Diplomat-at-Arms

       Retief had just one job on Northroyal—to save the galaxy from madness and war. So with a frayed cloak and an old horse and a packet in his saddlebags—not to mention blood, guts, and brains he set out.

      The cold white sun of Northroyal glared on pale dust and vivid colors in the narrow raucous street. Retief rode slowly, unconscious of the huckster’s shouts, the kaleidoscope of smells, the noisy milling crowd. His thoughts were on events of long ago on distant worlds; thoughts that set his features in narrow-eyed grimness. His bony, powerful horse, unguided, picked his way carefully, with flaring nostrils, wary eyes alert in the turmoil.

      The mount sidestepped a darting gamin and Retief leaned forward, patted the sleek neck. The job had some compensations, he thought; it was good to sit on a fine horse again, to shed the grey business suit...

      A dirty-faced man pushed a fruit cart almost under the animal’s head; the horse shied, knocked over the cart. At once a muttering crowd began to gather around the heavy- shouldered grey-haired man. He reined in and sat scowling, an ancient brown cape over his shoulders, a covered buckler slung at the side of the worn saddle, a scarred silver-worked claymore strapped across his back in the old cavalier fashion.

      Retief hadn’t liked this job when he had first heard of it. He had gone alone on madman’s errands before, but that had been long ago a phase of his career that should have been finished. And the information he had turned up in his background research had broken his professional detachment. Now the locals were trying an old tourist game on him; ease the outlander into a spot, then demand money...

      Well, Retief thought, this was as good a time as any to start playing the role; there was a hell of a lot here in the quaint city of Fragonard that needed straightening out.

      “Make way, you rabble!” he roared suddenly, “or by the chains of the sea-god I’ll make a path through you!” He spurred the horse; neck arching, the mount stepped daintily forward.

      The crowd made way reluctantly before him. “Pay for the merchandise you’ve destroyed,” called a voice.

      “Let peddlers keep a wary eye for their betters,” snorted the man loudly, his eye roving over the faces before him. A tall fellow with long yellow hair stepped squarely into his path.

      “There are no rabble or peddlers here,” he said angrily. “Only true cavaliers of the Clan Imperial...”

      The mounted man leaned from his saddle to stare into the eyes of the other. His seamed brown face radiated scorn. “When did a true cavalier turn to commerce? If you were trained to the Code you’d know a gentleman doesn’t soil his hands with penny-grubbing, and that the Emperor’s highroad belongs to the mounted knight. So clear your rubbish out of my path, if you’d save it.”

      “Climb down off that nag,” shouted the tall young man, reaching for the bridle. “I’ll show you some practical knowledge of the Code. I challenge you to stand and defend yourself. “

      In an instant the thick barrel of an antique Imperial Guards power gun was in the grey-haired man’s hand. He leaned negligently on the high pommel of his saddle with his left elbow, the pistol laid across his forearm pointing unwaveringly at the man before him.

      The hard old face smiled grimly. “I don’t soil my hands in street brawling with new-hatched nobodies,” he said. He nodded toward the arch spanning the street ahead. “Follow me through the arch, if you call yourself a man and a Cavalier.” He moved on then; no one hindered him. He rode in silence throagh the crowd, pulled up at the gate barring the street. This would be the first real test of his cover identity. The papers which had gotten him through Customs and Immigration at Fragonard Spaceport the day before had been burned along with the civilian clothes. From here on he’d be getting by on the uniform and a cast-iron nerve.

      A purse-mouthed fellow wearing the uniform of a Lieutenant-Ensign in the Household Escort Regiment looked him over, squinted his eyes, smiled sourly.

      “What can I do for you, Uncle?” He spoke carelessly, leaning against the engraved buttress mounting the wrought-iron gate. Yellow and green sunlight filtered down through the leaves of the giant linden trees bordering the cobbled street.

      The grey-haired man stared down at him. “The first thing you can do, Lieutenant-Ensign,” he said in a voice of cold steel, “is come to a position of attention.”

      The thin man straightened, frowning. “What’s that?” His . expression hardened. “Get down off that beast and let’s have a look at your papel’Sif you’ve got any.”

      The mounted man didn’t move. “I’m making” allowances for the fact that your regiment is made up of idlers who’ve never learned to soldier,” he said quietly. “But having had your attention called to it, even you should recognize the insignia of a Battle Commander.”

      The officer stared, glancing over the drab figure of the old man. Then he saw the tarnished gold thread worked into the design of a dragon rampant, almost invisible against the faded color of the heavy velvet cape.

      He licked his lips, cleared his throat, hesitated. What in name of the Tormented One would a top-ranking battle officer be doing on this thin old horse, dressed in plain worn clothing? “Let me see your papers Commander,” he said.

      The Commander flipped back the cape to expose the ornate butt of the power pistol.

      “Here are my credentials,” he said. “Open the gate.”

      “Here,” the Ensign spluttered,

      “What’s this...”

      ”For a man who’s taken the Emperor’s commission,” the old man said, “you’re criminally ignorant of the courtesies due a general officer. Open the gate or I’ll blow it open. You’ll not deny the way to an Imperial Battle officer.” He drew the pistol.

      The Ensign gulped, thought fleeting of sounding the alarm signal, of insisting on seeing papers...Then as the pistol came up, he closed the switch, and the gate swung open. The heavy hooves of the gaunt horse clattered past him; he caught a glimpse of a small brand on the lean flank. Then he was staring after the retreating back of the terrible old man. Battle Commander indeed! The old fool was wearing a fortune in valuable antiques, and the animal bore the brand of a thoroughbred battle-horse. He’d better report this . . . He picked up the communicator, as a tall young man with an angry face came up to the gate.

      Retief rode slowly down the narrow street lined with the stalls of suttlers, metalsmiths, weapons technicians, freelance squires. The first obstacle was behind him. He hadn’t played it very suavely, but he had been in no mood for bandying words. He had been angry ever since he had started this job; and that, he told himself, wouldn’t do. He was beginning to regret his high-handedness with the crowd outside the gate. He should save the temper for those responsible, not the bystanders; and in any event, an agent of the Corps should stay cool at all times. That was essentially the same criticism that Magnan had handed him along with the assignment, three months ago.

      “The