"You can put him on the bed, my lord," Marcus offered.
"What's the matter with him? Did he say?"
"Yes, my lord. Apparently Dr. Giesk gave him some sort of sleeping drug. One of the doctor's medicbots was following the young man."
Sagan gazed at the boy in frowning thoughtfulness, then snapped into the commlink, "Giesk!"
"My lord."
"I'm with Dion. Did you—"
"You're with him, my lord? Excellent. I have a complaint to register against your guards, my lord. They interfered with one of my—"
"Giesk, shut up."
"Yes, my lord."
"Did you give the boy the drug?"
"Yes, my lord. As you ordered."
"Then what the hell is he doing up walking around?"
"Remarkable, isn't it, my lord? His system is fighting it and was almost actually winning! So to speak, my lord. In medical terms, I'd say it was his chromosomes—"
"Damn his chromosomes! What's the prognosis?"
"I couldn't say, my lord." Giesk sounded hurt. "If my medicbot had been allowed to take a blood sample—"
"Make a guess."
"Well, my lord, I would guess that his system has successfully acted to dilute the drug. Just as your system would, my lord, were I to give it to you."
"Thank you, Doctor, but I'm not the one under sedation. I asked you—"
"Yes, my lord. What's the young man's condition now?"
"He's sleeping."
"That probably won't last long. I can't give him any more of the drug without risking serious harm. He'll wake up suffering the galaxy's worst hangover, but beyond that, my lord, he'll be all right."
The Warlord stared down at the boy in grim silence. Marcus had retreated to a far corner, the centurion letting it be known that he was here if needed and was not if he wasn't.
"I tried to spare you this, Dion. But—so be it. You might as well see that the shining toy you want so much has a dark and lethal heart. Giesk!"
"What were you saying, my lord? There's nothing wrong with his heart—"
"Don't be any more of a fool than you can help, Giesk. Can you give the boy something that will bring him around now?"
"Yes, my lord. A pep shot. He won't feel very good—"
"Where he's going, he won't feel good no matter what kind of shot you give him. You have your orders."
"Yes, my lord. I'll send the medicbot—"
The Warlord broke the connection. Rising to his feet, he looked around the small room.
"Centurion."
"My lord."
"When the boy regains consciousness, bring him to the arena. But see to it that he doesn't interfere."
"Yes, my lord."
Sagan started to leave. The door slid aside, the medicbot hovered just beyond. Pausing, the Warlord turned around and fixed his shadowed gaze upon the soldier.
"Your name is Marcus, isn't it, centurion?"
"Yes, my lord."
There were one hundred men in the Honor Guard. Sagan knew every one of them by name.
"Tell me, Marcus. Why didn't you take the boy back to sick bay? Or just allow the medicbot to do its duty?"
Marcus hesitated, swallowing, passing his tongue over dry lips. This could earn him a reprimand—if he was lucky. Punishment, if he wasn't. It might get him thrown out of the Guard, dishonorably discharged from the service. Men had killed themselves rather than face that fate.
It was always best, with the Warlord, to tell the truth. He knew when a man was lying. He could, it was said, see inside the brain.
"My lord, the young man asked about the Lady Maigrey. He could have let the drug put him to sleep, but he didn't. He was fighting against it to come to her aid. Such courage shouldn't be thwarted."
Marcus had no idea if what he'd said made any impression. Sagan did not immediately respond. He might not have been paying attention. He was looking at Dion, lying on the bed, the flame-red hair tousled on the pillow.
"Centurion," the Warlord said suddenly, "if I fall this day, the Lady Maigrey will be in considerable danger. Would you be prepared to defend her—against your own comrades?"
Marcus, completely confounded by the question, stared at the Warlord, uncertain how to answer. "My lord—"
"The truth, centurion."
"Yes, my lord. I would defend her with my life."
What Marcus had said amounted to treason. Sagan could very well put him to death for such a statement. But the Warlord had commanded his soldier speak the truth, and though Sagan was known to be unmerciful, he was not known to be unjust.
The Warlord glanced outside the door. The medicbot hummed in its impatience to carry out its instructions.
"Very good, centurion. If I fall, see to it that Lady Maigrey aiid the boy are taken to a place of safety."
Marcus couldn't speak. His face must have registered his astonishment, however, for the Warlord, glancing at him, smiled wryly. "Don't worry, centurion. That's one command I don't expect you to have to carry out. However, it's well to be prepared." He reached out his hand; the tips of his fingers touched the red-golden hair.
"Yes, my lord." Marcus saluted, fist over heart.
The Warlord nodded, returned the salute, and stalked out. His red cape, billowing behind him, nearly engulfed the medicbot coming in. It whirred irritably and began puttering around the boy, drawing blood samples and surreptitiously carrying out numerous other tests for the benefit of Dr. Giesk. Finally it planted a small wet dot on the boy's arm and, clicking and clanking, whirred itself out of the room.
Marcus sighing, wiped his hand across his sweat-beaded upper lip, and sank down into a chair.
"Admiral Aks requests permission to see you, my lord."
"Let him enter."
Aks strode through the golden double doors. Seeing the Warlord clad in a tight-fitting body suit that he used only for physical exercise, the admiral stopped dead in the entry hall.
"So this ridiculous rumor I've heard is true, my lord?"
"Not knowing to which ridiculous rumor you are referring, Aks, I couldn't say."
The body suit slid over the Warlord's smooth muscles, emphasizing his strong build and girth. He flexed his arms, to make certain the suit allowed suitable freedom of movement. Satisfied, he tied back his long, gray-streaked black hair with a leather cord.
"You've actually agreed to fight the Lady Maigrey in a duel! My lord, I must protest. This is preposterous." Aks was red in the face with the exertion of his emotions. "You're far too valuable to the Republic to risk yourself in this manner."
Sagan flicked him a glance.
"Hardly an argument conducive to forcing me to change my mind, Admiral. You know better than anyone aboard this ship that I am not valuable to the Republic. I am, in fact, a distinct menace to the Republic."
"Damn it, Derek, you know what I mean!" Aks rarely resorted to swearing and never in front of his liege lord. He had never called Sagan by his given name. "You're our hope. You can squash this imbecilic democracy and put power back into the hands of those who deserve to hold it. You've made your plans. You've spent years on them! Now, when all is nearly ready—"
"—I remove the last obstacle, Aks."
"But at such a risk to yourself, my lord!"
"Thank you, Admiral, for your vote of confidence. Are you suggesting the lady might defeat me?"
Aks paused, nonplussed, but his fear overrode his usual strong sense of self-preservation. Or perhaps it was his sense of self-preservation that goaded him on. The admiral was well aware of Captain Nada's spying. Aks knew that he himself had figured largely in Nada's reports of Sagan's treasonous actions. At the moment, the admiral stood safely behind his Warlord. He didn't like to think what would happen to him if that secure bulwark was removed.
"My lord, of the two of you, she was the better swordsman."
Sagan looked at himself in the mirror. The muscles of the arms and legs were well rounded, smooth. There was not a stronger man on the ship, not a man—eve
n among the young ones—who could keep up with him in running, swimming. There was not a wrestler who could bring him to a fall, not a fencer who could come within his guard. Yet every day it took a little more effort to keep up his pace. Every race he ran, the Warlord wondered if this would be the one in which he would slip, falter. He put his hand on his abdominal muscles, felt them not rock hard, as in his youth, but softer, beginning to sag.
Lifting his right hand, he stared at five white marks in the palm. In his mind he could hear the chanting of an unseen crowd. "Die now!" they cried. "Die now." The shouts of the ancient Greeks to one who had achieved some great triumph in his life. "Die now, while you are happy, for nothing in your life can be better than this moment." Or, in other words, Go out in glory, it's all downhill from here. Angrily, Sagan shook his head, physically shaking off the thoughts. What a fool's notion. He hadn't yet reached the pinnacle of his success. "The blood-dimmed tide is loosed." He had it in his power, now, to conquer the galaxy.
The Warlord's open palm clenched slowly to a fist.
"I've waited seventeen years for this moment, Aks. Don't tell me it isn't worth it! She's the last. The last who turned on me. My victory over her is assured. God has given her into my hands. I've foreseen it."
The Warlord turned abruptly and, lifting a pair of fencing gloves, pulled them on. The Admiral, though daunted by Sagan's anger, was frightened enough to blunder ahead.
"My lord," he said, lowering his voice, though he knew they couldn't possibly be overheard, "there are ways. . . . No one could ever say you had anything to do with it. One of the men, gone crazy. A fanatic, killing her to protect you. You could be furious, outraged—"
"—and live with myself the rest of my life?"
Sagan's anger had cooled. He appeared amused and he laid a hand on the admiral's shoulder.
"The men would always wonder, Aks. I'd see the shadow of doubt in the eyes that now regard me with fear and respect. No, it's fitting, after all, that we meet this way, as we met that last night. I wonder, Aks, if I didn't know what she was planning. I think I must have. It came as no surprise to me, when she issued the challenge. I knew, when she said the words, that this was our destiny. I saw again the vision of her death in my mind when she spoke. And yet—yet—"
"My lord?"
Sagan lifted the bloodsword, held it in his hand, staring at it. "Something isn't right, Aks. You know that when I have these glimpses into the future, they are clear and accurate to the last detail. And, in that vision, she is wearing armor—silver armor. An exact copy of mine." The Warlord cast a glance at his gold armor, carefully arranged by his orderly on its stand near his bed.
The admiral failed to see what silver armor had to do with anything. He had never really given credence to his lord's visions, considering them dreams and nothing more. Aks spread his hands deprecatingly.
"Women's fashions change with such rapidity, my lord—"
"Aks, you're a dolt."
I may be a dolt, my lord, but I'm not the one risking my life for some worn-out notion of honor. Aks did not say this aloud. He didn't say anything, and the Warlord didn't notice his silence.
"Such armor as that doesn't exist, Admiral. It couldn't possibly exist, unless I had it made for her. And, in my hand, I'm holding a dagger—a silver dagger of ancient make and design—"
The chiming of the ship's bells interrupted him. Sagan straightened, glanced around. "Leave me, Aks."
"You're determined to go through with this, my lord?"
The dark line of the Warlord's lips expanded slightly. "Don't worry, Aks. If I fall, you can always claim that you were going along with me simply to gather evidence to use at my trial for treason. Instead of hanging around, annoying me, you might want to spend this time erasing any incriminating computer files."
"You have completely misunderstood my intentions, my lord. I can assure you of my undying loyalty. I wish you success, my lord."
Hurt and indignant, Aks turned on his heels and marched stiffly out of Sagan's chambers. But, once he was alone in the Warlord's private elevator, the admiral happened to remember the existence of certain files on the Adonian, Snaga Ohme. Aks was loyal, but there was no sense in carrying it to extremes. Emerging from the elevator into the corridor, the admiral hurried posthaste to his own quarters.
Derek Sagan removed the hilt of his sword from its protective platinum and palladium scabbard, which also served as an energy recharger for the weapon. The Warlord checked the sword out of habit, though he knew that it was up to full power. He hadn't used it since the night he'd slain Platus Morianna. Balancing the sword in his hand, making a few passes to limber his arm, he halted and stared at it.
Silver dagger. Of ancient make and design. Not a bloodsword.
Sagan fitted the hilt back onto its scabbard, unbuckled the scabbard from around his waist, and carefully laid the sword upon his bed. One did not come armed into the presence of God.
Entering the chapel, the Warlord looked down upon the black cloth, the objects resting there: the chalice, the lamp, the dagger.
Yes, that was it. That was the dagger. A ceremonial blade, blessed by the Priests of Adamant, intended for use in the worship of the Creator, never meant to take life.
Cursed, he thought. I would be cursed, my soul damned for eternity to use it for such a purpose.
Sagan touched the dagger, traced the pattern of the eight-pointed star with his finger. He wondered that he hadn't recognized it when he first had the vision, but it had been unclear then. He had dreamed it many times since, and each time it became clearer in his mind, each time he saw more details.
What is God trying to say to me? What is God doing to me, anyway? To tell me this boy—this heir of the Starfires—is a savior! Sagan lifted the dagger, held it in his hand.
A savior!
With a bitter curse, the Warlord hurled the dagger back onto the altar. He heard a ringing clatter and something metal fall onto the deck, but he didn't look around. Walking out the door, he sealed it behind him and, grabbing the bloodsword from his bed, he summoned his guard and left for the arena.
In his mind, he could hear the voices, "Die now!"
"How do you feel?"
"Like warships are blasting off in my head and using my mouth for a landing pad." Dion groaned, sat up, and clutched his throbbing temples.
"Can you walk?"
Dion opened his eyes. The light was like spears flying into his brain, but the walls at least were where they should be and seemed likely to stay there. The overhead was up and the deck was down. When he stood, Marcus was at his side, to keep him from falling.
"Yeah, I can walk." Dion remembered, and looked around fearfully. "Where's the Warlord?"
"Relax. He's not hiding in my footlocker. He was here and ordered Giesk to give you a shot. That's what brought you around." Marcus grew more serious. "I'm to take you to the arena."
Dion shivered. The small room was cold and he had nothing covering his chest and arms. He was barefoot, too, standing on the cold metal deck.
"The arena. That's where . . . this fight ..."
"Yes." Marcus rummaged in his locker. "Here, put these on. Your feet are some bigger than mine, but I wear these in the gym and they're stretched out. I've got a shirt, too."
"Thanks." Dion struggled into the shoes and pulled the shirt gingerly over his aching head. He saw Marcus putting on his armor. "Aren't you coming with me? Are you on duty?"
"Yes. You are my duty. And I'm coming. Everyone on the ship who isn't manning some critical station—or dead—will be there. And I bet even the dead are lined up to watch this contest."
Dion's face grew dark and shadowed. He turned away and would have shrugged off Marcus's comforting hand, but the man gripped the boy's shoulder tightly. "Dion, there's an old soldier's saying. 'We live for the day, and we die for it.' They're both soldiers." Marcus put on his helmet, buckled it beneath his chin. "We should be going. It's nearly time."
The two left the centurion's quar
ters and walked into the corridors, joining a flow of men that were all moving the same direction.
"See," said Dion, waving his hand. "Everyone hurrying to view the show! It's like the gladiators, only worse, because we're supposed to have another three thousand years of civilization behind us."
"It was the lady's decision. It was her choice, as it must be, according to the law."
"What?"
Dion stopped in the corridor, and was immediately in imminent danger of being run down. Men cursed him and shoved him out of their way. Marcus, grabbing hold of the sleeve of the boy's shirt, pulled him to one side, out of traffic.
"I don't believe it!" Dion retorted.
"Would you have her die like a sheep led to the slaughter? That would have been the easy way for her, Dion, and you can bet that she knows it. This gives her the chance to fight for her life, but if she fails—" Marcus shook his head.
"Fails? She can't win!" Dion cried. "If she—"
"Lower your voice."
"If she wins, if she kills ..." Dion paused, unwilling to say the bad luck words, and then wondered why the thought of Sagan's death was difficult for him to accept. He made himself continue, speaking coldly. "If she kills the Warlord, then you centurions will kill her. Won't you?"
Marcus did not answer aloud, but he turned his face toward the boy. The eyes were barely visible beneath the shadow of the helm, the face was stern and expressionless. But Dion understood. The man's silence said more than Words.
My God! She knew this; she's been planning this all along. Dion felt her nails, digging into his flesh. What you are experiencing is the power of the Blood Royal. What a dumb, stupid . . . kid . . . I've been.
The two continued on, walking in silence for several paces. Then Dion asked in a subdued tone, "You said her right by law. What law are you talking about?"
"It's sort of the final appeal. You see, on board a ship like this, with thousands of men living side by side, justice has to be swift and thorough. A man is tried by his superior officers, who determine his sentence. But sometimes, when a crime is committed, it's one man's word against another's. When this happens, the Warlord deemed that the accused has the right to trial by combat. God is considered to be the final judge, for it's known that He wouldn't allow an innocent man to pay for a crime he didn't commit."
The Lost King Page 33
