of ethics for the Imperium, to the enlightened reign of Crown Prince Raphael Corrino, as portrayed in the dramatic masterpiece, My Father’s Shadow. Glax Othn had made Reffa into the man he was. Now, though, he had no choice, no past, no identity.
“Law is the ultimate science.” This great concept of justice, first uttered long ago, echoed bitterly in his mind. It was said to be inscribed over the door to the Emperor’s study on Kaitain, but he wondered if Shaddam had ever read it.
In the hands of the throne’s current occupant, Imperial law shifted like quicksand. Reffa knew of mysterious deaths in his family. Shaddam’s older brother Fafnir, Elrood IX himself, and even Reffa’s own mother Shando, who’d been hunted down like an animal on Bela Tegeuse. He could never forget the faces of Charence, either, or the Docent, or the innocent victims of Zanovar.
He intended to rejoin his old acting troupe, under the tutelage of the brilliant taskmaster Holden Wong. But if the Emperor discovered Reffa was still alive, would all of Jongleur be at risk, too? He dared not reveal his secret.
A slight change in the Holtzmann hum told Reffa that the Heighliner had emerged from foldspace. Before long, a female Wayku voice announced their arrival and reminded passengers to purchase souvenirs.
From five overhead storage compartments, Reffa removed all of his remaining possessions. Everything. He’d had to pay dearly for the extra space, but he didn’t trust direct shipment of the special items he had purchased before leaving Taligari.
Followed by a bobbing train of suspensor cases, he made his way toward the exit. Even as passengers waited in line for the descent shuttle, Wayku vendors kept trying to sell them trinkets, though without much success.
When Reffa stepped into the spaceport terminal on Jongleur, his dark mood lifted. The large facility was crowded with people full of good cheer and smiles. The atmosphere was refreshing.
He prayed he had not put another precious world at risk.
Looking around at families and friends greeting the passengers, he saw no sign of Master Holden Wong, who had promised to meet him here. Reffa’s old troupe must have had a performance scheduled for that evening, and Wong always insisted on supervising everything himself. Living entirely in his world of acting, the master paid little attention to current events, probably didn’t even know about the attack on Zanovar. He seemed to have forgotten to meet his guest at the dock.
No matter, Reffa knew his own way around the city. A dock adjoined the spaceport, from which a sampan water taxi carried passengers into Ichan City across a broad river dappled with a carpet of lavender algae. As the boat puttered across the slow current, Reffa stood on the deck, filling his lungs with refreshing, moist air. So different from the sour smoke and char of Zanovar.
Ahead, seen through a thin river fog, Ichan City was a jumble of ramshackle buildings and modern high-rises, crowded with rickshaws and pedestrians. From the cabin below, he heard laughter and the music of a string quartet— baliset, rebec, violin, and rebaba.
The water taxi slowed, and reversed its engines as it docked. Reffa followed other passengers onto the old city pier, a sturdy wooden structure whose planked surface was scattered with fish scales, crushed shells, and strawlike crustacean legs. Amidst seafood stands and pastry shops, merry troupes of storytellers worked alongside musicians and jugglers, providing samples of their talents and passing out invitations to evening performances.
Reffa watched a mime playing the part of a bearded god rising from the sea. Catching his eye, the mime moved closer, making oddly contorted expressions with his pasty white face. His painted grin spread even wider. “Hello, Tyros. I came to greet you after all.”
Reffa recovered and said, “Holden Wong, when a mime speaks, does he impart wisdom— or reveal his folly?”
“Well said, my good friend.” Wong had attained the rank of Supreme Thespian, highest of all Master Jongleurs. With protruberant cheekbones, slitted eyes, and a wispy beard, he was over eighty years old, but moved like a much younger man. He had no inkling of Reffa’s parentage, or of the sudden and spiteful price placed on his head by Shaddam.
The old troupe leader put an arm around Reffa’s shoulder, leaving white greasepaint marks on his clothing. “Will you attend our performance this evening? Catch up on what you have been missing all these years?”
“That, and I hope to find a place in your troupe again, Master.”
Wong’s deep brown eyes danced. “Ah, to