Dave Duncan
Shadow
PART ONE
CRIME
Chapter 1
'He who ever trusts a bird,
Never speaks another word.'
SALD HARL was running, running as hard as he had ever run in his life. He clutched a bulky bundle in both arms and pounded along the ornate pavement with the low sun at his back. His long, spindly shadow jigged endlessly before him, running just as hard as he.
Running in the palace grounds was forbidden. Wearing a flying suit in the palace grounds was forbidden also, but he had already broken so many regulations that a few more would not matter, and if he was going to be late for a royal summons, then perhaps nothing would matter much anymore.
If he twisted an ankle...The roadway was paved in squares of white alabaster and black basalt, but generations of feet and hooves had worn the softer alabaster into toe-catching hollows, and the carriages and landaus jolting past him set up a continuous clamorous rattle over them.
He had no time to admire the sculptures ornamenting the marble balustrades which flanked the avenue or the swans swimming on their reflections in the ornamental lake on his right. To his left the gilded pheasants strutted unseen on silk-smooth grass amid the blazons of the rose garden. Sald had not visited the palace since he was a child. Contrary to his expectations, it did not seem smaller than he remembered; it seemed much, much larger, and he was very, very late.
Splendid ladies and elegant gentlemen strolled along, pouting in haughty disapproval, as he zigzagged between them, dodged the wheeled traffic, and ran, ran, ran...
A flying suit was not designed for running. It was a great garment for keeping off the cold at the top of a thermal, up in the nose-bleeding roof of the sky. Down in the murderous heat of the rice level, swooping above taro fields or date palms, he could unfasten it down to his crotch, but not here, and it was cooking him.
Then he caught his toe against one of the basalt edges and fell flat on his face.
The bundle cushioned his fall, except for his elbows. He winced, took a couple of deep breaths, started to rise, and then saw that he was lying before a pair of very shiny boots. Military boots. His eyes flicked from side to side, and he saw more boots. He scrambled to has feet and saluted.
Oh, God! Of all the officers in the entire Royal Guard, this one had to be Colonel Lord Pontly, Commandant of Training School--Pork Eyes himself.
Sald Harl was much better at making friends than enemies. There were not many people in the world who disliked him and few whom he disliked, but Lord Pontly qualified on both counts. On the occasion of Sald's class graduation, for example, there had been the episode of the pig in the bed...
Colonel Lord Pontly was a short man, no taller than Sald himself, but twice the width and thrice the depth. His uniform gleamed and sparkled impeccably, and his puffy face bore a very thin mustache, capable of registering extreme disapproval at times. This was one of those times.
'Harl?' he murmured. 'Harl, isn't it?'
'Sir!'
'And an ensign now, I see? When did that accident occur?'
'About a hectoday ago, my lord,' Sald said between puffs. He blinked as sweat trickled into his eyes.
'I think we can correct the error.' Lord Pontly glanced at the commander beside him, who smiled obediently.
'Disorderly conduct, my lord,' he said. 'Improper dress.'
'Oh, surely we can find a few more atrocities?' his lordship muttered. 'Stealing washing, from the look of it. What exactly are you carrying, Ensign?'
Sald was trembling with the effort of standing still when every nerve was screaming frantically at him to hurry.
'Court dress, my lord.'
Pontly's eyebrows were as linear as his mustache, and they rose in graceful astonishment. 'Whose court dress?'
'Mine, sir.'
The colonel looked at the commander, and the surrounding troopers looked at one another.
'And why would you be needing court dress, Ensign?'
'Sir, I am summoned to the Investiture,' Sald said, trying not to moan the words.
Pontly's globular face flushed slightly. 'If I recall correctly, Ensign, you are not of noble birth?'
'Sir, my father is a baronet.'
Sald could sense their disbelief. A commoner never received a royal summons. He groped in his pocket and produced the royal writ. He tried desperately not to fidget as Pontly read it through from start to finish.
Pontly turned very red. 'You are going to be late, Ensign!'
'Sir, that was why I was running.'
Pork Eyes went redder still. Running within the palace grounds was a trivial indiscretion compared to insulting the king. 'You will disgrace the entire Guard! Explain!'
Sald gulped. 'The courier sought me at my posting--at Jaur, my lord. I was on furlough at my parents' house, Hiando Keep. I did not receive the writ until yesterday.'
At that news, colonel and commander exchanged thoughtful glances. There was little love misplaced between the royal couriers and the Guard. Sald could see the temptation fermenting in their minds. If Ensign Harl was late for the start of the Investiture, then he would not be admitted at all. There would be a court-martial. The fault could be laid to the courier.
That would not save Ensign Harl, of course--nothing would--but it might muddy the royal couriers a trifle.
'Hiando Keep is on Rakarr, is it not?' the commander said. 'Eight hours' flight from Rakarr to Ramo, more or less?'
'What time exactly yesterday did the courier arrive?' Pontly demanded, a predatory expression on his rotund face.
'Just before two bells, my lord,' Sald said.
Pontly frowned. 'And when did you leave Rakarr Peak?'
Sald could lie, of course, but if there was going to be a trial, then there would be witnesses called. 'A little after three bells, my lord.'
Pork Eyes's eyes widened; the charge sheet was filling up. Sald had flown from Rakarr to Ramo faster than even the couriers did, perhaps faster than it had ever been done, but time like that could be made only by detouring out over the plains, riding the giant thermals of the desert, risking immense changes in altitude, which could bring on sky sickness, crippling or even killing. The desert was very much against Guard regulations. The
