Shadow's End by Sheri S. Tepper Page A

ascend the throne.
    â€œUnfortunately, I lack his simplicity. My existence is entirely symbolic, yet I am expected to behave as though my thoughts and acts had significance. My office could be filled by an android. Indeed, an android would do my job far better. It could be programmed, as my father was. It could smile gently and pay no attention to the destruction going on around it.”
    â€œI thought when Leelson Famber found you—”
    â€œYou paid Famber to bring me back!” the king snarled. “You paid him!”
    The Prime Minister shook his head, confused at the vehemence of this reaction. “Actually, no, Jickie, we didn’t. We were worried about you! We paid Fastiga a fee to ascertain what had happened to you. They assigned him to the task, that’s all.”
    â€œAh.” The Lost King turned on his minister with an expression both wild and strange. “You didn’t mention that when I returned. Nor since, come to that.”
    â€œYou never asked,” said the Prime Minister, astonished into a loss of aplomb. “You never asked, Jickie.”
    The king turned back to the window, unable to hide his emotions: anxiety, rage, regret, what? All those Fambers, even now being disposed of! Well, few enough of them compared with the population of a planet. And were they not foremost among Firsters? And were not Firsters his enemies, now and forever?
    The window beside him reflected his pale face, a ghostly image superimposed over the distant trees. Thatlong Lostrel nose. That triangular Lostrel mouth. The very face of dynasty hiding the person of …whom?
    Who had he been, there on beautiful Elitha? Who might he have become? Famber the Fastigat hadn’t actually forced him to return. Once found, however, he had thought … Or had he thought?
    â€œWhy?” asked the Prime Minister in a concerned voice. “What difference does it make who hired him, or for what?”
    After a moment the Lost King shrugged. “None, really. The free agent is as culpable as the director of that agent. That’s Kamir law, isn’t it?”
    â€œYes. With certain reservations. What have you done?”
    The king turned, a vague and rather nasty smile on his face. “Nothing, Prime Minister. Nothing that is not entirely traditional for kings.”
    S hortly after that, in the office of the Procurator, Snark the shadow stood immobile against the wall, alert to any need expressed or unexpressed on the part of the Procurator’s guests.
    There were three of them, ponderous all, two Fastigats and a non-Fastiga woman, counselors to Alliance Prime, heavy with the weight of years and experience, heavy with cynicism and doubt, heavy, at the moment, with anger and despair.
    â€œTwo more worlds,” said the oldest of them, a gnarled tree of a man. So Snark thought of him, Twisted-tree. Shadows were not introduced, and the three knew each other well enough to have needed no introductions among themselves. In the absence of other names, Snark labeled the two men Twisted-tree and Thunder-man. The woman’s name she knew: Chief Counselor to Prime for Planetary Management Poracious Luv.
    Thunder-man rumbled, “The latest communiqué came just this morning. Two more worlds wiped clean in Hermes Sector, yes.”
    â€œSurvivors?” asked Poracious Luv.
    â€œWe’re not looking for any. Except as they may show up on the monitors.”
    â€œWeren’t there survivors last time?” she asked.
    The Procurator murmured, “No proven survivors. Some children were found.”
    â€œDidn’t they say?”
    â€œI don’t know. I don’t think I ever read the report.” The Procurator waved his hand impatiently. What had happened last time really wasn’t germane. “What’s being done?” he demanded.
    Thunder-man went on. “Last time, a century ago, there was only one populated planet in Hermes Sector, Dinadh. There were