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Finger Trouble

Edward P. Hughes

Make Ready Jones was lying low with the dogniks aboard a sunken houseboat in Kelmet Old Dock when his finger first began to ache.

He showed it to his dognik friend, Fide O'Reilly. The tip of his index digit had swollen. The skin was black, shiny, and angry-looking.

Fide sniffed the offending object. Dogniks were normally short on hygiene, but Fide knew about the septic. He cocked his head on one side, whining. "Did you prick it on anything dirty?"

Make Ready screwed up his face, trying to recall past events. One day ran unrecognizably into another. He scowled his frustration. "Can't remember." He glared at the offending digit. "It scares me, Fide."

Fide laid back his ears. The dognik was fond of this hairless whelp who had taken shelter with the pack. He growled deep in his throat. "You ought to let the medsin see it. It could be the gangreeny."

Make Ready held the finger to his nose. "It don't smell bad."

Fide showed his canines. "I wouldn't risk it, M'kreddy. If that black skin spreads, your finger's a goner . . . maybe your whole hand . . . your arm." Fide rolled his eyes. "Even . . . you!"

Make Ready surveyed the houseboat's canting desk, the rotting bulwarks, the black Kelmet river scummed with effluent from the chemplant upstream . . . and sighed. Life was too pleasant to hazard recklessly. He said, "If I go to the medsin . . . who pays?"

Fide O'Reilly scratched a flank with blunted talons. "Healer Grumm don't charge much if you're short of frons. And he comes this way, regular."

Make Ready had seen Healer Grumm . . . a near-standard man, sharp of tongue, but tolerant with orphan dogniks. Perhaps the man could be wheedled into a ringer inspection in exchange for a few errands?

The click of rowlocks and the splashing of an oar floated over the water. They leaped together for dry land.

Fide yelped. "It's Healer Grumm. He's sculling in." The dognik waved his arms. "Chuck us a line, Messer Grumm!"

Make Ready caught the healer's rope. Together they took the strain, holding the boat against the current, then hauling it towards the pilings. When Grumm's craft bobbed below them, Fide threw a hitch around a bollard and made fast.

Healer Grumm tossed up a bag of clinking instruments, then climbed the rusting ladder to the dockside, the scabbard of his short sword clinking against the stonework. He grunted, "Thanks, lads. I ran out of mazoo halfway over the river. Would've had to walk back from Garbage if the current had got me."

They clucked in sympathy. The sea-dump where Kelmet's rubbish went was a three hour walk downstream.

Make Ready grabbed the medsin's bag. "Carry your tools, Messer?"

Grumm took the bag from him. "I can manage it, lad." His eyes narrowed. "What you done to your finger?"

Make Ready put the hand behind his back. The healer's interest embarrassed him. "Tain't nothing, Messer Grumm."

The healer extracted a shiny dixer from his pocket. He spun it in the sunlight. "I suppose you want a tip for pulling me in?"

Make Ready stuck out a ready palm.

"T'other one!" Grumm commanded. "Or the dixer goes back in my pocket."

Make Ready's left hand crept from concealment. Grumm inspected the swollen digit. "How long it's been like this?"

"Three—four days."

"Can you move it? Bend it?"

Make Ready tried to curve his finger. "Only at the bottom knuckle."

Grumm gripped his wrist. He took the swollen digit between thumb and forefinger, and squeezed gently. "Does that hurt?"

Make Ready winced. "I can stand it."

"You got any other symptoms?"

Make Ready looked blank.

Grumm gave him back his hand—with the dixer. "Better come up to my dispensary. I'll take a proper look at it."

Startled, Make Ready glanced at Fide. Going with Grumm meant abandoning the pack. Would they let him back afterwards?

Fide wagged his tail. "Go with the healer, M'kreddy. He'll fix that finger."

Make Ready tarried. "Can I come back, after?"

Fide O'Reilly whined. "I'll speak for the others. It'll be okay."

Make Ready sighed. He flicked the dixer to Fide, then turned and followed the medsin.

 

At Haut Chateau on the Mont des Chênes above Kelmet, court officials packed a labour room to witness the birth of Dame Dimsina Persay's second son. Present by ducal edict, were the court's annalist, lyricist, geneticist, priest, police chief, tutor, strangler, a wet nurse, and the midwife.

Of Dame Dimsina's husband, Duke Corwen Persay, Grand Maitre de Marécage, Marechal de Haut Barbarie, there was no sign. Rumor had it that his lordship was out shooting corbies in the chateau woods.

Clem Gamble, obstetrician, elevated a syringe to squeeze out a drop of fluid, murmuring to the midwife, "Pray for a paragon, Martha. If his little lordship's anything less than perfect, the duke will have us flayed."

Bregonif, court tutor, undersized and wizened, scuttled back and forth behind a forest of legs, trying to catch a glimpse of the event. Only that very morning, the duke had promised, "If the boy satisfies Greville, you can have another fifteen years." Bregonif badly wanted those fifteen years.

Larry Greville, genetist, and a man who required no admonition from his master, stood before the witnesses, and watched the child slide into the world. Without emotion, he noted one head, two arms, two legs and a penis—all in their proper places. His back straightened. In appearance, the child was a true paragon. There remained the tests. Greville snipped a microscopic sample from the squawling infant's left heel, and hurried to his laboratory.

Annalist Clippy Cummins noted the time of birth, the sex, color of eyes, number and disposition of limbs, and waited for the midwife to announce the weight.

Genevieve Demain, lyricist, and Hector Garman, chef de police, were silent, absorbed in their own thoughts. Genevieve with rhymes for a sonnet to the new heir, Garman with plans for the heir's security.

On the bed, Dame Dimsina gave drowsy thanks to the Double Helix for a safe delivery. Having now doubly secured the succession, the duke might permit her a daughter. There was little fun in dressing boy babies.

The Duchess of Mary Cage went to sleep sucking her thumb.

James Laporte, strangler, folded his arms and waited. The geneticist's approval was required before he could leave the chamber.

But Larry Greville returned to the delivery room shaking his head. He made a sign to Laporte, then left. Gently, Laporte removed the child from the wet nurse's arms . . .

And Formal Crowfoot, the duke's confessor, knelt to mutter a prayer, tears running down his cheeks. The Double Helix gave, but High Barbary took away.

Hector Garman, who combined a spy's role with that of chief of police, began composing a message for transmission to his other master on a distant world: a message reporting that the latest heir to the Duchy of Marécage was inadequate and . . . unsatisfactory.

 

Healer Grumm's dispensary occupied one room of his home in the upper branch of a live timber shopping mall in downtown Kelmet. The dispensary overlooked a short order caff run by ophids. Grumm's shingle vied with a luminous sign advertising the caff.

Make Ready followed Grumm inside to discover a nest of carpetted and furnished rooms. Since Make Ready's more recent pieds-a-terre had included a disused pig-stye, a rubbish-choked cellar, a dockside packing case and an empty tomb in St. Diennay's churchyard, Grumm's home seemed palatial. He tried to conceal his feeling of awe.

Grumm said, "You don't have to tip-toe about, lad. The tree won't collapse if you breathe." Grumm shed his jacket, revealing a pair of muscular arms, and a down-covered chest. He hung his sword-belt and weapon on the back of the door, grinning. "Must get meself plucked, soon. Plumes ain't good for business. Folk like to believe their medsin's a near-paragon. Them vermy fugers in partic wouldn't let me near 'em if they knew I grew feathers."

Make Ready's eyes grew saucer-shaped. A feathered healer was a long way from standard. He said, "If you let them grow—could you fly?" Fide O'Reilly, with a yard of canine DNA in his genes couldn't urinate on demand.

Grumm flapped his elbows. "Guess I'm more of an osprich or an emug. Too much ballast for flight." He studied the silent youngster. "Not funny? Never mind. Don't suppose you'd say no to a spot of dinner before I check that finger?"

Make Ready shook his head. No adult had addressed him so civilly for years. And no dognik ever refused food.

Over bacon and eggs, Grumm continued. "And what's a lad like you doing with those dogniks? You in trouble with the flix?"

Make Ready wagged his head again, mouth full of delicious food.

Grumm raised his eyebrows. "Not the recruiters, is it? You ain't old enough to be took for the militia."

Make Ready lowered his eyes. He had fled the tomb in St. Diennay's churchyard when his smouldering fire attracted the attention of Duke Corwen's impress sergeant.

"I'm near seventeen," he muttered.

"But you don't fancy carrying a pike against the chelonians, eh?" Grumm's voice was jovial. "Not that I blame you, lad. They say as how Colly Caswell's turtles cut themselves a slice of Mary Cage last month, up Whernmoor way."

Make Ready cleared his mouth of food. He set his jaw. "Why should I fight for the duke? He ain't never fought for me."

Healer Grumm brandished a fork approvingly. "True, lad. I don't suppose our duke even knows you exist." He cocked his head. "Though perhaps Messer Garman's men might be happy to make your acquaintance?"

Make Ready shrugged. "They'll be lucky to catch me."

"So?" The healer smiled. "How do you dodge them?"

Make Ready grinned in reminiscence. "Over the side of the houseboat—with breathing straws."

Grumm mopped his plate with a wedge of bread, unimpressed. "In that scum?"

Make Ready filled his mouth again. He recalled Rexy Donovan emerging from a skulking session foamy as a toothpaste ad. Make Ready sniffed. "It ain't always scummy. Weekends, it's clean."

They finished eating, and Grumm took him into the dispensary. The healer boiled a panful of water over a gas jet, and put in some instruments to sterilize. He dabbed stinging antiseptic on Make Ready's blackened finger.

Make Ready bit his lip, and made no sound.

Grumm took up his forceps, gripped a fragment of epidermis, and tugged.

Make Ready screamed.

Unperturbed, Grumm put down the forceps. "Tain't ready yet, lad. You'll have to come back tomorrow."

Make Ready nursed the tender digit. "You ain't going to chop it off, then?"

The healer packed away his instruments. He whistled a little tune. "What's your dad's name, lad?"

Make Ready stared hard at his finger. What had his father's identity to do with a possibly gangreeny finger? He said, "My mère told me he was called Messer Jones."

Grumm nodded, as though comprehending more than he had been told. "And your mère? What's she called?"

"I don't remember much about her. She was a Lonten Franchy called Semmy Laduce. They let her out of prison to come here."

Grumm latched his bag, and stowed it under the table. Lontaine France still used Omkrit III as a combined rubbish dump and penal planet. He decided not to ask what crime Make Ready's mother had committed. He said, "Did your mère work as a chamber maid at the Castle on Rue des Percées?"

Make Ready's mouth hardened. The healer was getting far too warm. He mumbled, "Don't remember no Castle."

In Make Ready's memory, the Castle Hotel's domestic quarters had been a warm nest. He had lived there with his mother until old enough to be wished onto a band of roving chip smugglers.

"Well, where did you live?"

After the Castle, where? The smugglers had been like gypsies, wandering the realms of Arcadia, from Mary Cage to Montynose, to Entendy, to Varek, to the Far Nighlands and then round them all again. He had stayed with them, absorbing the illicit mysteries of electronics, until, weary of the surreptitious life, he had run off with a gang of street thieves in Kelmet, his home town.

He muttered, "We shifted around a lot." Grumm stared at him, eyes calculating. "Do you know that your father might—just might—have been a paragon!"

Make Ready ignored the bait. The mère had always insisted that his DNA was out of the top drawer . . . as if it mattered. Personally, he didn't care if his genes came off a second-hand stall. The dogniks hadn't queried his ancestry.

Grumm persisted. "But don't let that bother you, lad. There's a deal more unrecombined DNA about on Omkrit III than folk credit." He paused. "You don't know where your mère is?"

Make Ready fidgeted with his sore finger. What had all this to do with whether Grumm chopped it off or not? He said, "I haven't seen her for years."

Grumm's expression softened. "We'll manage without her. If your father was who I suspect, you could be an aristo." The healer scratched his head. "Maybe you'd better stay the night here. We can try that finger again tomorrow."

Make Ready's suspicions grew into convictions. Grumm was too interested in parents. A real dognik growl rumbled in his throat. "What do you know about my father? Do you know who he was?"

Grumm ignored the warning signals. "I might, lad. I'm just not sure enough to call 'em facts. You kip on the sofa tonight. We'll talk some more in the morning."

 

Duke Corwen Persay was told the news of his child's inadequacies when he returned from shooting. He stared, haggard, at the geneticist. "Is it me?"

Greville faced him, eyes expressionless. "No, sire. The infant's DNA was defective. The finger code was impaired."

"Well, if the fault's not mine—whose is it?"

Greville's face was impassive. "I have long had doubts, sire. I feel we were fortunate with Lord Mardy's conception. Perhaps Dame Dimsina should not be permitted to breed again."

The duke was silent for a moment. "Very well. And the child?"

"I gave it to Laporte, sire."

The duke heaved a convulsive sigh. He pulled off his gloves and shooting jacket. The fingerstall on his right hand had come loose. He retied the knot. "Please tell Lord Mardy I would like a word with him."

 

On Whernmoor, five hundred kilometers to the north, where Duke Corwen's levees strove to stem the chelonian tide, General Lord Cledger Persay had begun to suspect he was in difficulties. The pocket brigade despatched by the duke to halt the turtlebacks was irritatingly outnumbered. And, from an aerial inspection, Lord Cledger had just learned, was also being outmaneuvered.

In the grounds of Dormenville's only school, where the general had set up headquarters, soldiers of headquarters troop winched his captive balloon to earth.

"Steady with that basket!" roared a sashed and epauletted lieutenant to the crew of four-arms on the guide ropes. "Mind you don't shake his lordship!"

The bullet-proof basket came within reach of extended hands, and was eased to safety.

General Lord Cledger Persay cocked a leg over the side, and vaulted to the ground. Young Lord Cledger was proud of his fitness, his command, and his uncle Corwen's trust. He stabbed a leather-stalled finger at the troop-lined ridge above the township, addressing his equerry. "The bastards are as thick as bilberries on the far side of that hill!"

A cannon in the battery which had dug into the football field roared as he spoke, lobbing one of his lordship's explosive novelties over the ridge. His lordship gave the equerry's ears time to stop ringing, then swung up his arm to point east. "The bastards have also infiltrated along our left flank!"

While the lieutenant stood, stricken by the revelation, Lord Cledger brought his arm round in a half circle. "And on our right flank, too!"

He frowned. "Tell the major we are evacuating immediately. Lord Markey's bombardiers will provide covering fire to troops withdrawing from the ridge. Send a message with my instructions. We can't hold this position another hour!"

The equerry jerked like a marionette. "At once, milord. Er—where are we evacuating to?"

Lord Cledger dragged a map from his belt case. A nearby corporal bent to give him a back. The general spread his map on the corporal, searching it diligently. He stabbed the chart. "Here! We'll stand on the Lemon river, by the bridge." He stared about him. "Where's that captain of sappers? I want that bridge mined."

General Lord Cledger Persay's headquarters troop moved out of Dormenville within twenty minutes, followed by a hurriedly unemplaced field gun battery. Lord Cledger rode at their head on his all white gremgaur, blue and silver banner flying. Captain Fogelman's unit of mounted skirmishers, fuming smokepots hanging from their stirrups, waited behind to escort the retreating infantry as they fell back from the ridge. Dormenville was left to be sacked by the turtlebacks.

At the Lemon river bridge, Lord Cledger had his balloon put up again in an attempt to see over the billowing smoke which refused to blow away when it was no longer needed. As the dun-colored bubble rose above the dark billows, an enterprising chelonian sharpshooter in the branches of a tree which poked shrapnel-torn foliage through the smoke chanced a long shot, and brought the Lord Cledger down with a bullet through the head . . .

 

Word of the Persay babe's death—but not that of Lord Cledger at Whernmoor—was being shouted in the street when Make Ready awoke the following morning. Grumm sent him out to buy a paper. Make Ready returned, head in the pages.

"Dame Dimsina's child died soon after birth," he reported. "It lived long enough to be helixed by the duke's pastor. Funeral's tomorrow."

Grumm snatched the paper. "I'll do my own reading, if you don't mind!" The medsin studied the printed columns. Nowhere was it reported that the duke's annalist, lyricist, obstetrician, tutor, priest and midwife were now confined to the Chateau at his lordship's pleasure. Nor was there mention of a wet nurse, too anxious to return to her own child, who now bobbed silently down to Garbage. Persay secrets were dangerous possessions. But Grumm had his suspicions. Infant deaths were abnormal on Omkrit III. But the Persays could get their DNA cocked up as easy as anyone else.

The medsin threw down the paper. "Here, lad—let's have another squint at that finger."

Make Ready held out his hand. He was no longer fooled. Grumm knew the cause of the blackened tip.

The healer peered at the finger, making no attempt to detach any dead skin. "Hmm! Still not ready, lad. Reckon you'd better hang on here a while."

Make Ready studied his digit. Not ready for what? Grumm had used the expression twice. Why was his finger so important to the healer? Why was he anxious to let a scruffy dognik stay in his house? And would he let the dognik go, if he didn't want to stay?

Make Ready said, "Am I a prisoner, Messer Grumm?"

The healer raised his eyebrows. Make Ready felt like a germ under a microscope. Grumm frowned. "Where'd you get that idea, lad?"

Make Ready scowled back. "Am I, sir?"

Grumm's face grew gloomy. "You can buzz off any time you like. But you'll be sorry if you do."

Make Ready's eyes became accusing slits. "You knew my finger wouldn't be ready this morning!"

Grumm avoided his gaze. "Suppose I did?"

Make Ready's voice was triumphant. "Ready for what? You tell me!"

Grumm squirmed on his seat. "I suppose you'll have to be told, sooner or later. If my guess is right, your sire's name wasn't Jones—it was Persay, the Grand Maitre himself. And that what's bugging you is the Persay doigt!"

Make Ready caught his breath. His finger the Persay doigt?

For generations Persay digiteurs had defended Mary Cage against invaders from Entendy, Varek, and Montynose. He glanced anxiously at the blackened digit. "But that would make me . . ."

Grumm grinned. "Precisely, my little lord. A pettiduc, in the argot. More precisely, a precious little bastard. But we need expert opinion. I'll admit it crossed my mind to make a dublin or two out of your affliction, but this morning's news alters matters. If the duke's lost his new heir, he might look favorably on a byblow what already has the Persay doigt. What do you say? Would you like to be the duke's son? I've a contact at the Chateau that could pronounce for sure on your finger."

His tongue wouldn't move. Grumm was mad. Him—a duke?

Grumm let the boy stew. If Mary Cage didn't get another digiteur—and Healer Grumm peripheral benefits—out of this gambit, Healer Grumm would stand to be kicked!

 

Lord Mardy Persay knocked at the door of his father's study. From the haggard air, the duke had spent the night brooding. He motioned his son to a chair. "You heard the bad news?"

"About the child?"

The duke snarled. "No, you fool. About young Cledger getting himself killed at Whernmoor."

Lord Mardy nodded. "Bregonif told me. I suppose you want me to go out there, and pull the chestnuts out of the fire for you?"

Duke Corwen scowled. "Someone has to take his place. We can't let Colly Caswell's turtlebacks walk all over us. And you're the only digiteur I have to spare. But, before you take off—I want advice from you. We still require a backup heir for the duchy. I haven't the heart to try for another natural son. In any case, where would I go? Greville rules out your mère."

Lord Mardy examined his shiny toecaps. "Back to the cell banks, I imagine. Where else?"

The duke thumped his desk. "You haven't absorbed much in twenty years, Mardy. We don't let clones inherit." Lord Corwen sighed. "Though rules are made to be broken. Whom do you suggest?"

His son shrugged. "Whoever you like, sir."

The duke's lips compressed. "It ain't who I like! You're supposed to take an interest. Great Helix—it'll be your duchy when they put me in a bottle. Consider who's eligible. Your great grandpère? He's entitled to another term after fifty years in the bank. But he was a flop as Grand Maitre. His only sensible act was siring my father. We can't let him at the controls again."

Lord Mardy tried to show interest. "Further back, then?"

The duke frowned. "That's Bregonifs period. And he's been twice round already—although only me and Greville know it. Brecon IV was a pain in the derrière when he was boss. Greville chipped the doigt sequence out of his DNA before we cloned him the second time. His time's nearly up, anyway. I've already warned him."

"I mean back before Brecon IV, sir."

The duke gaped in alarm. "You wouldn't clone those murderous madmen! Lontaine France was still dumping its illicit experiments here in those days. Your grandpère six times removed had a wolf's head, and ate children. Greville needed three generations to excise that lupus sequence from the family's genes."

Lord Mardy's eyebrows lifted. "Greville? In those days?"

The duke waved away the query. "Larry Greville has his own way of surviving. As long as he takes care of the Persays, I don't ask no questions. He's got us as near standard as anyone would wish to be."

Lord Mardy became engrossed in his fingertips. "Are you sure you really want my advice, sir?"

The duke blew a gust of breath. "Dammit, Mardy— you're right. It's my job, and I'm shirking it. I just wish Dimsina's child had matched up to our requirements. I don't fancy a clone succeeding me. I want my own progeny in the driving seat."

Lord Mardy found a smile. "You still have me, father."

His parent cackled. "By the Helix, son—so I do, so I do. Don't I tend to overlook the obvious?" He paused. "Now, don't go acting reckless up at Whernmoor. Use your pikemen. They're steady. And the shellbacks don't like cold steel. Give them a bloody nose, and come home safe. Colly Caswell should know better than to try to invade me!"

Lord Mardy rose. "I'll take good care, father."

His father rose. "I'll talk to Larry Greville, then."

The duke stumped off to the laboratory. Greville would advise him on whom to reincorporate. The Persay's welfare was the man's prime concern. He could rely on Larry Greville.

 

Make Ready didn't doubt the healer's ability to achieve such a bizarre objective. As a child, Make Ready had ignored his mère's fantasies of a paragon lineage. Was he truly a Persay bastard? Or was it just a genetic accident which had produced a facsimile Persay doigt? What matter, if the results were identical?

He said, "Would I have to stay at the Chateau?" It would be a blow to leave the dogniks and the houseboat.

"You'd be better away from that scummy sewer." Grumm's expression was virtuous, as though Make Ready's welfare were his only concern.

Make Ready sulked. "It ain't all scummy. There's a channel over by the far bank where we swim."

Grumm shuddered. "Don't say I didn't warn you. Dogniks is different to us near-standards. Their bodies can cope with disease. I'm a medsin—I know."

Make Ready let it pass. His dognik friends were cleaner than most of Kelmet's citizens. He said, "Who do we contact at the Chateau?"

Grumm's face went blank. "My business, lad. You tell me if you want me to get him here to see that doigt of yours."

Oh, what the Helix! He could slide out if things got too hot. It might be a lark to confront the Grand Maitre with a bastard he had forgotten!

Make Ready met the healer's gaze with innocent eyes. "Okay, Messer Grumm. I'll give it a go."

 

Lord Mardy Persay was in no hurry to dash off to Whernmoor. Cledger's second in command had reported that the Persay force was holding on the Lemon river, with the bridge still unblown. Dalliance at Haut Chateau was a deal more attractive than campaigning in the northern boondocks with an army of sweaty four-arms. And there were other ways of killing cats . . .

Lord Mardy headed for the Chateau's telecommunications centre. He found the duty corporal at his desk outside the aviary. The man saluted with an upper arm, while unsuccessfully attempting to conceal a comic book behind his back with the lower ones.

"At ease, corporal," Mardy ordered, smiling. "This visit ain't official until I put on my cap."

The corporal stared, noting that Lord Mardy carried no cap. He relaxed. "Can I help you, sir."

Mardy pointed his stalled index finger at the aviary door. "Can you get a message into Entendu for me?"

The corporal straightened. "That's easy, sir. I have a couple of Entendy birds in there. Would you want to get in touch with the earl himself? The birds are from his stable."

Mardy nibbled at a thumb nail. "Would the earl know who sent the message?"

"Only if you tell him, sir. The birds was took from a catman courier who was trying to smuggle them into Varrick through Mary Cage territory."

"So, if I were to send a message by one of your birds, Earl Elder would believe it came from his own agent in Varek?"

"If you didn't tell him different, sir."

Lord Mardy rubbed his hands together. "Excellent, corporal. How do I send a message?"

The corporal opened the lid of his desk, and got out a sheaf of flimsies. "If you'll write it out on this special paper, sir. I'll do the rest."

Mardy weighed the flimsies in his hand. "Won't the type of paper give us away?"

The corporal grinned. "We captured those flimsies with the birds, sir. We made copies before we replaced them—with our own birds . . . and our own agent!"

Lord Mardy whistled his admiration of the devious strategy. "So Earl Elder's messages from Varek will come to us?"

The corporal shrugged modestly. "Shouldn't be surprised, sir."

Lord Mardy bent over the soldier's desk. On the top flimsy he wrote: "An army of 3,000 shellbacks, with artillery and cavalry have invaded Marécage. Suggest prime opportunity for strike on Varek. Area around Mossum completely undefended."

He left the message unsigned. Folding the flimsy, he found the corporal offering him a minute container.

"Pop it in there, sir. I'll fix it to the bird straightaway, and send it off."

Lord Mardy screwed up the flimsy beneath the one he had used, and casually scribbled over the next lower sheet with the blunt end of his pen. "I'd like to see it go, corporal, if I may."

The corporal unlocked the aviary door. "We've no secrets from you, milord. You hold the message tube while I get the bird."

"That will do nicely, corporal," Lord Mardy agreed.

He went back to his own quarters in the Chateau humming happily. The message should be enough to spur Jark Elder into a raid on Caswell's territory, thereby creating a demand for the immediate recall of the turtlebacks from Whernmoor. And Lord Mardy Persay could stay snug at Haut Chateau, keeping an eye on the machinations of one Larry Greville. When it came to deciding on fresh additions to the Persay line, the heir apparent ought not to be left out in the cold.

 

Almost a week passed before Grumm was able to speak to his contact at the Chateau. Make Ready filled the time by helping around the dispensary, learning to compound traditional antibiotics, salves, and unguents.

On the eve of Haut Chateau's weekly market, Grumm showed Make Ready a note. He read, "Will visit you tomorrow."

He gave the it back to Grumm. "Your contact?"

Grumm nodded.

Make Ready fumbled under his jerkin. "You'd better have this back, then."

He handed Grumm a scalpel.

The medsin stared. "Where'd you get that?"

Make Ready shrugged elaborately. "I was going to get Fide O'Reilly to chop my finger off if your contact wouldn't play."

Face pale with anger, the healer placed the knife in a rack. "Why didn't you slip it back without telling me—like when you nicked it?"

Make Ready said nothing. He knew the healer knew why. Nobody pulled Make Ready Jones' strings. Dogniks—even honorary dogniks—get by on their own efforts. And now the healer knew it.

 

The contact was elderly and shriveled. He paraded a cock's comb headpiece, webs between his fingers, and feathers dangled from beneath his cape. Make Ready was not deceived. When the man had unbuttoned his cloak, Make Ready had observed a dagger sheath jeweled and crested. The man was no cockalorum.

Healer and stranger shook hands High Barbary fashion, palms not quite touching. The stranger's pupils flicked from side to side, like a wary animal. He pulled off his finger webs. "One is forced into deceit, Grumm. Bit of a putsch on up the hill since the death of Dimsina's infant. I'm not supposed to be out without one of Garman's lackeys. Where's your candidate?"

Grumm signaled Make Ready from the dispensary. "Show the gentle sir your finger, boy."

Make Ready extended the blackened digit. The stranger inspected it closely, sniffing it, turning it over. He squeezed the crazed skin. Make Ready bit his lip. The stranger cocked an eye at the medsin. "This doigt has a long way to go."

Grumm gestured apologetically. "I guessed that. But it gives us time to think, don't it? Would Grand Maitre be interested?"

The stranger studied Make Ready. Clad in a pair of Grumm's cut-down britches and a clean shirt, Make Ready felt he was making quite an impression.

The stranger wrinkled his nose. "How old are you, lad?"

Make Ready chose civility. "I'm not sure, sir. Sixteen or seventeen, I think."

The stranger turned to Grumm. "He'd have to be cleaned up before I could take him near the duke."

Grumm said, poker-faced, "I'll dress him like a lord if you'll fix him up with an audience."

The stranger sat down, and removed his headpiece. "What's the story? I can give you ten minutes."

Grumm related what he knew of Make Ready's antecedents, and his suspicions of what might have occurred between Make Ready's mother and a younger Duke Corwen Persay.

The stranger made noises like a trapped fly. "Daren't make too much of that. Grand Maitre is sensitive about his youthful peccadilloes. But he's anxious to secure another heir, having lost the child. I, also, must declare an interest. I was due for the cell banks this year, but the duke has given me a respite until he decides what to do about a backup heir. So I'm all for the lad being accepted. A new pettiduc at court could guarantee me another five years as his tutor."

"You'll push for him, then?"

The stranger pulled on his finger webs. "Leave it with me, Grumm. Old Breg can still pull a string or two . . ." The stranger paused.

Grumm frowned. "What's up?"

The stranger pointed a shaking finger, web dangling. "It's the wrong blessed doigt!"

Grumm bridled. "What d'you mean? It's his forefinger, ain't it?"

"But it's on the wrong hand! It's on his left hand!"

Grumm caught Make Ready's startled expression, then turned back to the stranger. "So what? He's a bastard—bar sinister, and all that—ain't he?"

The stranger hopped up and down with irritation, his tail feathers bobbing. "Don't quote bleedin' heraldry at me, Grumm! This might alter the whole picture. There's never been a left-handed digiteur."

"There's got to be a first time for everything."

"Don't argue with me, either! I'll have to make that point with the duke and that bloody Greville."

Grumm relaxed in his chair. "So you'll still try for him?"

The stranger dabbed a balding scalp. "Helix! Of course I will. How else do I stay out of the cell banks? But it isn't going to be easy!"

Make Ready and Grumm watched the stranger strut down the street. Neither of them paid much attention to the cloaked figure which drifted after him.

Make Ready said, "Who's Greville?"

Grumm told him what was known and rumored about the duke's geneticist.

"So Greville is really the boss?"

"No. The duke is the boss. But when Greville pronounces on anything to do with genetics, he can generally make it stick."

"Could he rule me out because it's my left finger?"

"He could rule you out because you fart too loud, son. He might bar you because your mère was a quadroon."

"Does the color show?"

"No way, lad. But Greville can tell you things about yourself what you never suspected."

Make Ready pondered briefly. "Then it would be best to keep out of Messer Greville's way?"

Grumm sniffed. "You couldn't have put it clearer, lad."

 

Below Dormenville in Whernmoor, at the bridge over the Lemon river, where the Persay forces were dug-in, shielded lanterns had been lit against the night. A face-blackened soldier presented himself to the guard at the headquarters tent, and requested admittance.

Colonel Kelp, temporary custodian of Lord Cledger's command, called, "Bring him in!"

Within the tent, the soldier grounded his ironwood musket, and saluted with the regulation arm. "Beg to report, colonel sir—the turtlebacks are pulling out."

Colonel Kelp frowned. He was daily expecting the arrival of a Persay replacement to relieve him of this hot potato of a command, and he wasn't keen on doing much more than sit on his butt and hold that Helix-damned bridge.

"You sure of that, soldier?" he demanded, hardly able to believe his ears.

"Their guns started moving out when the light went, sir. There can't be anything but their cavalry rearguard left over there by now."

Colonel Kelp knew he should take action. In his mind, he could hear a Persay voice snarling, "And what did you do about it, man?"

He turned to his aide-de-camp. "Ask Major Mottel to step across."

Major Mottel presented himself with the remains of supper clinging to his moustache.

Kelp addressed the soldier. "Tell the major what you've told me."

The soldier repeated his report.

"Now, Charles," said the colonel. "What are we to do?"

The major tugged his moustache while he thought. Charles Mottel had few inhibitions about taking action in any situation whatever. Unfortunately, he had little experience of handling brigade-sized forces.

He said, "We could put a strong patrol over the bridge to test their reaction. Might even bag a few of their cavalry before they all escape."

The colonel's face cleared. "Capital, Charles. Please arrange it, immediately." If the scout's report was accurate, he might even get the credit for routing the shellbacks, as well as capturing a few prisoners.

Half an hour later, a line of Persay infantrymen, armed and accounted, crept silently over the bridge, ears alert for the tramp of hooves or the clink of metal.

On the far side of the bridge, a turtleback sapper, his carapace liberally mud-smeared, lay prone, the silhouettes of the Persay infantry on the bridge just visible to him against the darkened sky. Every now and again, he tugged a cord which caused a cluster of gremgaur shoes hanging from a distant tree to jingle faintly.

When the sapper observed that the bridge was full from end to end with creeping Persay soldiers, he pressed a wire to the terminal of a wet cell on the ground beside him.

The Lemon river bridge blew skyward in a flash of light which displayed flying timbers, flailing arms, legs, bodies, heads, helmets, muskets and other impedimenta. The chelonian sapper picked up his battery, mounted a tethered and muffled gremgaur in the peculiar chelonian fashion, and speeded after his unit.

On the other side of the Lemon river, Colonel Kelp heard the explosion, and trembled . . .

 

The Grand Maitre sent for Bregonif.

"Well?" he challenged. "You blew it, didn't you?"

Bregonif feigned incomprehension. "Blew what, sire?"

The duke scowled. "Don't play the fool with me, Breg! I can't stand a rogue acting the innocent. And I hate cross-breeders. Something odd about a fellow who's not content with his own kind."

"I—I don't follow you, sire."

The duke thumped the desk top. "By the Helix, no! But someone followed you! Sneaking off to Kelmet tarted up as a mock cockalorum! Were you looking for another queer to ruffle your feathers?"

Bregonif drew himself unimpressively erect. "Nothing of the kind, sire. I wore cockalorum disguise to help me to follow a lead which might be of benefit to you."

The duke sighed. He hadn't been listening. "Might as well tell you. I've decided on a clone, instead of a natural son. This sex business is too chancy. It'll be Derzey, the youngest son of great uncle Armaduc. The lad got himself perforated by a Grogue raiding party before he was twenty, so he didn't have much fun. We reckon he deserves another go-round. Greville is picking a clone-mère for him. I had intended you to stay on as tutor, but if you've turned into a blasted queer . . ."

Bregonif trembled with rage. Not too difficult to guess who had been spying on him. He gabbled protests. "Sire—it was essential that I went disguised to Kelmet. Garman's men would have insisted in accompanying me in my own persona. I chose to dress as a cockalorum because they are easily imitated. A false comb, finger webs—"

The duke raised a hand. "Point taken. You've been disobedient, not queer. I forgive you, so don't harp on about it. Why go to Kelmet?"

Bregonif glanced around the room, looking for cover. Within the next minute, an old Persay retainer who must have lost his marbles might lose the rest of his assets. He said, "I went to meet your bastard son, sire." Then Bregonif closed his eyes, and waited for the lightning to strike.

He heard the duke's laugh. "Is my reputation so dire, Breg?"

Bregonif opened his eyes, relief showing. "I'm afraid so, sire."

"Tell me about this bastard."

Bregonif told his lord about Make Ready. He added quickly, "The youth might fail on one count—the doigt is on his left hand."

The duke was inattentive. He murmured, "She never told me." He chewed a lip in thought. "Is the lad presentable? Does he have manners? Any learning?"

Bregonif affected disinterest. "M'kreddy is an orphan who has run wild for years, sire. He has a native cunning which might indicate intelligence. He could be made presentable. He had manners enough to hold his tongue while I spoke to his sponsor."

"Who is his sponsor?"

"A Kelmet medsin I have known for years."

The duke grew pensive. "The lad could save us a deal of time." He glanced furtively at Bregonif. "If he has the doigt, we daren't ignore it. He must be either acknowledged or eliminated."

Bregonif should not have cared what happened to the duke's bastard. With a cloned heir already selected, he was sure of a tutor's job. But nine months was a long time. Fortunes could vanish and alliances burgeon while Greville brought his clone to birth. An heir in the hand was worth ten clones in the future. Bregonif said, "I think you should acknowledge your son, sire."

The duke knuckled his forehead. "I can't acknowledge him until I've had a good look at him."

"Agreed, sire. And one doesn't socialize with street arabs."

"Precisely. So what do we do?"

Bregonif appeared to cogitate, although his plan had been cooking for days. "Sire, I can arrange for the boy to be brought to the Chateau next market day. Perhaps you might find yourself on the Mendicants steps about noon? I could ensure that the lad passed close enough for you to scrutinize him without your purpose being apparent."

Duke Corwen Persay grunted his satisfaction. "That's quite neat, Breg. We'll do it that way."

Bregonif felt the sweat trickling down his nape. "Thank you, sire. Will that be all?"

The duke's eyes became gimlets. "Unless you have further shocks for me?"

"No, sire. No more shocks." Bregonif backed out of his lord's presence, knees decidedly shaky. It had gone smoother than he had anticipated. There was no point in pushing his luck.

 

When Duke Corwen received the report from Whernmoor, he went in search of his son.

Lord Mardy was trouncing Mim Bonner, his aide, at tennis when the duke arrived on court. One glance at the duke's purple face prompted Bonner to abandon the match, and the court.

The duke waved the message flimsy at his son. "Dammit, Mardy—you promised me you'd go to Whernmoor!"

Lord Mardy wiped his palms on a towel. "I promised to pull your chestnuts out of the fire, sir—which I did."

The duke fumed. "By the Holy Helix—don't bandy words with me!"

Lord Mardy stood his ground. When Duke Corwen was in a temper, it was either stand or grovel. Mardy said patiently, "I got the turtlebacks out of Mary Cage, sir. What more did you require?"

The duke flourished the avigram. "That fool Kelp allowed them to escape. And let them blow the bridge while a troop of musketeers were crossing—with him and the brigade on the wrong side of the river!"

Lord Mardy swung his racquet like a flail. "Kelp always was a fool, sir. He'd never have made second-in-command but for Cledger wanting him."

The duke rumbled like a distant thunderstorm. "Well, what are you going to do about it? Do I have to clean up the mess myself?"

Lord Mardy sighed. "You'll have to lend me the floater, sir. It's the only way to get to Whernmoor fast enough."

Duke Corwen blinked furiously at his son. The duke's floater, unlike most modern gimmicks in Mary Cage—such as electric batteries, hard metal muskets, and the like—was home-grown; not smuggled or imported from the mystery makers in the south. Part animal, part tree, the floater had been nurtured in Greville's own laboratory. Three younger planimals were maturing in the rose garden, but they wouldn't be ready for some years.

"Dammit, Mardy, the creature's just getting to know me!"

"It'll take three days to reach Whernmoor by gremgaur, sir. Helix knows what stupidities Kelp could commit in that time. The floater is three times as fast as any of our sixlegs."

The duke dug his toes into gravel. "You'd better take good care of that beastie, son!"

Lord Mardy spun his racquet. "I will, sir. And the run will do it good. It doesn't get enough exercise from you."

"I'll decide that," grunted the duke. "And, before you go—some news for you."

Lord Mardy's racquet ceased revolving. "Sir?"

"Bregonif's found a Persay byblow what has the doigt!"

Lord Mardy raised his eyebrows, and waited.

The duke looked vaguely uncomfortable. "A young chap from Kelmet. Bit of a rough diamond, according to Breg."

Lord Mardy hid his amusement. "One of your indiscretions, sir?"

The duke harrumphed. "That's something we needn't go into."

Mardy stared thoughtfully at the sky. "I've often fancied a kid brother. Could be fun. I'm sorry I didn't see the babe before it died."

The duke's expression was unreadable. "Can't have a grown man watch his mère in parturition."

And just as well, he thought. The fewer complications, the better. Of those witnessing the birth, only an unnamed midwife had been unwilling to recall the child dying in Formal Crowfoot's arms. That one had followed the wetnurse on a one way trip to Garbage. And Hector Garman's men had proved their loyalty by diligently failing to discover who had disposed of the woman.

Duke Corwen was well served. He said, "The byblow appears for inspection next Saturday noon before the Mendicant Steps. If he's at all presentable, I'm prepared to accept him. But Greville's attitude may be different—he's keen on a clone of Derzey Persay."

. . . who was an idiot, Lord Mardy added to himself. Perhaps it would be wise to speed up to Whernmoor, deal with Colonel Kelp, and get back as quickly as possible. Saturday noon, at the Mendicant Steps might be the place to be, if you were sold on securing a stepbrother for yourself.

 

Bregonif said, "Does the boy know the duke?"

Grumm laughed. "Little Bastard ain't been out of the stews of Kelmet."

Bregonif turned towards Make Ready. "The duke will be on the steps before the Mendicant Door. He will wear a lime green, high necked, gold belted tunic. You may miss the stall on his finger, since he will have long, lace cuffs. He may wear a flat cap. His breeks will be red, buckled below the knee. There will be at least two Chateau guards with him. Approach no closer than six feet. Do not look at him. Do not address him. Walk the length of the alley between the market stalls and the Chateau, pass the steps slowly, then get the hell out of sight. And for Helix's sake, wipe that silly grin off your face!"

Make Ready's visage froze. "Yes, sir." He hesitated.

"Sir— have you told the duke that my doigt ain't mature yet?"

Bregonif eyed the healer and the youth for a moment. Then he said, "You had both better understand what kind of fire you are playing with. I happen to know that Greville wants a Persay clone which he has already chosen. So M'kreddy's appearance on the scene could upset his plans. If he were to learn that the doigt wasn't ripe, he might take steps to eliminate you both. So, unless the Grand Maitre accepts M'kreddy, I can't answer for your safety."

Grumm tried to smile. "We never thought it'd be a cakewalk."

Bregonif toyed with the wattles depending from his cock's comb. "What did you expect to get out of the scheme, anyway?"

Grumm shrugged. "Supplier of herbs and medicals to the Chateau? Perhaps healer to the domestics?"

"And if the lad doesn't satisfy?"

Grumm's face grew gloomy.

Bregonif continued remorselessly. "You must appreciate the alternative. The duke can't ignore a contender with the doigt. He either accepts or rejects him. If he opts for rejection—he'll have to reject the sponsor, too!"

Grumm shot a furtive glance at Make Ready. "I—I have friends in Varrick."

Bregonif shook his head in doubt. "You'd have to be quick."

"The duke won't blight no one in public."

Bregonif fiddled with the catch on his cloak. "Don't be too sure. He has a quick temper. I'll have three gremgaurs tethered at the foot of the Demidrop Stairs, waiting for you. We might all need to be quick."

Grumm swallowed hard. He nodded in silent assent.

"So—turn the lad out smart, and hope for the best."

Make Ready kept quiet. What if you had no friends handy in Varrick? What if, anyway, you'd done enough running in your short life? What if you fancied letting the great Duke Corwen Persay see what you thought of absentee fathers? It would take more than a fast gremgaur to get you clear of the commotion that indiscretion would cause!

 

Lord Mardy Persay relaxed his pressure on the goad, allowing the floater to slow. Ahead, at the foot of the hill, lay the Lemon river. On the nearer bank, rows of tents advertised the presence of Lord Cledger's brigade.

Feeling the tiller pull against his palm, Mardy let the planimal drift unguided towards a nearby copse, where it nuzzled a tree, and settled.

No Persay patrol appeared to challenge their arrival.

"This'll do," Mardy told his escort. "That's Kelp's camp below."

He jumped from the driving seat, motioning his men out with him. "Watch our beastie, corporal," he ordered. "This won't take long."

The corporal nodded. "Aye, sir." He tucked his imported metal musket under one arm, and vanished among the trees. Lord Mardy set off downhill with the other two guardsmen.

Duke Corwen had given no precise instructions about the fate of Colonel Kelp. Lord Mardy had little doubt about what would happen to the colonel in his father's hands.

Followed by his guards, he paced along the line of tents towards the marquee flying the Persay banner. Beside them, the river bank swarmed with coveralled sappers. The skeleton of a two-lane bridge already stretched towards the farther bank. On the farther bank, refugees from the stricken township of Dormenville huddled, many in bloody bandages.

"Holy Helix!" Mardy's men being his personal bodyguard, were permitted a looseness of discipline he considered justified by their absolute loyalty to him. "Why don't the colonel do something for them poor bastards?"

The other guardsman grimaced. "Reckon them sappers will be digging a grave or two before we go back to Kelmet."

His companion nodded agreement. He raised his voice, "Permission to fix bayonets, sir?"

Mardy shook his head. His men were doubtless ready to fight the whole brigade, should it venture to disagree with any of his judgments. Mardy grinned. "We don't want to frighten them too much." Like all Persay nobles, Lord Mardy went unarmed, except for an ornamental dagger. The Persay doigt was all that was required to instill fear into his enemies.

The guard on the marquee threw up his musket, then, recognizing Lord Mardy, lowered it, and stood back.

Mardy thrust aside the flap, and entered the tent.

A coterie of officers sat around a campaign table, glasses before them. In Duke Corwen's army, a colonel wore two silver stars below a coronet on his shoulders. The officer carrying this weight of metal paused in the act of tipping a bottle over a glass, and turned.

"Dammit, soldier, I said we were not to be bothered—!"

"Except by me, colonel," Mardy interrupted. "I've come to collect the account of your stewardship."

Color drained from Kelp's face. He lowered the bottle to the table. The officers behind him got hurriedly to their feet, buttoning tunics.

"Are we celebrating a victory?" Mardy asked, face innocent.

"Er—no, sir," gasped the colonel.

"Then why are we not outside, getting on with the war? Why were there no patrols to challenge me when I arrived? Why are there wounded and homeless, unhoused and untreated, on the far bank of the Lemon?" Mardy paused for breath. "Why are you still in command, Colonel Kelp?"

The colonel gaped, wordless, eyes on Lord Mardy's stalled digit.

Mardy raised his index finger, pointing. "Can you give me one good reason why you should continue to command Lord Cledger's brigade?"

"Sire—!" protested a moustached major behind Kelp.

The menacing digit moved from the colonel to the major. "Were you invited to speak, sir?"

The major shook his head, suddenly mute.

Mardy's eyes were bright. This sorry crew, who had permitted poor, idiotic Cledger to expose himself to enemy fire, deserved all that was coming to them. "Don't despair, major," he advised. "Your turn will come."

He turned back to Kelp. "Step forward, colonel, so that I may touch you."

Like a puppet jerked by strings, the colonel approached Lord Mardy.

"Close enough, colonel." Mardy reached out, hooked his finger under Kelp's epaulette, and ripped it loose from its button. Then he grabbed the dangling cloth, and tore it from the colonel's shoulder.

"Remain still, colonel," he ordered, "so that I may reach your other shoulder."

Tucking both epaulettes into his pocket, Mardy said, "Messer Kelp, you are now a civilian, and have no more power over this brigade. In my father's name, I now banish you under pain of death from the Duch of Mary Cage. When I am done here, you will be boated over the river, and left to your own devices. For your sake, I hope they serve you better than you served Milord Cledger!"

Kelp closed his eyes. "Sire, I have a wife and children—!"

Mardy's face was merciless. "So had Milord Cledger—and probably those troopers who were killed on the bridge."

Kelp opened his blazing eyes. His hand went to the hilt of his hanger.

Mardy heard the click of a musket trigger behind him.

He put out a restraining palm. "Messer Kelp, I would not take your sword from you, since a sword is every citizen's right. But, if you put your hand on it again in my presence, you will not live to draw it."

An hour later, the men of Lord Cledger's brigade watched six disgraced ex-officers ferried across the river. A young captain of musketeers, dazzled by the prospect of swapping a star for a coronet, had promised Lord Mardy to get the bridge finished, the refugees succoured, and the brigade home in good order.

Feeling sick, because he had come within an ace of blighting Kelp, Lord Mardy motioned to his bodyguard. "That's it, lads. Let's go home."

 

On Boulevard Trounoir, the healer paused before the window of a Gentlesires Outfitters. "Do as they tell you in there," he warned. "The fellow owes me a favour, but it won't stop him charging me a packet. So don't give him any excuse for jacking up his prices any higher than they already are."

The man who came to greet them wore two arms and two well-camouflaged stumps. Why a hero should choose amputation to emulate the paragon shape was beyond Make Ready. He had often envied the extra pair of arms the hexos owned.

Grumm and tailor flourished palms. Grumm muttered, "Good of you, Maddy. This is M'kreddy. M'kreddy, Maddy Dearboy is going to dress you for the pageant. Behave yourself, and do what he tells you."

The tailor gripped Make Ready's sleeve, holding him fast. He faced Grumm. "Float for a couple of hours. We don't like an audience."

He led Make Ready into a room where many hexos worked tailoring machines.

"You're getting priority, lad," he said. "Helix knows why. So busy we are. I must be going soft in the head." He pushed Make Ready onto a turntable, and produced a tape measure. "Get those rags off," he ordered.

Make Ready stripped off Grumm's jacket and shirt.

Maddy Dearboy's hands fluttered. "Everything, laddie. I wouldn't put muttoncloth over that rag of a shirt."

Flushing, Make Ready removed Grumm's britches and his own skimpy underwear.

The tailor eyed the fingerstall Grumm had supplied. "You can't want your glove fitted over that?"

Make Ready put his hand behind his back. To remove the stall would betray his blackened finger. If a Kelmet medsin could divine the significance of the digit, why not a Kelmet tailor. He said, "Over the stall, messer."

The tailor shrugged his indifference. "Messer Grumm didn't say, laddie—do you want polypop fiber or cultstuff? Cultured fabric is guaranteed not to crease or wear out during its life, but on humid days it tends to grow faster than the programmed shrinkage, and you get a baggy fit."

Make Ready observed Dearboy's unconcerned pose. Sackcloth or hessian would have held equal interest for the tailor. Make Ready set his jaw. Grumm looked for a profit from their venture. Why endanger it by skimping!

Make Ready said, "Haven't you got nothing better?"

Dearboy inflated his chest. "Laddie, we have a trad cotton velvet ideally suited for your rigout. It's guaranteed both to crease and wear out—eventually. But, until it does, it will disguise you as a gentlesir. It is, unfortunately, more expensive that the materials I suggested. Messer Grumm would no doubt regard it as too expensive for a single wearing."

Make Ready hesitated. Dress him like a lord, Grumm had promised Bregonif. Well, why not? Make Ready put a match to his boats. "I may have to make more than one appearance. Do me in velvet."

Dearboy vibrated like a butterfly. "You sure Messer Grumm won't mind, dear lad?"

Make Ready smothered his misgivings. "Messer Grumm wants the best. He gave me carte blanche."

Dearboy beamed. "Very well, sir. Now—about the trimmings . . ."

 

Sunlight bounced off market stall roofs on the Guards Parade at Haut Chateau. Make Ready, swathed in drapes raped from Grumm's dispensary, sweated beside a simmering medsin. The avenue before them, which separated the market from the chateau, was known as the Alée des Dames, and was, by tradition, reserved for the ladies of the court.

A door opened along the alley. Four figures emerged into the sunlight, to stand idly on the steps before the door, as though lingering to watch the busy market. Two of the figures wore Chateau Guard stripes, one a soiled smock, and the fourth a lime green jacket and plum red breeches.

Grumm glanced at his watch, then gave Make Ready a push. "There he is. Get going! And walk proper. Don't rush."

Make Ready stumbled forward, feeling the drapes pulled from his shoulders. The healer may have disapproved of his madness at the tailors, but Grumm wasn't going to waste its fruit.

Make Ready surveyed the group on the steps. His spirits sank. What could they care about a presumptious bastard from Kelmet's slums? Too late, now, to back out. He squared his shoulders. Placing one foot neatly before the other, the way he had practised, Make Ready walked decorously towards the Mendicant Steps, where waited Duke Corwen Persay, Grand Maitre de Marécage, his guards, and . . . who?

The man in the soiled smock stretched his arms, and yawned. Who would dare to act so casually, dress so slovenly, in the duke's presence? Make Ready's heart leaped in a convulsion which set him trembling. Wearing that laboratory smock . . . it had to be Greville, the duke's geneticist!

Make Ready became aware of silence in the Market alleyways. Shoppers were staring at the youth who presumed to promenade the exclusive alley. The duke had turned to watch him. And Greville? Why was he with the duke? What were those gestures his hands were making? Make Ready's memory flew back to days with the street thieves, recalling a fagin directing minions to a gull. Greville was signaling in finger code!

Make Ready's pace faltered. Who did Greville signal to? And why? There were rumours aplenty of the geneticist's ruthlessness. Had he decided to get rid of a rival doigt in full view of the duke? Make Ready's back felt bare, exposed. A ball from a concealed musket could snuff him out, and no blame attach to the geneticist.

Make Ready halted before the steps. Raising his left hand, he pointed a stalled digit at the geneticist.

"Messer Greville!" His voice was shrill. "Stop what you are doing—or I'll make an end of you now!"

The man in the smock grew pale.

Behind him, the Mendicant Door opened. Lord Mardy Persay, in white court dress, appeared, buttoning his jacket. Voice light, amused, he asked, "Am I late for the party?"

Duke Corwen ignored his son's arrival. He said, "Get behind me, Greville."

Eyes on Make Ready, the duke brought up his right hand.

Lord Mardy thrust past the guard, reaching out a hand. "Not yet, sire. Ask the youth why."

Make Ready swallowed. Despite the menacing doigt, this was no ogre to fear. This was his father. His nervousness passed. He said, "Sire, your gene-man signals to someone. I fear he wishes me ill."

The duke frowned. "Why should Messer Greville wish you ill, boy?"

Make Ready responded in his mère's old penal patois. "Sieur, sh'm'appelle—I am called Mercredi, son of Semée La Douce, who was a transportee from Pont des Larmes in Lontaine France. My mère loved an inconnu who abandoned her with an unborn child."

The duke raised his eyebrows. "That is not an unusual story, lad. Why choose to tell me?"

Make Ready hoped he had the right answer. "Because, sire, the child inherited a finger which right now is scaring your scruffy vassal silly."

Lord Mardy, still gripping the duke's arm, whispered, "Sir—he's claiming to have the doigt!"

"Helix!" the duke snapped. "I know that. What do I do about him? I don't want to lose Greville. This wild youth wants to blight him."

Lord Mardy's eyes gleamed with wariness. "If he can do that, we don't want to lose him either." He raised his voice. "Lad! Put down your doigt! I guarantee your life."

Make Ready felt perspiration on his forehead. Greville was eyeing him with open malevolence. The duke still dithered over his execution. Lord Mardy's eyes pleaded. Make Ready slowly lowered his threatening finger.

Larry Greville's glance flicked along the allée. His fingers moved swiftly. Faster still, Lord Mardy's hand came up. Lightning hissed from the tip of his doigt, stabbing at a figure which had appeared in the allée. The figure dropped a musket, and crumpled, cloak smoking.

"Greville!" snarled the duke. "That's enough. Send your men away. Then leave us."

They watched the geneticist go. Lord Mardy examined a hole in his fingerstall. He grinned at Make Ready. "That's a new doigt-clout you owe me, brother."

The duke surveyed Make Ready grimly. "My son seems to have made up his mind somewhat prematurely. Did you intend to blight my gene man?"

Make Ready's mind raced. How should a street arab respond to a noble parent of brief acquaintance, who was surely bound to discover that he had been hoodwinked about a crucial part of that urchin's anatomy?

Only the truth would do. Make Ready went down on one knee. "Sire," he confessed. "I couldn't do no harm to Messer Greville. My doigt hasn't yet come on song. But Messer Greville didn't know that."

Duke Corwen Persay shook his head in reproof. "A risky trick, boy. But for Lord Mardy, you'd be carrion now."

Out of the corner of his eye, Make Ready saw them carrying the smoking corpse from the allée. He inched his gaze upwards from the duke's shoes. "I was hoping you'd see fair play, sir."

The duke's eyebrows climbed towards his flat cap. "Oh—an arbiter, am I? Between my loyal retainers and any young hoodlum who chooses to threaten them?"

Make Ready lowered his eyes again. "No, sir. But I thought you wouldn't see one of your subjects killed without reason."

The duke grunted. "Boy, I've killed dozens of my subjects, myself, without a shred of reason. If you had so much as pointed that dummy doigt in my direction my guards would have cut you down without any objection from me."

Make Ready kept his head down. "You are the duke, sir, and you can get away with it. Messer Greville don't have your authority."

The duke glanced at Lord Mardy. "By Helix—a pocket diplomat, too!" His voice grew harsh. "Boy, how did you come by a copy of my costume?"

Make Ready kept a quaver out of his voice. "Sir, I was told how you would be dressed. I thought I couldn't have a better model."

"And a courtier!" The duke scowled. "You must have allies in the Chateau. Who is your accomplice?"

Make Ready thought of Bregonif, waiting anxiously with the gremgaurs. The man would be in trouble enough, without help from him. He stammered, "I—I'd rather not say, sir."

"And loyal, to boot!" The duke sighed. "I have efficient torturers, boy. Would you face them?"

Make Ready began to tremble. Too late now, to cut and run. What price his smartalick ideas of embarrassing the Grand Maitre! He said, "I'm not keen, sir."

He heard the duke's laugh. Felt himself pulled to his feet. The duke spoke in the old penal tongue. "Leve-toi, garçon! Get up, boy. Where did you learn the langue? I haven't used it for years."

Make Ready responded in the same patois. "Sir, it was my mère's tongue when she first came to High Barbary."

The duke's face saddened. "That's true. I recall teaching her how to pronounce some fairly useless phrases in our modern argot. Where is she now?"

Make Ready shrugged. "Sir, I haven't seen, nor heard, from her since I was seven years old."

"And you are now?"

"Seventeen—I think, sir."

"Show me your doigt!"

Make Ready pulled off the fingerstall. The duke took the blackened digit gently in his hand. He turned to his elder son. "This has a few years to go, Mardy. Yet the lad scared the mighty Greville with it!"

Lord Mardy was grinning. "A genuine chip off the Persay block, sir. No one else would dare that kind of trick."

The duke extended his arms to Make Ready. "Come, son, we have tormented you enough. It's time you took your rightful place in the world."

Make Ready went with him, reckless of the consequences.

 

And the watcher at the end of the allée turned away. Skirting the market stalls, he made circuitously for the sunken garden below the Chateau. Pausing by a marble ballustrade, he waved to the cloaked man who waited at the foot of the steps with three gremgaurs. Bregonif would be pleased to know that the sixlegs wouldn't be required. That his extra five years were a certainty.

The healer smiled. There might be benefits for others who had helped, too.

 

Hector Garman, when he heard the news, hurried home to report to his secret masters that a new doigt had been found to replace Lord Cledger's.

 

And, as daylight faded, Make Ready stepped out into the Chateau gardens. Omkrit II, the evening star, gleamed above the treetops.

Make Ready shook his fist at it. What was fantasy for a Kelmet street arab might be possible for a noble of Mary Cage. One day, he would discover who lived up there in Lontaine France—and why they had sent his mère to exile in High Barbary.

 

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Framed