Authors: Margaret Weis
Her proclivity
to burst into tears paid off for her now; gave her an excuse to keep
her face hidden. The mind-link between herself and the Warlord was
now broken. Sagan erected mental barriers the moment the Adonian's
name had been mentioned. And the Warlord, angered at her giving way
to her weakness, was paying scant attention to her. Maigrey let her
body sag down into a nearby chair, slumped on the console, hid her
face in her arms, and strained to hear the almost inaudible
conversation.
"I don't
have time to talk to that fool—"
"My lord,
he insists." Aks lowered his voice further. "He has heard
about our . . . um . . . danger, my lord. He wants . . . his money."
"Money!"
Sagan exploded. Drawing a seething breath, he managed to regain
control of himself, but it was with difficulty. "Very well.
Admiral. I will speak to him. In my private quarters."
Maigrey felt the
Warlord's attention turn again to her. He was staring at her,
wondering what to do with her. He was the only one aboard this ship
whose powers were equal to hers, who could stop her if she chose to
use her phenomenal, inbred abilities. But she was undoubtedly the
last person he wanted around while he was talking to this Snaga Ohme.
Quite a quandary.
"Leave her
in my care, my lord," Aks said, voice softened. The admiral was
of the old school, obtuse, but chivalrous. "You can see, she's
exhausted, harmless—"
"My lady
will be harmless only when she's dead. And somehow I don't think I
will trust her even then.' Sagan heaved an exasperated sigh. "But
I have no choice, it seems."
Maigrey raised
her tear-streaked face, watched the Warlord warily. He had said he
would never allow her out of his sight. . .
Sagan gestured
to his personal bodyguards, who had been standing at a discreet
distance during his conversation with the admiral. The men obeyed
with alacrity. The Warlord reached out, took the lasgun from one
guard's holster.
Maigrey was too
dazed with fatigue to think what he was doing. She recognized his
intent only when he turned, pointed the lasgun at her, and fired.
"I trust
your weapon was set on stun?" Sagan handed the lasgun back to
the shaken guard.
"Y-yes, my
lord," the man stammered. "As you command, when we are
aboard ship. "
"Very
good." The Warlord glanced down at the motionless body lying on
the deck. "Stay with her."
Bending down, he
put his hand on the woman's neck, felt the pulse, then gently brushed
a strand of wet hair from her face. "After all, my lady, you did
complain of being tired. The rest will do you good."
Straightening, he involuntarily put his hands to his lower back, but
was careful to keep his face expressionless, careful to keep from
wincing in pain. "Aks, carry out your orders. I will be in my
quarters."
Derek Sagan was
a tall man; his strides were normally long and powerful. He walked
swiftly through the ship, making certain he moved no faster than
usual, though the seconds ticked away inside him like the pumping of
his heart. Men caught dashing through the corridors in panicked haste
came upon their commander strolling purposefully, with measured
stride, and slowed their pace.
The Honor Guard
were at their posts outside the double doors, which were splendidly
decorated with a golden phoenix rising from flames. The phoenix was
about to fall again, would have to rise again. Sagan wondered briefly
if he had the strength.
"I'm not to
be disturbed," he told the captain of the guard, who wasted no
words in replying but nodded once and placed his men at the door,
weapons ready. The Warlord, seeing all was satisfactory, entered his
quarters and sealed the door shut behind him.
He paused for a
moment, glancing around his rooms. He had few personal objects. He
preferred to live a Spartan existence. Those objects he did own were
valuable, priceless, rare. His hand lingered fondly on a breastplate
supposed to have belonged to Alexander, a helm that had been
Caesar's. All would be destroyed. There wasn't time to save them,
room to pack them. Evac ships were notoriously unfit to handle a
complete evacuation. Whatever space these took up might mean a man
left behind.
All but one.
Sagan's hand passed swiftly over the valuable artifacts, stopped at a
glass case in which were placed several curious objects, including
one that most observers would have overlooked or—if they
noticed—wondered why it was here at all. It was given no
special prominence. Indeed, it seemed almost to have been placed here
by accident.
The Warlord
doubled his fist, smashed it through the glass. Shards cut his flesh;
he didn't flinch or appear to notice. Impatiently, he brushed aside
precious jewels that had been gifts of a long-dead king. Sagan's
fingers closed over a battered, shapeless, well-worn leather
scrip—plain, without marking, and obviously ancient.
Reverently, he drew it forth, smoothed it out with his hand. Blood
from the cuts on his flesh smeared across the leather, Sagan ignored
it. His blood had fallen on it before, sanctified it.
The vidscreen
beeped persistently; a lighted button flickered in the darkness of
his quarters. Snaga Ohme was on-line and waiting.
Let him wait,
the Warlord thought. He has time, I do not.
Carrying the
scrip, Sagan walked through his quarters, coming to stand before what
was presumed by everyone aboard, Admiral Aks included, to be a vault
holding the wealth of several major systems. A security device,
specially designed by the Warlord, prohibited entry. Five sharp
needles protruded from a pad located to the right of the door. The
five needles were arranged in a pattern that matched the scars of
five puncture wounds on the palm of the Warlord's right hand. The
wounds were fresh, their edges slightly inflamed; he'd used the
bloodsword during his battle aboard the Corasian vessel. Sagan
impaled his hand on the five needles.
A virus
identical to the virus in his sword flowed into his veins. The virus
was deadly to anyone lacking Sagan's genetic structure, which meant
that the virus was deadly to anyone except the Warlord. The door slid
open. He entered; the door slid shut and locked. Sagan stood, not in
a vault, but in a chapel, whose existence, if it had been known,
would have meant his death.
The darkness
inside the vault was intense, no artificial light permitted. Sagan
did not need light. He knew by touch and instinct the location of
every object in the chapel. Kneeling on a black silk cushion before
the black obsidian altar, the Warlord spread the battered scrip upon
the cold stone. His movements were deft, no wasted motion. Yet he was
unhurried, reverent, calm. He was almost tempted to stay, linger in
the soothing, incense-scented darkness until death took him.
He heard,
through the sealed door, the insistent beep of the computer. Snaga
Ohme, the bomb. Sagan's weapon, the rulership of the galaxy. The
temptation to eternal rest passed swiftly.
The Warlord's
hands ran over the altar, knowing exactly what he sought and where to
find it. He grasped a silver dagger whose hilt was an eight-pointed
star and slid it into a plain leather sheath, placed the sheath into
the scrip. Wrapping a silver chalice decorated with eight-pointed
stars in black velvet, he thrust it into the scrip. He lifted a
small, silver bowl, poured out the rare and costly oil it contained,
letting it run down the sides of the obsidian altar, and added the
bowl to the scrip.
Finally, a small
rosewood box containing a starjewel,
his
starjewel, gone
unregarded for years, but important now for what it would be, not for
what it had been.
Last on the
altar lay robes made of finest black velvet. Sagan lifted the fabric,
brought the hem to his lips, kissed it as he'd been taught. He thrust
the robes of a priest of the outlawed Order of Adamant into the
leather scrip that once belonged to Hugues de Payens, founder of the
Knights Templar, and cinched its drawstring tight.
Rising, the
Warlord shoved the cushion aside with his booted foot. The vaults
door opened, and he walked out, making certain to seal it after him.
Soon, he thought grimly, I won't have to put up with this secretive
nonsense. Soon, I will do what I please. President Peter Robes and
the Galactic Congress be damned. Sagan walked over, sat down before
the vidscreen. Its digital clock reminded him of the waning minutes.
"Yes, Ohme,
what is it? Be brief, I don't have much time."
The Adonian's
handsome face appeared on screen. He was impeccably dressed in the
latest and most costly evening wear—black jacket, white tie, a
vest of shimmering rainbow-thread. He made a graceful gesture, jewels
flashed.
"Gad,
darling! I've just heard. It's the reason I called, as a matter of
fact. Sorry to hear you re about to be blown up, but then war is
hell, isn't it, sweetheart?"
"What do
you want, Ohme?" Sagan was fast losing patience,
"I find it
rather embarrassing, speaking of such crass considerations at a time
like this, but—since you asked—I'd like my money. I've
laid out a considerable amount for this bauble of yours—"
"You know
our deal. Cash on delivery."
One of the
Adonian's plucked eyebrows rose. A smile crossed the curved lips. He
leaned back in his chair, his hand fluttering, languid, jewels
flashing. "Darling boy, what I'm about to say seems cruel, but
business is business, after all. Let's be reasonable, Derek. How can
I deliver the bomb to you when you're about to be annihilated? I want
to be paid . . . now. Transfer the money into my account. "
"When I
have the bomb, you will have the cash."
"No, no.
That won't do at all, I'm afraid." Snaga Ohme sighed delicately.
"I had hoped approaching death would make you more tractable. I
really can't afford to wait any longer. I am giving you fair warning,
dear boy. If I'm not paid, I shall put the bomb on the open market.
Highest bidder. First come, first served, so to speak."
"You are
passing a death sentence on yourself, Snaga Ohme."
The Adonian
smiled charmingly, flicked his hands. The light from the jewels
danced and sparkled. "Boom, darling!" Laughing, he ended
the transmission.
Derek Sagan rose
to his feet. He slung the scrip over his shoulder, drew on his
ceremonial red and gold cape, its capacious folds neatly hiding the
scrip from the eyes of the curious.
I'll deal with
Snaga Ohme later, he thought. Right now, I have a battle to fight and
to win.
Maigrey divined
Sagan's intent only when he aimed the lasgun on her. She had just
seconds to alter her electromagnetic aura to absorb the impact of the
stunning ray. Hastily raised, her defenses were weak and, though the
full force of the blow was dissipated, it hit her like a giant fist,
slamming into her body.
Probably just as
well, she thought, lying on the deck, struggling to cling to
consciousness. I could never have acted convincingly enough to fool
Sagan otherwise.
It was a
temptation, once her eyes were closed, to leave them closed, to sink
into dark oblivion, let it ease the pain of body and mind. She dared
not move, lest they realize she was shamming, and her fatigue nearly
made the decision for her. She was aware of Sagan's touch, heard his
words as in a dream. Voices became submerged in a steady stream of
warmth and quiet that was slowly stealing over her. stealing her away
with it. Someone, probably Admiral Aks, thoughtfully covered her with
a blanket. This simple kindly gesture nearly made Maigrey cry again;
she had to bite her lip hard to keep back the tears.
Drowsy, she let
her mind float free. Like iron drawn to the magnet, it hovered near
Sagan's. Preoccupied with the danger, his mind was absorbed in his
plans, his plots, his ideas, his fears. The Warlord did not notice
the lady's presence so near him. She was light, airy, a hint of
subtle perfume in his nostrils, the flutter of a butterfly wing on
his skin. She was aware of everything he did, every thought he had.
The chapel
didn't surprise her. She knew of its existence as she knew of his
existence. One would have been deficient without the other. The
leather scrip belonging to a forgotten knight was an old friend;
Maigrey'd been present during the ceremony when Sagan had received it
from the brothers of the Order of Adamant. The other objects—the
dagger, the dish, the chalice—were as much a part of him as the
Star of the Guardians was a part of her. She was only mildly
surprised at the existence of the rosewood box. He had renounced the
Star of the Guardians, betrayed it. disgraced it, but he couldn't
give it up.
His voice,
coming to her muffled, seemed filtered through a thick, rose-tinted
mist.
Yes, Ohme,
what is it? Be brief, I don't have much time.
Ohme! Snaga
Ohme! The name was like a sharp pinprick, a glass of cold water
tossed on her face. She regained consciousness instantly, too
instantly and not carefully, to judge by the jingle of armor, the
guard turning to look at her. Maigrey concentrated on lying perfectly
still, and the guard turned away. She had to make certain she didn't
betray herself to Sagan, had to keep her thoughts from touching his
with too heavy a hand. Unaware of her, discounting her. he'd let his
guard down.
I am giving
you fair warning, dear boy. If I'm not paid, I shall put the bomb on
the open market. Highest bidder. First come, first served, so to
speak.
And why
shouldn't I be the one to buy it?
The thought was
like a jolt of electricity through Maigrey's body. She began to
shiver uncontrollably and huddled more closely beneath the blanket.
Excitement was a magic elixir, burning away aches and fatigue and
despair. She was gulping it down so fast she felt dizzy, drunk. Calm,
she counseled. Calmly.