The Envoy, Her, Horace Brown Fyfe [best detective novels of all time txt] 📗

The Envoy, Her Pg 1

The Emperor must be getting old, they thought, to deal so mercifully with the upstart Jursan Rebels--which was quite true. He was not too young to dream....

* * * * *

 

Despite the concentrated patrol defenses, the Emperor's space yacht slipped down to the surface of Klo, second moon of Jursa, without incident. Only recently, such a show of force would have drawn a flight of torpedo rockets from the rebellious planet; but the Jursan agitators for a scientific renaissance had at last been beaten to their knees.

A landing tube was connected between the ship and the transparent dome that had been constructed on this airless satellite for the convenience of the lord of the system. Notables in military posts or present on some other excuse gathered to greet their master.

"By Pollux!" gasped one onlooker. "Those guards must all be seven feet tall!"

The file of magnificent soldiers, who gave the impression of being almost entirely armor-plated, deployed on either side of the landing tube exit. They were followed by a figure glittering enough to be an emperor; but since he was attended by only four officials in bejeweled scarlet the crowd recognized him for a chamberlain.

"His Illustrious Sublimity the Lord Vyrtl, Viceroy for Terra, Emperor of Pollux, and of all its fourteen planets, and of all their thirty-seven satellites, and of all the nations thereon, Co-ordinator of the planet Hebryxid--"

It went on at some length, but the man who led the next little parade out of the landing tube paid no heed. The part about Terra was a vestige of centuries before communications had lapsed, and served no purpose but to remind him that new contact with the original planet was one of the Jursans' aims. The rest of his titles he could, by now, recite backwards.

The crowd of officialdom gaped at him as he stood there. He was a tall man, which conveniently helped conceal a tendency toward obesity. Under the excess tissue, his face had a massive strength, with broad bones and jutting chin and nose; but the gray eyes were weary and cynical.

The Envoy, Her Pg 2

 

"Wilkins!" he ordered in a bored monotone. "Find which yokel is in charge, and burn a jet under him!"

* * * * *

A resplendent aide hustled forward to where the official in charge of the dome was wetting his lips over his rehearsed greeting. It was quickly made plain that His Illustrious Sublimity desired transportation and a look at the quarters he would have to put up with until the jackals on Jursa came to their senses.

The official had tried to provide for every known imperial fancy. He smirked delightfully when Vyrtl caught sight of the lozards tethered at one side.

"By Pollux!" exclaimed the Emperor, his eye brightening. "We hadn't expected the pleasure of riding till this was over."

"He tells me they have built a forest, Sire," reported the aide. "About half a mile square. At least, you will have some relaxation."

"Good! It is all very well playing the soldier and roughing it informally, but a man must have something!"

He surveyed the reptilian mounts that were led forward and chose one whose eight legs were a trifle longer than average. With reasonable agility, considering his bulk, he hoisted himself into the saddle and set off toward the miniature palace awaiting him. His guardsmen trotted alongside while the rest of his retinue mounted and followed as best they could.

He drew rein once, to gaze up through the dome at the yellow-green disk of Jursa. Wilkins overtook him.

"Note the dark line in the southern hemisphere, Sire," he said. "The result of Marshal Tzyfol's sweep--the one that broke through their fleets and led to their plea for terms."

"Excellent!" said the Emperor. He lowered his gaze and stretched his neck uncomfortably. Vyrtl was unaccustomed to looking up at anything or anybody. "They will bear our mark."

"It will teach them the lesson they deserve," agreed Wilkins dutifully. "Autonomy, indeed!"

The Envoy, Her Pg 3

 

"Quite," said Vyrtl, urging his lozard forward. "Who are those fools to think they can demand exemption from established imperial laws ... they should be satisfied with the standard textbooks and forget their puttering! Ha--what's this?"

He pulled up before a small replica of the palace.

"The dome engineer built it for your wives, Sire."

"Our wives?"

"Twenty of them volunteered to share the rigors of the campaign. Their special transport arrived just before us."

"Humph!" grunted Vyrtl, riding past.

* * * * *

Early the next morning, after the engineers had arranged a dawn for his benefit, Vyrtl called a council of his commanders. Chief-of-Staff Robert Tzyfol reported on the situation.

The rebellious Jursans were sending a representative to ask for terms. In the Marshal's strongly expressed opinion, no leniency was necessary. The imperial fleets were slowly but surely stamping out all resistance, making Jursa unlivable.

"Abject submission is their only course," he declared.

It was the sort of declaration with which Vyrtl might have agreed, had he been able to voice it first.

As it was, he announced that he would keep it in mind when judging the fate of the rebels. He had no inclination to destroy a perfectly good, tax-paying planet if he could whip its inhabitants into line by other means.

He ended the conference by stating his intention to ride in the artificial forest. He enjoyed the glances of relief among the generals--especially the older and more brittle ones--when he gave them leave to resume their military duties instead of attending him.

A few hours later, Wilkins found Vyrtl and a small retinue resting beside a pool at the edge of the forest.

"The rebel envoy has arrived, Sire," he reported.

Vyrtl kicked a pebble into the pool and spat after it. "We shall see him immediately," he announced. "No use wasting ceremony on the villain."

The Envoy, Her Pg 4

 

Returning to the palace, he strode into the audience chamber and signaled for the envoy to be admitted. Still warm from his ride and insultingly disheveled, he sat in the imitation of the great throne on his capital planet, Hebryxid.

"If he isn't brisk," he muttered to Wilkins, "we may teach him promptness by hunting him through the forest tomorrow."

Above the whispers of hastily assembled officers, courtiers, and a few of Vyrtl's wives, a chamberlain announced, "The Jursan envoy, Daphne Foster."

"A woman?" murmured Vyrtl.

"So it seems. She looks quite ... distinguished."

"Ha! The witty Wilkins! A pretty choice of words."

The woman approached the throne amid a low buzz from Vyrtl's attendants, and bowed gracefully. Gracefully but not too abjectly, considering the situation and his own position, Vyrtl thought. She raised her head and endured his deliberate scrutiny.

She would have to be a rebel, Vyrtl told himself. He supposed they had scoured all Jursa for a real beauty to dazzle him; but they would discover that it would not work.

At first glance, she had seemed slim, but he saw now that, though tall, she was very well proportioned. A net of tiny, glittering jewels was woven into the black hair that hung to her shoulders. Her features were regular, but expressively alive compared to the artificial placidity of the court beauties.

But what disturbed the Emperor of Pollux most was the way she looked at him! He felt that it was stretching diplomacy a bit far.

A smile in deep blue eyes was pleasant, when someone was sufficiently accomplished to muster it in his presence; but this was a shade too familiar. She seemed to put herself on a level with him--as if to share an amusement beyond the others present.

The next moment, he was trying to decide just what quality made hers the most beautiful female voice he had ever heard. Consequently, he missed most of the formula about "the gratitude of all Jursa" at his receiving "his humble slave."

* * * * *

The Envoy, Her Pg 5

 

That smile lit the blue eyes again. It was hard to tell if a ghost of it lingered at the corners of the full lips, but the total effect was of anything but humility. He pulled himself together, aware that Wilkins had noticed his hesitation.

"So the Jursans seek to soften our just anger?" he said. "They send their surrender by one who is obviously the loveliest jewel of their misguided world."

A few of the courtiers snickered dutifully. Vyrtl was annoyed; he had not meant to be funny. He glanced swiftly at the half-dozen wives present, but their expressions showed no jealousy. He decided that the empty-headed creatures had at least learned not to embarrass him publicly.

"Your Illustrious Sublimity is too gracious," replied the envoy. "I regret that my message is not unqualified surrender."

Vyrtl frowned. "You dare ask terms?"

"I must carry out the commands laid upon me by the Council."

She smiled into his eyes and made a rueful little gesture with both hands, which she allowed to fall gracefully to her sides. Vyrtl's gaze was led