The Lost King (31 page)

I think perhaps I
can, my lord. I am a danger to you.

A very great danger.
You see, my lady, I pay you the compliment of not underestimating
you.

And so once I have
served my purpose—

Once I am prepared
to move—

—
you will rid
yourself of me.

Sagan led her to the
head of the table. The other officers took their places as they were
assigned, all remaining standing in respectful attention. The Warlord
himself drew out her chair.

I had a dream,
Maigrey. You know that my dreams are portents.

Yes, she knew. She
remembered.

In this dream, I see
your death . . . at my hands, my lady.

Maigrey sank into the
chair. Sagan paused a moment to see that she was settled comfortably,
then took his own seat at her right hand. The others sat down and the
stewards instantly came around with water and wine.

The dream came in
answer to a prayer
, he continued silently. She could see of him
only his hand that reached out from the shadows in which he
surrounded himself and lifted the glass of water.
I asked the
Creator to give into my hands those who betrayed me. One by one, they
have all fallen to me. You are the last.

Why didn't you kill me
that night? Maigrey asked in the privacy of her own thoughts. The
scar on her face ached and throbbed. She covered it with her hand,
feeling that it must be pulsing burning red. Only your sword could
have done this. Only your hand could have struck me down. Yet why
didn't you end it? Why let me live? Dear Creator, if only I could
remember! Then, startled, she wondered if that was truly what she
wanted. One had to be careful when asking of the God. What was that
prayer accounted to Socrates? "Avert evil from me, though it be
the thing I prayed for; and give me the good which from ignorance I
do not ask."

It was a comforting
thought and reminded her that although Sagan was a priest, he did not
know the mind of God. Somehow, she supposed, this tragedy must make
sense. She wondered if it did to him.

The Warlord's thoughts
had, fortunately, turned away from her, and conscious of eyes upon
her, Maigrey made some attempt to eat and drink. Ship's food is
ship's food the galaxy over. It tasted the same to her now as it had
twenty years previous, which meant that she could not lose herself in
gastronomical delight. At least the wine was good. She had only to
remember not to drink too much or she would receive a rebuke from her
commander. And then, sipping at the warming liquid, Maigrey reminded
herself that Sagan was her commander no longer. She could do what she
damn well liked.

Just what she'd mostly
done anyway.

Maigrey finished the
draught and, with a smile, indicated to the steward to refill her
glass. The steward did so with alacrity. Lifting the goblet to her
lips, Maigrey was conscious of Sagan's stern, reproving glance,
though she couldn't see it. Some things, she supposed, never changed.
She was actually beginning to enjoy herself. Though wounded a few
times in their last encounter, she'd managed to penetrate her
opponent's guard and knew she'd drawn blood. It was exhilarating to
be back in action.

The Warlord leaned
forward, looked across her to Admiral Aks, who was seated on her
left.

"Any word on that
Scimitar, Admiral?"

"Scimitar, my
lord?" Aks, having imbibed two glasses of wine, almost missed
his cue. "Oh, the one belonging to the deserter, Tusca. Yes, my
lord. We have located its position on Vangelis and are currently
monitoring it."

"Circumspectly, I
trust."

"Yes, my lord, of
course. As you commanded."

"And where did it
finally set down?"

"In a small valley
in the midst of a large mountain range. An excellent site, well
fortified."

"John Dixter is a
good general. Marek chose wisely when he selected him to lead this
little insurrection." All Maigrey could see of the Warlord were
his hands. They held a knife and were cutting into a piece of meat
with deft, swift slicing strokes. "John Dixter. I believe you
knew a John Dixter at one time, didn't you, my lady?"

The food was ash in
Maigrey's mouth, the wine vinegar. She put the table napkin to her
lips, fearful that she would choke. Plutarch relates that Portia, the
wife of the traitor Brutus, killed herself by snatching burning
charcoals out of the fire and putting them into her mouth. Maigrey
knew then in what agony the woman had died. She tasted fire. She felt
stifled, her throat burned. Tears stung her eyes.

Sagan's thought touched
her.
They know I was your commander, lady. Don't disgrace me by
crying!

Anger gripped Maigrey
with a cool, steadying hand. Sagan had taught her the techniques of
withstanding torture and torment, even as cruel as this. Disgrace
him? She wouldn't disgrace herself.

"I once knew a
John Dixter, my lord. But it is a common name in the galaxy."

Beneath the table where
he couldn't see, Maigrey's hand clenched, her nails digging into her
flesh. The steward would later find traces of blood upon the linen
napkin.

"It would be a
remarkable coincidence if the son of Danha Tusca were to be found
with another John Dixter, a John Dixter who was
not
a friend
of the members of the famed Golden Squadron. It is a common name, but
this time, my lady, I am convinced that it belongs to a most uncommon
man."

"If it
is
the same John Dixter, my lord, then he was a loyal commander, both to
his king and to those whose honor he held in his care—those
whom he commanded. I agree with you. He is an uncommon man. Certainly
I know
no other
like him."

Very deliberately, the
Warlord laid down both fork and knife, forming a cross upon his
plate, a tradition among priests.

"Admiral Aks, you
will send a squadron of marines to the planet's surface and arrest,
in my name, the deserter known as Tusk and the royalist John Dixter.
I want Tusca for questioning, but Dixter is expendable. If he
resists, terminate him."

"Yes, my lord."
The admiral made as if to rise from his seat. A lieutenant of the
marines, who was also a guest, looked somewhat startled, but started
to do the same.

"Leave Dixter out
this, Sagan!" Maigrey said softly. "He had nothing to do
with us!"

"I warned you long
ago, lady, what your friendship might cost that man. You have only
yourself to blame."

Maigrey stood up,
hoping, as she did so, that she would find the strength to stay on
her feet. The linen napkin slid from her lap and fell unheeded to the
floor. "If you will excuse me, my -'lord, gentlemen."

There was much
fumbling, clattering of tableware and scraping of feet, and a few
coughs; the woman had caught most of the men in mid-mouthful. Admiral
Aks held her chair. The other officers did her the honor of standing.
Last of all, the Warlord rose slowly.

Maigrey could not see
his face, but she could see the light of the starjewel, reflected
coldly in his shadowed eyes. Catching hold of the gem, she wrapped
her hand around it tightly, quenching the blue-white glow, and left
the room without a word.

"Will she do it,
my lord?" Aks inquired in a low voice.

"Yes. She must,
she has no choice. I have made it a matter of honor."

Honor? Aks had seen the
woman's face when John Dixter was mentioned. In the admiral's
opinion, honor had very little to do with the matter. But, whatever
the reason, the Warlord appeared to have won this contest. Aks
glanced at Sagan to see if he could detect an expression of
satisfaction on the stern face.

If there was, the
shadows hid it extremely well.

Can this be death?
there's bloom upon her cheek . . .

George Gordon, Lord
Byron, "Manfred"

"The kid handled
the plane like a pro, sir. Oh, sure, he did some minor damage on
landing, but that's to be expected with a first-timer, though to hear
XJ carry on, you'd think the kid'd run the plane into the ground and
brought it out again on the other side of the planet."

Dixter smiled. The
general would have liked to point out to Tusk how paternal the
mercenary was sounding, but, looking at the eight-pointed star
glittering in the man's ear, Dixter kept quiet. That might be
striking a little too close to the heart. Better to forget the past;
maybe it'd go away.

"I've had him up a
few times since in that reconditioned Scimitar you found for us, sir.
It's about to melt XJ's microchips. I caught him trying to break into
the other plane's computer files to see what was going on."

"How's the boy
doing?"

Tusk pulled
thoughtfully and absentmindedly at the earring. "It's just plain
weird, sir. Now, I've never trained pilots or anything, but I
remember my own trainer flights and this kid is uncanny. There's a
helluva lot of things to do when you're flying. Things not to do,
too. Just figuring out how to add what the computer's telling you
with what your instruments are telling you and what your eyes are
telling you—when most of the time the three don't agree—takes
a military year. You get to do it by instinct, but that doesn't come
except with experience."

The two were standing
in one of the modular hangars that had just been constructed on their
airfield. An alien had its RV in for work and at that moment a
generator roared into operation, followed by the sound of furious
banging and hammering. Shaking his head, coughing in the fumes,
Dixter led the way outside.

"The kid already
has the instinct," Tusk shouted over the noise. "It's like
he had it before he ever set foot in the plane. No, maybe that's not
right. It's more like he absorbs everything all at once and processes
it and, bam! It's all right there for him. He knows exactly what to
do and how to react. I've never seen anything like it, sir."

I have, John Dixter
said to himself. It's bright and beautiful, Tusk, and the flames will
reduce you to ashes. It's what happens when we dare to love a god.

"I gave him an old
Scimitar pin of mine. The boys and I made it a regular ceremony, sort
of like they do in the Air Corps. You'd've thought I crowned him
king—"

Dixter raised an
eyebrow.

"Sorry, sir,"
Tusk grunted. "Bad metaphor, Uh, say, General. The real reason I
came. Where has . . . uh . . . Nola—that is, Ms. Rian—been
keeping herself these last few days? We were going to get together to
discuss some . . . uh . . . technical modifications on the TRUC
before we take out the next shipment."

"Technical
modifications." Dixter kept a straight face. "I see. Well,
Tusk, I don't think we have to worry about flying shotgun on any more
of the shipments. Not since you made scrap metal of that torpedo
boat. We'll keep sending escorts, but I doubt they'll run into any
trouble. And speaking of the torpedo boat, that's where Nola is.
Marek and I got to wondering about that fancy device and I sent Rian
to do a little investigating. Nothing dangerous, Tusk, so don't get
your shorts in a knot. She'll poke around a few files, eat at a few
TRUCer diners, ask a few questions. She knows just about everybody in
the industry. This is strictly between us, all right?"

"Yes, sir."
Tusk appeared somewhat shamefaced. "Thank you, sir. That's all I
wanted to know."

The alien had ceased
his work for the moment to search for a tool. The noise temporarily
subsided.

"While I've got
you, here's the new flight schedule." Dixter removed a computer
printout from an antiquated file folder he was holding and handed it
to the pilot. "See that everyone gets a copy. I'm glad to hear
Dion is keeping occupied— Well, well. Speak of the devil."

"Tusk! I've looked
all over for you! Say, can Link and I— Oh, sorry, General
Dixter. I didn't see you!" Dion came dashing around the corner
of the hangar building and pulled up short at the sight of the
general.

"That's all right.
We've finished. See you at the briefing tonight, Tusk."

"Yes, sir. What is
it, kid?"

Dixter, walking away,
heard Dion say something about provisions and Link giving him a ride
into town. Heading back to his headquarters, the general's mind ran
over everything Tusk had told him about Dion. Dixter understood and
was wishing he didn't when he heard a wild yell behind him.

Turning, he saw Tusk
waving his arms and shouting. Dion lay sprawled on the tarmac on his
feet.

"What happened?"
Dixter ran up.

"My God! I don't
know, sir. One minute he was standing there talking and the next he
pitched down on the ground. Look at him, sir!" Tusk clutched
Dixter's arm. "D'you ever see anything like that?"

No, Dixter hadn't. And
he'd seen just about every kind of casualty that could happen to a
living being. The boy lay on his back, looking straight up intently
at something no one else could see, seemingly listening to something
no one else could hear. And he was answering. Or thought he was. His
lips moved.

A chill went through
Dixter, starting in his gut and spreading through his body. He
glanced around. They were attracting a crowd, of course. Any
distraction was welcome to break the monotony of war, which had been
likened to drinking jump-juice and water—one shot of
gut-wrenching excitement mixed with a glassful of boredom.

"The kid's having
some sort of fit. Get a blanket, you men. Don't just stand there
gawking. Make a litter and we'll carry him to my office. I suppose
the rest of you haven't anything better to do than stand here?"

"Look. sir. He's
trying to say—"

"Shut up, Tusk!"
Dixter commanded in a low voice, bending over the boy, seemingly to
help him but in reality to shield him from curious eyes.