The Lost King (57 page)

"My lord, I'll
swear whatever oath you require of me! I'll take whatever vow you
want me to take! You need me, Sagan. I was the best!"

This brought a
reaction. The Warlord's eyebrow raised.

"One of the best,"
Maigrey amended, the color deepening in her cheeks.

She clung to his hands
in supplication. The woman might, thought a dazzled Admiral Aks, have
been pleading for her life instead of the opportunity to go out and
die.

"Please, my lord!"

Sagan turned his head,
shifted his eyes. They were cold and hard and dark as endless space.
"What oath would you take that you have not broken before? No,
my lady, I cannot trust you."

He might well have shot
her through the heart. The blood drained from her face; the scar was
a livid streak across her cheek. Her eyes dilated; her lips were
white. Her fingers on the Warlord's hands went limp, nerveless, and
loosed their hold, sliding slowly across the table. Her body sank
backward. Aks was halfway on his feet, thinking that the woman was
dying.

Maigrey remained on her
knees, on the floor, her arms limp at her sides, ber head bowed.

"Guards." The
Warlord made a gesture and the centurions responded instantly, with
alacrity, stepping up and saluting, fists over their hearts. "Escort
the Lady Maigrey back to her room. She is, from now on, confined to
quarters."

The guards bent to take
her arms and help her stand. Maigrey lifted her head, cast them each
a glance that made them think twice about it, then rose slowly and
haughtily to her feet. She bestowed on the Warlord one swift look,
promising defiance, sharp and cold and glistening as ice, then turned
and started to walk from the room.

"Your lives are
forfeit, gentlemen, if the lady escapes," Sagan added.

"Yes, my lord,"
both guards said, saluting.

Maigrey paused, and it
seemed for a moment as if this last shaft had been the one that drew
life's blood. Her head drooped, her shoulders slumped. Pride alone
lifted her chin; she seemed determined not to give her enemy the
satisfaction of watching her drop dead at his feet. Shaking back the
pale hair from her face, she squared her shoulders and walked out of
the Warlord's chambers, through the broken door, with firm,
unfaltering steps, never once glancing back.

Admiral Aks, finding
the Warlord's stern and piercing gaze turned on him, shamefacedly
dragged his chair up to the table and sat down.

"I thought the
lady might have . . . been taken ill, my lord."

Sagan snorted and said
nothing, resuming his reading.

"My lord."
Aks found his gaze drawn to the door that was standing ajar. The
captain had posted his own body in front of it. Maintenance crews, in
their dark blue uniforms, could be seen swarming around it like ants
whose hill had been knocked down. "Confined to quarters. Is that
wise? The brig—"

"—could not
hold her, Aks. But don't concern yourself. I've just bound her with
chains of adamant. She'll never break them."

"My lord?"

"She would no more
be responsible for the sacrifice of the lives of those two men than
she would kill them with her own hands."

"Ah, I see, my
lord. Very good, my lord."

Aks was supposed to be
reading the same report Sagan was perusing—a report detailing
everything known about the current strength of the enemy, garnered
from the underground transmissions from Shelton's system. But the
admiral slid about in his chair, fidgeting, until the Warlord, with
an irritated sigh, looked at him.

"What is it, Aks?
Spit it out and let's get it over with so that I can return to my
work."

"My lord, Lady
Maigrey is—or was—an extremely good pilot."

One of the best, as she
said. She should be; I trained her."

Yes, my lord. And you
have said yourself we need every skilled pilot. After all, you're
allowing the young man to join a squadron. I was thinking that the
lady might be useful—"

"And I should
swallow my pride and allow her to come with us? Absolutely not, Aks.
I will have enough trouble with the enemy in front of me. I don't
want to have to worry about one behind."

"But surely, my
lord, Lady Maigrey realizes how important you are to victor, over the
Corasians! She wouldn't dare risk harming you:"

"Yes, Aks, you're
right. She wouldn't harm me. She would in fact, do all she could to
protect me . . . during the battle."

The Warlord leaned back
in his chair and rubbed his eyes, fatigued from reading. His vision
had always been perfect, better than perfect. But now he noticed he
had to hold documents out away from him to bring the letters into
focus. He was past due for an eye examination; Giesk had been nagging
him about it. There were corrective drops that could be used.
Corrective drops!

The Warlord shut down
the computer. "We made a good team, she and I. A good team."
He was silent, staring far distant. The years of grim resolve, of
vengeance and bitterness erased their dark lines. His face smoothed,
he looked almost young.

The ship's bells rang,
chiming the hour, and the present charged in to banish the past.
Sagan's expression hardened. "It's
after
the battle, Aks,
when the lady could prove an infernal nuisance."

Light dawned. The
admiral understood and nodded agreement. "You mean the orders
concerning
Defiant
, my lord?"

"Yes, Aks. The
orders concerning
Defiant
."

In her quarters—the
quarters that were suddenly small and cramped as the secret holds in
a smuggler's ship—Maigrey paced restlessly back and forth, back
and forth. She had resolved to be calm, when the guards first brought
her back. She had resolved to sit down, eat her lunch, read Jane
Austen, relax, and listen to
Rigoletto
.

Lunch was splattered on
the wall, Jane Austen was under the bed, and Maigrey'd consigned
Verdi to hell.

How dare Sagan say such
a thing to me?
No oath you have not broken
! How dare he!
Twisting her fingers, she walked ten steps from the head of the bed
to the computer desk, ten steps from the computer desk to the head of
the bed. He can trust me. He knows he can trust me! This was
punishment, then. The ultimate punishment. He can't kill me, but
he'll wound me again and again with—

The door to her
chambers slid open. Maigrey whirled, thinking it was Sagan, for he
was the only one who ever dared entered without announcing himself.
Perhaps he'd changed his mind. She'd sensed him wavering. . . .

It was one of the
centurions, however, and he was dragging, by the shoulders, the limp
body of her other guard.

"If you could
operate the control, my lady," the centurion said coolly,
hauling his companion's feet inside, having some difficulty
maneuvering in the confined space between the door and the bed. "Shut
the door."

Maigrey, completely
mystified, did as she was requested. The door slid shut.

"Is he sick? Did
he pass out? Shall I call Dr. Giesk?"

"Don't call
anyone, my lady. If you'd lift his feet, we could put him on the
bed."

Maigrey took hold of
the unconscious man's feet and helped to hoist him up onto the bed.
Moving to look at him, she saw the bruise, forming at the base of the
man's neck, just above the collarbone, and she turned to look at the
guard.

"What's going on,
centurion?"

"Thank you for
trusting me, my lady."

"Trust, hell! As
Sagan said, I could send you into a brain seizure before you could
draw your next breath. I'm not the one in danger here. You are.
What's going on?"

The centurion glanced
at his unconscious companion. "'Lord Sagan is just. He won't
punish another for my crime."

"What crime?"
Maigrey was growing exasperated.

"If you would look
in your closet, my lady."

Maigrey took a step
backward, moved out of the guard's path, and gestured. "You
look."

The centurion,
half-smiling, though his face was grave and serious, stepped in front
of her and opened the closet door. Reaching inside, he brought out a
flight suit, complete with squadron patches, and a helmet.

"You'll find the
boots in there, too, my lady. I'm afraid they're probably going to be
rather large. I got them as small as I could, but we don't have many
men who wear your size. "

Maigrey sat down,
suddenly, and hoped the bed was beneath her.

"We were just
given the report, the centurion continued. "The enemy has
emerged from hyperspace. They're within instrument, though not
visual, range. You have time, but you should hurry, my lady."

Seeing that Maigrey
wasn't moving, the centurion laid the suit across the back of a
chair, set the helmet on top of it, and turned to retrieve the boots
and other gear. "I've arranged for you to be in Dion's squadron,
my lady. I thought you would prefer that."

Maigrey's lips moved
and, after a moment, coherent language came out. "What's your
name, centurion?"

"I am called
Marcus, my lady."

"Marcus, you heard
your lord's command. You've signed your own death warrant. Why are
you doing this for me?"

"Begging your
ladyship's pardon"—Marcus glanced at her gravely—"but
I'm not doing it for you. I'm doing this for my lord. You'll be able
to help him out there, won't you, my lady."

"Yes,"
Maigrey answered, though it hadn't been a question. "Yes,
assuredly."

"Many men will
give their lives for my lord this day," Marcus said, with a
peculiar smile. "I'm just doing it a little differently, that's
all."

Drums sounded, the
heart-stopping noise terrifying and exhilarating. Sagan didn't like
sirens sounding the call to battle. He stationed drummers on every
deck. The beat of the drum acted on modern man as it had acted on his
ancient ancestors—it stirred the blood, quickened the pulse.
The lights dimmed, power was being channeled to where it was needed
most, all nonessential equipment would be shut down, including the
galleys. It would be cold meals from now on, for those lucky enough
to have time to eat.

"There's the
signal, my lady. I'll leave you to dress."

Maigrey reached out,
grasped hold of the helmet, and held it in hands that had no feeling
in the fingers. She could hear the boom of blast doors slamming shut.

"I'm sorry I won't
be able to take you to the flight deck, my lady. But I shouldn't be
found away from my post."

"I know where it
is, thank you," Maigrey murmured. "Level sixteen."

"Blue Squadron."
Marcus, standing at the door, paused.

He wasn't a young man,
Maigrey noted. He must have served Sagan long and well for many
years. She saw herself, reflected in his clear brown eyes.

"Blue seems
appropriate, doesn't it, my lady? Almost as if God Himself had chosen
it."

Maigrey looked down at
the blue velvet dress. "Yes," she said softly, "as if
God Himself."

"Good flying, my
lady." Marcus saluted.

"God be with you,"
she replied, more from force of habit than because she knew what she
saying. But when she spoke, she saw the centurion bow his head as if
to receive a benediction. The door opened, and he was gone.

The door slid shut.
Except for the centurion on the bed who would be unconscious for a
long, long time, Maigrey was alone. The drums beat, commanding haste.
Fingers shaking, she swiftly stripped off the blue velvet dress.
Looking at it long and hard, she rolled it into a ball and tossed it
heedlessly into a corner of her room.

Whatever happened, she
would never wear that dress again.

Blue Squadron, she
repeated to herself, wriggling into the lightweight flight suit. She
studied herself critically in the mirror. Fortunately, the suit was
bulky and hid her shape. With the helmet covering her face and head,
the commlink mechanizing her voice, no one would ever suspect.

"Blue Squadron,"
she repeated, her excitement mounting. Hurriedly she twisted the
long, pale hair into a braid. "Well, it isn't Gold, but it'll
do. Lord help us all! It'll do!"

And dream and dream
that I am home again!

James Elroy Flecker,
"Brumana"

The din in the hangar
deck was appalling, overwhelming. Huge winches, hauling the
spaceplanes into position, rumbled, screeched, and whined. Bouts of
hammering and the hissing of laserwelds were punctuations and
accompaniments to shouted commands, shouted demands to repeat the
commands, and fluent cursing in any number of languages. Droids
squeaked and beeped and were in the right place at the wrong time and
were kicked and cursed and sent away and ordered back and appeared to
look on all this human confusion with a certain metallic smugness.
Amid the confusion, some of the pilots stood in small knots, talking
together while waiting for their planes; others stood by themselves,
thinking last thoughts of someone far away. Some conferred with their
crew chiefs. Others walked around the plane, inspecting it, going
over it in minute detail, for when it came right down to it, for all
the sophisticated technology, their lives might depend on a bolt
staying bolted.

The pilots were tense,
but it was a good tension laced with excitement and eagerness. After
months of boring space travel, enlivened only by the occasional
police action and endless maneuvers, anything—even the prospect
of being blown to cosmic dust—was a welcome change. They
tolerated the infernal noise level, yelling to be heard over it,
putting on their helmets and speaking through their commlinks, or
just shaking their heads in exasperation and walking off. One pilot,
however, was having difficulty restraining herself from dancing.

Swathed in the bulky
flight suit, her head encased in the helmet that she dared not
remove, Maigrey was lost and confused, fearful that someone would
discover who she was and whisk her back to Sagan, and she couldn't
ever remember being happier. It was as if she heard, after years of
banishment, the anthem of a beloved homeland. She was in such a
flurry, she had to force herself to calm down and spent a few moments
in silent prayer and meditation. It would never do for her to give
herself away by inadvertently lowering the guard on her thoughts,
allowing Sagan to discover her. Hopefully he would be too busy with
his own numberless responsibilities to pay any attention to a woman
he must assume was fuming safely in her own quarters.