Starlight guided me along the stone gutter, jumping the pipes feeding the cistern under the palace cellars. Buildings formed three sides of the courtyard, but the north was closed by a wall and the gatehouse. There was no spiked barrier beneath the wall, so I stepped to the battlements and jumped to the ground safely.
Then I walked to the nearest tank, silently from reverence rather than in fear of being heard by someone in the palace. I circled the huge vehicle slowly, letting the tip of my left index finger slide over the metal. The iridium skin was smooth, but there were many bumps and irregularities set into the armor: sensors, lights, and strips of close-range defense projectors to meet an enemy or his missile with a blast of pellets.
The tank was sleeping but not dead. Though I could hear no sound from it, the armor quivered with inner life like that of a great tree when the wind touches its highest branches.
I touched a recessed step. The spring-loaded fairing that should have covered it was missing, torn away or shot off—perhaps on a distant planet. I climbed the bow slope, my feet finding each higher step as if they knew the way.
It was as if I were a god.
I might have attempted no more than that, than to stand on the hull with my hand touching the stubby barrel of the main gun—raised at a sixty-degree angle so that it did not threaten the palace. But the turret hatch was open and, half-convinced that I was living in a hope-induced dream, I lifted myself to look in.
“Freeze,” said the man looking up at me past his pistol barrel. His voice was calm. “And then we’ll talk about what you think you’re doing here.”
The interior of the tank was coated with sulphurous light. It was too dim to shine from the hatch, but it provided enough illumination for me to see the little man in the khaki coveralls of the tank lords. The bore of the powergun in his hand shrank from the devouring cavity it had first seemed. Even the 1 cm bore of reality would release enough energy to splash the brains from my skull, I knew.
“I wanted to see the tanks,” I said, amazed that I was not afraid. All men die, even kings; what better time than this would there be for me? “They would never let me, so I sneaked away from the banquet. I—it was worth it. Whatever happens now.”
“Via,” said the tank lord, lowering his pistol. “You’re just a kid, ain’tcha?”
I could see my image foreshortened in the vision screen behind the mercenary, my empty hands shown in daylit vividness at an angle which meant the camera must be in another of the parked tanks.
“My Lord,” I said—straightening momentarily but overriding the reflex so that I could meet the mercenary’s eyes. “I am sixteen.”
“Right,” he said, “and I’m Colonel Hammer. Now—”
“Oh Lord!” I cried, forgetting in my joy and embarrassment that someone else might hear me. My vision blurred and I rapped my knees on the iridium as I tried to genuflect. “Oh, Lord Hammer, forgive me for disturbing you!”
“Blood and martyrs, boy!” snapped the tank lord. A pump whirred and the seat from which, cross-legged, he questioned me rose. “Don’t be an idiot! Me name’s Curran and I drive this beast, is all.”
The mercenary was head and shoulders out of the hatch now, watching me with a concerned expression. I blinked and straightened. When I knelt, I had almost slipped from the tank; and in a few moments, my bruises might be more painful than my present embarrassment.
“I’m sorry, Lord Curran,” I said, thankful for once that I had practice in keeping my expression calm after a beating. “I have studied, I have dreamed about your tanks ever since I was placed in my present status six years ago. When you came I—I’m afraid I lost control.”
“You’re a little shrimp, even alongside me, ain’tcha?” said Curran reflectively.
A burst of laughter drifted across the courtyard from a window in the corridor flanking the dining hall.
“Aw, Via,” the tank lord said. “Come take a look, seein’s yer here anyhow.”