Maigrey turned away. She found she couldn't look at him—weary and beaten—without feeling a wrenching pain in her heart. Plus she sensed him afraid, and his fear unnerved her. But what was he afraid of? Certainly not the Corasians, not impending battle, however uneven the odds. It was something else, something buried that had just been recently brought to the surface—like an exhumed corpse.
"The tea's cold, I'm afraid, my lord." She spoke just to fill the silence. "You never liked the lapsong much, anyway. I could send for oolong—"
"No, it doesn't matter. Come sit with me, lady, like the old days. We have much to discuss. Pour me a cup of this stuff. I won't taste it anyway."
Dying would have been so much easier.
Maigrey turned from the window and walked over to the table. Pouring the tea, she handed the cup to him and he gulped it down thirstily. Silently, she poured him another. He drank half of this cup, then sat, holding it in his hand, staring at it. The delicate porcelain looked fragile as an eggshell in his large hands.
"Robes has ordered me to make a stand. To stop the Corasians here and now. No reinforcements."
Maigrey seated herself in the chair opposite that of the Warlord. "And he kills two birds with one stone."
"Not precisely. Let's say that he allows the birds to kill each other."
"He knows you're plotting against him?"
"Yes, he knows!" Sagan beat a clenched fist softly against the arm of the chair, emphasizing his words. "Damn the man! He's clever, Maigrey. I keep forgetting how clever! And there's another more clever—" he broke off abruptly.
Maigrey wondered what he had been going to say, but she kept clear of his mind. The last thing she wanted right now was to get too close to him.
"The President orders us to stand and fight the initial assault out here, where there are few populated systems—a command that will be applauded by the Congress and the press."
"And the other marshals?"
"He's pulling them in to form a second line of defense around the major populated zones."
"We're on our own."
Sagan's mouth twisted. "We?"
Maigrey flushed and looked down at her hands.
"Yes," the Warlord added quietly, "we're on our own."
"But the enemy could penetrate anywhere! A thousand different places!" Maigrey gestured to the stars. "How can he be certain—" But she knew the answer, the moment she asked the question.
"They'll come straight for us, lady. I would bet all my fortune on the fact that somehow, undoubtedly through a leak in security, the enemy knows our exact coordinates, knows all our moves. That's why they've attacked before they were ready. They didn't need to be ready. Undoubtedly they've promised Robes they'll turn and run after they've destroyed us. If he believes that, he's a bigger fool than I thought. You know, of course, what the enemy's really after?"
"Phoenix." Maigrey's hands curled over the arms of the chair. Her eyes glanced around the ship.
"And the rest of the ships. The reports we've received from the survivors fleeing Shelton's system tell us that the Corasians are following their same pattern—rounding up the people, using them either for food or slave labor, destroying everything else except the machines. It's our technology they want. They'll come straight for us, all right. We have the unique distinction of being both bait and trap."
"You know their numbers?"
"I can estimate them, from the early reports."
"Can the fleet survive?"
"The computers say no, not with our current strength. But we can do a significant amount of damage before we die. By God, I'll blow up this ship myself before I turn it over to them!"
"You've never been one to give a damn about orders, Sagan. You could retreat, fall back."
"I'd be branded a coward—disgraced forever. Not but what I might do it; I can handle the newsmedia, and Robes knows it. But you see, my lady, there's a possibility I can win this.
And, if I do, I'll be the galaxy's hero. Nothing will be too good for me."
"Not even the galaxy itself." Rising to her feet abruptly, Maigrey left the Warlord, returned to staring out the window. Her back was to him, her arms crossed across her chest. "It's quite a risk Robes is taking."
"He's a gambler; he knows the odds and they're in his favor."
"What about the local systems? Won't they send help?"
"They'll be too concerned for their own safety. We're keeping this quiet, but the news will break soon and then we'll be deluged with pleas for us to rush to their aid."
Maigrey stood at the window, her hands rubbing up and down her arms. Sagan, suddenly realizing what she was thinking, rose to his feet.
"You're wrong, Maigrey. Dixter and his people won't join me."
"Would it help if they did?"
"Yes, of course. Any addition to our manpower would help. "
"His people are good, from what I've heard. "
"They're good. I trained most of them myself. Three-fourths are deserters from my air corps!"
Maigrey smiled slightly at the bitter edge in his voice. "John Dixter will come."
"He might if you asked him, is that what you mean, Maigrey?"
"No." She shook her head, the pale hair falling around her face, hiding it from view. "Dion."
Sagan was caught off guard. He hadn't seen that one coming. Moving close behind her, he rested his hands on her shoulders. "Nice try, my lady, but it won't work. Even if Dion did go, he would come back to me. What do you call it? The taint in our blood? Ambition, the lust for power burns in that boy. And I have what he wants."
Maigrey held herself rigid beneath his touch. Hours ago, they had been intent on killing each other. Still alive. Her biggest disappointment. Setting her jaw, she turned, breaking his grip, and faced him stolidly.
"And what will you do with him now? What will you do with a boy our God has told us is His chosen. A boy destined, perhaps, to be both king and savior of his people?"
Sagan clasped his arms behind his back, beneath his cloak. "A foolish question, my lady. You know that—like Lucifer—I would far rather reign in hell, than serve in heaven."
"You dare to defy God?"
"Let us say, my lady, that I am working to persuade Him to change His mind."
"I'll stop you in this, Sagan!" Maigrey advanced a step. "I fought you for Dion once, long ago. I'll fight for him again."
"Be warned, my lady, I can rid myself of you right this moment—"
"No, you can't. That's an empty threat, my lord. You could have killed me this afternoon, but you didn't. You hesitated, held back. I see into your mind clearly now. You're torn two ways. God has granted you a glimpse into the future and you've forseen my death at your hands. But not now. Not yet. Something wasn't right today, was it? Something I wore, something I said— Killing me today would have defied God, and you don't dare do it! He has brought us together for a purpose, perhaps to fight together against this new peril."
She took a step nearer; they were practically touching.
"Our motives will be different, my lord. You think of your own glory, your lust for power. I'm thinking of the people, the millions who will die. Like it or not, we're shackled to each other. There's no way to break the chain. We've tried it, and it didn't work. The only way it seems we'll ever escape this hellish prison is to help each other climb the walls! I'll help you, Sagan, but only if you keep your chains from entangling Dion. If you don't, I'll drag you down myself!"
"And you'd drag the boy down with us. It's too late, Maigrey. Dion's bound, body and soul. He was from the day he was born." Sagan backed away from her. Reaching into the bowl of fruit, he selected an apple, and held it up to the light. "I accept your premise, lady. But I question your motives. I don't believe they are as pure as you pretend. Since we're peering into others' minds, I see you, standing behind Dion's throne . . . very close behind his throne." He tossed the apple into the air. "I think I'll take this to the boy. He's probably hungry."
"Yes," Maigrey
said, biting the word. "He probably is."
The Warlord turned to go, paused, looked back. "But I like your idea about Dixter. I'll consider it. Thank you, my lady."
He turned, and was gone.
Still alive. Maigrey sighed. Still alive.
Chapter Two
'Great are thy virtues, doubtless, best of fruits.'
John Milton, Paradise Lost
A sudden buzzing roused Sagan from the deep meditative state he used in times of emergency, preferring it to that of sleep. He came out of his meditation mentally alert, physically ready for any type of action. No action was called for at the moment, however, except to respond to a flashing red light on his personal computer.
A message, coded for him, beamed directly to him.
He gave the voice response and the message flashed on the screen. His security was absolutely unbreakable, his computer being programmed to seek out, identify, and attack any other system trying to surmount his innumerable defenses. But Sagan had taken the additional precaution of carrying on his clandestine dealings in twentieth century English—a wordy, clumsy, and confusing language now almost totally, but not completely, forgotten.
"Gad, Sagan, what a beastly language. I quite abhor it. Can you imagine the barbaric types who used it? I assure you, I get quite nauseated just thinking about them. In response to your question, my agent reports that after my removal from Vangelis, a young human female was discovered snooping around my offices. She is one Nola Rian and she is a—if you will believe it—TRUC driver. Isn't that too ridiculous? Further investigation has linked her to a human male, one John Dixter, commander of the mercenary forces. There is, of course, always the possibility that I could have been the teeniest bit careless and let something slip but, gad, Sagan, I'm a genius. What do you expect? Is this a problem, dear boy? If so, I assure you, it can be rectified."
"It's a problem but not for me. For you, Snaga Ohme." The screen had gone dark. The Warlord was talking to the night. "I will do the rectifying. You will pay the price."
Returning to his bed, Sagan stretched himself out, crossed his hands over his chest, interlacing the fingers, and drew a deep breath. Releasing it, he murmured, "Yes, lady, your suggestion is an excellent one. John Dixter's assistance in our cause will be invaluable. Truly invaluable."
"Dion, a moment's word with you."
"Certainly, my lord. Please come in."
The boy's voice was cold and stilted; he was nurturing his anger. The Warlord, seeming not to notice, stepped inside the young man's living quarters. Sagan was clad in his gold ceremonial armor, the golden helm with the red-feathered crest on his head, his red cape, trimmed in gold, fluttering behind. He was holding something in his hand, keeping it concealed beneath his cloak.
The Honor Guards took up their stance, the door sealed shut, and the two were alone. Dion rose to his feet, and remained standing, rigid, defensive.
Sagan, glancing around, saw that the young man had been reading a book—David Copperfield. The Warlord's lips tightened, but he said nothing. Now was not the time.
"There's to be a meeting of the fleet's officers, 1800 hours. I want you to attend."
Disarmed, Dion's mouth sagged. He blinked and brought his gaze to bear on the Warlord. "Me?"
"As the Lady Maigrey and I were discussing last evening, this current crisis engulfs us all. There is, in fact, an important mission I'm going to be asking you to undertake. And since from now on, wherever we walk, we walk with danger, I thought you should have this."
The Warlord threw aside his cloak, revealing the object he had hidden—a bloodsword.
Dion gasped, then drew a shivering breath. His hands itched to touch it, but part of him wanted to put those same hands firmly behind his back and have nothing to do with it.
Before he could make any sort of intelligent response, the Warlord had come forward and—with all the deference of a squire to his knight—buckled the sword in its scabbard around the young man's slender waist.
"When wearing this sword, you should at least dress like royalty." The Warlord glanced scathingly at Dion's blue jeans. "You can change to your uniform later. Now, if you like, I have an hour to spare. We could go to the gymnasium and I could begin to instruct you in the sword's use."
"If you want, my lord."
The young man's response was hesitant. His gaze was fixed on the sword, fear and desire vying within him.
"There is some risk involved. Do you understand?"
"About the—the virus?" Dead in three days, if you're lucky. Dion replied in a steady voice, "Yes, my lord. I understand."
"You don't have to do this, if you don't want to. You don't have to take the risk. Even though your parentage seems certain and you were given the rite of initiation, there remains, still, this final test." Sagan did not mention that he'd had Dr. Giesk run a blood sample. The boy was in no danger, none at all. His blood was pure. Or it was "tainted," depending on how one looked at it. This moment—though the boy would never realize it—was the true test.
"I know about the risk, my lord. I want to take it."
"Good." Lord Sagan's cool smile was hidden by the shadows of the helm. "I thought you would."
Maigrey sat in the bar, watching the light reflect off the bottles. She was glad they'd kept the bottles. There were more modern, convenient means of dispensing liquor available. Hell, almost any two-byte computer could mix an old-fashioned. But there was something about the bottles and about the bartender mixing his magic from the bottles that was comforting to her. Rather, Maigrey supposed, like the wizard from ages past, working in his laboratory, mixing the weird and the wonderful to weave his spells.
"Another?" the bartender asked, whisking away the soggy cocktail napkin, his hand hovering over the glass.
"Yes. But don't take that yet. One more swallow."
Maigrey drank it, returned the glass to the bar. The empty disappeared, a full one took its place. Magic. She stirred the ice cubes around and around, admiring the various colors of the liquors in the bottles—amber, bright green, gold, clear; the different shapes of the bottles . . .
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw flaming red-golden hair, the face white in the indistinct bluish, purplish lighting of the bar. She saw what he wore around his waist. He walked with self-conscious pride, somewhat awkwardly, his hand holding the scabbard as he moved through the lounge in an effort to keep it from banging into tables. Maigrey stared back into her glass and continued stirring the ice around and around.
"I've been looking all over for you, Lady Maigrey." The boy's voice was accusing.
"I knew where I was."
The young man was silent a moment, probably trying to figure out what she meant, most certainly trying to decide how to respond. "Lord Sagan's guards told me you were here."
"See? We knew where I was, then."
From his expression, Dion didn't see, not in the least. Maigrey smiled faintly. There was another pause, the young man waiting for her to say something.
"What are you drinking?" he asked finally, when she didn't.
"Vodka martini. Very dry. On the rocks. With olives. You've got to mention the olives specifically. If you don't, they stick a piece of lemon in it."
"Lord Sagan doesn't drink." Accusation had become reproof. The boy was sanctimonious as only youth can be when descrying the faults of their elders.
"I know. I do it for both of us. " Maigrey swallowed vodka. Holding the glass in her hand, she shook it gently, to hear the ice cubes clink against the sides. "Where'd you get the bloodsword?"
"Lord Sagan gave it to me." Dion flushed with pride. His right hand touched the hilt, somewhat gingerly.
Maigrey glanced at it, looked back into her drink. "It's Platus's, you know. I wish I could say he'd have wanted you to have it."
She heard the swift intake of breath. When she lifted her eyes and looked at the boy, she saw that he had gone white to the lips. Dion stared at her, his brilliant blue eyes, surrounded by white rims, glistening
with the shock.
"I'm sorry," Maigrey said, shrugging. Fishing the olive from her glass, she ate it, then carefully placed the toothpick on the bar in front of her. "I thought you knew."
"Damn it! How could I know? I never saw it, except for that . . . that night!" Dion's hands fumbled with the beckle of the sword belt. His fingers were numb and shaking and he couldn't unfasten it. Maigrey's fingers closed over his, suddenly, and he shivered at the chill touch.
"Don't take it off. I'm sorry, truly sorry." She looked at him earnestly. "It's right you should have it, right you should know how to use it. Only, remember what I said about the mind control. Be careful." Keeping hold of his right hand, she turned it palm up. Five puncture marks marred the skin. Swelling, they were beginning to turn an angry, fiery red. "He's using you, you know, Dion. He'll use you to gain what he wants, then he'll throw you away like so much rubbish. "
Dion snatched his hand away from her grasp. The boy's voice was hard and brittle. "It's a game two can play at, my lady. Or maybe three."
He glowered at her from beneath lowered brows. She'd hurt him, hurt him badly, and he had to strike back.
"Your arm ache?" Maigrey asked.
"No."
"It'll feel numb for several days, but the sensation won't be permanent. Next time you use the sword, it'll be easier."
"I know that. Lord Sagan told me."
"Ah, yes." Maigrey took a drink and swallowed. "'Satan was Christ's elder brother."'
"What?" Dion only half heard her.
"'Satan was Christ's elder brother.' Robertson P. Davies, Fifth Business. Twentieth century author."
The young man didn't understand. "How many of those have you had?"
"'How many of those have you had, my lady?'" Maigrey corrected reprovingly, lifting her chin, fixing him with an imperious gaze.
Her eyes were clear, Dion saw, and focused, though shadowed with indescribable sadness. The young man had the grace to be ashamed. "I'm sorry," he mumbled, ducking his head and flexing his hand. It hurt abominably. "My lady."
"It seems all we're doing is apologizing to each other. Forget what I said, Dion. I'm tired. I couldn't sleep. I keep seeing . . . them. The Corasians. And I don't know if I'm seeing them from the past or if I'm seeing them from now. Either way, it's awful." She shivered and shoved her empty glass forward "How many toothpicks do I have in front of me?"
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