Authors: Margaret Weis
Dion heard the
mockery in the man's voice. The sarcastic tone overrode any possible
logical sense he could make out of Sagan’s words. What does
this room matter to me? What does the Adonian matter?
"Whoever
controls this room," the Warlord continued, voice low, pitched
for Dion's ears, "controls everything."
"My lord,"
Dion said, "I must speak with you now."
"You
arrived late," Sagan replied, withdrawing his gaze from the
room, turning to face Dion at last. "I have another appointment.
But if you wait here for me, I will return—"
Dion heard—or
thought he heard—the sneer in the man's voice. He began to
focus his mind, as Abdiel had taught him, upon the weapon. The
cumulators responded to the mental stimulation coming to them through
the nerves. They began to charge; he could feel them coming to life.
Dion slid the gun out of its belt, keeping it concealed in his hand,
and aimed it point-blank at the Warlord.
"Your next
appointment," the boy said, "will be in hell!"
. . . one event
happeneth to them all.
Ecclesiastes
2:14
Green level,
Maigrey was pleased to note, was swarming with people. Having more
than half-expected to find it dark and deserted, she and her
bodyguards had emerged cautiously from the elevator, only to find
themselves engulfed in a champagne-drinking and laughing mob.
Feeling slightly
foolish, Maigrey took her hand from the hilt of the bloodsword and
shoved her way through the throng. Ohme's salesmen were circulating,
writing orders, checking prices and stock availability, and entering
sales and shipping dates on small, hand-held computers.
This was Ohme's
museum level, Maigrey discovered. Several of the target ranges
offered opportunities to use antique weapons, which always provided
amusement. Bear Olefsky and his two beefy sons were having a
wonderful time, wielding maces and two-handed swords against an army
of robotic knights.
Maigrey walked
past the various ranges, looking for the one the Adonian had
specified, planning to reconnoiter it before entering. The crowd
dwindled in size the farther down the long hallway she walked. Many
of the ranges at the end were dark, but none were specifically marked
"Out of Order." Turning into another hall, she discovered
it to be dimly lit and completely empty. She placed her hand on her
sword.
Maigrey and her
guards reached the end of this corridor, seeing nothing of the range
for which they were looking. They had walked kilometers, seemingly,
and left the noise far behind them. No one was around, not even a
salesman; none of the target ranges were in use. It was so quiet,
now, that they could hear themselves breathe. The ground trembled
occa-sionally beneath their feet; the lascannon demonstrations were
apparently still going on.
"This has
to be the right level," Maigrey stated, glancing around in
frustration. She was tense, nervous, oppressed with an increasing
sense of danger. She wondered, too, where Sagan was. He should have
joined them by now.
She tried to
reach him, touch him with her mind, but his mind was focused, intent
on something else. He was aware of her, but he couldn't respond,
couldn't withdraw his full and concentrated attention from whatever
he was doing. Her sense of danger grew stronger, not only for
herself, but for him.
"This is
the third hall we ve searched. Is there another one we've missed?"
she demanded sharply, masking her disquiet.
"No, my
lady, not according to the map posted—"
My lady."
Caius touched her arm, motioned with his hand. "Over here."
First glance had
indicated that this corridor ended in a blank wall. Caius, on
inspecting, discovered that the wall was an illusion, a holographic
image. The corridor continued beyond it a short distance. The three,
peering through the holograph, could see posted a small white sign,
reflecting the light, out of order.
"That's
it." Maigrey drew a breath, felt it catch in her throat. "What
time is it?"
"It lacks
only a few minutes to the appointed hour, my lady."
Marcus looked at
her worriedly.
"Well wait
for my lord," she said to him, knowing what he was thinking,
"but only those few minutes."
Dion's sweating
hand almost slipped off the gun. His mouth was dry; his heart beat so
rapidly it made him almost lightheaded. His bowels cramped, stomach
muscles gripped.
"Do you
know what this is?" he demanded, exhibiting the weapon. His own
voice sounded strange to his ears, he almost wondered who had spoken.
The Warlord's
eyes, shadowed by the helm, flicked over the gun in the boy's hand.
"I know. Do you, I wonder?"
"Damn right
I know!" Dion sucked in air in a vain attempt to fill his lungs.
"I know what to do with it, too. Now start walking, down the
hallway."
He and Sagan
moved down the corridor, side by side. The guards followed,
apparently unaware that anything was wrong.
"No, don't,
my lord! Keep your hand away from the bloodsword! You don't dare harm
me anyway. You pledged me your allegiance. That God of yours wouldn't
like it if you broke your oath, would He?"
"Dion,"
Sagan said, slowly withdrawing his hand, "the Lady Maigrey needs
my help. Yours, too, if you'll come. She's in danger."
"You've
made a mistake, Warlord. I'm not the wide-eyed kid who used to follow
you around like a puppy with my tongue hanging out. Her only danger
is you and I'm about to end that right now. There, this will do."
Dion gestured with the gun toward a darkened room, its door standing
partially ajar. "Go inside."
"It's not a
trick, Dion. Reach out to her through the Blood Royal. You'll know if
I'm telling the truth—"
"Yeah, and
you'd jump me the moment I so much as blinked! No, my lord. I'll keep
my mind on you." The boy was heady with power. The Warlord was
actually reduced to pleading with him, trying to trick him. At last,
he—Dion-was in complete and total control! "Send your
guards away."
Sagan regarded
the boy thoughtfully, grimly, then made a gesture with his hand.
"Centurions, return to the Adonian's central control room. Wait
for me there."
The guards
obeyed, leaving them alone. The Warlord entered the room. Dion surged
in behind him, slamming shut the door. He glanced around swiftly to
make certain the room was unoccupied. Small, windowless, it was
furnished with two long tables and numerous chairs. Along a wall
stood various food and drink dispensing units, vid arid game
machines. Obviously, an employee break room.
Sagan strode
casually across the floor, came to stand before a game terminal, his
back to Dion. Fingers rested idly on the controls. The screen came
on, filling the room with a garish yellow and red light that blurred
in the boy's eyes.
The young man
blinked, endeavoring to clear the film that misted them. He was
shaking almost uncontrollably and fought to steel himself.
"So, Dion,"
Sagan said, "you mean to kill me."
He sounded smug,
self-assured, almost amused. Dion went cold, as if he'd plunged in
icy water. His vision cleared; his shaking ceased.
"I do,"
he said steadily, and raised the weapon that had been modeled in the
shape of an eight-pointed star.
Something had
gone wrong. Maigrey knew it, knew Dion was involved, but whatever was
transpiring with Sagan was murky and confused. She hesitated, toying
with the idea of finding them both, of coming to their assistance.
But if she left the target range now, she might forever abandon any
hope of recovering the starjewel.
Irresolute, she
made up her mind. She was here, she would talk to the Adonian.
Whatever treachery Snaga Ohme was plotting, Maigrey believed she was
equal to it. If he wanted to bargain in good faith, fine. She would
do so. If not . . . well, she was ready for that, too.
As for Sagan and
Dion, the two would simply have to take care of themselves.
"We're not
going to wait for my lord any longer." Maigrey announced her
decision to the guards. Drawing the bloodsword, she inserted the
needles into her hand. "It's ten minutes past the time. I don't
want the Adonian to think I'm not coming."
"I don't
like this, my lady," Marcus said, frowning. "It's odd that
we haven't seen the Adonian before now, entering the target range
himself."
"Quit
trying to stall." Maigrey smiled, shook her head. "There's
probably another way in and out, a back entrance. Look, I don't like
it either. And that's why we're going to be careful. Very careful."
"I wish to
God I had a weapon!" the centurion muttered, hands clenching in
impotent frustration.
"I wish to
God you did, too, but there's no help for that now. We tried our
best; there's nothing in these target ranges but toys. At least I
have the bloodsword."
Maigrey
activated the weapon, motioned the two centurions to fall in on
either side of her. By the sword's light, they advanced through the
holograph into the deserted corridor. Reaching the target range, they
tried to see past the steelglass. It was like staring into a black
hole. The darkness was impenetrable, but gave Maigrey the strange
feeling that it was luring her inside. She reached out her left hand
to the range's control panel, pressed the button that glistened in
the sword's light. Four long buzzes. Two short. That had been Ohme's
instructions.
A door slid
open; chill air flowed out. Maigrey sniffed, caught a familiar scent.
The Adonian's perfume. He was in there, then, waiting in the
darkness. Maigrey found herself growing suddenly angry. She took a
step forward, only to bump into Marcus.
"Let me
enter first, my lady."
"Don't be
ridiculous!" Maigrey shoved him aside. "You're not armed
and I am. Keep a lookout for anything coming up behind us and for
God's sake don't let that door close!"
Caius took up
position at the door, blocking it with his body, keeping watch down
the corridor. Maigrey advanced cautiously into the target range, the
sword's light illuminating the chamber. Marcus accompanied her,
staying to her left, leaving her sword arm free.
She entered a
jungle. A path, cut through masses of artificial vegetation, led into
deeper, dense shadow.
"I know
this place," she murmured, almost to herself.
"Yes, my
lady." Marcus answered her unexpectedly, startling her. "The
planet where Lord Sagan found you."
"The planet
where I exiled myself."
Marcus drew
near. "This is a trap, my lady," he warned softly,
urgently.
"Yes. I
know."
Maigrey
continued on along the path, shoving aside plastic leaves of plants
she recognized, plants that grew on only one planet. A planet few
people in the civilized galaxy had ever visited. A planet whose image
was, however, indelibly imprinted in her mind. The scent of the
Adonian's perfume was stronger. He had to be here.
"Very well,
Snaga Ohme," Maigrey spoke to the darkness, moved ahead
cautiously, "we're tired of playing your little game. The price
I'm prepared to offer for the jewel is going down. I—"
Something swung
at her head, moving at her from the shadows. Maigrey gasped, ducked
involuntarily. Raising the sword to defend herself, she saw—by
the sword's light—the soles of two patent leather shoes,
dangling in the air above her head.
Something
dripped warm on her hand.
Blood.
White trousers,
a gleaming white cape, were barely visible among the thick foliage.
Maigrey reluctantly lifted the sword higher, and two eyes sprang out
of the darkness, stared down at her.
"My God!"
she breathed, shrinking back into the shadows, away from the eyes'
gaze.
But the eyes
couldn't see her. They couldn't see anything anymore. Glassy, empty,
only the whites visible, the eyes bulged from a face no longer
recognizable, a face whose handsome features were bloated and dark
with engorged blood, lips swollen and black, the tongue protruding
from the mouth.
Snaga Ohme hung
suspended from the limb of a fake tree, his body twisting slowly at
the end of a length of silver chain. Wrapped around his neck, so
tightly that the chain had cut deeply into the flesh, was the Star of
the Guardians.
"Yes, Derek
Sagan, I mean to kill you," Dion said, feeling the charge build
up inside him, burning in his blood until it was almost painful.
"Right here. Right now."
"In cold
blood? Murder? The king has become an assassin!" Sagan sneered.
"Not
murder. An execution," Dion corrected. "I am your king.
You've acknowledged as much. As my subject, your life is mine to
dispose of as I will. Take off the bloodsword and put it on the
floor."
Sagan did not,
at first, respond. Then, slowly, he unbuckled the bloodsword from
around his waist and, kneeling on one knee, laid it at Dion's feet,
as he had done earlier this night in the crowded ballroom.
Dion moved
closer, keeping the gun trained on the Warlord, kicked the bloodsword
away with his foot. Sagan remained kneeling before him, helmed head
bowed.
"Your
crimes are these. You came to my home to take me away by force. You
murdered the man who raised me. Do you have any defense to offer,
Derek Sagan?"
The Warlord
raised his head. "I have no defense. What you say is true. But
you should consider this, Your Majesty. Perhaps I didn't come to
Syrac Seven to capture you, Dion." Sagan's eyes, in the shadows
of the helm, flickered with flame. "Perhaps I came to rescue
you. ..."
A tremor seized
the young man's hand. Dion gripped the gun harder, willing the
shaking to stop. He tried to bring to mind an image of Platus, dying
by this lord's treacherous hand.
But all he could
see was that house, isolated, hidden away from the world, away from
life. His mentor, advising his charge to be . . . ordinary.