Poul Anderson - A Knight of Ghosts and Shadows

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A KNIGHT OF GHOSTS AND SHADOWS - Poul Anderson

A KNIGHT OF GHOSTS AND SHADOWS

Poul Anderson

[22 feb 2003—scanned for #bookz]

[23 feb 2003—proofed for #bookz]

Every planet in the story is cold—even Terra, though Flandry came home on a warm evening of northern

summer. There the chill was in the spirit.

He felt a breath of it as he neared. Somehow, talk between him and his son had drifted to matters

Imperial. They had avoided all such during their holiday.

Terra itself had not likely reminded them. The globe hung beautiful in starry darkness, revealed by a view-

screen in the cabin where they sat. It was almost full, because they were accelerating with the sun behind

them and were not yet close enough to start on an approach curve. At this remove it shone white-swirled

blue, unutterably pure, near dewdrop Luna. Nothing was visible of the scars that man had made upon it.

And the saloon was good to be in, bulkheads nacreous gray, benches padded in maroon velvyl, table of

authentic teak whereon stood Scotch whisky and everything needed for the use thereof, warm and

flawlessly recycled air through which gamboled a dance tune and drifted an odor of lilacs. The Hooligan,

private speedster of Captain Sir Dominic Flandry, was faster, better armed, and generally more versatile

than any vessel of her class had a moral right to be; but her living quarters reflected her owner's

philosophy that, if one is born into an era of decadence, one may as well enjoy it while it lasts.

He leaned back, inhaled deeply of his cigarette, took more smokiness in a sip from his glass, and regarded

Dominic Hazeltine with some concern. If the frontier was truly that close to exploding—and the boy must

go there again ... "Are you sure?" he asked. "What proved facts have you got—proved by yourself, not

somebody else? Why wouldn't I have heard more?"

His companion returned a steady look. "I don't want to make you feel old," he said; and the knowledge

passed through Flandry that a lieutenant commander of Naval Intelligence, twenty-seven standard years

of age, wasn't really a boy, nor was his father any longer the boy who had begotten him. Then Hazeltine

smiled and took the curse off: "Well, I might want to, just so I can hope that at your age I'll have

acquired, let alone kept, your capacity for the three basic things in life."

"Three?" Flandry raised his brows. "Feasting, fighting, and—Wait; of course I haven't been along when

you were in a fight. But I've no doubt you perform as well as ever in that department too. Still, you told

me for the last three years you've stayed in the Solar System, taking life easy. If the whole word about

Dennitza hasn't reached the Emperor—and apparently it's barely starting to—why should it have come to

a pampered pet of his?"

"Hm. I'm not really. He pampers with a heavy hand. So I avoid the court as much as politeness allows.

This indefinite furlough I'm on—nobody but him would dare call me back to duty, unless I grow bored

and request assignment—that's the only important privilege I've taken. Aside from the outrageous amount

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of talent, capability, and charm with which I was born; and I do my best to share those chromosomes."

Flandry had spoken lightly in half a hope of getting a similar response. They had bantered throughout

their month-long jaunt, whether on a breakneck hike in the Great Rift of Mars or gambling in a miners'

dive in Low Venusberg, running the rings of Saturn or dining in elegance beneath its loveliness on

Iapetus with two ladies expert and expensive. Must they already return to realities? They'd been more

friends than father and son. The difference in age hardly showed. They bore well-muscled height in

common, supple movement, gray eyes, baritone voice. Flandry's face stood out in a perhaps overly

handsome combination of straight nose, high cheekbones, cleft chin—the result of a biosculp job many

years past, which he had never bothered to change again—and trim mustache. His sleek seal-brown hair

was frosted at the temples; when Hazeltine accused him of bringing this about by artifice, he had grinned

and not denied it. Though both wore civilian garb, Flandry's iridescent puff-sleeved blouse, scarlet

cummerbund, flared blue trousers, and curly-toed beefleather slippers opposed the other's plain coverall.

Broader features, curved nose, full mouth, crow's-wing locks recalled Persis d'Io as she had been when

she and Flandry said farewell on a planet now destroyed, he not knowing she bore his child. The tan of

strange suns, the lines creased by squinting into strange weathers, had not altogether gone from Hazeltine

in the six weeks since he reached Terra. But his unsophisticated ways meant only that he had spent his

life on the fringes of the Empire. He had caroused with a gusto to match his father's. He had shown the

same taste in speech—

("—an itchy position for me, my own admiral looking for a nice lethal job he could order me to do,"

Flandry reminisced. "Fenross hated my guts. He didn't like the rest of me very much, either. I saw I'd

better produce a stratagem, and fast."

("Did you?" Hazeltine inquired.

("Of course. You see me here, don't you? It's practically a sine qua non of a field agent staying alive, that

he be able to outthink not just the opposition, but his superiors."

("No doubt you were inspired by the fact that 'stratagem' spelled backwards is 'megatarts.' The prospect of

counting your loose women by millions should give plenty of incentive."

(Flandry stared. "Now I'm certain you're my bairn! Though to be frank, that awesomely pleasant notion

escaped me. Instead, having developed my scheme, I confronted a rather ghastly idea which has haunted

me ever afterward: that maybe there's no one alive more intelligent than I.")

—and yet, and yet, an underlying earnestness always remained with him.

Perhaps he had that from his mother: that, and pride. She'd let the infant beneath her heart live,

abandoned her titled official lover, resumed her birthname, gone from Terra to Sassania and started anew

as a dancer, at last married reasonably well, but kept young Dominic by her till he enlisted. Never had she

sent word back from her frontier home, not when Flandry well-nigh singlehanded put down the

barbarians of Scotha and was knighted for it, not when Flandry well-nigh singlehanded rescued the new

Emperor's favorite granddaughter and headed off a provincial rebellion and was summoned Home to be

rewarded. Nor had her son, who always knew his father's name, called on him until lately, when far

enough along in his own career that nepotism could not be thought necessary.

Thus Dominic Hazeltine refused the offer of merry chitchat and said in his burred un-Terran version of

Anglic, "Well, if you've been taking what amounts to a long vacation, the more reason why you wouldn't

have kept trace of developments. Maybe his Majesty simply hasn't been bothering you about them, and

has been quite concerned himself for quite some while. Regardless, I've been yonder and I know."

Flandry dropped the remnant of his cigarette in an ash-taker. "You wound my vanity, which is no mean

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accomplishment," he replied. "Remember, for three or four years earlier—between the time I came to his

notice and the time we could figure he was planted on the throne too firmly to have a great chance of

being uprooted—I was one of his several right hands. Field and staff work both, specializing in the

problem of making the marches decide they'd really rather keep Hans for their Emperor than revolt all

over again. Do you think, if he sees fresh trouble where I can help, he won't consult me? Or do you think,

because I've been utilizing a little of the hedonism I fought so hard to preserve, I've lost interest in my old

circuits? No, I've followed the news, and an occasional secret report."

He stirred, tossed off his drink, and added, "Besides, you claim the Gospodar of Dennitza is our latest

problem child. But you've also said you were working Sector Arcturus: almost diametrically opposite,

and well inside those vaguenesses we are pleased to call the borders of the Empire. Tell me, then—you've

been almighty unspecific about your operations, and I supposed that was because you were under

security, and didn't pry—tell me, as far as you're allowed, what does the space around Arcturus have to

do with Dennitza? With anything in the Taurian Sector?"

"I stayed mum because I didn't want to spoil this occasion," Hazeltine said. "From what Mother told me, I

expected fun, when I could get a leave long enough to justify the trip to join you; but you've opened

whole universes to me that I never guessed existed." He flushed. "If I ever gave any thought to such

things, I self-righteously labeled them Vice.'"

"Which they are," Flandry put in. "What you bucolic types don't realize is that worthwhile vice doesn't

mean lolling around on cushions eating drugged custard. How dismal! I'd rather be virtuous. Decadence

requires application. But go on."

"We'll land now, and I'll report back," Hazeltine said. "I don't know where they'll send me next, and

doubtless won't be free to tell you. While the chance remains, I'll be honest. I came here wanting to know

you as a man, but also wanting to, oh, alert you if nothing else, because I think your brains will be sorely

needed, and it's damn hard to communicate through channels."

Indeed, Flandry admitted.

His gaze went to the stars in the viewscreeen. Without amplification, few that he could see lay in the

more or less 200-light-year radius of that rough and blurry-edged spheroid named the Terran Empire.

Those were giants, visible by virtue of shining across distances we can traverse, under hyperdrive, but

will never truly comprehend; and they filled the merest, tiniest fragment of the galaxy, far out in a spiral

arm where their numbers were beginning to thin toward cosmic hollowness. Yet this insignificant

Imperial bit of space held an estimated four million suns. Maybe half of those had been visited at least

once. About a hundred thousand worlds of theirs might be considered to belong to the Empire, though for

most the connection was ghostly tenuous ... It was too much. There were too many environments, races,

cultures, lives, messages. No mind, no government could know the whole, let alone cope.

Nevertheless that sprawl of planets, peoples, provinces, and protectorates must somehow cope, or see the

Long Night fall. Barbarians, who had gotten spaceships and nuclear weapons too early in their history,

prowled the borders; the civilized Roidhunate of Merseia probed, withdrew a little—seldom the whole

way—waited, probed again ... Rigel caught Flandry's eye, a beacon amidst the great enemy's dominions.

The Taurian Sector lay in that direction, fronting the Wilderness beyond which dwelt the Merseians.

"You must know something I don't, if you claim the Dennitzans are brewing trouble," he said. "However,

are you sure what you know is true?"

"What can you tell me about them?" Hazeltine gave back.

"Hm? Why—um, yes, that's sensible, first making clear to you what information and ideas I have."

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"Especially since they must reflect what the higher-ups believe, which I'm not certain about."

"Neither am I, really. My attention's been directed elsewhere, Tauria seeming as reliably under control as

any division of the Empire."

"After your experience there?"

"Precisely on account of it. Very well. We'll save time if I run barefoot through the obvious. Then you

needn't interrogate me, groping around for what you may not have suspected hitherto."

Hazeltine nodded. "Besides," he said, "I've never been in those parts myself."

"Oh? You mentioned assignments which concerned the Merseia-ward frontier and our large green

playmates."

"Tauria isn't the only sector at that end of the Empire," Hazeltine pointed out.

Too big, this handful of stars we suppose we know ... "Ahem." Flandry took the crystal decanter. A refill

gurgled into his glass. "You've heard how I happpened to be in the neighborhood when the governor,

Duke Alfred of Varrak, kidnapped Princess Megan while she was touring, as part of a scheme to detach

the Taurian systems from the Empire and bring them under Merseian protection—which means

possession. Chives and I thwarted him, or is 'foiled' a more dramatic word?

"Well, then the question arose, what to do next? Let me remind you, Hans had assumed, which means

grabbed, the crown less than two years earlier. Everything was still in upheaval. Three avowed rivals

were out to replace him by force of arms, and nobody could guess how many more would take an

opportunity that came along, whether to try for supreme power or for piratical autonomy. Alfred wouldn't

have made his attempt without considerable support among his own people. Therefore, not only must the

governorship change, but the sector capital.

"Now Dennitza may not be the most populous, wealthy, or up-to-date human-colonized planet in Tauria.

However, it has a noticeable sphere of influence. And it has strength out of proportion, thanks to

traditionally maintaining its own military, under the original treaty of annexation. And the Dennitzans

always despised Josip. His tribute assessors and other agents he sent them, through Duke Alfred,

developed a tendency to get killed in brawls, and somehow nobody afterward could identify the brawlers.

When Josip died, and the Policy Board split on accepting his successor, and suddenly all hell let out for

noon, the Gospodar declared for Hans Molitor. He didn't actually dispatch troops to help, but he kept

order in his part of space, gave the Merseians no opening—doubtless the best service he could have

rendered.

"Wasn't he the logical choice to take charge of Tauria? Isn't he still?"

"In spite of Merseians on his home planet?" Hazeltine challenged.

"Citizens of Merseian descent," Flandry corrected. "Rather remote descent, I've heard. There are humans

who serve the Roidhunate, too, and not every one has been bought or brainscrubbed; some families have

lived on Merseian worlds for generations."

"Nevertheless," Hazeltine said, "the Dennitzan culture isn't Terran—isn't entirely human. Remember how

hard the colonists of Avalon fought to stay in the Domain of Ythri, way back when the Empire waged a

war to adjust that frontier? Why should Dennitzans feel brotherly toward Terrans?"

"I don't suppose they do." Flandry shrugged. "I've never visited them either. But I've met other odd

human societies, not to speak of nonhuman. They stay in the Empire because it gives them the Pax and

often a fair amount of commercial benefit, without usually charging too high a price for the service. From

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what little I saw and heard in the way of reports on the Gospodar and his associates, they aren't such fools

as to imagine they can stay at peace independently. Their history includes the Troubles, and their

ancestors freely joined the Empire when it appeared."

"Nowadays Merseia might offer them a better deal."

"Uh-uh. They've been marchmen up against Merseia far too long. Too many inherited grudges."

"Such things can change. I've known marchmen myself. They take on the traits of their enemies, and

eventually—" Hazeltine leaned across the table. His voice harshened. "Why are the Dennitzans resisting

the Emperor's decree?"

"About disbanding their militia?" Flandry sipped. "Yes, I know, the Gospodar's representatives here have

been appealing, arguing, logrolling, probably bribing, and certainly making nuisances of themselves on

governmental levels as high as the Policy Board. Meanwhile he drags his feet. If the Emperor didn't have

more urgent matters on deck, we might have seen fireworks by now."

"Nuclear?"

"Oh, no, no. Haven't we had our fill of civil war? I spoke metaphorically. And ... between us, lad, I can't

blame the Gospodar very much. True, Hans' idea is that consolidating all combat services may prevent a

repetition of what we just went through. I can't say it won't help; nor can I say it will. If nothing else, the

Dennitzans do nest way out on a windy limb. They have more faith in their ability to protect themselves,

given Navy support, than in the Navy's ability to do it alone. They may well be right. This is too serious a

matter—a whole frontier is involved—too serious for impulsive action: another reason, I'm sure, why

Hans has been patient, has not dismissed the Gospodar as governor or anything."

"I believe he's making a terrible mistake," Hazeltine said.

"What do you think the Dennitzans have in mind, then?"

"If not a breakaway, and inviting the Merseians in—I'm far from convinced that that's unthinkable to

them, but I haven't proof—if not that, then insurrection ... to make the Gospodar Emperor."

Flandry sat still for a while. The ship murmured, the music sang around him. Terra waxed in his sight.

Finally, taking forth a fresh cigarette, he asked, "What gives you that notion? Your latest work didn't

bring you within a hundred parsecs of Dennitza, did it?"

"No." Hazeltine's mouth, which recalled the mouth of Persis, drew into thinner lines than ever hers had

done. "That's what scares me. You see, we've collected evidence that Dennitzans are engineering a

rebellion on Diomedes. Have you heard of Diomedes?"

"Ye-e-es. Any man who appreciates your three primaries of life ought to study the biography of Nicholas

van Rijn, and he was shipwrecked there once. Yes, I know a little. But it isn't a terribly important planet

to this day, is it? Why should it revolt, and how could it hope to succeed?"

"I wasn't on that team myself. But my unit was carrying out related investigations in the same sector, and

we exchanged data. Apparently the Diomedeans—factions among them—hope the Domain of Ythri will

help. They've acquired a mystique about the kinship of winged beings ... Whether the Ythrians really

would intervene or not is hard to tell. I suspect not, to the extent that'd bring on overt conflict with us. But

they might well use the potentiality, the threat, to steer us into new orbits—We've barely started tracing

the connections."

Flandry scowled. "And those turn out to be Dennitzan?"

"Correct. Any such conspiracy would have to involve members of a society with spaceships—preferably

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humans—to plant and cultivate the seed on Diomedes, and maintain at least enough liaison with Ythri

that the would-be rebels stay hopeful. When our people first got on the track of this, they naturally

assumed the humans were Avalonian. But a lucky capture they made, just before I left for Sol, indicated

otherwise. Dennitzan agents, Dennitzan."

"Why, on the opposite side of Terra from their home?"

"Oh, come on! You know why. If the Gospodar's planning an uprising of his own, what better

preliminary than one in that direction?" Hazeltine drew breath. "I don't have the details. Those are, or will

be, in the reports to GHQ from our units. But isn't something in the Empire always going wrong? The

word is, his Majesty plans to leave soon for Sector Spica, at the head of an armada, and curb the

barbarians there. That's a long way from anyplace else. Meanwhile, how slowly do reports from an

obscure clod like Diomedes grind their way through the bureaucracy?"

"When a fleet can incinerate a world," Flandry said bleakly, "I prefer governments not have fast reflexes.

You and your teammates could well be quantum-hopping to an unwarranted conclusion. For instance,

those Dennitzans who were caught, if they really are Dennitzans, could be freebooters. Or if they have

bosses at home, those bosses may be a single clique—may be, themselves, maneuvering to overthrow the

Gospodar—and may or may not have ambitions beyond that. How much more than you've told me do

you know for certain?"

Hazeltine sighed. "Not much. But I hoped—" He looked suddenly, pathetically young. "I hoped you

might check further into the question."

Chives entered, on bare feet which touched the carpet soundlessly though the gee-field was set at Terran

standard. "I beg your pardon, sir," he addressed his master. "If you wish dinner before we reach the

landing approach zone, I must commence preparations. The tournedos will obviously require a red wine.

Shall I open the Chateau Falkayn '35?"

"Hm?" Flandry blinked, recalled from darker matters. "Why ... um-m ... I'd thought of Beaujolais."

"No, sir," said Chives, respectfully immovable. "I cannot recommend Beaujolais to accompany a

tournedos such as is contemplated. And may I suggest drinking and smoking cease until your meal is

ready?"

Summer evening around Catalina deepened into night. Flandry sat on a terrace of the lodge which the

island's owner, his friend the Mayor Palatine of Britain, had built on its heights and had lent to him. He

wasn't sleepy; during the space trip, his circadian rhythm had slipped out of phase with this area. Nor was

he energetic. He felt—a bit sad?—no, pensive, lonesome, less in an immediate fashion than as an

accumulation from the years—a mood he had often felt before and recognized would soon become

restlessness. Yet while it stayed as it was, he could wonder if he should have married now and then. Or

even for life? It would have been good to help young Dominic grow.

He sighed, twisted about in his lounger till he found a comfortable knees-aloft position, drew on his cigar

and watched the view. Beneath him, shadowy land plunged to a bay and, beyond, the vast metallic sheet

of a calm Pacific. A breeze blew cool, scented with roses and Buddha's cup. Overhead, stars twinkled

forth in a sky that ranged from amethyst to silver-blue. A pair of contrails in the west caught the last glow

of a sunken sun. But the evening was quiet. Traffic was never routed near the retreats of noblemen.

How many kids do I have? And how many of them know they're mine? (I've only met or heard of a few.)

And where are they and what's the universe doing to them?

Hm. He pulled rich smoke across his tongue. When a person starts sentimentalizing, it's time either to get

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busy or to take antisenescence treatments. Pending this decision, how about a woman? That stopover on

Ceres was several days ago, after all. He considered ladies he knew and decided against them, for each

would expect personal consideration—which was her right, but his mind was still too full of his son.

Therefore: Would I rather flit to the mainland and its bright lights, or have Chives phone the nearest

cepheid agency?

As if at a signal, his personal servant appeared, a Shalmuan, slim kilt-clad form remarkably humanlike

except for 140 centimeters of height, green skin, hairlessness, long prehensile tail, and, to be sure,

countless more subtle variations. On a tray he carried a visicom extension, a cup of coffee, and a snifter

of cognac. "You have a call, sir," he announced.

How many have you filtered out? Flandry didn't ask. Nor did he object. The nonhuman in a human

milieu—or vice versa—commonly appears as a caricature of a personality, because those around him

cannot see most of his soul. But Chives had attended his boss for years. "Personal servant" had come to

mean more than "valet and cook"; it included being butler of a household which never stayed long in a

single place, and pilot, and bodyguard, and whatever an emergency might require.

Chives brought the lounger table into position, set down the tray, and disappeared again. Flandry's pulse

bounced a little. In the screen before him was the face of Dominic Hazeltine. "Why, hello," he said. "I

didn't expect to hear from you this soon."

"Well"—excitement thrummed—"you know, our conversation—When I came back to base, I got a

chance at a general data scanner, and keyed for recent material on Dennitza. A part of what I learned will

interest you, I think. Though you'd better act fast."

Immediately after the two Navy yeomen who brought Kossara to the slave depot had signed her over to

its manager and departed, he told her: "Hold out your left arm." Dazed—for she had been whisked from

the ship within an hour of landing on Terra, and the speed of the aircar had blurred the enormousness of

Archopolis—she obeyed. He glanced expertly at her wrist and, from a drawer, selected a bracelet of white

metal, some three centimeters broad and a few millimeters thick. Hinged, it locked together with a click.

She stared at the thing. A couple of sensor spots and a niello of letters and numbers were its only

distinctions. It circled her arm snugly though not uncomfortably.

"The law requires slaves to wear this," the manager explained in a bored tone. He was a pudgy, faintly

greasy-looking middle-aged person in whose face dwelt shrewdness.

That must be on Terra, trickled through Kossara's mind. Other places seem to have other ways. And on

Dennitza we keep no slaves ...

"It's powered by body heat and maintains an audiovisual link to a global monitor net," the voice went on.

"If the computers notice anything suspicious—including, of course, any tampering with the

bracelet—they call a human operator. He can stop you in your tracks by a signal." The man pointed to a

switch on his desk. "This gives the same signal."

He pressed. Pain burned like lightning, through flesh, bone, marrow, until nothing was except pain.

Kossara fell to her knees. She never knew if she screamed or if her throat had jammed shut.

He lifted his hand and the anguish was gone. Kossara crouched shaking and weeping. Dimly she heard:

"That was five seconds' worth. Direct nerve stim from the bracelet, triggers a center in the brain.

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Harmless for periods of less than a minute, if you haven't got a weak heart or something. Do you

understand you'd better be a good girl? All right, on your feet."

As she swayed erect, the shudders slowly leaving her, he smirked and muttered, "You know, you're a

looker. Exotic; none of this standardized biosculp format. I'd be tempted to bid on you myself, except the

price is sure to go out of my reach. Well ... hold still."

He did no more than feel and nuzzle. She endured, thinking that probably soon she could take a long,

long, long hot shower. But when a guard had conducted her to the women's section, she found the water

was cold and rationed. The dormitory gaped huge, echoing, little inside it other than bunks and inmates.

The mess was equally barren, the food adequate but tasteless. Some twenty prisoners were present. They

received her kindly enough, with a curiosity that sharpened when they discovered she was from a distant

planet and this was her first time on Terra. Exhausted, she begged off saying much and tumbled into a

haunted sleep.

The next morning she got a humiliatingly thorough medical examination. A psychotech studied the

dossier on her which Naval Intelligence had supplied, asked a few questions, and signed a form. She got

the impression he would have liked to inquire further—why had she rebelled?—but a Secret classification

on her record scared him off. Or else (because whoever bought her would doubtless talk to her about it)

he knew from his study how chaotic and broken her memories of the episode were, since the

hypnoprobing on Diomedes.

That evening she couldn't escape conversation in the dormitory. The women clustered around and

chattered. They were from Terra, Luna, and Venus. With a single exception, they had been sentenced to

limited terms of enslavement for crimes such as repeated theft or dangerous negligence, and were not

very bright or especially comely.

"I don't suppose anybody'll bid on me," lamented one. "Hard labor for the government, then."

"I don't understand," said Kossara. Her soft Dennitzan accent intrigued them. "Why? I mean, when you

have a worldful of machines, every kind of robot—why slaves? How can it ... how can it pay?"

The exceptional woman, who was handsome in a haggard fashion, answered. "What else would you do

with the wicked? Kill them, even for tiny things? Give them costly psychocorrection? Lock them away at

public expense, useless to themselves and everybody else? No, let them work. Let the Imperium get some

money from selling them the first time, if it can."

Does she talk like that because she's afraid of her bracelet? Kossara wondered. Surely, oh, surely we can

complain a little among ourselves! "What can we do that a machine can't do better?" she asked.

"Personal services," the woman said. "Many kinds. Or ... well, economics. Often a slave is less efficient

than a machine, but needs less capital investment."

"You sound educated," Kossara remarked.

The woman sighed. "I was, once. Till I killed my husband. That meant a life term like yours, dear. To be

quite safe, my buyer did pay to have my mind corrected." A sort of energy blossomed in look and tone.

"How grateful I am! I was a murderess, do you hear, a murderess. I took it on myself to decide another

human being wasn't fit to live. Now I know—" She seized Kossara's hands. "Ask them to correct you too.

You committed treason, didn't you say? Beg them to wash you clean!"

The rest edged away. Brain-channeled, Kossara knew. A crawling went under her skin. "Wh-why are you

here?" she stammered. "If you were bought—"

"He grew tired of me and sold me back. I'll always long for him ... but he had the perfect right, of course."

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A KNIGHT OF GHOSTS AND SHADOWS - Poul Anderson

The woman drew nearer. "I like you, Kossara," she whispered. "I do hope we'll go to the same place."

"Place?"

"Oh, somebody rich may take you for a while. Likelier, though, a brothel—"

Kossara yanked free and ran. She didn't quite reach a toilet before she vomited. They made her clean the

floor. Afterward, when they insisted on circling close and talking and talking, she screamed at them to

leave her alone, then enforced it with a couple of skilled blows. No punishment followed. It was dreadful

to know that a half-aware electronic brain watched every pulsebeat of her existence, and no doubt

occasionally a bored human supervisor examined her screen at random. But seemingly the guardians

didn't mind a fight, if no property was damaged. She sought her bunk and curled up into herself.

Next morning a matron came for her, took a critical look, and nodded. "You'll do," she said. "Swallow

this." She held forth a pill.

"What's that?" Kossara crouched back.

"A euphoriac. You want to be pretty for the camera, don't you? Go on, swallow." Remembering the

alternative, Kossara obeyed.

As she accompanied the matron down the hall, waves of comfort passed through her, higher at each tide.

It was like being drunk, no, not drunk, for she had her full senses and command of her body ... like having

savored a few glasses with Mihail, after they had danced, and the violins playing yet ... like having Mihail

here, alive again.

Almost cheerfully, in the recording room she doffed her gray issue gown, went through the paces and said

the phrases designed to show her off, as instructed. She barely heard the running commentary:

"Kossara Vymezal [mispronounced, but a phonetic spell-out followed], human female, age twenty-five,

virgin, athletic, health and intelligence excellent, education good though provincial. Spirited, but ought to

learn subordination in short order without radical measures. Life sentence for treason, conspiracy to

promote and aid rebellion. Suffers from hostility to the Imperium and some disorientation due to

hypnoprobing. Neither handicap affects her wits or basic emotional stability. Her behavior on the voyage

here was cold but acceptable.

"She was born on the planet Dennitza, Zoria III in the Taurian Sector. [A string of numbers] Her family is

well placed, father being a district administrator. [Why no mention of the fact Mother was a sister of

Bodin Miyatovich, Gospodar and sector governor? O Uncle, Uncle ... ] As is the rule there, she received

military training and served a hitch in the armed forces. She has a degree in xenology. Having done field

work on planets near home, several months ago she went to Diomedes [a string of numbers]—quite

remote, her research merely a disguise. Most of the report on her has not been made available to us; and

as said, she herself is confused and largely amnesiac about this period. Her main purpose was to help

instigate a revolt. Before much harm was done, she was detected, arrested, interrogated, and sentenced by

court-martial. There being little demand for slaves in that region, and a courier ship returning directly to

Terra, she was brought along.

"We rate her unlikely to be dangerous, given the usual precautions, and attractive both physically and

personally—"

The camera projected back the holograms it had taken, for its operator's inspection, and Kossara looked

upon her image. She saw a big young woman, 177 centimeters tall, a bit small in the bosom but robust in

shoulders, hips, and long free-striding legs, skin ivory-clear save for a few freckles and the remnant of a

tan. The face was wide, high in the cheekbones, snub in the nose, full in the mouth, strong in chin and

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A KNIGHT OF GHOSTS AND SHADOWS - Poul Anderson

jawline. Large blue-green eyes stood well apart beneath dark brows and reddish-brown bangs; that hair

was cropped below the ears in the manner of both sexes on Dennitza. When she spoke, her voice was

husky.

"—will be sullen unless drugged, but given the right training and conditions, ought to develop a high

sexual capacity. A private owner may find that kindness will in due course make her loyal and

responsive—"

Kossara slipped dreamily away from the words, the room, Terra ... the whole way home. To Mihail? No,

she couldn't quite raise him from the dust between the stars—even now, she dared not. But, oh, just a few

years ago, she and Trohdwyr ...

{She had a vacation from her studies at the Shkola plus a furlough from her ground defense unit in the

Narodna Voyska. Ordinarily she would have spent as much of this time as he could spare with her

betrothed. But a space force had been detected within a few light-years of the Zorian System which might

intend action on behalf of some other claimant to the Imperium than Hans Molitor whom the Gospodar

supported, or might use such partisanship as an excuse for brigandage. Therefore Bodin Miyatovich led

some of the Dennitzan fleet out to warn off the strangers, and if necessary fight them off. Mihail Svetich,

engineer on a Meteor-class torpedo craft, had kissed Kossara farewell.

Rather than fret idle in Zorkagrad, she flitted to her parents' home. Danilo Vymezal, voivode of the

Dubina Dolyina, was head of council, chief magistrate, and military commander throughout a majestic

country at the northern rim of the Kazan. Soon after she reached the estate, Kossara said she wished for a

long hunt. Her father regarded her for a moment before he nodded. "That will do you good," he said.

"Who would you like for a partner? Trohdwyr?"

She had unthinkingly supposed she would go alone. But of course he was right; only fools went by

themselves so far into wilderness that no radio relay could pass on a distress call from a pocket

transceiver. The old zmay was welcome company, not least because he knew when to be silent.

They took an aircar to a meadow on the unpeopled western slope and set forth afoot. The days and nights,

the leagues and heights, wind, rain, sun, struggle, and sleep were elixir. More than once she had a clear

shot at a soaring orlik or a bull yelen poised on a crag, and forbore; those wings or those horns were too

splendid across the sky. But at last it was sweet fire in the blood to stand before a charging dyavo, feel the

rifle surge back against her shoulder, see fangs and claws fall down within a meter of her.

Trohdwyr reproved: "You were reckless, Dama."

"He came at me from his den," Kossara retorted.

"After you saw the entrance and took care to make much noise in the bushes. Deny it not. I have known

you longer than your own memory runs. You learned to walk by clinging to my tail for safety. If I lose

you now, your father will dismiss me from his service, and where then shall a poor lorn dodderer go?

Back to his birth village to become a fisher again, after these many years? Have mercy, Dama."

She chuckled. They set about making camp. This was high in the bowl of the Kazan, where that huge

crater bit an arc from the Vysochina. The view could not have been imagined by anyone who had not

seen it, save God before He willed it.

Though treeless, the site bore a dense purple sward of mahovina, springy underfoot and spicy to smell,

studded by white and gold wildflowers; and a nearby canebrake rustled in the breeze. Eastward the

ringwall sloped down to timberline. Beyond, yellow beams of evening fell on a bluish mistiness of forest,

as far as sight could reach, cloven by a river which gleamed like a drawn blade. Westward, not far hence,

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AKNIGHTOFGHOSTSANDSHADOWS-PoulAndersonAKNIGHTOFGHOSTSANDSHADOWSPoulAnderson[22feb2003—scannedfor#bookz][23feb2003—proofedfor#bookz]IEveryplanetinthestoryiscold—evenTerra,thoughFlandrycamehomeonawarmeveningofnorthernsummer.Therethechillwasinthespirit.Hefeltabreathofitasheneared.Somehow,talkbetweenhi...

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