"That's torn it," said John Dixter heavily.
"Does this mean we don't get fed?" Bear Olefsky thundered.
Following the explosion, Admiral Aks and his officers hastened to do what they could to put out the flames and contain the damage. Dinner was announced, waiters scurried in with food. The officers guided the guests to their tables, tried, as far as possible, to temper anger and distrust with wine and baked chicken.
"Baroness," said the admiral, offering her his arm with nervous gallantry, "if I might have the honor—"
"Thank you, no, " DiLuna replied coolly. "My staff and I will dine in our quarters. Have food sent to us and make certain my shuttle is prepared for takeoff at 0600 hours."
"I'm certain Lord Sagan will be speaking to you before then—"
"I'm certain he'd better," DiLuna returned with a cat-eyed smile. She leaned nearer the disconcerted admiral. "If Sagan has no further use for his king after tonight, tell him to send the young man to me for a year. I like what Dion's made of. He'll breed fine daughters. Oh, and tell Sagan not to damage any of the young man's vital parts."
The baroness gathered her women together and left, leaving the admiral to stare gloomily after them, mop his sweating forehead.
Bear Olefsky, pacified by the smell and sight of food, snagged a passing waiter, took over a tray of plates intended for numerous guests, and settled himself with a contented sigh into one of the specially built chairs designed to accommodate his massive body.
"Ale," he grunted, sweeping the wineglasses to the floor.
The Bear motioned to his sons to seat themselves and they began to consume chicken.
Rykilth, trailed by an apologetic Captain Williams, paused at the table. He held out a three-fingered hand.
"I'll trouble you for my money, Olefsky."
Olefsky grinned, shook his head. His teeth crunched bones. "It is not over yet, my friend. By my balls, it's not over yet!"
General Dixter took advantage of the confusion to draw Tusk and Nola out the door, slipped unnoticed into the corridor.
"What the hell do you thinks going on, sir?" Tusk demanded, looking worried and confused.
"I'm not sure, but my guess is that Dion was told to come to the banquet tonight and announce that we were going to war. Not only didn't His Majesty do what he was supposed to do, he made the Warlord look like a fool in front of powerful allies."
"Did you see Sagan's eyes when he walked out?" Nola shuddered.
"There may be murder done before this night is out," Dixter said grimly. He began moving at a brisk pace down the corridor. "Don't run, Tusk! It'll draw attention. Keep calm. Which way's the elevator to Dion's quarters? Down here? I always get turned around in these damn ships!"
"Yes, sir." Tusk slowed, forced himself to move and act with a semblance of normalcy. But the two men took long strides. Nola, with her short legs, had to almost run to keep up.
"We're gonna be too late, you know that, sir," the mercenary predicted ominously.
"I'm not so certain. Sagan was caught completely off-guard. He didn't expect Dion to defy him, obviously wasn't prepared for it. Raise XJ. Tell the computer to have the Scimitar ready for takeoff. The men we left: behind on Rat are loyal to Dion. They'll support him, back his cause. We could stand off Sagan a long time—"
"XJ!" Tusk was shouting into his commlink on his wrist. "XJ, it's me, Tusk. Make ready for takeoff—"
"Tusk?" came an irascible, mechanical voice. "Tusk who?"
"Tusk who? I'll give you Tusk who! XJ, this is no time for your—"
"I used to know a Tusk," the computer continued. "Lousy pilot. Couldn't fly his way out of his shorts. I took care of the guy, made him the big shot he is today, and what thanks do I get? None. Nothing. Not so much as a—"
"XJ!" Tusk roared, shook the commlink. Men stopped, stared at him curiously.
Dixter took hold of the mercenary's arm, steered him into the elevator. "XJ-27, this is General John Dixter. We have an emergency here. Alert status: red. Do you copy?"
"Yes, sir. General Dixter, sir." XJ was instantly subdued. "Sorry, sir. Didn't know you were present."
"Can you be ready for takeoff in ten minutes?"
"Yes, sir. But it won't do any good, sir."
Dixter and Tusk exchanged glances. Nola sighed, shook her head, slumped back against the side of the elevator.
"What do you mean, XJ?"
"Order just came through, sir. We're grounded. No planes being permitted to take off."
"What's the reason?"
"Dangerous solar winds, sir, caused by an unstable sun in the Ringo system."
Dixter, who was no pilot, cocked an eye at Tusk.
"Bullshit," Tusk answered.
"We're too late," Nola whispered.
"Should I get ready for takeoff anyway, sir?" XJ hinted. "We could blast our way out—"
"No, thank you, XJ. Some other time." Dixter nodded at Tusk, who shut down the transmission.
The elevator came to a stop on Dion's level. The doors slid open. Six armed centurions stood waiting. Tusk reached for his lasgun. Nola cried out, grabbed at his arm.
"No, son," Dixter said calmly, fingers closing over Tusk's gunhand. "That won't help."
"General Dixter, sir," said the centurion respectfully. "Lord Sagan's orders. You and your friends are to come with me."
"Have my spaceplane ready. Alert the patrols," Sagan snapped at Agis, who met him outside the banquet hall. "We'll find His Majesty and—"
"We have already found him, my lord. He's in his quarters."
"He is?" The Warlord regarded his captain in surprise, paused to consider this development. Surely Dion knew the fate that awaited him. And yet, after committing an act of such brazen, blatant, ill-judged defiance, he was sitting in his quarters?
"Perhaps he thinks because he is king"—Sagan's lip curled, his voice shook with fury—"he is beyond my reach He has forgotten who it was made him king. But he will soon remember. Yes, he will remember!"
The Warlord started to issue orders, realized he had no idea where he was. He'd walked his ship, blinded by a blood-dimmed mist before his eyes. Glancing around, he found himself standing in front of the private elevator that led to his quarters, could not recall how he'd come to be there.
He felt an ache in his upper arms and wrists, looked down at his hands, saw the fingers curled tightly, painfully. His shoulders were stiff, neck muscles tense. His injured leg throbbed. The flame of his anger died instantly, blown out by the chill, biting wind of self-command.
"Captain."
"My lord."
"General Dixter, Major Tusca, and that woman—What's her name?"
"Rian, my lord?"
"Yes, Rian. Have them all arrested, take their weapons. Dion may consider himself to be above my wrath, but General Dixter will be operating under no such delusion. I'll be surprised if our gallant trio isn't on their way to attempt to rescue their king right now. Have your men keep watch for them near His Majesty's quarters."
"Yes, my lord." Agis relayed the message.
"Bring them all, including the king, to me. And bring me the bomb. I trust it's still in the same hiding place. We've given His Majesty no cause to think we discovered it; I don't suppose he's moved it."
Sagan turned to enter the elevator. The centurions who posted guard stood to either side, the doors slid open.
"What's this?"
The Warlord's sharp eye caught sight of a scrap of paper, lying on the deck near the doors of his own private elevator, almost beneath the boot of one of his guards. The centurion glanced down in astonishment. Agis swooped to remove the trash littering the ship's sterile, immaculate surroundings.
Sagan's hand forestalled his captain's, snatched up the scrap, glanced at it, and crumpled it in his palm.
"I will not tolerate slovenly habits among the crew. Captain. See to it that this does not happen again."
"Yes, my lord."
The Warlord entered the elevator, paused in the doorway
. "Did anyone try to use the elevator during my absence, centurion?"
"No one, my lord. No one who would be of interest to your lordship, that is." The centurion's glance shifted to his captain, his mouth twitched in a half grin. "The male nurse was here again—"
"Male nurse." The Warlord was mildly curious. "What male nurse?"
"One of Dr. Giesk's staff, my lord. A young man—around twenty-four years of age."
"Indeed? And this young man has been to see me before now? The matter must be important. Did he say what it was?"
"He has, quite frankly, my lord, been making a nuisance of himself," Agis struck in, somewhat astonished that during this emergency his lord was interested in such a trivial matter. "He's been here nine times during the last three days. I asked what he wanted and he replied that it was a private matter. I told him that your lordship was not in the habit of listening to the grievances of every minor member of his crew. I advised the nurse to go through channels, talk to his superior, fill out the requisite forms."
"Quite proper, Captain. Nonetheless, I think I will see this . . . male nurse. I suppose you could find him?"
"I suppose so, my lord." Agis looked dubious.
"Excellent. Bring him to me now."
"Now, my lord?"
"Are you questioning one of my commands, Captain?"
"No, certainly not, my lord. But—your orders concerning His Majesty ..."
Sagan's lips tightened to a grim smile. "Confine him to his quarters. Let him wait. Give him time to think long and hard about what he has done . . . and what he faces."
"Yes, my lord. And General Dixter and the other two—?"
"Lock them up with His Majesty."
"Yes, my lord."
"The nurse is to be sent to me immediately."
"Yes, my lord. Very good, my lord."
Agis left swiftly. He'd been having a struggle with his face, trying hard not to appear bemused by his Warlord's sudden shift in commands, and was glad to take his face out of Sagan's sight.
The Warlord entered the elevator. The doors shut. It rose smoothly and swiftly to the upper levels of the ship, to his chamber. Once alone, he opened his palm, carefully smoothed out the paper, and read again the words inscribed in an ancient language.
"Benedictus, qui venit in nomine Domini.
"Blessed is he that cometh in the name of the Lord."
Chapter Eight
Dies irae
. . . A day of wrath . . .
—Requiem Mass
A soldier, lying in a hospital bed, dying. A spasm of pain contorts the face. A male nurse moves near, a hypodermic in hand. The Warlord closes his hand over the nurse's arm., stops him, instructs the soldier to continue his report on Dion.
"The eyes . . ." the private whispers, his own widening in awe and horror. "I saw his eyes . .
The nurse starts to administer the drug, sees it won't be necessary. The froth on the ashen lips lies undisturbed. The Warlord murmurs something beneath his breath.
" 'Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domnie—' "
" '—et lux perpetua luceat eis.' " The nurse's voice slides beneath his.
The Warlord glances at the nurse in astonishment. The two of them are alone. A screen conceals the dying man from his fellows.
"I am one of the Order, my lord," the nurse replies in a soft, low voice. "Many of us are, who serve you in this capacity."
The golden double door slid aside, framed a slender figure dressed in white, flanked by Agis.
"Enter," ordered the Warlord.
He sat in a high-backed chair, busy about some paperwork at his desk. He had removed his helm and the red cape, but he remained clad in his ceremonial armor. He did not glance up from his work.
The male nurse did as commanded, gliding into the room with the noiseless ease of one accustomed to moving silently, lest he disturb the sick, the injured, the dying. He remained standing near the door, arms crossed, hands clasped on his elbows, head bowed, eyes on the ground.
The Warlord noted the posture, out of the corner of his eye; felt a queer, painful constriction of his heart. He calmed himself, scrutinized the young man closely. He was tall and slender, with strong, well-developed muscles in his upper body and arms.
"Thank you, Captain. Continue with your duties."
"Yes, my lord." Agis saluted, left the room.
The golden doors slid shut behind him.
Sagan ceased reading, clasped his hands on the desk before him. "Look at me," he commanded.
The young man lifted his head. The face was masculine, not delicate, yet refined. Its expression was calm in the dread presence of the Warlord. The eyes that met Sagan's were sensitive, intense, penetrating. Eyes that saw clearly both within and without. His sterile white uniform gleamed in the harsh, bright light. He seemed clothed in light.
"I've met you before, haven't I?" Sagan asked.
"Yes, my lord. I worked originally on Phoenix. When that ship was destroyed, I was assigned to Defiant. I worked in the infirmary on board Defiant and I was present the time when you came to interview the dying—"
Sagan cut him short. "How do you come to be on this ship, Phoenix II, if you were assigned to Defiant?"
"I asked to be transferred, my lord."
"It would seem you are following me."
The nurse flushed, crimson stained his cheeks. "My lord, I know it appears—"
The Warlord waved the young man silent, beckoned him to approach. The nurse, arms folded, as if he were accustomed to hiding them in flowing sleeves, came near. Sagan shoved the scrap of paper toward him, across the desk.
"Did you leave this note for me near my private elevator? Think well before you answer, young man."
The Warlord reached down to his side, removed the blood-sword from its scabbard, and laid it on top of the desk, his hand resting upon the hilt. "You indicated to me on Defiant that you have somehow penetrated a secret of mine. It is dangerous to know my secrets. I have long had you under surveillance. You did your job, remained silent, and so I left you alone. But now you have obtruded yourself into my life. The sender of this note is marked for death. Unless you can convince me otherwise, you will not leave this room alive."
The young man smiled faintly. "I was the one who left you the note, my lord," he said without hesitation. The hands that reached out to touch the paper were firm and did not tremble. "I tried many times to see you, but was refused. I was desperate. I didn't know what else to do. The message that I bear is of such importance, such urgency ..."
"What is your name?" The Warlord's face was grim.
"The name as it reads on my files or my true name, my lord?"
"Whatever name you think it wise to give me."
"You would, of course, know the name on my files. My true name is Brother Fideles, my lord."
The Warlord sat quietly, his expression carefully impassive. Finally, he rose to his feet. He lifted the bloodsword from the desk, inserted the five steel needles that protruded from its hilt into five matching scars on the palm of his hand. The sword flared to life, drawing its energy from Sagan's body. He held the sword in his right hand, pointed with his left.
"You see before you a screen. Step behind it."
The nurse did as he was told, walked calmly behind a screen made of panels of plain black cloth. The Warlord accompanied him, the sword's blade hummed loudly, eagerly.
A low table covered with a black-velvet cloth stood before them.
"Lift the cloth," Sagan commanded.
The young man did as he was bid. On the table, beneath the cloth, were three objects: a small porcelain bowl holding rare and costly oil, a silver dagger with a hilt in the shape of an eight-pointed star, a silver chalice inscribed with eight-pointed stars.
The young man raised his eyes to meet the Warlord's. Sagan nodded, gestured toward the table. The young man lowered his eyes in acquiescence. He knelt down reverently before the table, raised his hands in the air, pronounced the ritual prayer in soft, inaudible to
nes. Sagan watched the lips move, repeated the prayer himself in his heart.
The prayer ended. The young man struck a match, lit the oil. The bittersweet odor of incense, of sanctity, perfumed the cold, sterile air of the Warlord's quarters. The young man rolled up the sleeve of his shirt, laying bare the flesh of his left arm, an arm marked by scars that had not been made by an enemy, but were self-inflicted. Unhesitatingly, the young man lifted the silver dagger and, murmuring another prayer, placed the sharp point against his skin.
The Warlord bent down, put his hand upon the hand holding the dagger. "Stop. There is no need."
The young man bowed his head, replaced the dagger gently upon the velvet cloth, and rose to his feet. Sagan switched off the bloodsword, returned it to its hilt at his side.
The two remained standing behind the black screen, that partially shut off the harsh glare of the lights in the Warlord's quarters, cast a dark shadow over both. The flame of the oil lamp burned a flickering yellow-blue, which was reflected in the clear eyes of the young man.
Sagan scrutinized him, studied him intently.
"Fideles. Faithful. Brother Faithful. A name of honor."
"I strive to be worthy of it, my lord," the young man said softly, eyes cast down.
"You know the prayers, you are familiar with the ritual. You bear the proof of your faith upon your arm. I would understand this, if you were an old man. But you are young. The Order was destroyed during the Revolution, eighteen years ago, while you were but a child. Who are you, Brother Fideles? And what do you want of me?"
"I am a priest in the Order of Adamant, my lord. The Order sent me to be near you, knowing the time would come when my services would be needed. That time has arrived, my lord"—Brother Fideles lifted his eyes—"but first I see I should explain ..."
"That would be wise, Brother," the Warlord said dryly.
"I was a child, as you said, when the Revolution came; a child in the Order, my lord. I joined when I was six years old. I have always known my calling, my lord. When I think back on my childhood, I cannot hear my mother's voice or my father's. I remember hearing only God's.
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