There had been a time when that ghost would have intimidated Tusk, made him angry, guilty. But now Tusk could look on the ghost with only a melancholy sadness and he could, at last, bid it farewell and wish it rest.
"They've had six months to work on the place," said Nola, trying not to seem awed. "You'd think they'd be further along by now."
Six months since the fleet had returned in triumph from the Corasian galaxy, escaping unscathed after a now-epic battle. Six months since President Peter Robes had been discovered in his private office, dead, having melted his skull with the self-inflicted blast of a lasgun, his suicide recorded—horribly—for posterity on the security cams.
The vid pictured him rambling, almost incoherent, screaming that "his mind was dead, the voice gone." And then he'd shot himself. The news media interviewed every -ologist, -analyst, -iatrist, and talk-show hostess in the galaxy and, while all had opinions, no one could say precisely what Robes had meant by this bizarre statement. All concluded that the President had received advanced warning from his extensive and secret spy network that Dion Starfire had discovered extremely damaging information linking Robes with the Corasians. The knowledge of his impending disgrace and certain impeachment led to the unbalanced mental state that led to his suicide.
The constitution made provision for the takeover of the government, but it took some time to discover who the vice president actually was and then, when they found his name, no one could recall having seen him in several years. Meanwhile, allegations surfaced concerning the corrupt activities of the Cabinet members. Several prominent Congressmen were revealed to have been in Robes's pay. The government collapsed, the galaxy was in chaos. The last act of the Galactic Democratic Republic was to make a humble appeal to Dion Starfire, rightful heir, to accept the crown and restore order.
Dion Starfire accepted. This day marked his coronation and his wedding.
"Do I look all right?" Nola asked, trying to catch a quick glimpse of her reflection in a shining steelglass wall.
"Hell, yes. Would you quit worrying? It's the kid, remember?"
"No, it isn't," said Nola gravely. Reaching out, she took hold of Tusk's hand. "Not anymore."
Tusk, who knew what she meant, said nothing, looked uncomfortable.
"His Majesty will see you now."
Another set of double doors, guarded by yet another pair of centurions, opened. Tusk and Nola, hand in hand, entered.
This room, the private office of the king, was—in contrast to the stark, bleak antechamber—warm and inviting with just enough elegance to remind the visitor that he was in the presence of royalty.
Tusk had a fleeting, confused impression of dark, polished wood, shelves of books, sumptuous leather furniture, greens and browns, rich carpet, soft lighting.
Behind a massive desk, ornately carved, sat a man. He was engaged in perusing numerous documents that had, by their stiff and unrelenting whiteness, an official look about them.
Tusk and Nola entered the room, stood feeling rather lost. The secretary who had ushered them inside urged them forward with a graceful and silent gesture. Venturing around the desk, the secretary bent down, said something to the man in a low voice. The man nodded.
"Leave us," he said.
The secretary, bowing, removed himself, exiting by a side door.
The man raised his head, saw Tusk and Nola, and smiled.
Tusk had known him at first by the red-golden hair that fell in thick and luxuriant waves over the shoulders of the formal dress, military-cut uniform. He knew him now by the intense blue eyes that were always somehow startling when Tusk looked into them after a long absence. Memory faded the color, he supposed. Perhaps it was simply difficult to believe that eyes could be that clear, that vibrant, that . . . blue.
But if it hadn't been for the eyes and hair, Tusk had the feeling he wouldn't have known him. This wasn't, as Nola had said, "the kid."
Dion rose to his feet, came around the desk, his hand outstretched in greeting. His face was thinner than Tusk remembered, graver, more serious, solemn. He seemed older and, Tusk thought confusedly, taller. When he spoke, his voice sounded deeper, different.
"Nola, Tusk," Dion said, taking each of them by the hand. "I'm so glad you could come. I hope you've changed your mind and will stay for the ceremony tonight?"
"No, uh, thanks, ki—" The word stuck in Tusk's throat. Feeling his face burn, he amended it. "Your Majesty. We've got to be clearing out of here. You see it's . . . well ..."
"Tusk's mother's birthday is tomorrow," Nola broke in nervously, "and Tusk's missed so many of her birthdays that we thought it would be nice if he could be there. ..."
Both of them stammered, tongue-tied, realizing their excuse was lame, not knowing how to make it sound better.
Tusk was suddenly conscious of his hand—sweaty, clammy, still clasped in Dion's hand that was warm and dry and strong. The mercenary broke the grip, started to thrust his hand in his pocket, decided that this wouldn't be polite, dropped his hand to his side.
"I understand," said Dion, and something in his voice told Tusk that he truly did understand.
"Probably more than I do," Tusk muttered to himself.
He was finding it difficult to look directly into those bright blue eyes, as if he were staring into the sun. He shifted his gaze around the room.
"Nice place you've got here, Your Majesty." The formality was coming easier.
"Yes," said Dion with a smile. "I seem to spend too much time in it, however. I miss flying. I don't suppose I'll be doing much of that now. I'm keeping my Scimitar pin, though," he added, fingering the small silver pin that looked shabby and out of place on the elegant, gold-trimmed collar.
Tusk remembered when and how Dion had come by that pin, was forced to blink his eyes rapidly to keep the room from dissolving in a blur.
Nola gave Tusk a prod in the ribs, jerked her head toward Dion. "What we came for?" she prompted.
"Uh, yeah." Tusk cleared his throat. "Uh, I never got around to thanking you for . . . uh . . . saving my—"
The side door opened a crack, the secretary glided in, ostensibly to lay another document on His Majesty's desk. But a glance from beneath lowered eyelids was obviously a reminder that His Majesty had other people to see this day.
Dion received the reminder with a cool look, turned back to Tusk, stopped him before he could go on.
"I'm the one who owes you, Tusk. You don't owe me anything."
They stood looking at each other, the silence awkward. The secretary gave a polite cough.
"Look, uh, we got to be going," said Tusk.
Dion accompanied them to the door. He seemed to want, at the last moment, to detain them. To hang on. "What are your plans, now? I'll never forgive you for turning down that commission in the Royal Navy."
"Yeah, thanks, but well, Nola and me, we figure it's time to settle down. Maybe raise a few kids. We're going to Vangelis. Nola has her old job back, drivin' a TRUC for Marek. He won that war of his, you know. And me. Well, XJ and I are takin' over a taxi route, shuttlin' passengers between planets, that sort of thing. Link's comin' in as a partner,"
"Link?" Dion was startled, dubious.
"Yeah. He's a blowhard and an A-number-one jerk, but he's not a bad sort, underneath. I know how far I can trust him and how far I can't and I'd rather have someone like that than someone I don't know at all. And he and XJ get along."
"How is XJ?"
They'd reached the door to the office.
"He's speaking to me again," Tusk said, shaking his head. "Which is more than he'd been doing. He's convinced I faked that whole bit, getting wounded and everything, just to weasel out of paying him off. You wouldn't believe the hell he's put me through since then," he added gloomily.
Dion laughed.
The secretary slid around them, between them, opened the door. The Honor Guard snapped to attention. The chamberlain loomed, waiting to whisk them away.
Tusk fumbled in the pocket of his flak j
acket.
"I know you got a whole army to protect you now, so I don't suppose you'll be needin' me. But if you ever do . .
He brought out a small object, almost invisible to sight, handed it to Dion, placing it on the palm of the right hand, the palm scarred with the five marks of the bloodsword.
"Just send this. I'll know what it means."
Dion had no need to look to see what it was. He recognized, by feel, the small earring shaped in the form of an eight-pointed star that Tusk had worn as long as he'd known him.
"Thank you," said Dion, closing his hand over it.
Tusk looked up into the blue eyes and the sun's fire warmed him. He smiled. No more needed to be said.
Nola, at his side, was weeping softly.
"Good-bye, Tusk," said Dion. "The best of everything to you both."
The double doors shut.
"Good-bye, kid," Tusk answered softly.
"His Majesty will see you now, Sir John."
"That's you, milord," said Bennett in an undertone, trying futilely to twitch several of the more obvious wrinkles out of Dixter's uniform.
"Who? Oh, um, yes." John Dixter brushed away his aide's solicitous hands. "And I've told you not to call me that," he added in an aside, walking toward the double doors.
Bennett kept up with him until the last possible moment, making swift grabs at invisible bits of lint.
"It's your proper tide now, milord." The aide caught hold of a dangling silk braid and looped it back up over one shoulder.
"It's not official yet."
"It will be by tomorrow, milord," Bennett said stiffly, "and we should get into the habit."
"First Lord of the Admiralty," the secretary announced. "Sir John Dixter."
The Honor Guard came to attention, saluted smartly. Dixter returned their salute, entered the king's presence. The doors shut behind him.
Bennett looked after him with fond exasperation, began pacing the antechamber in regulation step, whistling a military march.
"That tide's not official yet," Dixter protested.
"It might as well be," Dion answered, rising from his desk. "You're only two sword taps on the shoulders away from it."
"Not the bloodsword, I hope," Dixter said, grimacing at the thought of the forthcoming formalities.
"No. A sword that was my father's. Someone discovered it in a museum somewhere."
"Was that Tusk I passed in the corridor?" Dixter asked after a moment. "Dressed in battle fatigues?"
"Yes. That was Tusk."
"He didn't see me and he looked as if he were in a hurry so I didn't stop him. He's not staying for the ceremony."
"No," Dion answered briefly.
"I'm sorry," said Dixter.
"Don't be." Dion looked up, smiled. "Everything's all right. He and Nola will have twelve lads with curly hair and freckles. Link'll lose half of what they make in ante-up and XJ'll stash away the other half and between them Tusk will never see a penny. But he'll be happy. He'll be completely happy."
"Yes, he will," Dixter agreed. He looked at Dion, wished he could add something, but the only words that came to mind were "I'm sorry" again and that wouldn't do at all.
"Has my fiancee arrived?" Dion asked coolly, as if one thought had led to another.
"Yes, Your Majesty," Dixter replied gravely. "Her shuttle landed just a few moments ago. The Palace Guard is escorting the young woman . . . and her mother . . . to the palace."
Dixter hadn't meant to insert the pause, but he didn't like the Baroness DiLuna and knew that the feeling was mutual. He did his best to keep his animosity concealed from the king, however, who had enough problems.
"Thank you," said Dion. "I'm glad they arrived safely."
Dixter couldn't wholeheartedly concur with this statement, thought he would probably say something he shouldn't, decided to leave.
"If there's nothing else I can do for Your Majesty, it's getting late and Bennett has to shoehorn me into that confounded getup I'm supposed to wear tonight—"
"You need to be going. I understand. Thank you for handling my fiancee's passage for me. And thank you for accepting the appointment as First Lord of the Admiralty. I realize you didn't particularly want the job and that you took it as a favor to me. But you're the only one I can trust. Our navy is the galaxy's lifeblood."
"I am glad to be able to serve you, Your Majesty," Dixter said quietly. "Thank you for giving me the chance."
"I understand you want to make Williams your flagship commander. I must say I'm a bit surprised. I didn't know you two got along that well."
"He's a good officer, Your Majesty. I should know. He damn near got me killed. He's young, ambitious, and what with Aks retiring, he was looking for an opportunity to move on. And I can use his advice. We've discussed our differences frankly and we respect each other. In time, I may even get to like the man."
"Very well. I'll make the appointment."
The secretary opened the door. The Honor Guard came to attention. Bennett, seeing the king, bowed from the waist with such stiffness and precision it seemed likely he might snap cleanly in two.
"Bennett," said Dion, attempting to maintain a straight face, "it's good to see you again."
"Yes, Your Majesty. Thank you, Your Majesty." Bennett stood ramrod-straight, his chin disappeared into his collar. "May I offer my congratulations on the occasion of your wedding, Your Majesty."
"Thank you, Bennett," Dion replied.
"Thank you, Your Majesty," Bennett said, clicking his heels together smartly.
"We're leaving now, Bennett." Dixter noticed that Dion had another visitor waiting.
"Very good, milord," said Bennett.
"Don't call me that—" John Dixter began, sighed.
He supposed he might as well start getting used to it.
"Your Majesty, Bear Olefsky."
"My friend," Dion said, smiling warmly at the big man.
Pressing the huge hand that completely engulfed his, he attempted valiantly to ignore the fact that the Bear, on entering the room, overturned three chairs and upset an end table.
Bear eyed him anxiously. "Laddie. What's the matter? Don't they feed you in this palace?"
"Not like they do at your house, Bear."
Dion tried to speak lightly, but the memories that came back were too intense, too sweetly painful. His voice sank near the end of the polite phrase. He turned slightly to avert his face from the light.
Any polished courtier would have immediately noted his king's discomfiture and obligingly removed himself, or at the least affected to become suddenly and intensely interested in the books on the shelf. Olefsky, bluff, crude, rugged as the mountains he loved, bent down, hands on his knees, and peered directly into the shadowed face.
"Eh, laddie? What's this? If you miss the shield-wife's cooking so much it brings tears to your eyes I can arrange to ship you some of our leftovers. Though after my sons have finished. I think you might well starve."
Dion smiled, but made no answer.
"Aye, and speaking of my sons," the Bear continued jovially, "I've brought them with me. And Sonja, as well. I wanted to bring her to pay her respects to you beforehand but she says it will take all her time between now and the ceremony to dress herself. I swear, I do not understand it," the Bear added solemnly, tugging at his beard as was his habit when perplexed. "I've seen that woman jump from her bed, arm herself with shield and spear, and be ready to fight all before I barely got my pants on.
"And yet, for a simple thing like watching a man get a crown put on his head, she must spend hours cinching up this and flattening that and painting this and for what? So that by the end of it all, I do not recognize her and there is no soft part of her left to grab."
The Bear heaved a sigh that whistled through the office like a gale.
His long-winded conversation had given Dion a chance to compose himself. "Did all your family come with you?"
"Aye," said the Bear, watching Dion closely. "Even the little one, who w
ill, in all probability, scream his head off during the ceremony and disgrace us all. They are all here . . . except my daughter."
Dion closed his eyes, bitter disappointment in his heart, relief flooding through his mind.
A strong hand clasped hold of his shoulder, almost instantly numbing it. "Ah, laddie," said the Bear in a tone so kind that it came near unmanning his king, "I am not blind. And even if I was blind, by my ears and eyeballs, I think I could have seen what has been going on."
Dion was silent, unable to respond in words, though he rested his hand gratefully over the top portion of the Bears gigantic arm.
"I promised your daughter I would marry her. And now I can't keep my promise. You know that?" he asked in a low voice when he could talk.
The big man nodded his head sadly. "Aye, laddie. I know everything. She told me. Kamil can no more keep a secret than an eagle can keep from spreading its wings and flying with the wind. She told her mother and me that very night, in fact."
"You knew?" Dion raised his head, stared at him. "You knew, then, that day, the day I had to pledge myself to DiLuna. You must despise me."
"Despise you?" the Bear rumbled, his voice bouncing around the room, rattling various fragile objects on the mantelpiece. "No, laddie, I don't despise you. In feet, I said to myself, 'The Lady Maigrey was right. Derek Sagan was right. Now, we have, at last, a true king.'"
"Thank you, Bear," said Dion softly. "That means a great deal to me. More than you know."
"Ach, say no more." The Bear rumpled his beard. "The shield-wife and I thought it would be easier on both of you this night if Kamil did not come. I have decided to send her to the Academy, now you have reopened it. My sons are good boys, but their heads are filled with mutton. My daughter, though, my daughter is smart. She needs to be educated, needs to see that there is a universe above and beyond our mountains."
"Yes, that's a good idea," Dion said briskly.
Shaking free of the Bear's grasp, he righted a chair, then walked over to stand behind his desk, lifted one of the documents, and pretended to read it. "She'll meet other young people her age. Meet someone else ..." He stared, hard, frowning, at the document.
The Bear pulled on his beard until it seemed likely he'd pull it out. "Do you still love her, laddie?"
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