Trekmaster. James B. Johnson

its function so well that none had any intentions of changing the Council system at all. Which was one reason why so many rediscovered planets tried so hard to gain membership. “Shawn?”

      The captain jumped upright.

      “Your terms are accepted. Half on loading of the ships, half on arrival on Bear Ridge.”

      “How do I know you’ll pay the latter half?”

      “You want guarantees? Captain, we do not wish to walk home. It would be distasteful.”

      “Logical, Majesty. I agree.”

      Hah! thought Tirano. Those troops will remain as an occupation force. And after Bear Ridge is under my control, the Fed Council seat will automatically fall to me. Fortunate that Bear Ridge and Two Tongues are the final competing applicants. Thus, as a Council member, I can command my own transport. So Shawn is out. “And, Shawn?”

      Shawn shifted nervously. “Sir?”

      “Let me explain about treachery. The mite dust is carried in a glass container. In the center of that container rests another container filled with acid. There is a button on the side connecting to a spring-loaded plunger. Touch the button and the acid is released. The dust destroyed. Fear not, for it is a common method of shipment, effectively safeguarding the material.”

      “I see.”

      “One other thing, Shawn. I also have friends at the sector capital and at Federation Central. Betrayal signs your death warrant. If you so intend, think seriously, for you are now a dead man breathing my air.”

      Tirano knew his reputation would assure Shawn ran scared. And it might send a message to Shawn’s contact on the Council—should there be trickery afoot.

      8. TJ

      The surgeon’s lance struck and TJ felt immediate relief. TJ lay back on the couch in his office and sighed. The royal surgeon, Nora Ahimsa, drained the infection into a bowl. TJ’s left foot was bare and propped over the arm rest of the couch. Nora sat on a stool ministering to his foot.

      “Formal occasions,” TJ grunted. “So formal boots, not comfortable, every day, well-worn, loyal, easy boots. No. Got to have formal boots to wear with formal uniforms and formal court garb. Well, formal boots lead to formal blisters.”

      “Had you not ignored the problem, it would not have developed into this bad an infection.” Nora Ahimsa said. “Why, the military doctors would pull the lowest soldier off duty for the same.” She was only a few years younger than TJ, but showed her wear. Her hair was red and full, and her complexion wan.

      TJ noted the tone of reproof in her voice and ignored it. She poured a disinfectant over his heel and TJ winced. Damn foot really hurt, he suddenly realized. He started to laugh aloud, but remembered his audience. He was about to say that every king ought to have a foot infection to remind him of his humanity.

      Nora lifted the needle again and caressed his foot almost lovingly with a swab. TJ averted his eyes. He glared at Alfred, the herald, and General Manuel Vero, commandant of the palace guard—and thus highest ranking military officer in the kingdom. The two stood casually in front of him. The jester rested quietly in his corner.

      “I’m about decided,” TJ said, “to raise some hell. Stir the pot. Maybe the rats and roaches will jump ship, who knows?” Nora cut gingerly about his infection with a razor-like tool. TJ glanced at her and looked away uncomfortably. “Anyway, I can’t have people keep trying to kill me. I just won’t have it. Somebody’s behind these attempts, and I shall find who it is. Your reaction, Alfred?”

      “What do you mean, ‘stir the pot,’ Sire?”

      “Raise hell with somebody. Point fingers to watch reactions.”

      The herald fidgeted. “Uh, Sire. I, as is my wont, recommend subtlety, caution. I have people looking for the answers quietly.”

      “You do? Ah, I expected no less. Where are they looking?”

      “In the city, at the palace.”

      “Specific targets?” TJ asked.

      “The nobility.” said the herald.

      “Ah, the disenfranchised. Good. Any other formal organizations?”

      “No. Sire.”

      “How about the priesthood?”

      “I did not think that within my purview.” said Alfred.

      Like hell you didn’t, TJ thought. And he knew that Alfred knew that he knew. He shook his head and smiled at the herald. “Any results?”

      “None.”

      “Figgers.” Nora’s fingers seemed to caress his foot again, and he felt the old attraction returning. He remembered those fingers, those sensuous instruments. God, he’d like to bury his fist in her hair again and pull her head back and...pain slammed his foot and ran along his leg. “Agh. Pour me some wine.”

      The herald did so.

      “General Vero,” TJ’s eyes rested on him, “you are strangely silent. What is your opinion?”

      “My opinion, Your Majesty, is that when you start asking questions, your mind is already made up. You merely seek confirmation of what you are going to do anyway.”

      “Humpf.” muttered TJ. Manny Vero said that? Unlike him. He didn’t want to admit, thinking about it, that Manny was right. Nora drained more pus and dabbed at the wound with another swab. “Alfred, find out who made those ‘formal’ boots and double their business taxes.” He knew Alfred would ignore the comment. “Opinions,” he demanded. “Who should be the prime suspect. Manny?”

      “The nobility, Sire.” TJ knew Vero didn’t like the nobility since his family had suffered at their hands in the past.

      “Alfred?”

      “The same, Sire. Most likely candidates. Money, motive, position, ability to do it, but....”

      “But what?” TJ knew all were skirting the other possibilities. Nobody wanted to come right out and accuse the Church of complicity in attempted murder of the monarch.

      The herald hesitated. “There are other groups who are not enamored of your rule. Geographically removed people whom you subjugated during the Consolidation wars. Disenchanted groups that have allegedly suffered from your rule, such as lawyers, some educators, traders in human flesh, people whose friends and relatives died as a result of your commands.”

      TJ thought that Alfred was excessively diplomatic today. He’d said everything but “the priesthood.” “Don’t mealy-mouth, Hark,” he told the herald. “Say what you think.”

      “Certainly, Sire,” the herald smiled. “There is a relatively new ‘interest’ group about nowadays. Young people. What with the emphasis on education, they are now thrown together, and since they are not out earning a living, they have time. Along with the time, they have some new-found freedoms. They are groping at this time, but have the possibility of organizing.”

      “That’s obvious, Alfred. I knew that. Why do you bring it up now?” Nora was applying ointment to his heel and he felt the immediate soothing relief. Gently, she began wrapping a light bandage around his foot.

      “Frankly, Sire, it’s gone further than I intimated. This boy, Kellen Sing....”

      “The thumb drummer?”

      “Yes, Sire. He is slowly making a name for himself. His music gives him crowds. The crowds give him an audience. Other students are beginning to gather around his banner.”

      “You talking about the kid that I rewarded for that fine performance in court?”

      “Yes, Sire.”

      “Well, I’ll be damned.”

      Nora slipped a sock over his foot. “Wear this instead of your boots for a day or