Rebel Princess

by Bancroft, Blair

  Tal loosed the Steg-9 in his left holster. “That makes me feel so much better.”

  “You are S’sorrokan, not a whining infant. And sarcasm does not become you.”

  “Wonderful.” Tal groaned. “He’s talking to you now?” He tightened his grip on both Steg-9s.

  “We are to go in, but you must put the guns away—”

  “When Hell Nine takes a beauty prize!” Tal growled.

  Tal’s guns thudded into their holsters, leaving him staring at his empty hands. “Did you do that, or did he?”

  “I did. You need Jagan, and we’re both going to have to feign a little humility to do it.”

  “Is he listening to every word?”

  “It’s possible, but, frankly, I don’t think he’ll bother. Jagan will do as he pleases, and he doesn’t have to stoop to eavesdropping to make his decisions.”

  “Your thoughts or his?” Tal challenged.

  “Mine. But I’ve known him all my life . . . until eight years ago, that is. I have a good feel for how he thinks. At least when he’s not angry,” she added softly.

  They opened the warehouse door and walked in.

  Chapter 22

  An expansive circle of lanterns lit the ugly cavernous space inside the empty warehouse, revealing a glimpse of shadowed stone walls and stained faustone floor. Flickering candlelight cast four long shadows from the hooded and robed figures waiting inside the ring of lanterns. Nice setting, Kass had to admit. Jagan always did have a feel for ambiance.

  But he wasn’t one of the four. He was here—oh, yes, he was here—but she couldn’t feel where. Having led her to this spot, Jagan had cut his essence down to a cool glow. No anger, no greeting, no questions. Jagan was simply here. Which was more than annoying. No wonder she’d refused to marry him.

  “You, woman, may join us within the circle. Captain, you will remain outside.”

  The same obnoxious voice she’d quarreled with earlier. Kass’s temper flared. “By what right do you give me orders?” she demanded.

  The hooded figure jerked, a sound between a gasp and a groan escaping his lips. A general whoosh of breath from the others. Kass crossed her arms and allowed herself a small satisfied smile. Obviously, Jagan had not appreciated his minion’s tone either. Swift punishment for lack of respect to the Princess Royal.

  Kass stood, unmoving, chin up, while all five robed figures fell to their knees, tokens and charms jingling against the faustone floor, heads bowed in her direction. She didn’t dare look to see what Tal was making of all this. A boom like a well-controlled thunderclap, and the five acolytes were gone, a solitary figure in their place in the center of the ring. No hood, no robe, just a flowing black shirt of ancient design, tight-fitting black pants, and brightly polished black boots. A single heavy gold chain fell to midlevel on his chest, hanging from it a cut crystal of particular clarity and brilliance.

  Trust Jagan to make a grand entrance.

  He was four years her senior and eight years older than the last time she’d seen him, but little had changed. Always tall for a Psyclid, he had grown a bit more, his height almost matching Tal’s. But his build was still thin and wiry, his hair as black as her own, and almost as long. Matching deep-set eyes of midnight black blazed from a sculpted face that had deeper lines now, reminding her that Jagan Mondragon did have feelings. He wasn’t always cold and scary.

  His voice flat, aimed solely at her, Jagan said, “Everyone assumed you were dead. I didn’t fully believe it—I thought I would know, but . . .” He shrugged.

  Kass felt none of the anger she’d expected, only pain. Her planned greeting—a carefully crafted blend of the reunion of old friends and respect for his position—exploded into mist. This was Jagan, someone she’d known all her life. If he had suffered even an iota of what she’d suffered when she thought Tal dead . . .

  Kass fell back, as she always did, on the strict formal training of her childhood, wrapping herself in a cloak of regal formality. “It was a very close thing,” she told him, “and I feared you were dead as well. We may thank the goddess we have survived. And in my case, we must thank the captain here as well.

  “Jagan, this is Tal Rigel. He saved my life on Regula Prime. I spent four years in confinement before he could rescue me, but we’re both part of the rebellion now. Tal, Jagan Mondragon.”

  Black eyes snapped. A regal nod. “Rigel, our thanks. She is precious to us.” Kass could only hope Tal had sense enough to keep his mouth shut about Jagan’s use of the royal “we.”

  “I apologize for Tor,” Jagan added. “He is native to this hellish place, an excellent bodyguard but unaware of the niceties that exist on more . . . civilized planets. You may both step within the circle. I shall not bite.”

  Kass didn’t move. “Standing in a dark warehouse, inside or outside a circle, is not a good place for serious conversation. I would prefer to sit down with you, Jagan, and discuss why we have come so far to find you.”

  With a dramatic flare, Jagan Mondragon placed both hands over his heart. “Ah, you’ve come to tell me you have discovered you are my soulmate after all, and you can no longer live without me.”

  “Stop this nonsense, Jagan! You know quite well I have not changed my mind.”

  Jagan turned a bland face toward Tal. “Tell me, Captain, is she this difficult when she talks with you? Or is she, perhaps, more . . . accommodating?”

  “Believe me, Mondragon, if Kass weren’t so certain you’re the rebellion’s best hidden asset, I’d be delighted to leave you in this hellhole and get back to kicking the Empire’s ass.”

  “Ah . . . the voice of a leader,” Jagan purred, studying Tal with considerable interest. “And well done, midamara,” he said to Kass, “you have brought me S’sorrokan himself. A Fleet captain. Quelle surprise!”

  Before Kass could think of a suitable reply, Jagan scooped up one of the lanterns from the floor. “Follow me,” he said, and headed off into the gloom. “It wasn’t a magic circle,” he added over his shoulder, “just a bit of showmanship. You could have shot me anytime, Captain, inside or out of it.”

  Don’t tempt me. Kass heard the words loud and clear, even though Tal had only thought them. One of these days she was going to have to explain about telepathy between soulmates, but in the presence of the Sorcerer Prime was definitely not the right moment.

  They climbed a stone staircase to the second floor and entered a surprisingly pleasant room, the most spacious, comfortable-looking space Kass had yet seen on Hell Nine. Four people, now hoodless, jumped to their feet, each looking chagrined and wary. The oddments on their belts clanked and chimed.

  “Midamara,” Jagan said, “you may remember D’nim, my assistant since school days.”

  “Indeed.” Kass nodded to the thin-faced Psyclid who was half a head shorter than Jagan. She didn’t think she’d ever seen him smile. D’nim took his job as assistant to the Sorcerer Prime very seriously.

  “And this young sprig is T’mar,” Jagan continued. “He was probably still in the schoolroom when you deserted us for the Academy.”

  Again Kass nodded, her lips narrowing as Jagan introduced a young woman whose features were sharper than the Psyclid norm—narrow face, strong nose, high cheekbones, masses of dark brown curls and huge brown eyes outlined in traditional charcoal black. Kass might not want to marry Jagan, but she found it difficult to be more than cooly polite to his long-time mistress, however psychically gifted B’aela Flammia might be.

  Tal inclined his head in respectful greeting to Jagan’s entourage. “May I assume all three of you have special gifts?”

  “You may, Captain.” B’aela offered a smile that managed to be both smug and seductive.

  Stick with Jagan! This one’s mine. Kass caught a sparkle of amusement in B’aela’s eyes as she noted the warning before ducking her head and stepping back shoulder to shoulder with D’nim and T’mar.

  “And Tor you’ve met,” Jagan said, his voice going flat and cold. “Unfortunately, he was bo
rn on Folly and has no concept of manners, let alone the refined manners of Psyclid. But in a fight he could probably take on a roomful and win, so you could say he has his own set of assets.” Tor studied his boots, his huge hands fully occupied with cracking his knuckles.

  “And now,” Jagan snapped, “the lot of you, go to your rooms, and don’t put your ears to the door. Midamara, Captain, please be seated.”

  Robes swished as the four scurried off, the three men through one door, B’aela through a second door set into the same wall, probably Jagan’s. He had never believed that old tale about celibacy enhancing a sorcerer’s powers.

  “Now, Captain,” Jagan said, “explain to me why I should join the rebellion.”

  Tal’s surprise radiated through her. Kass opened her mouth to assert that she was the chosen negotiator, when Tal returned calmly, “Kiolani tells me you would be a great asset and I trust her judgment. Yet I must admit I am curious to know not only how you got away from Psyclid, but why you’ve hidden yourself in such a bleak and inaccessible spot as Bender’s Folly.”

  Jagan gazed at the wall behind Tal’s head, glanced down at his long fingers marked by a single talisman ring. “I chose Folly precisely for the reasons you just gave. It is about as far away as I could get, and it is bleak enough to punish my guilt over running away.”

  When he didn’t continue, Tal repeated his question. “But how did you get away? I was under the impression the Regulon invasion was a complete surprise.”

  Complete surprise. Kass could still hear her door slam open, see the three masked men storm into her room, their words ringing in her ears as if it were yesterday: Pack. No uniforms. Pilots you pissed off planning rape . . . spreadeagling you, naked, on the nymph statue in the fountain

  “I have many skills, Captain,” Jagan said, “including the gift of forewarning. Yet I did not distinguish myself in those last weeks before the invasion—details failed me when they were most needed. I urged our army to be on alert, I urged the royal family to flee, even if it was only to Blue Moon. But all I had were forebodings, nothing solid enough to make anyone pay attention.”

  “That can’t be true,” Kass countered. “Everyone respects your skills.”

  “Midamara, the Regulon Ambassador dined regularly at the palace. Invasion seemed impossible. Our thoughts were running toward the possibility of a natural disaster of some kind. As I have said—much as it pains me to admit it—I did not foresee what happened.”

  The Regulon ambassador dined . . . Torvik Vaden, it had to be, Kass thought. The diplomat who came to Psyclid after Kass left for the Academy. The Reg who seemed to have become a Psyclid sympathizer, as he now headed the Hierarchy on Blue Moon. Was it possible the invasion was as much a surprise to him as to the Psyclids? Or . . .

  “Then how did you get away?” This time Tal’s repetition was sharper.

  “It’s difficult to explain,” Jagan admitted. “Two days before Regulon ships filled our skies, I felt . . . a disturbance. Something had happened to L’ira—the one you call Kass. And even as I knew it, I knew I had to leave, that one of us must survive. So my friends and I slipped aboard a merchant ship and went where she took us. After that, we just kept going, farther and farther out. Tor joined us on Folly. It took us almost three years to get here, and for the last twelve months I’ve been moldering on this hunk of rock and wondering what the hell I’m doing here.”

  “I take it you’re not attached to the place?” Tal drawled.

  “If you’ll pardon the pun, Hell no!”

  Kass looked from Jagan to Tal and back again. In a sense, each had just met his match. Two powerful men shutting her out, going all man-talk, just when she’d expected to be the skillful negotiator, recruiting Jagan for the rebellion.

  “Are you thinking you’d prefer a cozy spot in the neutral zone, like Tatarus,” Tal asked, his tone bland, nonjudgmental, “or do you want to fight?”

  Jagan raised one thick black brow. “You didn’t come all this way so I could make a cozy new home on Tat.” He offered a taunting smile. “But then you’re assuming I’m a patriot who wants to fight Regulons instead of a jilted lover who would prefer to tear you limb from limb.”

  “I’m thinking that if we’re going to work together,” Tal responded with what Kass considered far too much self-control—couldn’t he have risen to the bait just a little?—“we have to put personal animosity aside.”

  “Ah, Captain, how remarkably noble.” Jagan’s penetrating gaze shifted to Kass. “So silent, midamara. Do you not object to your lovers fighting over you? Or perhaps to the possibility we will not fight over you?”

  “You are not my lover!”

  “I am your betrothed.”

  “Then call your circle back, and we will conduct a dissolution ceremony.”

  Jagan offered a pitying glance. “But, midamara, you know quite well only the ParaPrime can do that.”

  “Fine. Then I will break our engagement in a more—ah—unorthodox fashion.”

  Jagan stared. “You are not already his lover?”

  “No.” Kass clenched her fists and glared straight back.

  “Great goddess, are you mad? What I feel between you two—great rolling waves of passion—I assumed you’d been lovers for some time.”

  Kass subsided into her chair, noting Tal’s fingers relaxing their grip on the rifle by his side, even as his face burned red. “It’s extremely complicated,” she said slowly, struggling to find the right words. She could not offend Jagan, the asset. Nor could she lie. “It is true,” she added carefully, “that I have reason to believe Tal and I are destined to be together. Yet,” she continued in the measured tones of a woman who was trained to rule, “I have matured enough to regret, for the sake of our parents, that their plans for us will never materialize. And I am sincerely sorry if your interest in me was ever personal.”

  For a moment, Jagan studied her. “Only if I were the last man in the galaxy, isn’t that what you said?”

  “I fear the gene pool, Jagan, and so should you.”

  “And you’re just a wee bit afraid of me.”

  “That too,” Kass murmured.

  Jagan crossed his arms, stretched out his long legs. So afraid you are willing to pollute the gene pool of the Psyclid royal family with Reg blood?

  Oh, pok! Kass shot a glance at Tal, who was merely looking solemn. Thank the goddess! Evidently, Jagan had spoken only to her.

  “Business only, no nuances,” Kass declared, praying Tal didn’t question the seeming non sequitur. Jagan’s lips twitched but she felt his silent agreement, even though his eyes were black holes, revealing nothing.

  Kass stretched out her hand. Jagan touched his fingers to hers. As always, lightning flashed between them. “Will you and your friends come with us?” she intoned with the combined authority of a Psyclid high priestess and heir to the Psyclid throne. “Will you join the rebellion? Or if you do not care to join us for the long fight against the Empire, will you use your very special skills to help us free Psyclid?”

  The hairs on her arms stood on end, her whole body tingled. Not from love, but from power. Together, Jagan Mondragon and L’ira Orlondami could rock the galaxy, though never be joined in bed. What she had only sensed before, Kass now knew to be true. Sexual union between them could destroy them both.

  Fingers still touching, Jagan looked straight into her amber eyes and said, “You did not come all this way expecting me to say no.”

  Kass twisted her fingers, turning their touch into a handshake. The electricity abruptly cut to normal. His doing or hers? More likely, a mutual escape. “Listen to me, Jagan. When a Pybbite told me you were on Hell Nine, I feared we might be walking into a well-baited trap, but I also knew we had to chance it. The rebellion needs you, Jagan. Badly.”

  You may say no to me, L’ira, but I will never say no to you. This I vow.

  Jagan at his most dangerous when he was being nice. Then tell the captain yes. I wish it. And thank you.

  But s
omehow Tal knew. Perhaps he’d simply taken the measure of his rival and recognized he was no coward. Or else he was again catching Kass’s thoughts as she was occasionally catching his. He and Jagan exchanged a look, an infinitesimal nod, and it was done.

  “Will your friends join us?” Tal asked.

  “The Psyclids will. Tor, perhaps not.”

  “They can’t waver, Mondragon,” Tal cautioned. “Commitment is final. We’ll be returning to our home base and trust is essential. And I have to tell you I think the rebellion can do without your Folly errand boy.”

  “Tor’s been loyal, and good at his job. I must give him a choice.”

  “I doubt anyone raised on the standards of Bender’s Folly has any concept of trust or honor,” Tal countered.

  “But he does, Captain. That’s one of the things I can sense. If disloyalty occurs, I assure you I will take care of it long before it becomes a problem.”

  Man-talk again. Kass shivered. How strange it was that these two men seemed to understand each other. She should feel the joy of a mission accomplished, but it was all too precarius. The tensions between them could well explode before they were halfway home.

  And then there was B’aela. And Jordana Tegge, waiting on Tat.

  Kass slumped in her chair, thinking dour thoughts, while Jagan and his minions packed. As it turned out, all, including Tor, were determined to leave Hell Nine. Not that Kass could blame them. There had been a time when she’d followed Jagan around like an eager puppy, basking in his power, certain they would one day rule Psyclid together.

  When had the dazzle begun to fade? Was it cracked by teenage contrariness, the determination to rebel against anything her parents favored? Or had it happened earlier than that, during the few short weeks special envoy Admiral Vander Rigel came to court, bringing his family with him? And a twelve-year-old princess took one look at the admiral’s golden-haired son, just graduated from the Regulon Space Academy, and knew her life was changed forever.

  Not surprising, of course, that he didn’t remember her. He’d been swarmed, simply swarmed by every Psyclid female at court, including matrons twice his age. Tal Rigel had no time for twelve-year-olds, royal or not.