"An ordinary army, perhaps," Maigrey said.
"What other kind is there?"
"I think someone should speak to the king," she persisted.
"We tried to tell His Majesty, Maigrey," growled the deep bass of Danha Tusca. "He wouldn't listen."
"That's not precisely true," Platus interjected, ignoring Danha's glower at being contradicted. "His Majesty listened to us quite courteously, thanked us for our concern quite courteously, then dismissed us."
"Quite courteously, I'll bet," Maigrey muttered.
"He didn't listen!" Danha repeated obstinately. "Starfire's a doddering old fool and I don't care who hears me say it! I'll say it to his face, if he wants!" The large and formidable ebony-skinned Guardian glared at a passing footman in such ire that the wretched fellow stammered an apology for something he hadn't done and disappeared in precipitous haste.
"Come now!" Stavros was easygoing, good-natured, and hated the arguments Danha relished. "Don't be hard on the old king. Look at it realistically. How could His Majesty have called the banquet off? This affair's the most publicized event of the past ten years! If he canceled it, the press'd be climbing all over him, demanding to know why. And if he told them, he'd be giving credence to the grumblings of a bunch of malcontents."
"The Lord is with him. The Lord will protect him. Hunh!" Danha grunted.
"The Lord helps those who help themselves." Maigrey sighed. Her gaze was fixed on the hall. She'd seen it countless times before, glittering with the light of crystal chandeliers. Tonight, she seemed to see it blazing with the light of devouring flames. "Trapped like rats. Weaponless. No bodyguards. ..."
"Weaponless indeed!" Danha said grimly. "Did you give your sword to Sagan?"
"Yes, and I promised to wait for his signal, but he didn't say what was up," Stavros said, shrugging.
Platus looked grave. "Didn't you ask?"
"My dear man, I was fighting with this confounded robe! I had it on once, saw myself in the mirror, realized I was wearing the damn thing backside foremost. Instead of taking it off, I thought I'd save time by just wriggling out of it partway and then turning it around while it was still on me. So there I was, half in and half out of this blasted robe with my head caught in one of the sleeves when Sagan burst into my room and demanded my sword. I wasn't exactly in the mood for a chat."
"I asked him," Danha said, "and he wouldn't tell me. He said there wasn't time. He had an audience with His Majesty."
"He did?" Maigrey was astonished.
"No, he didn't," Platus said, a shadow passing over his thin face. "His Majesty refused to admit him."
"What was that?" Danha glanced around. "Did you hear that? It sounded like an explosion. ..."
Stavros shook his head in exasperation. "Thunder. Must be a storm brewing. Look, Maigrey, if Danha's going to carry on like this all night, I insist on one drink, if for nothing else than to calm my shattered nerves."
"The sky was clear when I came in. That was an explosion and it came from the direction of the base. I don't like this," Danha repeated. "Perhaps one of us should go see—"
"Not a chance." Maigrey caught hold of the sleeve of the big man's blue robes and pulled him back. "Jeoffrey has his eye on us. You'd never make it to the door. Besides—"
"Don't try it, Danha," Stavros advised. "I attempted to escape one of His Majesty's soirees. That piercing scream of Jeoffrey's still echoes in my ears. Sometimes I wake at night and hear it and see him running after me, waving that silk hanky. I swear, it's hours before I can get back to sleep."
Besides," Maigrey continued, irritated at the interruption, "we should wait here for Sagan ... in case he needs us."
"And where is our commander, anyway?"
All three—Stavros, Platus, Danha—looked to Maigrey.
"He'll be here. And then everything will be all right. Whatever is happening, Sagan knows about it, and he has everything under control."
"Sagan knows about it?" Platus repeated, the shadow on his face deepening. "What do you mean, Maigrey?"
She hadn't meant to say anything and shook her head.
"She means she knows where he's been this past month," Danha guessed, with the intuition of those who use the bloodsword. "And now so do I. He was with his friend, the revolutionary!"
"Was he, Maigrey? Was Sagan with Peter Robes?"
"Yes, he was! Don't look at me like that, Platus!" Maigrey demanded, growing angrier as she spoke. "And Danha— where would you be if Sagan hadn't taken out that troillian who had you pinned up against the bulkheads. And you, Stavros, you'd still be perched up on that stupid statue if it wasn't for him! And Platus, that booby trap you nearly walked into . . . All of us. We'd be dead right now, or in a Corasian meat locker if it wasn't for Derek! You owe your lives to him, every one of you! I refuse to stand here and listen to your insinuations—"
"Sister, calm down!" Platus smoothed Maigrey's pale hair with his hand, as he might have smoothed the ruffled fur of a cat. "No one's insinuating anything."
"Humpf!" Danha snorted, rumbling deep in his chest, like an enraged bull.
The doors to the hall slowly closed. The assembled dignitaries were taking their places at the long rows of white-clothed, crystal-, gold-, and silver-ornamented tables. The doors would open again for the guests of honor . . . and for His Majesty the King.
"It's almost time," Stavros said, in a more subdued tone than was customary for him. "There's His Majesty and the royal attendants."
"And there's Jeoffrey, searching for us." Danha, towering head and shoulders above most of the rest of the crowd, was able to see what was transpiring.
"No sign of Sagan?" Platus asked.
"None," Danha answered.
Jeoffrey, the velvet-breeched and beribboned Minister of Protocol, spotted them, frowned severely, and bustled over, waving a perfumed handkerchief at them as if it were a censer and be a priest, absolving them from their sins. He made a swift count of their group, came up one short, counted again, then hissed through the corner of his mouth, smiling congenially all the while for the benefit of any who might be watching.
"Where the devil's Derek Sagan?"
"He'll be here," Maigrey snapped. She was suddenly having trouble breathing. Her lungs burned; the flames she couldn't see were sucking away her breath.
"Damn the man! And the orchestra will be beginning the processional any moment. I'll simply have to make some excuse to His Majesty. Take your places. Just a moment, let me look at you. Good Lord! Lady Morianna! Your skirt is hiked up practically to your shins in back! And where did you get those perfectly dreadful shoes? Keep your feet under the table."
With a deft hand, Jeoffrey twitched Maigrey's robes into place, transferred his scathing glance to the men. "And would it be too much to ask, Danha Tusca, for you to obtain a robe whose hemline does not hit you three inches above the ankle?"
Danha merely growled. He didn't start a full-blown argument—a bad sign to those who knew him. Maigrey was almost sick; dread twisted inside her. Suddenly, unaccountably, she couldn't enter that hall.
"Perhaps I shouldn't join the procession," she said faintly. "Perhaps ... I should wait for Lord Sagan. ..."
It seemed likely, from his expression, that Jeoffrey was about to suffer an apoplectic fit on the spot.
"One of you missing is bad enough," he raved hysterically, his voice gaining an octave with each succeeding exclamation point, "and I shall undoubtedly spend several very unpleasant moments tomorrow attempting to explain it to His Majesty! Two of you missing would end my life! Simply end it!" He dabbed at his mouth with the scented handkerchief. "I shall hurl myself off the balcony this moment!"
"Let him," Danha said beneath his breath.
"That won't be necessary, Jeoffrey," Maigrey said, sighing. "It was merely a suggestion."
She took her place in the forming procession, Jeoffrey hovering near, keeping an eye on her in case she decided to bolt. The group started forward, moving toward the gigantic doors decorated w
ith the royal coat of arms: a blazing star, a lion recumbent (to indicate His Majesty's peaceful rule), and the motto, Tolle me. Take me (as I am).
Everyone moved slowly, Jeoffrey timing the beat with a wave of the handkerchief. One, two. One, two. Maigrey felt like a prisoner in a chain gang, being marched to death row. She'd known less fear boarding an enemy warship. The head of the procession—a young boy carrying the Guardians' flag— approached the doors. Two powder-wigged, velvet-waist-coated footmen bowed and threw the doors open wide.
A blaze of light and heat and laughter gushed out. The opening drum rolls of the Golden Squadron's march stirred Maigrey's blood and propelled her forward. Laughter and talking ceased, replaced by rustles and murmurs, the scraping of chairs, and the general low rumble indicative of several hundred people rising to their feet or—in the case of species who lacked feet—performing whatever mark of respect was deemed proper.
Maigrey entered the room, moving in time to the march that was beating in her, her own heart's pace jumpy and erratic. It seemed to her that she was walking into a burning house. The hall was curtained with flame, the air superheated and filled with poisonous fumes. She struggled to breathe and kept marching, her squadron behind her, past the rows of crystal-bedecked tables, the smiling and whispering and applauding Guardians, many of whom were gaily lifting glasses of champagne in an impromptu toast.
Derek should have been walking in front of her. As commander, he had that right. No one seemed particularly amazed or disappointed at Sagan's absence. He wasn't liked; his dour and stern presence tended to cast a pall over any celebration. Maigrey supposed that Jeoffrey didn't need to resort to the balcony quite yet.
As second in command, she led her small squadron up the center aisle, past the rows and rows of cheering people, to the head table, His Majesty's table. It was fortunate for Maigrey that she'd done this many times before. When she arrived at the head table and turned to face the crowd, awaiting the arrival of the king, she couldn't have told a soul how she had managed to reach that point.
Her brother leaned near her; his thin fingers brushed her hand. "Maigrey, you look terrible! Are you all right?"
She caught hold of her brother's hand and clung to it. The words of the hobbit Frodo, spoken to the faithful Samwise on Mount Doom, came to her suddenly, unbidden, unwelcome.
" 'I am glad you are here with me, here at the end of all things. . . .' "
Chapter Four
. . . thy fierce hand
Hath with the king's blood stain'd the king's own land.
William Shakespeare, Richard II, Act IV, Scene 4
With a trumpet fanfare, His Majesty and the royal party entered last, the king bowing his head benignly to the left and right in acknowledgment of the cheers.
Amodius Starfire, in his late sixties, looked a great deal as he had in his early forties. The red hair that was the family hallmark had whitened at an early age; he touched it up, to keep it from an unfortunate tendency to turn orangish yellow. The lines of his face were gentle, tending to sag downward, giving him a constantly weary expression. The blue eyes had long ago lost their fire, if it had ever burned within him.
It was rumored that His Majesty was in ill health. His complexion had a gray tinge, he was often short of breath. The doctors had proposed giving him an artificial heart but His Majesty, with his firm reliance on God, had refused.
Amodius Starfire had never married, never produced an heir to the throne. The romantic said it was because he'd lost his only love in his youth, a victim of a Corasian attack on her planet. The spiteful said it was because he would have gone in mortal dread of the ambitions of his own children.
Whatever the reason, Augustus Starfire, the king's younger brother—almost forty years younger, born to their father in his old age—was next in line for the throne. It seemed he might not have long to wait.
His Majesty arrived at the head table, walked past the members of the Golden Squadron, saying something kind and congratulatory to each, speaking to each by name. He was expert at such things. Maigrey, conscious of the empty chair to her left, knew he was talking to her, but he might as well have been speaking an alien tongue and she with her translator turned off. She didn't understand a word, made some noncommittal answer.
The king moved on, the courtiers trailing behind, laughing and chattering like monkeys. Maigrey's bowels clenched; she was nauseous and dizzy. Swaying on her feet, she gripped the edge of the table and feared for a moment she would have to leave the hall.
Fortunately, the king sat down, which meant everyone else could sit down. Platus hastily moved a chair beneath his sister, or she would have fallen.
"Drink this." He was shoving a glass in her hand. Wine, water ... it was all the same to her. Maigrey drank it down, never knowing, felt somewhat better. The nausea passed, left her shaking all over.
The royal chaplain rose to his feet, called upon all to bow their heads in worship of the Creator. The assembled multitude did as he asked, most of them discreetly shifting into the most comfortable positions possible, knowing they were in for a long ordeal. The pious king would not have dreamed of eating a meal which had not been prayed over for at least fifteen minutes.
In the quiet that cushioned the chaplain's sonorous voice, Maigrey thought she heard again, very faintly, the sound of an explosion. Thunder. A storm brewing. Shivering, she watched the water condense on the crystal goblet of chilled fruit cocktail, then trickle down the side of the glass, forming a pool on the fine china plate beneath.
The chaplain's voice paused, a disapproving pause. Maigrey raised her head, her heartbeat quickening, looked toward the door along with everyone else in the room except for those among the Guardians who had dozed off during the prayer. The double doors, which had been shut and closed following the entrance of His Majesty, were now—against all custom— opening.
Derek Sagan, clad in battle armor, stood framed by the golden doors. He entered the hall, not to music, but to an accompaniment of murmured wonder and muttered forebodings.
Derek ignored them all. Looking far more like a king than the king himself. Sagan strode down the aisle toward the head table. Maigrey, without knowing that she did so, rose to her feet to be ready. Her squadron followed her example. Sagan's glance flicked over them. He seemed pleased. But his gaze did not linger on them long. His eyes were on the king.
Sagan came to stand before His Majesty. The Guardian stood tall, straight, unbending.
"You do not kneel before us, Lord Sagan," King Starfire said, voice stern. The Starfires had a temper, though it was slow to burn.
"I have no time for meaningless posturing, Your Majesty," Derek Sagan answered, taking command, bringing silence to the hall. Again, the sound of an explosion, louder, nearer. There could be no doubt. "The people of the galaxy are in revolt. At this moment, as we speak, the military base on Minas Tares is under siege by revolutionary forces. There is no doubt but that it will fall, Your Majesty."
The hall was a babble of voices, shocked, incredulous, disbelieving. Sagan's gaze shifted; his eyes met Maigrey's. Your weapons are beneath the tablecloth. It was all the signal she needed.
"Down here!" she said to the others. Her bloodsword lay on the floor at her feet. The others found theirs; Platus, Maigrey noticed with sudden irritation, was staring at his as if wondering what in God's name it was.
Action was a stronger wine than any she could drink. Her trembling stopped, the mists parted, everything was clear-cut and sharp-edged. Sagan gestured with his hand, ordering them to take up positions around the king.
Maigrey obeyed, conscious of Danha behind her and Stavros behind him. Glancing back, she saw Platus had not moved, but remained standing, the bloodsword held in limp hands.
We'll be better off without the coward! Maigrey thought angrily. She reached the king's side, shoving courtiers out of her way, Danha deftly handling any who seemed disinclined to move.
Placing her hand on the king's shoulder, Maigrey leaned down to whisp
er, "Don't worry, Your Majesty. We'll escort you to safety, then crush this rebellion!"
"Thank you, my dear," Amodius Starfire said, his voice soft and filled with sorrow. He shook his head. She could feel the long, wispy white hair brush across the back of her hand.
Maigrey looked to Sagan for further commands. She saw him standing rigid, unmoving, his dark eyes fixed upon the king.
"Your Majesty'," he said slowly, "the people have made their will known. They are determined to give up their lives for a cause they believe in, a cause that is just. In the name of the people, as their representative, I call upon you—Amodius Starfire—to abdicate your throne."
"No . . ." Maigrey's hand clutched at the king's shoulder, penetrating the thick fabric of his ceremonial robes, feeling the frail bone and flaccid skin beneath.
His gaze turned to her, and in his eyes the sorrow seemed to be more for her than for himself.
"I'll kill that traitorous bastard!" Danha swelled with fury, seemed to grow six times his height and girth. Foam flecked his lips, the black skin glistened, he was wild-eyed, temporarily insane. Muscles tense, he prepared to leap over the table, throttle Sagan with his bare hands.
Something inside Maigrey had died, some vital part of her. It left her empty, hollow, cold, and calculating as any machine. Like a machine, she functioned. She could still hear her commander's voice.
... be brave, my lady. The lives of those you love and have sworn to protect will depend upon it.
Her commander was dead to her, but she would obey his final order.
"Danha, calm down." Removing her hand from the king's she caught hold of Danha's arm. "Pretend to go along with him."
It was her tone, more than her touch, that restrained Danha. Strong as he was, the woman couldn't have stopped him if she had flung her arms around him. But her voice, chill as death, hard as steel, pierced his madness, halted him.
The sounds of battle came through the open doorway, the whining buzz of laser weapons, the cries of the dying, shouted commands, and the confused pounding of feet. The captain of the guard burst in through a side door.
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