The Lost King (48 page)

"This is an
outrage," the President was saying. "I'll take it to the
Congress, of course. I'll call an emergency session. I've no doubt
that we will declare war on the Corasians."

"Yes, Mr.
President."

The person reflected in
the water pitcher could be seen clearly. Sagan hadn't been wrong.
Magenta robes, edged in black, the zigzag of black lightning—dark
lightning—running down the front. It
was
him! Mentally,
the Warlord staggered.

He was reported dead!
What's he doing here? Of course! Robes. He has Robes! Perhaps he's
had him under his control from the very beginning. It would explain
much.

"Citizen General
Sagan? Have we lost communication?"

"Excuse me, Mr.
President." Sagan wrenched his mind back to his duty. The silver
water pitcher dwindled in size and on the screen, once again, was
Peter Robes. "I was ... receiving further news on the enemy."

"I understand your
interest, Citizen General. But perhaps you could favor me with your
full attention?"

"Yes, Mr.
President." Sagan ground the words with his teeth.

"It is likely, if
the Corasians follow their usual plan of action, that they will use
Shelton's Planets I, II, and III as bases and strike out at the rest
of the galaxy from there. Wouldn't you agree, Citizen General?"

Sagan agreed.

"Then," the
President continued, "we are fortunate that the enemy has picked
a relatively worthless and out-of-the-way system—"

"There are seven
million people on Shelton's planets, Mr. President."

Robes's face crumbled
instantly from grave concern to gentle grief. "You misunderstood
me, Citizen General. Of course, I didn't mean worthless in terms of
human life. That is a terrible tragedy, certainly, but . . . let's be
brutally realistic."

Yes. since the press
isn't around, Sagan thought.

"Seven million
people is a mere drop in the ocean of the life of the galaxy. And, in
terms of resources, Shelton's planets are, I believe, devoted mainly
to scientific research. There are vast numbers of scientists in this
galaxy.

"I intend—once
Congress has declared war, of course—to command the generals of
the other sectors to pull back and guard the dense population centers
of our galaxy. I want you, Citizen General Sagan, to stop the
Corasians from penetrating further into the galaxy."

"Yes, Mr.
President. I will need reinforcements—"

"Impossible, I'm
afraid, Derek." Robes leaned forward, his face revealing
complete and absolute confidence in his commander. "Let's drop
the formalities. We're old friends, after all. The inner circle of
the defense will need all the galaxy's current resources in case—and
I don't mean this to be negative thinking, I'm only being
realistic—in case you fail to stop the enemy."

"I would say, Mr.
President, that fighting the Corasians with the force I have means
failure is a foregone conclusion."

The President's face
exhibited gentle sorrow, extreme disappointment. "I'm sorry to
hear that, Derek. You are my ablest commander. I expected better of
you." Robes's eyes flicked, almost involuntarily, to the unseen
person standing across the room from him. Their gaze returned to the
Warlord immediately. Sagan might not have caught the glance if he
hadn't been watching for it. "You have your orders, Citizen
General Sagan."

"I have my orders.
Yes, Mr. President."

"Our best wishes
and those of the galaxy are with you."

Are they indeed, Mr.
President? Sagan silently commented.

The screen went blank.
The Warlord stood staring at it in profound silence for a long, long
time.

In the forgotten lounge
on the diplomatic deck, Maigrey and Dion were alone. There were no
guards in attendance—an oblique compliment to the lady, and one
which she found depressing. The threat to her galaxy was holding her
prisoner now more surely than Sagan ever could. She sat limp and
lifeless in a chair, staring, unseeing, out at the stars. Her head
rested wearily on her hand. Dion watched her with grave concern. She
had drunk nothing, eaten nothing in the several hours that had passed
since the duel. She had not spoken at all.

An orderly entered the
room, padding softly, not breaking the heavy silence. He bore a tray
and set it down on a table at Maigrey's side. On the tray was a
porcelain teapot of fanciful design—the spout was the head of a
dragon, the pot was its body, and the handle was the dragon's tail.
The pot rested on four small clawed feet. Steam curled from the
dragon's parted mouth. Two cups, shaped like dragon eggs, without
handles, stood near the pot, along with a bowl of fruit and a plate
of plain, unsalted crackers.

"From his
lordship," the orderly said and left.

Dion, leaning over,
sniffed at the tea. It had a faintly tarry aroma and his nose
wrinkled. He glanced up at Maigrey, who was looking at the pot with a
wan smile.

"You don't think
he's trying to poison us?" The young man was half-serious,
wholly in earnest.

Maigray's smile widened
slightly. "No, Dion, it's supposed to smell like that. It's
called lapsong souchong." She traced her finger over the
dragon's head. "Even the teapot looks familiar. But it couldn't
be the same one. It couldn't." Sighing, she closed her eyes.

Dion carefully and
awkwardly lifted the teapot. "Here, let me pour you a cup. You
should drink something."

"Why? To keep up
my strength? To keep on living?"

Her bitterness and
anger startled the young man. He tried to set the teapot back down
gently, but it struck against one of the cups and made a frightful
clatter. Maigrey opened her eyes, saw his face, and sighed.

"I'm sorry, Dion.
It's just—" She paused, thinking, then said softly, "Once,
I knew a man, a renowned poet, who fell down an elevator shaft. He
was rescued and they brought him up alive, but the doctors diagnosed
some sort of internal injury to the brain and said he only had a few
months to live. The man bid his friends and family good-bye,
completed the book of poetry he was writing, and then prepared
himself to die. But he didn't. He kept on living. Five years later he
was still alive. It was his biggest disappointment."

Dion said nothing. The
story appalled him, though he didn't understand its point. He picked
up a cracker, broke it in two, started to eat it, then tossed it back
down onto the plate.

"Lady Maigrey,"
he said abruptly. "What did the test tell you about me? Did God
. . . er . . . speak?"

What a superstitious
fool he sounded! Might as well ask a Ouija board.

"He spoke, but not
quite what we expected to hear." Maigrey lifted the teapot with
a sudden, brisk gesture. "Will you try this? It doesn't taste as
odd as it smells and it's good for queasy stomachs. How are you
feeling?"

"The drugs seem to
be wearing off. I was feeling hungry, in fact, until the food came
in. Now, I'm not certain." Dion looked at the hot brown liquid
in the dragon's egg cup. "If you don't mind, my lady, I think
I'll go see if I can find some water."

So that's all she plans
to tell me, Dion thought. Bah! God talking! What kind of fool do they
think I am? What's God supposed to say—that I'm going to be a
great king because I passed out on Sagan's floor? Probably all the
Warlord meant to do was torture me and see how I reacted! Well, if
you ask me, I think I came through it pretty fine. Now if I could
just figure out how I managed to make that silver ball float in the
air. . . .

When he returned, he
found Maigrey standing by the viewport, staring thoughtfully into a
distant part of the galaxy.

"I saw the
Corasians before the fight began, you know." Maigrey didn't
turn, didn't look around at him. "Black shapes, blotting out the
stars. I'd seen them in my mind before, but it was years ago, and I
couldn't remember what they were, I couldn't concentrate. I didn't
dare concentrate on them."

"But—you
saw
them!"

"Our altered blood
structure does quirky things, sometimes, things scientists can't
explain. I can see images in my mind of events happening somewhere
far distant. Sometimes I can control it and see what I want;
sometimes the visions come to me unbidden, as this one did today. It
was how Sagan hoped to be able to use me to find you. But, as it
turned out, that wasn't necessary."

Dion stirred
uncomfortably, angrily, feeling that he'd been accused of some
misdeed. Shaking the red-golden mane of hair out of his face, he
shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans and stared moodily out
at the stars.

"What about
sharing this vision with Sagan? That hand-on-the-face business."
Dion hadn't meant to sound jealous and only realized he'd done so
when he saw her glance at him, amused.

"Because we're
mind-linked, he and I can share the visions, but only if we are
physically touching." Maigrey lifted her palm. By the dim light
of the lounge and the lambent light of the stars, he could see the
five small white marks that were now slightly red and swollen from
contact with the bloodsword. "It happened only after we'd been
given our swords. I think it probably has something to do with the
virus. Two people of the Blood Royal who aren't mind-linked can
experience a certain amount of mental telepathy when they are using
the swords. This can be good or bad, depending."

"Depending on
what? It seems good to me."

Maigrey looked at him
fully, intently. "On the minds using the swords. The stronger,
you see, has the ability to control the weaker. "

He hated it when she
looked inside him like that. Dion flushed and rubbed the palm of his
right hand. Ever since he'd seen the bloodswords, he'd felt those
five marks on his skin. Clearing his throat, he turned away from the
window, wandered over to the table, and absentmindedly devoured all
of the crackers. He heard a sound, a faint jingle of armor, and was
almost relieved to see Lord Sagan standing in the door.

Maigrey turned back to
staring out the steelglass.

Sagan glanced at the
young man. "How are you feeling, Dion?"

"Fine, my lord."
The young man spoke coldly. He was furious at Sagan and his anger
vied with his intense admiration. The conflicting emotions were
confusing and painful and he didn't know how to handle them. Standing
straight and stiff, he clasped his hands behind his back.

The Warlord's face was
drawn and tired-looking; there was a gray tinge to the skin. The
lines around the mouth and nose and on the brow were deeper, darker.

"Fine or not, I
want you to report to sick bay."

"Why?" Dion's
anger flared. Sagan was obviously trying to get rid of him. "I
feel fine. I—"

"I said, you are
to report to sick bay. There are some tests Giesk wants to run.
Guards." Sagan made a peremptory gesture. "If he won't go,
take him."

Dion glanced at the
Lady Maigrey, but she was no help. She stood with her back to him,
looking out at the stars. The young man swallowed the hot words that
came flooding to his mouth and, after a moment's bitter struggle, did
as he was commanded. Stiff-necked, red-faced, he stalked out of the
room.

The Warlord indicated
with a gesture that the guards were to follow.

"My lord,"
said one of the centurions, "should we send for replacements?"

Sagan shook his head.

The guard saluted and
left. Maigrey could hear their booted feet ringing on the steel deck,
then the sound faded and she and the Warlord were alone.

"You were hard on
the boy, my lord."

Sagan came to stand
beside her. "He better get used to it. Things are only going to
get worse."

"So it's as bad as
that?"

"Don't you know? I
haven't kept my thoughts hidden from you. I've been too damn busy."

"I didn't want to
see them." Maigrey's voice was soft. Her hands were clasped
before her. Tensely, unconsciously, she twisted her fingers.

"The Corasians are
attacking in force. We had a treaty with them. Don't blame me, lady.
I had nothing to do with it. It was Robes's first act as President,
guaranteed to win him popularity. For the past fifteen years, our
spies—mine and those of the other Warlords—have reported
to him that the Corasians were not holding to the terms of the
treaty, that they were building up their forces. Robes always refused
to comment directly, but his mouthpieces in Congress accused us of
war-mongering, of using the Corasians as an excuse to keep our fleets
and armies strong."

"This attack
surprised you, then?"

"To be honest,
yes. I had expected them to strike, but not this soon. According to
my last report before I lost contact with my agent, the Corasians
couldn't possibly have been ready to make a full-scale assault. But I
think," Sagan added, his voice dry, "I was the
only
one surprised."

Maigrey turned, stared
at him incredulously.

"You think Robes
knew?"

"I'm convinced of
it."

"And he let
hundreds of thousands of people on those planets die? I can't believe
that, even of him!"

The Warlord shrugged
off the question. "What are thousands to him when he has
trillions of votes in the inner circle of the galaxy? Shelton's
planets were inconsequential—mostly inhabited by soldiers and
scientists, their families, a few scientific stations, and the usual
population centers that grow up around military bases."

Pausing, Sagan leaned
near, lowered his voice. "You must understand, lady, that my
agent in the Corasian galaxy was good. Very good. He'd been there for
years—a slave in one of their chemical factories, that was his
cover. They'd never come near discovering him. Then he disappeared.
In his last report he indicated that there was someone on to him."