"Sagan Lord," the man said.
"Sparafucile," acknowledged the Warlord. He waved a commanding hand. "Sit down. We have much to discuss."
Years past, in what was now known as the second Dark Ages, scientists working underground in hidden laboratories had conducted genetic experiments designed to produce members of both human and alien species who were physically and mentally superior to the rest of their kind. Out of these experiments had come successes—such as the Blood Royal. Out of these had come failures. Most of the failures had been mercifully destroyed. A few had escaped or been allowed to live for continuing research purposes. It was these failures who were undoubtedly this man's ancestors.
At least so Sagan surmised. No one knew for certain, but he deemed it likely. The misshapen face, the unusual strength, the exceptional intelligence, the amoral nature came from ancestors who themselves had come from test tubes. Dr. Giesk had brought the "half-breed," as the man was known, to the Warlord's attention and Sagan had been quick to recognize the breed's talents. Well aware that money can buy such a man but will not buy his loyalty, the Warlord had not bought the breed, but had, in a way, adopted him. Sagan fed the breed, clothed him, protected him from his numerous enemies, listened to the category of his wrongs. The Warlord had even given the breed a name—a thing the breed's own wretched mother had not bothered to do.
Sparafucile belonged to his lord, body and soul ... if the breed owned a soul.
"It is very dark in here, Sagan Lord," the breed observed, still standing. He spoke in a hoarse, sibilant whisper that had the odd characteristic of being as loud and distinguishable as normal conversational tones, if slightly more disconcerting.
"I cannot imagine the dark offends you," the Warlord answered.
"No, no." Sparafucile smiled, an expression that was not pleasant. The smile did ghastly things to his face, one cheekbone being considerably higher and more protruding than the other. The upturning of the thick wide lips caused the left eye—the lower of the two—to shut nearly all the way, giving the smile the appearance of a leer. "I like the darkness. It aids and abets me. But I don't like this darkness. I think this darkness reflects your mood, Sagan Lord."
"Perhaps." The Warlord was lenient, indulgent with his favorite. He motioned again. "Will you be seated?"
"Thank you, Sagan Lord." The words spoken were not servile, but given with respect. The half-breed turned slowly and shuffled slowly to a chair opposite that of the Warlord. Seating himself, he stretched out long legs encased in soft leather boots, folded his hands comfortably over his rags, and appeared to fall asleep. This appearance of lethargy had fooled many in the breed's time, most to their later regret. A striking snake was not swifter or deadlier than Sparafucile.
"Refreshment?"
The half-breed shook his head.
"Your report, then."
"In what order, Sagan Lord?"
"Chronological."
The breed shrugged, paused a moment to gather his thoughts. "Twenty-four hours ago, Abdiel land on Laskar."
The Warlord's face did not change expression, but the fingers of the right hand clenched over the arm of the chair on which it rested. Sparafucile noticed, while seeming not to notice. Only the glitter of the eyes could be seen from within the rags.
"He build a quick-build"—Sagan understood this to mean a prefab structure—"in small desert ravine twenty kilometers from house of the Adonian, Snaga Ohme."
"How near is Abdiel to Fort Laskar?"
"Twenty kilometers. He is in middle."
"Are any of the mind-dead with him?"
"Thirty, Sagan Lord."
The darkness was not as dark as the Warlord's expression. The breed slid his spinal column another few centimeters down into the chair, almost disappearing within the rags.
"What has he done since his arrival?"
"He make contact with the Adonian."
"Damn!" The Warlord swore softly. "Did Abdiel go to Snaga Ohme himself, in person?"
"No, Sagan Lord. He send one of the dead men."
"Do you know what they discussed?"
"The man does not live who can walk unobserved into the house of the Adonian, Sagan Lord. My listening devices do not function there, either. The Adonian is very clever in the art of jamming signals."
Sparafucile was not making excuses, merely stating facts, and the Warlord, knowing his creature's talents, accepted his reasoning without question.
"But we can assume Abdiel is merely opening negotiations," Sagan said, speaking low, as if to himself.
The breed, uncertain if this remark was addressed to him or not, kept quiet.
The Warlord returned to the business at hand. "Anything else on the mind-seizer?"
"No, Sagan Lord."
"Proceed then to the lady."
"Twelve hours after Abdiel arrive on Laskar, the lady arrive."
"Yes, I received your report concerning her."
Sparafucile appeared to think he detected a note of rebuke. "You are not mad, Sagan Lord? Perhaps you think I should have sent report on Abdiel—"
"No!" Sagan shook his head in emphasis. "Transmit nothing pertaining to him! Bring all information directly to me, as per your original orders."
The breed was reassured. "The base commander, he make contact with the Adonian."
"You were able to hear their conversation?"
Sparafucile grinned. "The ear I put in his office can hear the sound of the dust blowing across the floor, Sagan Lord. I could tell you how fast the lady's heart beats, eh?"
"I'm not interested in her heartbeat . . . and neither are you," the Warlord added pointedly, knowing his creature's one weakness.
Sparafucile laughed—a short, croaking bark that ceased with a gurgle, sounding much as if he'd choked himself. "I hear all the talk, Sagan Lord. Haupt and Ohme do not speak long. The commandant tells the Adonian that the lady is here, that she is sent by you. The Adonian is pleased. The lady has appointment with Ohme tomorrow. Noon, Laskar time."
"You can be back by then?"
"You know my skill. You know my craft." The black eyes above the mound of rags were shrewd, attentive. "What are orders, Sagan Lord?"
"Follow the woman to Ohme's estate. When she comes out—" Sagan paused, broke off, then asked abruptly, "Is Abdiel aware of the Lady Maigrey's presence on Laskar?"
Sparafucile gave the question due consideration, shook his head with finality. "No, Sagan Lord."
"But that will change soon. He will sense her, much as I would. Much as I do," he rephrased his sentence softly, beneath his breath. "And, undoubtedly, knowing Ohme, he will inform each of the other's presence, use the two against each other in order to drive up the price. The news will come as a shock to my lady, I fear, but I trust she will stand up beneath the blow." The Warlord was quiet, considering his plans.
Sparafucile waited in respectful silence.
Sagan drew a breath, made up his mind. "When she comes out of Snaga Ohme's house, my friend, you will follow her at a discreet distance. Keep her in sight, but do not reveal yourself to her."
"A question, Sagan Lord. The lady will succeed in her mission to the Adonian?"
"Yes, she will succeed. When she comes out of his house, she will have an object—"
"What is object?"
"A secret, my friend. A secret you will be paid well to let remain a secret."
"Very good, Sagan Lord. Then it is all very simple. Let me take secret from lady."
"Could you take it from me, Sparafucile," Sagan inquired gravely, "if I didn't want you to have it?"
The breed appeared awed, shook his head. "No, Sagan Lord."
"Then you would not be able to take it from her."
Sparafucile's eyes narrowed; he was dubious. The Warlord opened his right palm, revealing the five marks barely visible in the dim light. He said nothing, but the breed understood the meaning, uncrossed his legs in acknowledgment.
"Keep watch over the woman, Sparafucile. The moment she acquires the ob
ject, she will be in extreme peril. Make certain that both she and the object arrive safely back at the fort."
"I understand, Sagan Lord. And then?"
"And then I will deal with the lady. You will return and maintain your observation of Abdiel."
"Yes, Sagan Lord."
"Continue bringing reports to me in person. I will be at Fort Laskar."
The rags moved, indicating that the breed had given his acquiescence.
"Are you in need of anything? Weapons? Money?"
Knowing this was his dismissal, Sparafucile gathered himself together and rose, by degrees, to a standing position. In answer to the Warlord's questions, the breed thrust forth the strong hands and flexed them, indicating that these were his best weapons. He then held one palm out and up, admitting a need for money.
Sagan complied, lifting a leather pouch he had waiting, and tossing it to the breed, who caught it deftly. The half-breed did not glance inside. The chink of platinum—the preferred medium of exchange on Laskar—had been obvious to his sharp ears. The pouch and the hands disappeared inside the rags. His body hunched and shrank together until he was nothing more than a twisted beggar removing his unsavory person from the Warlord's presence.
The panel slid open at the lord's command. The Honor Guard presented themselves, escorted the breed back to his ship.
"My lord," came the captain's voice over the commlink.
"Yes."
"I have someone on line, waiting to speak to you."
Sagan frowned in irritation. He needed time to think. "Who is it?"
"He said to tell you the name was Captain Link, my lord." The officer spoke with faint disgust. He had not been impressed with Captain Link.
Dread brushed its claws across the Warlord's soul.
"Put him through to me."
"Yes, my lord."
"Sagan? That you?"
"Yes, Captain," the Warlord said.
"Uh, I got some bad news, I'm afraid, your Warlordship."
"What is it, Captain?"
"Just one thing first. Do I still get the rest of my money? I was in this ante-up game, see, and I had a run of bad luck—"
"You will still receive your payment. Depending on your information, you may be allowed to live long enough to spend it."
A long pause. Then, "Uh, yeah. Well. The fact is . . . er . . . the kid's gone."
"Gone? Where? To Defiant?" Sagan had been expecting Dion to launch some wild scheme to rescue John Dixter.
"I don't think so. You see, your lordship, I don't exactly know where they've gone. I think the kid caught on to me."
"Very good, Dion," Sagan murmured. "I'm impressed."
"He got this message—"
"Message? From whom?"
"Near as I could understand from something the kid said when he thought I was . . . er . . . passed out, the message came from that woman named Maigrave or something like that."
"And now the boy is gone. Off-planet?"
"Plane's nowhere to be found. Controller said the pilot requested off-world clearance."
"Is anyone with him?"
"Nola . . . and Tusk, your lordship. Both of them are missing, too, and it makes sense that they would have gone with the kid."
Of course. The Guardian. It was logical. Maigrey had contacted the boy, warned him to leave Vangelis, sent him into hiding. It was logical, but then why didn't it seem right?
"You are a fool, Captain Link. Fortunately for your continued good health, you are a useful fool. If the boy returns or you hear anything from either him or Mendaharin Tusca, inform me at once."
"Yes, lord." Link sounded subdued.
"That will be all. Oh, by the way, how did the message come? Subspace?"
"Subhuman is more like it, your lordship. Some weird-looking character brought it. I didn't get a close look at the guy. His face was hidden in those desert-sheikh-type robes they wear on Vangelis but what I saw of it sent me to the jump-juice bottle, if you know what I mean."
Dread dug its nails in deeper. Sagan broke off the transmission, sat lost in thought.
Something was not right. Something was going wrong, very wrong. He longed to reach out his hand, grab whatever it was, shake it, slap it, force it to obey his will. He reached out his hand . . . only to feel the darkness slide through his fingers.
Chapter Six
Business is business. Pleasure is pleasure.
George Alec Effinger, When Gravity Fails
"I repeat. Your master has been most woefully misinformed." Snaga Ohme reached out a jewel-bedecked hand, tilted a small mirror that stood on his desk, and paused to study the effect of the sunlight upon his fair skin. He kept his gaze on the mirror, preferring the sight of his own handsome features to the empty eyes of the mind-dead, seated across the desk from him. " 'T'isn't my fault, so don't go ranting and raving about it."
Somewhat of an exaggeration. The empty eyes had not so much as blinked, the level voice of the mind-dead had merely expressed its master's considered opinion that Snaga Ohme was lying.
The Adonian carefully touched up several strands of black hair that curled around a shell-like ear, pinched the lobe to make it pink, massaged his hands to keep them white.
"Very well, I'm lying." Ohme shrugged negligently. "The Warlord's representative—a woman, I might add—is not coming to see me at noon today. I am putting off your master simply to tease him, to irritate him, to annoy him." Each phrase accompanied by a graceful wave of an elegant hand. "If your master becomes too highly annoyed, he may take his business elsewhere."
The empty eyes closed a moment, as if listening to a voice within. Snaga Ohme took advantage of the opportunity to exchange amused glances with a handsome man standing in a corner of the Adonian's office, a man who served Ohme in the capacity of confidential secretary, cook, valet, bodyguard, rumor had it lover, and—since the man held numerous degrees in nuclear physics and mathematics—scientific adviser.
The empty eyes opened. Their disconcerting, slightly out-of-focus gaze approached the general vicinity of the Adonian. "Who is this agent, then?" the mind-dead asked. "A woman, you say? Again, you are lying. Lord Sagan would never trust a mission of such a delicate nature to anyone but himself."
"Then it's the Warlord himself, coming in drag," Snaga Ohme cried, highly elated. "Gad, Bosk, Sagan in drag! What a marvelous image! I am much indebted to this walking cadaver here for having provided it!" The Adonian, his amusement soon spent, turned his gaze back to the man seated across from him. A slight touch of impatience tinged Ohme's voice. He was easily bored and was beginning to find this conversation—and his lifeless visitor—tiring. "All I know about the agent is that, according to Brigadier General Haupt, she is a she, not a he. Admittedly, Haupt is not the most intelligent of humans, but he does, I assume, have the capacity to distinguish the female of the species from the male."
The Adonian held out his hands, studied his cuticles with a critical eye. "Though, of course, Derek Sagan in taffeta petticoats and a feather boa might be able to fool him completely. With enough lipstick."
Bosk stepped forward, placed his well-muscled body behind the visitor's chair. When Snaga Ohme began contemplating his manicure, it was a sign that the interview was nearing an end.
"You will stall this agent, then. Allow us to match the offer." The mind-dead sitting in the chair did not move, did not shift his unblinking, lifeless gaze.
"I can't see how my business dealings could possibly be any concern of yours or your master's." Snaga Ohme propped his elbow up on the arm of his chair, holding his left hand in the air to keep the veins from swelling in an unsightly manner, and sent a languid glance to Bosk. The bodyguard placed a hand on the visitor's shoulder. The hand could have wrapped twice around the mind-dead's slender neck.
The visitor rose to his feet, leaned over the desk. "Do not forget who and what my master is, Snaga Ohme." The voice was level, even.
The Adonian slid his right hand beneath his desk. A beam of light flashed, almost f
aster than the eye could follow. The chair in which the visitor had been seated vanished in a sizzle, a pop, and a puff of smoke, leaving behind the acrid odor of melted plastic.
"Never," Snaga Ohme replied with a charming smile.
His show was rather wasted on the mind-dead, however, who was not in the least impressed. The expressionless face remained blank; the eyes blinked, but only as an involuntary reaction to the sudden flash of laser light. The deadly beam had passed bare centimeters from the man's arm, but he had not flinched. Turning, he walked away from the desk, heading for the door. Bosk hastened to open it. Another handsome and superbly built footman escorted the man to the front entrance of the Adonian's palatial dwelling.
"You should have fried him," Bosk said, wheeling another chair, identical to the one destroyed, into the lavishly decorated office.
Snaga Ohme yawned. "Abdiel would have only sent another in his place or perhaps come himself." The Adonian sniffed at a flower in the lapel of his morning jacket. "That I simply couldn't abide! The man is sinfully ugly! All those horrid nodes and knobs and welts, patches of skin falling off. Ugh!" He shuddered.
Bosk placed the chair in its proper position, marked by a small metal plate embedded in the luxurious carpet. Glancing up, he made certain it was in line with the laser hidden in the painting that hung over Ohme's desk—a portrait of the Adonian, done in classical tradition, dressed in velvet doublet with a feather-adorned, gold-braided cocked hat, hose and garters around his shapely legs. The lethal beam, when activated, shot out of the portrait's left eye and was one of many such devices located not only in the Adonian's office but throughout the house and the gardens surrounding it. Snaga Ohme could, at the touch of a button, wipe out an invading army.
The Adonian stood up, smoothed his coattails, glanced admiringly at the smooth line of his vest across his tight-muscled stomach, and carefully adjusted the cuffs at his wrists.
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