“Where did you get this?” the High Justice demanded uncertainly.
“It has been the property of my family for nine generations,” Retief replied.
Heads nodded over the document, gray beards wagged.
“How is it,” asked a Justice, that you offer in evidence a document bearing amendments validated by signatures and seals completely unknown to us? In order to impress this court, such a warrant might well bear the names of actual former emperors, rather than of fictitious ones. I note the lowermost amendment, purporting to be a certification of high military rank dated only thirty years ago, is signed `Ronare.'”
“I was at that time attached to the Imperial Suite-in-Exile,” Retief said. “I commanded the forces of the Emperor Ronare.”
* * *
The High Justice and a number of other members of the court snorted openly.
“This impertinence will not further your case,” the old magistrate said sharply. “Ronare, indeed. You cite a nonexistent authority. At the alleged time of issue of this warrant, the father of our present monarch held the Imperial fief at Trallend.”
“At the time of the issue of this document,” Retief said in ringing tones, “the father of your present ruler held the bridle when the Emperor mounted!”
An uproar broke out from all sides. The Master-at-arms pounded in vain for silence. At length a measure of order was restored by a gangly official who rose and shouted for the floor. The roar died down, and the stringy fellow, clad in russet velvet with the gold chain of the Master of the Seal about his neck, called out, “Let the court find the traitor guilty summarily and put an end to this insupportable insolence. . . .”
“Northroyal has been the victim of fraud,” Retief said loudly in the comparative lull. “But not on my part. The man Rolan is an imposter.”
* * *
A tremendous pounding of gavels and staffs eventually brought the outraged dignitaries to grim silence. The Presiding Justice peered down at Retief with doom in his lensed eyes. “Your knowledge of the Lilyan tongue and of the forms of court practice as well as the identity of your retinal patterns with those of the warrant tend to substantiate your origin in the Empire. Accordingly, this court is now disposed to recognize in you that basest of offenders, a renegade of the peerage.” He raised his voice. “Let it be recorded that one Jame Jarl, a freelord of the Imperial Lily and officer Imperial of the Guard has by his own words disavowed his oath and his lineage.” The fiery old man glared around at his fellow jurists. “Now let the dog of a broken officer be sentenced!”
“I have proof of what I say,” Retief called out. “Nothing has been proven against me. I have acted by the Code, and by the Code I demand my hearing!”
“You have spurned the Code,” said a fat dignitary.
“I have told you that an usurper sits on the Lily throne,” Retief said. “If I can’t prove it, execute me.”
There was an icy silence.
“Very well,” said the High Justice. “Present your proof.”
“When the man, Rolan, appeared,” Retief said, “he presented the Imperial seal and ring, the ceremonial robe, the major portion of the crown jewels, and the Imperial Genealogy.”
“That is correct.”
“Was it noted, by any chance, that the seal was without its chain, that the robe was stained, that the most important of the jewels, the ancient Napoleon Emerald, was missing, that the ring bore deep scratches, and that the lock on the book had been forced?”
A murmur grew along the high benches of the court. Intent eyes glared down at Retief.
“And was it not considered strange that the Imperial signet was not presented by this would-be Emperor, when that signet alone constitutes the true symbol of the Empire?” Retief’s voice had risen to a thunderous loudness.
The High Justice stared now with a different emotion in his eyes.
“What do you know of these matters?” he demanded, but without assurance.
Retief reached into a tiny leather bag at his side, drew out something which he held out for inspection.
“This is a broken chain,” he said. “It was cut when the seal was stolen from its place in Suite-in-Exile.” He placed the heavy links on the narrow wainscot before him. “This,” he said, “is the Napoleon Emerald, once worn by the legendary Bonaparte in a ring. It is unique in the galaxy, and easily proved genuine.” There was utter stillness now. Retief placed a small key beside the chain and the gem. “This key will open the forced lock of the Imperial Genealogical Record.”
Retief brought out an ornately wrought small silver casket and held it in view.
“The stains on the robe are the blood of the Emperor Ronare, shed by the knife of a murderer. The ring is scratched by the same knife, used to sever the finger in order to remove the ring.” A murmur of horrified comment ran around the room now. Retief waited, letting all eyes focus on the silver box in his hand. It contained a really superb copy of the Imperial Signet; like the chain, the key and the emerald, the best that the science of the Corps could produce, accurate even in its internal molecular structure. It had to be, if it were to have a chance of acceptance. It would be put to the test without delay, matched to an electronic matrix with which it would, if acceptable, resonate perfectly. The copy had been assembled on the basis of some excellent graphic records; the original signet, as Retief knew, had been lost irretrievably in a catastrophic palace fire, a century and a half ago.
He opened the box, showed the magnificent wine-red crystal set in platinum. Now was the moment. “This is the talisman which alone would prove the falseness of the impostor Rolan,” Retief said. “I call upon the honorable High Court to match it to the matrix; and while that is being done, I ask that the honorable Justices study carefully the genealogy included in the Imperial patent which I have presented to the court.”
A messenger was dispatched to bring in the matrix while the Justices adjusted the focus of their corrective lenses and clustered over the document. The chamber buzzed with tense excitement. This was a fantastic development indeed!
The High Justice looked up as the massive matrix device was wheeled into the room. He stared at Retief. “This genealogy—” he began.
A Justice plucked at his sleeve, indicated the machine, whispering something. The High Justice nodded.
Retief handed the silver box down carefully to a page, watched as the chamber of the machine was opened, the great crystal placed in position. He held his breath as technicians twiddled controls, studied dials, then closed a switch. There was a sonorous musical tone from the machine.
The technician looked up. “The crystal,” he said, “does match the matrix.”
Amid a burst of exclamations which died as he faced the High Justice, Retief spoke.
“My lords, peers of the Imperial Lily,” he said in a ringing voice, “know by this signet that we, Retief, by the grace of God Emperor, do now claim our rightful throne.”
And just as quickly as the exclamations had died, they rose once more—a mixture of surprise and awe.
EPILOGUE
“A brilliant piece of work, Mr. Minister, and congratulations on your promotion,” the Ambassador-at-large said warmly. “You’ve shown what individualism and the unorthodox approach can accomplish where the academic viewpoint would consider the situation hopeless.”
“Thank you, Mr. Ambassador,” Retief replied, smiling. “I was surprised myself when it was all over, that my gamble paid off. Frankly, I hope I won’t ever be in a position again to be quite so inventive.”
“I don’t mind telling you now,” the Ambassador said, “that when I saw Magnan’s report of your solo assignment to the case, I seriously attempted to recall you, but it was too late. It was a nasty piece of business sending a single agent in on a job with the wide implications of this one. Mr. Magnan had been under a strain, I’m afraid. He is having a long rest now. . . .”
Retief understood perfectly. His former chief had gotten the axe, and he himself had emerged clothed in virtue. That was the one compensation of desperate ventures; if you won, they paid well. In his new rank, he had a long tenure ahead. He hoped the next job would be something complex and far removed from Northroyal. He thought back over the crowded weeks of his brief reign there as Emperor. It had been a stormy scene when the bitterly resisting Rolan had been brought to face the High Court. The man had been hanged an hour before sunrise on the following day, still protesting his authenticity. That, at least, was a lie. Retief was grateful that he had proof that Rolan was a fraud, because he would have sent him to the gallows on false evidence even had he been the true heir.