Queen of Stars (Starfolk #2) Read online

  Also by Dave Duncan

  Stand-alone novels

  Against the Light

  West of January

  The Cursed

  A Rose-Red City

  Ill Met in the Arena

  Shadow

  Wildcatter

  Pock’s World

  Shadow

  Hero!

  Strings

  The Starfolk

  King of Swords

  Queen of Stars

  The Seventh Sword

  The Reluctant Swordsman

  The Coming of Wisdom

  The Destiny of the Sword

  The Death of Nnanji

  The Brothers Magnus

  Speak to the Devil

  When the Saints

  Tales of the King’s Blades

  The Gilded Chain

  Lord of Fire Lands

  Sky of Swords

  The Monster War

  Chronicles of the King’s Blades

  Paragon Lost

  Impossible Odds

  The Jaguar Knights

  A Man of His Word

  Magic Casement

  Faerie Land Forlorn

  Perilous Seas

  Emperor and Clown

  A Handful of Men

  The Cutting Edge

  Upland Outlaws

  The Stricken Field

  The Living God

  The Great Game

  Past Imperative

  Present Tense

  Future Indefinite

  “The Venice Books”

  The Alchemist’s Apprentice

  The Alchemist’s Code

  The Alchemist’s Pursuit

  “The Omar Books”

  The Reaver Road

  The Hunters’ Haunt

  “The Dodec Books”

  Children of Chaos

  Mother of Lies

  Writing as Sarah B. Franklin

  Daughter of Troy

  Writing as Ken Hood

  Demon Sword

  Demon Rider

  Demon Knight

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Text copyright © 2014 by Dave Duncan

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by 47North, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  ISBN-13: 9781477849170

  ISBN-10: 1477849173

  Cover design by becker&mayer! Book Producers

  Illustrated by Chase Stone

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2013944240

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  KNAVE OF IMPS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  Very few people had ever heard of the Star Fire Gallery before the dragon came. Why should they? Star Fire was merely an obscure art store on the ground floor of a dingy office block in a city whose inhabitants were much more interested in oil and money than art.

  On a hot and dusty evening in midsummer, Star Fire hosted a preview of Mortality, “An exciting, dynamic exhibition of the work of Avior, brilliant emerging Canadian sculptor.” The showing did not go well. Most of the guests gulped down the wine, refused the cheese, and left in haste.

  On Sunday the Herald art critic denounced the exhibit in words rarely found in a family newspaper; “obscene,” “revolting,” and “perverted” were among the mildest of the adjectives. When the gallery opened at noon, TV crews were on hand to film the line of curious patrons waiting to get in, and collect their reactions when they came out.

  By Monday religious leaders were pontificating and the national press had picked up the story, slanting it to poke fun at the lack of artistic sensibility in an overgrown western cow town. One prestigious paper pointed out that a similar showing by the same artist in Toronto had gone without comment, not mentioning that the paper itself had ignored the event completely.

  One journalist “revealed” that Avior’s real name was Mabel Bonalde; she had been born in Venezuela and now lived in Saskatchewan. Ms. Avior, reached by phone, retorted that Avior was her true name, “Mabel” had been her mother’s mistake, but a showing in a backwoods redneck desert like Calgary had been entirely her own stupidity. She then hung up.

  By Tuesday picketers were parading outside the gallery, and local politicians were leaping on bandwagons, demanding action in the name of public decency. The mayor, while decrying any hint of censorship, floated a trial balloon about a court injunction. Even members of the faculty of the College of Art, who normally proclaimed their collective willingness to die for the cause of freedom of artistic expression, had trouble defending Mortality, although most of them did. The public shuddered in disgust and showed up in droves. At times the line stretched three blocks.

  On Wednesday a passing motorcyclist threw a hammer through one of the plate-glass windows. Four people sustained minor cuts and the police closed the gallery in the name of public safety. At 6:10 that afternoon the building was sprayed with gunfire and—according to the later inquest—hit with an incendiary device. The gallery itself burst into flames, which spread to neighboring buildings before fire trucks arrived. Most workers had already gone home and the rest escaped unharmed, but one body was recovered from the gallery and two more from the street outside.

  Details of the attack should never have been in doubt, because two TV crews happened to be on location and caught it all. Unfortunately, what they filmed was too fantastical to be credible, although it was dramatic enough to make every news broadcast in the world. Both cameras showed an assault by masked, armed men being repulsed by a dragon, a bright green, flame-blowing dragon of enormous size. Where it came from or went to, nobody could explain.

  By Thursday the Star Fire dragon was an international sensation, with the world’s most respected newspapers running headlines normally seen only on supermarket tabloids.

  On Friday it was learned that the three bodies recovered had been “humanoid” but not Homo sapiens. The authorities also announced that all three corpses had disappeared from a locked morgue before they could be properly examined. Thus was a new conspiracy theory born and the “Star Fire Aliens” joined their dragon in the pantheon of the inexplicable, right up there with the Bermuda Triangle and Roswell, New Mexico.

  Fade back to Wednesday, at about six o’clock…

  Chapter 2

  Look at this one, dear,” said the socialite with the blue rinse, pointing to a piece labeled “Screaming Head. Mixed media, $3,750.” “You really ought to buy this to use as a centerpiece at your dinner parties.”

  “It would certainly cut down on the
food bills,” agreed the fat one with the botulin face. “I think this one would look quite splendid in your hallway, right next to that gorgeous plump Renoir of yours: ‘Famine 17. Mixed media, $3,900.’ What sort of media is she mixing, do you know? They all look so gruesomely lifelike.”

  “No, dear. They all look so dead-like. That’s the trouble.”

  Laughing, they advanced to Child’s Arm with Doll, which they inspected with righteous revulsion.

  The two overfed, overdressed women were the only visitors in the gallery, the door to which was still locked and police-taped after the incident with the motorcyclist and hammer. Long-time clients of Enid’s, they had demanded a special viewing to see what all the fuss was about, but were obviously not in a buying mood. Since they had to know that Enid was in the office and could overhear what they were saying, they obviously did not care who knew their opinion of Avior’s work.

  Avior herself was clearly visible in a corner, repairing minor vandalism to Fire Walker, from which someone had stolen three toes. Simple hand-modeled wax could replace the exposed bone. Lacking the supplies and tools she had back home in her studio in Saskatchewan, she was having trouble giving the remaining flesh the correct charred look.

  “You think that’s her?” Blue Rinse demanded in an offensive stage whisper.

  “Odd-looking type,” retorted Botox.

  “What d’you expect? Lord save us, look at the time! Henry will be waiting.”

  The two headed as one for the side door, which led to the elevator lobby. Enid came scurrying out of the office to escort them. Hypocrisy flowed like water.

  “So kind of you to let us in.”

  “Very happy you could come.”

  “Such interesting pieces!”

  “Roger the guard will let you out.”

  Enid closed the door behind them, checked that it was locked, and came over to Avior, pulling a face.

  The gallery was a single hall, about fifteen meters by twenty, but mirrors and the reflective one-way glass on the office made it seem larger. Plinths supporting Avior’s sculptures were grouped around and between four big concrete pillars. Two plate-glass windows—one presently covered with plywood—flanked the street door. Only a very shrewd dealer could stay afloat in the shark-infested waters of fine art, but Enid was as sharp as a chisel, catering to both the avant-garde who shunned anything in the least bit representational, and the bourgeoisie who hankered after still lifes or smoky mountains. Normally she exhibited a few traditional pieces in one of the big windows and more abstract works in the other, while the main space was given over to one-person exhibitions.

  “I am so sorry, dear,” she said. “Awful people. More alimony than brains.”

  Avior straightened up, wiping her hands on a rag. “You’re sorry? I’m the one who should apologize. But I did warn you that you wouldn’t sell a single piece all week.”

  Enid was small and meek seeming. Thick glasses expanded her blue eyes, a mask of innocence concealing a razor-sharp mind. She smiled. “But all this publicity is worth thousands to me. I still wish you’d included a few of your more, um, conventional pieces.”

  “No.” Avior bent to tend Fire Walker’s wounds again.

  They had known each other since their student days. They were not friends, for Avior could never be close enough to anyone to be a friend, but their acquaintanceship went back far enough that Enid could argue with her.

  “The crowds will be even bigger now. The glaziers will be here first thing in the morning, and the extra security guards. You’ll sell everything you show, dear—everything in your other style, I mean.”

  “No! I told you I never mix them. You said you wanted these.”

  Years of dealing with artists had taught Enid to endure insanity with patience. She nodded understandingly and patted Avior’s shoulder, which made the sculptor twitch with distaste. She hated being touched. And being called “dear.”

  “Very well, dear. Are you about done?”

  “Almost,” Avior said. She looked over at the boarded window. “Dying Gaul looks more like Rare Hamburger. I want to see what I can do for him. Is that possible?”

  Enid hesitated only a moment. “I’ll tell Roger you’re here. But don’t stay after dark, dear. No drapes on the window, remember. You know how to turn on the alarm when you leave?”

  A few moments after Enid departed, Avior walked across to take another look at Dying Gaul. Her version of Epigonos’s classic warrior had taken a lot more killing than the original, so that many of his internal organs were on display in putrescent color. Now falling glass had killed him several times more. These new cuts had not bled, and the internal mechanism they displayed was of wire, plaster, and papier-mâché.

  “I think they got you for good this time, love,” she said sadly, picking glass slivers out of his braincase with tweezers. Gaul had always been one of her favorites. There was no way she could repair him until she could get him back to her studio, but why even bother? No one ever bought any of her interesting pieces.

  The works that Enid had called conventional, meaning commercial, Avior thought of as day jobs. She earned a living by sculpting busts of pompous benefactors and deceased founders and casting them in bronze. She also had several celebrity heads that she could take more castings from and sell for absurd sums: Churchill, Kennedy, Elvis, people like that. God, how she hated bronze! It drove her crazy with boredom. The only art that excited and stimulated her was what the paper had called obscene, revolting, and perverted.

  “Excuse me?” said a man’s voice.

  Cardiac arrest! Avior dropped the tweezers and almost jumped clear off the floor. A man and a boy were standing in the middle of the hall, and she had no idea how they could have gotten there. Roger would have phoned from his desk in the lobby to tell her if she had visitors, and he would never have let them into the gallery unattended. They were armed with long poles, and were no doubt here to finish what the hammer maniac had started…

  But she knew them! The tall young man was Rigel Somebody, and his boy companion was Izar Something. She could not place them, although they resembled each other enough to be related, and there was an odd familiarity to their features. Where and when had she met them, and how did she know their names? She was usually hopeless with names.

  “Rigel!” she said. “Rigel…er?”

  “Rigel Estell when I’m here, but we haven’t met before.”

  She was certain that they had. “You scared me!”

  They both wore jeans and white tee shirts, and they had the same peculiar coloring—hair and eyebrows a startling flaxen white against deeply tanned faces, and eyes that at first glance seemed blind, because the irises were white also. They were both laden with jewelry, rings, and bracelets. They had to be brothers, for Rigel was not old enough to be Izar’s father. Where had she met them before? Rigel was as tall as she was. No, he was barefoot, so he had to be even taller—six-five or so.

  “Sorry,” he said, with a shamefaced smile. “We’ll only stay a few minutes, and we certainly mean you no—”

  “Doggy!” Izar yelled enthusiastically. “Is this real?” He ran across to Road Kill 9, trailing his pole, which was longer than he was.

  “No, they’re statues,” Rigel said. “Sculptures. Watch what you’re doing with your staff. And remember your ears!”

  “Breathe slow,” the boy said cheekily. “Oh, look at this! Wow!” He dashed over to Flayed Giant and stared up at it in admiration. He might be fourteen, but he was behaving more like a very tall nine-year-old.

  “Please excuse him,” Rigel said, still smiling. “You obviously have a fan there. Listen, Avior, I want to tell you a few things about myself. If they sound familiar and you want to hear more, you can ask me anything you’d like—anything at all. If what I say doesn’t interest you and you want us to go, then we’ll leave at once. Poof! You say go, we’re gone. OK?”

  She nodded, still racking her brains to place him.

  “Everything I say may ap
ply to you, but won’t necessarily. Well, here goes…My name is Rigel, but that wasn’t what my mother named me. I have no navel, because my umbilical scar healed completely, without a trace. Being male, I don’t need nipples, so I don’t have any.” He smoothed the cotton on his chest to prove that. “My face grows no hair. I have some musical talent, and obviously you’re an artistic genius. I’ll bet that you dance beautifully, too. My eyes match my hair just like Izar’s match his.”

  Hers did too. She glanced at the office’s reflecting window, saw three tall people. White eyes, black eyes. White hair cut very short, her black Afro.

  “I can walk on broken glass in my bare feet,” he said. “I never get sick and I heal incredibly quickly. I like to swim several times a day.”

  Avior pushed Dying Gaul aside so she could perch on a corner of his plinth. It fit! All of it! How had Rigel learned so much about her? She swallowed hard and nodded.

  “Sound familiar, some of it?” He was grinning now, seeing her reaction. “I go to sleep at will. I find this room unbearably hot, because my comfort level is ten or twenty degrees colder than humans’.” He watched to make sure she had caught that last word. Then his gaze went past her. “Izar!”

  Izar said, “Whoops! Sorry, Rigel.” He was down on the floor, peering up at the underside of Born of Woman.

  Avior felt certain that she had caught a glimpse of…of something that she was not supposed to have seen. Something on Izar’s head. It wasn’t there now.

  “Well?” Rigel said, leaning slackly on his staff but watching her closely. “I have ordinary human ears, although they’re set a little too high, and I have ordinary human teeth.” He flashed them in a mock grin for her to admire. “But that isn’t always the case with my kind. Most of us are very tall by human standards, but not all. Now, am I boring you? Scaring you? You want me to leave and take my horrid little buddy with me?”

  She concentrated on that long staff he carried. It was finely crafted of some type of burnished wood, decorated with metal bands and emblems in a style she had never seen before, and she had thought she had seen all styles. She was avoiding his question and he was waiting. She glanced at the window again. His face and hers had a vague similarity, something about the eyes. What he was hinting would explain so much, but it also dragged up unendurable memories.