Armies Of Light And Dark

by Peter David

  sired to have no congress with us, we have had equally as much antipathy for them. As is always the case when a people draw inward, we have examined ourselves spiritually, as well as politically. We have sought answers, tried to determine just how and why such an unfortunate and vile fate as being bombed to the edge of oblivion had been visited upon us. There were some who said rather loudly, and quite frequently, that our willingness to consort with "lesser' races had brought the wrath of the Great Maker upon us. We had allowed ourselves to become weak, our purpose to become diluted. The fact that no one could quite agree on just what that purpose might be did not seem to deter the philosophy. The Alliance had assaulted us because it was the Great Makers wi 11. What an odd combination of paranoia and spiritual resignation that was. But there was another side to that reasoning. A side that said that, tt we were willing to rededicate ourselves to the worship of the Great Maker, the rebuilding of Centauri Prime, and an understanding that the only friend of Centauri could be other Centauri, why ... then it was possible that the Great Maker might smile upon us once more. In doing so, he might very well lead us to renewed greatness. Most importantly, he would smite our enemies with his wrath and with his mighty hand. it was partly to that end that Minister Durla installed his former teacher of religion, one Vallko by name, into the newly created position of minister of spirituality. It was a ludicrous concept for a post, I thought, and I was quite sure that there would be an outcry. I was correct. I am always correct. It is a curse I live under. Well ... one of many. Unfortunately, the outcry was one of uniform approval, and many were certain that a new and definitively positive step had been taken toward improving the lot of the poor, beleaguered residents of Centauri Prime. Minister Durla was perfectly willing to support Vallko's tenure by making attendance at spiritual meetings mandatory for the citizenry. But it was not necessary. Vattkos services are invariably packed, the temples creaking at the doors, or at least I am told that it is so. I have not attended any. Minister Durla scolds me for this. Let him. My response to him is that, If the Great Maker is everywhere, why is he any more at Minister Vallkos temple than in the throne room? Indeed, he has more reason to be in the throne room, for that is where the true power of Centauri Prime resides, and it is there that the Great Maker can and should have the most influence. It may be, however, that I say this with less forcefulness than I would like, probably because we both know it to be nonsense. The power lies elsewhere. Durla, of course, thinks that it lies with him, and I'm certain he thinks I am foolish enough to believe that it resides in my hands. It is, in fact, Durla who is the fool, but I am disinclined to inform him of his ... misapprehension. Still, Durla does what Durla will. He never misses one of Vallko's services, of course. He likely reasons that it is wise to be seen there, and in that he is quite possibly correct. By being perceived as a regular constituent of Vallko's, he allies himself-by extension-with the Supreme Being. It is and one that I can appreciate since it was the sort of thing I would once have done. After all, it was hardly long ago that I endeavored to make it appear as it I was receiving a blessing from the techno-mages. I did so to boost myself up the ladder of power. It is difficult for me to believe that I now look back upon those occasions as times of innocence. The news of the misfortune that befell Earth came during one of Vallko's spiritual gatherings. By all accounts, the place went mad with joy. It took long moments for Vallko to calm the assemblage, and his next words were extremely canny and well chosen. What he said was this: "It is not fit, or meet, or responsible for Centauri to rejoice in the misfortunes of others. Throughout our history, we have dealt with other races with compassion, always with compassion. Granted, there have been races that did not see that compassion for what it was, and rebelled. The Nam, naturally, come to mind. In dealing with them, however-in dealing with any who operated in a manner contrary to the interests of the great Centauri Republic-we did exactly what we had to do. No more and no less. "And we never, under any circumstances, took joy in the destruction of lives or the annihilation of others. Pride, yes, we took pride, and that is natural and to be expected, for the Great Maker wishes us to take pride in our accomplishments . When we perform an act of greatness, we are doing so in his name and are honoring him. "But simply taking pleasure in the pain and suffering of others ... that, my good friends, is not appropriate. "Instead ... we shall pray. And the prayer should continue for days, as many days as we of Centauri Prime wish to pursue it. For you see, when they assaulted us, the Alliance transgressed against the chosen people of the Great Maker. They angered the Great Maker. Now they have paid the price. We cannot and must not, of course, ask the Great Maker to relent in his anger against them, for who are we to question his will? He does what he must, as do we al I. So instead, my good, dear friends ... we will pray that the Great Maker gives guidance to the poor souls of Earth. That he makes them, and their allies, realize the error of their ways. For if they do, then the Great Maker will spare them the suffering that they will otherwise have to endure. In fact, he will be happy to spare them, for ultimately the Great Maker is a being of kindness ... as are we, for were we not made in his image? "Pray then, my friends. Pray in a loud and sustained manner. Raise your voices and make a joyful noise unto the Great Maker so that he will hear you and know that you are sincere." It was brilliant, the way he handled it, truly. As repulsive as I find those who manipulate the words and spirit of the Great Maker for their own ends, I must admit that people like Vallko have a style and ingenuity that I can only envy. Centauri Prime wanted to rejoice over the misfortune of the Humans. But the Humans still have many friends and staunch allies, none of whom would take kindly to the good people of Centauri Prime throwing a very loud, very raucous, and very premature celebration over the demise of everyone who had the misfortune to be stuck on the planet Earth when the Drakh virus was unleashed. So instead Vallko found a way for the Centauri to vent their sentiments without bringing the ill feelings-and possibly the wrath-of other races down upon us. The celebration would commence at Vallko~ direction, and it would be as boisterous as could be. However, for all intents and purposes it was being done, not out of a sense of celebration, but instead in the hopes that the Great Maker would provide succor to our former tormentors. Very crafty. Very devious. Very, very effective. There is, after all, a fine line that separates tragedy from debauchery. I should know. I have certainly crossed, and even erased, that line any number of times. Even now, I hear the "mourning" going on outside. The entire city is lit up and has been that way for days on end. I have no idea where the energy that my people display is coming from. Part of me wishes to wade into the revelry and tell them the truth. Oh, yes. Yes, I know the truth, for Shiv'kala has told me. That it was our workers, our excavators, who uncovered the the gate that, in turn, led the Drakh to the planet destroyer. Without that weapon at their disposal, they never would have made their attack upon the Earth. We, the proud Centauri, are responsible for the attempted destruction of the Humans. It was a retaliation, commenced because of the Drakh need for revenge--the Drakh wished to strike back at the Humans because of the outcome of the Shadow War. Yet the Shadows brought the darkness to Centauri Prime, a darkness that continues to this day, long after the last of the Shadows has gone If anything, we should be kissing the Humans ' feet and striving to find a way to help them in their search for a cure. Instead we hypocritically rejoice while pretending to be praying for their betterment and survival. Why Shiv'kala speaks to me of such things, I do not know. Perhaps he revels in my helplessness, wishing to drive home to me just how ineffective I am at such times. Perhaps he is simply a sadist. Perhaps it is another test. 1 tire of the of the tests. I fire of a great many things. Yet my fate, it I am to believe the dream that has me dying at the hands of of G'Kar, is at least another ten years away. I cannot go through that much time fatigued. I must find something to do. Senna still represents an interesting project. And Vir ... Vir ... I must find a way to bring him back. Of that, I am quite certain. Granted, his last time here was a disaster,
but I think he knows enough to keep his mouth shut and make no mention of Shiv'kala again. But how would I convince my captors that Vir should be allowed to return? And Timov. What of hen I have wondered from time to time in the past weeks whether I would hear from her again. A part of me hoped that she would somehow see through the charade. That she would realize the trumped-up charges were for her own good, and that 1 was desperate to get her off this world for her own safety. How foolish that sounds, as I write it here. How infinite is one's capacity for self-delusion. Timov has no reason to assume that my little endeavor was anything other than what it appeared on the surface. I am never going to see her again. Well ... it is probably for the best. Yes. Yes, it is. Two of my wives if I never see them again, that will be more than satisfactory . But Timov, I will miss. She, I should think, will likely not miss me, and for this I will not blame her. The celebrations-my pardon, the "prayers"-continue loudly and raucously outside. There appears to be no end to them. I shall not participate. I must remain aloof, above it all. I suppose, of course, that I could go to some insulated room, shut off from the boisterous sounds. But I cannot bring myself to do that. You see ... I still like the Human race, despite all that has happened. I believe that they will rise above this. In fact, I think they will surpass us. I see where the Centauri Republic is, and where the Humans are, and I see them as a star that is only just now beginning to truly burn. Our star, on the other hand ... is fading. Not that any of my people believe it, of course. Why should they? I do not want to believe it myself. I have a sense of it, though, perhaps because I see myself as the incarnation of the Centauri spirit. . . . and I can feel my own star, deep within me, beginning its own steady burnout. And still the the celebration continues. Would that I could walk among them and tell them that they are very likely extinct, that they simply do not yet know it. I cannot say this to them, however, for they will not wish to hear it and, truth to tel I, /do not wish to believe it. I hold out hope for my people, all the same, although I hold out even more hope for the Humans.

  chapter 5 Londo had discovered, over the years, that one gets into certain habits, particularly when one is emperor. So it came as something of a shock to him when his habitual pattern was rudely disrupted one morning when he discovered the abrupt absence of Dunseny. Dunseny had had the great honor of being Londo's personal servant, valet, and majordomo. He had been a retainer at the house of Mollari since the days of old, and had been with the family for as long as Londo could remember. He had first joined House Mollari when, of all things, Londo's father had won him in a rather fortunate hand of cards. They had not expected much of Dunseny, arriving in their service in such an odd and backhanded manner, but Londo's father had been pleasantly surprised. Dunseny, in fairly short order, had proven himself to be efficient, attentive, and completely trustworthy. Londo had been quite young when Dunseny first came aboard, and at the time Dunseny had seemed quite ancient to him. He was tall, soft-spoken, with piercing eyes that seemed to take in everything so that he could attend to whatever was needed as quickly and efficiently as possible. His hair, cut to a always wore a always wore a suit of black, buttoned all the way to the collar, with no other adornment . The emperor suspected that, were he able to step back in time, he would see that the Dunseny of those bygone years had actually been considerably younger than he recalled. Nevertheless, the illusion to Londo was that Dunseny had never aged. That, indeed, he bordered on the immortal. He had come into this world old, and would remain that way. . . well ... forever. For the first years of his reign, Londo had been content to let Dunseny remain at House Mollan, but every so often he had found himself requiring Dunseny's services as valet. He had come to realize that he h usted no one but the faithful retainer to attend to such things. Londo's requests, and thereafter demands, became so regular that Dunseny began- politely, but firmly-to complain. He pointed out that, despite appearances to the contrary, he was not getting any younger, and the running about between House Mollan and the royal palace was wearing on him somewhat. "Finally! A problem presented to me that is easily solved!" Londo slapped his hands together briskly as if he were about to deal out a deck of cards. Then he declared, "I shall bring you on as my full-time personal valet. You and your family will be given superb quarters here in the palace, and no strenuous commute will ever bother you again, yes? This is satisfactory? Or do you need to discuss it with your wife and children?" "My wife passed away of the Lung Blight that swept our city three years ago, Highness," said Dunseny calmly. "And my only son was killed during the assault on Centauri Prime by the Alliance." "Oh," Londo said faintly. He felt terrible, although for the life of him he couldn't quite figure out why. Perhaps it was because, in all this time, he had never even thought to ask Dunseny something as simple and polite as "How is your family?" Certainly, he had assumed, Dunseny would have told him. Instead he had carried on in his duties at the family house, and for Londo as needed. Londo cleared his throat and straightened his coat, although it hardly needed straightening. "That is ... a pity. You certainly have my regrets, Dunseny." "That means a good deal, Highness," Dunseny said with a carefully detached expression. It was impossible for Londo to tell whether Dunseny was being sarcastic. He decided to give the old man the benefit of the doubt. "So it is settled, then?" asked Londo. Dunseny bowed slightly. "How can I refuse he who wears the white?" And so Dunseny had come into Londo's full-time service, while Londo hired certain others, hand-picked by the reliable Dunseny himself, to run the family estate. When Londo awoke each morning, Dunseny was there to awaken him. He was there to lay out Londo's clothes, to prepare his bath, to handle his manicure, to oversee the tasting of the royal food-not that Dunseny handled that himself; that questionable honor went to another, a perpetually nervous individual named Frit. As time passed, Dunseny's responsibilities expanded until he was keeping the royal calendar and attending to the comings and goings of those who wished to see Londo at any given time of the day. Soon it became well known that, in order to see Londo, one had to go through Dunseny first. It wasn't as if Dunseny endeavored to limit access to Londo. Far from it. He simply organized the time of all petitioners, deciding who would take priority and determining what it was that Londo would find most important and worthy of being dealt with first. Invariably, Dunseny's judgment was right on target. It even caused a miniscandal when, on one or two occasions , Londo had actually turned to the old valet and asked him what he thought of a particular situation that had come before the throne. It would likely have engendered an even greater reaction had Dunseny not offered advice or observations that were accurate, just, and proper. It was difficult for anyone to become upset with him, and indeed Dunseny's popularity within some circles only served to benefit the emperor. So it was little wonder that Londo let out a most unemperorlike scream one morning when he was awakened by a gentle touch on his shoulder, but opened his eyes to see someone other than his faithful retainer. It was a young man, around seventeen or eighteen years of age. He wore black clothing, broken by a red sash, and his eyes glittered, unblinking, like some animal peering out appraisingly at him from the jungle. "Who are you!" Londo shouted. He half sat up in bed, a bit chagrined at the yelp he had emitted, but still determined to muster some of the dignity his high office afforded him. "What are you doing here?" "I am Throk," said the teen. "I serve Minister Lione as one of-" "Of the Prime Candidates, yes, yes." Londo gave an impatient wave. He was more than aware of who and what the Prime Candidates were. They were a youth group, in operation for five years now, answering to Chancellor Castig Lione and serving Centauri Prime in a variety of ways, a number of which served to make Londo quite a bit nervous. Then he rewound something through his head. His eyebrows knit in puzzlement. "Minister Lione? I thought he was Chancellor Lione. This is the same Lione, yes? Chancellor of development?" "The same," said Throk. "Since when did he a minister?" "Minister Durla o , appointment. Were you not consulted, Your High "No, Your Highness "Is there a problem w. . The question immedi2 He did not know wha onsulted." pointment, Your H
ighness?" K an alarm in Londo's head. .-fas doing there. He did not know where Dunseny wK. rie felt as if he was being pelted with information and being challenged to keep up. But the one thing he did know for certain was that he most definitely did not want to say precisely what was on his mind in the presence of this individual. This "Throk," this Prime Candidate , might as well have had Durla's head on his left shoulder and Lione's head on the right. "The only problem I have with it is one of protocol," Londo said coolly. "At the very least, I should be informed of such matters in an orderly fashion, so I am not left open to the possibility of committing some minor gaffe. How would it be if I addressed Minister Lione as Chancellor? Certainly that could make for a potentially embarrassing situation, yes?" "Yes. Absolutely, Your Highness." Throk's face remained utterly inscrutable. Londo reminded himself never to play cards with this young man. Then he further reminded himself that he had absolutely no idea what the young man was doing in his private chambers. "Where is Dunseny?" Londo asked. The slightest flickering of puzzlement danced across Throk's face. Londo couldn't tell whether what he saw, however briefly, in the teen's expression was a momentary loss of control, or else a carefully permitted "slip" so as to somehow ingratiate himself with the emperor. "I thought you knew, Your Highness." "Of course I know," Londo said. "I simply have this odd quirk. I enjoy having people tell me about matters with which I am already familiar. Again: Where is Dunseny?" "Dunseny informed Minister Durla that he wished to retire . That he was feeling his age and desired to slow down. Minister Durla consulted with Minister Lione and it was felt that from a security point of view, if nothing else- appointing a Prime Candidate as your new valet would be the best fit. I had the honor of being selected. Shall I draw your bath for you, Your Highness?" "I do not care," Londo said, "whether you draw a bath or draw a breath. Dunseny said nothing to me of retiring." Throk shrugged slightly. "Perhaps he was concerned that he would be letting you down, and could not bring himself to face you, Your Highness." "Perhaps." Londo, however, did not bother to speculate out loud on the other, more likely, "perhaps." Specifically, that "perhaps" Dunseny had been forced out for some reason. If that were the case, then Londo had every intention of doing something about it. He rose from the bed and said in a firm, commanding voice, "You may leave me, Throk." "Sir, if I have failed to satisfy you in some way as your valet. . ." "You have neither failed nor succeeded, for you have not been given the opportunity. There will be no decision in the matter until I have spoken with Dunseny." "But, Highness, Minister Lione was quite specific in his orders that---2' "Ahhhh," said Londo as he belted his robe tightly around him. "What a fast-rising inwvidual Lione is. Who would have thought that, in such a brief time, he would have ascended from chancellor to the ministry ... and now, who would have thought it possible! Castig Lione is now the emperor!" Tbrok looked puzzled once more, and this time it was clearly genuine. "No, Highness, you are the emperor," he said slowly, as if worried that Londo might have forgotten that. "You don't say!" said Londo, voice dripping with sarcasm. "For a moment I thought there was some confusion on the matter, what with your giving his orders priority over mine. Or perhaps you were simply confused over the matter, Throk? Could that be it?" Throk opened his mouth a moment, and then closed it. He nodded. "I thought it was. Now you will leave, unless you feel that further challenging of my wishes would be of benefit to your long-term health. For I assure you, Throk, I have executed men younger, handsomer, and far better connected than you. Admittedly, I have not killed a teenager in some time. But one teenager more or less . . ." and he shrugged his shoulders to indicate just how unimportant such a demise would be in the grand scheme of things. Throk needed no further hints. He departed the room. Londo, dressed in a hood and cloak that concealed his familiar visage, rapped firmly on the door of Dunseny's home. It was a small, unassuming domicile, which had been deeded over to Dunseny many years earlier by Londo's father, out of recognition for his faithful service. There was a pause, and Londo knocked again. This time he heard the shuffling of feet, the slow approach by a measured tread that he recognized with as much confidence as he would recognize his own voice. The door opened and Dunseny peered out. He looked slightly bewildered at first, but then his face cleared as recognition dawned. He bowed slightly. "Highness," he said. "In what capacity might I serve you this-" Londo made an impatient wave. "Do not stand on ceremony with me, Dunseny. We have known each other too long. To you, I am simply Londo, as will always be the case." "Very well, Londo." There was a pause, while the two men stood staring at each other, and then Londo said, "So? You leave me standing on the doorstep without being invited in? Is this how you treat your emperor?" His gaze flickered over Londo. "Not wearing the white. Incognito?" "In a manner of speaking. I will not ask again to be allowed into your home... a home my family has provided you with." "Yes, I know. Your generosity has always been unstinting." Still he did not move aside. "Dunseny," Londo said in a level tone, "what is transpiring here? I learn, thirdhand, that you desire to leave my service? Why? And why do we stand in this manner, as if I am an unwanted salesman?" "Because," Dunseny replied, "I have nothing to hide." Londo blinked in confusion. He had no idea what in the world Dunseny could possibly be talking about. And then, suddenly, like a lightning flash, it came to him. Someone, somewhere, was watching. Or else Dunseny had reason to believe that might be the case. By remaining outside, keeping themselves in plain view-with, perhaps, portable listening devices or even a passable lip reader in the vicinity-no one could possibly accuse Dunseny of anything. Dunseny clearly saw the understanding that flashed across Londo's face, for he nodded ever so subtly. Londo tried to glance around without turning his head, but he didn't spot anyone immediately. There were passersby in the street, none of whom seemed to be paying particular attention, unaware that the emperor-the personification of Centauri Prime- was standing among them. Yet spies might be anywhere around them. For that matter, there were other residences nearby, a number of them several stories high. Someone could be watching from any of those. Londo was certainly accustomed to the sensation of not being alone. With the keeper, the foul, one-eyed creature, forever bonded to him, Londo would never know solitude again. Still, this sensation of paranoia was an uncomfortable one. "It is my desire," Londo said slowly, "that you return to my employ as my valet." Dunseny spoke slowly and deliberately, as if the words had been meticulously rehearsed. He was an old man, yes, but he had never seemed old until that moment. "As I told Minister Durla ... I have served for many, many years, and I feel I need rest," ' km A you ill? Is there some infirmity?" "As I told Minister Durla ... I have served for many, many years, and I feel I need rest." He «MISSED PART» I told-" "Minister Durla, yes, yes, I know! You have made that abundantly clear!" "Londo . . ." And for the first time, there was a true hint of tragedy in his voice, "I am an old man. I have done my service . Do not ask of me more than I can give." "If you were threatened, I can. . ." "Protect me? If I were threatened .. and I do not claim that I was, I speak merely hypothetically ... are you saying that you could protect me, Londo, if I had been threatened?" His eyes seemed to drill deep into Londo's soul, and they both knew the answer even though Londo did not dare say it. Dunseny smiled sadly, and spoke words that shredded Londo with their simple truth: "I am not convinced you can even protect yourself." There it was. And the hell of it was, he was right. "I wish you all the luck in the world with your reign, Londo Mollari. You will have no stauncher supporter than I. But if it is all the same to you, I think it would be best if I supported you ... from a distance." The response was little more than a husky whisper. "Of course. It will be as you desire." Dunseny nodded in what was clearly gratitude. Londo stepped back and allowed the door to quietly shut. In the final analysis, he had indeed been little more than a salesman, trying to sell one old man on the notion that he was someone upon whom the old man could depend. As it turned out, he was not a particularly effective salesman at that. When the door to the emperor's inner chamber slid open, Senna was naturally expecting to see the emper
or within. So she blinked in surprise when she saw one of those disturbing members of the Prime Candidates standing in front of her. For his part, he studied her as if she were some sort of microscopic bacterium. No. No, there was more to it than that. He seemed to be appraising her, and even more than that-he appeared to like what he was seeing. Not surprising: her blue gown was richly embroidered with gold brocade, and displayed her shapely figure quite well. Her high cheekbones and level gaze gave her an almost regal bearing. She found that she wanted to leap out of her skin, considering it so unclean that she had no desire to sport it any longer, and run shrieking down the corridor. Fighting to retain what protocol would consider the correct and proper approach, Senna asked, "What are you doing here? This is the emperor's private residence." "I am Throk, his new valet." "Where is Dunseny?" she demanded. "Elsewhere." She arched a most unamused eyebrow. "I can see that you are going to be a fountain of information." "You are Senna, are you not?" he said after a moment. "Daughter of Lord Refa. The emperor plucked you off the streets and gave you a home here in the palace four or five years ago. Educated you, clothed you, fed you. He refers to you as `young lady' as if it were a title. You are, for all intents and purposes, the daughter he never had." Sarcastically, Senna patted her hands together in appreciation . "Quite a litany, Throk. And most unfair. You know much of me; I know nothing of you." "I am Throk, of the Prime Candidates. Beyond that, there is nothing of much relevance." Senna did not seem particularly inclined to accept that, however. "Oh, I don't know about that," she said, stepping closer to him. "How you came to be the emperor's personal valet, after Dunseny tended to him so well for so long, is certainly relevant." "You have a very regal bearing," he told her. It was not a comment that she expected. It flustered her momentarily, and that angered her in turn, because the last thing she wanted was to be at a loss for words in his presence. "Thank you," she said with clear resentment. "You are welcome." She turned, yet felt as if his stare was boring straight into the back of her head. There was something truly frightening in that gaze, she decided, something that threatened to draw her in. There was-and she thought she might have been imagining it-an incredible determination to serve his masters . And she sensed that he would be perfectly willing to go over, or through, anyone who stood in the way of his accomplishing that task. Something told her that the best way to handle Throk was to go on the offensive. Turning back, she looked straight into his eyes. Rather than stand there and be overwhelmed by that steady, unwavering gaze, she took the initiative. "How many of are you there?" she asked. "Just me," he said. "I mean, how many of the Prime Candidates are there?" "Ah. I am sorry. That information is restricted." "'Why?" Y~11Y? "Because Minister Lione has restricted it." "And why," she inquired, pushing steadily onward, "has Minister Lione restricted it?" "Because he has," came Throk's answer. Disturbingly, it seemed a perfectly lucid answer to him, even though Senna recognized it for the simplistic circular logic that it was. It was because it was because it was. Such a maddening mind-set could leave them there all day, going in circles. "I do not understand," she said, making one last effort, "the need for restriction. Has he given you any reason, beyond that he simply desires to?" "There is strength in numbers and strength in the element of surprise," he replied, startling her slightly that he was saying anything more on the subject. "To conceal the number of your troops gains you an advantage over those who would oppose you." "But Throk," she pointed out, sounding almost hurt that such a notion would be entertained, "do you consider me an enemy?" The fact that no answer was immediately forthcoming chilled her. For an instant he seemed like a beast of prey trying to decide whether to devour her. "I consider you Senna. That is all." "The lady Senna," she corrected him. At this, Throk looked only momentarily surprised. "I was unaware that the emperor had conferred a formal title upon you." "Neither the emperor nor I feel compelled to discuss all matters with everyone." "The emperor should not keep such secrets." "I do not consider it appropriate for you, Throk, to decide what counsel the emperor should and should not keep. Furthermore," and her eyes narrowed, "considering that I cannot even get a straight answer out of you regarding the population of your little club, I do not see that you have much right to complain about such matters as secrecy." He inclined his head slightly, and there was a mirthless smile there. "The lady Senna is quite correct" It was then that a familiar voice came from behind. "Well, well ... getting acquainted, are we?" Senna stiffened when she heard the tone in Londo's voice. There was a hint of joviality, but she instantly knew it to be false. She had been residing for too long in the palace to think otherwise. She turned to find the emperor walking toward them, and his stride was very slow and very measured. There was none of the bounce in his step that she saw when he was in a good mood. "Yes, Highness. Apparently we are," she said. "Throk here says that he is your new valet." There was a long pause from Londo and then, his voice sounding measurably forced, he said, "That is certainly my understanding, yes." "And Dunseny is. . . T' Londo permitted the question to hang there for a long moment , and then all he said was, "Not." Senna thought she caught, from the corner of her eye, a brief smile of satisfaction from Throk. "I have been taking a bit of a stroll around the palace, Throk," Londo said. He walked up to the young man, arms folded, and continued, "I have not done so in quite a while, you know. I have tended to stick to several small areas in which I feel ... more comfortable. But now I am taking a good look around, and you know what I am seeing? A goodly number of Prime Candidate uniforms with-and this is the most startling part-Prime Candidates inside them. Some of them even assuming positions of moderate authority, yes." He nodded to Senna. "You have noticed this too, have you, Senna?" Truthfully, Senna had not. Lately she had not been paying all that much attention to what went on around her. Senna was old enough that she had outgrown teachers. But the participation that women had in Centauri society was sufficiently limited that she hadn't really been allowed that much else to occupy her time. A girl her age was usually primarily interested in finding a husband and seeking social status, but such things were of no interest to Senna. So she had busied herself in continuing her studies, even though various scholars no longer sought to fill her head with knowledge. Instead she filled it herself, devouring every written word that she could get her hands on. Senna knew, in her hearts, that she was residing in a time of living history, so she felt compelled to familiarize herself as much as possible with all history that had gone before. She sought to delve into schools of thought, philosophies, all manner of things. Now she realized that this had occupied so much of her time that, over the past months, she had barely been aware of the world around her. She was also quickly realizing how unaccountably stupid such an attitude was. What good did it do her to learn of things past if she was remiss in applying her knowledge to things present. Still, one of the first rules of surviving in the present was never to let on what you did and didn't know, if you could help it. If knowledge was power, concealment of knowledge-or of the lack thereof-was more power. "Yes, Highness. I did notice the . . . proliferation of the Prime Candidates," she lied boldly. "And what do you make of that, eh?" "That it remains difficult to find good help." She wasn't quite certain what prompted such a snide retort, but it appeared to delight the emperor, who laughed raucously and declared, "Well said, Senna! Well said!" It did not, unsurprisingly, seem to amuse Throk in the slightest. Still, he was quite adept at keeping his feelings hidden. The only indication he gave that he had heard the comment at all was a slight thinning of his lips. "She is quite the wit, our young lady, is sh e not, Throk?" "If you say so, Your Highness," Throk said delicately. "How nice." Just as quickly as it had appeared, the humor vanished from Londo's tone, and he said with a dour harshness , "It is comforting to know that, in some instances, that which I say still carries weight. You may wait for me inside, Throk. I have some private business I wish to discuss with the lady Senna" "Highness, I. . ." Throk reflexively began to protest. But Londo did not tolerate it for so much as a microsecond . "It would seem to me, Thro
k," he said curtly, "that you do not have much future as an aide or valet if you cannot obey as simple an order as waiting in another room. Is it too taxing an ordeal for your Prime Candidate mind?" Throk opened his mouth to reply, and then clearly decided that not only was a reply unnecessary, but it also bordered on the unwise. So he simply turned and entered the chambers. The moment the doors slid shut, Senna turned to Londo and demanded, "Highness, are you actually going to let them get away with this?" "Get away with what?" inquired Londo with a surprisingly placid look. "People come and go. Dunseny chose to leave." "I don't believe that. Neither do you." He laughed softly. "Did you know that, not all that long ago in the grand scheme of things, the people of Centauri Prime did not believe that our world was round?" "Yes. I knew that." "Did not believing that make the world flat?" "No," she admitted, "but that is not the point. . ." "Actually, Senna ... it is." He placed a hand on her shoulder. "There are battles that can and should be fought, and there are battles that should not be. In the case of the former, let nothing stop you. In the case of the latter, let nothing start you." "Are you saying-" "I am saying that the world can be a greater classroom than anything in all the schooling you have received over the past few years. However, you have to pick and choose where the classrooms are, who the teachers are, and what lessons are worth learning. You understand, yes?" "I ... think so. You're saying. . . " But he raised a finger and put it to her lips. "Ah ah ah," he remonstrated her. "In the classroom of life, this is a silent quiz, not an oral examination. Any thoughts you might have, keep them to yourself. Learn by doing, not by speaking." Apparently having said everything he wanted to say, Londo nodded in satisfaction, seemingly to himself, then turned to head into his private chambers. And when the words came to her, they came out all in a rush. Though she would have done anything she could to stop them, she blurted out, "What are you afraid of?" She swore she could actually see the words departing her lips. She snatched for them, trying to retrieve them, but naturally that did no good. Londo turned again and fixed her with that steady, occasionally unblinking stare he often displayed. To her astonishment, he replied, "The dark." The simplicity of the answer caught her off guard, and then she said, "Well, Highness ... that's not all that surprising. To some degree, everyone is afraid of the dark." "True. Very true." He waggled a finger at her and told her, "But I am one of the few ... who knows exactly why everyone is afraid of the dark. The others do not. If they claim they do, they are either remarkable fools ... or remarkably knowledgeable. It will be for you to distinguish between the two." "Me?" She was obviously confused. "What about you?" "IT' He snorted. "I can barely distinguish between my various imperial vestments. How fortunate I am ... to have Tbrok here to make certain I do not commit some sort of social faux pas." "Yes. You have Throk," she said, unable to keep the bitterness out of her voice. "He is an available young man, Senna, with interesting prospects. You could do worse, you know." She couldn't quite believe what she was hearing. "Throk? You cannot be serious, Highness." "Have you given thought to it, Senna? It is through a husband , after all, that women gain power in our society . . . attaching themselves to a powerful mate. It would be expected of you by this age. It would not be thought of as at all odd, were you to begin walking the corridors of power while appearing eager and interested in all that goes on around you." "I'm not interested in gaining power, Your Highness." "How intriguing," he said slowly, with a smile. "Aside from the kitchen staff, you may be the only person in this entire palace who is not interested in that." He gave it a moment 's more consideration. "And I would not wager against the kitchen staff, now that I think about it." "I wish Timov was still here," Senna said. "As do L" She looked at him askance. "They say that she was plotting against you. Was it true?" "I do not know," he said, although she suspected from the quick flicker of regret in his eyes that he was not being entirely candid. "It is something of a shame, I suppose. To not be able to know who around you can be trusted." "You can trust me, Highness." "Yes," he said, but he sounded noncommittal. "There are many others, though. Throk, Durla, the other ministers. All with their own agendas, whispering among themselves, planning , discussing. Conversations to which I am not privy. It would be of great use ... to know what they were saying. A pity such things are not possible. Well, good evening to you then, young lady." "Good evening to you, Highness." She watched him enter his private chambers, the door sliding noiselessly shut behind him ... and she couldn't help but think that, somehow, he seemed a bit ... smaller ... somehow. It was not until later that evening, when Senna had gone to bed, that Londo's words came back to her and the true meaning became clear. She sat up abruptly and was about to run directly to the emperor, despite the lateness of the hour, to see whether she had properly understood his meaning. Then she realized that to do so would be to undercut what it was he was asking, presuming she fully understood what it was he was asking. So instead she contented herself to lie back down, knowing that it would be a sleepless night as her hearts pounded anxiously in her chest. Londo lay upon his bed, staring up at the ceiling into the darkness. As always, the darkness looked back at him. "You are there," he said abruptly. There was a stirring from the wall nearby, and one of the shadows separated from the rest. The Drakh called Shiv'kala slowly approached, and then stopped several feet away. "We are always here," he said. "I suspected as much. So ... how much influence did you have in this, eh?" "Influence?" Londo propped himself on one elbow. "If Dunseny had not gone quietly, would you have seen to it that he met with an accident ? Is that it?" Shiv'kala laughed. It was the single most chilling sound that he was capable of making. When Londo heard it, part of him wanted to crawl all the way back to infancy and hide in his mother's womb, and even there he would likely find no shelter. "The Drakh," Shiv'kala said, when his mirth had sufficiently passed, "care nothing about your hired help, Londo." "You did not position Throk to be your spy, then." "Do not be foolish. A keeper resides upon you. What further need have we for a spy?" "I do not know," Londo admitted. "I do not know why you do much of what you do. And if I try to shine light upon you, in my search for answers, your very nature absorbs it" "Your paranoia is flattering, but unnecessary . . ." "In this instance," Londo added. Shiv'kala paused only a moment, and then said, "Yes. In this instance. Minister Durla does not need our urging to keep an ever-closer eye on you." "Durla. Your favorite. Your cat's-paw. If he knew. . ." "If he knew ... it would be no different." "Then why not tell him?" asked Londo, with a hint of challenge in his voice. "If you wish." Londo was startled at that. "You will tell him? Tell him of the darkness that covers this world? Tell him that he is minister only because you put him into place? That he does not truly serve Centaun Prime, but rather the whims of the Drakh-servants for the most dangerous and evil beings the galaxy had ever known? That you even invade his dreams, sending him your bidding and allowing him to think that they are his notions?" "Absolutely," Shiv'kala confirmed. Then his voice dropped from its normal, gravelly tone to just above a whisper. "And then . . . I will tell him of you. Of all that you have done ... and will do. Of how he, Durla, has at least some semblance of free will ... whereas you, monitored by the keeper, have none. That you are both the most powerful and the most unpotent man on all of Centauri Prime. All this will I tell him. And every time he looks at you, you will know ... that he knows. He will know you for the wretched thing that you are. Is that... what you desire?" Londo said nothing. Indeed, what was there to say? "Do you see," Shiv'kala told him, "how I protect you from yourself, Londo? Someday ... you will thank me." "Someday. . . I will kill you," replied Londo. "It is good to want things," Shiv'kala said. The door hissed open and Londo sat up, blinking in the light that was flooding in from the hallway. Throk was standing there, silhouetted in the brightness. "I thought I heard you talking, Highness. Is there an intruder?" Londo half twisted to look behind himself. The area where Shiv'kala had been standing was completely illuminated by the corridor lighting, and there was no sign that the Drakh had ever been there at all. "I am ... simply talking to myself,"
said Londo. "It sounded as if you were having an argument, Highness." "I was. I suppose"-he sighed-"that is because I do not like myself all that much." He hesitated, and then said, "Were you standing outside that door this entire time, Throk?" "Yes, Highness." "And you did that ... why?" "In case I was needed, Highness." And after he dismissed the Prime Candidate for the remainder of the night, he tried to determine who filled him with a greater sense of forebod ing. Shiv'kala ... or Throk.