The Dark Lady

1.
    Where am I to begin?
    This is not an epic saga, though it spans both millennia and star systems. Nor is it a story of passion and romance, though it was passion and romance that drove several of the participants to their doom. It is not even a tale of high adventure, though without high adventure there would be no tale to tell.
    This is simply a true chronicle of events, and as such should be presented in the Language of Formal Narration. Were I to do so, however, I would be required to relate to you, in elegant order, all of my life experiences from the day of my birth, and this would give you a distorted view of my importance, since in truth I am little more than an onlooker who nonetheless managed to bring dishonor to his name, his House, and his race.
    Therefore, I choose to speak to you in the Language of Informal Recital, and according to its rules, I shall begin my story at the last possible moment, which was, in fact, the first moment of my personal involvement.
    That moment occurred as I climbed the broad titanium stairs of the Odysseus Art Gallery and, panting from my exertion in the thick, humid air, approached the front door of the vast, angular building. There were two attendants standing there, both clad in muted purple uniforms with glaring red stripes on their trouser legs, and I deemed it proper to address them in the Dialect of Honored Guests.
    “Attention, my good man,” I said formally. “I must have directions to the site of the forthcoming auction.”
    “Well, I'll be damned!” said the taller of the two attendants. “It not only wears shoes, but it talks, too!”
    I immediately realized that I had chosen the incorrect form of address, and quickly changed to the Dialect of Supplication.
    “Please, good sir,” I said, dimming my color and lowering my head in a gesture of submission. “A thousand pardons if I have offended. I humbly entreat you to aid me in reaching my destination.”
    “That's a little more like it,” he grunted, and I relaxed somewhat as it became apparent that he had forgiven my social error. “Let's see your papers.”
    I handed him my passport, invitation, and credentials, and waited in silence while he and his companion examined them.
    Suddenly he looked up and stared at me.
    “Leonardo?” he said dubiously.
    “Yes, good sir.”
    “What's someone like you doing with a human name?”
    I pointed to my passport. “If you will notice, good sir, Leonardo is not my real name. I am a member of the House of Crsthionn.”
    He looked where I indicated, tried twice to pronounce my Bjornn name, and finally gave up.
    “Then what are you doing with an invitation for a Leonardo?”
    “Leonardo is what I am called at my place of employ here on Far London, good sir.”
    “You mean the place where you work?”
    “Yes,” I said, remembering to nod my head in affirmation. “At my place of work. I am currently associated with the Claiborne Galleries.”
    “You are, huh?” he said dubiously.
    “Yes, good sir.” I bent over and hunched my shoulders together, a near-perfect posture of nonaggression. “May I pass now, please?”
    He shook his head. “I don't have anything on my master list about an alien named Leonardo.”
    I could have pointed out that Men were as alien to Far London as the Bjornn were, but it would have been inconsistent with the Dialect of Supplication, and I had already offended him once. Therefore I bent even lower.
    “My papers are in order,” I said, staring at the gray titanium. “I beg of you, good sir: If I am not allowed to perform my function, the House of Crsthionn will be dishonored.”
    “First we've got to determine what your function is ,” he said. “There's about 200 million credits’ worth of artwork on display inside. My job is to make sure your function isn't to steal it.”
    “Or maybe eat it,” added his companion with a smile.
    “Please, good sirs,” I persisted. “If you will but summon Hector Rayburn or Tai Chong, they will attest to my identity and my right to be here.”
    “We got a Rayburn or a Chong inside?” asked the attendant of his companion.
    “Beats me,” replied the other one. “I can check on it.”
    “Okay. You do that.” The attendant turned back to me. “All right now, Leo.”
    “Are you addressing me, good sir?” I asked.
    “Who else?”
    “You have forgotten my name, good sir,” I said gently. “It is Leonardo.”
    “A thousand pardons,” he said, imitating my tone of voice and