Authors: Margaret Weis
"Your
Majesty," Admiral Aks interrupted, his face excited, inflamed.
"Lord Sagan's shuttle has just been reported coming out of
hyperspace!"
All looked at
each other, doubtful of believing, wondering if this was good news or
bad. Dion almost heaved a relieved sigh, caught himself just in time.
"Surely the
Republic's fleet must have recognized the shuttle, Admiral. Is his
lordship under attack?"
"I don't
believe so, sire. If you'll excuse me—" Admiral Aks turned
to receive a report. "It appears, Your Majesty, that Lord Sagan
was aware of the presence of enemy forces prior to making the Jump.
He waited until the last possible moment before coming out of the
Lane, which put him well out of range of General Pang's ships.
Several short-range Scimitars flew to intercept, but he outmaneuvered
them and is now safely within our own perimeter. The shuttle will be
landing momentarily. "
"Have you
spoken to Lord Sagan?"
"Certainly
not, Your Majesty." The admiral's tone was faintly rebuking. "We
are under the guns of the enemy."
"Yes, of
course. I forgot." Dion paused, considering. "I'll meet
Lord Sagan in the docking bay. Join us there, Admiral. We can waste
no time in deciding what to do."
"Yes, Your
Majesty. I quite agree, Your Majesty!"
The admiral's
image faded abruptly from the screen.
Dion left the
room in haste. Tusk, Nola, and Dixter followed more slowly.
"Jeez! I
never thought I'd be glad to see Derek Sagan." Tusk tugged
thoughtfully at the small silver star he wore in his left ear.
"We haven't
seen him yet, Tusk," said John Dixter. "We haven't seen him
yet."
Dion waited with
ill-concealed impatience for the interminably slow docking bay doors
to shut, and air rush in to fill the vacuum. Admiral Aks stood at his
side, mopping his brow with a handkerchief. The others present nearly
filled the remainder of the small ready room. Dixter's shrewd eyes
were narrowed, their gaze fixed on the Warlord's shuttle, as if
certain sums in his mind were not adding up.
The red warning
light flashed off, the door to the ready room unsealed. Dion slammed
his hand on the control, shot through the door before it was more
than half-open. Admiral Aks did not lag far behind.
The young man
walked swiftly, but proudly, head held high, hps tightly compressed.
He was angry, and he told himself he was angry at Sagan. The Warlord
had behaved in a cavalier manner, shrugging off responsibility,
rushing off recklessly to God knows where. In reality—a reality
Dion refused to admit—he was angry at himself for knowing
relief at the Warlord's return.
The
shuttlecraft's hatch opened. The Honor Guard, led by Agis, descended,
formed a double line on the deck, came to attention, fists over their
hearts in salute. Dion halted near the head of the line of men, some
distance from the shuttle. He held himself stiffly, with dignity.
A figure
appeared in the opening in the shuttle's hull. It was clad in armor,
but that armor was silver, not gold. It stood tall and straight, but
not nearly as tall as the Warlord. A blue cape, not a red one, hung
from die figure's gleaming, armor-covered shoulders.
Dion's anger was
sucked out of him, like the air out of an air lock when the docking
bay doors were opened. Astonishment and perplexity rushed in to fill
the vacuum. He recognized the figure ... or thought he did.
"Lady
Maigrey!"
Behind him, he
heard Admiral Aks gasp.
She removed her
helm, placed it in the crook of her arm in correct military fashion,
and walked between the rows of centurions. She faced Dion, her gray
eyes fixed on his. Yet, still, he wasn't certain he knew her.
The face was the
face he remembered, the pale hair tied in braids and wound around her
head to fit neatly beneath the silver helm, the scar slanted down her
right cheek, slightly twisting one corner of mouth. Her physical
presence was the same, but Dion had the strange feeling he might have
been looking at a likeness carved in cold stone. There was no life,
no warmth. A chill flowed from her reminiscent of the black void from
which she'd come.
She halted
before him, bowed low, gracefully, sinking down on one knee, her head
bent. The folds of the blue cape fell around her.
"Lady
Maigrey," said Dion again. "I—Where—"
Maigrey lifted
her head, the expression in the gray eyes stopped the words on the
young man's lips. She remained kneeling, glanced downward swiftly.
The folds of the cape stirred. Dion shifted his gaze.
In Maigrey's
left hand, concealed beneath the cape from all eyes except his, she
held a bloodsword. Not her own. Her own was buckled around her waist.
Dion recognized the sword, knew to whom it belonged. He caught his
breath.
Maigrey rose to
her feet. "Your Majesty," she said quietly, hiding the
sword from view as she stood up, "we must talk."
The small group,
accompanied by the admiral and Captain Williams, returned to the War
Council Room. Dion had, while proceeding through the ship, kept his
composure, not allowed his disappointment or his mounting anxiety to
show in his face or his attitude while in view of the crew. Once
inside the room, however, he gave way to his frustration.
"You know
where Sagan is, my lady?"
"Yes,
sire."
"But you
refuse to tell me?"
Maigrey sighed.
This was the fifth time he'd asked.
"I cannot,
Your Majesty. It isn't my secret."
"Lady
Maigrey isn't one of the enemy, Your Majesty," General Dixter
said gently.
Dion felt his
skin burn. "I'm sorry, my lady." He turned away, walked
over to stare out the viewscreen.
Maigrey inclined
her head slightly in acknowledgment. She was pale and cold,
untouchable, unapproachable. The jagged scar, pulsing with a faint
infusion of blood beneath the skin, seemed, oddly, the only living
part of her.
She looked at no
one else gathered around the conference table, but kept the gray eyes
fixed on Dion or occasionally shifted her gaze to deepspace. At such
times, she would lose track of the conversation, blink when anyone
spoke to her, and seem to return to them from a long and fruitless—to
judge by her wan expression—journey.
Captain Williams
rose to his feet, leaned toward her over the table. "But, Lady
Maigrey, it seems to me vital that we get in touch with Lord Sagan!"
"I most
strongly agree with the captain," interjected Admiral Aks,
having recourse to the handkerchief again. "This is an
emergency, Lady Maigrey. A situation my lord could not have possibly
foreseen when he left. We must know his orders—"
"These are
his orders," interrupted Maigrey coldly. "I am in command."
A momentary
silence. Dion looked around at her. Tusk cast a startled glance at
Dixter, who became exceedingly grave. The silence was broken by
Admiral Aks.
"I beg your
pardon, Lady Morianna. I do not mean to imply that you are lying, but
I would appreciate seeing some token of my lord's authority."
Maigrey
wordlessly reached her hand beneath the blue cloak. Drawing out a
bloodsword, she laid it upon the table, lowering it gently, not
making a sound.
Aks stared at
the sword, eyes bulging. "My lord is dead!" he cried in
hollow tones, pushing himself away from the table, staggering to his
feet.
"No, he is
not!" Maigrey returned, her voice sharp, too sharp, her response
too quick. She drew a deep breath, let it out before she spoke.
"Understand this, all of you. Derek Sagan is gone. He has placed
me in command. He has given me access to his quarters, he has given
me the code to unlock his computer files, including those that are
classified.
"I did not
ask for, I do not want this responsibility, Your Majesty."
Maigrey shifted her gaze to Dion. "But I had no choice. No
choice," she repeated softly, bitterness tinging her voice.
Her gray eyes
were dark, no color in them, no color in her voice or anywhere about
her. "This may be negative consolation, Your Majesty, but I can
tell you this much—even if you knew where my lord was, you
could not communicate with him." Her fingers absently worked the
leather of the sword belt, caressed it, dug into it.
Admiral Aks
subsided slowly back into his seat.
"Now, Your
Majesty," Maigrey continued crisply, her hands leaving the
sword, fingers clasping together on the table, "I would
appreciate an updated report on the situation."
"Tusk, go
ahead," Dion ordered.
Turning his back
on them, he returned to staring moodily out the viewscreen. The ships
of the Galactic Democratic Republic crawled among the stars like
small annoying spiders. He heard Tusk's voice in the background,
going over what had happened, but the king wasn't listening to him.
Wait . . .
counseled the voice inside him. And Dion was at last beginning to
understand why.
"And that's
the story, your ladyship," Tusk concluded. "General Dixter
doesn't think it's any coincidence that Robes chose to pull this
stunt the moment Sagan's . . . er . . . back was turned, so to
speak."
Dion glanced
around, saw the mercenary reclining in his chair, frowning at the toe
of his boot.
"I believe
that General Dixter is correct," said Maigrey. She was keeping
her face averted from the general, though he had several times
attempted to catch her eye. "I am certain Robes took advantage
of the opportunity. In fact, it may even be worse than that."
So I'm right,
Dion thought. He was astonished at his calm.
A terrible calm,
he was almost light-headed. He was reminded forcibly of the time he'd
killed those men on
Defiant
, or when he'd held Sagan's life in
his hands . . .
Silence again.
Uncomfortable, ominous, menacing. Maigrey stirred, smoothed back a
lock of hair that had straggled out from her braid, then spread her
hands flat upon the table. For the first time, she looked around at
each of them, gathering them to her.
"You think
I understand more about what's going on than the rest of you. But I
don't, not really. We know why Robes's has done this: to discredit
Dion and the Warlord. We know the President's chosen this particular
time to act because his spies informed him that Sagan was not around
to defend himself against these charges. Not that my lord would have
done so, in any case. What we don't understand—what I don't
understand—is what Robes is hoping to gain from all this."
"Simple."
Tusk shrugged. "He's trying to goad us into war. And I say we
give it to him!"
"I agree,"
said Admiral Aks. "Citizen General Pang has threatened to board
this ship in forty-eight hours. Make that forty-four hours now. That
would be a disgrace, an affront to Lord Sagan . . . and to His
Majesty," the admiral added hastily, as an afterthought. "I
would blow this ship up first!"
"And I
would be the one to press the button, Admiral," said Maigrey.
"But hopefully there are other alternatives."
Dion felt her
eyes upon him. Hands clasped behind his back, he had turned again to
stare unseeing out the view-screen.
"There
are
other alternatives, my lady." Aks was holding forth
eagerly. "We send for Rykilth and DiLuna. Their fleets join with
ours, we surround Pang's forces and we—"
"—start
a civil war. Is that what we want?" General Dixter argued.
"Listen, Admiral, I've fought in countless civil wars in my time
and I've never yet seen a winner. A victor—yes. But a
winner—no."
My throne
smeared with the blood of my subjects, Dion reflected, watching the
tiny, gleaming white dots of the spaceplanes move as close as either
side dared, harassing, tempting, luring the opponent to make a
mistake. I would rule a kingdom forever divided; steel and fear the
glue holding it together.
"Then what
do you suggest we do, General Dixter?" Captain Williams demanded
acidly.
"Beats the
hell out of me," Dixter replied.
"Bah!"
Aks exploded. "No wonder you were never more than a
money-grubbing mercenary. What amazes me is how you managed to attain
the rank of general, even in the Royal Army. But, then, it was always
well known that you had influential friends. . . ." He gazed
pointedly at Maigrey.
Tusk was on his
feet, fist clenched. "You goddam—"
"That will
do, Tusk," Dixter said firmly. "Admiral Aks, I don't care
what you say about me, but you owe the Lady Maigrey—"
"It seems
to me," said Dion, turning abruptly, facing them, his voice
cutting cold and sharp through the clamor, "that there is one
point you have all overlooked. Admiral, General, Major Tusca . . . if
you would all resume your seats."
Another moment's
tense silence. Dion's eyes met and held the defiant, anger-filled
glares. One by one, he stared them down. Chairs scraped, feet
shuffled, places were resumed, not without some muttering and
clearing of throats and sidelong glances that promised the
hostilities were not ended, merely deferred.
Maigrey had
neither moved nor spoken. Dion wondered if she even knew what had
been said. She sat staring at the bloodsword and he realized,
suddenly, that she was far away from them, far away from him.
She, too, had
left him, but he'd known that a long time ago.
"Forty-eight
hours," Dion said. "Why forty-eight hours? Lord Sagan's an
accused murderer. What other murderer is given so much as forty-eight
seconds to turn himself in? Why didn't Robes order Sagan arrested
immediately? Why doesn't Pang force this ship to halt and board it
this minute?"
Silence again;
this time he could see everyone considering, swallowing, digesting
the premise. He could tell, by the sudden grimaces, that they were
beginning to understand. The taste it left in the mouth was bitter.