Authors: Margaret Weis
"My
employer, Snaga Ohme, is of the opinion that the business arrangement
might still be brought to a conclusion satisfactory to both parties.
In order to facilitate negotiations, Snaga Ohme would like to issue
to you an invitation to attend an Event at his dwelling place.
This"—Raoul reached into a pocket of his pale blue,
satin-trimmed velvet suit and held out a small silver ball in his
fine-boned hand—"will advise you of the time and also
secure you admittance. Dress is formal. Weapons will not be permitted
inside the hall and may be checked at the door. You will, however, be
allowed two bodyguards to accompany you. Guests representing nations,
corporations, worlds, and/or systems currently at war with the
nations, corporations, worlds, and/or systems of other guests will be
required to sign a truce lasting the duration of the Event."
Raoul paused to draw a breath, his own having been completely
exhausted during the recitation.
Abdiel took the
opportunity to respond. "Though I have never had the honor to
attend one of Snaga Ohme's galas, I am familiar with the procedure."
He made a sign to Mikael, who stepped forward and received the silver
ball, then conveyed it to his master. The mind-seizer placed the ball
in mid-air, where it remained suspended before him.
Removing the
pipestem from his lips, he pointed it at Dion. "I have no
bodyguards, only my servant. I have quarrels with none in the
galaxy," he added humbly, "but I would like to bring this
young man with me. You may assure Snaga Ohme that the boy is worthy.
He is of the Blood Royal."
Raoul turned;
purple eyes glittered exquisitely at Dion. The messenger extended one
leg, placed his hand over his heart, and performed a low dip with his
body. "I had the impression most of the Blood Royal were
extinct. I am pleased to be informed that I was laboring under a
delusion, my lord."
"Thank
you," Dion said, flushing to the roots of his hair, feeling
extremely awkward and uncomfortable. He was further disconcerted by
the fact that Raoul, instead of replying to Abdiel's request,
straightened, turned, and looked expectantly at his short partner.
The Little One
said nothing; the intently staring eyes did not shift their gaze.
Raoul, however, nodded and flipped the long black hair over one
shoulder. "The Little One says the boy has feelings of hostile
intent but, since they are not directed at Snaga Ohme, the young lord
may attend."
Dion gaped,
started to speak, but saw Abdiel move the pipestem back and forth,
advising silence. The young man held his tongue.
Raoul and the
Little One were obviously preparing to take their leave. "My
employer, Snaga Ohme, has asked me to ascertain whether or not you
would be interested in the property in question should he by chance
come by the opportunity to reacquire it."
"Perhaps,"
Abdiel said, pipestem between his teeth. "Perhaps."
"We will
convey your answer to Snaga Ohme. And now, if you will excuse us, we
have other invitations to issue and several more to confirm. It has
been charming conversing with you. Abbot of the Order of Dark
Lightning." Raoul turned to Dion. "Young lord, I am
enchanted to have met you. My one regret is that our acquaintance
has, of necessity, been short. May the sun soon return to brighten
your day."
Graceful,
glittering, Raoul took himself out the door. The Little One, without
a word, shuffled after, nearly tripping over the hem of the long
raincoat, the fedora pulled low over the head, shadowing the
searching eyes.
"What was
that?" Dion gasped, when he and the mind-seizer were alone.
"What was
what?" Abdiel, sucking on the pipe, had been absorbed in his
thoughts, appeared slightly annoyed at being interrupted. "Oh,
you mean Raoul—"
"Well, yes,
but mainly that other fellow."
"The Little
One? He's an empath. Raoul is an Adonian and a Loti. Empaths are
often paired with the Loti. You know, of course, what the Loti are?"
Dion knew,
having been introduced to a few by Link and Tusk during a bar-hopping
excursion.
Loti
was the term commonly used for those heavily
dependent on mind-altering drugs. When they are high, the Loti never
suffer from any "negative" emotions. It would be logical to
pair an empath with a Loti, who would generally always be calm and
tranquil and would thus never upset the empath or interfere in the
empath's ability to ascertain the emotional state of others.
Feelings of
hostile intent . . .
The more Dion thought about it, the more he
resented the fact that everyone around here seemed to be delving into
his mind. "When is this Event?" he asked irritably.
"Three
days' time, I believe. Let us see." Abdiel tapped the silver
ball on its side.
A musical voice
responded, issuing the invitation, naming date, place, and time. It
further reminded them that the dress was formal, no weapons would be
admitted, bodyguards would, truces were to be signed and submitted to
Snaga Ohme and would go into effect twenty-four hours prior to the
Event and last twenty-four hours after. Champagne at 1800 hours,
dinner at 1900, the showing at 2400.
"The
showing?" Dion walked over to examine the silver ball that had
floated gently down to the table when its message was concluded.
"Snaga Ohme
exhibits his wares. That is why only the rich and powerful are
invited to this Event of his. All the latest in killing devices will
be on display and available for on-site testing—with the
exception of some of the larger equipment, battleships, that sort of
thing. And the bombs, of course," he added.
"Bombs,"
Dion repeated in hollow tones, thinking of one bomb, the crystal bomb
in Maigrey's possession. He glanced at Abdiel out of the corner of
his eye. "That's what Raoul meant by all that business
transaction talk, wasn't it? Did you try to get hold of that bomb?"
"Naturally,
my king!" Abdiel seemed surprised that Dion could ask such a
naive question. "Knowing Sagan had designed this fearsome weapon
and very properly fearing his intent, I took advantage of his defeat
by the Corasians to attempt to secure the space-rotation bomb myself.
Unfortunately, I could not compete with the Lady Maigrey's offer. I
have no precious starjewel to sell."
"I can't
believe she did that!" Dion said, shaking his head.
"What
better proof could you want of Sagan's dark influence over her?"
Dion stirred
restlessly, began pacing the room again. Stopping, he turned to the
mind-seizer, who had been watching with eyes almost as intent and
penetrating as the eyes of the Little One. "So Snaga Ohme is
saying that he thinks there is a chance to get hold of this bomb.
How?"
"Ah, my
king. Snaga Ohme is not one to be trusted. His ways are nefarious.
That Raoul you just met? One of the most skilled poisoners in the
galaxy. Never eat or drink anything that man offers you. I fear for
the Lady Maigrey's safety. I do, indeed."
Dion stared,
shocked, suddenly felt sick and cold with foreboding. "Surely
the Warlord would protect her. ..."
"Would he?"
Abdiel was grim, stern. "He's tried to kill her before now, and
for less cause. She remains alive because she has been clever enough
to make it a condition that the bomb can be released only by her. But
she stands alone between two evil men, Dion Starfire. Alone, without
help, without protection. Sooner or later, she must fall. "
"But what
can I do?" Dion demanded, feeling hopelessly young and
inexperienced. "I couldn't get in to see her without Sagan
having me arrested or maybe even shot—"
"There will
be one place you
can
see her and talk to her in relative
safety, my king."
"The
Event!" Dion murmured. "Will she be there?"
"You may
count upon it. Snaga Ohme would not miss such an opportunity. How
does that childhood rhyme go: 'Will you step into my parlor, said the
spider to the fly'?"
"But
perhaps she won't go. Why should she?"
"She will
go because her king will be there. Oh, don't look so surprised, Dion.
Sagan has spies watching us. He knows you are here with me. No doubt
he is gnashing his teeth in rage that not only have you escaped him
but you have discovered the truth about him."
"You're
saying I should go to the Event and talk to Lady Maigrey. Maybe I can
persuade her to leave him— What? What's the matter now?"
Abdiel was
laughing. "Ah, the naivete of youth! You are old enough to
understand the ways of men and women, Dion. You've seen the two of
them together. Do you truly think
you
can break the hold he
has over her?"
Dion flushed
with anger and shame. Folding his arms across his chest, he faced
Abdiel squarely. "What is it you want me to do?"
The sleepless
eyes were like two red suns. "Not what I want you to do, my
king. What you want to do yourself. "
Dion swallowed,
said thickly, "Kill Derek Sagan."
"He
murdered your uncle, he murdered your father and mother, he murdered
the man who raised you and loved you like a son. How many more must
die? The Lady Maigrey? John Dixter? You yourself, my king?"
Dion clenched
his hands into fists to keep them from shaking. Chills swept his
body. He saw again the men falling in that control room, the blood
splattering on the walls, on himself. . . . After the slaughter was
over, he'd been appalled, horrified, sickened by what he'd done.
It was all for
him, he said to himself bleakly. I wanted to prove to him that I
wasn't a coward.
But what better
way to show him? I won't kill him in secret, like some paid assassin.
I'll face him. I'll tell him. In those last few moments of his life,
he'll respect me. By the God he believes in, he'll respect me!
Abdiel watched
Dion, was aware of every thought passing through the boy's head.
Perhaps he could have seen them even without his mind-probing skills,
for the boy's radiant light shone through the pure, clear crystal of
his soul—a paladin upon some holy quest.
The mind-seizer
sucked on the pipe, drawing the smoke into his lungs. The drug didn't
ease his pain, as he had told Dion. Rather, it enhanced it. He
enjoyed the pain because it was his by choice, a constant reminder of
his power.
And there came
to him, through the pain, the amusing vision of a boy-king pulling a
sword from a stone . . . and promptly impaling himself upon the
blade.
Sors immanis
et inanis, rota tu volubilis . . .
Dread destiny
and empty fate, an ever-turning wheel . . .
Carl Orff,
Carmina Burana
"My lord,
guards report that two . . . um . . . personages are being detained
outside the base. These two request permission to speak to you. They
claim to be sent by Snaga Ohme."
"Indeed.
Their names?"
"They call
themselves"—the captain grimaced slightly— "Raoul
and the Little One."
The Warlord
nodded. "Yes, I know them."
"I can show
them on the vidscreen, my lord—"
"That will
not be necessary. I have been expecting word from the Adonian."
Sagan glanced at Maigrey. "This is it, my lady."
"Yes,"
she agreed quietly.
"Bring them
to us here," he ordered his captain.
"Yes, my
lord. We have scanned them. They did not come armed."
"Oh, yes,
they did. But you would never find their weapons. Don't look
concerned, Captain. They are not here to murder me. Send them in."
The captain
saluted, left upon his errand.
Sagan kept his
gaze on Maigrey, who sat in a chair directly opposite him. The two
were in his private quarters aboard his shuttlecraft. They had been
together over half an hour and those were the first words they had
exchanged, either aloud or silently.
The Warlord's
talk with God had not gone well, but he saw no need to share it with
his lady. Maigrey had her own misgivings and inner doubts to wrestle
and was just as willing to confront them alone. Each was
extraordinarily sensitive to the other's touch and, like wounded
animals, they both kept hidden in the shadows of their own lairs.
The silence grew
loud between them.
"I was told
you haven't eaten anything all day," the Warlord said abruptly.
"I was told
you haven't either, my lord."
Sagan was about
to ask who told her, thought better of it. He knew the answer. His
own guards were reporting on him to her now. "I was fasting."
"I wasn't
hungry."
"I cannot
afford to have you fall ill, my lady."
"When you
need me, I will be there. I won't let you down, you know that—"
Maigrey recalled suddenly a time when she
had
let him down. Or
vice versa. She dropped the subject, and it seemed to fall with an
ungodly crash that sent silent echoes reverberating around them.
Sagan rose to
his feet. Placing his hands behind him, clasping them beneath the
folds of the red cape, he stalked over to the steelglass viewscreen
and stared outside. It was night and still raining, a slow, desultory
drizzle, taskar's lights shone as brightly as ever, more brightly,
perhaps, reflecting off the clouds.
"We could
not have saved the king—His Majesty had sentenced himself to
death. But we could have saved Semele and the crown prince, Maigrey,
if
you and I had acted together."
She was up like
a blaze of fire, on her feet, standing behind him. "You can't
know that!"
"Oh, but I
do." He turned, gazed remorselessly down at her. "And so do
you."
Maigrey cut
short the conversation with a swift knifelike gesture of her hand.
"It's pointless to argue. What's past is past, over and done
with. What matters is the present. You think Abdiel means to kill
Dion, as he killed the others?"