The Lost King (29 page)

"More likely it
was named after some whore," Sagan commented. "The planet
was established as a mining colony—it's composed almost
entirely of uranium. "

Maigrey's mind touched
his—not a probe but delicate, cool fingers. Sagan allowed her
to touch, allowed her to find part of what she sought—the boy.
Maigrey snatched her mind back. The Warlord saw, by the sudden livid
appearance of the scar against her skin, that she had cut herself.

"If you will
excuse me, my lord, I am extremely tired. I wish to return to my
quarters."

Maigrey turned to
leave. Sagan, politely, gave her his hand.

"I was hoping you
would be my guest for dinner this evening, my lady," he said as
they walked slowly to the ramp.

Maigrey, keeping her
eyes anywhere but on his face, saw the sinew, muscle, and bone of his
arm clearly delineated beneath the tanned skin crisscrossed by the
battle scars. Some she remembered, others were new.

"Thank you, my
lord. I prefer to dine by myself."

"I have no doubt,"
he said in a low, wry tone for her hearing alone. "Betrayal
leaves a bad taste in the mouth."

"I'm surprised you
noticed, my lord. I should think you would've become accustomed to
it, by now."

In silence, they walked
together down the ramp—the lord brilliant in shining gold and
flaming red, the lady pale as the moon beside him. The centurions
snapped to attention; the eyes of every man in the crew that were not
absolutely required to be somewhere else were on them.

I have been remiss in
my duties as host," Lord Sagan said loudly, for the benefit of
the audience, when they arrived on the deck. "My officers have
been eagerly awaiting the opportunity of dining with you, Lady
Maigrey. This night seems a fitting occasion."

"What is the
occasion, my lord?"

"One which vou
will have cause to celebrate, I trust, my lady."

The Warlord handed the
woman over to the custody of her guards. "Dinner this evening is
formal, my lady." He glanced somewhat scathingly at the nylon,
zippered men's gym suit she was wearing. "I have arranged for
suitable attire. You will find it when you return to your quarters.
We dine at 2200. I will send my orderly for you. My lady." He
bowed.

Gravely, she returned
the courtesy. "My lord."

For an instant the eyes
met, the mental blades touched, but it was in salute, not contest.
Not yet. The combatants parted, the Warlord ascending back up the
ramp, the lady leaving under guard for her quarters.

"Pass the word for
Admiral Aks," Sagan commanded.

The message was sent,
and the admiral appeared. Aks and his lord walked together the length
of the catwalk. Nada, out of earshot on the deck below, would have
given his pension to know what was being discussed up above him.

"The Scimitar's
been sighted."

"Yes, I am aware
of that, my lord. Captain Nada wanted to send a patrol to arrest
Tusca."

"Nada's a bungler.
He wouldn't get within ten miles of the mercenaries. They're
undoubtedly monitoring our transmissions. By the time we arrived,
they'd have ducked down some other hole. We'd lose them again and
maybe not find them so easily."

The admiral glanced
around to make certain they could not be overheard.

"What of the boy,
my lord?"

Sagan paused in his
pacing; his gaze went to the bright speck in the blackness that was
Vangelis. "I see him, Aks. Not clearly, he's a shadow on my
mind, but I see him. And she sees him, too."

"Doesn't that make
it conclusive, then, my lord? Only those of the Blood Royal could
touch each other—"

"I don't know!
That's the hell of it! My desire, her fear. Maybe those are the
shadows we're seeing. I can't put a face to him, Aks, and I don't
believe she can either."

"Then how are we
to resolve this dilemma, my lord? We can't go in and seize him
because we have no idea what he looks like, who it is we're supposed
to seize! Not to mention"— Aks's voice sunk even
lower—"Snaga Ohme."

"The damn fool,"
Sagan was bitter, "reacted with typical Adonian paranoia.
Someone's bound to wonder where the devil those stone-age oligarchs
came up with a prototype torpedo boat." The Warlord stared out
the viewport at the glittering nebula. "Do you remember what I
said to you the other day, Admiral, in regard to God?"

"I beg your
pardon, my lord?" Aks had not been prepared for this sudden leap
from the mundane to the metaphysical.

"The Lord works in
mysterious ways, his wonders to conceal.' The Creator is working,
Aks. He is bringing all together—my greatest desire, my most
dangerous enemy, and my gravest threat."

"Your greatest
desire is, I presume, the boy." Aks, seeing his lordship was in
good spirits, decided he would be safe to indulge in a bit of
sarcasm. "I suppose God's going to drop him into your hand, my
lord?"

The Warlord glanced at
the admiral from out of the corner of his shadowed eyes. "Precisely."

Footfalls echo in the
memory Down the passage which we did not take Towards the door we
never opened Into the rose-garden. My words echo Thus, in your mind.

T. S. Eliot, "Four
Quartets"

Returning to her
quarters, Maigrey slammed shut the door and stood leaning against it.
She had to sort out her thoughts and she was reluctant to disturb
them by even the simple act of walking across the small area of floor
space and sitting down in the one chair provided for the "guest's"
comfort.

Outside, she heard the
boots of the centurions take up their accustomed places on either
side of her door. On the bed Maigrey saw what she assumed to be the
"attire" Sagan had mentioned. It was wrapped in white
linen, like a shroud. Maigrey was reluctant, suddenly, to touch it.

This is nonsense! Since
when are you afraid of a dress?

But she didn't lift the
white linen covering to see what was beneath. She did move away from
the door. Walking over to her nightstand, Maigrey pulled up the
chair, sat down before the mirror, and told herself she was going to
fix her hair.

"The boy,"
she said quietly. "That was the thought in Sagan's mind, the
thought he wanted me to find. The boy is there, on that planet. He
can see him just as I can, a shadow on the mind. Why is he letting me
know? Why is he telling me? Surely he must know I'll do everything I
can to keep the boy safe."

Maigrey's hand touched
the scar, the fingers following its line from her cheekbone to her
lip. From the pain she felt, she would not have been surprised to see
that touch draw blood. She could have masked the scar—plastiskin
could make a human of one hundred appear no older (at least on the
surface) than one of twenty. But Maigrey knew that nothing would
cover it, nothing would blot it out. Were she to put a metal helmet
over her head, the scar would bum through.

Picking up the brush,
she began to smooth the tangles from her long, pale hair. "And
what is safe? For the boy to live his life in ignorance? To never
know who and what he is? Is that what you truly want for him? But if
you really believed this, why did you hide away the child? He was to
be our hope. 'Sick of ourselves, we have dreamed a king.'

"But not like
this. Not Sagan taking him to that man who calls himself President."
Maigrey's hand jerked. The brush turned, the bristles missed on a
hard downward stroke, and she let it fall. "Of course! Sagan
doesn't intend to take the boy to Robes! He's going to keep him, use
the boy himself!"

Her gaze went to the
white linen shroud.

Kicking the brush
aside, Maigrey rose to her feet and walked slowly over to the bed.
She knew, yet she was afraid to know. She reached down, grabbed a
handful of the linen, and tried to tear it off. The shroud was
tightly wrapped around whatever it covered and she was forced to
fumble at knots. Maigrey could feel the gown beneath the covering.
Its weight was heavy; made of thick fabric. The knowledge increased
her certainty and she tore at the knots that refused to give way to
her trembling hands. Finally they came undone, and hesitantly, afraid
to breathe, she lifted one comer and peered beneath it.

Maigrey closed her
eyes. She sank to the floor, suffocating, the pain in her chest
constricting her breathing. Let me die, Creator! she pleaded
silently. Let me die as I should have died then!

Her hand remained on
the bed. Beneath its fingers she felt fabric so soft and smooth it
was almost warm to the touch. Blue. Indigo blue velvet. A ceremonial
gown, worn on state occasions. Worn by the Guardians on state
occasions. State occasions such as a dinner given in their honor by
King Starfire. A dinner in the palace, A dinner in the palace on the
night of the revolution. Indigo blue velvet, matted black with blood.

Her hand clutched the
velvet, crumpling it between her fingers. She saw them entering,
moving with quiet, ordered assurance to their places at the long
tables set out in the palace ballroom. Each man, each woman dressed
alike in robes of shimmering indigo blue. On each breast glittered
the starjewel; the Guardians wore no other adornment, no jewel ever
mined was of greater value. Stavros walked in front of her, Platus
behind her. They moved to their table, the king's table, for tonight
they—the Golden Squadron—were being specially honored.
But Sagan wasn't there. He hadn't entered with them. He was late.
Stavros made a joke; he was always making jokes. Maigrey couldn't
remember it. It hadn't been funny. Nothing was funny. The room was
too crowded, the voices rose in a mindless hubbub and gave her a
throbbing headache. She wanted them to be quiet. Couldn't they tell?
Some dreadful calamity hung over them. Why couldn't they understand?
She would tell them! Warn them. Before she could do so, Sagan
entered. All the Guardians were seated except him and he was there,
standing in the doorway. He, alone, was not clad in indigo blue. He
was wearing battle armor. . . .

Darkness.

And then the hospital
and pain and bandages and fear. And the worst pain, the most terrible
pain was discovering that she was still alive.

Dr. Giesk and his
infernal machine with its wires and bits of adhesive plastic could
have inflicted no more exquisite torture on this victim than did the
Warlord, using nothing but a few yards of blue cloth. And even Sagan
might have been amazed at his success. He knew the pain he must
inflict by summoning memory. He couldn't know how much greater the
torment of
not
remembering!

I won't wear it, was
Maigrey's first coherent thought. I won't go to his dinner. I won't
leave this room. I am a prisoner and I will be a prisoner! I won't
set foot out. I'll hide—

Pulling herself to her
feet, barely able to stand, Maigrey backed away from the bed. She was
forced to open her eyes and all it seemed they could see was indigo
blue. Before she fell, she caught herself on the back of the chair
and, leaning against it for support, stood staring at the robes.

And then Maigrey sensed
Sagan's mind. He had hit her, drawn blood. Weakened, she had lowered
her guard. Would she fall down now and die?

She sank into the chair
and moved her hand to pick up her comb. Her fingers brushed against
the rosewood box that stood in an honored place on her vanity. The
wood was smooth and warm, warmer and smoother than the fabric of what
had come to be known as the robes of death. Her hand closed over the
box.

Memory's sword is a
two-edged blade.

The formal dining rooms
on
Phoenix
were located in the portion of the ship devoted to
the rare and occasional visitor. The Warlord cared nothing for what
he considered worthless civilities, but he did demand that his
officers dine with him once every ship's month. The room's furniture
was severe—all steel and chrome and glass with sleek lines and
sheered-off angles. It was designed to be uncomfortable; visitors
were not encouraged to linger. There were no decorations or
adornments. You were never allowed to forget this was a ship of war.
Each piece of furniture could be dismantled almost instantly, to be
stowed away when the ship was cleared for action. Huge steelglass
viewports provided ever-changing vistas of black space that were
breathtaking but somehow seemed to emphasize the chill atmosphere of
the room.

The dining table, made
of steel, bore an unfortunate resemblance to a table in an operating
room. Covered with a white cloth, as it was this evening, it did,
however, manage to look quite elegant. The plates were of pewter and
marked with the emblem of the phoenix rising from the flames. The
heavy crystal goblets bore the same emblem embossed in gold.

The room's lighting was
indirect. Spotlights were hidden in recesses in the overhead. Beaming
downward in a straight, direct line, they had the effect of
illuminating only small areas of the room at any one time, leaving
the rest in dimly lit shadow. So cunningly placed were these lights
that when the guests were seated at the table, the Warlord's face was
left in almost complete darkness while the faces of those dining with
him were harshly exposed.

This trick lighting
often served Sagan well. It was at such times as these when the guard
is lowered, good wine and good food loosen the tongue. A journey down
what appears to be a well-worn conversational path often leads the
unsuspecting victim right off the edge of a cliff. A covert glance, a
guilty blush, a cheek gone pale in anger or fear—all are
visible to the eyes watching from the shadows. It was no wonder his
officers came to dread these evenings. Even Nada, who considered
himself ten times more cunning than his lord, never attended without
a supply of small white pills prescribed by Dr. Giesk for internal
disorders.