Free The Snow Queen by Joan D. Vinge Page A

an
ancient system. There had been control boxes once that did what the whistle
player did now; but as far as she knew the only one that still worked hung on
Starbuck’s belt.
    Safe . Her boots found the security of the far rim.
She controlled the overwhelming desire to let her legs melt out from under her
and sit down. Gundhalinu’s sweating face grinned at her gamely. She wondered
whether he was trying not to think about the return trip, too. Looking ahead
again, she read triumph in the
Elder
Way
—aways’ walk as they followed him on into the
audience hall.
    Even here,
so near the pinnacle of Carbuncle, the hall was overpowering in its vastness;
she imagined it could hold an entire villa from Newhaven, her homeworld. Fiber
hangings in chilly pastels drifted down from the geometric arches of the
pillared ceiling, winking and chiming with the exotic song of a thousand tiny
handmade silver bells.
    And across
the expanse of white carpet—an off world import—the Snow Queen sat back on her
throne, a goddess incarnate, a taloned snow hawk in an ice-bound aerie.
Unconsciously Jerusha drew her cloak closer around her. “Colder than the
Karoo
,” Gundhalinu muttered, and rubbed his arms. The
Elder Wayaways motioned them to wait where they were, went ahead to announce
their presence. Jerusha was sure that the dark, distant eyes beneath the crown
of pale hair were already more than aware of them, although Arienrhod did not
acknowledge them, but gazed out across the hall. As usual Arienrhod had struck
Jerusha’s eye first; but now, as she followed the Queen’s gaze into the nearer
distance, a searing line of light, the hum-snap of an energy beam striking
home, wrenched her attention away.
    “Schact! ” Gundhalinu hissed, as voices cried out and
they saw the knot of nobles split open as the bolt knocked one sprawling onto
the rug. “Dueling—?” His voice was incredulous. Jerusha’s hand tightened on the
empire-cross of her belt buckle, barely controlling her sudden outrage. Did the
Queen mock police authority to the degree of staging murder in her presence?
Her mouth was open to protest, to demand—but before she could find words, the
victim rolled over and sat up, not blistered or charred, with no blood staining
the snow-field purity of the rug. A woman, Jerusha saw; the fads in clothing
affected by the nobility sometimes made it hard to tell. There was a faint
distortion of air as she moved; she had been wearing a repeller field. She
climbed gracefully to her feet with an elaborate bow toward the Queen, the rest
clapping and laughing their amusement. Gundhalinu swore again, more softly, in
disgust. As the nobles shifted, Jerusha caught sight of the black figure, the
cold gleam of metal, and realized that the one who had playacted the murderer
had been Starbuck.
    Gods! What
sort of jaded half wits would try to burn each other down for laughs? They
treated a weapon that could maim and kill like a toy—they no more understood
the real function or significance of technology than a pampered pet understood
a jewelled collar. Yes—but whose fault is
that, if not ours? Arienrhod’s gaze caught her suddenly in mid-expression.
The strangely colored eyes stayed on her; the Queen smiled. It was not a
pleasant expression. Who says the pet
doesn’t understand its collar? Jerusha held the gaze stubbornly. Or that the savage doesn’t see through the
lie that makes him less than human?
    The Elder
Wayaways had announced them and was backing from the Queen’s presence as
Starbuck came to stand beside her throne. His hidden face also turned toward
them, as if he were curious about the effect of his playacting. We’re all savages at heart .
    “You may
approach, Inspector PalaThion.” The Queen lifted a desultory hand.
    Jerusha
removed her helmet and walked forward, Gundhalinu treading close behind her.
She was certain that no more than the bare minimum of respect showed on either
his face or her own. The nobles stood off to one