.

"Five, four, three, king, queen, prince, king again, one more; the

reverse

on the way out?" King of Arms said quietly.

"Certainly!" Sald was not that ignorant.

King of Arms motioned his monumental head toward the end of the line of

nobles and was about to vanish into the crowd.

"A question, my lord," Sald said brashly, this man being a relatively

safe

target for his bitterness. "There has not, perhaps, been an error?"

The faded old eyes flamed. "Did you say error, Ensign?"

"Yes!" Sald snapped. "I always understood that presentation at court was

reserved to persons of higher lineage than mine."

"So did I," King of Arms said icily, and walked away.

The valet had started to tidy his equipment. Sald reached for his money

pouch, but of course it was in his flying suit, behind the mirror. "You have

been most kind," he stuttered.

"It was an honor, Ensign," the old man said, beaming down at him.

The line had started to move. "No, it was a kindness," Sald insisted.

"Hardly an honor, after a duke."

The valet's smile became cryptic. "An honor to help those who serve our

beloved sovereign and his family."

With his mouth still open, Sald dashed to take his place at the end of

the

fast-vanishing line. What had that meant? His mother, he recalled, always

said

that the servants knew more than anyone else in the court.

He stepped out into sunlight--and the vastness of the Great Courtyard.

Trumpets blared barbarically. Finely groomed ladies and elegant gentlemen,

the

high nobility of the realm, the elite of Rantorra glittering in splendor,

rose

with a hiss of silk and brocade as the noble appointees came into their midst.

A

matching line of ladies emerged to join the men, and together they paraded

down

a center aisle toward the distant and empty thrones.

All around the high walls, on tiered balconies, the lesser nobility and

some

of the commonality stood in silence to study their betters. Even men with

less

than two quarterings, perhaps.

There were more men than women in the procession, so only the men near

the

front had partners. At the end of the line came Ensign Harl: youngest,

shortest,

loneliest.

When the fat duke reached the open space before the thrones, he stopped.

The

next man moved to his right, and the next to his. When Sald arrived, he

paraded

along the whole line of highborn hindquarters and found barely space to

squeeze

between the last man and the wall, turning to face the dais and the thrones.

The

fabrics whispered again as the audience sat down.

The thrones faced the assembly and also faced sunward. High above, on top

of

the wall, a fixed mirror jutted out at an angle so that the rays of the

unchanging sun were reflected downward and the thrones glowed, brilliant in

the

shady courtyard.

There were a few minutes of expectant silence.

Unnoted in his edge position, Sald gaped around like the hick country boy

he

was. The Great Courtyard was the largest enclosed space he had ever seen.

High

above, slowly circling in the azure sky, were four--no, six--guards. What

happened, he wondered, to a trooper whose bird crapped on the court? A

posting

to the hot pole to make ice cream, perhaps?

Far beyond the courtyard wall he could see the distant craggy top of Ramo

Peak, but it could not compare with the view he had had from the desert, a

view

few men had ever seen: the Range in all its splendor. Even his home peak of

Rakarr he had never seen so well, set off by the hazy backdrop of the Rand

itself, a crumbled rampart rising miles above the plain, glowing bright

against

the midnight blue of the sky over Darkside, itself glittering with the

distant

reflection of ice. But Rakarr was a tiny peak, barely high enough to catch

rain,

and hence poor for cultivation. Ramo Peak, as he had seen it from the desert,

had been breathtaking--its immense vertical extent from airless, waterless

rocky

uplands, faint and remote, down through pastures and then all the crop

levels,

barley and wheat and the others, to the lowest habitable, rice; and below

that

the useless jungle, and then the barren foothills clothed in the dense and

poisonous "red air" of the desert and the crucible plains.

The congregation rose again.

The royal fanfare was played.

The entourage entered: guards and priests and court functionaries.

The king and queen followed.

It had been a long time since Sald had been close to the king, but he

could

see little change. The famous flaxen hair might be turning to silver in

parts,

but when the king stepped into the carpet of sunlight around the thrones, his

hair blazed as brightly as the gold circlet it bore. The fair-skinned face

was

the same, the darting, penetrating eyes. Diamond decorations sparkled on his

royal-blue court dress. No quarterings there; the front of his coat bore the

eagle symbol only. Aurolron XX, King of Rantorra, tiny and immensely regal.

But Queen Mayala! Sald was stunned. Where now was the legendary beauty

which

had once been the toast of the kingdom? Like a woodland sprite, Mayala had

floated on the edges of his childhood, a fairy-tale queen with trailing honey

hair and a smile for which men would cheerfully have died. She floated no

more;

eyes downcast, hunched, shrunken inside her royal-blue gown, no taller than

the

king himself, servile even, she shuffled along beside him. Her hair looked

dyed,

her face waxen. If this was the best they could do with her for an

Investiture,

how did she look in private? He had heard no rumors.

Side by side, the royal couple advanced toward the thrones. Immediately

behind the king walked King Shadow, wearing identical clothes--minus

decorations, plus a black baldric--a portly yet a somber man.

Then came Crown Prince Vindax.

He had not changed--the jet hair, the beak nose, the easy athlete's walk

were just as Sald remembered. His eyebrows had grown perhaps even bushier. No

quarterings for him, either--he wore sky-blue and the talon symbol of the

heir

apparent. Prince Shadow was dead, so Vindax's brother, Jarkadon, walked

directly

behind him, filling the post until Count Moarien's appointment became

official.

The king and queen settled on the thrones, and Vindax took his place at his

father's side, Jarkadon still at his back. The senior officials moved

smoothly

to their appointed places.

Vindax's eyes scanned along the waiting fine of hopefuls and found Sald.

There was no change of expression, but the royal eyes noted the shabby boots,

the baggy hose, the despicable coat. Then the study ended, and Vindax looked

away.

But his interest had been observed, and necks craned to see who had been

so

honored.

There, thought Sald, was his problem. His mother had been a

lady-in-waiting.

As a child he had attended the palace school, and he was the same age as

Vindax--few ensigns in the Guard had ever been on first-name terms with the

crown prince. Later they had met again, when Vindax was learning flying from

the

Guard trainers. So when some young courtier had mentioned that he wanted an

equerry who was a good skyman, the prince himself would have graciously

mentioned the name of Harl. Amusing type, knows his manners, clean about the

house...

The anthem was played, then the archbishop prayed, inaudibly to mortal

ears.

Vindax looked no more at Sald, but Sald studied him. The prince was

amazingly unlike the rest of his family. Could flax and honey produce jet?

Certainly that thought must have been mulled over a million times by

thousands

of people since the prince's birth, but to speak even a hint of it would be

treason. Jarkadon, by contrast, looked more like the king than the king did.

The lord chancellor read the proclamation, finally bidding all those

etcetera draw nigh. Nobody moved.

A herald removed the scroll from the chancellor's hand and substituted

another.

"...know therefore that it is our pleasure..."

There must be forty dubbings to come. Three or four minutes had to be

allowed for each to be called, to advance, to receive a few gracious words

from

the monarch...it was going to be a long time until they got to Sald Harl.

And the chancellor reached the end of the first citation:

"...our right trusty Sald Harl, Esquire, ensign in our Royal Guard."

It was like hitting a sudden downdraft. He hardly registered the shocked

bubbling of the court around him.

First? He had been planning to watch the others.

His feet moved by themselves, and he floated balloonlike above them,

along

the line to the center. Turn. Bow. Five paces. Bow. Four paces--make them

longer. Bow again. He was within the hot circle of sunlight...

Shadow? Had that proclamation said "Shadow"?

Oh, Great God Who Guided the Ark!

Bow to king, queen, prince, king again. Take one step. Then he stood at

the

edge of the dais, white-faced and sick to the roots of his soul.

Aurolron XX rose and paced forward, King Shadow at his back.

The penetrative power of the royal gaze was legendary. It was said that

no

man in the kingdom could face it. But that was not true when the kingdom had

just crumbled into rubble and buried you up to your ears, when every muscle

had

frozen with shock. The twin sapphire flames burned above Sald, and he stared

back into them with no trouble at all--an easy feat for one whose life had

been

totally ruined without warning. Chosen career, skymanship, private life,

family,

friendships--all had been snatched away in an instant.

For a lifetime the blue eyes and the black stayed locked, and the king's

eyebrows rose in mild amusement.

"And how is NailBiter?' the king asked softly.

"Well, Your Majesty." They had researched him, of course.

The royal brows frowned at the brevity. "Out of DeathBreak by SkyHammer."

The king's interest in his bloodstock was famous, and his knowledge

encyclopedic. "We had great hopes of that pairing--yet there has been but one

chick, and it seems that only one man in our entire Guard is capable of

handling

him."

Five minutes ago, that royal compliment would have sent Sald Harl into

delirium.

"An exaggeration, Majesty. And I am teaching him better manners."

The long eye contact ended as the king blinked. He almost seemed to

smile.

He spoke even more softly. "Perhaps you can do the same for our son?" But no

answer was expected to that.

The king raised his hand, and a page paced forward with a black baldric on

a

scarlet cushion. Sald's knees found the edge of the dais. The king laid the

baldric in silence over Sald's head and across his chest--and by that royal

act

turned a man into a shadow.

Sald rose. He moved one pace back and was about to bow--

No! Up from his childhood, from classes in protocol in the palace school,

seeped a long-forgotten maxim: Shadow bows to no one. He froze.

Should he play it safe and begin his new job with a major display of

ignorance before the entire court? Never! But if he was wrong, then he would

be

guilty of lese majesty at the very least. He looked to King Shadow and got

the

merest hint of a head shake.

So the commoner awarded the king a barely perceptible nod, the sort of nod

a

fat duke might so easily have given an ensign, and moved one pace to the

side.

Appointments took effect immediately. He looked to Vindax, and this time the

signal was positive. Certain he was dreaming, he stepped up on the royal dais

and walked toward the two princes. Jarkadon backed away for him, smiling

sardonically.

Sald moved into place behind Vindax: his place now. The place from which

nothing must remove him, save only death.

There were more appointments, honors and decorations and awards. The

peacocks and the butterflies strutted and fluttered in the sunlight, but Sald

saw almost none of it. Only once did he take notice, when his fat neighbor

from

the antechamber waddled forward to be inducted into the Order of the Golden

Feather: His Grace, the duke of Aginna. It was a travesty! That great slob

could

not have ridden a bird in his life.

He thought of the news arriving at Hiando Keep. His father would swell

with

pride. His mother would be horror-struck, his sisters full of tears.

The court whirled in iridescent grandeur.

The end came. The royal party withdrew--and the fifth person in that

party

was Sald Harl.

No, it was Shadow. Prince Shadow, if he need be distinguished from King

Shadow, but normally just Shadow.

He must adjust to life without a name.

The procession proceeded along corridors. Without warning, Vindax turned

to

a door, but Sald had been expecting that and did not miss a step. As he

pushed

the door shut behind them, he noted crystal and silver on carved sideboards,

and

one small window; this must be some sort of pantry. A cowering little man was

waiting.

Vindax walked to the nearest wall and then swung around, black eyes

glinting

with amusement. "Welcome, Shadow!" he said.

"Highness..."

The prince's eyes said that he had made an error.

"I don't know this stuff!" Sald said angrily.

"Then you've forgotten it! Shadow is never presented, so you know nobody.

Rank only, rarely title. Never formal address--not even names unless you

must."

"Thank you, Prince."

Vindax raised a cynical eyebrow. "It isn't quite that bad."

Sald knew that his resentment was obvious, that he was therefore showing

ingratitude, and that he was being mocked because of it. He liked to remember

Vindax as a childhood friend, back when they had both been too small to

appreciate the chasm between a baronet's heir and a king's. He tried not to

remember the adolescent Vindax of flying classes, when a commoner struggling

to

get by on ability alone must never upstage the heir apparent.

"Why me?" he demanded.

Dave Duncan - Shadow

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