Books of Barakhai - The Beasts of Barakhai Part 24

Hunger got the better of Collins' caution, and he found himself incapable of concentrating on protocol.

He dove into the meal with gusto, glad his choice of bread made sorting out the crude utensils unnecessary. As he gradually went from famished to merely interested in the feast, he deferred to Quinton's manners and worried more over what the king might think of him. The man held the power of an entire world. He could promote with a word, execute with a gesture. Collins wished he had taken the time to grill Quinton on how to handle the situation. He knew next to nothing about royalty in general and less about Barakhain royalty in particular. A poorly chosen turn of phrase, an improper glance-anything might const.i.tute a capital crime, Collins realized. Days ago, the simple act of filling his belly had condemned him to the gallows; and, then, he had not had the arrogant and arbitrary whims of a king to consider.

King Terrin seemed nearly as uncomfortable as Collins. He s.h.i.+fted in his chair and examined the food choices of his companions with hawklike intensity. Collins could not help noticing the lack of servants, guards, and food tasters, which he might have attributed to a genuine show of trust if not for the fact that they now sat in the room above the one he had shared with Quinton. Switchers could never make it through the door.

As Collins mopped up the last crumbs and filled his plate with all the delicacies he had missed, the king cleared his throat. "I understand your name is Ben."

Collins froze with the warm bowl of mashed, cinnamony roots clutched between his hands. "Yes, sir."

Sire, he reminded himself, but it felt too weird to say aloud. He remembered the time he had gone for jury duty, equally stymied by the requisite, "Your Honor." He had grown up calling his parents' friends, and several of his teachers, by their first names. t.i.tles implied a hierarchy that Americans prided themselves on never having to consider. All men and women, he had heard since birth, are created equal.

The king did not seem to notice the lapse of protocol. He looked at Quinton with darting brown eyes, as if begging her to a.s.sist him with the same propriety with which Collins struggled. He cleared his throat again and stroked the stiff amber curls of his beard with thoughtful motions. "And you come from the same place as Carrie?""Yes, sir," Collins said again, still incapable of forming his lips around "sire." That started to bother him. Since t.i.tles held little meaning in America, he thought he should be able to speak them as easily as any name. He wondered if it had to do with the same d.a.m.nable honesty that kept him from saying "I love you" without long consideration and absolute certainty or singing the "dear" in Happy Birthday to a stranger. Didn't keep me from lying to Korfius at all. That reminded him of the boy, another innocent caught in Zylas' and Falima's game. He should make certain Korfius did not get punished for a forced and contrived a.s.sociation. He shoveled the mashed roots onto his plate, then replaced the dish, only then realizing the king had asked another question.

"I'm sorry." To demonstrate the sincerity of his apology, Collins forced out the proper t.i.tle. "I'm really very sorry, Sire. I missed what you just asked."

Without a hint of offense, the king repeated, "Do you know how you got here?"

Now that he had heard the question, Collins needed it interpreted. "I'm not sure what you mean, Sire."

The t.i.tle came out easier the second time. "I walked here under my own power. I was following-" He glanced at Quinton, wondering just how much the king already knew. The guards had escorted him directly here, and he had waited less than ten minutes for Quinton and the king to arrive. If she had briefed him on their conversation, it had not taken long.

Quinton nodded encouragingly.

King Terrin finished the thought. "You were following a white rat."

"Yes," Collins admitted, his food forgotten for the moment. "I'm not the first, I understand."

The king bobbed his head as Quinton had done, blond curls pitching and raising. The movement released a wave of musk. "There were three before you, including Carrie. The first two came together and got killed breaking into the castle."

Terrin did not elaborate, and Collins found himself less curious about the details than he expected. He did note that the first visitor, the D & D player, apparently never even made it to the castle.

"Then Carrie came, and talking with her brought sense to the matter." The king leaned forward, as if to share something private. "That rat, that agitator ..." His gaze became distant, and he shook his head with a suddenness that revealed intense emotion: anger or frustration. ". . . He's been a thorn in our side for years. Circ.u.mvents every law, fights order at every step, despoils every logical decree."

Collins bit his lip, struggling to see Zylas in this new light. Though enraged that the rat/man had tricked him, he could not help liking him. "Why?"

"Why?" the king repeated, straightening. "Why, indeed." This time, he consulted Quinton with his gaze.

Quinton responded with a flouris.h.i.+ng wave. "Because it's the job of the royals to civilize a society of animals."

Literally, Collins realized and cringed. Though he had flirted briefly with idealistic anarchy, that phase had not lasted long. His politics had grown more centrist the older he got. And, while he still considered himself a democrat, no one would mistake him for an over-the-top liberal. He now accepted the necessity of leaders to maintain order and civility.

"And, sometimes, we have to make laws that place priority on safety over freedom."

It was the very definition of governing, creating laws that restricted the rights of individuals for the good of the community. "We have those, too," Collins said, not even trying to tack on the "sire." "I understand so far."

Quinton chewed and swallowed, her bites small and delicate. "For obvious reasons, enforced vegetarianism is essential."

Collins shuddered, once again reminded of his lapse in this regard. He covered with humor, spearing a piece of fish. "Sort of a lacto-ovo-ichthy vegetarianism."

Quinton smiled around her food. "Right."

Joy accompanied the realization that he had finally found someone to whom he did not have to explain a biology-based joke. He suspected the translation magic turned his description into "milk-egg-fish vegetable-eating" for the benefit of the king.

The king glanced between his guests. "Certain types of animals cannot control their appet.i.tes for meat.""Carnivores," Collins said to Quinton.

"Some carnivores," Quinton corrected. "Cats and dogs, for example, have civilized to an omnivorous state. Like natural omnivores: foxes, bears ..."

"... people," Collins inserted.

Quinton nodded. "... they can be taught young to avoid meat. Scavengers, like vultures and hyenas, serve as a sort of cleanup crew and can get away with eating carrion, though most people find it as disgusting as we do. Herons, egrets, and 'gators eat fish. Lots of things can live off bugs. But certain animals ..." She trailed off with a shrug.

Collins ate the piece of fish. Soft-textured, fresh, and lightly spiced, it tasted better than anything he remembered eating in a long time. "Like, say, lions? Wolves?"

"Exactly." Quinton shook back blonde tresses that s.h.i.+mmered like gold in the candlelight. "They got executed into oblivion long before His Majesty came to power." Speaking of the king apparently reminded her of his presence. She jerked her attention to him, and her cheeks turned rosy. "I'm sorry, Sire. I didn't mean to take over your explanation."

The king grinned gently, swallowing a mouthful. "Continue." He made a regal gesture. "You're doing marvelously."

"Anyway," Quinton continued awkwardly. "The only way carnivores come up is through Random breedings. Quite rare, but their danger is significant. On average, they kill six times before they're caught, so the law calls for destroying them as soon as the switch-form manifests."

"At thirteen," Collins recalled.

"At thirteen," Quinton confirmed.

Collins considered the implications, features crinkling. "So they execute innocent kids to avoid future crimes?" He turned his attention to the king as he asked the question.

Terrin studied his hands in his lap, without meeting Collins' gaze.

Quinton rescued the king. "It's an unfortunate circ.u.mstance, a fully avoidable one. People understand the risk they take when they breed Randomly, and it's always a conscious choice made in human form.

Animals cannot interbreed outside their species."

"I saw a mule in the courtyard."

Quinton smiled. "Always the scientist, aren't you?" She laughed, the sound light and h.e.l.lish, very different from Marlys' rare twitters or Falima's uninhibited, horsy guffaws. "Me, too. Mules are considered Regulars since their switch-form is completely predictable when a donkey and a horse mate.

They're also sterile, so there are no future offspring to consider."

Collins set aside his fork. "Wouldn't it be better to at least try to train these carnivores to eat bugs and fish?"

"Tried." Quinton rubbed the base of her fork. "Never succeeded."

Collins felt as if time had receded and he had returned to his argument with his father over the death penalty. "But what if one can do it? Shouldn't you at least wait until they commit a crime before irreversibly punis.h.i.+ng them?"

"Let them kill someone else's child?" The king sounded anguished. "Six of them on average?"

"No," Collins said, still unable to reconcile the idea of confining someone, let alone inflicting the death penalty, simply because statistics said they would probably commit a crime. If the United States worked by the same rules, the jails would be overflowing with inner city black males, the ones destined to overcome poverty, prejudice, and cultural fetters lost along with those consumed by these conditions.

The great ones, like Colin Powell, like Martin Luther King, would never have the chance to change the world for the better. "But . . . but . . . what about...?"

Quinton tried to antic.i.p.ate his question. "Ever see a tiger in a small zoo cage?"

Collins dropped the larger point to picture the striped beasts wandering in mindless circles. "Yes.

They pace. But, if they could talk, I doubt they would say they prefer death."

"The ones of this world would disagree, according to the history books. A previous king tried imprisonment, and suicides resulted. Others begged for death rather than life in a cage."

Collins' doubt must have shown on his face, because Quinton turned defensive."Step out of the we-know-what' s-best-for-everyone American persona for a moment. Dorothy, you're not in Kansas anymore."

Surprised by Quinton's sudden switch from empathetic listener to cut-the-c.r.a.p critic, Collins forced himself to think in a different way. She had a definite point, one Falima had made much earlier. He had to stop judging Barakhai by twentieth century democratic standards.

Quinton's tone softened slightly. "You have to remember, we're talking about boring, nothing-to-do dungeons here. No phones, no gyms, no TV, and no conjugal visits."

"Why not?" Collins asked. At Quinton's "no one's that dumb" look, he clarified. "I mean why no conjugal visits?"

"No birth control, either," Quinton reminded. "Does Barakhai need more vicious carnivores to further crowd its dungeons?"

Collins had to insert. "But Randoms are random-"

"Not completely. There's a definite genetic component to what they become." Quinton spoke to her area of expertise. "Not strictly Mendelian, I don't think, but-" Apparently realizing Collins had exploited her own interests to throw her off track, Quinton returned abruptly to her point. "How many ladybugs do you think it would take to fill up a full-grown lion, anyway? Hard enough supplying adequate protein for the innocent people. According to my studies, iron deficiency anemia is rampant here. I'm surprised they don't see more kwas.h.i.+-orkor, too."

Collins went quiet, picturing large-eyed, African orphans with skeletal limbs and enormous bellies caused by the severe protein malnutrition she had mentioned. In fact, Quinton had several valid points.

"Our rich society gives us a lot of leeway these people just don't have. You notice a lot of small people here? Nutritional adequacy's a constant battle in an undeveloped society, and the kids can't just pop a Flintstone's with Iron." Quinton's blue eyes seemed to drag Collins' gaze deep inside of them. "You can't coddle murderers when you can't properly feed the loyal and innocent. Kapish?"

"Kapish," Collins said in a small voice, turning his attention back to his meal. As he ate, he wondered how much of their exchange the king had understood and whether or not he found any of it offensive.

Abruptly remembering what had brought them to this point in the conversation, Collins attempted to turn it back to his original question. "What does all this have to do with Zylas anyway?"

Quinton and King Terrin traded glances, and the king took up the explanation again. "He had a daughter."

The rest seemed obvious. "A carnivore?" Collins guessed, chest tightening and food once more forgotten. His mind formed an image of the albino standing in stunned silence while guards hauled his little girl away to die, his face a white mask that defined abject, depthless sorrow. He remembered the earlier tears when Zylas mentioned not having a family.

"Yes," King Terrin said.

Collins could not help saying, "Poor Zylas."

The king pursed his lips, head falling. Quinton's jaw tensed, and she wrested the discourse from him again. "I thought the same thing. At first. Then I discovered how many daughters and sons, mothers and fathers died because of his ... his junta. His rabid schemes to destroy the Barakhain hierarchy, to ravage the kingdom and the royal family have resulted in so many deaths: guards, his own followers', innocent bystanders'." She tried to catch Collins' gaze; but, this time, he dodged her. "Bystanders like Bill the janitor and Amanda the coed. Like me, almost. And you."

Collins swallowed hard, head ringing. The information he had gained revealed so much he had never suspected, explained so many of his former companions' nudges and lapses. Zylas, Falima, how could you do this to me? He felt like a lost child.

The king's voice was soothing, fatherly. "What happened to the horse, Ben?"

The horse? Collins was momentarily puzzled by the question, and then understanding hit. His nostrils flared, and his eyes widened. He means Falima. They know! They know who I am. What I did. "The horse?" he repeated, trying to hide his nervousness. Perhaps he had misunderstood.

"The one who saved you from the gallows," King Terrin said, without malice. "The buckskin who goes by the name of Falima.""The gallows," Collins repeated, a tingle pa.s.sing through his neck where the rope had once lain, and a s.h.i.+ver traversing his body. "You. . ." it emerged in a desperate squeak, ". . . know?" He added quickly, "Sire?" This did not seem like a moment to skimp on propriety.

"Of course we know," Quinton said. "And unlike the renegades, we're not going to lie to you. Didn't you think Olton would let the king know about a murderer on the loose?"

"Olton?" Collins did not know whether Quinton named the place or an informant. Though it did not matter, he focused on the detail to delay the moment when he discovered his fate. Whether they sent him back to that town or performed the execution here, he would end up just as dead. He wondered why they had not just left him to rot in his cell rather than bring him here to talk to Quinton and the king.

Within a moment, he had the answer. Because they plan to get as much information as possible from me first. His manner grew guarded.

"Olton's the town that sentenced you," the king explained. "We'd still like to know about the horse."

Collins could not get past the matter of his future, or lack of one. "Are you going to hang me?"

The king and Carrie Quinton jerked. Simultaneously, they said, "What?"

Collins rose, scarcely daring to believe how calm they remained, how surprised they seemed that he might worry about his neck. "Are you sending me back or performing my execution here?"

"Neither." The king's leonine head swung up to follow Collins' movement. "As soon as Carrie and I figured out what you had to be, I pardoned you."

Quinton added, "Didn't you notice no one was chasing you anymore?"

"I..." Collins started, sinking back into his chair. "I thought we just eluded them."

Quinton's wispy brows rose nearly to her hairline. "Eluded human-smart hounds? Please."

Collins could scarcely believe it. "So I'm not going to be hung?"

"Hanged," Quinton corrected. "The past tense of 'hang' when you're killing someone is hanged.

Laundry is hung."

How do you like that? Falima was right. "Thanks. My grammar really is more important here than whether or not I'm flung off a platform so a heavy rope around my neck chokes me to death!"

Quinton's lips twitched at the corners. "Sorry. Just one of those pet peeve things." She added, "If you were actually going to get hanged, I wouldn't have said that."

Collins grunted, still sarcastic. "Of course not. That might have seemed . . . well . . . tacky."

The smile became genuine. "Just so you know, if they had to drag you there, you'd be dragged, not drug."

With his life spared, Collins enjoyed the banter. "But a load of laundry would be drug?"

"Dragged, too," Quinton said. "It's always dragged. Drug is a noun or a verb, but the past tense of drug is drugged."

"Not drag?"

"The doctor drag her prior to surgery." Quinton laughed. "Nope, doesn't work."

Though not a part of it, the king smiled broadly at their friendly exchange.

Growing remarkably comfortable, Collins had to wonder whether or not he had been drugged. "Not that I'm complaining, Sire, but why did you pardon me? You didn't know me."

"Ah, but I did." King Terrin turned his gaze to Quinton. "Once we figured you for an Otherworlder, Carrie could innocently explain all your actions."

Collins poked at his food, considering. "I spoke a completely different language." He popped some mashed roots into his mouth, delighted by the flavor. He tasted cinnamon and allspice in a mixture halfway between sugared pumpkin and sweet potato.