King's Test (32 page)

"It seems
we are at an impasse, my lady." He kept hold of her hand, drew
her near. "I have time. You have time. So, unfortunately, does
John Dixter. Stavros lasted only three days, but then I was in a
hurry. I can make Dixter's suffering last as long as it takes.
Perhaps"—the Warlord released her hand, turned toward a
communications center—"you would like to speak with him—"

"No!"
She had gone deathly pale. Her restraining hand on his arm was rigid
as a corpse's.

"The game
is over, lady. Check and checkmate. You played well. " The
Warlord came to stand beside her. Reaching out his hand, he brushed
it lightly, almost caressingly, over her scarred cheek. "But I
played better. Shall we take a walk, over to your plane? Once I have
the bomb in my possession I will give the order—"

"It won't
do you any good," Maigrey interrupted.

Sagan's face
darkened. "I warn you, my lady, John Dixter will suffer—"

"Then he
must suffer," she said softly. The tear's twin slid down her
face. Angrily, she dashed it away with the back of her hand. "What
hope do the people of this galaxy have, what hope does Dion have, if
you hold this flaming sword in your hand?"

"I would
make the boy a king—"

"A king of
straw! The prince of iron rules behind his back!"

Sagan advanced
on her so suddenly and so swiftly that she was trapped in a corner
before she could escape. "You didn't do this for the boy,
Maigrey! You didn't risk your life to gain this 'flaming sword' for
Dion!" The Warlord caught hold of her arms, held her fast, his
body pressing hers against a wall of steel. "You forget, lady, I
see through you like flawed crystal! You want the weapon for
yourself. You sold everything you had, including your honor, to
obtain it. And you're willing to let a man who loves and trusts you
die a terrible death so that you can keep it—"

The metal was
cold against her back. She began shivering. Crossing her arms, she
huddled in upon herself, lowering her head, hiding behind a curtain
of pale hair. "No," she whispered, and shrank away from him
as far as possible. "No." If she said no over and over,
repeated it like a chant, a litany, it might gain power, it might
come to be true.

His hands
suddenly eased their hurting grasp and were gentle, persuasive,
drawing her near. He was warmth and strength and sanctuary. She could
hide in his darkness and be completely forgotten and she herself
could forget. . . .

"Lord
Sagan." The voice boomed over the commlink.

Sagan smoothed
his hand over the pale, fair hair. He brushed his fingers over the
scar on her face, felt the trace of the tear, wet and chill on her
skin.

"I left
orders not to be disturbed."

"Yes, my
lord. But you also told us to inform you if the half-breed
contacted—"

"The
half-breed?" Sagan glanced toward the commlink, as if the voice
speaking had suddenly taken shape and form and become visible.

"He's here,
my lord, and demands to speak to you at once."

The Warlord fell
silent, stood looking down at Maigrey, not seeing her. His hands
released her, he turned away from her, but not before she'd felt his
body stiffen, tense.

"Send him
in," Sagan commanded,.

"So,"
Maigrey said, following him as he crossed the room, advancing as he
retreated, "the game isn't over yet, is it, my lord?"

"For you it
is, my lady," he said coolly, with a sidelong glance.

You may hold my
king in check, my lord, Maigrey told him silently, but not checkmate.
The queen has one more move left. . . .

Sagan switched
on more lights. The room was brilliantly illuminated, and Maigrey
blinked, blinded by the glare. The panel glided aside. A figure
emerged from the darkness, shuffling with cringing shoulders into the
light as if possessed of an aversion to the radiance. It shambled and
hunched its way into the room, a pile of slovenly rags.

Maigrey caught a
quick glimpse of Marcus, standing guard outside, his stern face
twisted in aversion, fingers on his weapon obviously itching to rid
his Warlord of a pest.

The door slid
shut; Sagan sealed it. The figure straightened in a graceful, fluid
motion, alarmingly like the uncoiling of a snake.

"My lady,"
the Warlord said, "may I present Sparafucile."

A malformed head
lifted from the hunched shoulders; a misshapen face turned to
Maigrey, misaligned eyes glinted, leering.

She caught her
breath, took an involuntary step backward. "You!"

"Ah, yes,"
the Warlord remarked. "I had forgotten that you two have already
met."

"Not
formally, Sagan Lord." The half-breed, grinning, rested strong
hands on the weapons belt at his waist.

He brought back
to Maigrey the horror of the creatures who had attacked her, brought
back her inability to think, to react. The dark curtain in her mind
trembled, stirred by a disquieting breeze. She reached out her hand,
groped for something solid, reassuring, and leaned against the arm of
an unyielding couch. The other two in the room talked, but for long
moments she couldn't hear them.

"Visitors?
From Snaga Ohme?" Sagan was saying to the half-breed when
Maigrey was once again able to attend to the conversation. "Surely
the Adonian must know by now that the double-crosser has become the
double-crossed."

"No, Sagan
Lord, these people come not from Snaga Ohme. I know his men by sight
and these are not them, though one is pretty enough to be, I think. "

A shadow
darkened Sagan's face. The same shadow fell over Maigrey’s
heart, though she couldn't give a name to her fear or see it clearly.

"Describe
him," was all the Warlord said.

"A human
boy, Sagan Lord, well made with fair skin and hair the color of blood
and fire. Abdiel himself come to meet him. He take him by the hand,
call the boy Dion."

"The hand,"
the Warlord murmured, opened his own right hand, stared down at the
five scars on the palm, his face grim.

Remembered pain
jolted through Maigrey's arm. She clasped one palm over the other.
"Give it up, Sagan! I won't fall for it. Abdiel is dead! All the
mind-seizers are dead. I read it in your files—"

"It is no
trick, lady," the Warlord cried, losing his patience.

"Look
inside me! See the truth! Abdiel is alive. He is here on Laskar and
somehow he has managed to get hold of Dion . . . just as he got hold
of us so many years ago!"

Maigrey had no
need to look inside him. She had only to look inside herself to know
the truth ... or to admit it. Terrible memories of their captivity
came to her, of the torture, more horrible because it was of the
mind, as well as the body.

We were strong,
we were prepared. We knew what to expect. We fought him, we escaped.
But not Dion. He doesn't know. . . . He doesn't know.

The game board
had been upended, the pieces scattered all to hell. Maigrey rubbed
the scars on her palm, but the pain did not abate.

So spake the
Seraph Abdiel, faithful found, Among the faithless, faithful only he
. . .

John Milton,
Paradise Lost

The old man took
Dion's right hand in his own right hand. Abdiel's flesh was chill and
clammy to the touch, the skin of the fingers and palm astonishingly
smooth, as if it had been sanded. Dion returned the pressure of the
strong grip, though he found it difficult, looking at the patches of
rotting skin on the back of the hand, to repress a shudder of
revulsion. The old man kept his left hand concealed in the long,
flowing robes he wore wound around his thin body.

Dion didn't like
the man's touch, tried to withdraw his hand, though he forced
himself, out of courtesy, not to make the gesture seem hurried.
Abdiel kept hold of him, however, and turned the boy's right hand
palm up. Shrewd eyes noted the five scars, darted to the bloodsword
Dion wore at his side.

"I see that
you have been blooded. Quite right. Quite proper, my king. Though
sometimes very dangerous. My name is Abdiel, did I mention that? The
old. We forget things so easily. I don't suppose my Lady Maigrey
spoke of me to you? Or your mentor, Platus, perhaps?" The voice
was smooth and sanded as the flesh, warm and arid as the desert
around them. "I heard of his death. I am sorry, deeply sorry."

Dion managed,
finally, to free himself of the old man's grasp. "Where is the
Lady Maigrey?" he asked coldly, and heard, behind him, Tusk's
grunt of approval.

Abdiel heard it
as well. The eyes shifted from the boy to the mercenary and to the
young woman, both standing protectively just behind and to either
side of Dion.

"Mendaharin
Tusca," said Abdiel, with a bobbing motion of his body.

"Sorry."
Tusca shook his head. "You must have me confused with someone
else."

"Oh, your
secret is safe with me, my dear Tusca. Quite safe. I knew your
father. A pity. A pity. I did what I could to prevent his terrible
death, but I was too late. It seems that I am always late."

Abdiel's gaze
switched back to Dion, who noticed that the old man's eyes had no
lashes, seemed to have no lids. The eyes themselves appeared never to
close. If they blinked, the movement was so rapid that it escaped
observation. When he looked at you, he seemed to be always looking at
you.

The old man
sighed. Shivering, he slid his hand back inside his robe, huddled
deep within the heavy fabric.

Sweat trickled
down Dion's forehead. He kept his expression stern. "I received
a message from the Lady Maigrey. We either see her now or we're
leaving."

"You will
see her, my king." Abdiel reached out his hand again, plucked
the sleeve of Dion's cotton, short-sleeved shirt (purchased with
their poker winnings on Vangelis). "Perhaps not as you expect,
but you will see her." The old man bobbed again. "Will you
honor my humble dwelling with your presence, Your Majesty?"

Dion hesitated,
undecided. But Tusk had already made up his mind.

"Kid! What
the hell do you think you're doing?" He caught hold of Dion by
the shoulder, drew him to one side. "Uh, 'scuse us a minute, old
man, will you? Got to have a little chat with my friend. Private."

"I quite
understand." Abdiel made a gesture with his hand; a patch of
skin fell off and was blown away on the wind. "If you will
permit me, I will return to my dwelling. I am subject to chills and
cannot stay long in the out-of-doors. Whenever you are ready to enter
my house, Your Majesty, I will be honored to receive you. My
disciples and I await your coming with pleasure."

Wrapping his
robes around him, the old man made a deep bow, glided across the
barren, rocky ground, and disappeared into the house. Several of the
dead-eyed disciples standing around the dwelling went in after him.
Others remained outside and it seemed to Tusk, who was watching them
warily, that he was being outcircled, outflanked. He turned back to
Dion, saw the boy's jaw set, the blue eyes harden.

"Look, kid,
be smart! We should get in that 'copter and get the hell out of here
now."

"I don't
think they're going to let us leave, Tusk," Nola said quietly.
Two of the blankly staring humans had moved nearer the chopper.

"All the
more reason to try it. There are three of us, we've got lasguns. We
knock 'em out before they know what hit em— Why the devil am I
wasting my breath?' Tusk raised his arms to heaven. "You're
going in there, aren't you, kid? 'My king.' You really eat that stuff
up."

Dion flushed in
anger, opened his mouth, snapped it shut. Turning on his heel, he
began to walk toward the house.

Tusk, glaring
after the boy, felt a painful poke in his back. Nola was glaring at
him.

"All right,
all right! Hey, kid!" the mercenary shouted at Dion's departing
figure. He hurried to catch up, Nola running along behind. "We're
coming with you."

"You don't
have to," Dion said coldly. "I'll have Abdiel's people take
you back to your . . . your junkyard."

"Yeah, and
I bet they would, too,' Tusk muttered, but kept it beneath his
breath. "Probably drop us off at five thousand without benefit
of a 'chute." Aloud he said, "I'm not doing it for you,
kid. I'm . . . kinda curious to know how he knew who I was. I've kept
my real name quiet—"

"That's
right, he
did
know!" Dion said. Eagerness and excitement
made the blue eyes flame like sapphire. "He knew Platus, he knew
your father. He probably knew all the Guardians years back, before
the revolution. I wonder why Maigrey never mentioned him. They must
have been friends."

"Not
necessarily, kid. Not necessarily," Tusk said, but he said it to
the sand blowing through the air and to Nola, who took hold of his
hand and clasped it tightly.

Two of the
lifeless beings, noting the trio's destination, came up and escorted
them into the house of cards.

The heat,
inside, was intense.

"It's a
goddamn sauna!" Tusk breathed, mopping his face.

The dwelling was
divided into innumerable small, square rooms piled up on top of each
other, connected by stairs. The walls and floors were constructed of
cedar. On entering, each was asked to please remove his or her shoes.

One of the
zombies, as Tusk not-so-jokingly referred to them in an undertone to
Nola, led them up a flight of stairs and down another and through a
maze of empty boxlike rooms, and finally brought them into Abdiel's
presence. The old man sat huddled near a small solar furnace. Heat
radiated from red-glowing stones. Every so often, one of the zombies
stepped forward and poured a cup of water on the rocks. Steam hissed
into the air, its wisps reaching out to the old man.

The hot, moist
air burned Dion's lungs. Tusk's black skin glistened like polished
ebony. Nola's hair curled around her face in drop-covered ringlets.