King's Test (36 page)

"And leave
you? I can't. I'm—" Tusk's tongue stuck to the roof of his
mouth.

"My
Guardian? Not any longer. I don't need you now, Tusk. Abdiel is with
me. He'll help me. He'll give me the strength, the power I need.
Look." Dion went to the door, turned the handle. A click, and
the door swung open. "Look. You're free. You can go."

"Not
without Nola ..."

"Tusk, I'm
here! I was so frightened!" Nola stood dazedly in the hallway,
Mikael right behind her. "What's going on?"

"We can
leave," Tusk said evenly, without expression. "The kid
doesn't need us. Abdiel's going to let us walk out of here, isn't he,
Rigor?"

Mikael's face
was imperturbable, no expression, eyes looking at nothing. "I am
acting according to the master's wishes. Your Majesty"—the
eyes swiveled in the boy's general direction—"my master
wishes to confer with you, if you are free."

"Yes. I
need to talk to him. We have plans to make, and not much time to make
them."

Mikael glided
unobtrusively into the room, came to stand behind Tusk. The mercenary
reached out his hand, motioned Nola near him.

"Good-bye,
Tusk. Good-bye, Nola," Dion said from the doorway. "Say
hello to everyone on Vangelis for me. If everything works out, the
lady and I will be with you soon."

"Yeah,
sure. So long, kid." Tusk spoke through clenched teeth.

Cold beneath his
sweat-soaked shirt, the sharp blade of a knife pressed against his
skin.

Laskar's night,
so glaringly radiant in the city, gathered darker around the
Warlord's shuttle by contrast. Near midnight, a ragged figure could
be seen slinking out from it, padding swiftly, a shadow of a shadow
that disturbed one of the centurions, who thought he saw something
from the corner of his eye. A sharp-spoken order prevented him from
taking action.

Sagan, having
given Sparafucile his orders, stood thoughtful and alone in his own
chambers. He pondered, weighing alternatives, and finally made up his
mind. Stepping out into the dark and silent corridor, he walked down
it, came to a stop before Maigrey's quarters.

The Honor Guard
snapped to rigid attention.

"Centurion."

"My lord."
The guard's eyes stared straight ahead.

"Carry my
compliments to the captain and .ask him to double the watch tonight."

The soldier's
eyelids flickered nervously. "I am not permitted to leave my
post, my lord."

"I will
stand your guard, centurion."

The guard's
brows came together. He shifted his gaze, eyes meeting his Warlord's.
"My lady is asleep, my lord.'

Sagan almost
smiled. Another of Maigrey's champions. He recognized the man, now
that he looked at him closely. "Marcus, isn't it?"

"Yes, my
lord."

"I gave you
an order, Marcus."

The centurion's
lips tightened. He put his fist to his heart in salute, marched off
to perform his duty. The Warlord waited until the man was gone, the
corridor empty. Opening the door, he glided silently inside.

Security lights,
small pinpricks in the darkness to guide those who must move by
night, cast a dim, lambent glow over the woman asleep on the bed. She
lay on her side on top of the bedclothes, fully dressed, as if she
had flung herself down and not been able to rise again. The Warlord's
cape, lying on the deck, resembled a pool of blood. He lifted it,
settled it gently over her for a blanket.

Her left cheek
was against the pillow. Her hair covered her face. Reaching down, his
movement carefully quiet, the Warlord lifted the strands of pale hair
and moved them aside.

She did not
stir; her breathing remained deep and even. The scar was a livid
streak on her smooth skin. Sagan started to touch it, run his finger
along it. He changed his mind, held his hand poised above her.

"Lance the
wound . . . drain off the poison. Painful, but necessary surgery, my
lady."

Sagan laid his
fingertips on her temple, spoke. "My memories, your memories:
one."

The Betrayal

. . . made me
dream of thunder and the gods.

Charles Dickens,
David Copperfield

Thou art a
traitor and a miscreant, Too good to be so, and too bad to live . . .

William
Shakespeare,
King Richard II
, Act I, Scene 1

Lord Derek
Sagan, commander of the famed Golden Squadron, sat fuming with
impatience in the backseat of the staff car. Discipline, he reminded
himself. Discipline. But his hands itched to grab hold of the young
driver by his uniform collar, hurl him out of the car and take over
the wheel himself.

Sagan leaned
forward. "Can't you make this thing go any faster?"

"This is a
restricted zone, Commander," the corporal apologized nervously.
"We're pushing it as is. But if it's an emergency—"

"No! Belay
that." Sagan flung himself back into the luxurious leather seat,
glowered at the magnificent scenery with a look that might have
withered the graceful poplars.

Certainly it
seemed to have withered the corporal, who kept his gaze stolidly in
front of him, much to the risk of his vehicle. But he'd obviously far
rather let some other craft zoom up on his tail than glance into the
rearview cams and inadvertently meet the glare of those dark and
burning eyes.

The tree-lined
boulevard leading through the Glitter Palace park offered Sagan no
distraction from his thoughts. He turned his brooding gaze forward,
hoping for the hundredth time to see the gleaming towers of the
castle, repeating to himself— for the hundredth time—that
they couldn't possibly be near it yet. His gaze shifted to his
driver, noted the man's discomfiture: neck rigid, jaw clenched to the
point where his teeth must ache, hands white-knuckled on the wheel.

Sagan forced
himself to relax, mentally taking himself to task. He'd been
careless, allowing his tension to show. He could almost hear the
corporal, on returning to his barracks, remark to a commanding
officer, "Lord Sagan was as jumpy as a guy comin' down off the
juice. The rumors must be true. Something's happening."

By way of making
amends, Sagan leaned forward again, placed his hand in a friendly
manner on the driver's shoulder. "Relax, Corporal. I didn't mean
to criticize. No land vehicle can ever go fast enough to suit a space
pilot."

Sagan saw
immediately that he'd only made matters worse. The corporal was
staring at the commander through the rearview cams in unparalleled
astonishment. It occurred to Sagan that not once had he—a
mighty lord, commander of the Golden Squadron, member of the Blood
Royal, cousin to His Majesty the King—ever previously
acknowledged the corporal as a fellow human being.

Sagan gave his
acting up as a bad job. Relapsing into the seat, he permitted himself
the luxury of indulging in his tension and drummed his fingers on the
armrest. Let the corporal relay his suspicions back to base. There'd
be. no time to do anything about them anyway. It was too late.
Already too late.

Poplars and oaks
gave way to stands of firs, then aspen and linden and countless other
varieties of tree life rescued from the ecologically ruined planet of
old Earth, cradle of civilization. The staff car sped through the air
about level with the uppermost branches, rustling the leaves in its
wake. Below them stretched grassy lawns, decorated with carefully
designed and carefully tended gardens, colors gleaming jewellike in
the sun. Swans floated majestically on mirror-surfaced ponds,
graceful gazelle leapt across swards of green grass. It was late
afternoon, all peaceful and serene, shining in the sunlight.

"The
palace, my lord," the corporal said, a note of profound relief
in his voice.

Sagan's hand
slowly ceased its restless drumming, came to a halt.

The vast lake
stretched before him, its cobalt blue water still and dark; no wind
blew this day on Minas Tares. In the lake's center, far distant but
visible by the glare of sunlight off the glass, gleamed the towers of
the Glitter Palace. A bridge of null-grav fused silversteel spanned
the lake, soaring upward in a shining curve before sweeping down
toward the palace. A marvel of engineering, this bridge, as the three
others like it, was almost fifty kilometers long and stood without
supports.

The bridges
were, ostensibly and by law, the only routes one could travel to
reach the palace. Of course, jet-propelled cars, such as the one in
which Sagan rode, rendered the law not only ridiculous but dangerous.
Just how ridiculous . . . and how dangerous . . . would be proven
this night.

Derek Sagan had
not been alone in attempting to convince His Majesty of the need for
stricter security measures: force fields shielding the palace from
attack from sky and ground, armed guards patrolling the perimeters,
land mines in the gardens. King Starfire refused to consider the
matter. Land mines would kill the gazelle, armed guards upset the
swans. God was His Majesty's guard. God had placed him on his throne.
God's hand held him safe and secure.

"This
night," Derek Sagan said to himself, "God's hand will
clench into a fist."

Armed guards,
wearing the royal crest, stood at the silver-steel gates guarding the
bridge. The corporal brought the staff car down to ground level. The
guards glanced inside, saluted when they recognized the commander by
his armor and the eight-pointed Star of the Guardians that flashed on
his breast. Sagan returned the salute with more than his usual care.
In hours, these men would be dead.

The staff car
shot onto the silver span, flying low, as dictated by royal decree,
traveling decorously at the posted speed. It was slow going, but
Sagan, suddenly, was not in a hurry. It would be the last time he saw
the royal mansion like this . . . ever.

The palace did
not come into the viewer's full sight until he reached the top of the
arch. Standing in the center of the midnight-dark, perfectly round
lake, the Glitter Palace shone like myriad diamonds in a blue velvet
crown. The four silver bridges formed a cross, with the palace and
the lesser jewels— the buildings of the royal city—on an
island in the center.

The entire
palace was made of steelglass, the innumerable multitude of panes
used in its construction each set at a minute angle to every other.
By day, the panes of glittering glass caught the sun like the facets
of a gemstone—refracted the light, reflected it, created
shimmering, radiant sparkles of every color of the rainbow. The sight
was dazzling to the eye and the mind. By night, the glass walls
became the night, reflecting the icy white of the stars, holding
captive the pale light of the moon. No lights shone from within the
palace walls. The steelglass acted as a one-way mirror. Those inside
were permitted to look out; those outside could not look in.

"You look
out your windows, Your Majesty, but you do not see. You listen but
you do not hear. You will listen tonight, Amodius Starfire. You will
listen tonight."

"I beg your
pardon, my lord? Did you say something?" The corporal was
peering fearfully back at him, obviously afraid that his commander
had taken it into his head to make another attempt at light
conversation.

Sagan waved his
hand irritably, brushing his words from the air, not aware—until
then—that he'd spoken aloud. The corporal, relieved, urged the
car forward with slightly more speed than propriety dictated.

The royal city's
streets were empty, deserted. The art galleries and boutiques,
restaurants and cafes were closed; the last tourist and employee
buses had departed. The elite who could afford to live upon King's
Island—many of them members of the Blood Royal—had
returned to their townhouses or condos located on the island's
perimeter to prepare for tonight's festive event. Traffic would be
heavy, closer to the time of the ceremony when the Guardians, invited
guests, and the news media began arriving. For now, the staff car had
the cobbled streets nearly all to itself.

City streets
flowed snakelike into a large park that melted unobtrusively into the
royal military headquarters. The king grudgingly conceded the
necessity for a military base upon his island, but would not permit
any harsh reminders of war to obtrude upon the peaceful, serene
beauty of Minas Tares. The base, therefore, looked more like a hunt
club than a military HQ. Fancifully dressed sentries, whose main duty
was to endure having their pictures taken with tourists, stood guard
on an immaculately kept lawn surrounding several sparkling-facaded
buildings.

A large crowd of
humans and other life-forms was gathered around festival tents
installed on the cricket ground. The promotions ceremony must be
nearly concluded. Night would be falling soon. Five hundred senior
staff officers gathered together in one place. Sagan smiled—a
grim smile, not one of elation. The military had protested
vociferously against such an insane proceeding, but His Majesty would
not be deterred. It would look well on the vids, these high-ranking
army officers swearing their fealty and loyalty, offering their lives
for king and galaxy.

Many would be
called on to either make good that oath tonight ... or forswear it.

The driver
slowed to allow a caterer's truck to pass. Sagan, idly glancing at
the crowd milling about the cricket ground, caught sight of the
rumpled-uniformed figure of John Dixter, newly promoted general.

Dixter: a simple
man, a good soldier, undoubtedly loyal to his king, and Maigrey's
friend. Sagan rubbed his chin, considering. Maigrey's friend. That
made things difficult. If she knew of the scheduled attack ahead of
time, she would warn John Dixter. And while it was impossible that
one man should have the power to stop the revolution, one
man—especially a soldier of Dixter's caliber—could
organize effective resistance. And it was essential that the military
base, a symbol of the monarchy on Minas Tares, fall.