King's Test (18 page)

Dixter had the
impression Sagan was saying something important here, something
dangerous, but the general's brain seemed to be still chasing
butterflies, for he could make nothing of it. He shifted restlessly
beneath the blankets.

Sagan noted the
movement, eyed the man speculatively. "We are both soldiers,
Dixter. We've known each other a long time. There may be animosity
between us, but there is also—I believe—respect?"

"It was an
old dictum of yours, Sagan. Respect your enemy," Dixter said
heavily, making a feeble gesture with his bound hand. "That . .
. trap. It was all for my benefit, wasn't it?"

"Yes, it
was all for your benefit, but don't flatter yourself, General. You
didn't do anything clever. You simply asked too many questions. After
all, what did it really matter to you who supplied that torpedo boat
to the Vangelis government?"

Dixter sighed.
"You could have dealt with me anytime. Captured me—"

"When?
Prior to the battle? No, I needed your people to help me win it.
After, if you remember, I had you arrested. Your people freed you.
You might say they brought their doom upon themselves."

"You would
never have let them go."

Sagan shrugged.
"Perhaps not. At any rate, I succeeded in my objectives. All of
them."

Questions burned
on Dixter's lips, but he didn't dare ask them. Patience, he counseled
himself, fidgeting beneath the blankets, trying to ease the cramp in
his leg. Looking up, he saw the Warlord watching him intently, a
slight smile on the thin lips. The general had the uncomfortable
impression that every thought passing through his head had been duly
noted by those dark, shadowed eyes.

"You
discovered information on Vangelis concerning the alien, Snaga Ohme.
You passed that information along to the Lady Maigrey, didn't you?"

Dixter blinked,
kept his expression bland. "I don't recall that the subject ever
came up between us."

"Come,
come, John Dixter. You don't expect me to believe that you two spent
all that time together alone on Vangelis discussing old times."
The Warlord's left hand lowered to the bed; the fingers began to idly
run back and forth over the sheets near the general's bound arm.

"That's it,
I'm afraid, Derek." Dixter smiled pleasantly. "We had a lot
to talk about. It had been a long time since we'd seen . . . each
other. . . ." His voice died. He was silent, remembering.

"We've
interrogated your aide," the Warlord continued, as if he hadn't
heard. "What's the sergeant major's name? Bennett?"

Dixter's head
snapped up. "Bennett doesn't know anything! Let him go. It's me
you want!"

"Oh, you'll
have your turn, John Dixter." Sagan's hand moved from the sheet
to the general's bound arm. His fingers brushed against the skin,
their touch hot against the man's cold flesh.

Dixter flinched
involuntarily, gritted his teeth.

"But not
just now. Not just yet." The Warlord opened his right hand. A
crumpled, bloodstained handkerchief slowly unfolded in the harsh
light like the petals of a flower. Dixter, caught off guard, stared
at it, realized too late his recognition must be obvious on his face.

"Maigrey
seems to have left this behind," Sagan said. "I will return
it to her ... at my earliest opportunity."

"No need."
Dixter kept his voice even. "It's not hers. It's mine."

"All the
more reason for her to cherish it." The Warlord's fist closed
over the handkerchief, crushing it.

This is a
place for tears. . . . The libertine baron, who tortures her lover
while Tosca is forced to watch.
Suddenly Dixter understood what
was to be his fate, how he would be used. Slowly, he shook his head.

"Maigrey's
a soldier. She's seen men die before."

"But not
one she loves." The Warlord leaned near. "And it will take
you a long time to die, John Dixter. A long time."

Dixter was
master of himself now. Calmly, he looked up. "Watching a man she
loves die with honor may be easier for her than watching one she
loves live in dishonor."

The thrust hit
home, though Dixter knew it only by the flicker of fire in Sagan's
dark eyes, not by any change in the man's stance or facial
expression.

"You refuse
to cooperate, John Dixter?"

"What else
did you expect, Derek?" Dixter was tired. His head ached, he
wanted this conversation to end.

"I leave
you with one final thought. I know where Lady Maigrey has gone, what
she plans. But an enemy awaits her on Laskar, one of which she knows
nothing. The foe she will face on that planet is one far beyond her
strength. I wonder if she realizes ..."

The Warlord fell
silent, his thoughts and his attention turned inward, as if listening
for some faraway voice. Apparently he didn't hear it, for his
attention snapped back to Dixter. "Any information you could
give me about what she knows, what she plans to do, might enable me
to save her—"

"Save
her! You're almost as funny as your other clowns, Sagan. Thanks for
the attempt to raise my level of musical knowledge." Dixter
leaned his head back against the pillow, closed his eyes. "Shut
the door on your way out, will you?"

The Warlord
remained standing near him. Dixter could almost feel the dark eyes on
him, could almost feel them try to peel the skin from him, to see
inside. The mental flaying was nearly as painful as a physical one.
It took an effort to keep his eyes shut.

And then Sagan
was gone. Dixter heard the whisper of the robes against the deck, the
slap of an open palm against the controls, the soft whoosh of the
panel sliding open.

Bobes rustled;
Sagan had turned. "I'll leave you with a name. I'm sure it's one
you'll recognize: Abdiel."

He walked away.
The booted feet of the centurion resuming his duties entered. The
panel slid shut.

John Dixter
opened his eyes, stared at the ceiling.

He's lying! he
told himself desperately. It's nothing but a trick, a trick to make
me talk. Abdiel is dead. . . .

Dixter's hands
clenched. The metal bonds cut into his flesh, leaving red spots of
blood on the sterile sheets.

Outside the
general's cell, Dr. Giesk and the Warlord observed the man's agony
through one-way steelglass.

"Shall I
order another injection, my lord? We might have much better success
this time."

"No,
there's no need," Sagan said, turning away, borrowing another
quote from the Baron von Scarpia. " '
Morde il veleno.'"

"My lord?"

" 'My
poison is working.' "

. . . there was
a way to Hell, even from the gates of heaven.

John Bunyan,
The
Pilgrim's Progress

"Like I was
saying, Tusk, Dixter's alive! The Warlord's holding him hostage
aboard
Defiant."

"Hostage
for what?" Tusk demanded irritably, not liking Link's superior
attitude.

Link tilted back
in his chair, planted his boots on the table, and spread his hands.
"You got me!" he said, looking over at Dion and winking.

Dion had leapt
to his feet. "What if—"

"Forget it,
kid. Just forget it!" Tusk leaned over, muttered savagely to
Link, "Why the hell did you bring that up in front of him?"

"He's got a
right to know." Link folded his hands over his chest, fingers
intertwined. "Well, well! Look who's here!" he added,
grinning. Nola stood framed in the doorway. "Aren't we looking
lovely today."

"Shove it,
Link," the woman said.

"How's your
shoulder?" Tusk asked.

"It hurts.
Dion, there's some character down below says he's got a message for
you."

"For me?"
Dion frowned.

"The
Warlord," Tusk said, rising to his feet. "C'mon, Link. Well
deal with the—"

"Have them
bring him up," Dion ordered.

"Kid, I—"

"Have them
bring him up, please."

Nola shrugged,
disappeared. Tusk scowled, but said nothing, and marched over to
stare out the slit in the wall that represented a window.

The mercenaries
had returned to the stone fortress on Vangelis. Some had argued
against going back there. Sagan himself had been to the fortress. He
knew exactly where it was, what its defenses were like. But it was
precisely these defenses that argued for it. Built on top of a cliff
jutting up from the flat desert floor, the fortress allowed those
within an unobstructed view of the land for kilometers around it. A
mouse would have been visible, making its small way across the barren
rock beneath the cloudless cobalt blue sky.

It had been
seventy-two hours since the mercenaries had managed to escape the
Warlord's trap. Their spaceplanes dotted the landscape around the
fortress proper. They took up positions inside and waited grimly for
Sagan to come and finish them off.

He hadn't shown
up, however, and Tusk had been spending a lot of his time wondering
why. Now, with Link's news, he had a good idea. Sagan didn't need to
bother. He had captured their general and the Warlord knew that
Dixter's people would never allow him to remain a prisoner.

Perhaps this
"character's" arrival was the opening of negotiations.

Fidgeting, Tusk
left the window, paced the stone floor. Located on the upper level of
the fortress, the room was large and open to the air, since rainfall
was so scarce as to be practically nonexistent. A battered wooden
table stood in the center, surrounded by chairs in various stages of
dilapidation. Link took his lasgun from its holster, casually placed
it on the table in front of him.

"Tusk?"
Nola's voice.

"Yeah,
we're ready. Bring him in."

The door was
shoved open. Nola and two of the mercenaries entered, escorting a
hooded and robed figure between them.

"We spotted
him coming in a 'copter. We'd have shot him down, only he broadcast
he was a messenger. We scanned him and the chopper before we let him
land. Both clean, no explosives. Once he was on the ground, he said
he had a message for the kid here."

The mercenaries
held the man by the arms, not gently. The man stood quietly, calmly,
unmoving. His face, except for the eyes, was hidden behind the folds
of a kaffiyeh; not unusual, the headgear was worn by many in the
deserts of Vangelis.

There was
something odd about the eyes, Tusk thought. He'd never seen eyes so
completely devoid of expression.

He leaned over
to Dion. "The guy's blind!"

Dion regarded
the messenger intently.

"I'm Dion
Starfire. What message have you brought me?"

The man reacted
to the sound of the voice much like a person who is blind. But,
turning to face Dion, the messenger's eyes focused on the young man
and it was obvious that he could see. He didn't, however, appear to
be much interested.

A 'droid? Tusk
wondered. No. 'Droids had more life programmed into them than this.

"My message
is for Dion Starfire," the man said in a voice that was even,
calm, and flat. "Alone."

"We're his
friends," Tusk growled, sitting down, making it clear he
intended to stay seated.

Dion's frown
deepened, the blue eyes gleamed in the brilliant sunshine pouring
into the room, the red hair seemed ablaze. "Nola isn't feeling
well. Link, will you and the others take her downstairs?"

"Dion,"
Tusk leaned over to whisper, "admittedly this creep doesn't look
like much, but we might need some backup." He added aloud,
"Link, you stay—"

"Link,
please take Nola back to the sick bay."

Nola seemed
about to protest. Link was on his feet, apparently prepared to humor
the kid, but looking at Tusk for command. Tusk saw Dion's jaw clench,
saw the expression of imperious, almost petulant decision harden the
youthful face.

"The kid's
the boss," Tusk said, feeling uncomfortable, not certain how to
handle this new side of the young man. "The message is for him,
after all."

Link, shrugging
in his easy, nonchalant manner, took his gun from the table, thrust
it into its holster. He detoured around the messenger, who did not
move and who might have been mistaken for one of the room's wooden
support posts.

"Come, my
dear. I'll put you to bed." Link grinned, slid his arm around
Nola's waist.

Nola cast a
troubled glance over her shoulder at Tusk but allowed herself to be
led away. The other mercenaries followed.

"Tusk,
check the door."

"What the—
Kid, they're your friends!"

"Please
check the door."

Tusk, grumbling,
rose to his feet to do as he was told and was startled to find Link
lounging just outside.

"I thought
you went with Nola," Tusk said.

"She gave
me the brush. She's been bitchy ever since she got hit. I figured I
might hang around out here, make sure you two didn't get into any
trouble."

"Uh,
thanks, but I ... uh ... I'd really appreciate it if you looked after
Nola."

"Sure. I'm
easy." Link sauntered off.

Tusk, frowning,
puzzled, returned to the room. "What do you make of that?"

"Simple."
As Dion spoke to him, his eyes remained fixed on the messenger. "How
do you think he knew the Warlord was holding Dixter?"

Tusk stared at
him, gawking. "Link? A spy! No! C'mon, kid!"

Dion didn't
respond. He signaled Tusk to be silent, spoke to the messenger.

"We're
alone. What do you have to say to me?"

"I was
ordered to give my message to you alone—"

"Tusk stays
or you leave. Which is it?" The young man's tone was pleasant,
but there was no doubting his resolve.

The messenger
acquiesced with a slight inclination of his head. "The message
is from the Lady Maigrey Morianna. It is by word of mouth and given
to me only. She asked me to speak thus: 'Dion Starfire, I am in
danger and in need of your help. Meet me on the planet Laskar. This
man knows where I can be found.' That is the end."