Probably from his dunderheaded commander-in-chief, President Peter Robes.
"Not now!" Sagan snapped.
"Begging your pardon, my lord," a communications officer struck in, looking extremely nervous, "but she says it is import—"
"She!" Sagan strode rapidly over to the console.
"No picture, my lord. Audio only."
"My lady. Track her!" Sagan added in an undertone.
"That won't be possible, my lord," Maigrey replied. "I am making the Jump in exactly one minute. I am communicating with you to tell you that I've left you a prisoner."
"A prisoner?" Sagan hadn't thought anything could astonish him further. Apparently he'd been wrong.
"Yes, my lord. The man is a prison guard, taking bribes from prisoners to help them escape, then sending them out in junk planes. I offer the following recording to be used as evidence in his court-martial."
What they heard was, Sagan eventually figured out, a recording of a transmission between Maigrey and a pilot in another plane. The recording was brief, as had been the young pilot's life.
"I trust you to see justice done, my lord."
"It will be, my lady," he said gravely.
She sounded very much like he felt. "Until we meet again . . . Dominus tecum—God be with you, my lord."
"Transmission ended, sir," the officer said.
The Warlord stood staring thoughtfully at the console, then turned on his heel. "I'll be in my quarters, Captain."
"Very good, my lord."
"I didn't really need to discover what she said to Dixter," Sagan said to himself, pondering. "I didn't have to drag her plans out of the unfortunate Bennett. I know what she intends to try to do. The Blood Royal surges in your veins, Maigrey, carrying its poison into your soul. You left Dion to his fate. You left John Dixter to die. Why? Because you can see and feel and sniff and taste the prize! Power! You want it as badly as I do. But what will you sell to gain it?
"Your soul, my lady? No matter. Your scheming will be all for nought. Because, in the end, you will bring the power to me. Et cum spiritu tuo—And His spirit be with you, my lady," Sagan added, beneath his breath, with the flicker of a smile.
Book II
Pearl of Great Price
Again, the kingdom of heaven is like unto a merchant man, seeking goodly pearls: who, when he found one pearl of great price, sold all that he had, and bought it.
St. Matthew, 13:45, 46
Chapter One
Docebo iniquos vias tuas . . .
Then will I teach transgressors Thy ways . . .
Gregorio Allegri, Miserere
The Warlord sat in a chair in his temporary quarters aboard Defiant. He was relaxed, eyes closed, listening to music from his past. The chanting of male voices filled the air around him; he seemed to breathe them in. The simultaneous combination of the parts of the sacred text each formed an individual melody, harmonizing with the others, the deep bass of the men counterpointed by the sweet, searing tenor of youth. The Miserere, by Allegri. Late sixteenth century. Nine voices.
"Miserere mei, Deus, secundum magnam misericordiam tuam." "Have mercy upon me, O God, according to Thy loving kindness."
The voices, like those of the Sirens, took hold of Sagan with melodic hands, drew him back to a time when he had been most deeply happy, most profoundly miserable—the first twelve years of his life. He had been raised in a monastery, raised by the monks as an atonement for the sins of a brother, raised in silence by a priest-father, who, from the day his little son was born, never spoke a word to him or to anyone.
"Ecce enim in iniquitatibus conceptus sum; et in peccatis concepit me mater mea." "Behold, I was shapen in iniquity; and in sin did my mother conceive me."
That part was true enough. A High Priest of the Order of Adamant, enamored of a nobleman's daughter, finds his lust overwhelms him. Forswearing his vows of chastity, he slips out of the monastery walls, meets the object of his lust, embraces her. One night is enough to quench his ardor. Filled with remorse, he forsakes the girl and returns to hide within the monastery walls. But his seed has been planted. Nine months later, he discovers the bitter fruit, wrapped in linen, placed at the monastery door.
Confessing all, he removes himself from his high office, casts upon himself a vow of silence and of isolation. From that night forth, his brethren see him only at prayers or silently performing the meanest, most degrading tasks in the small community. The scandal is hushed up, the nobleman's daughter removed to a far-distant planet. The child is taken in, hidden from the world behind stone walls, raised in cool darkness and reverent prayer.
"Ne projicias me a facie tua; et spiritum sanctum tuum ne auferas a me.'' "Cast me not away from Thy presence; and take not Thy Holy Spirit from me."
Sagan formed the words with his lips, the melody echoing in his heart. What had brought him to remember all this? Perhaps meeting the young monk serving as a male nurse aboard Defiant. The Warlord should have had faith; he should have known the Order could not die, though its members had been slaughtered during the revolution. It had gone underground, sunk into the darkness with which it was most familiar, and grew there as the child grows in the womb, waiting impatiently for the light.
Sagan had been twelve when the king, old Starfire himself, received word (rumor had it that Sagan's mother revealed the truth) that a child of the Blood Royal was being raised apart from the world, hidden in a monastery, without proper teaching. Not even the king's arm could have reached into the closed stone walls, for the church was a strong power. But the father had seen his son's extraordinary gifts. The priest made it known that he wanted the boy educated, trained to use the quicksilver mind, the "magic" of the Blood Royal. Sagan had been removed from the stone walls.
That night, his last night, was the one and only time in his life he wept, and that had been alone, shut in his monk's cell, in the candlelit darkness. For days after, he had burned with the shame of the memory.
"Sacrificium Deo spiritus contribulatus ..." "The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit ..."
At the Royal Academy for Men, created especially for the sons of the Blood Royal, Derek Sagan was the most brilliant student and the most disliked. He had seen from his first days how far above the rest he was, not only in intelligence but in mental and physical discipline. Tall, strong, powerful, he bested the others in every test. Aloof, brooding, proudspirited, charismatic, he could have made them love him.
He preferred it that they hate him.
"... cor contritum et humiliatum Detis non despicies." "A broken and a contrite heart, O God, Thou wilt not despise."
And then had come the fair-haired child—a girl, wild as a catamount, daughter of a barbarian warrior father who flew to his enemies in spaceships, landed, and attacked them on horseback. Sent to the Royal Academy for Women, she had been expelled at the age of six for attempting to stab the headmistress.
As a last resort, she had been sent to the male branch of the Academy, to live with her elder brother—a gentle young man, who took after their dead mother, and who had been renounced by their father. Of course, the Creator's hand could be detected moving in all these events. It was here, at the Royal Academy, the masters had discovered that the pale-haired girl and the dark-souled boy were connected by the rare phenomenon occurring occasionally in the Blood Royal— the mind-link.
"My lord."
The voice broke in harshly and discordantly, disrupting his music and his thoughts. Sagan looked up. It was the captain of his guard, and the matter must be urgent, or the man would not have disturbed him.
"What is it?"
"The President asks to speak to you, my lord."
Sagan felt himself tense, as before a battle. He'd been expecting this summons. He could have, undoubtedly should have, reported directly to the President earlier. But he had decided to wait, preferred to make Robes come to him. That, at least, is what he told himself. But the adrenaline quickening his heartbeat, the tingling in his blood, forced him to admi
t that perhaps he'd been putting off this interview for another reason.
This meeting would confirm his fears. And if he found them to be true, it would set in motion the rock that might eventually bring down the entire side of the mountain. He would either end up standing on top or be buried beneath the rubble.
The psalm ended as he left his quarters.
"Tunc imponent super altare tuum vitulos." "Then shall they offer bullocks upon Thine altar."
"Citizen General Sagan."
"Mr. President."
"I suppose congratulations are in order. The news media are hailing you a hero."
Sagan shrugged, indifferent, though in truth it had been his own publicity agents who had circulated the reports, emphasizing the fact that his forces had been badly outnumbered, enlarging upon his own daring in sailing his dying ship into the enemy cruiser. Negotiations were under way for the movie; someone was writing a book.
The people needed a hero—a fact Sagan was shrewd enough to realize. The revolution had been extremely popular, but it was seventeen years ago. The people of the galaxy had lost their king, were now stuck with a Congress whose myriad members seemed to do little but argue and bicker and run for reelection.
Their President—first viewed as a political reformer, an intellectual who was still "one of us"—had become too much like one of them. The people were bored with him. They were tired of the myth of democracy, frustrated at being told they could make a difference when they knew damn good and well that they couldn't, and they were irritated at being constantly reminded that whatever was currently wrong in the galaxy was their fault.
Sagan was a hero to a galaxy that desperately needed heroes, desperately wanted a strong father figure to pat them on the head, assure them that they needn't worry anymore. They could close their eyes and go to sleep; he was here to protect them. And once they were asleep . . .
"Of course," President Robes said, with a hint of rebuke and a martyred expression, "I am the one who has to go before the Congress and the news media and explain the loss of a star cruiser."
The matter was of little concern to the Warlord. The cost of a star cruiser was so astronomical that the concept sailed right over the head of the average citizen.
"Perhaps, Mr. President," the Warlord said, keeping a close watch on Robes's face, "you should go before the people and explain how it was the Corasians managed to have made such remarkable technological advances over the years, advances that obviously required assistance. You might explain how our spy network was completely—or should I say conveniently— blind to the Corasian military buildup."
Peter Robes was looking particularly dapper in a brown cashmere suit that had a whisper of blue stripe in the fabric, a dark blue silk tie, and a matching handkerchief. His hair was groomed, his makeup perfect. He performed a sad smile, indicative of a fond parent's tolerance for an ingenious, albeit misguided, child.
"I've read the reports of some of your allegations in the more lurid of the newsvids, Derek. I know what they're worth, of course. I won't give them credence by denying them. Yet, I must admit, you hurt me deeply. We have been friends a long time, Derek. A long time."
The Warlord thought back to the days when, as a young revolutionary, he had actually admired the idealistic professor, who had led the rebellion against an aging and ineffective king. Sagan experienced no pang of regret or remorse, however. The Robes who stood before him was a shell of that man, a husk sucked dry. A monkey, dancing to his master's song.
And, as he watched closely, Sagan saw the monkey's eyes slide away from the Warlord, focus on something in a corner of the room not visible to the vid lens. The glance was swift and it darted back to Sagan again. The Warlord would have missed it if he hadn't been watching for it, waiting for it. The glance confirmed what he had suspected. The monkey's master was present.
What was Robes doing—asking Abdiel for help? Or merely seeking approbation? Whichever it was, he apparently got what he needed, for he switched roles, readjusting his features from the sorrowful mien of betrayed friend to the firm, brusque, and strong commander-in-chief.
"Citizen General, you will at once relinquish command to Admiral Aks and prepare to return to the capital. The Congress has requested that you make your report in person. Citizeness Maigrey Morianna and the young man who calls himself Dion Starfire and is purportedly the son of the late criminal against the people will accompany you. The citizeness will stand trial for her royalist activities. The young man will, we hope, embrace our democratic principles and make a statement to the effect that he denounces his parents and all for which they stood. When may we expect you, the young man. and the citizeness?"
When hell freezes over.
"I deeply regret," Sagan said aloud, "that circumstances do not permit me to comply with your request, Mr. President."
Robes's coral-touched lips tightened; his eyes did a fine job of icily glinting. "That wasn't a request, Citizen General. It was a command."
"All the more reason for me to regret that I won't be able to obey."
And though Robes was putting on a wonderful performance of outraged indignation, Sagan was interested to observe that his refusal had come as no surprise.
"What possible excuse—"
"If I may, Mr. President. The situation in this part of the galaxy is far too volatile for me to absent myself from my duties. The Corasians have been beaten and beaten badly, but their attack might have been a feint. And second, it is impossible for me to transport the Lady Maigrey to the capital. Both she and the young man, Dion Starfire, escaped during the battle."
This news did come as a surprise. Sagan saw Robes's eyes shift once more to the corner of the room. He received some sort of answer, for his attention almost immediately returned to Sagan.
"Indeed, Citizen General. This news was not released to the press. I foresee a drop for you in the popularity polls once the word gets out."
"I purposefully withheld it, Mr. President, not to aggrandize myself, but because ..." Sagan hesitated. So much depended on this. Win or lose on a single throw.
"Yes? Because what, Citizen General?"
The Warlord cast the lure. "I know where the Lady Maigrey has fled, Mr. President. We will be able to capture her again only if she is lulled into a false sense of security."
Again the eyes fled to the corner and back again.
"Where has she gone, Citizen General?"
The bait hit the water. "The planet Laskar, Mr. President."
Robes affected astonishment nicely. "Why would she go to that hellhole? She's not drug-addicted, is she, Derek?"
"Hardly, Mr. President. I have no idea why she has gone there." That was a he.
Robes knew it was a fie. "Is the boy with her?"
"I don't believe so. I have no idea where the boy is, Mr. President." Another lie.
Again he wasn't believed, but then he hadn't expected to be believed. Let them chase after Maigrey. Sagan would keep his eye on Dion, keep the boy safe. The Warlord had his spies; he knew where the boy was, who was with him. All he had to do anytime was to reach out his hand, grab the young man's collar, and drag him back. Right now, however, he had far more urgent matters.
"We are extremely disappointed in you, Citizen General," President Robes said with a nicely timed sigh. "I regret to have to do this, but you leave me no choice. A military tribunal will be convened. You will either appear before it voluntarily to answer for your conduct or, if you do not appear, I will be forced to place you under arrest."
The Warlord almost smiled at this fanfaronade—the idea was ludicrous—but he recalled that Abdiel was sitting in the corner . . . watching . . . listening . . . and the cold fear in Sagan's bowels froze his amusement. He bowed silently.
"You are dismissed, Citizen General." Robes's voice and demeanor were mantled with offended dignity. The image faded from the vidscreen, leaving it dark.
The Warlord, standing before it, would have given five years of his life to be able to eavesdrop
on the conversation he was aware must follow. Then, on reflection, he decided he wouldn't. He knew what Abdiel would do now.
Or thought he did.
Chapter Two
Questo e luogo di lacrime!
Giacomo Puccini, Tosca
With consciousness came the crushing realization that he was not dead.
John Dixter opened eyes whose lids were heavy and gritty, as if they'd had sand piled on top of them. He lay in a hospital bed located in a tiny, harshly lit, steel-sided room, chilling to the spirit and the flesh. A dull pain throbbed in his head. He was naked; his clothes were nowhere in sight. His wrists hurt. He tried to move them, discovered his hands were clamped firmly to the sides of the bed. Same with his ankles. Shivering, he hunched down beneath the white, antiseptic blankets, shut his eyes, and swore silently, bitterly.
How long had he been here? He had no idea. Every time he came to, they injected him with something. Drifting in and out of a drug-induced semiconsciousness, he seemed to have spent most of his waking hours trying to catch hold of reality, only to watch it flutter away on bright butterfly wings into a hazy sky.
He recalled vaguely that someone kept asking him questions. The questions must have been extremely funny, or perhaps it was the thought that he would answer them that had been funny. He remembered nothing about them except laughing uproariously, laughing until tears came to his eyes.
The vibrations from a voice, speaking with unnecessary loudness, resounded on one of the damaged nerves in his head, sent a sharp flash of pain through his skull. He grimaced, bit back a groan, and waited, tense and rigid, for the male nurse to come at him with the hypo. He saw the nurse start toward the bed, but this time the doctor intercepted him.
"No. no. Not today. We're expecting company. Inform his lordship that the prisoner, Dixter, has regained his full faculties and is able to speak with him now."
King's Test Page 12
