"Your ladyship, please," XJ began awkwardly, distressed by her obvious despair. "I'm certain things aren't as bad as they seem—"
"Oh, no. Not yet. But just wait, " Maigrey predicted. She let her head slump into her folded arms. God, she was tired! She longed to go to bed, go to sleep, never wake. . . .
She wrenched her head up. What was the matter with her? That awful experience on the highway. The sight of those creatures had rattled her more than it should have, drained her of energy, of the will to go on fighting. She had the bomb, after all. She would keep it, find a way to get the starjewel back. A Star of the Guardian taken by force has a way of returning to its owner. But one given away freely? . . .
Dragging her hair out of her face, she forced herself to concentrate. Time was running out. Sagan's shuttle had landed at Fort Laskar. He had not sent his men immediately to seize her. Fortunately, she guessed, protocol must be maintained at all costs. He would be expected to pay a courtesy call on the brigadier general.
Besides, there's no hurry, Maigrey told herself bitterly. Sagan knows I'm not going anywhere!
"Have you completed the rest of your analysis?" she asked the computer.
"Yes, your ladyship. A remarkable piece of work. I congratulate the maker."
"I'm sure he'd be pleased," Maigrey said dryly.
"It is, as you surmised, your ladyship, a space-rotation bomb, also known as a color bomb—"
"I know what it is! Is it functional?"
"Eminently, your ladyship." XJ sounded ominous.
"Can it be destroyed by any means?"
"Armed? Not without the possibility of setting it off."
"I understand. Run through the following simulation: With the starjewel in place, could you detonate the bomb if you were given the correct code sequence?"
"Working."
The computer returned, no longer glib but quiet, subdued.
"Yes, ma'am."
"And if the bomb is not armed, could any outside force detonate it?"
"No, ma'am."
"I must be absolutely certain. If, say, this spaceplane were to explode right now, what would happen to the bomb?"
"Nothing, except it'd have a lot of melted, twisted metal wrapped around it. Not to mention pieces of us," XJ added, but it had turned down its audio.
"Good. I— Hush!"
Was that the sound of booted footsteps outside, on the concrete? Maigrey resisted firmly the temptation to open the panel covering the viewscreen. "Now, computer, I am locking in the next commands." She suited her actions to her words, performing the complicated sequence that removed all element of choice from the computer's mind. "You will obey without question."
"Yes, your ladyship." It seemed to Maigrey as if the computer's audio had developed a slight tremor.
"If anyone other than myself makes any attempt to take the bomb from this plane, you will self-destruct, blow up this plane and anyone inside."
"Yes, ma'am."
"You will give the bomb only to myself, with proper voice pattern identification and also—" Maigrey hesitated only slightly, "and also visual sighting of the starjewel, the jewel known as the Star of the Guardians. You have the jewel's picture and chemical structure and analysis on file. I recorded it this morning. It has to be my jewel, no other."
Sagan had his, of course, but each starjewel, carved from a separate gemstone, was the tiniest bit different. The differences were almost imperceptible, nothing that would affect the jewel's physical properties, more ethereal, nebulous, difficult to define. Legend had it that the starjewel absorbed a part of the soul of its owner, which accounted for the romantic myth (never proven to anyone's satisfaction) that the jewel's inner light faded, the gemstone went dark, when the owner died.
"Yes, my lady." XJ paused, then added, "Two men are standing outside the plane, my lady."
"Are they attempting to board it?"
"No, my lady. They're just standing there, waiting."
"Identification?"
"Honor Guard, my lady. Lord Sagan's crest."
"Thank you, XJ." It was all to be very dignified: no armed guards, beating on the hatch with their rifle butts, no threats to blow up the plane. Two men, waiting.
Maigrey rose to her feet. She would return the favor. She could afford to be magnanimous. She was, after all, the victor.
Maigrey climbed down the ladder from the spaceplane, came face to face with the centurions, who stood rigidly at attention. Numerous onlookers had gathered around the plane to gape and stare and exchange the latest gossip. The space-base, honored by the presence of a Warlord, was lit brightly as day. The harsh white light reflected off the ceremonial helms of the Honor Guard, glinted on ornate breastplates, which were decorated with a phoenix rising from flame.
Complete Roman panoply—ancient, archaic, impractical in a world whose people could move through space faster than the speed of light, yet somehow stolid and reassuring. Caesar's troops had worn it when they marched to what they had supposed was the end of their tiny world. Sagan's troops wore it marching into what was now a tiny universe. Mankind had survived all these thousands of centuries, survived its own follies, its own stupidities, its own greed and prejudices.
Survived because among the evil had been the noble, the honorable.
Or perhaps the noble and honorable had survived in spite of themselves.
Maigrey squinted in the harsh light, looked carefully at one of the rigid faces. "Marcus, isn't it?"
The face, relaxed its stern mien ever so slightly, pleased at being recognized, remembered. "Yes, my lady."
"How are you, Marcus?"
"Well, thank you, my lady." Marcus flushed. His eyes avoided hers. "The Warlord's compliments, my lady, and he respectfully requests your presence in Brigadier General Haupt's office."
"In other words, come to him immediately or I'll be shot?" Maigrey murmured.
Marcus's flush deepened. "Yes, my lady," he said quietly, flicking a glance at her. His expression changed to one of concern. "You're injured, my lady?"
Maigrey put her hand to the jagged cut on her neck. In her haste, her excitement, she'd forgotten about it. The blood had clotted, sealed the wound shut, but it must look awful.
I must look awful, she realized, glancing down at the body armor stained with dirt and spattered with blood—some of it her own. She hadn't brushed her hair or washed her face. But she had hung the bloodsword around her waist. The starjewel should be around her neck. . . .
Maigrey clenched her hand over the empty place on her breast, drew herself up straight, shook the pale hair back over her shoulders.
"We must not keep my lord waiting." She walked forward swiftly.
The centurions, caught by surprise by her sudden move, almost had to run to catch up, to the vast amusement of the watchers.
HQ was quiet, a contrast to the crowds gathered outside, hoping to catch a glimpse of the legendary Derek Sagan. MPs were allowing only those on official business to pass, and they gave Maigrey a close and scrutinizing examination as if wondering what possible official business this bloody and bedraggled female could have with his lordship. Her Honor Guard was guarantee of passage, however. No one halted them.
Inside the headquarters building, the MPs had been replaced by Sagan's own personal guard. No one was allowed to enter these halls, official business or otherwise. Marcus was halted, made to give a password, though Maigrey knew that these men must know each other as well as or better than brothers, having lived together for years. Sagan was taking unusual precautions, and surely not on her account! What was wrong?
Danger's knife edge pricked Maigrey's skin, sent a tingle through her body.
The centurions passed them on through Haupt's outer office—even his aide had been replaced by the stern, grim-faced, uncommunicative centurions. Another, different password met them at each doorway. Marcus knew each one, never hesitated or fumbled. Each guard, with a respectful salute—fist to heart—allowed them to pass.
Outside t
he door to the brigadier's office stood the captain of the Honor Guard. He took personal charge of Maigrey, begging her pardon respectfully for the inconvenience and asking her to wait a moment while he announced her. Opening the door, he stepped inside.
"The Lady Maigrey Morianna."
"Show her ladyship in." Sagan's voice, cool, calm, masterfull.
Maigrey'd been hearing it in her head for hours now. Why should the blood burn in her veins to hear it aloud?
The captain returned, held the door open for her, bowed as she passed. Conscious of an unnatural flush in her pale cheeks, of the dried blood on her neck and on her armor, of her unbrushed, uncombed hair, Maigrey strode past the captain without a glance and entered the office of Brigadier General Haupt.
The brigadier, resplendent in his dress uniform, jerked to his feet as if someone had yanked him up by a string attached to his back. Maigrey barely spared the man a glance. Sagan, too, rose to greet her, graceful for his height, the red cape, trimmed in gold, falling in elegant lines around him.
He wore his parade armor, Roman in fashion, like that of his men. The helm held in the crook of the left arm, cape floating behind him, he took several steps forward, reached out his right hand and clasping Maigrey's right hand, carried it to his lips.
Palm to palm. The five scars made by the bloodsword in her hand pressed against the five scars made by the bloodsword on his hand. A secret signal, devised between them long ago, which warned of immediate, desperate, imminent peril.
Shocked, wondering, suspicious, Maigrey flinched at the touch of the lips, the hand that felt unnaturally hot to her chilled flesh.
"My lady, forgive me for revealing your true identity without your permission, but I felt that we no longer need to use the alias of Major Penthesilea."
"As you will, my lord," she replied aloud, then, silently, the thoughts flashing between them swiftly as the glancing of their eyes. What is this? What's going on? Some kind of trick? If so, it won't work! She watched intently for a gleam of triumph, a smile of derision.
She saw, instead, fear.
No trick, my lady.
He released her hand, made her a grave bow, half-turned, and moved back to stand before Haupt's desk. The Warlord lifted an object from the desk, displayed it to Maigrey. "Remarkable piece, isn't this, my lady? When did you get it, Haupt? It's quite new, I believe."
The brigadier appeared highly startled. "Why, y-yes, Citizen General," he stammered. "It was presented me as a gift from the—the President himself. M-marking my retirement."
"I didn't know you were retiring, Brigadier," Sagan said pleasantly.
"I . . . d-didn't either," Haupt stammered. Drops of sweat on his bald head shone at every pore. He started to sit down, caught himself, and, flushing, jerked back to his feet.
"Do you have any idea what this is, Haupt?" Sagan inquired, holding the object on his palm.
"A paperweight?" said the wretched brigadier.
"Made of bloodstone." Sagan held the object directly beneath the overhead fluorescent light. "Bloodstone carved in a perfect ball, mounted on an obsidian base. Bloodstone, my lady."
Maigrey couldn't say a word. Her throat had constricted painfully, it ached and burned, her tongue was swollen, her mouth dry. Sagan shot her a sharp warning glance and she knew she had to say something. If what he was intimating was true, they were being watched, every word they spoke was being overheard. But it took an effort to make her numb lips form words.
"How . . . how interesting, my lord," she said faintly. This is a trick! she told him silently, accusing. He can't possibly be alive! He died following the revolution. You had him assassinated! His death was in your records!
Your death was also in my records. Sagan turned to face her, the bloodstone in his hand between them, demanded without words, Look at me, my lady, and tell me that this is a trick.
Maigrey had no need to look at him. She'd already seen. Much, too much, was explained. Memory was forcing aside the dark curtain, a hand rising from the grave, trying to drag her back to that terrible time.
"My lady is not well." A strong arm was around her, holding her, supporting her. The floor had unaccountably wandered out from beneath her feet. "Captain, a glass of water!" Sagan eased her into a chair.
"Brandy," Maigrey corrected. "Neat. No ice."
The Warlord eyed her intently, managed a grudging smile. "Brandy, then," he said.
The captain entered with a glass—a small one, Maigrey noted—of green liquid, placed it on a table at her right hand, and left the room, shutting the door behind him.
Sagan bent over, picked up the bloodstone paperweight that he'd dropped to catch Maigrey, returned it gravely to the brigadier's desk. Haupt, who knew something was going on but had no idea what, seemed much inclined to fall into his chair but was forced to remain standing as long as his commander stood. Sagan, however, put him out of his misery.
"Please be seated, Brigadier."
Haupt sank thankfully down into his chair, rested his hands limply on his desk, and stared at the paperweight.
Maigrey drank the green brandy slowly, in small sips, the welcome warmth of the fiery liquid restoring life to her body None of them spoke, not even the two who could do so mentally. Maigrey knew their listener could hear words, but she was trying to remember—it had been almost seventeen years ago—if he could eavesdrop on their thoughts.
"Are you feeling better, my lady?" Sagan asked with grave politeness.
"Yes, my lord, thank you. I apologize for my weakness. This wound is minor, but ... it pains me sometimes." Her hand trembled; she set the glass down quickly.
"Your meeting with Snaga Ohme went successfully?"
She glanced at him swiftly, replied coolly, "I am generally successful in anything I undertake, my lord."
"I trust the blood on your armor is not the blood of my dear friend the Adonian?"
"No." Maigrey started to add something else, found she couldn't, and took another sip of brandy. "I was attacked on my way back to base. Drug addicts, most likely. Out for anything they could get—"
Haupt went deathly white. "M-my lady! I didn't know! I offered her an escort, my lord!"
"You are in no way to blame, Brigadier," Maigrey said, smiling wanly. "I knew the risks when I went. No harm was done. I returned safely."
"With that which you were sent to acquire?" Sagan asked.
"If you want to put it that way, my lord."
The Warlord's gaze went to her breast, to the empty place upon it. Maigrey put her hand to her throat, an almost physical pain choking her. She shifted her gaze from him, fixed it, unseeing, on the bloodstone paperweight.
Sagan drew in a deep breath through his nose, turned suddenly, his cape rustling, booted feet scraping the floor. "Despite my lady's protestations, Brigadier, I do not believe she is well."
"I can send for the medic—"
"Thank you, sir, but that will not be necessary. My lady needs rest, somewhere quiet. I will take her back to my shuttle. Lady Maigrey?" Sagan extended his arm.
There's no business like show business.
Maigrey rose, placed her fingers lightly on the Warlord's arm. Haupt was on his feet again, looking as if he barely had strength enough to get there. Courtly bows, formal good nights, and Maigrey and Sagan were at the door.
The Warlord glanced behind him. "Brigadier, you have served the Lady Maigrey well. I hate to lose a good officer. I may be able to do something for you about that retirement. ..."
Maigrey looked back at the man. Haupt's bald head gleamed, sweat trickled down his neck into the tight, braid-trimmed collar. He was being asked to choose sides and he knew it. He found his backbone, straightened.
"Yes, my lord. Thank you, my lord."
My lord. Not Citizen General. Sagan smiled, glanced significantly at the bloodstone that sat upon the desk. "I'd get rid of that, then, if I were you, sir," he said, and escorted Maigrey out the door.
Chapter Twelve
Have you not somet
imes seen a handkerchief? . . .
William Shakespeare, Othello, Act III, Scene 3
The route leading to the Warlord's shuttlecraft wound down hallways and through a tunnel underground, beneath the fort's landing and launching pads, runways, and 'copter ports. Maigrey and Sagan walked the carpeted corridors alone, the Honor Guard having cleared the area of all indigenous military personnel and others not so indigenous—such as the press, who had descended upon Fort Laskar like the locusts which so plagued Snaga Ohme.
Every twenty or so paces, the two passed one of the centurions, standing at rigid, mute attention. The captain and four of his men followed at a discreet distance. The hallways were empty, quiet. Lord and lady walked in a silence that seemed to amplify small sounds—a clink of armor, a muffled boot step, the rustle of the Warlord's cape, a sigh.
Maigrey removed her hand from Sagan's arm. "I suppose we may ring down the curtain on your little show now, my lord?"
"'All the world's a stage,' lady; however, I gather you are referring to something more specific."
"Your charade was, I admit, quite clever and well staged. The bloodstone was a marvelous prop. Haupt played his role admirably. The two of you should take it on the road!" Maigrey bit the words, her anger threatening to overwhelm her. He had fooled her completely. For several moments back there, she had been badly frightened. She quickened her steps, moving to walk slightly ahead of him.
Sagan said nothing, continued down the corridor at his measured, steady pace. His thoughts were closed off to Maigrey, sealed up, shut down. Her own mind was in such chaos, her own thoughts scattered, confused, running hither and yon, uncontrollable, like frightened mice: the strange, dead eyes of her attackers, the bloodstone, Sagan's fear. Maigrey knew, deep inside, that if she grabbed hold of all these and lined them up and considered them calmly, she would know the truth. But it would mean drawing aside the dark curtain.
"Where is the boy, Lady Maigrey?" Sagan asked.
"I haven't any idea. Why? Have you lost him again?" Maigrey walked on, not looking back, her head held stiffly.
"I thought perhaps you might know. You are, after all, his Guardian."
King's Test Page 22
