Emra

Chapter 4 of the science fiction novel Elis Royd

Elis Royd

Chapter Four

Emra

Every royd has its day.

For Emra it was the moment of coronation; an event she hadn’t sought, didn’t want, and wouldn’t have accepted at any other moment in her life. But this was a ceremony beyond philosophy or politics; this was coronation by acclamation. A burlap wrap, a crown of thatch, and two thousand, six hundred and thirty-four admirers overwhelmed by the splendor of it all.

The broad field on Maert’n’s side of Runoff Gorge contains several knolls. The largest of these is named Temur Sam, or, in Earthman, Wrath’s Knee. This knoll has the distinction of capping a rise between diverging cart roads, and affords its climber a gorgeous view of East Valley shimmering in the power plant’s dissipating steam. Temur Sam has for generations held a dim spiritual significance for the locals. That appeal is purely symbolic--royds, an awkward amalgam of tribalized species struggling to survive on a godforsaken asteroid, have no religion.

Now, an imposing speaker, with a vital message and at least a little charisma, can readily use Temur Sam to his/her advantage. Emra possessed that charisma in spades: bruised aplomb, a brooding mien, a dark aura--what all sincere mystics know as doom. Used well, it’s much more effective than hype.

Unrolled in her hands was a copy of the original Ellis Asteroid Constitution. She was quoting it now; a demigod addressing a sea of subjects from an island’s lofty peak:

“‘All denizens of Ellis Asteroid are citizens of the great system Canis Major, and are the legal beneficiaries of their godmother Earth. We are all grist of the stars, and as such we are equal in every molecule we inherit, in every breath we respire, in every future we dream’.” She looked down at the rapt, upturned faces. “Heady stuff, is it not?” She went on:

“‘Denizens of Ellis Asteroid are therefore by definition neighbors and compatriots. No one individual shall be subservient to another, and no race shall be considered inferior, or treated as such. This naturalization asteroid is intended as a model of democratic efficiency, and, like her ancient Terran namesake Ellis Island, exists as a gateway to a better life for all. Any person or party who usurps this ideal fundamentally acts as an enemy of democracy itself’.” Emra paused for effect. “Again, noble words meant to inspire confidence and trust.” Looking round with the profoundest gravity, she very slowly and deliberately ripped the parchment down the center and committed the halves to a breeze.

“Earth Administration has soiled this fine document since its inception. They are the ‘enemy of democracy itself’. I have analyzed this Constitution in depth. Little, if anything, remotely resembles the tyranny overshadowing us today. It is time for all royds to come together under a common cause: the reversing of a trend that has persisted so long it has become a straightforward fact of our lives--the cell-deep belief that we are somehow inferior to Earthmen; that they belong in their cushy fortress and we in our bitter swamps.”

To the bereaved sprawl below her--hundreds who’d lost family and homes to a gang of arrogant marauders a long time coming--she stated with resounding clarity: “As your chosen Queen I hereby pledge my time and energy to bringing the monster of EarthAd to its knees. I intend a dialogue on equal ground, and am sending an emissary with that very proposal. Upon their reciprocation of this act, the resurrection of Elis Royd begins!”

* * *

At night Maert’n’s faintly radioactive steam condenses to resemble a glistening fog, lending her low primitive dwellings a presence both brooding and enchanted. The soft yellow glow of her inn’s famous candelabrum can be seen for half a mile, surrounded by the tiny single lamps of individual huts. Every once in a while, the whole place just gets swallowed up in mist.

That broad homey inn was now Emra’s loaned headquarters, or “palace”--not at all a bad deal for the original keeper, who was entertaining way more business than he could handle. The concept of royalty simply boggled royd minds. They left their ruts and differences behind, hiking from all corners of the asteroid to pay tribute in precious metals and stones. Had Emra the necessary arrogance, she might have viewed her new subjects as a virtually inexhaustible war chest. But wealth and acquisition make very little sense in a world of bogs and canyons, and besides, her heart was set on a diplomatic solution. All in good time, that needed haughtiness would come. Emra was no stranger: she knew grief, she knew hatred, she knew bitterness and resolve--she was already halfway there.

A zobb snuffled through the lobby’s inner door, looked quickly left and right, and grotesquely slithered to his queen’s feet. Emra tucked in her slippers before he could make a mess of them. “What now?”

“An on-voy. An esimessary--” he bounced his muzzle on the floorboards in frustration “--a messenger human. From EarthAd, in response to your summons.”

“Send him in.” The zobb backpedaled on his belly, sweeping his long speckled nose left and right.

In a minute Emra could see a squat silhouette framed in the main doorway. The zobb flopped ahead, leading this figure across the lobby and into the inn proper. “Withdraw,” Emra commanded. The zobb nodded and nodded, grasped the knob in his mouth and pulled the door closed.

The emissary cagily took in the room, an obsequious half-smile partly lighting his face. He removed his high emblazoned hat and bowed. The man was quite short and stout, with fat greasy lips and tiny darting eyes. The stench of Earthmen clung to his every move. He unwrapped his scarves, bobbing his head like a drowned man at each exaggerated revolution, then used the hat’s brim to swat mist from his overcoat’s sleeves. “Your majesty.”

Emra nodded. “Be seated.”

The emissary draped his scarves and coat on the back of an old peeling chair, carefully placed his gloves in a vest pocket, and sat with a great show of fastidiousness. “Such an honor. Such an honor.”

“You are tardy in your response.”

The fat little human closed his eyes and nodded slightly to port. “The Council took immense joy in discussing your request for a dialogue, and very great care in considering your most wonderful gift. An act of tremendous foresight, I must say.” He raised an eyebrow. “Such a large and lovely gemstone. The entire Council was quite taken with it. An heirloom?”

“A bauble,” Emra said indifferently.

The eyebrow arched higher. The man languidly locked his fingers and sank into his chair. “Our Council Elder sends his warmest regards, and prays you will show at your earliest convenience. And along with his regards, he also sends a gift in reciprocation.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. Certainly not as eye-catching as yours, but heartfelt nonetheless. It is the wish of our Council that you be made aware of the earnestness of their sincerity. The willingness to compromise--and history will surely bear me out--is always best served by the judicious release of political prisoners.”

“Prisoner?” Emra cocked her head. “Political?”

“Yes, of course. The dissident Tarsum.”

Emra sat straight up. “Tarsum!”

The emissary’s whole expression collapsed. He sank even deeper in his chair, squirming and wringing his chubby hands. “You are not pleased? It was felt by Council that this would be an act most dear to Your Immensity’s heart. If there is another article more to your liking…”

“No.” Emra stood up. “No.” She stared at the recovering Earthman. “Tarsum is a dead legend. He disappeared two score years ago, while independently attempting to open diplomatic channels with Earth Administration over royd grievances during the Great Creeper Pestilence.”

The emissary flapped his hands. “He was arrested attempting to foment unrest, and has been our guest since. Everyone knows that. And never has there surfaced a shred of evidence implicating Earth Administration in the exportation of a biological agent. Not a fragment!” The human collected himself. The condescending little smirk was back. “As to this royd Tarsum: he has been given many, many opportunities to leave of his own free will, on the sole condition he renounce his riling ways. Administration must protect its integrity, you understand. But always--always he refused.”

“So like Tarsum,” Emra breathed. “And you say he is alive, and now a free royd?”

“Very much so,” said the emissary. “He is, in fact, presently waiting just without, in the very coach that directed me to your inestimable grace.”

“Show him in, show him in.” Emra drifted between tables while the greasy little human picked himself up and scurried outside. Tarsum. Handsome, tall, brimming with intellectual light and the kind of inner strength that average royds can only mock with envy. Every female’s dreamboat. Emra herself, as an insular young royd, had spent long hours in hopeless fantasy. She nervously flitted before the inn’s great smoky wall mirror. He would now be middle-aged, distinctive, graying, no doubt a bit on the aloof side. A suitor fit for a queen. “Oh, shut up!” she told her reflection, and tore off her silly thatch crown. Emra pinched her cheeks and smoothed her sack of a dress just as the door opened and a pair of zobbs wobbled in pushing a rickety wood cart.

Sitting propped in that cart was an ancient, emaciated royd male; eyeless, toothless, legless, covered head to hips with scars, burns, and welts. The zobbs careered down the aisle, and were just bashing the cart between tables when Emra snapped, “Cease!”

The zobbs immediately fell on their muzzles and scraped about the floor.

“Stations!” They scrambled in reverse to either side of the door, and there glazed over in temporary mortification.

Emra glided up. “I sought another.”

The old man searched about with his hollow-eyed head. At last he raised his withered hands and croaked, “My queen.”

“And you are?”

“Tarsum of Hopra Hollow.”

“No!”

The wizened head fell. “I fear so.” It raised again. “Bless you, Queen, for this belated reprieve.”

Emra took his thumbless hands. “What became of you, Tarsum? You were arrested for standing tall against the oppressiveness of Administration, for brazenly speaking that which we lesser royds could only whisper…”

“Alas, my queen, I fear not. I was imprisoned without cause or trial, and kept in a wretched cell beneath Administration’s Council Chambers. They tortured me for years, on some days without rest, seeking that one answer I could never provide.”

“The source of your courage?” Emra tried. “The secret to our pluck and drive?”

The ghost of a smile crossed Tarsum’s sunken lips. “No, my queen, you will never understand the mentality of the Earthman. They sought only the location of the great Royd Hoard, and mistook my ignorance for resistance. Again and again they tormented me unto the moment of death, only to back off that I might recuperate, and the process begin anew. They burned me with irons, lashed me relentlessly, gouged out my eyes in their manic passion for information. When I still could not answer, they hung me from chains and stabbed my naked legs until the infections set in, and thereupon commenced amputating them, six inches at a time, that I might not die too soon.” He squeezed her hands. “My queen. You will never impress the Earthman with logic and dignity. I urge you to meet their leader while jewel-bedecked, and with all the trappings of regalia.”

“They have no absolute leader,” Emra reminded him. “They cling to a system called democracy, wherein power and leadership are shared among the best of their best.”

That same wan smile. “Also, bear arms. Many arms. A great show of force will immeasurably aid your cause.”

Emra clamped his mutilated hands between hers. “I fear there is much to learn.”

“Alas, not from me.” He rolled his head, feeling the room. “Surely I deserve some small compensation for my assistance?”

“Name it.”

“I wish to expire under the stars.” He appeared to pale even as he spoke. “Facing my home world.”

“It is done.” Emra released his hands and clapped her own. The zobbs stumbled up and bashed him out the door.

Emra drifted to the kitchen, and there addressed her standing retinue. “Pass the word. Fine gems are to be imported to Maert’n from Maldea. The jewelers are to provide high-quality cuts; stones that would complement a queen’s crown and gown. Additionally, the smiths are to pass out many nuggets of gold and small silver ornaments. These ornaments are to be impaired to the point of appearing as innocent heirlooms. I want no finely-wrought or highly polished items. The accountants are to maintain meticulous records.”

She walked back to the great mirror and lifted her ratty hem. A tiny smile crossed her face. “Dola! Find our best dressmaker. Have her bring her finest satin and lace. Something,” she whispered, “fit for a queen.”

* * *

A pair of pony-driven carts came bumping down the narrow road separating Czarshnewigger Pits and West Administration Fence. The road had been there for ages; not because royds are so eager to gush over EarthAd grounds, but because the soil tends to be firmer round the fringes. The guards watched them pass with little interest: there was no way in without slicing yourself to pieces on razor wire. But when the carts stopped right outside an egress-only turnstile, two guards urged their horses over.

One cocked his rifle.

The driver of the lead cart looked up and showed his hands. “You can spare a moment?” he asked pleasantly, appearing to study the rifle.

The guard considered. “Your moment’s up.”

“I am reaching behind me,” the driver said, and did so, very carefully. “I am removing a small article from beneath a pile of folded rags.”

Both guards leaned down for a closer look.

The driver pulled out a shiny sliver of hammered gold.

“Say…” said the first guard. “That’s some piece of metal you have there.”

“Yours.” He handed it up between the bars.

The guards passed it back and forth. “What’s the deal here?” asked one. “Who’s screwing who?”

“Yours,” the driver repeated. “We have a business proposition.”

“Go on. There’s nobody around but us.”

“We are interested in the purchase of arms. Handguns and miscellaneous small arms, but chiefly rifles. You have access to many such weapons. We have access to many more pieces of metal.” He showed them a handful.

Both drivers laughed. Said one: “Why don’t you just ask for our hearts on skewers? You don’t have enough gold there to pay for our courts-martial, pal. So clop off.”

The driver smiled thinly. “I am reaching behind me. I am loosening this cord, that I may draw back the tarp covering my cart.” He did so, revealing a handsome pile of fine metal: silver drinking cups, gold rings, various chains and pendants.

The guards whistled simultaneously. “Well, pinch me,” said one. He reached through the bars for a feel.

The driver dropped the tarp and gripped the cord between his knees. He reprised that sly smile.

“Forget it!” said the other guard. He grabbed his companion by the shoulder and hauled him back. “There ain’t a thing you can do or say that’ll drag us down to your level. Maybe you don’t know the difference between a human and a royd.”

“There is nothing that will change your mind?”

“That’s right, buddy. You’re messing with Earth Administration now. We’re trained to be on guard against you guys. But it doesn’t matter. An Earthman has something called integrity, and a sense of duty over his personal wants and needs. So clop off, I tell you, before I report you, and your little bag of goodies gets confiscated by someone with a lot less patience than me.”

The driver nodded gently. “I am stepping down from my cart.” He did so. “I am walking to the cart behind me and pulling back its tarp.”

The flash of precious stones dazzled the guards. It took a full minute before either could move, and when they could their first instincts were to simultaneously hand through their rifles. Strange, too, was their intuitive synchronicity, as they dropped their jaws and in near-perfect conjunction asked, “How many more do you need?”

* * *

“Council Elder!” called the Court Crier, with a broad sweep of his gnarly arm. “Esteemed members! Proud Earthmen everywhere--presenting her majesty…Emra, Queen of Royds!”

The Grand Arch separating Council Chambers and the Great Hall now filled up with the Queen and her entourage. First through were a dozen silk-dressed zobbs, flopping purposefully to either side of the aisle, dragging a lace-fringed banner in their jaws. There was a savage scuffle in the center as two fought for the handsomer grip, then they’d somehow spilled over one another to facing sides. The Queen’s maids, seven stumpy fghns with hooves stuffed into dainty spangled slippers, bore her hem and train with forced aplomb, and the Queen’s Guard, now outfitted with Earth side arms and long bayoneted rifles, squeezed in tardily, having just lost a fierce staring contest with the standing Administration Guard. So, taken all together, her retinue’s entrance may have proved less than imposing to the hardhearted Council, now leaning warily and silently to the fore.

The Queen, however, surpassed all their expectations. Emra wore the loveliest white gown the Earthmen had ever seen, as jewel-bedecked as her crown, with satin and lace runners billowing at the wrists and throat. Her ear lobes were tastefully pinned to matching turquoise shoulder brooches, and a glorious diamond-dusted wart ring dangled from her left cheek. The crown’s centerpiece was a blood-orange jewel of great fire, unfamiliar to the denizens of EarthAd, and the crown itself was a finely wrought, sapphire-studded tiara, fat at the bevel with burnished gold. Even in her silver-tipped heels the Queen barely broke four feet, but her dazzling array more than compensated. Emra shone like a trove.

The whole party spilled down the aisle; maids tangled up in satin and lace, zobbs and guards biting and jockeying for position. When they reached the bench the Elder placed down his palms and leaned forward like a mighty ship’s prow.

“Your majesty. It is with great pleasure that we meet at last. Forgive our lack of respective pomp; we are a legislative-and enforcement body, and thus not well mapped for royalty. There is much to discuss.” He gave a small bow of the head. “Let us forsake these dreary chambers for an apartment more amenable to the occasion.”

This said, he climbed down from the bench with the other members filing in tow. The Elder paused cavalierly beside the queen and made to offer his arm, but at a snarl from a zobb scratched his wrist instead. Head held high for the sketchers, he led her back out the Grand Arch with his hands clasped at the waist.

Only by ordering the Administration Guard into a flanking procession was the Elder able to squeeze everybody down the Great Hall--there was some vicious infighting between zobbs for pole position, and the rubbernecking Queen’s Guard haphazardly swung their bayonets and rifle butts, much to the consternation of proximate Council members. The procession turned left down a secondary hall. At the end of this hall, broad double doors were thrown wide and the royds found themselves gaping at a spread beyond their wildest dreams.

This was Administration Ballroom, the secret rec room and ultimate pleasure farm for high-ranking officials. For this special day the place had been cleaned up: the resident w****s, sycophants, and go-betweens were assigned elsewhere, the finest chefs and musicians had been imported, and the Ballroom decked out to impress solely the Queen and hers.

And boy, were they ever impressed: sumptuous treats steamed on silver plates, huge cut-glass goblets sparkled with vintages from the Elder’s own cellar. Haberdashers and pedicurists dotted the perimeter, looking on curiously through an ambient drift of frankly staring maids. The royds’ eyes bulged round their muzzles. On some unseen cue a small orchestra laid into a lovely, room-hugging waltz. The Elder smiled down at his regal guest.

“Please consider our palace yours, my Queen. Brei crŭmbe?” He motioned to a waiter porting an ornate silver tray, and had the man set this tray on a richly clothed table. Emra plucked up a soft slender wedge, simultaneously bending back the seventh digit of a reaching zobb. She slid the wedge into her mouth and her whole face melted. “Wine?” The Elder accepted a lily-glass from a fawning server and placed it in Emra’s free hand. “A rude number, to be sure, for a palate as discriminating as yours. But we are not here,” he stressed, adroitly changing the subject while leading her toward the dance floor, “to make talk.” The moment their backs were turned, the zobbs and Queen’s Guard went at it like cats over the tray.

“We are all aware of your subjects’ distress,” the Elder went on, “and are deeply moved over your personal loss of a loved one. The movements of our ex-governor, of his men and this loose cannon of a Gate Guard, are not merely deplorable, they are not just heinous--they are entirely unconscionable to the sophisticated Earth Administration mind. All these madmen have met their due ends, and left it to us, dear Queen, to patch up the differences and proceed with our lives as best we can. In a certain sense this is perhaps a boon. It has brought us to the table, so to speak,” and he smiled and gestured at a small banquet waiting in the next room, “allowing us to reach out as neighbors on a most desperate world, at a time when neighbors are most desperately needed.” There was an abbreviated scream as a zobb bit into a whipped cream-smothered fghn, and then the Elder had eased shut the door. “Please.”

They sat at opposite ends of the smallish dining table, orienting their respective selves while the Elder made various asides to a few very serious officials in waiting. Emra’s head was swimming; the aromas were unlike anything she’d ever experienced. It took great tact to delicately and unhurriedly sample absolutely everything on that table. Discomposing, too, were the several cordials that seemed to arrive in a steady stream. When at length the official men had been dismissed, there were only Emra, the Elder, and, stationed at a far door, a waiting waiter and waitress; waiting, waiting, perpetually waiting.

“Forgive me,” said the Elder. “I asked to not be disturbed, but business always has a way of finding one, does it not?” He ignored his plate. “To the point. We all inhabit the same small world. The Council feels that, rather than remain at odds, your people and ours should exist in harmony. Too long have we exchanged under a barter commerce; we envision a legal trans-species currency, a system of fair and regulated taxation, and policed trade routes for the betterment of all. Now is not the time to go over these issues in detail; papers have been drawn up, broadly outlining our initial vision.” He handed Emra a handsomely bound document. “Please peruse this at your leisure, and discuss it freely with your subjects. You enjoyed your repast? The spirits were to your liking?” He rose formally, in the pose of a partial bow.

Emra too rose, a bit giddily. Perhaps the alcohol had loosened her tongue; now was not the time or place, but she said, “There is the incidental matter of some two hundred massacred innocents, most left dangling in a meandering line leading to this very enclosure.”

The Elder cocked his head. “Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to invoke Administration’s wrath upon Quentis Wilde and his henchmen--those scoundrels, however, are forever beyond the reach of mortal vengeance. I beg your indulgence, Queen Emra, in our mutual construction of a finer world.”

“Widow Emra.”

The Elder smiled only with his teeth. “As you importune. I now repeat our offer of unspecified restitution, in a closed hearing, at your personal convenience. Again: the guilty parties are all deceased; one with his head blown off, three sucked bloodless in the bogs, and one, by your own witness, steam-fried at the bottom of Runoff Gorge. Really, Madame Queen; what would you have us do--display Wilde’s body on a pike above the Gate?”

“The food and wine,” Emra said grimly, “were excellent.” She gave the curtest of curtsies and turned. “I will study your offer, but please don’t insult our dignity.”

The Elder quickly rose to join her. He’d just reached the door when they were both struck stationary by a terrible clamor in the Ballroom. Tables were heard crashing over, a waitress screamed, shouts rang from the inrushing Administration Guard. The Elder tore down a wall-mounted rifle and threw out a restraining arm. Emra was amazed by the old man’s vigor. He cocked the rifle and pulled open the door.

The Ballroom was a riot of royds desperately wolfing down any goodies they could get their claws on. Zobbs were plunged headfirst into cakes and bowls, guards and fghns fought fang and talon over hot buttered morsels. The Administration Guard, freed from their job’s grating monotony by the emergency, laid into the thrashing royds with a passion, cracking skulls and wringing tails.

The Elder turned with a smile. “Dignity is so overrated.”

Emra stomped through the Ballroom. “Throw these buggers out!” she commanded. “And don’t be too gentle with them!” Taken aback, the Administration Guard looked to the Elder, who nodded without taking his eyes off the furious little figure. He coolly pursued her to the front doors and stood watching her stumble down one flight of steps after the other. In a minute the first guards came ricocheting through the Hall, dragging royds by every available appendage. The Elder stepped aside as the offenders were pitched down the steps. “Follow that carriage,” he told a corporal, staring at a weeping Emra punching and kicking her driver. “Take another man. I want to know where it goes, how it gets there, and any stops it makes in the process.” He turned and thoughtfully made his way to Council Chambers.

Emra’s driver was beside himself, scrambling back and forth between the coach and tumbling bodies. “Leave them where they are!” the Queen snapped. “Let them walk back!” She dabbed at her eyes. Speaking as much to herself as to the driver, she said, “It’s all a lark, anyway. Right now, the Council are laughing themselves into a frenzy, thinking only of my humility!”

* * *

Right then, the Council were weeping themselves into a frenzy, thinking only of her crown.

“Did you see that gem!” the Arbiter General moaned. “A ruby, but not a ruby--impossible! And the gold! Filigree! Ah! The pride! The workmanship!”

“Forget the gold,” said Scribe. “I swear I saw diamonds flash on her wrists. Large as my uncle’s gallstones.”

“Were we fools to let her go?” wondered the Commander. “A quick tackle and we all could have retired.”

“Idiot,” said the Elder. “Where those jewels came from will come many more. Given half a chance, you’d have screwed us right out of the mother lode.”

“You mean--?”

“Yes. The Hoard. It’s no rumor, I tell you! She didn’t gussy herself up like that by raiding granny’s jewel box. She’s got her finger on the whole royd population. Don’t you see--she’s made the Hoard her war chest.” His eyes narrowed. “The fog lifts! Now I see how she got those weapons.”

“What about that old troublemaker of hers? The one you let go as an olive branch. If our boys couldn’t get the location out of him, then, damn it, there is no Hoard! It’s a fairy tale.”

“Nonsense,” said the Elder. “That freak’s a patriot. What a fool I was! He’s probably working with her right now.”

“I can have him smoked out and re-arrested in no time,” the Commander offered. “Hell, I can mobilize a unit that’ll take down their whole silly operation by nightfall.” He winked and nudged Scribe. “That’s if we can just get past that fearsome Queen’s Guard.”

“Moron!” the Elder snarled. “Your whole damned brain’s a bludgeon.” He clasped his hands behind his back and began to pace. “There is no more powerful weapon than subtlety. She obviously isn’t gathering it all by herself…there must be porters, delivery chains, secret routes…” He snapped his fingers. “Gentlemen! It’s time to legislate.”

* * *

For generations royds have traveled the Old Jacko Road unmolested. There are no highwaymen; it’s simply not in royd blood to steal that which may be honestly earned or begged. There are occasional encampments laid by the weary, but as a rule they’re temporary--royds are as restless as they are honest.

The Administration Mounted Guard was a real novelty on Old Jacko. The Guard set up command tents every few miles, and the riders became easygoing fixtures on a monotonous landscape previously peopled solely by various worker species, moving to and from the Jacko Mines, pulling their little carts by hand or by pony. The workers were porting crushed rock to smelters at Exxona just outside of EarthAd, where the precious metals were legally bartered for delicacies and manufactured goods before being hammered into coinage in the Administration Mint.

A new Administration regulation demanded cargo be certified pre-exchange: impurities were creating imbalances at the scales. The Guard, it was explained, were trained metallurgists. They were saving haulers the trouble of bearing inferior material, and grading them in the process. Those sellers with consistently fine hauls received stickers of merit, giving them preferential treatment at the scales, and the best deals going. Right now the lead haulers were proudly bearing those colorful EarthAd stickers on their carts, and the inspecting Guard were uncovering the cleanest hauls at the fore, but it was the roving riders who found what they were all really looking for, way in the rear, on one of those little turnoff roads that lace the asteroid.

There they’d pulled over an old Cept veteran of the long haul, his back as curved as his three-foot tongue. He was dusty with the road and dog-tired, but his eyes rose fiercely at the sound of the Mounteds’ Captain clopping up. He hissed when the human shadow fell on him.

The Captain looked him over incuriously before turning to the little wagon’s contents. In the bed were dozens of raw diamonds and emeralds; the camouflaging rocks and clods lay in piles on the ground. “You were not heading for Exxona,” the Captain said. He studied the surrounding fields and crisscrossing roads. “My men inform me that you were accompanied by a young one, and that this young one ran at your command.” The Captain looked back down. “Would it be all that much of a stretch to suppose this lad was related to you; perhaps your son?”

The Cept dropped his head.

“Where were you bound?”

The Cept said nothing.

The Captain unsheathed his sword.

It was a vintage piece, engraved from boss to hilt with fanciful diagrams depicting constellations as animals and people. He placed the blade’s tip in the center of the royd’s forehead and used it to gradually raise the head. The Cept, blood trickling down both sides of his face, looked the Captain directly in the eyes.

“Where did you pick up these stones?”

The Cept didn’t blink.

“This blade will slice your head like embryo pie. I want your destination point. But more important--tell me where these stones originate.” He pushed firmly. Blood began flowing in twin streams. The Cept’s expression remained stony.

“You don’t like Earthmen,” the Captain said. “Now there’s a perverse viewpoint.” He pushed harder. “Where did you get these stones?” He applied some body weight. Now the Guard could see the royd’s skin parting in the gush, and the gnarly yellow bone underneath. “Where?” The Captain leaned on the hilt. The royd’s fangs showed, and little by little his mouth widened. The nostrils flared and remained distended. “Where?” The blade sawed into bone. The royd’s eyes seemed to take up half his face, but they remained fixed on the Captain. Blood painted his entire crown, dripping onto his chest and shoulders. “Where! Where! Where!” The blade snagged in the skull. “Where?” The Captain ground his teeth and twisted. The Cept’s eyes squeezed shut and his mouth flew open, the tongue curled back into a wretched roll. Blood spurted from the gash. But not a sound did he make.

The Captain backed off. “You’re worthless dead. Get him up and tie him to a horse.” He smiled into those unflinching eyes. “Don’t worry; once we get you cleaned up we’re going to introduce you to a really sweet old man.”

* * *

Emra’s coach crashed and crawled through Trummp Marsh, its sinking cartwheels hurriedly tugged free by the skittish ponies. Twilight was seeping past the purple crags, with nocturnal life just a step behind. Every now and then one of the more aggressive marsh tulips clamped on a pony’s hoof, causing it to dance as though its legs were on fire. Phygean dragonflies, one of the very few species to retain its native characteristics on the asteroid, buzzed the coach relentlessly, emitting little screams of frustration when snagged in the protective netting.

The ponies were making for a slight grade rising out of the marsh. Right at the top hunched a huge, smooth-scaled numph, well camouflaged against the rocky terrain by his sloping shoulders, broad midsection, and mottled brown coloration. As he rose erect from all fours, his hindlimbs bowed and his shoulders narrowed, allowing the massive forelimbs to fold behind him and the tiny round head to rear. Thus extended, he tromped downhill to meet the coach.

Emra’s high demeanor was now the only indication of her royalty: the coach was a death trap, her crown history, and she was right back in burlap for the rough ride out. Two Earthmen on horseback had tailed them upon leaving EarthAd, and they hadn’t been at all circumspect--their contempt for royds, and the sense of escalating control over the situation, had brought out the kinso, the bully-human. After a while they’d taken to childish scare tactics; one galloping along the horizon with his coat over his head, the other imitating the calls of a ravenous m’laren. The queen’s driver had located an insular Rauna encampment, and Emra had traded away her coach in a clean one-for-one switch. The Earthmen had pursued two crouching Raun in the royal coach, and she’d snuck out, minus her gown and crown, in one of theirs.

But before the coaches trade-off she’d been introduced to Varin, a kind of peripatetic tribal counselor. Emra was ushered under a braided parti-colored tent, its corners tethered to wagon rails at the four compass points--this arrangement left the Rauna, a deeply suspicious race, five feet of open vantage space all around. The Raun were by nature disdainful of Emra’s regal stature, but they’d lost too many of their own in the Governor’s rampage to not take sides. Varin, listening to her tale of awkwardness and abasement, readily divined her lack of royal confidence. He explained the futility of a diplomatic approach, and posited an inherited disposition in homo sapiens to glom at any cost. In the end he was entirely unable to counsel on the whole human thing: Rauna had always dealt with Earthmen by avoiding them; Emra’s position as a royd was unique. Oh, she was doomed, all right. But for the meager fee of a jeweled crown and carriage, he just might be able to refer her to a higher source.

And she’d traveled half the day to meet that source. She was staring at its caregiver/taker now.

The numph came down on all fours. Emra was assisted from the coach and they stood face to face. When the numph moved in for a sniff she urgently threw out a hand against the stench.

“Stop! I am Emra, Queen of royds. Do you speak Earthman?”

The numph cocked his head.

“I come from Varin. You are hereby commanded to admit me, and none other.”

The numph turned and preceded her up the grade. At the top he motioned to a jagged hole torn from the earth. Emra peered in and snapped her head right back. “You silly monster. How am I supposed to manage that?”

The numph turned, hurt. “I hear well as speak.” He stepped in and began to feel his way down. “You manage somehow,” he muttered. “Silly queen.”

Emra followed him down, minding her nails on the raggedy stone. Light filtered in from a hundred surface fissures, creating a spooky half-light that appeared to shift with every step. The asteroid’s pocked interior was soon evident; rock on all sides gave away to mini-caverns and tunnels to nowhere. The deeper they climbed, the larger these little caves became; even so, the little caves themselves were riddled with ever-tinier holes. Several of these middling caves showed slowly heaving maters, clinging to the ceilings with their belly suckers while their long bleeders languished in those perforating fissures. Many appeared long-starved and stuck to the rock.

In time they came to a small dome-shaped cavern. Vestiges of cooking fires and a miscellany of found objects established this hole as the numph’s home. In the very center was a stinking jumble of rags, sackcloth apparently. The numph bade Emra sit, and himself followed suit.

The pile of rags stirred.

“Make no move sudden,” the numph said, and bowed as an afterthought. “Queen.”

The pile rose slowly, corkscrew fashion, rim to center. A deep-seated miasma was disturbed, releasing a nauseating, unfurling grave-stench that grew in sync with the heap’s progress. Now Emra could make out a rough shape, rather like a large cat in repose, altering by the second. The hump became a peaked heap, and continued to rise until a hunched figure was revealed, leaning in a slump like a corpse in a body bag. It began to respire. Each exhalation carried the stench of decay, horrible to endure in that haunted place.

After a long moment the numph produced a series of articulated gutturals--not words by any means; rather an exotic tongue completely unfamiliar to the queen. The tones, low and soft and gurgling, were these:

“Doo wee gnay ahn mee hum saw.”

The floppy thing swiveled in the numph’s direction, and an orifice which could only be construed as a mouth responded:

“Hwee nah phin da sre um too.”

The numph turned to Emra. “Your want unclear. Must engage.” He paused for emphasis. “There is price.”

“I,” Emra reminded him, “am queen. I do not barter.”

The numph lowered his eyes. “Other price,” he mumbled. “Price dear.”

“Tell it to engage.” This was a direct order.

The numph nodded and said, “Hwee ow nan ki.”

The lumpy mass moved its peak close to Emra’s face and sniffed her up and down. The death-stench was so wrenching she had to wince and half-close her eyes. The figure clamped that wide-open cavity on the center of her face, completely enclosing her mouth and nasal apertures, and began to heave with breath. Emra almost fainted from the foulness. Seconds later she was slipping, and her eyes had closed completely.

“You dream now,” said the numph. “Sai ee hwa em tao. You let go feeling.”

But Emra couldn’t ignore the icy feelers running over her body, couldn’t escape the sense of being violated in ways unspeakable. The thing seemed to melt on top of her, and the harder it pressed, the more pliant she grew. That breath consumed her internally; deadening her nervous system, fogging her mind. Maggots passed from its tongue onto hers.

“You let go,” repeated the numph, from far away. “Know you, read you, be you.”

Emra lay on her back while the thing pinned her in a copulative posture, burying her in cobs and must and fungal rot. Bit by bit she was opened wide, and little by little her feelings and memories were sucked away. All resistance vanished. Emra was now a conduit; a one-way flue for the expulsion of those ideas and emotions regularly retained by a healthy royd’s set of sympathetic blocks. All things essentially Emra passed from her like gas, and she died there, for a heartbeat, but in the next beat had been just as fluidly reanimated. Gradually the overall impression of an appropriating force, of suction, left her body, from the depths of her being to the downy scales fringing her tough coppery epidermis. The weight upon her relaxed. The mouth detached from her face, and with the return of her true breath that rank fog gradually left her brain.

“You sit now,” said the numph.

The thing, once again a shapeless heap of tainted rags, rolled off and returned to its leaning slump. Emra sat up. All she wanted was a week’s uninterrupted bathing. The numph looked on curiously for a moment, then turned and said,

“Hai ye hem ohn toa se pai?”

The heap’s reply took a good while. Finally that oscillating drone began to taper, even as the drooping shape further relaxed--the whole event moved in the reverse of its original order: the voice winding down like a slowed tape, the formless pile collapsing counter-clockwise, rim to center. Then there was only a filthy, raggedy mass, stinking the stench of catacombs.

“You no think Earthman,” the numph summed. “Earthman only think self. Councilman all hate you, Councilman see you weak, Councilman seek only royd wealth. Earthman pretend show queen respect, but watch close all time. Earthman depend on royd for gold, silver, jewel. When Earthman find treasure Earthman no longer need royd. Council then order death all royd and take royd land for self. This sure as star in sky. Earthman dream this since Elis Royd begin.”

The numph studied Emra with an expression that struck her as dour. He said, matter-of-factly, “Queen be strong. No peace, never-ever. World can belong only Earthman or royd.” He nodded. “This long time come.” The numph rose to his characteristic, slumping crouch, and offered Emra his paw. “Queen.”

* * *

Locked beneath Council Chambers is a secret place known only to the High Triad of Council Elder, Head Administrator, and Guard Commander. For any Triad member to betray its existence is for that member to voluntarily face charges of subterfuge in a kangaroo court, presided over by the other two, with the certain judgment of death by hanging. Long ago these three officials made a blood pact to publicly acknowledge the fabricated charge as true, and to accept the penalty without objection. It is the kind of vow made only by desperate men in positions of highest power.

The secret place is an interrogation crypt, as old as Elis Royd. It’s dank and dark and depressing; the floor crisscrossed with blood gutters, the deep stone walls still ringing with the wails of slowly ravaged lives.

In one cell: six dangling humans, their naked bodies scored and seared a hundred times over.

Out on the floor: three robed humans, huddled around a broken and bloody royd.

The Elder was rhythmically jangling a massive iron key ring while the Commander and Administrator loomed menacingly.

The Cept raised his bleeding eyes. “I have read Constitution.” He spat out a mouthful of broken fangs. “I cannot be imprison without trial.”

The Elder’s jaw dropped. “Trial! You want a trial?” He twirled a hand over his head. “Gentlemen! Esteemed Council! This session of Court is in order. How do you find the accused?”

“Guilty,” said the Administrator.

“Ditto,” said the Commander.

The Elder smacked down his hand. “And likewise it is! Do you understand that, sir? Is it within your embarrassingly narrow window of comprehension? The verdict is unanimous! Have you anything to say--anything that might sway this noble Court?” The Cept stared back as best he could. “I thought not!” The Elder kicked him for the hundredth time. “Well, you’d better come up with something fast! We’re either going to loosen that ugly tongue or cut it off. Make no mistake about it.” He nodded meaningfully. The Commander and Administrator stretched the Cept’s forelimbs behind his back. The Elder used the key ring to slap the prisoner left and right across the face, yelling “Where?” with each pass. He labored until exhausted, then dropped the keys and collapsed on a low metal bench. The Commander roused the Cept with a bucketful of dirty water while the Administrator retrieved the keys. The Elder took one limb, the Commander the other, and the Administrator began the interrogation anew. “Where? Where! Where!” In a few minutes the Commander and Administrator exchanged places. It took longer to return the Cept to consciousness this time, and the Councilmen had to prod him with various sharp objects to snap him back to basics. When the Cept was again aware of his situation, the Commander took over. “Where, damn you! Where?”

Gradually the Councilmen sank to the floor, overcome more by passion than exertion. They propped up the Cept’s head and smacked it against the wall. All were at eye-level.

“Where--” the Elder panted “where is this amazing royd treasure?” The Cept’s entire face was obscured by blood. “I swear we will let you live if you speak it. Yes, yes. You have our solemn word. Better…you, friend; yes, you, will be rewarded with an equal share.”

“Yes,” breathed the Administrator. “An equal share by Law. By Earthman Law! We will draw up the papers right here and now, and drink to our union. No! We will feast! You will enjoy a banquet like you have never dreamed!”

“Better still,” the Commander heaved. “You will be able to spend it as you wish--here, within these hallowed walls, as an honorary Earthman! Palaces will be yours! Chefs and handmaidens and females by the score. Underlings to do your bidding, slaves to lean to your every whim!”

The Cept’s head rolled to one side and his long tongue fell out.

“Expired!” The Administrator struggled to his feet. “No!”

“Not yet,” the Elder snarled, and grabbed the first eighteen inches of that bloody lolling tongue. “Not until I say he’s dead!” He and the Administrator held onto the tongue and pulled with all their might, their heels buried in the Cept’s face. The Commander hauled back on the head until the Cept began to gag.

“Where?” the Commander shouted, directly in his ear. “Where, you inferior son of a b***h, where?”

The Cept went into convulsions. His thrashing caught the Councilmen by surprise--both the Elder and Administrator lost their balance, and then the royd was flailing on his feet with the Triad clinging to his legs and stub of a tail. It took all they had to bring him under control. With the last of his strength, the Commander delivered a vicious kick to the genitals. The Cept sagged.

“Still want to live, do you?” the Elder cried, snapping up the key ring. He stomped to a rear door, unlocked and drew it open, and hauled out the Cept’s terrified son. “Well, here’s something to live for!” He shoved the child forward. “The Guard caught him trying to hide in a command tent. Big on the Constitution, are you? Well, there are laws about breaking into a field command’s quarters. Read a little deeper and you’ll see that parents are accountable for their litter’s actions whenever military personnel are endangered--and who knows what mischief this little unsupervised rat might have caused. Okay, I want some answers, and I want them now.” He threw the child into a choke hold and placed two keys against the eyes, applying pressure until he got the scream he was going for. “Where!”

“Do not,” the Cept gasped. “Oh please.” He dragged himself forward.

“Where!”

The child screamed again.

“In…in Maldea,” the Cept managed.

The Administrator and Commander immediately dropped to their knees.

“Again,” said the Administrator.

“…Maldea.”

The Commander gripped the Administrator’s shoulder. “I know of it.” He looked up at the Elder and nodded.

The Elder stomped over and creaked to his knees. His face was inches from the Cept’s. “Then it’s true? A mountain of jewels, of silver and gold? Buried for generations…to what end?”

“They are hoarders,” the Administrator snapped. “Do not over-analyze this.” His expression softened. “There must be fortunes beyond imagination.”

The Commander rose. “What if he’s lying?”

“Then,” said the Elder, “he’ll be one spawnless shut-in.” He stepped back to the son and placed his hands on the shoulders. “Eh, Papa Royd? What do you say? Want to see the kid grow up to be another proud pissant? Then you’ll just sit tight here until he gets back.” He lifted the child and bounced him in his arm. “How’s about you, son? Would you like us to keep your dad alive as our guest? I thought so. Okay, then. This is our Guard Commander. He has a command at his disposal. You’re going to be their guide, and show them the way to the Royd Hoard. When they come back with good news…then, and only then, will we let Papa go. Are we clear on this?” Without waiting for a reply, he shoved the child back out and slammed and locked the door.

The Commander and Administrator dragged the near-lifeless Cept to the occupied cell. The Elder joined them, unlocked the cell gate, and helped kick the royd inside. He turned with his hand on a bar and said over his shoulder:

“It’s comforting to know that the Commander can be trusted with his Guard, and that I and the Administrator don’t have to worry about his yielding to any sudden independent urges.”

The Administrator slowly turned to face the Commander. “Yes…I shall certainly sleep better knowing that my friends are friends unto the grave.”

“That they are,” said the Commander. He placed his left arm across his stomach and cupped the right elbow with his hand. His right forearm was now raised at a thirty degree angle. The Elder and Administrator followed suit and, standing very close, the three men thereupon locked their right hands so that their arms formed a pyramid. They nodded until their peaked hoods just touched.

The Elder slammed the cell door and nudged the Cept with his foot. “At least you’ll have some company,” he said, motioning to the hanged corpses. “I know, by our Captain’s statement, that there was a considerable haul of gems in your little wagon. Yet by the time that haul reached home there was only a smattering. Turns out these six sorry dangling gentlemen took a hankering to your cargo, made a pact, and swallowed a number of stones to smuggle them past the rest of the Guard. Unpolished stones can be tough on the ascending colon. Once a doctor exposed the secret, the jig was up. It took a while, but I think we got out most of the contraband. Watch your step, by the way. The floor can be slippery.”

“How…” the Cept gasped, one arm wrapped around a bar, “how can human be so cruel…in all land, no other race…so greedy, so selfish…”

The Triad exchanged looks, marveling.

The Administrator said, “That is ‘Earthman’ to you, royd b*****d.”

The Commander pawed the air and grimaced, aping a snarling wild animal. All three laughed.

The Elder leaned in with a gleam in his eye. “Oh, you didn’t know?” Shielding his mouth with a hand, he winked up at his fellows and whispered, “It’s in the blood!”