They came to hastily constructed barricades of furniture and statuary and furnishings, behind which Makann’s People’s Watchmen and Andray Dunnan’s Space Vikings were making resistance. They entered rooms dusty with powdered plaster and acrid with powder fumes, littered with corpses. They passed lifter-skids being towed out with wounded. They went through rooms crowded with their own men—“Keep your fingers off things; this isn’t a looting expedition!” “You stupid cretin, how did you know there wasn’t a man hiding behind that?” In one huge room, ballroom or concert room or something, there were prisoners herded, and men from the Nemesis were setting up polyencephalographic veridicators, sturdy chairs with wires and adjustable helmets and translucent globes mounted over them. A couple of Morland’s men were hustling a People’s Watchman to one and strapping him into a chair.
“You know what this is, don’t you?” one of them was saying. “This is a veridicator. That globe’ll light blue; the moment you try to lie to us, it’ll turn red. And the moment it turns red, I’m going to hammer your teeth down your throat with the butt of this pistol.”
“Have you found anything out about the King, yet?” Bentrik asked him.
He turned. “No. Nobody we’ve questioned so far knows anything later than a month ago about him. He just disappeared.” He was going to say something else, saw Bentrik’s face, and changed his mind.
“He’s dead,” Bentrik said dully. “They tortured him and brainwashed him and used him as a ventriloquist’s dummy on the screen as long as they could; when they couldn’t let the people see him any more, they stuffed him into a converter.”
They did find Zaspar Makann, hours later. Maybe he could have told them something, if he had been alive, but he and a few of his fanatical followers had barricaded themselves in the Throne room and died trying to defend it. They found Makann on the Throne, the top of his head blown away, a pistol death-gripped in his hand, and the Great Crown lying on the floor, the velvet inner cap bullet-pierced and splattered with blood and brain tissue. Prince Bentrik picked it up and looked at it disgustedly.
“We’ll have to have something done about that,” he said. “I really didn’t think he’d do just this. I thought he wanted to abolish the Throne, not sit on it.”
Except for one chandelier smashed and several corpses that had to be dragged out, the Ministerial Council room was intact. They set up headquarters there. Boake Valkanhayn and several other ship-captains joined them. There was fighting going on in several places inside the Palace, and the city was still in a turmoil. Somebody managed to get in touch with the captains of the Damnthing, the Harpy and the Curse of Cagn and bring them to the Palace. Trask attempted to reason with them, to no avail.
“Prince Trask, you’re my friend, and you’ve always dealt fairly with me,” Roger-fan-Morvill Esthersan said. “But you know just how far any Space Viking captain can control his crew. These men didn’t come here to correct the political mistakes of Marduk. They came here for what they could haul away. I could get myself killed trying to stop them now. …”
“I wouldn’t even try,” the captain of the Curse of Cagn put in. “I came here for what I could make out of this planet, myself.”
“You can try to stop them,” said the captain of the Harpy. “You’ll find it even harder than what you’re doing now.”
Trask looked at some of the reports that had come in from elsewhere on the planet. Harkaman had landed on one of the big cities to the east, and the people had risen against Makann’s local bosses and were helping wipe out the People’s Watchmen with arms they had been furnished. Valkanhayn’s exec had landed on a large concentration camp where close to ten thousand of Makann’s political enemies had been penned; he had distributed all his available weapons and was calling for more. Gompertz of the Grendelsbane was at Drepplin; he reported just the reverse. The people there had risen in support of the Makann regime, and he wanted authorization to use nuclear weapons against them.
“Could you talk your people into going to some other city?” Trask asked. “We have a city for you; big industrial center. It ought to be fine looting. Drepplin.”
“The people there are Mardukan subjects, too,” Bentrik began. Then he shrugged. “It’s not what we’d like to do, it’s what we have to. By all means, gentlemen. Take your men to Drepplin, and nobody will object to anything you do.”
“And when you have that place looted out, try Abaddon. You were aground there, Captain Esthersan. You know what all Dunnan left there.”
A couple of Space Vikings—no, Royal Army of Tanith men—brought in the old woman, dirty, in rags, almost exhausted.
“She wants to talk to Prince Bentrik; won’t talk to anybody else. Says she knows where the King is.”
Bentrik rose quickly, brought her to a chair, poured a glass of wine for her.
“He’s still alive, Your Highness. The Crown Princess Melanie and I … I’m sorry, Your Highness; Dowager Crown Princess … have been taking care of him, the best way we could. If you’ll only come quickly. …”
Mikhyl VIII, Planetary King of Marduk, lay on a pallet of filthy bedding on the floor of a narrow room behind a mass-energy converter which disposed of the rubbish and sewage and generated power for some of
