Ghost Legion

by Margaret Weis

  Grabbing hold of Tusk's shirt, Sagan dragged the mercenary inside, slammed the door shut behind him.

  "Yes, what is it?" Sagan demanded coldly.

  "Can we talk?" Tusk glanced nervously around. "Is it safe?"

  "The electronic surveillance devices in this room have, unfortunately, developed a malfunction, some type of distortion whose source cannot be located. Yes, it is safe to talk here. But make it fast and keep your voice down. The night watch saw you in the cameras located in the halls. They will be here any minute."

  Tusk jammed his hands in his pockets. Shoulders hunched, he faced the Warlord. "I don't like this. We've got to do something."

  "Unless I am mistaken, we are doing something," Sagan responded dryly. "And 'liking it' was never part of the deal."

  Turning away, he walked to a desk, where he had set up a portable computer. He sat down, turned his attention to information that appeared on the screen. "If that's all, you may leave."

  Tusk, growing a little angry, followed.

  "It's not all. Not by a long shot. I got an idea," he said to Sagan's back. "Let's bust everyone outta here. Now. Tonight. You know where Dion's being held, and the queen—"

  "They are in separate wings, as far apart as is physically possible," commented the Warlord. "Guards are posted at each door. The halls are under surveillance. The rooms are bugged. And then there are always the strange dark-matter creatures. Now, how do you propose we 'bust' everyone out?"

  "There's a way," Tusk turned sullenly, pacing about the small, misshapen room. "There's always a way. Hell, you and the Lady got the kid off a Corasian mothership!"

  Sagan was obviously not interested in reminiscing about the past. "You know the plan," he said coldly. "We stay with it."

  "No, I don't know the goddam plan!" Tusk stated, coming around to face the Warlord's back again. "You won't tell me!"

  "You know your part of it. That's all that is essential. I can always"—Sagan's voice hardened—"arrange for you to leave."

  "You know I won't. Not while the kid's here. Not after I was the one who brought him here."

  "Then we have nothing further to discuss. It is time you returned to your room. Your coming here was foolish to begin with."

  "My getting involved in this whole fuckin' scheme was foolish to begin with! Look, my lord," he continued, more subdued, "let me at least tell Dion we're on his side—"

  "No!" Sagan stood up, rounded on Tusk. The Warlord's expression was fey, chilling. "You will say nothing to him. Nothing."

  Tusk fell back a pace, then halted, determined to hold his ground. "You saw Dion tonight! He thinks he's in this alone—"

  "Precisely what I want him to think."

  "What are you after? This isn't another goddam test, is it?" Tusk demanded. Anger was bolstering the jump-juice, which was bolstering his courage.

  Sagan smiled, thin-lipped, dark and bitter. "You might say it is. Though not necessarily Dion's."

  Tusk didn't understand. Shaking his head in disgust, he started for the door, "I'm gonna tell him—"

  "How like your father you are," Lord Sagan said, sneering. The remark was obviously not meant as a compliment.

  Hot blood rushed to Tusk's head. He whipped back around, hands clenched. "You bastard! How dare—"

  He made a jab with his fist.

  A hand like steel-toothed jaws snapped over his, crushing, sobering.

  "Keep your voice down. And listen to me. By telling Dion we are here to help him, you tell Flaim. It is that simple. Tomorrow, Flaim will convince Dion to use the bloodsword—"

  "He won't," Tusk mumbled, wincing, "The kid knows better—"

  "He may have no choice," Sagan interrupted grimly. "And when Dion inserts the needles of the bloodsword into his hand, Flaim will insert his mind into Dion's. The two will be irrevocably linked. Dion would reveal us. He couldn't help himself. Our lives—yours and mine—would be forfeit. And then the king would be very truly alone. Now, do you still want to tell him?"

  Tusk stood speechless. The hot blood of fury was draining rapidly from his head, leaving him sick and chill.

  Seeing he had calmed down, Sagan released his hold on him.

  "Are you gonna try to help Dion tomorrow, then?" Tusk demanded. "Keep him from using the sword?"

  "I will do what I have to do," Sagan answered. "And I will expect you to do the same."

  Tusk eyed him bitterly, nursed his bruised and aching hand. "You calculating son of a bitch. I don't have any choice, do I? You got me good. At least you think you do. But I'll be watching you. Remember that. I'll be watching!"

  Yanking open the door, Tusk came face-to-face with a guard.

  "Is everything all right, my lord Sagan?" asked the guard. "We received a report that a man was wandering the halls, creating a disturbance—"

  "He's drunk, that's all." Sagan gave Tusk a shove that sent him staggering into the guard's arms. "He came here in a jealous rage. See to it that he gets back to his room safely."

  "Yes, my lord," said the guard.

  Sagan slammed shut the door.

  The guard assisted Tusk to his feet, accompanied him back to his room.

  Yeah, thought Tusk, lying on his bed, staring bleakly into the darkness, I'm sure keeping my eyes on you. . . .

  Kamil lay in her bed in the dark in the dead of the night. She was wrapped in her blanket. Her knees were drawn up to her chest, her arms wrapped around the hard and lumpy pillow. Her thoughts were fixed on one idea.

  If only I could talk to Dion alone for just a few moments. It would all be so easy....

  "I've been looking at this all wrong. Tusk did Dion a favor, bringing him here. Why couldn't I see that before? I'll find a way to talk with him tomorrow. There has to be a way—"

  "Are you awake?" asked Astarte softly.

  Kamil flinched, frowned. She'd been keeping as still as possible, pretending she was asleep. But she must have spoken her thoughts aloud, or at least whispered them. Should she keep silent? Or answer?

  Her muscles were stiff and cramped from lying in one position. She turned over on her back.

  "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you."

  "You didn't," Astarte replied. "I've been lying here awake a long time."

  "You should try to sleep," Kamil said tersely. "You'll end up making yourself sick."

  "I've been praying for Dion."

  "Well, you should be sleeping," Kamil snapped. "Both for your sake and the baby's."

  "Don't coddle me, Kamil. Pregnancy doesn't make a woman weak and fragile. My people believe pregnancy makes a woman strong. After all, you lock a precious jewel in a strongbox, not a delicate glass case. My mother had armor specially designed for her to wear to battle when she was pregnant.

  "Back in the early days, the women of Ceres had to go on with their lives, you see," Astarte explained. "We had no choice. Grain had to be harvested, shelters built, towns defended. The men were too valuable to risk losing. New life is a great gift, but the universe does not come to a halt because one woman is going to have a child."

  "Not even a royal child," Kamil muttered. She knew she sounded bittei; vindictive, but she couldn't help herself.

  "Not even then," said Astarte softly.

  Kamil sat up in bed. Fumbling for the matches, she lit the candle by her bedside. The room the women shared was like every other room in the alcazar, stone walls and floor and ceiling, no windows, a heavy oaken door. Woven mats spread over the floors and walls did little to either cheer the room or alleviate the chill. Climbing out of bed, shivering, Kamil padded over to poke at the glowering coals in the fireplace.

  "You're being awfully casual about this pregnancy." She spoke almost accusingly. "You want this baby. More than anything in your life, you want this child. And you're lying there praying!"

  "What would you have me do?" Astarte asked, sitting up. "When there is a need and a time for action, one takes action. When there is not a need or when one is incapable of taking action, one has patience . .
. and faith."

  Her words were confident, but she sighed as she said them. Taking up the candle, Kamil walked over to stand at the foot of Astarte's bed.

  "You're not as cool about this as you'd like me to believe. Or you'd like yourself to believe."

  "The failing is mine, then," said Astarte. "I'm afraid, Kamil. Afraid for Dion . . . afraid for my child. The Goddess sent me a vision the night the baby was conceived. In my vision, Dion and I were making love. I saw Dion's face ... at the moment of conception. And then he disappeared. All was dark, and then I saw another face. It hung over me and leered at me."

  Kamil perched gingerly on the edge of the bed, placed the candle on the floor.

  "What does that mean?" she asked harshly. The thought of the two of them . . . together . . . twisted her up inside. "That Dion isn't the father?"

  "Oh, he's the father," Astarte replied in a calm, passionless voice.

  "Then I don't understand," Kamil said irritably.

  "I don't either." Astarte lifted her lovely eyes. "The face of the other man was the face of Dion's cousin—Flaim."

  Kamil stared at her in perplexity. "How could it? You'd never seen him—"

  "I didn't know who the man was. Now I do. This vision was the reason I left Dion," Astarte continued. "I had to get away. I had to open myself to the Goddess, rid myself of any distracting thoughts or feelings. I hoped she would make the vision clear. At least now I can put a name to the stranger's face." She shivered.

  Kamil almost said something, stammered, fell silent.

  She couldn't believe she was thinking what she was thinking-

  If I'd been listening to this tale of visions and faces in dreams in broad daylight, I would have laughed at myself for taking what Astarte says seriously. It was a dream she had—nothing more.

  But here, in this eerie, cold, dark room of stone, lit only by the light of a dying fire and a candle, trapped, afraid for myself and for Dion—for him more than myself, it is suddenly very easy to believe.

  And Kamil wanted most desperately to believe.

  "What?" Astarte pressed her. "Do you have an idea?"

  "Maybe the Goddess is trying to tell you that there is a way out of this. All Dion has to do is give up the crown. Abdicate. You have what you want from him. He's given you a baby. Flaim can have what he wants—to be king."

  "And would he be a good one, do you think?" Astarte asked, frowning. "After what he did to us? To my people? A man who resorts to murder, abduction—"

  "He did that out of necessity," Kamil argued. "Rulers have to do things that they don't like sometimes. Read Machiavelli. Dion has. Rulers have to be ruthless sometimes."

  "Do they? Is Dion ruthless?" Astarte asked softly.

  "No, he isn't," said Kamil, triumphant, "and that's why he suffers so. What Lord Sagan said tonight, about the test, makes sense. Which of the cousins proved strongest? Flaim did. Dion isn't really suited to being a king. He takes everyone's burdens on himself. He worries about people. He tries to reason with them when he should be firm, tell them right out what to do and what not to do. And then make them do it."

  "It seems to me you have described a very good ruler, albeit"—Astarte sighed—"an unhappy man."

  "There, you see." Kamil tried to convince herself.

  "Dion has been a good king," Astarte pursued. "He has tried to bring peace, order, stability to the galaxy and, for the most part he has succeeded."

  "He has succeeded," Kamil repeated bitterly. "And look what it's done for him!"

  She picked up the candle and stalked angrily back to her bed. Blowing out the flame, she set the candle down on the bedstand with a sharp clatter, then crawled into the covers and crouched beneath them like a cornered animal, wanting to leap and rend and tear.

  "Why don't you hate me, Astarte?" Kamil demanded suddenly. "It would be easier... ."

  "So you could hate me back? I don't hate you, but I do envy you, if that's any comfort." Astarte slid down among her sheets.

  "You envy me," Kamil repeated, scoffing.

  "Yes, envy. Tell me"—Astarte's voice was altered, tight, sad— "tell me how you love Dion."

  Kamil was at first startled, then offended, then suspicious. But then she thought angrily, Why not?

  "All right. I'll tell you. When I hold him in my arms, I'm jealous of the very flesh and bones of him that get in my way. I want to gather him, all of him, inside me and keep him there forever. And when he's inside me, I want to flow over him, seep inside him, become the blood that nourishes him, the air that sustains him. This is how I love him. I care about him. Only him. He's all that matters to me. I don't care about any of the rest."

  "Do you see now why I envy you?" Astarte asked.

  Neither said anything more. Neither realized she had said too much.

  Two men sat in a brightly lit room in the dead of night, listening.

  "There you have it, my friend!" cried Flaim triumphantly. Leaning back in his chair, he smiled at Garth Pantha. "Problem solved. A royal heir. With my face. Prefabricated, so to speak. No fuss, no bother. Her Majesty is pregnant. What truly remarkable luck. I would be a fool not to take advantage of it."

  "By doing what, my prince?"

  "By altering my plans slightly. I must marry her, of course."

  "Of course." Pantha shrugged. "Which presumes she does not already have a husband."

  "Of course."

  "Which presumes that blood is not thicker than water."

  "When my cousin's blood is spilled," Flaim, said, smiling, "I will provide you with a sample for analysis."

  Pantha grunted. "Tusca went to visit Sagan tonight."

  "I am aware of that. He was drunk."

  "Tusca's clever."

  "Not clever enough to keep himself out of Sagan's clutches. Perhaps Tusca has reconsidered, wants to toss in his hand. If he ever wants to see his wife and child again, he knows he'd better keep his money in the game."

  "Has that electronic malfunction in the Warlord's room been cleared up?"

  "No, my friend, nor will it be." Flaim laid a soothing hand on Pantha's thin shoulder. "It is Sagan's doing, of course."

  "If he had nothing to hide, he would not bother!" Pantha said testily.

  "What do you have to hide, then, my friend?" Flaim asked, teasing. "Is the equipment in your room functional?"

  "You are being flippant," Pantha rebuked, stern and displeased. "The matter is serious—"

  "I am aware of that," Flaim returned. A flash of cold steel in the voice silenced the older man. "Tomorrow will be the test. Sagan will prove his loyalty to me tomorrow. Once my cousin Dion lays his hand upon the bloodsword, he is finished. Sagan knows this, and if he tries in any way to dissuade him . . ." Flaim shrugged.

  Pantha shook his head, unconvinced.

  "You will see, my friend. You will see. Sagan is mine. And now let us leave this darkness to our Lady-friend, if she is here, and make our way to our beds."

  Flaim made a graceful bow to the shadows and left the surveillance room and the night to the dead.

  Chapter Ten

  Two stars keep not their motion in one sphere ...

  William Shakespeare, King Henry VI, Part One, Act V, Scene iv

  At midday, Vallombrosa's double sun hung directly over the alcazar. The sky was cloudless, as if sucked dry by the heat. The suns—one yellow and large, the other small and red— glared on Vallombrosa with a perpetual, leering squint. Arms of flames, red and yellow, swirled from one sun to the other, disembodied hands, holding floating eyeballs.

  The suns had reached their zenith, stared down upon a large courtyard located in the center of the alcazar. Built roughly along the lines of a quadrangle surrounded by tall, bleached-bone-colored stone walls, the courtyard was open to the air and was the alcazar's recreation area.

  Black streaks on the walls marked where hard rubber balls had bounced. Lines in the gravel drew the crude boundaries for some sort of game. Rows of wooden benches, for the convenience of spectators, she
ltered beneath an overhang, huddled in the shadows.

  But there were few shadows today. The suns, directly overhead, bathed the arena in hot, harsh light that reflected with blinding brilliance off the hard-packed playing field, the bleached white walls. The heat was not oppressive, for the air was cold, the suns wanned the grounds pleasantly. But Sagan blinked in the bright light when he emerged with the prince from the building's dark interior, pulled his cowl over his head.

  Flaim was charming. He might have been leading his guests onto the lawn of a manor house to play at croquet until tea time. He was particularly attentive to Astarte. The prince led the queen by the hand (with the utmost deference and respect) to a bench in a far corner, one of the few shaded areas in the quad. He fussed over her comfort, ordered cushions brought to ease the hardness of the bench's wooden surface, and offered refreshments. All of his attentions were politely and chillingly declined.

  Baroness DiLuna had always openly despised this priestess daughter of hers, considering her soft and weak. Sagan, watching Astarte maintain her dignity and composure in this seemingly hopeless and dangerous situation, would have advised the baroness to reconsider her assessment.

  Kamil sat down beside the queen. Sagan had not, until now, met Olefsky's daughter, Maigrey's godchild. He eyed the slender, boyish woman with a feeling of relief. He had steeled himself to see in her a resemblance to Maigrey, if not in form (which would have been unlikely) then in spirit. He looked for Maigrey's brash, reckless courage, her fierce pride and love of honor, all tempered by the glimmer of laughter in the sea-gray eyes.

  This girl (Sagan thought of her as a girl, though Kamil must be near twenty-one) might yet come by such qualities. But she didn't possess them now. Or if she did, they had been consumed by love, whose fire, out of control, often consumed what gave it life. Kamil appeared to have little interest in what was going on. Her eyes and attention were only for Dion, fixed on him alone. Sagan knew Maigrey was present; he could hear the faint music of the sad, sweet chord vibrating in the still air. He wondered what she thought of this goddaughter.