King's Test (58 page)

"There's no
need for alarm, centurions," Maigrey admonished hastily, unable
to keep from smiling. "The warrior is an old, old friend. Bear
Olefsky"—she held out her hands—"it's good to
see you again!"

"An old
enemy cudgeled into friendship." The Bear ignored her
outstretched hands, gathered her into a hug, his large, hairy arms
completely engulfing her. "I heard you were dead, lass," he
said more somberly, releasing her. "I cut my beard. The
shield-wife cut her hair. We made a braid of memory that hangs now in
your name-child's room."

"Thank you,
Bear," Maigrey replied, her voice soft and sad. "That was a
terrible time. ..."

"But long
over now!" The Bear laughed heartily, his booming roar rattling
the dishes on the nearby buffet table. "I'll go home, take the
wreath, and throw it in the fire! Better still, you come with me,
Maigy."

Eyeing her, he
shook his head. "You're too skinny. A man wants a woman he can
find easily in the dark. Come back to Solgart with me. The
shield-wife will feed you well. You will meet your name-child! You
haven't seen her since she was a tiny baby. Though"—he
heaved a gusty sigh—"I think she is too much like you.
Thin as a young gazelle. I tell her no man will ever want her."

"And what
does she say?"

"Nothing.
She laughs at me." The Bear tugged at his beard. "Can you
imagine that? Laughs at me, her father. If my sons did that—"
The Bear clenched an enormous fist, shook it. Then, sighing, he
grinned ruefully. "But my daughter isn't the least bit
respectful of me."

"She knows
you're all growl. How is the shield-wife? Did Sonja come with you?"

"More
beautiful than ever!" the Bear said proudly. "But she could
not come. She was brought to bed by our sixteenth." The Bear
rumpled up his long black curls, shook his head gloomily. "Another
boy. Fifteen sons and only one daughter. And she born when you were
on our planet for peace talks. Come back, Maigy. You're our luck! And
bring old Sagan with you, unless he's too busy plotting treason!"

The Bear laughed
again. His voice carried well. Many who had gathered near to
eavesdrop quickly left the vicinity.

"I'd like
to come, Bear. I'd dearly love to see Sonja and my name-child. But I
have other responsibilities." Maigrey looked for Dion in the
crowd, couldn't find him. She was worried about him, and her anxiety
had pushed back even her desire to regain the starjewel.

The Bear nodded,
sobering quickly. "The kinglet? Is it true, lass? Will Sagan
back the boy's claim to the throne?"

"He will."

"And you
trust him?" The Bear eyed her seriously, black eyes glittering
narrowly from beneath thick, curling brows. It seemed he was looking
at the scar on her face, though Maigrey knew well enough that it was
hidden by the helm.

"Yes."
She drew a deep breath. "I do."

The Bear
snorted, musing, scratched his hairy chest, visible beneath the
leather armor. "If the laddie is truly a Starfire ..."

"He is,
Bear. He's the child I carried from the flames, the child I took from
his dying mother's arms." Maigrey's voice broke. The memory was
too vivid, too clear. "And Sagan and I performed the rite. That
'magic show' you heard Dion talk about."

Bear appeared
even more thoughtful. "My ears and eyeballs. I better be talking
to old Sagan about this." He cocked a black eye at Maigrey. "My
empire seceded from the Galactic Republic last week, you know, lass."

Maigrey stared,
astonished. "No, I didn't! What happened?"

"We
received old Sagan's report on the Corasian attack on Shelton's
planets. How Robes set us up. It made sense. More than Robes did with
his yammering denials."

"Are you at
war?"

The Bear was
complacent. "I suppose we will be, if the Congress ever gets
around to voting to declare it on us. They've been called into
emergency session. But I think, when it comes to taking roll call,
they'll find more than a few of their members missing."

"But what
about the Warlord in your sector?"

The Bear winked
at her again. "He's mine. Bought and paid for with the wealth of
twenty systems. You think your kinglet could use support like that?"

"Of
course," Maigrey murmured dazedly. This was all moving too fast,
much too fast.

The Bear made a
rumbling sound in his massive chest. "I'll talk to old Sagan.
And I'll talk to the lad." Olefsky frowned. "But I'll have
to think better of him than I do now before I put him on the throne.
Ach!"

The man's gaze
fixed on an altercation occurring at the far end of the buffet table,
where it appeared his sons had blundered into and inadvertently
smashed several articles of furniture and were now involved in a
shouting match with Snaga Ohme's hired men.

"Those boys
of mine are wrecking the place!" Bear heaved a gusty sigh. "I
try to introduce them into society, teach them social graces, and
look what happens!"

"Farewell,
Bear." Maigrey stood on tiptoe, kissed what she could find of
his cheek beneath the beard. "That's for my name-child."

"I'll give
it to her, lass." Olefsky gazed at Maigrey, his tone suddenly
gentle. "But it would be better if you came to give it
yourself."

"Someday,
Bear." Maigrey smiled, but there was a sadness in her smile that
negated her promise. "Someday."

The Bear watched
her walk away, silver armor gleaming brightly, until she was
swallowed up by the crowd.

"The memory
wreath will
not
go into the fire, Maigy," he said after
her, but to himself, "for my heart tells me we would only have
to make a new one. It's hard enough for a man to die once; to have to
die twice is not fair. You'd think the good God would treat her
better. By my beard, lass, I pray your second time will be easier
than your first!"

Shaking his
shaggy head sorrowfully, Bear Olefsky strode off through the crowd,
bowling over waiters, trampling chairs underfoot as he went to knock
his sons' heads together, teaching them the finer points of mingling
with polite society.

"And was it
really necessary, my lady, to slug the young man?" Sagan
demanded.

"I lost my
temper. Our talk went all wrong. It was my fault. I jumped at the
boy, leapt for his throat. Of course, he fought back. But still, Dion
should never have said ..." Maigrey paused, not quite knowing
where that remark would lead her. "What he said," she ended
lamely, feeling her skin burn. "Anyway, he wants to talk to you
now. Alone."

The two stood in
a far corner of the ballroom, near the orchestra. Rykilth, the
vapor-breather, had concluded his conversation with the Warlord, a
conversation which had ended satisfactorily for both, to judge by the
denseness of the fog generated inside Rykilth's bubble-helm.

"Very well.
Where is Dion now?"

Maigrey's flush
deepened. "I don't know."

"Damn it,
woman! He's in danger! Abdiel has to get rid of the boy, after that
pronouncement of his. You heard Olefsky. I've been talking to
Rykilth. It's only a matter of time before he and his systems pull
out, as well. The political situation is rapidly deteriorating.
Dion's claim couldn't have come at a better—or a worse—time."

"I'm sorry,
my lord, but he walked off and, to tell the truth, I didn't feel much
like going after him. I was afraid I might hit him again. He makes me
so mad! He left Tusk there to die. And don't tell me he didn't know
what Abdiel was up to!" Maigrey sighed, exasperated, then added
remorsefully, "But you're right. I shouldn't have let him
provoke me. I'll go with you to talk to the boy. ..."

Sagan considered
it, shook his head. "No. You've done enough harm in that area
for one night. I'll find Dion and try to reason with him. If that
fails, I'll simply get him out of here.

While I'm doing
that, you better have your talk with the Adonian. Snaga Ohme was
looking for you. He
claims
he wants to continue negotiations."

"I'll meet
with him—"

"Not alone.
I won't allow it," the Warlord stated flatly. "And you did
take the oath of allegiance."

Maigrey glared
at him, at first defiant. Then she realized she wasn't being
sensible. The Adonian had already tried once to have her killed.
"You're right," she said, swallowing her pride. "I'll
arrange a meeting, then summon you."

"You will
have your best opportunity of finding Ohme now. He's on the lower
levels, opening the target-shooting galleries."

"We're not
going to kill him," Maigrey admonished. "The Star is cursed
as it is without spilling blood on it. We'll talk to him. When we're
finished, I have no doubt he will be glad to return my property to me
in exchange for your promised payment."

"Your faith
is exceeded only by your naivete, my lady. Arrange the meeting for at
least an hour from now. I have work to do. In the service of my
king," he added smoothly.

"This from
the man who said he would rather reign in hell than serve in heaven!"
She eyed him narrowly. "You're taking this shift in fate far too
well, my lord."

"Someone
has to reign in hell, my lady, no matter who reigns in heaven."
He made her a mocking bow, then started to leave.

"Sagan,"
she called.

He glanced back
at her, impatient to be gone. "Well, what?"

But she couldn't
articulate her fears. "Be careful," she said, after a
moment's struggle. "Dion's—something about him's not
right."

He regarded her
thoughtfully, then nodded. "I wouldn't expect him to be, after
an encounter with Abdiel. Remember that, Maigrey. The mind-seizer is
out there. Waiting. You be careful, as well."

The Warlord left
her. Maigrey rubbed the gloved palm of her right hand nervously, prey
to a growing sense of foreboding. She confronted herself, examined
her fear, and could find no concrete reason for it. She and Sagan
would retrieve the starjewel, pick up Dion, and they'd all go home.
And after that?

"Perhaps,"
she said irritably, "we'll spend our time parceling out shares
of red-hot real estate. Reigning in hell! What can Sagan be up to
now?"

But there was no
use worrying about it. She had to keep her mind on the Adonian.
Maigrey turned, looked for the exits, and saw that the crowd had
thinned considerably. The night's true business was about to
commence. Lights flickered on and off three times in the ballroom, a
none-too-subtle hint that the entertainment portion of the evening
was over. Everyone was now expected to move on to the target ranges,
play with the merchandise, and spend money.

Banks of
elevators descended to the lower levels. Accompanied by her guards,
Maigrey made her way across the empty, echoing floor of the nearly
deserted ballroom just as the lights were being extinguished, one by
one.

Don't tell me
that you love me. Just say that you want me.

Fleetwood Mac,
"Tusk"

The desert, by
the light of Laskar's moon, took on a faint green tinge that was, to
Tusk's mind, particularly ghastly. He hunkered down behind the
boulder, blinked his eyes that ached with the strain of watching.

"You'd
think someone would've missed those zombies that bird shot by now,"
he muttered to Nola, "come lookin' for them."

She shook her
head. "There's not a lot of brotherly love lost among that
group. I bet one zombie wouldn't know another's gone unless they took
a head count. What are they doing, anyway?"

"They've
about got the house torn down and packed up." Tusk twisted
around to look at their ragged companion. "Isn't it time you
took off? Wait much longer and the shuttle'll be crawling with those
creeps."

"No, no,"
Sparafucile said, shaking his head and grinning. "You will take
care of them for me. Keep them away from shuttle."

The half-breed
had been, for the last few minutes, engaged in selecting several
tools from an assortment he carried in a chamois skin pouch. Holding
each up, he studied every one with a critical eye. The delicate
instruments glistened in the lambent light of shuttle, moon, and
stars. Tusk recognized them—tools used to work on a shipboard
computer's incredibly sensitive and complex microsystems. Sparafucile
made his choices, tucked them inside the breast of his tattered
clothing, stowed the chamois pouch with the rest of his gear.

"Plannin'
to mess up their computer, huh?" Tusk said.

"How the
hell are you gonna get inside the shuttle and take the time to do
that? They won't
all
be out shooting at us. You gonna tell 'em
you're the friendly computer repairman?"

Sparafucile made
a noise that Tusk assumed was his version of a laugh. The half-breed
suddenly leaned near Tusk, placed his hand on the mercenary's
shoulder.

"Sparafucile
goes where night goes. Where there is darkness, there is
Sparafucile." The half-breed's whisper hissed like the wind
among the rocks. Tusk's flesh crawled. He shook off the clutching
hand.

"You have
time device?" the assassin asked.

"Naw, they
took my watch away from me, along with my gun."

"Then you
count. Give me one hundred and then open fire. What are you called?"

"I'm Tusk.
This is Nola."

"Tusk,"
Sparafucile repeated thoughtfully. The half-breed rose to his feet.,
sharp eyes gazing over the edge of the boulder, studying the terrain,
watching the movements of the mind-dead. "No-La." He spoke
her name in two distinct syllables, turned his malformed head. The
cruel eyes glinted. "I like that name. No-La."

"Thanks.
I'm kind of fond of it myself." Nola glanced at Tusk helplessly,
raised her brows, shrugged her shoulders.

Sparafucile made
the odd throaty sound of a laugh again, then slid into the night.
Tusk tried to keep sight of him, but lost him almost immediately
among the shadows cast by the boulders. He couldn't see the assassin,
couldn't hear him. The wind made more noise; the darkness itself
seemed to make more noise.