Brom led the Queen's entourage into a great vaulted room, lighted by a row of clerestory windows on each side. Fifty feet above, the roof-beam ran through the hall like a spine, with oaken ribs running down to the granite walls. Two great wrought-iron chandeliers hung from the ceiling, with candles burning in the sconces.
They had come in onto a raised dais, ten feet above the floor of the hall. A huge gilded throne rose before them.
Brom led them in a swing around the lip of the dais to the throne. There the Guardsmen lined up on either side, and Catharine mounted the last half-step to stand slender and proud before the throne, gazing out over the multitude gathered below.
The multitude looked like a sampling of the population . They filled the great hall, from the steps of the dais to the triple doors at the far end of the hall.
In the first rank were the twelve great nobles, seated in wooden hourglass-shaped chairs in a semicircle twelve feet out from the steps of the throne.
Behind them stood forty or fifty aging men in brown, gray, or dark gree robes with velvet collars and small, square, felt hats. Chains of silver or gold hung down over their ample bellies. Burghers, Rod guessed—local officials, merchants, guildmasters—the bourgeoisie.
Beyond them were the black, cowled robes of the clergy; and beyond them were the dun-colored, patched clothing of the peasantry, most of whom, Rod felt moderately certain, had been sent up from the castle kitchen so that the Great Court would have representatives of all classes.
But in the center of the peasants stood four soldiers in green and gold—the Queen's colors—and between them stood two peasants, one young and one old, both looking awed and scared almost to the point of panic, caps twisting in their horny hands. The oldster had a long, grizzled beard; the youngster was clean-shaven. Both wore dun-colored smocks of coarse cloth; more of the same material was bound to their legs, to serve as trousers. A priest stood by them, looking almost as much out of place as they did.
All eyes were on the Queen. Catharine was very much aware of it; she stood a little taller, and held her pose until the hall was completely quiet. Then she sat, slowly, and Brom sank cross-legged at her feet. Pike-butts thudded on stone as Rod and the other three Guardsmen stood to rest, pikes slanting outward at twenty degrees.
Brom's voice boomed out over the hall. "Who comes before the Queen this day?"
A herald stepped forward with a roll of parchment and read off a list of twenty petitions. The first was that of the twelve noblemen; the last was Durer's two peasants.
Catharine's hands tightened on the arms of the throne. She spoke in a high, clear voice. "Our Lord hath said that the humble shall be exalted, the last shall be first; therefore let us first her the testimony of these two peasants."
There was a moment's shocked silence; old Lord Loguire was on his feet bellowing.
"Testimony! Have you such great need of their testimony that you must set these clods of earth before the highest of your nobles?"
"My lord," Catharine snapped, "you forget your place in my court."
"Nay, it is you who forget! You who forget respect and tradition, and all the law that you learned at your father's knee!"
The old lord drew himself up, glaring. "Never," he rumbled, "would the old king have disgraced his liegemen so!"
"Open thine eyes, old man!" Catharine's voice was chill and arrogant. "I would my father still lived; but he is dead, and I reign now."
"Reign!" Loguire's lips twisted in a sour grimace." Tis not a reign, but a tyranny!"
The hall fell silent, shocked. Then a whisper began and grew: "Treason! TreasontreasontreasonTreason!"
Brom O'Berin rose, trembling. "Now, Milord Loguire, must thou kneel and ask pardon of milady the Queen, or be adjudged forever a traitor to the throne."
Loguire's face turned to stone, he drew himself up, back straightening, chin lifting; but before he could answer, Catherine spoke in a tight, quavering voice.
"There shall be no forgiveness asked, nor none given. Thou, Milord Loguire, in consideration of insults offered our Royal Person, art henceforth banished from our Court and Presence, to come near us nevermore."
Slowly, the old Duke's eyes met the Queen's. "How then, child," he murmured, and Rod saw with a shock that there were tears in the corners of the old man's eyes. "Child, wilt thou serve the father as thou hast served the son?"
Catharine's face went dead white; she half rose from her throne.
"Hie thee from this place, Milord Loguire!" Brom's voice shook with rage. "Hie thee from this place, or I shall hound thee hence!"
The Duke's gaze slowly lowered to Brom. "Hound me? Aye, for thou art most surely our gentle Queen's watchdog!" He raised his eyes to Catharine again. "Lady, lady! I had hoped to grace thee with a greyhound ere I died."
Catharine sat again, drawing herself up proudly. "I have a mastiff, milord; and let my enemies beware!"
The old man nodded slowly, his grieving eyes never leaving her face. "Thou wilt, then, call me enemy…"
Catharine tilted her chin a little higher.
Loguire's eyes hardened; the grief was swept from his face by cold pride.
He spun on his heel, stalking down the length of the great hall. A lane through the crowd opened before him. The Guardsmen at either side of the great central door snapped to attention and threw the portals open.
The Duke stopped short under the lintel and pivoted to look back over the throng at Catharine. His heavy old voice filled the hall one last time.
And his voice was somehow gentle, almost kindly.
"Yet take this of me, Catharine, whom once I called my niece—thou shalt not fear the armies of Loguire while I live."
He stood motionless a moment, holding Catharine's eyes.
Then he swung about, cape swirling, and was gone.
The court was silent for the space of three breaths; then, as a man, the eleven remaining Great Lords rose and filed down the lane to the great central door, and followed Loguire into exile.
"So how did she decide the case of the two peasants?" Fess asked.
Rod was riding the robot horse on the slope outside the castle, "for exercise," or so he had told the stab-leboy. Actually, he neededFess's advice as to What It All Meant.
"Oh," he answered, "she upheld the parish priest's decisions: the fitting punishment for the kid was marriage. The old man didn't like that too well, but Catharine had an ace up her sleeve—the kid would have to support his father-in-law in his old age. The old man grinned at that, and the kid walked out looking like he wasn't quite so sure he'd come out on top after all."
"An excellent decision," Fess murmured. "Perhaps the young lady should seek a career in jurisprudence."
"Anything, so long as it keeps her out of politics… Glorious sunsets on this planet."
They were riding into the setting sun; the dying globe painted the sky russet and gold halfway around the horizon and nearly to the zenith.
"Yes," the robot supplied, "the excellence of the sunsets is due to the density of the atmosphere, which is nearly one point five Terra-normal. At this latitude, however, due to the inclination of the planet's axis, which is—"
"Yes, yes, I wrote it all down in the logbook when we landed. Have the grace to let it rest in peace… I notice the sun's rays turn almost blood-red…"
"Appropriate," Fess murmured.
"Hmm, yes. That brings us back to the point, doesn't it? What's this about another assassination coming up?"
"Not an assassination, Rod—an attempt."
"All right, an attempt. Pardon my denotations, and get on with it."
Fess paused a moment to set up the readout for a pre-fabricated report.
"The political situation on the island of Gramarye is comprised of three definite factions, one Royalist and two Anti-Royalist. The Royalist faction consists of the Queen, her chief councillor—one Brom O'Berin—the clergy, theRoyal Army, the Queen's Bodyguard, and a group of espers known by the local term 'witches.' "