banquet hall.
“That’s better,” Chemise said. “Are the two nondescript witnesses present? Go ahead, priest, perform the ceremony.”
“I don’t believe this,” Vitello muttered.
“You do well to disbelieve!” cried Prince Chuch, coming forward from the shadowy wings where he had been waiting for a good line upon which to enter.
Chuch said to Chemise, “Where do you come from, girl? You’re not even of our Glorm construct, are you?”
Chemise said, “Prince, let me explain.”
“Don’t bother,” Chuch said. “I’ve already made up my mind.”
There was a moment of stark and terrible silence. Chuch, standing on a flagstoned rise, arms folded across his chest, seemed the perfect embodiment of Dramocletian hauteur and sangfroid. He advanced slowly, toes pointed straight ahead Indian fashion.
“I think we’ve had enough of you people,” Chuch said, lightly enough, but with unmistakable menace.
“Prince, do not be hasty!” cried Chemise.
“Have mercy,” cried the two nondescript witnesses in unison.
Chuch raised his arms. A green light began to radiate from his head and torso. It was the visible sign of the uncanny power that kept the ill-assorted and multi-doomed members of the Dramocletian family in the interstellar limelight.
As Vitello watched, mouth agape, Chemise, the priest, and the witnesses began to fade. They writhed for a few moments, shadow figures mouthing words that none could hear. Then they were gone–developments that a Dramocleid had decided were unsuitable to his requirements.
Chuch turned to the quavering Vitello. “You must understand,” he said in a voice both firm and gentle, “that this is the story of the Dramocles family, secondarily of their retainers and familiars, and third by a long shot and only at our choosing , of the various spear carriers who take their moment on the stage of our history, and then depart at our behest. We choose these people, Vitello, and it doesn’t suit the family interests to have pushy supernumeraries come forward with their vulgar secrets invented on the spur of the moment. Do I make myself clear?”
“I’m sorry, my Lord,” Vitello said in a choking voice. “I was caught by surprise–the wine–and she was too quick for me, the damned vixen–”
“Enough, loyal servant,” Chuch said with a twisted smile. “You gave me the opportunity of making an important statement of policy, and for that I owe you some small thanks. Be dutiful, Vitello, be discreet, be unobtrusive except when I seek to dialogue with you, and, if you perform well, I’ll find you a nice little mistress. She will not actually be described, of course.”
“Of course not, Sire,” Vitello sniveled. “Oh, thank you, thank you.”
“Now pull yourself together, man. Some interesting developments came out of my talk with Drusilla. I’ll not go into them at this time; but I do have a mission for you of considerable importance.”
“Yes, Sire!” Vitello cried, throwing himself on the floor at Chuch’s feet.
“It’s dangerous,” Chuch said. “I tell you that straightaway. But the reward is correspondingly great. It’s a chance at the big time, Vitello!”
“Sire, I am ready.”
“Then take my shoelace out of your mouth and listen closely.”
14
Dramocles reclined on a king-sized water bed in a corner of the sitting room he had had constructed in one of the smaller turrets of his palace of Ultragnolle. At the foot of the bed sat a slender minstrel girl clad in the traditional costume of russet and fawn undies. She was singing a ballad and accompanying herself on a miniature moog dulcimer. Golden sunlight with dust motes in it poured through high slit windows. Dramocles listened absent-mindedly to her plaintive song:
“ In faith it listeth not, nor likely
That the deer should, passing lightly
’ Neath the arches of a forest sprightly ,
Be yet uncerted in a glowing pass.
“ And silver finches, dropping slowly
Through a pass
“That’s better,” Chemise said. “Are the two nondescript witnesses present? Go ahead, priest, perform the ceremony.”
“I don’t believe this,” Vitello muttered.
“You do well to disbelieve!” cried Prince Chuch, coming forward from the shadowy wings where he had been waiting for a good line upon which to enter.
Chuch said to Chemise, “Where do you come from, girl? You’re not even of our Glorm construct, are you?”
Chemise said, “Prince, let me explain.”
“Don’t bother,” Chuch said. “I’ve already made up my mind.”
There was a moment of stark and terrible silence. Chuch, standing on a flagstoned rise, arms folded across his chest, seemed the perfect embodiment of Dramocletian hauteur and sangfroid. He advanced slowly, toes pointed straight ahead Indian fashion.
“I think we’ve had enough of you people,” Chuch said, lightly enough, but with unmistakable menace.
“Prince, do not be hasty!” cried Chemise.
“Have mercy,” cried the two nondescript witnesses in unison.
Chuch raised his arms. A green light began to radiate from his head and torso. It was the visible sign of the uncanny power that kept the ill-assorted and multi-doomed members of the Dramocletian family in the interstellar limelight.
As Vitello watched, mouth agape, Chemise, the priest, and the witnesses began to fade. They writhed for a few moments, shadow figures mouthing words that none could hear. Then they were gone–developments that a Dramocleid had decided were unsuitable to his requirements.
Chuch turned to the quavering Vitello. “You must understand,” he said in a voice both firm and gentle, “that this is the story of the Dramocles family, secondarily of their retainers and familiars, and third by a long shot and only at our choosing , of the various spear carriers who take their moment on the stage of our history, and then depart at our behest. We choose these people, Vitello, and it doesn’t suit the family interests to have pushy supernumeraries come forward with their vulgar secrets invented on the spur of the moment. Do I make myself clear?”
“I’m sorry, my Lord,” Vitello said in a choking voice. “I was caught by surprise–the wine–and she was too quick for me, the damned vixen–”
“Enough, loyal servant,” Chuch said with a twisted smile. “You gave me the opportunity of making an important statement of policy, and for that I owe you some small thanks. Be dutiful, Vitello, be discreet, be unobtrusive except when I seek to dialogue with you, and, if you perform well, I’ll find you a nice little mistress. She will not actually be described, of course.”
“Of course not, Sire,” Vitello sniveled. “Oh, thank you, thank you.”
“Now pull yourself together, man. Some interesting developments came out of my talk with Drusilla. I’ll not go into them at this time; but I do have a mission for you of considerable importance.”
“Yes, Sire!” Vitello cried, throwing himself on the floor at Chuch’s feet.
“It’s dangerous,” Chuch said. “I tell you that straightaway. But the reward is correspondingly great. It’s a chance at the big time, Vitello!”
“Sire, I am ready.”
“Then take my shoelace out of your mouth and listen closely.”
14
Dramocles reclined on a king-sized water bed in a corner of the sitting room he had had constructed in one of the smaller turrets of his palace of Ultragnolle. At the foot of the bed sat a slender minstrel girl clad in the traditional costume of russet and fawn undies. She was singing a ballad and accompanying herself on a miniature moog dulcimer. Golden sunlight with dust motes in it poured through high slit windows. Dramocles listened absent-mindedly to her plaintive song:
“ In faith it listeth not, nor likely
That the deer should, passing lightly
’ Neath the arches of a forest sprightly ,
Be yet uncerted in a glowing pass.
“ And silver finches, dropping slowly
Through a pass
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