King of Swords (The Starfolk) Read online

  “Within reasonable limits. The earthling female may be called as a witness, but in the interim you can billet her in your mudling barns and put her to work.”

  “My lord is most generous.” Muphrid displayed his shark teeth again.

  “You understand,” Fomalhaut concluded, “that if the halfling is awarded status and you have properly instructed him in the procedures of gentle manners, we can present him to His Highness as a token of your contrition in the Moon Garden affair. If His Highness gains a valuable servant as a result of your efforts, he may be more inclined to overlook your indiscretion.”

  Muphrid’s fearsome smile flashed again, and his ears sprang fully erect. “You may rely on me, Starborn Fomalhaut. You know that serving you is my greatest pleasure and honor. May I present my friends?”

  “Some other time. I am busy today.” Fomalhaut gestured with his staff and abruptly vanished.

  “Someone should teach him some manners,” Rigel said.

  “Silence, rubbish!” Muphrid said. “You speak of one of the great mages of the realm, a trusted underling of Prince Vildiar himself!”

  So now he was rubbish, was he? Rigel glanced again at the elfin audience, all of them displaying those feline ears and shark-tooth grins. On Earth he had been a freak, but it hadn’t been obvious so long as he kept his clothes on. And few men had called him rude names since he’d reached his full height. Here, he realized—wherever “here” was—he was still a freak, and more openly so. That “halfling” term was worrisome, and neither his ears nor his teeth were standard. Passing as a local would be harder here, if not impossible, and every male in sight was taller than he was.

  But the lifelong mystery of who or what he was might be solvable here in these Starlands in a way that it never had been on Earth. Rigel’s best strategy must be to stay polite and learn as much as he could by keeping his eyes and ears open, even if neither were the right shape. He could not play the game until he knew the rules.

  The other starborn clustered in closer to inspect the visitors. In every case, Rigel knew their names at first glance, and still did not know how he was doing that. Even many of the women were taller than he, and they all had hair and eyes of the same color, which could be any color at all; their skins were golden, without a single mole, scar, or freckle in sight. He realized with a shock that none of them wore more clothing than a skimpy, glittery loincloth and a vulgar overabundance of jewelry. Help, I am being held prisoner in a vacation commercial. Males and females both were laden with bracelets, anklets, rings, and earrings. No necklaces, though—why not? Like him, none of them had navels, but the girls certainly had breasts. And nipples. And areolas, large and tinted hot rose pink. Suddenly there was nowhere safe to look.

  “If Fomalhaut was all that great he wouldn’t wear so many amulets,” remarked Alniyat, whose hair and eyes were shiny silver. Of the dozen or so gorgeous women there, she was probably the loveliest, although he’d want to stare at each of them for a long time before reaching a definite conclusion on that. She caught Rigel admiring her and smiled; he looked away quickly, feeling himself blush.

  The males were not smiling.

  “Even for a halfling, he’s ugly,” said Gacrux, who stood over seven feet tall and had some rather un-elfin beef on his bones.

  “Careful,” Muphrid said. “Starborn Fomalhaut warned me that he is armed. Show us your amulet, tweenling.”

  Presumably tweenling was another word for halfling. By amulet, Muphrid was undoubtedly referring to the bracelet that had transformed into the sword that had killed three men in the Walmart fight, the close-quarters dagger that had stabbed the bear, and the armored glove that had punched the would-be mugger. A weapon for all seasons, evidently. Releasing Mira and stepping clear of her, he held out his wrist to let them see.

  “Well, show us, boy!” Muphrid said.

  “Show you what?”

  “It’s a weapon isn’t it? Old Foamy said you were armed.”

  “I can’t make it appear to order. It only becomes a weapon when I need to defend myself.”

  The overgrown brats tittered as if he’d asked them to tie his shoelaces.

  “You say its name, halfling,” Muphrid said with exaggerated patience.

  “I don’t know its name.”

  Muphrid grabbed his wrist and raised it to read the inscription. “Denebola, Rukbat, Rastaban… Stars!” he yelled, jumping back. “It’s Saiph!”

  There were shouts of disbelief, but suddenly a space had cleared around Rigel. He said, “Saiph?” and instantly his hand was enclosed in a shiny metal gauntlet clutching a sword, more than a meter of sun-blazing steel. It sagged because he hadn’t been ready for the weight, and the circle of onlookers grew even wider. No, the sword was not steel, he decided—it had been wrought of the same silvery, tempered metal as the bracelet. It bore no fancy inscriptions or jewels—it was a simple, deadly killing machine as he had proved, but a thing of beauty nonetheless. He turned it to reflect the sunlight, squinting along its glowing length, and wiggling it to feel the balance.

  He glanced down at Mira, who was staying very close to him, as if he could somehow defend her from this nightmare. He winked reassuringly. “You need a knight protector, my lady?”

  She managed to return a tiny smile and a nod, although she was blue-lipped and shivering, her arms wrapped around her body. Part of her trouble must be the temperature, although he felt overdressed and envied the elves their near-nudity.

  “How did you get that?” Muphrid shouted. “Saiph is a Lesath!”

  “A who?”

  “An amulet of massacre potential. It is illegal to make or own a Lesath.”

  “Not where I come from,” Rigel said, wondering how a Lesath would rank under Canadian firearm laws.

  “Who gave you that thing, boy?” big Gacrux demanded.

  Rigel looked him up and down. Then up again. “An admirer.”

  Gacrux scowled, raised his right hand, and said, “Taygeta!” Then he too held a sword.

  Saiph jerked Rigel’s hand up to an on-guard position.

  “You idiot, Gacrux!” Alniyat shouted. “There isn’t a sword in the realm can beat Saiph. Put it away before you get yourself slaughtered.”

  Gacrux lowered Taygeta and it vanished.

  Rigel disposed of Saiph the same way and could breathe more easily. “What were those other names you read out, Muphrid?”

  A couple of the girls tittered and their host scowled. “Manners!” he said. “I have to teach you. Lesson one is that children and halflings address purebloods like us as ‘starborn,’ or—and I do recommend this, at least until you get status—as ‘my lord’ or ‘my lady.’ Never ‘your lordship.’ Got that?”

  “What were those other names you read out, starborn?”

  “The names of famous heroes and kings of old who were slain by that sword. Saiph,” Muphrid added sourly, “is ancestral.”

  “Ancestral to what, starborn?”

  More sniggers.

  “I mean it is storied, legendary. It is unthinkable that it should be wielded by a mere halfling boy. The court will certainly regard this as a most serious matter.”

  “I may be what you call a halfling, but I am not a boy.”

  “They’ll never grant him status with those eyes,” Nashira said, blinking her own, which were purple, like her hair. “They’re dead as paper.”

  “You suppose he has ears under that mane?” That was big Gacrux again.

  “We’ll see,” said Muphrid. He selected one of his finger rings and turned it. “Take off those awful rags, halfling.”

  Rigel raised no objection. He knew he’d be more comfortable without his clothes, and the starfolk were very close to naked. He pulled off his bloody shirt. The half-healed scars on his chest provoked screams of horror.

  “A bear,” he explained.

  “Didn’t Saiph protect you?”

  “Yes. Oh, I killed it. I mean Saiph did. We just weren’t quite quick enough.”

 
His audience exchanged puzzled glances, as if that did not make sense, but he wasn’t going to explain about boots and bicycles and guitars getting in the way.

  Knuckles tapped politely from the other side of the door, one of the gold handles turned, and the flap opened just enough to admit a man. Seemingly human, he was portly and balding, probably in his sixties. In the company of the youthful giants he seemed old and small. Surprisingly, he wore a toga with a purple border and red shoes like a character in a Hollywood gladiator epic. He bowed to Muphrid.

  “How may I serve, starborn?”

  “We have an extra guest, Halfling Rigel. Bring a moon-cloth wrap for him, and find someone to cut his hair. Take the earthling to staff quarters, and see that she is washed and suitably dressed and put to work. We’ll eat in the Versailles room in an hour or so. And, Senator…?”

  “Starborn?”

  “Treat the woman well as long as she behaves. She may have to testify in court. We don’t want any unpleasant accusations flying around.”

  Senator bowed again. “Indeed not, starborn.” He gestured for Mira to follow him.

  Mira squeaked.

  “Wait a minute!” Rigel wrapped his arm around her shoulders again. “We are both strangers here, and we wish to stay together.”

  “Your wishes are of no interest or importance,” Muphrid declared. “And hers even less. You will both do as you are told or you will both be chained up. I extend courtesy to you, halfling, merely because Starborn Fomalhaut asked me to. Now, which will it be?”

  Rigel raised his right hand with the shiny bracelet…

  Mira said, “No, don’t! My lord, I trust that I will be allowed to attend my master this evening to perform my usual duties?”

  Attend her whom to do what? After a moment of confusion, Rigel picked up on the cue she was giving him. “I certainly hope so! I have no objection to my concubine helping out in the kitchens by day, starborn, but I naturally expect to enjoy her services at night.”

  The entire audience exploded in shrill titters.

  Muphrid shuddered. “Oh, it is impossible! It will take a hundred years to train this tweenling. Rigel Halfling, you must not say such things! But, very well, I promise. Get her out of my sight, Senator.”

  Mira flashed her “owner” a sickly smile and followed the portly man through the door, which closed behind them before Rigel could see what lay beyond it. Assuming that she was planning to cooperate until she had gathered more information, he could only hope to match her courage.

  “What exactly happens if the court does not grant me status, starborn?”

  “Then you’ll have to wear clothes!” Nashira jeered, as if that were a threat.

  “Let’s see if there is any hope at all,” Muphrid said. “I told you to strip, boy.”

  Rigel balanced on one leg at a time to discard his boot and sock, and then dropped his jeans, leaving himself dressed in nothing but the rubber band in his hair, Saiph, and his jockey shorts, which were white and clean, but too snug for comfort under the present circumstances. He would have preferred to be wearing his loose boxer shorts with the pink cupids, which he’d purchased for a dollar in a thrift shop.

  “Yes, he isn’t a boy,” remarked Dabih, a female with bluish hair.

  “Obviously,” agreed purple-eyed Nashira. “For a tweenling, he’s not bad below the neck. He doesn’t have girly nipples or an ugly birth scar on his belly.”

  “What would you know about those?” Alniyat demanded, provoking an angry blush on Nashira and hoots of laughter from the male starfolk.

  “He’s a runt, though,” Gacrux said.

  “And you’re a fatso.”

  “Fatso?” the big elf bellowed over the sniggers.

  Playground talk! Rigel trotted over to the water and splashed in. As soon as it was over his knees he plunged in deeper and started to swim. He had been a good swimmer back on Earth, but in moments he was overtaken by what seemed like a pod of dolphins, all streaming through the water far faster than he could manage. Admittedly his cuts stung so he wasn’t at his best, but even the women left him feeling like a barnacle. He had been a freak on Earth, and he was a freak here, wherever this was. There was nowhere in the universe where he’d truly feel at home.

  Chapter 7

  Having shown up Rigel’s incompetent swimming, the starborn grew bored of him and returned to their horseplay beneath the waterfalls. Convinced that this fairyland must have more interesting things to offer, he paddled back to the meadow and went to see what lay on the other side of the big door. It wouldn’t open for him when he tried the handles, and when he walked around it he discovered a blank stone wall.

  Baffled, he turned to the flowers and shrubs. Some were almost familiar—a daffodil tree was certainly a good idea—and others were totally weird. Various shrubs bore flowers like fried eggs, tiny pink horses, or red mouths that smiled when you looked in their direction. A few had gold and silver roses. Some were too bizarre to be anything but deliberate inventions, and yet even those were inhabited by large, multicolored insects and spiders. He had truly been transported to a completely different world, like Alice, or Thomas Covenant, or Wendy Darling.

  Then he noticed that Senator was waiting patiently by the door, holding a shimmering length of what looked like shrink-wrap but felt like the finest wool when Rigel wound it around his hips. It stayed there comfortably on its own, glittering in the sunlight, just on the respectable side of translucent.

  With a pained expression, the servant gathered up Rigel’s discarded clothes. “Someone is ready to cut your hair, if this is a convenient time, halfling.”

  “Lead the way, Senator. Is that your real name or just Starborn Muphrid’s nickname for you? How should I address you?”

  “‘Mudling’ is customary, halfling. ‘Butler’ if you need to distinguish me from the other servants.”

  “A mudling being…?”

  Senator’s well-disciplined face barely managed to hide his shock at Rigel’s ignorance. “My remote ancestors were earthlings, halfling, but their descendants have lived in the Starlands for many generations.”

  “Ah, thank you.”

  The toga-ed man opened the door and ushered Rigel out onto a balcony. Beyond a dangerously low balustrade, the ground fell away about ten thousand meters to a landscape of hills and forests stretching to infinity. There was no sane way to reconcile this topography with the sprawling parkland on the other side of the door. The temperature was also a good ten degrees lower, and the sun had shifted. Rigel staggered, partly because an icy gust of wind struck him, and partly because something that resembled a Cessna with talons soared past about a hundred meters away, much too close for comfort.

  A young male elf named Izar was waiting on the balcony, watching the airborne monster. He was tall enough to be a human adolescent, but might be only a child by starborn standards. His hair and eyes were as white as Rigel’s, but his ears were enormous, seemingly full adult size. He turned and recoiled at the sight of the scars on Rigel’s chest. The ears flattened back against his head.

  The butler said, “I was instructed to explain that the starling will cut your hair, but is forbidden to speak to you.” He departed, closing the door behind him.

  “You’re not hairy!” Izar said suspiciously.

  “Are halflings usually hairy?”

  “Some are horribly hairy. Real starfolk aren’t, never. And we don’t grow manes like that.” He pointed to Rigel’s.

  “I came here so you could cut it off for me.”

  The starling hesitated, then grinned to show adult-sized teeth like daggers. “You bet!” He pointed to a spindly chair, which looked as if it had been borrowed from the History Channel and might blow away at any moment. Rigel sat down apprehensively.

  “May your progeny outnumber the stars, Rigel Halfling.” The starling peered intently at the rubber band securing Rigel’s hair.

  “And the same to you, Starborn Izar. Is that the correct response?”

  Izar b
roke the band and spread Rigel’s locks out with his fingers. “No. I outrank you, so you should have said, ‘May the stars shine on you forever, most noble Izar Starling.’ Or ‘noble Starling Izar’ if you prefer; it doesn’t matter.”

  “May the stars shine on you forever, most noble Izar Starling.”

  “Good. Remember it.” Izar lifted a thick tress of hair. Snip! There was to be no ceremony with white sheets in this barbershop. Snip! again. Although Rigel’s hair was still damp from his swim, the gale was so strong that it removed every strand the moment Izar released it. Snip! Snip! Snip!—a contrail of white hair swirled off into the void. Rigel sighed for all the years he had spent growing that hair.

  “This is fun,” Izar remarked. “How often do you need to be pruned?”

  “It took me about five years to grow this much.”

  “Schmoory!”

  “Yours?”

  “It doesn’t grow any longer than this. What tried to eat you?”

  “A bear.”

  “You kill it?” Snip!

  “You bet.”

  Snip! “Good.” Snip! “Why did Saiph let you get wounded?”

  “I don’t know. Why were you forbidden to speak to me, most noble Starling Izar?”

  Izar considered the question for a moment. “Prob’ly in case I wouldn’t. She didn’t want me clamming up. She thinks it’s clever to order me not to do ’xactly what she wants me to do; so I will, but sometimes I do what she says, just to keep her guessing. Or maybe she actually meant it this time, though, because she was worried that I’d tell you all sort of things you mustn’t know, like what status is.” Snip!

  “What’s status, most noble Starling Izar?”

  “It’s when the court decides whether you’re too ugly to be a halfling, so you must really be an earthling or a mudling.” Snip! “Then it decides who owns you and he has to keep you dressed so you don’t show your disgusting deformities. And if it decides you’re too dangerous to live in the Starlands, then it’ll order you to be put down.” Snip! Big grin.