Authors: Margaret Weis
"No sign of
Sagan?" Platus asked.
"None,"
Danha answered.
Jeoffrey, the
velvet-breeched and beribboned Minister of Protocol, spotted them,
frowned severely, and bustled over, waving a perfumed handkerchief at
them as if it were a censer and be a priest, absolving them from
their sins. He made a swift count of their group, came up one short,
counted again, then hissed through the corner of his mouth, smiling
congenially all the while for the benefit of any who might be
watching.
"Where the
devil's Derek Sagan?"
"He'll be
here," Maigrey snapped. She was suddenly having trouble
breathing. Her lungs burned; the flames she couldn't see were sucking
away her breath.
"Damn the
man! And the orchestra will be beginning the processional any moment.
I'll simply have to make some excuse to His Majesty. Take your
places. Just a moment, let me look at you. Good Lord! Lady Morianna!
Your skirt is hiked up practically to your shins in back! And where
did you get those perfectly dreadful shoes? Keep your feet under the
table."
With a deft
hand, Jeoffrey twitched Maigrey's robes into place, transferred his
scathing glance to the men. "And
would
it be too much to
ask, Danha Tusca, for you to obtain a robe whose hemline does
not
hit you three inches above the ankle?"
Danha merely
growled. He didn't start a full-blown argument—a bad sign to
those who knew him. Maigrey was almost sick; dread twisted inside
her. Suddenly, unaccountably, she couldn't enter that hall.
"Perhaps I
shouldn't join the procession," she said faintly. "Perhaps
... I should wait for Lord Sagan. ..."
It seemed
likely, from his expression, that Jeoffrey was about to suffer an
apoplectic fit on the spot.
"One of you
missing is bad enough," he raved hysterically, his voice gaining
an octave with each succeeding exclamation point, "and I shall
undoubtedly spend several very unpleasant moments tomorrow attempting
to explain it to His Majesty! Two of you missing would end my life!
Simply end it!" He dabbed at his mouth with the scented
handkerchief. "I shall hurl myself off the balcony this moment!"
"Let him,"
Danha said beneath his breath.
"That won't
be necessary, Jeoffrey," Maigrey said, sighing. "It was
merely a suggestion."
She took her
place in the forming procession, Jeoffrey hovering near, keeping an
eye on her in case she decided to bolt. The group started forward,
moving toward the gigantic doors decorated with the royal coat of
arms: a blazing star, a lion recumbent (to indicate His Majesty's
peaceful rule), and the motto,
Tolle me.
Take me (as I am).
Everyone moved
slowly, Jeoffrey timing the beat with a wave of the handkerchief.
One, two. One, two. Maigrey felt like a prisoner in a chain gang,
being marched to death row. She'd known less fear boarding an enemy
warship. The head of the procession—a young boy carrying the
Guardians' flag— approached the doors. Two powder-wigged,
velvet-waist-coated footmen bowed and threw the doors open wide.
A blaze of light
and heat and laughter gushed out. The opening drum rolls of the
Golden Squadron's march stirred Maigrey's blood and propelled her
forward. Laughter and talking ceased, replaced by rustles and
murmurs, the scraping of chairs, and the general low rumble
indicative of several hundred people rising to their feet or—in
the case of species who lacked feet—performing whatever mark of
respect was deemed proper.
Maigrey entered
the room, moving in time to the march that was beating in her, her
own heart's pace jumpy and erratic. It seemed to her that she was
walking into a burning house. The hall was curtained with flame, the
air superheated and filled with poisonous fumes. She struggled to
breathe and kept marching, her squadron behind her, past the rows of
crystal-bedecked tables, the smiling and whispering and applauding
Guardians, many of whom were gaily lifting glasses of champagne in an
impromptu toast.
Derek should
have been walking in front of her. As commander, he had that right.
No one seemed particularly amazed or disappointed at Sagan's absence.
He wasn't liked; his dour and stern presence tended to cast a pall
over any celebration. Maigrey supposed that Jeoffrey didn't need to
resort to the balcony quite yet.
As second in
command, she led her small squadron up the center aisle, past the
rows and rows of cheering people, to the head table, His Majesty's
table. It was fortunate for Maigrey that she'd done this many times
before. When she arrived at the head table and turned to face the
crowd, awaiting the arrival of the king, she couldn't have told a
soul how she had managed to reach that point.
Her brother
leaned near her; his thin fingers brushed her hand. "Maigrey,
you look terrible! Are you all right?"
She caught hold
of her brother's hand and clung to it. The words of the hobbit Frodo,
spoken to the faithful Samwise on Mount Doom, came to her suddenly,
unbidden, unwelcome.
" 'I am
glad you are here with me, here at the end of all things. . . .' "
. . . thy fierce
hand
Hath with the
king's blood stain'd the king's own land.
William
Shakespeare,
Richard II,
Act IV, Scene 4
With a trumpet
fanfare, His Majesty and the royal party entered last, the king
bowing his head benignly to the left and right in acknowledgment of
the cheers.
Amodius
Starfire, in his late sixties, looked a great deal as he had in his
early forties. The red hair that was the family hallmark had whitened
at an early age; he touched it up, to keep it from an unfortunate
tendency to turn orangish yellow. The lines of his face were gentle,
tending to sag downward, giving him a constantly weary expression.
The blue eyes had long ago lost their fire, if it had ever burned
within him.
It was rumored
that His Majesty was in ill health. His complexion had a gray tinge,
he was often short of breath. The doctors had proposed giving him an
artificial heart but His Majesty, with his firm reliance on God, had
refused.
Amodius Starfire
had never married, never produced an heir to the throne. The romantic
said it was because he'd lost his only love in his youth, a victim of
a Corasian attack on her planet. The spiteful said it was because he
would have gone in mortal dread of the ambitions of his own children.
Whatever the
reason, Augustus Starfire, the king's younger brother—almost
forty years younger, born to their father in his old age—was
next in line for the throne. It seemed he might not have long to
wait.
His Majesty
arrived at the head table, walked past the members of the Golden
Squadron, saying something kind and congratulatory to each, speaking
to each by name. He was expert at such things. Maigrey, conscious of
the empty chair to her left, knew he was talking to her, but he might
as well have been speaking an alien tongue and she with her
translator turned off. She didn't understand a word, made some
noncommittal answer.
The king moved
on, the courtiers trailing behind, laughing and chattering like
monkeys. Maigrey's bowels clenched; she was nauseous and dizzy.
Swaying on her feet, she gripped the edge of the table and feared for
a moment she would have to leave the hall.
Fortunately, the
king sat down, which meant everyone else could sit down. Platus
hastily moved a chair beneath his sister, or she would have fallen.
"Drink
this." He was shoving a glass in her hand. Wine, water ... it
was all the same to her. Maigrey drank it down, never knowing, felt
somewhat better. The nausea passed, left her shaking all over.
The royal
chaplain rose to his feet, called upon all to bow their heads in
worship of the Creator. The assembled multitude did as he asked, most
of them discreetly shifting into the most comfortable positions
possible, knowing they were in for a long ordeal. The pious king
would not have dreamed of eating a meal which had not been prayed
over for at least fifteen minutes.
In the quiet
that cushioned the chaplain's sonorous voice, Maigrey thought she
heard again, very faintly, the sound of an explosion. Thunder. A
storm brewing. Shivering, she watched the water condense on the
crystal goblet of chilled fruit cocktail, then trickle down the side
of the glass, forming a pool on the fine china plate beneath.
The chaplain's
voice paused, a disapproving pause. Maigrey raised her head, her
heartbeat quickening, looked toward the door along with everyone else
in the room except for those among the Guardians who had dozed off
during the prayer. The double doors, which had been shut and closed
following the entrance of His Majesty, were now—against all
custom— opening.
Derek Sagan,
clad in battle armor, stood framed by the golden doors. He entered
the hall, not to music, but to an accompaniment of murmured wonder
and muttered forebodings.
Derek ignored
them all. Looking far more like a king than the king himself. Sagan
strode down the aisle toward the head table. Maigrey, without knowing
that she did so, rose to her feet to be ready. Her squadron followed
her example. Sagan's glance flicked over them. He seemed pleased. But
his gaze did not linger on them long. His eyes were on the king.
Sagan came to
stand before His Majesty. The Guardian stood tall, straight,
unbending.
"You do not
kneel before us, Lord Sagan," King Starfire said, voice stern.
The Starfires had a temper, though it was slow to burn.
"I have no
time for meaningless posturing, Your Majesty," Derek Sagan
answered, taking command, bringing silence to the hall. Again, the
sound of an explosion, louder, nearer. There could be no doubt. "The
people of the galaxy are in revolt. At this moment, as we speak, the
military base on Minas Tares is under siege by revolutionary forces.
There is no doubt but that it will fall, Your Majesty."
The hall was a
babble of voices, shocked, incredulous, disbelieving. Sagan's gaze
shifted; his eyes met Maigrey's. Your
weapons are beneath the
tablecloth.
It was all the signal she needed.
"Down
here!" she said to the others. Her bloodsword lay on the floor
at her feet. The others found theirs; Platus, Maigrey noticed with
sudden irritation, was staring at his as if wondering what in God's
name it was.
Action was a
stronger wine than any she could drink. Her trembling stopped, the
mists parted, everything was clear-cut and sharp-edged. Sagan
gestured with his hand, ordering them to take up positions around the
king.
Maigrey obeyed,
conscious of Danha behind her and Stavros behind him. Glancing back,
she saw Platus had not moved, but remained standing, the bloodsword
held in limp hands.
We'll be better
off without the coward! Maigrey thought angrily. She reached the
king's side, shoving courtiers out of her way, Danha deftly handling
any who seemed disinclined to move.
Placing her hand
on the king's shoulder, Maigrey leaned down to whisper, "Don't
worry, Your Majesty. We'll escort you to safety, then crush this
rebellion!"
"Thank you,
my dear," Amodius Starfire said, his voice soft and filled with
sorrow. He shook his head. She could feel the long, wispy white hair
brush across the back of her hand.
Maigrey looked
to Sagan for further commands. She saw him standing rigid, unmoving,
his dark eyes fixed upon the king.
"Your
Majesty'," he said slowly, "the people have made their will
known. They are determined to give up their lives for a cause they
believe in, a cause that is just. In the name of the people, as their
representative, I call upon you—Amodius Starfire—to
abdicate your throne."
"No . . ."
Maigrey's hand clutched at the king's shoulder, penetrating the thick
fabric of his ceremonial robes, feeling the frail bone and flaccid
skin beneath.
His gaze turned
to her, and in his eyes the sorrow seemed to be more for her than for
himself.
"I'll kill
that traitorous bastard!" Danha swelled with fury, seemed to
grow six times his height and girth. Foam flecked his lips, the black
skin glistened, he was wild-eyed, temporarily insane. Muscles tense,
he prepared to leap over the table, throttle Sagan with his bare
hands.
Something inside
Maigrey had died, some vital part of her. It left her empty, hollow,
cold, and calculating as any machine. Like a machine, she functioned.
She could still hear her commander's voice.
... be brave,
my lady. The lives of those you love and have sworn to protect will
depend upon it.
Her commander
was dead to her, but she would obey his final order.
"Danha,
calm down." Removing her hand from the king's she caught hold of
Danha's arm. "Pretend to go along with him."
It was her tone,
more than her touch, that restrained Danha. Strong as he was, the
woman couldn't have stopped him if she had flung her arms around him.
But her voice, chill as death, hard as steel, pierced his madness,
halted him.
The sounds of
battle came through the open doorway, the whining buzz of laser
weapons, the cries of the dying, shouted commands, and the confused
pounding of feet. The captain of the guard burst in through a side
door.
"Your
Majesty—" he cried. Light flashed behind him. His chest
exploded; he pitched forward on his face and lay in a pool of blood.
All was chaos
without, order within. The assembled Guardians might have been
politely waiting for their king to dismiss them. A few had risen to
their feet, but most kept their seats, stunned, disbelieving. Their
eyes were on His Majesty. The king sat in silence.
Sagan pointed at
the dead soldier. "Many more will die like this man, Your
Majesty. You can halt this madness. Give up your throne. You will be
taken to a place of safety, given a fair trial for crimes committed
against the people."