Memory's sword is a two-edged blade.
The formal dining rooms on Phoenix were located in the portion of the ship devoted to the rare and occasional visitor. The Warlord cared nothing for what he considered worthless civilities, but he did demand that his officers dine with him once every ship's month. The room's furniture was severe—all steel and chrome and glass with sleek lines and sheered-off angles. It was designed to be uncomfortable; visitors were not encouraged to linger. There were no decorations or adornments. You were never allowed to forget this was a ship of war. Each piece of furniture could be dismantled almost instantly, to be stowed away when the ship was cleared for action. Huge steelglass viewports provided ever-changing vistas of black space that were breathtaking but somehow seemed to emphasize the chill atmosphere of the room.
The dining table, made of steel, bore an unfortunate resemblance to a table in an operating room. Covered with a white cloth, as it was this evening, it did, however, manage to look quite elegant. The plates were of pewter and marked with the emblem of the phoenix rising from the flames. The heavy crystal goblets bore the same emblem embossed in gold.
The room's lighting was indirect. Spotlights were hidden in recesses in the overhead. Beaming downward in a straight, direct line, they had the effect of illuminating only small areas of the room at any one time, leaving the rest in dimly lit shadow. So cunningly placed were these lights that when the guests were seated at the table, the Warlord's face was left in almost complete darkness while the faces of those dining with him were harshly exposed.
This trick lighting often served Sagan well. It was at such times as these when the guard is lowered, good wine and good food loosen the tongue. A journey down what appears to be a well-worn conversational path often leads the unsuspecting victim right off the edge of a cliff. A covert glance, a guilty blush, a cheek gone pale in anger or fear—all are visible to the eyes watching from the shadows. It was no wonder his officers came to dread these evenings. Even Nada, who considered himself ten times more cunning than his lord, never attended without a supply of small white pills prescribed by Dr. Giesk for internal disorders.
This evening, the gentlemen had gathered by the time Maigrey arrived. Admiral Aks and Captain Nada were in attendance, as well as the captain in charge of the centurions and several wretched lieutenants, sweating in their tight-collared dress uniforms and wishing heartily that they were somewhere else. Derek Sagan was clad in the Roman costume he admired, this particular breastplate and armor having been copied from those said to have been worn by Julius Caesar. The Warlord's gold-trimmed red cape swept the deck. At his side, he wore the bloodsword.
Nada's eyes flickered when he saw the sword. A remnant of the old royalist days, its use was outlawed by the Republic. To even own one was to court charges of treason. Sagan not only retained the sword that was his by right of birth but he flaunted it openly. Nada made a mental note for his secret report. Derek Sagan, watching the captain's swift change of expression, made a mental note of Nada.
An orderly entered the room. All eyes turned toward him as he announced the honored guest waiting in the antechamber to make a formal entrance.
"Citizen Morianna," the orderly said, standing stiff and rigid, his back to the door.
The expectant silence was broken by a few coughs and clearings of throats. This and a swift exchange of glances between the men informed the orderly that no one had appeared to lay claim to that name.
The orderly maintained his stance but darted a look behind him. He saw the woman standing calmly outside the door, gazing around her with interest, obviously waiting to hear her name announced. Perhaps his voice hadn't carried.
Swallowing, endeavoring to moisten his dry throat, the orderly tried again.
"Citizen Morianna."
The officers stirred uncomfortably. Derek Sagan put his hand to his twitching lips. Walking over, he leaned down and spoke a word into the orderly's ear, then returned to his place in the shadows.
Flustered, the orderly said in low tones, "Lady Maigrey Morianna."
Maigrey stepped forward into the room, into the light.
It was well that Sagan had retreated to the shadows, for not even his iron will could control the tremor that sent tiny cracks through his stone facade. It was not the sight of the indigo blue robes of ceremony which Maigrey wore; he had already steeled himself to that and had taken a vicarious pleasure in knowing the anguish the sight of those robes must have cost her. It was all part of his design, his intent to weaken her and wear her down. He had been rather hoping she might refuse to wear them, perhaps refuse to come to him at all.
Maigrey wore the blue robes—he had forgotten how well that color suited her. But her return attack had not only parried his blow, but it managed to slide beneath his blade, touch his soul, and draw blood. Sparkling on her breast was the Star of the Guardian.
An eight-pointed star, carved of the precious gem known as adamant, the jewel's value was calculated in terms of planets. Indeed, the wealth of entire solar systems might not purchase it. Not only was adamant extremely rare, but it had, by royal decree, been used only in the making of these jewels—the Stars of the Guardians. In addition, the gems had supposedly been granted mystical properties by the High Priests of those days, priests who had long since been put to death by orders of the President.
No force in the galaxy existed that could harm a starjewel; the gemstone would submit to being carved only after it had been blessed by the priests. A starjewel possessed its own inherent light that was quenched only upon the death of the wearer. The starjewel was either buried or cremated with the body of the Guardian who possessed it. There was a curse on any who robbed the dead of the jewel—as many looters had discovered to their intense horror following the carnage in the palace the night of the revolution. Yet such is the perverse nature of humanity that the demand for these rare jewels was high, the supply practically nonexistent, their value enhanced by the knowledge that the illicit possession of one was— according to the law of the Republic—a capital offense.
Two were known to Derek Sagan to exist. One was locked away in a vault whose access code were words he had spoken long ago and had long ago told himself to forget. He was staring at the other.
Sagan knew Maigrey had brought it with her. He had recognized the rosewood box when she showed it to him on Oha-Lau and he had given her permission to bring it on board. He could have done nothing else. The jewel did not permit itself to be lost or left behind. It would have found its way back to her. Sagan had not suspected, however, that the lady would have the audacity to wear it.
So strict was the law on the wearing of the starjewels that Derek Sagan had not only the legal right but the obligation to terminate the life of the woman where she stood. Maigrey knew it. She was not only courting death, she was flirting with it shamelessly. Death was the one way she could defeat him.
From the rigid, lockjawed expressions on the feces of his officers, Sagan knew they expected him to carry out the sentence on the spot. If he didn't, they would say nothing, of course, but they would be amazed, they would start to wonder, their faith in him would be shaken. Nada was watching him closely. Aks, who knew that the lady's value was in her life, not her execution, was casting his lord swift, worried glances.
Sagan stepped forward, his left hand resting on the hilt of the bloodsword. The officers fell back before him, some of the lieutenants so hurriedly that they tripped over their own feet. At the sound of his footsteps, Maigrey turned to fece him.
Her eyes were gray as a storm-darkened sea and sparkled more brilliantly than the jewel. Her lips parted in a smile. The scar on her cheek was a livid streak against her flushed skin. Sagan was forced to admit to himself pleasure in confronting, for the first time in many years, a foe he deemed worthy of him.
"Lady Maigrey," he said, emerging from the shadows. "The wearing of that jewel is against the law of the Republic, punishable by death."
"I am well aware of that, my lord.
All of the crimes of which I have been accused and which amount to nothing more nor less than remaining faithful to a vow I took to serve my king are now punishable by death. Many crimes, yet I can die only once."
"'It is not death, but dying, which is terrible,' according to the poet."
"The Guardians met death with courage. I won't disgrace their memories. It is for them that I wear the Star this night, my lord."
Sagan fell back to bind up his wounds. Due to the circumstances, his opponent was incapable of following up her advantage and he was able to return and strike back.
"Yes, my lady. The Guardians died bravely . . . most of them."
He had not meant to score a direct hit, and even now he wondered what it was that so affected her. Maigrey's eyes dilated; her face paled so that the scar nearly vanished. For a moment Sagan thought she was going to retreat, which wouldn't have suited his purposes at all. Fortunately the Warlord could always count on Captain Nada to stumble out onto the field of combat and commit verbal mayhem.
"My lord, it is my duty as a citizen of the Republic to point out that this citizen is wearing a piece of royalist trumpery expressly forbidden by law. It is an offense against us all that she be allowed to wear it and I insist that it be removed and confiscated."
"Thank you, Captain Nada, for bringing this infraction to my attention." Lord Sagan stepped back, away from Maigrey. "You, Captain, may remove the 'trumpery.'"
Captain Nada took a step forward and raised his hand. Maigrey, facing him, neither moved nor spoke. The starjewel lying on her breast burned with a brilliant, white-blue glow that grew brighter as it captured and held the attention and imagination of all in the room.
Captain Nada hesitated, his hand in mid-air.
"What's the matter, Captain?" the Warlord inquired. "Surely you don't believe those nonsensical stories about the curse? Or about the Blood Royal—that they had powers far above those of ordinary men? We are equal, aren't we, Captain? All citizens of the Republic."
Captain Nada stretched out his hand, the fingers trembling. The Star's light was blinding. It might have been pure flame he was about to grasp. Sweat beaded on his upper lip and glistened on his face. Suddenly, he snatched his hand back. Nada's skin flushed a deep, ugly red. He flashed his Warlord a look of hatred and enmity. Turning on his heel, the captain stalked off to the opposite end of the room.
A collective sigh breathed among those assembled. An alert steward hastened in with glasses of champagne. The Warlord abstained, as was his custom. Maigrey took a glass. She decided she deserved it. The officers, by silent accord, moved away from their Warlord and the woman, leaving them standing together near the door.
That man hates you, Sagan. There was no need for the two of them to speak. Their thoughts—those that they wanted to share—came to each other clearly.
As much as he hates me, he fears me more, my lady.
And, as Machiavelli says, "It is much safer to be feared than loved." Is that what you believe, my lord?
I have always found it to be so. Haven't you, my lady?
The blade of his thoughts whistled past her too closely. Maigrey was forced to fall back and give herself a moment to catch her breath before she essayed her next attempt. No one approached them; the other officers mingled among themselves. She and Sagan were alone together. All their lives, it seemed, they had been alone together. She felt a sense of shared intimacy with the Warlord, much as they had known before, only now it bothered her, it was different because beneath it was hatred. Why? Why was he doing this? Sipping her champagne, she spoke aloud to make it seem that they were guests thrown together at a dull party. Nothing more.
"The remarks you made to Captain Nada, my lord, come rather strangely from one who was willing to sacrifice everything, even his own honor, for the sake of the revolution."
"The subject of honor will never be discussed between us, my lady. As for Nada, I merely pointed out to him the fallacy of his beliefs."
"Beliefs that were once yours, my lord. Or should I say, citizen?"
"You agreed with me, Lady Maigrey, that Starfire was an inept ruler and that we could expect little better from his younger brother. Come, it's no use turning away. You can avert your face but not your thoughts. I know the truth."
"He was your king. If you didn't like the man, then you should at least have believed in what he stood for and honored that."
"What? Divine right? That he was intended by the Creator to rule? I have more respect for our God than that."
"So much respect, my lord, that you murdered his priests!"
"That was not my doing."
The room had been filled with quiet talk and muted laughter, but the tone of the Warlord's last words cast a pall of silence over the assembly. Deftly Maigrey slid the verbal blade from his flesh, wiped off the blood, and sipped her champagne. The Warlord stood silently, his face once more hidden in the shadows. Maigrey could feel the tense rigidity in the body so near hers. He had not once looked directly at her during their conversation. Perhaps the Star's light hurt his eyes.
Moving slightly nearer the Warlord, Maigrey smiled like a good hostess at the officers to encourage a return to gaiety. Her conversation with Sagan continued, but silently.
If what you say is true and you don't believe the Starfires were given a mandate from heaven, then why do you want the boy?
I should think the answer to that would be obvious, my lady. He will be the marionette at the end of my strings. If he is as spineless as the rest of his family, he will need my help simply to stand up straight.
So you intend to use him to put yourself in control, Maigrey replied. Then why bother to search for the true heir? Why not just snatch up some kid off the streets?
Only the true heir will start the stampede that will soon sweep away this mockery of a government. The genetic tests, all must be in order. There must be no doubt in anyone's mind that this young man is a Starfire.
And that's where I come in, my lord?
That's where you come in, my lady. Your cue. Enter, stage left—the only one who can recognize and verify for me that this boy is truly the king.
After so many years? I only saw him when he was a baby—newborn, at that.
Maigrey set the glass down on a chrome table behind her. She was trying to behave calmly, but her shaking hand betrayed her. She tipped the glass, dropped it. The goblet bounced on the thick-carpeted deck and bounded away under a table, from where it was retrieved by a watchful steward.
That's true, my lady, but you would have given him something to know him by, years later. And even your brother would not have been so foolish as to have done away with it. The boy doesn't know who he is. Therefore I assume he knows nothing of his gifts of the Blood Royal.
"The curse," Maigrey murmured aloud.
The steward announced dinner. The Warlord extended his arm with courtesy. Maigrey accepted it with dignity, and they walked together to the head of the table, past the officers who were faceless nonentities.
And what of me? she asked him silently.
Can't you guess that, as well?
I think perhaps I can, my lord. I am a danger to you.
A very great danger. You see, my lady, I pay you the compliment of not underestimating you.
And so once I have served my purpose—
Once I am prepared to move—
—you will rid yourself of me.
Sagan led her to the head of the table. The other officers took their places as they were assigned, all remaining standing in respectful attention. The Warlord himself drew out her chair.
I had a dream, Maigrey. You know that my dreams are portents.
Yes, she knew. She remembered.
In this dream, I see your death . . . at my hands, my lady.
Maigrey sank into the chair. Sagan paused a moment to see that she was settled comfortably, then took his own seat at her right hand. The others sat down and the stewards instantly came around with water and wine.
The
dream came in answer to a prayer, he continued silently. She could see of him only his hand that reached out from the shadows in which he surrounded himself and lifted the glass of water. I asked the Creator to give into my hands those who betrayed me. One by one, they have all fallen to me. You are the last.
Why didn't you kill me that night? Maigrey asked in the privacy of her own thoughts. The scar on her face ached and throbbed. She covered it with her hand, feeling that it must be pulsing burning red. Only your sword could have done this. Only your hand could have struck me down. Yet why didn't you end it? Why let me live? Dear Creator, if only I could remember! Then, startled, she wondered if that was truly what she wanted. One had to be careful when asking of the God. What was that prayer accounted to Socrates? "Avert evil from me, though it be the thing I prayed for; and give me the good which from ignorance I do not ask."
It was a comforting thought and reminded her that although Sagan was a priest, he did not know the mind of God. Somehow, she supposed, this tragedy must make sense. She wondered if it did to him.
The Warlord's thoughts had, fortunately, turned away from her, and conscious of eyes upon her, Maigrey made some attempt to eat and drink. Ship's food is ship's food the galaxy over. It tasted the same to her now as it had twenty years previous, which meant that she could not lose herself in gastronomical delight. At least the wine was good. She had only to remember not to drink too much or she would receive a rebuke from her commander. And then, sipping at the warming liquid, Maigrey reminded herself that Sagan was her commander no longer. She could do what she damn well liked.
Just what she'd mostly done anyway.
Maigrey finished the draught and, with a smile, indicated to the steward to refill her glass. The steward did so with alacrity. Lifting the goblet to her lips, Maigrey was conscious of Sagan's stern, reproving glance, though she couldn't see it. Some things, she supposed, never changed. She was actually beginning to enjoy herself. Though wounded a few times in their last encounter, she'd managed to penetrate her opponent's guard and knew she'd drawn blood. It was exhilarating to be back in action.
The Lost King Page 22
