Authors: Margaret Weis
It seemed she
understood. Her eyes lowered, long lashes brushed against flushed
cheeks. Her head bowed. He could see that the hair, which he had
thought was silver, was really a mixture of iridescent white and
ash-blond and brown. It was clipped short, probably not to get in her
way when hunting. He imagined pressing her head to his chest, running
his hand through her hair, ruffling it with his fingers. The burning
ache in his throat nearly choked him.
Suddenly, she
pulled away from him, ducked around him, behind him. "I have to
get the fish."
Dion wasn't
sorry to let her go. He felt the need to catch his breath and realign
the ground beneath his feet.
She retrieved
the fish, flopping about wetly on the stringer. "Hold this a
minute," she said, handing it to Dion. Vanishing into the woods,
she returned, carrying a leather pack and several long, slender poles
tipped with iron points. She slung the pack over her shoulder, hefted
the poles, and reached out a hand for the fish.
"No,no,"
Dion protested. "I'll carry these."
"Are you
sure?"
He noticed then
that he was holding the wriggling, gasping, slimy creatures at arm's
length, his nose wrinkling at the smell.
"I'm sure.
I should do something to make amends for ruining your fishing. But
don't you think you should take your jacket back?" he added,
looking again at her bare arms, the loose-fitting fur vest. She had
turned sideways to him and he could see, through the V-necked
opening, the swelling roundness of her small, firm breasts.
"Nonsense!"
she said crisply. "You're the one who's cold. I'm not. You've
gone all gooseflesh."
Dion could have
said that it wasn't the cold that made him shiver, but he thought it
best to keep quiet. They left the shoreline, moved into the woods,
and struck a path that ran around the lake, a trail worn and trodden
by the feet of innumerable Olefskys. The young woman walked like a
man— straight-hipped, taking long strides.
Encumbered by
the fish, not knowing the path, Dion had trouble keeping up with her.
He fell into a hole. She reached out a hand to catch hold of him,
steady him, and he noticed, suddenly, that she was walking on his
left-hand side, his shield side, and he knew then where he'd seen
those golden eyes.
"Are you
all right?" she asked him, pausing, alarmed. "You didn't
twist your ankle? I should have carried the fish—"
"I'm fine!"
he told her, trying to calm the blood pulsing in his temples. He
shook off her hand, irrationally angry, wishing she'd stop treating
him like a child. "And I'll carry the damn fish!"
The silence grew
between them like an ugly bramble bush, prickling with thorns. Each
cast furtive, sidelong glances at the other when they thought the
other wasn't looking. When their eyes accidentally met, each looked
hurriedly and uncomfortably away. They continued walking in silence
almost halfway around the lake. The light in the sky had dimmed to a
soft, subdued afterglow. Dusk shadowed the woods.
"We won't
reach home before darkness falls," said the young woman,
stopping to glance around her, "and I didn't bring a lantern.
But we'll be able to see the castle lights. They will guide us."
"I think I
have found the light to guide me," said Dion softly, moving to
stand beside her, thinking regretfully how difficult it was to be
romantic when holding a stringer of twenty dead or dying fish.
The young woman
at first didn't understand his meaning, was slightly puzzled, as if
she thought he might pull a flaming torch out of his pocket. He
looked at her intently, however, again letting his eyes speak for his
heart.
Her face
flushed. She lowered her head, but she kept near him. Together, their
silence now warm and companionable, they walked slowly down the path.
"Your name
is Dion," she said, almost shyly. "Is that what everyone
calls you all the time?"
"Yes,"
said Dion, shrugging. "Don't they call you M-Maigrey?" It
was difficult to say the name in reference to this woman. It didn't
fit, carried with it too much pain.
"No. Only
on my nameday, and then I think it makes my father and mother sad. I
am called by my second name, Kamil. You may call me that, if you
like."
"It's a
beautiful name, Kamil. And you call me Dion."
"I will . .
. Dion. And I think, since you don't know the way, that you should
walk closer to me."
"Maybe I
should hold your hand," suggested Dion, and thought it suddenly
quite charming to be treated like a child. "So that I don't get
lost."
They moved
nearer, fumbling in the darkness until their hands met and fingers
twined together, clasping each other firmly.
Night's shadows
wrapped around the tree trunks, obscured the path, forced them to
walk slower, take their time. It would have been dangerous to hurry.
All too soon, however, the trees gave way to rolling hills and they
could see the castle, far above them. Light streamed out the windows,
setting the green grass ablaze, welcoming them home.
The deep,
unutterable woe
Which none save
exiles feel. W. E. Aytoun,
The Island of the Scots
Contrary to the
more sensational reports of the vidmags, Hell's Outpost acquired its
name from being the last inhabited planet encountered before entering
the Lane that led to the Corasian galaxy, not because it was decadent
or sin-ridden or any of the other attributes popularly attributed to
Lucifer's domicile. Those who had the leisure and time and money to
spend on sin traveled to Laskar or any of a thousand other places
willing and able to provide it. Those who traveled to Hell's Outpost
could not afford the luxury of leisure—their time was generally
running out—and they came to find money, not to spend it.
Hell's Outpost
was a quiet place, businesslike, reserved, and more secret than the
dead. The planet was, in actuality, not a planet at all, but a moon
that revolved around a nondescript planet that had no name. The
moon's surface was gray, bleak, barren, half of it baking in the
light of the sun, the other half frozen and dark. Its one town,
located on the sunny side, consisted of innumerable geodesic domes of
various sizes, depending on their use, all arranged beneath one
gigantic dome with its own artificial atmosphere.
Maigrey located
the domed town, then circled the moon while Agis ran checks on the
various spacecraft parked on the ground before making preparations to
land. No government challenged their approach, no control tower
issued coordinates and guided them safely. In landing, as in
everything else on Hell's Outpost, you were on your own.
It took some
time for the three to outfit themselves in the spacesuits that would
be needed to walk from the plane to the dome. Or rather, it took some
time for Agis and Maigrey to outfit Daniel in his suit. The priest
had worn a spacesuit only a few times prior to this, and that had
been during emergency evac drills held at intervals on
Phoenix.
He had always thought he was putting it on wrong, but no one had ever
bothered to show him how to put it on right.
"Perhaps
Broth ... I mean Daniel . . . should stay behind," Agis said to
Maigrey in a low tone as they worked together to adjust the priest's
gravity boots.
"I thought
about it," Maigrey whispered back, tugging at the straps. "But
he ought to see and hear firsthand what he's getting himself into."
"What if he
wants out, my lady? We can't very well leave him here."
"He won't,
Agis. Make up your mind to that," said Maigrey. "But I want
him walking ahead with his eyes open, knowing what to expect. Like it
or not, my friend, he's one of us now."
"What will
he
think?" Agis jerked his head in the general direction of
the junker plane parked next to theirs.
Examining the
volksroeket through her viewscreen on landing, Maigrey had noted with
approval and some amusement the various methods the half-breed had
used to camouflage his innocent-looking volksrocket's true deadly
capabilities.
"Who knows
what he thinks about anything," Maigrey muttered, standing up.
"There, Broth—Dan—Oh, the hell with it!" she
said to Agis. "Let's introduce him as Brother Daniel. We both
keep calling him that. One of us is bound to slip, and considering
his cover story, it makes sense anyway."
Agis nodded.
Brother Daniel,
unaccustomed to the grav boots, clomped his way clumsily back and
forth across the deck, attempting to grow used to the strange
sensation of walking when it felt as if his feet were glued to the
ground. Maigrey watched him a moment, started to make a helpful
suggestion, decided it might simply confuse him, and turned back to
the business at hand. She checked—again—the power supply
of the blood-sword she wore at her waist, checked to see that she had
the rest of the equipment she would need while on the Outpost.
"Lasgun?"
Agis offered, holding up one for her inspection.
Maigrey
considered. The bloodsword was the best close-range weapon ever
developed. It could cut through a steel beam with as much ease as it
could slice through a man's flesh. In addition, it gave the Blood
Royal the ability to exert a powerful charismatic influence over any
mortal, with the exception of the extremely strong-willed or another
member of Blood Royal. The bloodsword was not designed, however, to
be used in a laser-blasting firefight.
But then,
thought Maigrey, neither am I. The Blood Royal were never intended to
find themselves in such a menial situation. Maigrey would have never
learned to shoot at all, if Sagan hadn't insisted, and then he
remarked in disgust that she'd better hope she scared her opponent to
death rather than counting on hitting anything.
She shook her
head, deciding against the gun. There was the psychological angle to
consider. She did not intend to walk into the Exile Cafe armed to the
teeth, looking as if she were hiding behind her firepower. Wearing
only the bloodsword, she would appear supremely confident of herself,
of her ability to deal easily and effectively with any situation.
Maigrey set
about her final task of shutting down and securing the spaceplane
until their return. Agis, holding the lasgun, turned to the priest.
"Brother
Daniel?"
Maigrey,
watching out of the corner of her eye, saw the young priest shake his
head. "I am armed," he said, pressing the palms of his
hands together, a somewhat difficult maneuver due to the insulated
gloves he wore to protect him from the moon's frigid cold and lack of
atmosphere.
Agis glanced at
Maigrey, who shrugged, shook her head, and continued with her task.
The centurion came over to assist her.
"Do you
really believe, my lady, that he has and can use the power of God.?"
"Lord Sagan
believed it," said Maigrey shortly.
"But you,
my lady?" Agis persisted.
Maigrey's hand
went to her breast, to the place where the Star of the Guardians had
once hung and now hung no longer. "It's why I permitted him to
come, Agis."
"I
understand, my lady."
"Do you?
Maigrey thought. Then perhaps you could explain it to me.
They found
Sparafucile, waiting patiently for them outside their spaceplane.
Maigrey was thankful to see that the half-breed's helm at least
partially obscured his malformed, misshapen features. It wasn't the
sight of his disfigurement that would force her to steel herself to
look at him again. It was the memories the face would bring back to
her. Memories of the time on Laskar he'd saved her life, memories of
the mind-seizers, memories of Sagan. . . .
"Starlady."
"Sparafucile."
The half-breed
was attired in a shabby pressure suit of a type that had been
outdated when Maigrey was a little girl. Bulky and heavy, it was
encumbered with numerous valves and gauges and a complex system of
buckles and straps that clunked and jingled and made enough noise for
a circus parade when the half-breed moved. Maigrey smiled grimly,
wondering how many and what type weapons the breed had managed to
stash inside the suit, wondered what telltale sounds those convenient
clunks and jingles masked.
"You
remember Agis, captain of my lord's Honor Guard? Former captain,"
she amended.
Agis and the
assassin glanced at each other, said nothing, acknowledged each other
with a nod—on the centurion's part—and a sort of
shuffling wriggle on Sparafucile's. The two knew each other by sight;
Agis having often been required to escort the breed into his
lordship's presence.
I warned Agis,
Maigrey thought. He knew what to expect. Besides, they don't
have
to like each other. They only have to respect each other.
Which brought
her to the priest. And she could tell, by the direction in which the
assassin's helm faced, that he'd been curiously eyeing the young man.
"This is Brother Daniel. Brother Daniel, Sparafucile." She
turned to Brother Daniel. "Sparafucile is a professional
assassin."
Daniel, having
been prepared for this, made a clumsy bow.
"Brother
Daniel"—Maigrey turned to Sparafucile—"is a
priest."
"Sagan
Lord, a priest."
Maigrey wasn't
surprised that the assassin knew the Warlord's most carefully guarded
secret. From what little she had seen of the half-breed, and more
that she had gleaned from Sagan's files, she knew that Sparafucile
was perceptive, intuitive, highly intelligent. Reasons why she had
decided to tell him the truth. He would undoubtedly find out anyway
and she wanted him—as much as possible—to trust her.
"That is
the reason we have brought Brother Daniel with us. He carries no
weapon, he will not kill another living being. He goes forth armed
with the power of God."