King's Test (17 page)

"Of
course," President Robes said, with a hint of rebuke and a
martyred expression, "
I
am the one who has to go before
the Congress and the news media and explain the loss of a star
cruiser."

The matter was
of little concern to the Warlord. The cost of a star cruiser was so
astronomical that the concept sailed right over the head of the
average citizen.

"Perhaps,
Mr. President," the Warlord said, keeping a close watch on
Robes's face, "you should go before the people and explain how
it was the Corasians managed to have made such remarkable
technological advances over the years, advances that obviously
required assistance. You might explain how our spy network was
completely—or should I say conveniently— blind to the
Corasian military buildup."

Peter Robes was
looking particularly dapper in a brown cashmere suit that had a
whisper of blue stripe in the fabric, a dark blue silk tie, and a
matching handkerchief. His hair was groomed, his makeup perfect. He
performed a sad smile, indicative of a fond parent's tolerance for an
ingenious, albeit misguided, child.

"I've read
the reports of some of your allegations in the more lurid of the
newsvids, Derek. I know what they're worth, of course. I won't give
them credence by denying them. Yet, I must admit, you hurt me deeply.
We have been friends a long time, Derek. A long time."

The Warlord
thought back to the days when, as a young revolutionary, he had
actually admired the idealistic professor, who had led the rebellion
against an aging and ineffective king. Sagan experienced no pang of
regret or remorse, however. The Robes who stood before him was a
shell of that man, a husk sucked dry. A monkey, dancing to his
master's song.

And, as he
watched closely, Sagan saw the monkey's eyes slide away from the
Warlord, focus on something in a corner of the room not visible to
the vid lens. The glance was swift and it darted back to Sagan again.
The Warlord would have missed it if he hadn't been watching for it,
waiting for it. The glance confirmed what he had suspected. The
monkey's master was present.

What was Robes
doing—asking Abdiel for help? Or merely seeking approbation?
Whichever it was, he apparently got what he needed, for he switched
roles, readjusting his features from the sorrowful mien of betrayed
friend to the firm, brusque, and strong commander-in-chief.

"Citizen
General, you will at once relinquish command to Admiral Aks and
prepare to return to the capital. The Congress has requested that you
make your report in person. Citizeness Maigrey Morianna and the young
man who calls himself Dion Starfire and is purportedly the son of the
late criminal against the people will accompany you. The citizeness
will stand trial for her royalist activities. The young man will, we
hope, embrace our democratic principles and make a statement to the
effect that he denounces his parents and all for which they stood.
When may we expect you, the young man. and the citizeness?"

When hell
freezes over.

"I deeply
regret," Sagan said aloud, "that circumstances do not
permit me to comply with your request, Mr. President."

Robes's
coral-touched lips tightened; his eyes did a fine job of icily
glinting. "That wasn't a request, Citizen General. It was a
command."

"All the
more reason for me to regret that I won't be able to obey."

And though Robes
was putting on a wonderful performance of outraged indignation, Sagan
was interested to observe that his refusal had come as no surprise.

"What
possible excuse—"

"If I may,
Mr. President. The situation in this part of the galaxy is far too
volatile for me to absent myself from my duties. The Corasians have
been beaten and beaten badly, but their attack might have been a
feint. And second, it is impossible for me to transport the Lady
Maigrey to the capital. Both she and the young man, Dion Starfire,
escaped during the battle."

This news did
come as a surprise. Sagan saw Robes's eyes shift once more to the
corner of the room. He received some sort of answer, for his
attention almost immediately returned to Sagan.

"Indeed,
Citizen General.
This
news was not released to the press. I
foresee a drop for you in the popularity polls once the word gets
out."

"I
purposefully withheld it, Mr. President, not to aggrandize myself,
but because ..." Sagan hesitated. So much depended on this. Win
or lose on a single throw.

"Yes?
Because what, Citizen General?"

The Warlord cast
the lure. "I know where the Lady Maigrey has fled, Mr.
President. We will be able to capture her again only if she is lulled
into a false sense of security."

Again the eyes
fled to the corner and back again.

"Where has
she gone, Citizen General?"

The bait hit the
water. "The planet Laskar, Mr. President."

Robes affected
astonishment nicely. "Why would she go to that hellhole? She's
not drug-addicted, is she, Derek?"

"Hardly,
Mr. President. I have no idea why she has gone there." That was
a he.

Robes knew it
was a fie. "Is the boy with her?"

"I don't
believe so. I have no idea where the boy is, Mr. President."
Another lie.

Again he wasn't
believed, but then he hadn't expected to be believed. Let them chase
after Maigrey. Sagan would keep his eye on Dion, keep the boy safe.
The Warlord had his spies; he knew where the boy was, who was with
him. All he had to do anytime was to reach out his hand, grab the
young man's collar, and drag him back. Right now, however, he had far
more urgent matters.

"We are
extremely disappointed in you, Citizen General," President Robes
said with a nicely timed sigh. "I regret to have to do this, but
you leave me no choice. A military tribunal will be convened. You
will either appear before it voluntarily to answer for your conduct
or, if you do not appear, I will be forced to place you under
arrest."

The Warlord
almost smiled at this fanfaronade—the idea was ludicrous—but
he recalled that Abdiel was sitting in the corner . . . watching . .
. listening . . . and the cold fear in Sagan's bowels froze his
amusement. He bowed silently.

"You are
dismissed, Citizen General." Robes's voice and demeanor were
mantled with offended dignity. The image faded from the vidscreen,
leaving it dark.

The Warlord,
standing before it, would have given five years of his life to be
able to eavesdrop on the conversation he was aware must follow. Then,
on reflection, he decided he wouldn't. He knew what Abdiel would do
now.

Or thought he
did.

Questo e
luogo di lacrime!

Giacomo Puccini,
Tosca

With
consciousness came the crushing realization that he was not dead.

John Dixter
opened eyes whose lids were heavy and gritty, as if they'd had sand
piled on top of them. He lay in a hospital bed located in a tiny,
harshly lit, steel-sided room, chilling to the spirit and the flesh.
A dull pain throbbed in his head. He was naked; his clothes were
nowhere in sight. His wrists hurt. He tried to move them, discovered
his hands were clamped firmly to the sides of the bed. Same with his
ankles. Shivering, he hunched down beneath the white, antiseptic
blankets, shut his eyes, and swore silently, bitterly.

How long had he
been here? He had no idea. Every time he came to, they injected him
with something. Drifting in and out of a drug-induced
semiconsciousness, he seemed to have spent most of his waking hours
trying to catch hold of reality, only to watch it flutter away on
bright butterfly wings into a hazy sky.

He recalled
vaguely that someone kept asking him questions. The questions must
have been extremely funny, or perhaps it was the thought that he
would answer them that had been funny. He remembered nothing about
them except laughing uproariously, laughing until tears came to his
eyes.

The vibrations
from a voice, speaking with unnecessary loudness, resounded on one of
the damaged nerves in his head, sent a sharp flash of pain through
his skull. He grimaced, bit back a groan, and waited, tense and
rigid, for the male nurse to come at him with the hypo. He saw the
nurse start toward the bed, but this time the doctor intercepted him.

"No. no.
Not today. We're expecting company. Inform his lordship that the
prisoner, Dixter, has regained his full faculties and is able to
speak with him now."

"Yes,
Doctor," another voice responded. Boots rang on steel; there was
the clink of armor. Someone was talking into a commlink.

Dixter squirmed
around as best he could, opened his eyes a slit, and focused on the
guard, on the lasgun he wore at his side. There'll come a time when
they have to release me from my bindings—escort me to the
bathroom, for example, he thought. A lunge . . . the guard taken by
surprise . . . firing at me at point-blank range . . .

It would all be
over in a flash.

Brisk hands took
hold of him, turned him deftly from his side onto his back. Dixter
made a reflexive attempt to jerk his arms free, but the metal cut
into his flesh, bruised his wrists.

"Now, now,"
the doctor said, "we'll injure ourselves if we keep that up.
Best. Belax."

Dixter glared up
into a weasel-nosed face, a high forehead topped by slicked-back,
thinning hair, and a smile that was right out of the medical
books—either under the chapter labeled "Bedside Manner"
or the one titled "The Outward, Visible Signs of Rigor Mortis."

"I'm Doctor
Giesk," the man continued. "You sustained a rather nasty
bump on the head, with subsequent concussion, but you're going to be
fine . . . er"—the doctor glanced at a name
overhead—"John. Now, let's have a look at you."

"Is that
why you drugged me?" At least that's what he wanted to say. His
tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. The words came out an
unintelligible mumble.

"Water? Is
that what we want, John? The drugs do leave a rather foul taste in
our mouth, don't they? Just a moment, though, until I've examined
you."

Bound hand and
foot, Dixter had to submit to being poked and prodded, having bright
lights flashed painfully in his eyes, and hearing this weasel call
him by his given name.

"Here, now,
let's see if we can keep some water down—"

Dixter averted
his face. "Giesk," he said thickly, talking slowly, forcing
his swollen tongue and stiff lips to form the words. "I remember
that name. Weren't you sentenced to be executed on Mescopolis?"

The doctor
raised a deprecating eyebrow. "That trial was a travesty of
justice. Now, open wide—"

Dixter gagged,
coughed, and continued talking. The words came easier all the time.
"Experimenting on the bodies of patients who weren't exactly
dead yet. I believe that was the charge, wasn't it?"

Giesk sniffed.
"Laymen take such a narrow-minded view of research. The advances
I made in medical technology have yet to be matched—"

A steel panel
slid aside. The centurion posted in the room came to attention,
saluting, fist over heart.

"That will
do, Giesk." The Warlord entered, followed by his Honor Guard.
"How is the patient?"

"As well as
can be expected, my lord. He has a small crack in the occipital—"

"Thank you,
Giesk." Sagan made a gesture with his hand. "You have leave
to step outside for a moment, Doctor."

"Yes, my
lord. Certainly, my lord."

"Captain,
take your men, wait for me in the corridor. I am not to be
disturbed."

"Yes, my
lord." The centurion wheeled, marched his men out. The steel
panel slid shut behind them. The Warlord advanced to the controls,
sealed it.

Dixter's body
tensed; one of the muscles in his legs shook with an involuntary
tremor. He forced himself to lie still, feeling the sweat chill on
his body.

Sagan came back
to stand by the bed, moving slowly, taking his time. To divert his
thoughts from what he guessed would be an unpleasant few moments,
Dixter studied the Warlord curiously. The face was stern and grim as
ever, but the general noted that the lines were deeper, darker, the
eyes more shadowed. The tight skin sagged around the jaw, denoting
fatigue, the high-planed cheekbones seemed to have sunken. He was
clad, not in his customary armor, but in soft, red robes that fell in
long folds from a golden pin done in the shape of a phoenix, clasped
at the shoulder.

"Water?"
The Warlord lifted a plastic bottle that had been fitted with a tube
for drinking.

"No."
Dixter swallowed painfully, shook his head.

"It may be
a long interview," Sagan said wryly.

The general
reconsidered, nodded. The Warlord held the bottle to Dixter's lips.
Dixter took a long pull, swallowed, took another to moisten his mouth
and lips. "Thank you," he muttered gruffly.

The Warlord
replaced the bottle on the bedstand. stood silent, staring down
thoughtfully at the general. Sagan's right arm bent at the elbow,
rested against his abdomen. The left arm was extended, held in
relaxed posture at his side.

"They tell
me you have a high resistance to the interrogation drug, John
Dixter."

"Was that
what it was?" he inquired politely. "I thought you'd sent
in comedians to entertain me."

"Yes, I
understand you found it all quite amusing.
'Questo e luogo di
lacrime!'
Do you recognize the quote?"

Dixter shook his
head.

"I thought
you might. It's from the Lady Maigrey's favorite opera
-Tosca,
by Puccini.
'Questo e luogo di lacrime!'
This is a place for
tears!' Cavarodossi, the hero, has been arrested by a powerful baron
and brought to his torture chambers. The hero—like
you—considers his arrest a laughing matter. The baron warns him
with that line of what is to come. Quite a fascinating opera,
Tosca.
Puccini's audiences didn't know what to make of it. There were no
suffering kings and queens, to which they were accustomed. No. Only a
singer and her lover and the libertine baron, who tortures her lover
while Tosca is forced to watch."