The Knights of the Black Earth (56 page)

“I beg your
pardon, madam. So sorry, sir. We must get through. Urgent information. I adore
your dress, my dear. Is it an original or a copy? Are you quite sure? It’s a
copy,” he said in an undertone to the Little One.

His friend growled
impatiently, pulled Raoul along so fast that he nearly stepped out of his
pumps.

“Where
are
we going?” Raoul demanded.

The Little One
pointed, indicated his plan. Raoul blinked, astounded at the idea. The more he considered
it, the better he liked it.

“GNN! News anchor
James M. Warden. His Majesty undoubtedly has a vid machine in the limo. We will
get ourselves on camera and issue the warning that way! James M. Warden will
certainly not allow anyone to shoot us—at least until after the interview.”

The two hastened
ahead.

“Mr. Warden!”
Raoul called, once again waving the hankie. “Mr. Warden! You don’t know me,
but—”

James M. Warden
faced them.

Raoul had the
sudden impression that he’d been mistaken; that the news anchor did indeed know
them and that they weren’t at all a welcome sight. Warden’s expression was
cold, dire.

The Little One
halted so abruptly that Raoul tumbled over him.

“Hostile? Why
should he be hostile—”

Warden turned to
Cato. “Captain, those two men over there. I recognize them. They are members of
the cyborg’s mercenary team!”

Cato looked, saw
them, recognized them. The captain shouted for his men, started forward.

Raoul was caught
out in the open, nowhere to run.

This called for
desperate measures. He reached into his handbag for his lipstick. . . .

At that moment,
the limo’s jets fired.

Captain Cato
whipped around, began issuing orders. “Clear the area! Get His Majesty to
safety!”

The Royal Guard
instantly sprang to action. The ring of steel expanded outward, firmly,
determinedly pressing people out of the way. The Royal Limo started to lift off
the ground.

Raoul and the
Little One thankfully mingled with the excited crowd, let the mob pick them up
and sweep them away, back to the relative safety of the scaffolding.

The Adonian heaved
a sigh of relief. “Ah, nothing to worry about now. Xris Cyborg must have
disabled the device. We can— What is it?”

The Little One was
leaning forward, his head cocked, as if he were listening to a distant call.

Raoul followed his
companion’s line of sight. “News anchor James M. Warden appears exceedingly
displeased. Well, he’s obviously just realized he’s missed his chance to
interview us. Oh, that’s not it? He’s contacting someone. Trying to contact
someone. They’re not answering. He’s trying to contact his news crew! The
people in the hotel! You don’t suppose—”

The Little One
suddenly stiffened; his gaze became unfocused, abstracted. He put his hands to
his head, shook it in confusion.

Raoul stared at
his friend worriedly. “What—”

The Little One
stomped on Raoul’s foot.

Raoul took the
hint, fell silent, though he mourned over the black mark on his golden pumps.

Spinning around,
the Little One grabbed hold of Raoul to ensure his complete attention, and
transmitted his message.

Raoul sucked in a
breath. “You were talking to Xris Cyborg! We’re supposed to look for a backup
assassin, carrying one of the negative wave devices! Somewhere near the king!
Possibly a GNN crewman. A GNN crewman? Are you sure? What else? What else did he
say?”

The Little One
clasped one small hand over his own wrist.

“They’ve been
captured.” Raoul sighed. “It’s up to us.”

He gazed around.
GNN news crew were everywhere. A quick count garnered about twenty. And
everyone of them seemed to be either holding or standing next to some sort of
machine. And every machine, as far as Raoul could judge machinery, had the
potential of being deadly.

“One of these
people is going to murder the king,” he murmured. “And there is nothing the
Royal Guard or anyone can do to stop the assassin, because they will never see
it coming. The young king will die, horribly, painfully, and no one will ever
know how, why. The assassin will simply walk away.”

“Get a shot of
that limo!”

The voice belonged
to news anchor James M. Warden, instructing his cameraman. The man shifted the
vidcam to the limojet.

The engines shut
off. The limo fell back to the ground, with what must have been a bone-jarring
jolt for those inside.

“Now,” Warden was
saying. “I want a shot of the king.”

“That’s it! The
device!” Raoul cried. “Stay here,” he ordered the Little One.

Raoul pulled out
his lipstick, flipped off the cap. A tiny needle flicked out of the tube.
Holding the tube in his hand, careful not to touch the needle, he ran toward
the cameraman.

No one, with the
possible exception of Xris, would have now recognized the Loti. Raoul’s gaze
was concentrated, absorbed, intent on his target. He ran lightly, swiftly, his
black hair streaming out behind.

He reached the
cameraman, could see—in the vidcam’s lens— red-golden hair. Dion was facing the
camera, looking right into it. The vidcam hummed. ...

Raoul jabbed the
needle deep into the cameraman’s back. The man cried out in astonishment and
pain. He dropped the camera, tumbled down to the ground, and lay there—unconscious.

And then the
Little One’s voice sounded in Raoul’s mind.

The wrong man!
He’s not the one! The assassin is—

A clenched fist
slammed into Raoul’s jaw, spun him around. He fell on all fours, dazed and
groggy from the blow.

In front of him,
on the ground, lay the camera, still humming, lights still flashing.

Raoul flung his
body on top of the vidcam, fumbling for the switch in a desperate attempt to
shut it off. A savage kick drove into his rib cage. Bones cracked. Pain shot
through him. A hand grabbed hold of him, flung him up and backward.

James Warden
picked up the vidcam, aimed it at the king.

The Royal Guard
were closing in—on Raoul. No one was paying the slightest attention to the news
anchor.

Raoul tried to sit
up, but the pain of the broken ribs was intense. It hurt too much to breathe,
let alone move. He was vaguely aware of the Little One standing over him, saw
the small hand emerge from the raincoat, carrying a blowgun.

The Little One put
the blowgun to his lips.

Warden clapped his
hand to the back of his neck, as if he’d been stung by an insect. He gave a cry
of fury and outrage, fought to hold the camera steady. But the poison from the
feathered dart worked swiftly. His body jerked. He staggered. Dropping the
vidcam, he clutched at his throat. Then he fell to the ground, dead.

The Little One
bent anxiously over his friend.

“The camera!”
Raoul choked, clasping his side. The pain was horrible; he felt sick and faint.
“Shut it off!”

The Little One
stared in baffled consternation at the vidcam. Even if he hadn’t been terrified
of the mechanical thing, he had no more idea how to shut it down than Xris had
of how to apply lipstick. The little Tongan, member of a primitive race, from a
primitive planet, searched for and found one of mankind’s very first tools.
This he knew how to use.

Lifting a large
rock, the Little One held it over his head, brought it down with all the force
of his small body on the negative wave device. Again and again, he bashed the
machine with the rock.

It worked quite as
effectively as the on/off switch. The device died.

But the Royal
Guard was, in the interval, thundering down on them, lasguns raised, aimed.

“I don’t think
they will be disposed to listen to our story,” Raoul murmured. “I believe, in
fact, that they are about to shoot us—”

“Raoul!” A voice
called. “Over here!”

Raoul managed to
weakly lift his head.

The door to the
Royal Limojet stood wide open. Its engines had fired; it was ready to depart.

Lord Admiral
Dixter gestured. “Quickly!”

The Little One
took hold of his friend’s hand, helped him to his feet.

Tottering on weak
knees, Raoul stumbled toward the limo. Only a step away, he fell, unable to
walk farther. The Lord Admiral caught hold of him, eased him into the vehicle,
where Raoul collapsed thankfully onto one of the leather seats. The Little One
clambered inside after his friend.

“Your Majesties,”
said Dixter gravely. “I have the honor of presenting the Ambassador from Adonia
and his aide.”

Lying sprawled
across the seat, Raoul waved a graceful hand to the king, smiled charmingly at
the queen, and fainted.

Dion looked at
Raoul, looked back at Dixter.

Dixter nodded,
grimaced, jerked a thumb at the crowd, the news media.

“I understand,”
Dion said gravely. “Thank you, my lord.”

The Lord Admiral
slammed shut the limo door.

“Drive on,” His
Majesty commanded.

Nothing in life is
so exhilarating as to be shot at without result.

Sir Winston Spencer Churchill,
The Malakand Field Force

Xris woke to the
touch of a soft hand on his good hand.

“Marjorie,” he
said dreamily, and gave the hand an affectionate squeeze.

Then pain burned
through the ragged edges of whatever drug he’d been given; memory returned. He
jerked his hand away. The other hand released his.

Xris opened his
eyes and stared into the widely grinning, hairy face of Bear Olefsky.

“My friend!” said
the Bear, slapping both his hands on his knees, “by my ears and eyeballs, it is
good to see you!”

But that soft hand
hadn’t belonged to Olefsky, who was seated on Xris’s left. Xris glanced over to
his right, saw Rowan. Her face was averted. Her cheeks were stained crimson.
Her hands were now clasped in her lap.

Xris turned back
to peer bleary-eyed at Olefsky.

“The king?” The
words came out a parched croak.

“Fine, laddie,
fine. The Peacock and the Small One acted with enormous courage and much good
sense.”

“Are they okay?”

“The Peacock
suffered two broken ribs and”—the Bear winked— “much damage to his fancy
feathers. I think that bothered him most. But, or so I understand, Her Majesty
the Queen has been most helpful in repairs.”

“The queen?” Xris
was perplexed.

“A long story and
one that I am certain the Peacock will want to tell you. Suffice it to say that
the assassin was killed, his heinous weapon destroyed.”

“Warden, wasn’t
it?”

“A snake in man’s
skin,” Olefsky said grimly. “No disparagement to the noble reptile family.”

Xris nodded
tiredly. “I figured as much—right before I passed out. It made sense. He had
the necessary contacts in the Navy and in the government, access to the king.
It made sense.”

He started
automatically to reach for a twist with his right hand. Pain shot through his
arm, radiated from his shoulder. He sucked in a breath, grimaced.

Rowan eased his
arm back down on the bed. He smiled at her.

She smiled back,
tentatively, hesitantly. “We need to talk,” she said softly.

“Yeah. I know. In
a minute.”

Xris took a look
at his surroundings. There were no viewscreens, but he guessed—from the
thrumming sound, the feel of vibrations through the bed—that he was on board a
spaceship. He was in a large open area, probably the ship’s hold, that had been
hastily furnished with cots and blankets. Jamil was stretched out on one, Quong
on another. Harry sat on another, tapping on his ears.

Tycho appeared,
hypo in hand. “How you feeling, Xris? Doc says you’re to have this shot. It’ll
help the pain.”

“Everyone else
okay?” Xris asked.

“Harry is deafer
than a bread box,” Tycho reported. “But he will heal. Jamil was not severely
wounded. I was not injured. You want a glass of water, Xris?”

“Thanks. What’s wrong
with the Doc?”

“Nothing. He is
taking a nap. I now intend to join him.” Tycho brought the water and left for
his own cot.

Olefsky rumpled
his beard. “The doctor worked very hard on you and Jamil there. But you both
will be well, thank the good God.”

Xris nodded,
chewed contentedly on the twist. A warmth spread through the good side of his
body. He felt drowsy, relaxed, content. That was due to the drug. He had no
reason to feel content, other than the fact that the young king was safe, the
Knights of the Terra Nera thwarted. He himself was still in a hell of a lot of
trouble. But that could wait.

He almost slept,
then remembered something. Two things.

“Those soldiers
that took us captive,” Xris said, waking, looking up at Olefsky. “Yours?”

The big man grinned
expansively. “Some of my troops. What the major over there would call ‘Special
Forces.’ I call them the Wolf Brigade. I deemed it best to carry you swiftly
away from there.”

Xris smiled. “Or
kill me if I’d betrayed you.”

The Bear’s
expression grew grave. “Aye, laddie. That, too. It was a solemn oath I swore.
And one I would have kept. But,” he added, cheering up, “there was no need. For
which, again, I thank the good God.”

“We’re your
prisoners,” Xris said. “Where are you taking us?”

“Wherever you want
to go, friend Xris. You are not my prisoner. I have hidden you away in the
hold, but that is to keep the rest of the crew from knowing anything about you.
The Wolf Brigade knows, but no torture ever devised could wring such knowledge
from their tongues.”

Bear eyed Xris
speculatively. “You are a wanted man. Serious charges: breaking into a Naval
base, kidnapping Major Mohini, hijacking that drop ship. If you give yourselves
up, I have it on good authority, from the Lord Admiral himself, that you and
your people will receive reduced sentences. Perhaps even full pardons, due to
your prevention of the assassination attempt upon the king.”