With a twist of his wrist Retief turned the blade, then forced the youth’s arm up. the fellow struggled to prevent it, throwing all his weight into his effort, fruitlessly. Retief smiled.
“I won’t kill you,” he said, “but I will have to break your arm. That way you cannot be expected to continue the fight.”
“I want no favors from you, old man,” the youth panted.
“You won’t consider this a favor until the bones knit,” Retief said. “Consider this a fair return for my hand.”
He pushed the arm up, then suddenly turned it back, levered the upper arm over his forearm, and yanked the tortured member down behind the blond man’s back. The bones snapped audibly, and the white-faced youth gasped, staggered as Retief released him.
There were minutes of confusion as referees rushed in, announcements rang out, medics hovered, and the crowd roared its satisfaction, after the fickle nature of crowds. They were satisfied.
* * *
An official pushed through to Retief. He wore the vivid colors of the Review regiment. Retief reached up and set the control on the command mike.
“I have the honor to advise you, sir, that you have won the field, and the honors of the day.” He paused, startled at the booming echoes, then went on. The bystanders watched curiously, as Retief tried to hold his concentration on the man, to stand easily, while blackness threatened to move in over him. The pain from the crushed hand swelled and focused, then faded, came again. The great dry lungfuls of air he drew in failed to dispel the sensation of suffocation. He struggled to understand the words that seemed to echo from a great distance.
“And now in the name of the Emperor, for crimes against the peace and order of the Empire, I place you under arrest for trial before the High Court at Fragonard.”
Retief drew a deep breath, gathered his thoughts to speak.
“Nothing,” he said, “could possibly please me more.”
* * *
The room was vast and ornate, and packed with dignitaries, high officials, peers of the Lily. Here in the great chamber known as the Blue Vault, the High Court sat in silent ranks, waiting.
The charges had been read, the evidence presented. The prisoner, impersonating a peer of the lily and an officer of an ancient and honored Corps, had flaunted the law of Northroyal and the authority of the Emperor, capping his audacity with murder, done by the hand of his servant sworn. Had the prisoner anything to say?
Retief, alone in the prisoner’s box in the center of the room, his arm heavily bandaged and deadened with dope, faced the court. This would be the moment when all his preparations would be put to the ultimate test. He had laid long plans toward this hour. The archives of the Corps were beyond comparison in the galaxy, and he had spent weeks there, absorbing every detail of the facts that had been recorded on the world of Northroyal, and on the Old Empire which had preceded it. And to the lore of the archives, he had added facts known to himself, data from his own wide experience. But would those tenuous threads of tradition, hearsay, rumor, and archaic record hold true now? That was the gamble on which his mission was staked. The rabbits had better be in the hat.
He looked at the dignitaries arrayed before him. It had been a devious route, but so far he had succeeded; he had before him the highest officials of the world, the High Justices, the Imperial Archivist, the official keepers of the Charter and the Code, and of the protocols and rituals of the tradition on which this society was based. He had risked everything on his assault on the sacred stasis of the Tournament, but how else could he have gained the ears of this select audience, with all Northroyal tuned in to hear the end of the drama that a hundred thousand had watched build to its shattering climax?
Now it was his turn to speak. It had better be good.
“Peers of the realm,” Retief said, speaking clearly and slowly, “the basis of the charges laid against me is the assumption that I have falsified my identity. Throughout, I have done no more than exercise the traditional rights of a general officer and of a Lilyan peer, and, as befits a Cavalier, I have resisted all attempts to deprive me of those honored prerogatives. While it is regrettable that the low echelon of officials appears to be ignorant of the status of a Lilyan Battle Commander, it is my confident assumption that here, before the ranking nobles of the Northroyalan peerage, the justice of my position will be recognized.”
As Retief paused, a dour graybeard spoke up from the Justices’ bench.
“Your claims are incoherent to this court. You are known to none of us; and if by chance you claim descent from some renegade who deserted his fellow Cavaliers at the time of the Exile, you will find scant honor among honest men here. From this, it is obvious that you delude yourself in imagining that you can foist your masquerade on this court successfully.”
“I am not native to Northroyal,” Retief said, “nor do I claim to be. Nor am I a descendant of renegades. Are you gentlemen not overlooking the fact that there was one ship which did not accompany the Cavaliers into exile, but escaped Concordiat surveillance and retired to rally further opposition to the invasion?”
* * *
There was a flurry of muttered comment, putting together of heads, and shuffling of papers. The High Justice spoke.
“This would appear to be a reference to the vessel bearing the person of the Emperor Roquelle and his personal suite. . . .”
“That is correct,” Retief said.
“You stray farther than ever from the credible,” a justice snapped. “The entire royal household accompanied the Emperor Rolan on the happy occasion of his rejoining his subject here at Northroyal a year ago.”
“About that event, I will have more to say later,” Retief said coolly. “For the present, suffice it to say that I am a legitimate descendant—”
“It does indeed not suffice to say!” barked the High Justice. “Do you intend to instruct this court as to what evidence will be acceptable?”
“A figure of speech, Milord,” Retief said. “I am quite able to prove my statement.”
“Very well,” said the High Justice. “Let us see your proof, though I confess I cannot conceive of a satisfactory one.”
* * *
Retief reached down, unsnapped the flat dispatch case at his belt, drew out a document.
“This is my proof of my bona fides,” he said. “I present it in evidence that I have committed no fraud. I am sure that you will recognize an authentic commission-in-patent of the Emperor Roquelle. Please note that the seals are unbroken.” He passed the paper over.
A page took the heavy paper, looped with faded red ribbon and plastered with saucer-sized seals, trotted over to the Justices’ bench and handed it up to the High Justice. He took it, gazed at it, turning it over, then broke the crumbling seals. The nearby Justices leaned over to see this strange exhibit. It was a heavily embossed document of the Old Empire type, setting forth genealogy and honors, and signed in sprawling letters with the name of an emperor two centuries dead, sealed with his tarnished golden seal. The Justices stared in amazement. The document was worth a fortune.
“I ask that the lowermost paragraph be read aloud,” Retief said. “The amendment of thirty years ago.”
The High Justice hesitated, then waved a page to him, handed down the document. “Read the lowermost paragraph aloud,” he said.
The page read in a clear, well-trained voice.
“KNOW ALL MEN BY THESE PRESENTS THAT WHEREAS: THIS OUR LOYAL SUBJECT AND PEER OF THE IMPERIAL LILY JAME JARL FREELORD OF THE RETIEF; OFFICER IMPERIAL OF THE GUARD; OFFICER OF BATTLE; HEREDITARY LEGIONNAIRE OF HONOR; CAVALIER OF THE LILY; DEFENDER OF SALIENT WEST; BY IMPERIAL GRACE OFFICER OF THE SILVER STAR; HAS BY HIS GALLANTRY, FIDELITY AND SKILL BROUGHT HONOR TO THE IMPERIAL LILY: AND WHEREAS WE PLACE SPECIAL CONFIDENCE AND ESTEEM IN THIS SUBJECT AND PEER: WE DO THEREFORE APPOINT AND COMMAND THAT HE SHALL FORTHWITH ASSUME AND HENCEFORTH BEAR THE HONORABLE RANK OF BATTLE COMMANDER: AND THAT HE SHALL BEAR THE OBLIGATIONS AND ENJOY THE PRIVILEGES APPERTAINING THEREUNTO: AS SHALL HIS HEIRS FOREVER.”
There was a silence in the chamber as the page finished reading. All eyes turned to Retief, who stood in the box, a strange expression on his face.
The page handed the paper back up to the High Justice, who resumed his perusal.
“I ask that my retinal patterns now be examined, and matched to those coded on the amendment,” Retief said. The High Justice beckoned to a Messenger, and the court waited a restless five minutes until the arrival of an expert who quickly made the necessary check. He went to the Justice’s bench, handed up a report form, and left the courtroom. The magistrate glanced at the form, turned again to the document. Below Roquelle’s seal were a number of amendments, each in turn signed and sealed. The justices spelled out the unfamiliar names.