Trekmaster. James B. Johnson

he was magnificent!” and her face broke into the Queen’s famous smile as she returned her gaze to Kellen and the court. “Yes, M’Lord. I would hear more, later.”

      TJ addressed Kellen, who continued to kneel, but was now looking up at TJ and Gwen. “Rise, and approach.”

      In one fluid motion, Kellen rose and began climbing the wide marble steps. The herald motioned him to stop on the second from the top.

      “How came you to be so proficient?” asked TJ.

      “Your Majesty, I am but a poor shepherd who has little formal schooling.” TJ knew then the scene was orchestrated to the best of Kellen’s ability. “My flocks are calmed by my playing. I have spent many hours practicing in front of sheepaloe. Sire.”

      TJ noted the careful brashness, the slightly off-kilter manner of address, and took an immediate liking to the boy. He wished there were more like him about the court.

      “Are you aware, Kellen Sing, that it is the custom for the throne to reward the best of the day?” The crowd murmured at his words. All except the nobles who had little love for TJ and his ways. He could tell that most present expected Kellen Sing to receive the highest praise. And riches would overwhelm this poor shepherd boy.

      “No. Sire.”

      The boy was not practiced enough to fool Thomas Jefferson (Shepherd) Rex. TJ told himself. As he detected the lie, it strengthened that sense of kinship with Kellen. He thought about baiting the boy, verbally tripping him to show that you didn’t lie to the King of Bear Ridge and remain unexposed. But he chose not to, deciding instead to play along, perhaps to discover Sing’s real objective.

      “Awards are given,” TJ said, “to those I deem worthy.” He had selected those specific words rather than saying something about “the best performances.”

      Kellen Sing raised an eyebrow.

      “Your weight in coin of the realm would be ample recognition, don’t you think?” The kid would play hell trying to carry all that loot back to Lonestar on foot. Anyway, the bait was there and he was curious as to what Sing would say as he took the bait from the hook.

      “More than ample,” said Kellen. “Your generosity is overwhelming,” he finished off-key.

      And TJ knew that Sing’s tone of voice was calculated to tell him that money wasn’t what he wanted.

      Gwen sensed this subtle byplay and took her cue. “Perhaps Kellen Sing has something else in mind? A mount from the King’s stables? And a fancy carriage? Temporary lodgings in the palace, for he has obviously never visited the capital?”

      TJ caught the slight disapproval in her voice. She didn’t like any straying from the strict formality of the official court. And she well knew TJ’s penchant for variation, for mockery, and his sometimes childish sense of humor, as well as his impatience. Maybe that’s why I have this liking for Kellen Sing, he thought; we both have a disdain for formal procedure crap.

      “If Your Majesties please,” Kellen said, “is not my weight in coin sufficient to exchange for formal learning?”

      “What?” TJ had not expected this.

      “Sire, I have no one left in Lonestar. My family is dead...well, there is one sister, but she cares for herself. I have spent my life upon the hills with sheepaloe and predators...and my thumb drums. Out there, I have dreamed of stars; but more, I have dreamed of learning, of books I could not possibly afford, of knowledge I could not obtain by seeking in the province, the Ethnarchy of Bexar. Surely, with your intervention, I could attend one of the superior schools here in Crimson Sapphire? I know this is asking much. I thumb my drums. I herd sheepaloe. I am from the country and the hills in the country. But even there your graciousness and fondness for education are widely known.” He paused. “Sire.”

      TJ watched Kellen watch him. He knew his presence had to be imposing to a country boy. Yet Kellen seemed relaxed, enjoying the obvious pressure of the game he had initiated with the King. Kellen’s eyes catalogued him, taking his measure. TJ knew what Kellen saw. The monarch was more than a head taller than average, large boned, with a strong nose. There was a hint of stomach being held in by tight clothing. His scarlet tunic was braided about the sleeves in five rows near the cuffs and around the neckpiece. Epaulets topped the shoulders, and winding from underneath the right epaulet came a white satin sash. Decorations, medals and ribbons adorned the left chest and hung from his neck. TJ saw the shock hit Kellen when his eyes came to the symbol of the Muster hanging from his neck. His eyes stopped and he was obviously shaken by this discovery. TJ only wore the symbol on occasions such as these—and none that were present on that fateful day ever spoke of it. Those few that lived through it. Finally, Kellen’s eyes left the medallion and reluctantly moved on. TJ’s tunic hung loosely over solid black trousers which in turn were tucked into glass-polished high boots. He knew that overshadowing the whole effect was Thomas Jefferson Shepherd, the face, the face that fronted the mind which ran the planet. His hair was thick, tinged with shards of gray, as was his Prince Albert beard—though this was carefully trimmed. Finally, TJ saw Kellen’s black eyes meet his own gray eyes, gray eyes tinged by battle and blood, steadily regarding Kellen. TJ read Kellen well enough now to know what he thought at this moment. Kellen must be awed, standing there in his simple tunic. Then TJ saw something change in Kellen’s eyes, and a hardening glint came into them.

      Abruptly. TJ broke the silence. “All right.” Here he was toying with a damn kid when there were matters of supreme importance waiting for his attention. He wished he could scratch under his collar, but of course Gwen would notice and raise hell with him later.

      The jester began to do back flips, and TJ knew he was spending too much time with Kellen Sing. TJ sighed. His plans for himself and Bear Ridge were close to being realized. And he should be concentrating on them. Would Bear Ridge pass the test? Could he convince Sharon Gold that Bear Ridge was ready? But the presence of this Kellen Sing seemed to cloud the clarity of his purpose.

      “It shall be as you wish,” he said to Kellen. “Remain. The herald will arrange an audience at the conclusion of the ceremonies.”

      The jester tumbled and cavorted, grinning like a Cheshire of the highlands, his makeup holding up under occasional drooling of the apparent idiot.

      TJ sat back to watch tamed snarves dance and tried to ease his belt. He thought that it was a good thing the tunic was worn outside the trousers. He blamed the incipient middle age spread on a lack of action and immediately missed times past.

      An uproar of hilarity came from the front rows as one of the beasts messed on the floor and attendants hurried to clean it up. TJ took the opportunity to tug his belt line down a bit.

      Gwen touched him lightly on the arm, reminding him of form.

      He turned to her and said in a low voice, “At least I’m not as raunchy as that bastard Tirano.”

      “This is your day, Thomas. Do not let politics spoil it for you.”

      Guiltily, he glanced at Sharon Gold. It had probably taken her less time to travel from Federation Central to Bear Ridge, dozens of light years, than it took Kellen Sing to walk from Lonestar to Crimson Sapphire, and he thought that was criminal.

      2. KELLEN SING

      Kellen Sing wasn’t ready for the suddenness of the action, the fierceness of response, the quickness of the King, or the smell of blood.

      As he watched the continuation of festivities, Kellen reflected that the court of Thomas Jefferson Rex was alien. He was now seated in a semi-official section, one with legitimate bench seats, apparently grouped among those favored few in front. He reflected that this wasn’t his world at all.

      He looked about. Palace guards, sometimes known as the Gyrenes, stood about, all armed with polished swords, oiled crossbows, and the deadly assegais. They were inhibiting: there was something about a group of men who all looked alike, their backs militarily stiff, and their hair cut the same, the deadly look to their eyes, the firm, uniform set of jaws, and the bodily precision. Each seemed to be a walking arsenal and each