The Lost King

by Margaret Weis

  Maigrey stared at him. The hope that had dawned in her eyes at his astonishing agreement faded like the twilight ar night's approach. She smiled wanly, looked down at her hands, twisting the handkerchief. "You always had the most subtle ways of letting me know I was being a fool. Why didn't you just slap me?"

  "Because I'd much rather do this." Dixter took her in his arms and kissed her. "I thought you knew he was plotting something," he whispered when he could breathe again. His lips brushed against her hair. "When you sent me the message about the human impersonator."

  "I did know," Maigrey said, her head drooping against his chest. "I just didn't know what. John, you're walking right into a trap!"

  "At least I'll walk into it with my eyes open. We don't have any choice, Maigrey. We all hang together or we hang separately. War makes strange bedfellows—"

  "What's this about bedfellows? Good thing I came along!" A grinning Tusk peered through the entryway in the wall. His face sobered. "Sorry, sir, but you told me to let you know when it was near time."

  "Yes, thank you, Tusca."

  "Please don't go!" Maigrey said, reaching out her hand to Tusk, who was about to discreetly remove himself.

  "I'll leave you two alone to . . . uh . . . say good-bye, my lady," the mercenary said, looking and feeling awkward.

  "We're not saying good-bye." Maigrey clasped her hands around John's arm. "It's too . . . final." She'd meant her words to be cheerful, lighthearted, but the circumstances of their last parting came back to her. Her voice faltered and she fell silent.

  Down below them, the hatch of the shuttlecraft swung open. The Warlord appeared in the entryway, looked up to where they were standing in the garden. Maigrey read impatience in every line of the tall, armored form.

  "I'll escort you back, my lady," the general said. He, too, had seen Sagan. Slowly, in no hurry, they walked out of the garden. "What was the decision of the officers, Tusk?"

  "It's up to you, sir. Whatever you say."

  Dixter nodded. His face was solemn and Maigrey, at his side, could not prevent a sigh. The general smiled down at her, squeezed her hand. "It'll be just like the old days."

  "Yes, Maigrey answered and glanced back at the dead garden.

  She turned away and the three of them entered the colonnade. "Speaking of old days," she continued with forced cheerfulness, "I want to say that meeting you, Mendaharin Tusca, has been a true pleasure. Your father was one of my closest friends, though he was several years older than I was—nearer my brother's age, I believe. I remember the day you were born. He'd gone home to be with your mother. He sent us a vid transmission from the hospital. He was holding you up for us to see. Your mouth was wide open, you were wrinkled up like a prune, your head was covered with black fuzz, and you were screaming so we couldn't hear a word Tusca said. But we didn't need to."

  Tusk walked along at her side, head bowed, his eyes on the ground.

  "We knew how he felt by the expression on his face. He loved you very much. I wish he could see you today. He'd be so proud of you!"

  The mercenary lifted his head. His black skin glistened with sweat. The dark brown eyes were shadowed, moody. "You think so?" He fingered the earring, as if it were irritating him. "I don't!"

  Maigrey caught back her glib reply, paused to consider her words. "Dion told me something about your life, Tusca—"

  "Tusk, my lady. Everyone calls me Tusk."

  "Tusk. Your father was a brave man, an honorable man. He was a gallant warrior, a skilled pilot. He was proud and independent—perhaps too independent. If he had a fault, it was that he lacked tact. He never learned that if your way to what you want is barred, there are generally paths to be found around the obstacle. Your father"—Maigrey smiled ruefully— "put his head down and charged. More than once, he came back with a cracked skull and a bloodied brow.

  "He fought with Sagan over battle plans and strategy, he fought with Platus over music. He and I fought over books." Her lips pursed. "He maintained Eldridge Cleaver was the greatest writer of the twentieth century! Eldridge Cleaver! Your father even fought the king himself, over his marriage outside the Blood Royal. Up there"—Maigrey glanced into the orange-clouded heavens—"I would guess he's probably fighting with God."

  "That was dear old dad," Tusk said, kicking at a loose fragment of rock at his feet.

  Maigrey stopped, laid her hand on his arm. "Tusk, don't you understand? He loved us, all of us." Her eye went involuntarily to the space shuttle, to the figure in golden armor, flaming in the sun. "He gave his life, rather than betray the secret he had vowed to guard. But not before he had passed on his most valuable possession—that secret—to the person he loved and trusted most. His son."

  Tusk kept his face averted.

  "Thank you for all you've done for Dion, Tusk. Your service to your king is not ended, however. I name you a Guardian, Mendaharin Tusca. I wish I had a starjewel to present to you, but for the time being you'll have to make do with one in your heart." Maigrey held out her hand. "Welcome to our ranks. God be with you."

  Tusk, dazed, allowed the woman to take his hand and shake it firmly. He couldn't match her strong grip; his bones and sinews and muscles were all tangled up and felt just the way the electrical wiring on his control panel looked.

  Dixter and Maigrey walked on, leaving Tusk standing in the shadows of the colonnade, trying to cram his insides back where they belonged.

  "What about Dion?" John Dixter asked.

  He and Maigrey had come to the head of the stairs. The Warlord, impatience radiating from him, stood at the bottom.

  Gathering up the folds of the blue dress in her hand so that she wouldn't trip over the hem, Maigrey began to slowly descend the stairs. Dixter kept fast hold of her, matching his pace to hers.

  "You know who and what the boy is?" Maigrey asked.

  "Yes," Dixter answered, his voice quiet, his eyes on the woman walking beside him, not on the figure blazing beneath them. "I saw him when he came back. More to the point, I saw him before he left."

  "You know, then, what Dion wants. You can guess how he means to get it."

  "If it doesn't get him first."

  Maigrey put her hand over her twitching lips, but it didn't work. She couldn't help herself and began to laugh. The sound—incongruous in the stern, forbidding surroundings— echoed off the rocks. The mercenaries poured out onto the colonnade, peered over the fortress walls. Sagan's head snapped up, his eyes glaring at her disapprovingly from the depths of the helm. Even John Dixter looked mildly astonished and somewhat concerned, and Maigrey did her best to bring her self back under control.

  "I'll leave with laughter between us," she said, starting to slip her hand out of John's grasp, but he held her tightly. His gaze went to the Warlord, who was approaching them.

  "I've just received a report," Sagan said. "The enemy is preparing to move. Our time grows short. Have you reached a decision, 'General'?"

  "I have," Dixter said, his expression and his voice cool and unperturbed. "We will join you. Allies under duress."

  "Excellent. Captain Williams will stay behind to coordinate details. I will be in contact when you are on Defiant, 'General' Dixter. Oh, and by the way, you might be interested to know that our ship's doctor, Dr. Giesk, has developed a remedy for space sickness."

  "Thank you, Lord Sagan," John Dixter said dryly.

  The Warlord remained standing at the foot of the stairs, waiting. A gust of wind whipped his red cloak around him, the sun glinting off the threads of gold embroidery.

  Stinging dust and her own hair blew in Maigrey's face, nearly blinding her. There was nothing more to say. This was only prolonging the pain. She started to go, but Dixter kept hold of her, turned her face to his. Reaching out his hand, he gently traced his fingers over the scar on her cheek.

  "I've had nightmares about that night, Maigrey. I'd see you lying there, torn and bleeding—" His face blanched; he cleared his throat of a sudden huskiness. "I used to pray to God to drive that memory f
rom my mind! He's answered my prayers, my lady. From now on, I'll see you smile, hear your laughter."

  His handkerchief was still in her hand—wet, tear-stained, crumpled. Maigrey tucked it carefully back into Dixter's pocket over his heart. Resting her hand there, she kissed his cheek and, turning, left him.

  Sagan, bowing, held out his arm.

  "My lady?"

  Maigrey laid her hand on his.

  "My lord."

  He led her back to the shuttlecraft. The mercenaries lined the walls of the fortress that could have halted any enemy except the enemy within. John Dixter stood on the stairs, watching. Maigrey did not look back.

  The sun had set. The shuttlecraft had turned on its running lights, they outshone the stars. In the hatchway stood Dion. The light streaming out behind him cast his shadow a vast distance, far longer than he was tall. He's answered my prayers.

  "God's answering somebody's prayers," Maigrey said, clinging tightly to Sagan's hand, night's rising wind threatening to blow her off balance. "I wish I knew whose!"

  Chapter Seven

  To war and arms I fly.

  Richard Lovelace, "To Lucasta, Going to the Wars"

  Tiny, puny, insignificant, the Warlord's fleet hung motionless in the vast darkness of space—a slender line of silken cobwebs stretched out to stop a juggernaut. No one doubted the enemy would endeavor to trundle over them. As Lord Sagan was overheard to tell Admiral Aks, President Robes had likely provided the Corasians with the fleet's coordinates. This grim joke was passed around the mess room, the gymnasium, and the lounges and became a favorite among the men. It was a subtle compliment to their prowess, as the Warlord had intended it to be. His crew knew now, to a man, who—after the Corasians—would be their next enemy.

  All was in readiness. The mercenaries—some five hundred with their own planes and additional manpower available to staff communications, computers, and fire and rescue units— had arrived on board Defiant, where they had been cordially welcomed by the energetic and intelligent Captain Williams. The mercenaries were given their own quarters in their own portion of the ship. They kept to themselves, the crew of Defiant kept to themselves, and the alliance was, so far, peaceful. General Dixter, sick as a dog, had locked himself in his quarters.

  The silken thread was stretched taut. Now there was nothing to do but wait.

  On board Phoenix, a woman clad in blue approached the golden double doors that barred the entry to the Warlord's private chambers. The captain of the centurions tensed; he had been warned of the Starlady's (as she was now known among the men) coming and knew what to do—or rather, what not to do—but she made him nervous. It was much like being in the presence of the Warlord.

  Accompanied by two guards who had been assigned to her on her return from Vangelis, Maigrey came to stand in front of the doors. Her gray eyes turned upon the captain.

  "I will speak with Lord Sagan."

  The captain went through the motions. "He's left orders not to be disturbed—"

  "Tell him Lady Maigrey Morianna will speak with him on a subject of importance. I ivill speak to him," Maigrey emphasized. She had not raised her voice, she had not lost her calm and poised demeanor. And she left no doubt that she would speak with the Warlord.

  The captain admitted defeat with a good grace. "My lord," he said into the commlink, "Lady Maigrey Morianna insists on being admitted into your presence."

  Maigrey's foot began to tap on the deck; her breath came and went a little faster. This show was being performed solely for her benefit. If the Warlord had truly left orders not to be disturbed, the captain would not have broken them had Death himself demanded admittance.

  "My orders stand, Captain," the Warlord's voice came over the commlink. "I am in conference. I will see no one."

  Maigrey relaxed, faced the double doors, and concentrated. Her face was smooth and impassive; she didn't blink or move a muscle. The captain watched, his nervousness increasing. Her guards exchanged doubtful glances. A strong and slightly sweet smell of burning wiring pervaded the corridor. A wisp of smoke curled out from behind the control panel in the wall. With a grinding sound that set the teeth on edge, the double doors wrenched apart.

  Maigrey had never touched them. Without a word, she stepped gracefully through them and walked into the Warlord's chambers.

  The captain, recovering himself, sprang in after her.

  "My lord! Forgive me, she—"

  Lord Sagan, seated at a desk with Admiral Aks, was perusing a computer screen. The Warlord did not turn his head or look around.

  "Very well, Captain, you are dismissed. Have a crew up here immediately to repair the door."

  "Yes, my lord."

  The captain retreated thankfully, glad to have come through the ordeal more or less unscathed. He had been warned what she might do and he had been told not to stop her. Looking at the damaged door, shaking his head in rueful awe, the captain wondered how in God's name he was going to explain this to maintenance.

  The Warlord, continuing to read, heard in front of him a brief scuffling sound. The woman's guards were attempting to pin her arms; one would have his hand positioned at the back of her neck, ready to snap it if she so much as breathed the wrong way.

  "You may relax, gentlemen," the Warlord said, turning a page. "If she wanted to, she could short-circuit your brain as she did the door and have you writhing on the floor at her feet. The lady intends me no harm. If I'm not mistaken, she is, in fact, here to beg."

  The centurions released their hold and fell back a pace, neither being sorry to do so. The woman's skin was ashen and chill to the touch. As one said later, he felt as if he'd been holding on to a corpse.

  Admiral Aks, sitting beside the Warlord, appeared extremely uncomfortable and even glanced involuntarily about the Warlord's chambers, hoping, perhaps, to find an exit that hadn't been marked.

  "Perhaps I should leave, my lord—"

  "No, Aks. This won't take long."

  The admiral scooted his chair back into a convenient shadow.

  Maigrey took a step forward, leaned her hands on the desk. The starjewel she wore around her neck sparkled at her breast. If the Warlord shifted his eyes, he must stare directly into the blindingly brilliant light.

  "Very well, Sagan, I will beg!" Maigrey's hands clenched to fists. "Give me a plane. Let me fly."

  The Warlord did not look at her. "No, my lady."

  Maigrey reached out across the desk, grasped the man's hands, and fell upon her knees before him. Admiral Aks, watching, awed, saw light glistening on the woman's pale hair. Her gray eyes deepened to blue, a crimson flush stained the pale skin. The -admiral was thankful from the bottom of his heart that he didn't have to answer, for—had she asked—he would have given her all he owned, his life and his soul in the bargain.

  "My lord, I'll swear whatever oath you require of me! I'll take whatever vow you want me to take! You need me, Sagan. I was the best!"

  This brought a reaction. The Warlord's eyebrow raised.

  "One of the best," Maigrey amended, the color deepening in her cheeks.

  She clung to his hands in supplication. The woman might, thought a dazzled Admiral Aks, have been pleading for her life instead of the opportunity to go out and die.

  "Please, my lord!"

  Sagan turned his head, shifted his eyes. They were cold and hard and dark as endless space. "What oath would you take that you have not broken before? No, my lady, I cannot trust you."

  He might well have shot her through the heart. The blood drained from her face; the scar was a livid streak across her cheek. Her eyes dilated; her lips were white. Her fingers on the Warlord's hands went limp, nerveless, and loosed their hold, sliding slowly across the table. Her body sank backward. Aks was halfway on his feet, thinking that the woman was dying.

  Maigrey remained on her knees, on the floor, her arms limp at her sides, ber head bowed.

  "Guards." The Warlord made a gesture and the centurions responded instantly, with alacrit
y, stepping up and saluting, fists over their hearts. "Escort the Lady Maigrey back to her room. She is, from now on, confined to quarters."

  The guards bent to take her arms and help her stand. Maigrey lifted her head, cast them each a glance that made them think twice about it, then rose slowly and haughtily to her feet. She bestowed on the Warlord one swift look, promising defiance, sharp and cold and glistening as ice, then turned and started to walk from the room.

  "Your lives are forfeit, gentlemen, if the lady escapes," Sagan added.

  "Yes, my lord," both guards said, saluting.

  Maigrey paused, and it seemed for a moment as if this last shaft had been the one that drew life's blood. Her head drooped, her shoulders slumped. Pride alone lifted her chin; she seemed determined not to give her enemy the satisfaction of watching her drop dead at his feet. Shaking back the pale hair from her face, she squared her shoulders and walked out of the Warlord's chambers, through the broken door, with firm, unfaltering steps, never once glancing back.

  Admiral Aks, finding the Warlord's stern and piercing gaze turned on him, shamefacedly dragged his chair up to the table and sat down.

  "I thought the lady might have . . . been taken ill, my lord."

  Sagan snorted and said nothing, resuming his reading.

  "My lord." Aks found his gaze drawn to the door that was standing ajar. The captain had posted his own body in front of it. Maintenance crews, in their dark blue uniforms, could be seen swarming around it like ants whose hill had been knocked down. "Confined to quarters. Is that wise? The brig—"

  "—could not hold her, Aks. But don't concern yourself. I've just bound her with chains of adamant. She'll never break them."

  "My lord?"

  "She would no more be responsible for the sacrifice of the lives of those two men than she would kill them with her own hands."

  "Ah, I see, my lord. Very good, my lord."

  Aks was supposed to be reading the same report Sagan was perusing—a report detailing everything known about the current strength of the enemy, garnered from the underground transmissions from Shelton's system. But the admiral slid about in his chair, fidgeting, until the Warlord, with an irritated sigh, looked at him.