Free Diplomat at Arms by Keith Laumer Page B

hover nervously for at least an hour before the
Ambassador comes down.”
    “Retief, you’re not riding back to the
city . . . ?” Count Arrol looked up from cutting out the
dirosaur’s chin-horn. He stood. “I told you what my man reported. Your
sympathies are too well-known to suit Prouch. Tonight, at the ball—”
    “I don’t think the worthy Prime Minister will go that far.
He’s dependent on the good will of the CDT—and diplomat-killing is bad
publicity.”
    “The Palace Guard is still loyal,” Tavilan said. “And
remember the lad, Aric; you can trust him with any mission within his strength.
He’s working in the palace as a mess-servant.” He laughed bitterly. “Think of
us as you dance with the fair ladies of the court, Retief. If you see my
father, tell him that my Invincibles and I will continue to skulk here in the
Deep Forest as he commands—but we long for action.”
    “I’ll get word to you, Tavilan,” Retief said. “My conspiratorial
instinct tells me that there’ll be action enough for everybody before sunrise
tomorrow.”
     
    In
the Grand Ballroom at the Palace of Elora, Retief cast an eye over the chattering
elite of the court, the gorgeously gowned and uniformed couples, the glum
representatives of the People’s Party, the gaudily uniformed diplomats from
Yill, Fust, Flamme, and half a hundred other worlds. A cluster of spider-lean
Groaci whispered together near a potted man-eating plant, one leaf of which
quivered tentatively, seemed to sniff the aliens, withdrew hastily. Retief
plucked a glass from a wide silver tray offered by a bright-eyed mess-boy in a
brocaded bolero jacket and a cloth-of-gold turban, who glanced quickly around
the crowded ballroom, then stepped close to whisper:
    “Mr. Retief—the rascals are forcing the lock on your room!”
    Retief passed the glass under his nose, sipped.
    “Exactly which rascals do you mean, Aric?” he murmured.
“We’ve got about four sets to choose from.”
    Aric grinned. “A couple of the Groaci Ambassador’s boys,” he
whispered. “The ones he usually uses for high-class back-alley work.”
    Retief nodded. “That would be Yilith and Sith, formerly of
the Groaci Secret Police. Things must be coming to a head. It’s not like old
Lhiss to take such direct action.” He finished the drink in his hand, put the
empty glass on a black marble table.
    “Come on, Aric. Ditch that tray and let’s take a walk.”
    In the broad mirror-hung corridor, Retief turned to the
right.
    “But, Mr. Retief,” Aric said. “Your apartment’s in the other
direction . . .”
    “They won’t find anything there, Aric—and it would be
embarrassing for all concerned if I caught them red-handed. So while they’re
occupied, I’ll just take this opportunity to search their rooms.”
     
    At the top of the wide spiral staircase that led from the
public areas of the palace to the living quarters assigned to foreign
diplomatic missions, Retief paused.
    “You wait here, Aric.” He went along the corridor to the
third door, a simple white-painted panel edged with a tiny carved floral
design. He tried the large gold doorknob, then took a slender instrument from
an inner pocket of his silver-epauletted tangerine mess jacket and delicately
probed the lock. The bolt snicked back. He eased the door open, glanced around,
then stepped back out and beckoned Aric to him.
    “How’d you get it open, Mr. Retief?”
    “Locks are a hobby of mine. Patrol the corridor, and if you
see anybody, cough. If it’s one of my Groaci colleagues, have a regular
paroxysm. I won’t be long.”
    Inside the room, Retief made a fast check of the desk, the
dresser drawers, the undersides of furniture. He slapped sofa cushions, prodded
mattresses for telltale cracklings, then opened the closet door. Through the
wall, faint voices were audible, scratchy with the quality of narrow-range
amplification. He stooped, plucked a tiny earphone from a miniature wall
bracket.