Free The Chalice of Death by Robert Silverberg Page A

intention of making use of the Joran fleet as the nucleus of the reborn Terran space navy.
    But Kausirn had moved swiftly and well, pushing Navarre completely out of influence.
    He had to gain the ear of the Overlord. But how, if Kausirn governed all approaches?
    Navarre looked up as a vendor came by, hawking confections.
    â€œOne for you, Sir Earthman? A sweet puff, perhaps? A lemon tart?”
    Navarre shook his head. “Sorry, old one. I don’t crave sweets now.”
    He glanced down at his shoes, but the old vendor did not go away. He remained before the Earthman, peering intently at him as if deeply interested.
    Navarre sat patiently for a moment or two, and then, exasperated, said, “I told you, I don’t want anything. Will you go away, now?”
    â€œYou are Hallam Navarre,” the old man said softly, ignoring the Earthman’s impatient outburst. “Returned at last!” The vendor dropped down on the bench alongside Navarre. “For weeks I have tried to see the Lyrellan, Kausirn, to plead my case. I have always been turned away. But now you have come back to Jorus—and justice with you!”
    Navarre eyed the old man curiously. “You have a suit to place before the Overlord?”
    â€œNine weeks I have come to the Palace on Threeday, and nine times I have been passed over. I try—”
    Navarre held up one hand and said sadly, “I’m afraid my help would be doubtful at the moment. I have my own troubles with the Lyrellan.”
    â€œNo!” The old man was pop-eyed with astonishment. “Even you! The many-fingered one weaves a tight web, then. I fear for Jorus, Earthman. I had hoped, seeing you …” His voice trailed off hopelessly.
    â€œNot a word of this to anyone,” Navarre cautioned. “But I have a private audience arranged with Joroiran for later this day. Perhaps things will improve after that.”
    â€œI hope so,” the vendor said fervently. “And then will you hear my suit? My name is Molko of Dorvil Street. Will you remember me?”
    â€œOf course.”
    Navarre rose and began to stroll back toward the palace. So, he thought, even the people were discontented and unhappy over the role the Lyrellan played in governing Jorus? Perhaps, Navarre reflected, I could turn that to some advantage.
    And as for the “private audience with Joroiran” he had just invented, possibly that could be brought about after all. Navarre pulled up his hood to shield his bald scalp from view, and walked more briskly toward the palace.

Chapter Seven
    Seven generations of Navarres had served seven generations of the Joroiran Overlords of Jorus. The relationship could be traced back three hundred years, to brave Joroiran I, who, with Voight Navarre at his side, had cut his empire from the decaying carcass of the festering Starkings’ League which had succeeded Earth’s galactic empire.
    The Joroiran strain had weakened, evidently; the seventh of the line had allowed himself to be persuaded by an opportunistic Lyrellan to do without an Earthman’s advice. And so Navarre had been sent forth on the quest of the Chalice. But he knew he could use his seventh-generation familiarity with the palace surroundings to find his way back in.
    Hooded, cowled, deliberately rounding his shoulders, Navarre shuffled forward down the flowered path to the service entrance of the Overlord’s palace.
    Bowed diffidently, Navarre touched the entrance buzzer, then drew back his hand in mock fright. A televisor system within was, he knew, spying on him; he had put the practice into operation himself to ward off would-be assassins.
    A window in the door pivoted upward; a cold Joran face appeared—an unfamiliar face.
    â€œYes?”
    â€œI am expected within.” Navarre constricted his throat so his voice would be little more than a choked whisper. “I am Molko of Dorvil Street, vendor of sweets to His Majesty. I wish to see