The Lost King (4 page)

"Yeah? Whatever."
Tusk was obviously anxious to end the conversation. "I'll meet
you here—"

"Remember—tell
no one of your plans. Let as few see you or know what you are doing
as possible. We will be waiting. Tonight. 1800." Pulling an old
leather pouch out of a torn pocket of his blue jeans, Platus handed
it to the mercenary. "Here. That should take care of everything,
I believe."

Tusk took the pouch,
hefted it, heard the chink of coin, and stood balancing it in his
hand irresolutely as Platus began to walk rapidly for the warehouse
door.

"Say, wait a
minute," Tusk called out. "My father said that if you guys
ever did need me, things would be pretty bad. Desperate, in fact. I
got a feeling that describes the situation?"

Platus stopped and
glanced around. "It does."

Tusk sauntered up to
him. "One question."

"I do not promise
to answer."

"Who's after the
kid? I mean, it's obvious. You're getting him off Syrac Seven 'cause
he's hot. And it might help if I knew who it is we're running from."

"Yes, it would."
Platus smiled his sad smile. "I planned to tell you tonight. A
Warlord wants the boy."

"A Warlord! You
guys don't make small enemies. I figured as much, though. It's all
tied in with my father somehow, isn't it?"

Platus did not reply.

Tusk tried again. "All
the Warlords, or one in particular?"

"There is one who
is most dangerous. You know who he is, I do not think I need speak
his name. But avoid them all."

"Okay. Now. Why do
the Warlords want the kid? What could a seventeen-year-old—"

Platus's face went
ashen. "Ask no more! For your own protection! Just . . . take
the boy where you will and leave him! I wish I could believe Someone
will be watching over him, but my faith died long ago. Now I must go
and prepare him for his journey. Good-bye, Mendaharin Tusca."

Platus fled, almost
running.

"Hey, you!"
Tusk yelled angrily after the man. "Quit calling me by that
name!"

Standing in the shadows
of the warehouse long after Platus had gone, Tusk stared after him,
pondering everything he'd said—and what he hadn't. All the
Warlords chasing one pimply-faced kid. Which meant, of course, that
Congress wanted the teenager. Which meant—what? Nothing that
made sense to Tusk. Scowling, the mercenary's hand went to the silver
ornament in his earlobe, the ornament that matched the shape of the
jewel Platus wore around his neck.

Swearing bitterly, Tusk
kicked an empty wooden crate with such force that it split apart.

"You're still
here, ain't you, Danha Tusca?" he shouted into the empty,
echoing darkness. "Dead and buried, you're still reaching out,
still trying to run my goddam life!"

Tears were for Hekabe,
friend, and for Ilion's women, Spun into the dark Web on the day of
their birth, But for you our hopes were great . . .

Plato

Twilight came to the
docks earlier than to the rest of the town. The huge freighters
swallowed up the sun, casting their shadows over the dockyards. The
afterglow of sunset lit the sky, the docks became intense patches of
extremely bright light alternated by pools of sharp-edged darkness.
Every few hundred meters, a security lamp shed its harsh white
radiance over the ugly gunmetal-gray paint of the ships' hulls; some
of the more recent arrivals were still splotched black with the
so-called space barnacles that would take work crews days to remove.
Outside the circle of light, the shadows were thicker by contrast.

The dock crews had gone
home for the day, the sailors— those who had shore leave—were
in the bars, and the docks were relatively quiet. The footsteps of
the watchman making his rounds rapped against the cement, his voice
occasionally called out a greeting or a question to one of the guards
on board the freighters. The wind that shrieked incessantly on Syrac
Seven during the day was nothing but a teasing breeze by night. Faint
sounds of raucous laughter drifted from the bars along the wharf.
Those unfortunates burdened with guard duty glanced longingly in that
direction and muttered beneath their breaths.

"I hope that
Platus fellow didn't get himself lost!" Tusk looked impatiently,
for the sixth time, at the glowing digits of his watch. Dressed in a
dark fatigue suit, the mercenary was little more than a shadow
himself in the early night. He had taken up a position just inside
the warehouse door, being careful to keep out of a circle of light
cast by a lamp above the entrance. Every now and then he poked his
head around the huge corrugated iron wall, keeping vigil, being
certain of seeing before he was seen.

The watchman rarely
came this direction. He was more concerned about the freighters and
the goods that stood on the docks than an empty warehouse. Still, he
might take it into his head to glance this way, and Tusk was worried
about the middle-aged tenor and the kid. The mercenary supposed
they'd have sense enough to keep to the shadows, but the more he
thought about the refined voice, the desperate eyes, the trembling
fingers— Tusk shook his head, gritted his teeth, and made ready
to leap out and grab them at first sight.

Tusk leapt all right,
but it wasn't out. It was up. A touch on his shoulder nearly sent him
straight into the rafters of the warehouse. His lasgun was in his
hand in a split second, his body twisting, elbow ready, to debilitate
his assailant with a blow to the gut. A deft block countered his
elbow jab, and a firm hand closed over his, relieving him of his
weapon.

"It is Platus,"
said a voice as Tusk's body tensed and he prepared to fight for his
life. "Forgive me. It was not that I did not trust you, but I
had to make certain you were not followed. Here is your weapon."

Tusk's heart slid from
his throat back down to his chest. His breathing began to return to
near normal. Snatching back his lasgun, he jammed the weapon in its
holster. He was shaking all over.

Platus's hand patted
his shoulder "Excellent reflex time. I almost could not disarm
you. Of course, it has been a long while since I—"

"Where's the kid?"
Tusk growled. He wasn't in the mood for a discussion of his reflex
time.

"Dion. Come
forward. I want you to meet Mendaharin Tusca. He will be taking you
on ... on your journey."

A young man, barely
visible in the shadows, stepped into a circle of light that streamed
from a lamp outside the warehouse door. The harsh light illuminated
the boy's face and body with an eerie, otherworldly glow that seemed,
by a trick of the eye, to come from some enchanted source within him
rather than from any mundane source without. Expecting a typical
teenager—gangly, awkward, maybe a little sullen—Tusk
experienced a shock almost as great as when Platus touched him from
the darkness.

The boy was tall and
walked with head held high, his well-muscled body moved with an
athlete's grace. His skin was fair, his eyes were a deep, clear blue.
Red-golden hair— blazing like Syrac's sun—sprang from a
peak on the boy's forehead, and fell to his shoulders, framing the
finely chiseled face in a wild, glistening mane.

The boy's gaze met
Tusk's with unwavering steadiness. Tusk noted the strong chin, the
proud stance, the slightly parted lips. If the kid was frightened by
this strange and sudden journey into the night, he was keeping that
fear to himself. Tusk let out his breath in an unheard whistle.

He'd been scoffing at
this whole business. After all, what possible interest could the
Congress have in a scrawny seventeen-year-old kid? This Platus was
paranoid, jumping at shadows. Now, after seeing this boy, Tusk was
beginning to revise his opinion. There was something unusual about
this young man; something fascinating and compelling, something
dangerous. It was the eyes, he decided. They were too thoughtful, too
grave, too knowing for seventeen.

Who the devil was this
kid? He didn't belong to Platus, that was certain.

"I've lived as
long as I have because I've followed my gut feelings," Tusk said
to himself. "And now I've got a gut feeling I should bid
everyone good night, sweet dreams, and get the hell out of here. "

But just as he was
starting to speak those words, Platus moved to stand beside the boy.
The light beamed off the glittering jewel he wore around his neck
and, for a brief instant, it shone like a small star in the darkness
of the warehouse. Tusk's hand moved to tug at his earlobe, then
stopped halfway. Growling, he glanced about in the darkness.

"All right,
Father, back off!"

"What?"
Platus glanced about in alarm. "To whom are you talking?"

"The kid. I said,
'Better keep out of the light.'"

Catching hold of the
boy's sleeve, Tusk pulled him into the shadows. He could feel the
boy's body tense like a cat's, coiled, ready to spring.

"So, Dion,"
Tusk continued, feeling jittery. "You got a last name?"

It seemed a natural
enough question, but the boy went stiff and rigid as if he'd been
stabbed. Dion turned to confront Platus. The blue eyes caught the
light, glittered cold and clear as the starjewel. Platus shook his
head. The expression on his face was faintly apologetic, faintly
stern, wholly uncomfortable. Dion smiled a thin, bitter smile and
turned his back on them, folding his arms across his chest.

What the hell was that
all about? Tusk wondered irritably, liking this less and less.

"Right, skip it.
Most places I go, I don't use a last name either. Everyone calls me
Tusk." He held out his hand.

The boy turned, his
face a struggle, seeking self-control. He achieved it, after a
moment; his handshake was strong and firm. Tusk saw a brief, strained
smile and a flicker of warmth in the eyes—gratitude, he knew,
for not asking any more questions.

After the introduction,
the three stood staring at one another in the dark shadows of the
warehouse.

Tusk fidgeted. It was
an awkward moment. Should he leave the two alone for a last good-bye,
or would it be easier on everyone to just get the kid out of here? He
had a decided preference for the latter. He'd left XJ in charge of
the repairs while he came to pick up the kid and, though Tusk knew
the computer could do a better job than he could of rewiring the
complex electrical circuitry that had been damaged in the battle on
Rinos, he still felt better keeping an eye on things.

The silence was
deafening. Tusk could hear it roar in his ears, and he started to say
something that would probably be wrong but would at least get
everyone moving when Platus stepped up to Dion. Reaching out, the man
laid his hands on the boy's shoulders, holding him at arm's length.

"You have given me
so much. And I have given so very little in return. I cannot even
give you a name, and you may never understand why. But, oh, Dion, I
have loved you!" Platus drew the boy near.

Dion's lips tightened,
his blue eyes flashed, and he seemed about to break free of the man's
hold. Suddenly the boy crumbled. His head sank down, his shoulders
slumped. Platus gathered Dion into his arms, embracing him tightly.
The young man threw his arms around Platus and buried his face in the
man's shoulder with a sob.

Tusk, watching, turned
away. It wasn't the sight of the boy's tears that brought the sudden,
bitter taste to his mouth. It was the sight of Platus's face—a
pale mask in the reflected light.

On that face, Tusk saw
death.

The mercenary had seen
that look before. He had known those who had a premonition or
whatever it was that they were going to die. And they'd gone into
battle . . . and they'd died.

Tusk felt an urgent
need to get off this planet. He touched the boy on the shoulder.

"Uh, kid. We
better get moving. I still got a lot of work to do on the plane
before morning."

"Yes. He's right,
Dion. You must go."

Platus ran his hand
lovingly through the boy's mane of red-gold hair, then pushed Dion
away from him. Leaning down, he picked up a large duffel bag and
silently handed it to the young man. Tusk walked over to the
warehouse door, pretending to check around outside. In reality he was
giving the kid time to wipe his eyes, blow his nose, and pull himself
together.

"Here are your
clothes, some books—your favorites, plus a few you will need to
continue your studies. I've included several lesson plans so that you
can keep on as if I were—" Platus's voice sank, nearly
failing him. "Your syntharp and your music is in there as well,"
he added with a tremendous effort of will.

"I'll continue my
work. And I'll let you know where I am, how I'm doing." Dion
must have seen the look on Platus's face, too, though probably he
didn't understand it. "You'll be all right?" the boy
continued, speaking firmly, as if his words could make it so. "You'll
let me know when I can come home?"

"Yes."

Tusk heard the lie in
the older man's tone, he heard the love, the anguish. Turning from
the doorway, the mercenary walked over and took hold of Dion's arm.

"C'mon, kid. Back
to the plane. We got a lot to do before sunrise."

"So this is the
passenger," a synthesized voice commented tinnily as Tusk and
Dion lowered themselves through the hatch into Tusk's spaceplane.
Ignoring the ladder, Tusk dropped lightly onto the deck below. Dion
was forced to climb slowly and awkwardly down the narrow steel rungs.

"C'mon, for'ard,"
Tusk said, motioning. "I'll show you where to stow your gear.
Watch out," he cautioned, pointing to a maze of tubing and steel
beams and gauges overhead. "Low clearance."

Crouching, trying to
get a close look at the complicated instruments he'd read about only
in his books, Dion took a step forward and stumbled headlong over a
toolbox.