King's Test

by Margaret Weis

  "Shut up!" he growled, fighting down the irrational panic that had him envisioning black water closing over his head. Grimly, he sloshed forward, reached the other side of the bank, and clambered thankfully back onto dry land.

  They scaled the side of the gully with difficulty. The ravine was steep and the loose sand gave way underfoot, while Tusk's bruised and battered body reminded him in no uncertain terms that it wasn't at all amused by the proceedings. Gasping and grunting, every breath a painful effort, he managed—with Nola's help—to make it most of the way. A strong hand snaked down, caught hold of him, and yanked him over the edge. Nola pulled herself up beside him.

  Their rescuer grinned at them.

  Seeing the deformed face, the cunning, misaligned eyes glittering in the lights of the shuttlecraft, Tusk wondered if they wouldn't be safer back in the bottom of the water-filled ditch. Nola recoiled, her hand reaching for his.

  "Who are you?" Tusk growled.

  "This way! You come!" The man gestured, leading them into the dark shadow of a gigantic boulder.

  Tusk glanced over his shoulder at the shuttlecraft. No one was chasing after them, but it would be only a matter of time. Reluctantly, he and Nola followed the man, who moved with the grace of a snake.

  "I am called Sparafucile." The half-breed grinned, white teeth shining in the lambent light of shuttlecraft and stars and a thin, newly risen moon. "That was some nice shooting I did, eh?"

  "Lucky shooting," Tusk muttered, looking down at the black hole in his sleeve, feeling acutely the sting of his burn. "Assuming, that is, that you meant to miss us. ..."

  "Not luck. Never luck. Sparafucile makes his own luck. And, yes, I mean to miss you." The half-breed's gaze was on Nola. Involuntarily, she shrank away from him, edging her way behind Tusk.

  "Why did you save us?" Tusk persisted, eyeing the breed suspiciously. If he was telling the truth, if he was that good a shot, he was probably accustomed to being paid—well paid— for his skill. "What's your price?"

  Sparafucile's grin widened. "We understand each other. But do not worry. My price . . . small. Part you pay. Part already paid. Sagan Lord, he say—"

  "Sagan!" Tusk sucked in a deep breath and almost gagged with the pain. "Whose side is he on?" he demanded when he could talk.

  "Sagan Lord?" Sparafucile made a gurgling sound in his throat, apparently an approximation of a laugh. "His own side. Always his own." The half-breed reached out a finger, poked Tusk in the chest. "But this time his side is your side. And your side is my side. I help you. You help me. Understand?"

  "No," growled Tusk. "But I don't suppose it much matters, does it, Spara-whatever-your-name-is?"

  The assassin shook his head. One eye drooped in a ghastly approximation of a wink at the young woman. Nola tried to smile back, but her smile was strained and she shot an alarmed glance at Tusk when she thought the half-breed wasn't looking.

  Scowling, the mercenary rubbed his hurting ribs and flashed her a look of exasperation. I don't like this character any better than you do, but he did save our lives.

  And while it's not exactly comforting to think of the Warlord as our guardian angel, Tusk decided, I'll take Sagan over Abdiel any day.

  "I'll keep an eye on him," he promised Nola, nodding obliquely at the half-breed.

  Nola, tossing her head contemptuously, asked the breed crisply, "You mentioned a price to rescue us. What do we do to earn it?"

  Sparafucile leered at her. "You shoot? You warrior-lady like Sagan's lady?"

  "I'm probably not as good a shot as she is, but yes, I can shoot," Nola answered.

  So, Maigrey's with Sagan, just like Abdiel told the boy. Tusk sighed, frowned.

  Sparafucile reached into the shadows, lifted what appeared to be a blanket roll, spread it open. It turned out to be a small arsenal. Needle-guns, lasguns, grenade guns, what looked like a hand-held missile launcher, and—in a neat row on the bottom—an assortment of knives. The assassin gazed at his tools with pride, spread his hands over them like a jeweler showing his wares. "You see something you like, warrior-lady?"

  Nola looked slightly startled, but—giving Tusk another dance—began examining the weapons with grave attention. Tusk drew near her. He could feel her shivering in the warm darkness, and he patted her arm in awkward comfort. She found his hand and squeezed it tight.

  "The lady'll take that," Tusk said, steering Nola away from the needle-gun that required unerring accuracy, pointing out a disassembled beam rifle.

  Sparafucile approved the choice, apparently. He began putting the weapon together with a skill and rapidity that Tusk found impressive. Tusk selected a lasgun and a grenade launcher for himself. "What do you want us to do?"

  "Sagan Lord tell me to disable shuttle. I see many dead-ones around and I say to myself: To get close to shuttlecraft, I have to kill one, maybe two or three. The old man comes back. He see the bodies. He get suspicious. He say to himself: Someone has hurt my ship. But then I say to myself: I will help prisoners escape. Then the old man says to himself: It was escaped prisoners that kill my people. He will not think to worry about his ship. Then I say to myself: It will be helpful for me to get close to shuttle if you draw attention of dead-ones away. Understand?"

  "Enough." Tusk handed the rifle to a confused-looking Nola. "He wants us to create a diversion so that he can sneak in and sabotage the shuttle."

  Sparafucile watched, nodded. "Sagan Lord say you were good warrior."

  "Did he, though?" Tusk muttered, not particularly liking having been either the object of Sagan's praise or the subject of the Warlord's conversation. He wondered what it meant.

  "What about Dion?" Nola asked him softly.

  Tusk looked away, cleared his throat. He hadn't wanted to ask, hadn't wanted to know. He was afraid he'd hear that the boy was down in that dark water. . . .

  "Dion? Pretty boy?" Sparafucile, watching them closely, didn't miss a word. "Pretty boy go with old man. Go to house of Snaga Ohme. Big party. Everyone there. Sagan Lord. Warrior-lady. Pretty boy. Old man. Everyone there except you two and Sparafucile, eh? We stay here, have our own party."

  Tusk didn't like that either, didn't like it one damn bit. The kid was walking into a snake pit. He was entering a house full of his enemies and blindly taking his own worst enemy in with him. The Lady Maigrey would be there, presumably, but Tusk wasn't certain he could trust her anymore. Somehow, he thought, I ought to try to reach the kid. . . .

  "I know what you are thinking." Sparafucile rose to his feet, loomed over Tusk. "But such a thing is not possible. You help boy here. Kill his enemies here."

  Or die here ourselves. Tusk heard the unspoken threat. Grimly, he picked up his weapons, stood face to face with the assassin.

  "Just what did 'Sagan Lord' tell you to do with us when this little party is over?" Tusk demanded.

  The half-breed's eyes narrowed to slits. Laughter glinted from between the lids. "He say to take you to him."

  Chapter Eight

  ... if destiny like his awaits me, I shall rest when I have fallen!

  Now, though, may I win my perfect glory . . .

  Homer, The Iliad, translated by Robert Fitzgerald

  Limo-jets sped down the highway, gliding on soft cushions of air, their occupants quaffing champagne, Laskarian brandy, or the preferred intoxicant of their species. The rich, the beautiful, and/or the powerful were speeding toward Snaga Ohme's like a flurry of gold-tipped arrows. The wealth represented by the jewels they wore alone would have bought and paid for several solar systems.

  Crowds of Laskarian natives lined the route, anxious to catch a glimpse of anyone famous, waiting for the inevitable traffic tie-ups that occurred as official arrival time approached and the limos were forced to reduce their speed and settle toward the ground to wait their turn to draw near the gate.

  Many of the notables flew in by 'copter, avoiding the crush of traffic, but sacrificing dignity and coiffed hairdos to the wind whipped up by the blades. A few of the more flamboyan
t chose unconventional methods of arrival. The galaxy's current favorite vid star descended from the heavens in a hot-air balloon, much to her fans' delight. And it was rumored among the mob packed around Snaga Ohme's gate that one barbarian monarch, known as Bear Olefsky, had actually traveled to Ohme's on foot. The Bear had run from where his shuttle was parked in an RV lot—a light jog of about forty kilometers, which he made attired in full battle armor, arriving feeling refreshed and invigorated by the exercise.

  The crowd lining the drive outside Ohme's estate numbered into the thousands, many having camped out days in advance. Invisible force fields protected the glamorous from their adoring public while still allowing both glamorous and public the chance to feed off each other.

  The major media networks, the only ones allowed, vied with the competition to gain interviews. 'Droid reporters lurked about near the gate, shooting out of the most unexpected places, hanging on to their prey tenaciously until either they were appeased with a "few well-chosen words" or otherwise dealt with. One 'droid made the mistake of attempting to interview Bear Olefsky. Ohme's people had to halt the proceedings for ten minutes to sweep up the pieces.

  Lord Derek Sagan emerged from the limo-jet into the blinding glare of light and a roar from the crowd. The Warlord, as he was now being hailed by the press, was a hero and the crowd behind the force field went wild when he appeared.

  Maigrey gave her hand to Sagan, who, with dignified, courtly courtesy, assisted her from the car and led her up the walkway to the gate. No one knew who she was and this mystery created an instant sensation. Droid reporters, smelling blood, left other victims in mid-sentence and sped toward the fresh meat. The Honor Guard was accustomed to handling the press, however, and kept the droids at bay.

  The adulation ran through Maigrey's veins, sweet, intoxicating. To this, she had been born. She drank huge gulps of it, enjoying every drop, the persistent 'droids, the swooning teenagers, the plastic phoenixes being waved in the air, the news commentators whose voices could be overheard, speaking into their camcorders.

  "Citizens of the galaxy! This is indeed history in the making. You've all heard the rumors that one of the former Guardians, Maigrey Morianna, was discovered alive and was to be brought to trial. You've heard how she turned out to be one of the heroes in the recent battle against the Corasians. We don't know for certain that this woman with Warlord Sagan is, indeed, Maigrey Morianna, but a reliable source close to the citizen general indicates she very well could be. Some of our older viewers may recall that, at one time, the names of Derek Sagan and Maigrey Morianna were linked romantically—"

  The Honor Guard forged a path. The crowd screamed for one look, one wave. Proud and majestic, Sagan strolled past them all, glancing neither left nor right, accepting the homage as his due. Maigrey, her hand resting lightly in his, accompanied him, demurely ignoring the vidcams attempting desperately to get a close-up of her face.

  Snaga Ohme's remotes guarded the gate. Lord and lady entered, accompanied by the Honor Guard. The excited crowd settled down to await the arrival of their next hero.

  Inside the gate, the deadly garden had been romantically lit by a simulated moon suspended inside the Adonian's protective force field. Maigrey paused, feeling buoyant, almost dizzy with excitement and elation. Spreading her arms, lifting her face to the artificial moon, she embraced it and the deadly garden and cheering mobs who had also cheered the day they heard she and her kind were dead.

  Maigrey threw back her head and laughed.

  The Warlord turned to stare at her in astonishment. Maigrey embraced him, her hands clasping hold of his arms. "It's been a long time, Derek!" she said, laughing up into his eyes. "And I've missed it! Oh, how I've missed it!"

  She could see her reflection in the golden helm covering his face, see it—smaller—in the eyes shadowed by the helm. She was beautiful in the silver armor in the moonlight. And he was handsome, proud and burning as the sun. His grip on her tightened. He drew her closer . . .

  And then his eyes darkened; her reflection flared in them with silver flame, and was gone. He averted his face, shoved her almost roughly away.

  Their minds had touched with their hands and Maigrey had shared with him, in one brief and terrifying moment, the vision of her own death.

  The wild intoxicating joy ebbed away, leaving her—for the moment—cold sober. "So," she said quietly to herself, sighing, "not only has the past come between us, but now the future."

  The tram car stood waiting to carry them through the garden to the house of the Adonian.

  Perhaps there's never been a time for us, she said to herself silently, bleakly, entering the car that had been transformed into a luxurious traveling salon.

  A robot, officious and servile, offered champagne to ease the boredom of the trip. Maigrey took a glass, lifted it to her lips, caught Sagan's stern and disapproving eye. Joy bubbled back up inside her, like the bubbles rising up in the hollow stem of the crystal glass.

  "There is a time for us, just what it had always been, perhaps what it will always be: now."

  The crowd outside the gate cheered more of the glittering fortunate, cheered other limos gliding up to the gate, disgorging their contents, spewing forth princes and chairmen of boards and kings and governors and generals and whatever other titles crowned money and success. Later, when the line of limos was drawing near its end and the last of the 'copters were being given clearance to land, a boy with flaming red-gold hair walked past the crowd, whose cheering had about ended for the night.

  Some glanced at him curiously, but no one knew him. Bored, they turned away and began to think of going home.

  The Adonian's stately mansion was lit from without and within. Every one of a thousand windows blazed with light; search beams played over the white marble-columned and frescoed walls. The effect was dazzling, and Maigrey resisted strongly the temptation to shield her eyes while walking up the steps that led to the grand ballroom.

  A hundred footmen were drawn up in a line on the stairs. Each one bowed from the waist as the guests filed past.

  "They're scanning us for weapons," Sagan commented.

  "Nice to think we'll provide them with some recompense for their pains," Maigrey returned. Her hand in his, they walked together up the stairs, the Honor Guard following behind.

  Sagan glanced at her; the dark eyes smiled. "I am glad you are enjoying this, my lady."

  Maigrey smiled back. "I must admit, my lord, I am."

  The Warlord's grip on her hand tightened. His expression grew serious. "Maigrey, I—" He paused.

  "What, my lord?"

  It had been in Sagan's mind to warn her, to remind her of the danger she faced, but looking at her—calm, cool, radiant as the moon on Oha-Lau—he realized that she was well aware of it. She did not walk blindly to her fate. She tread her path with courage, eyes open not only to the light, but to the darkness.

  "Nothing." He shook his head. "It wasn't important."

  Footmen at the head of the stairs bowed as they entered a perfectly round hall. Armor—silver and gold—gleamed in the lights of a huge glittering chandelier hung not with crystals, but with diamonds. The other guests were being funneled toward a double spiraling staircase carved of rare, highly polished onyx wood. Twisting in upon itself, the two spiraling arms of the staircase swept the guests upward to the second floor, where they stood in line, waiting to be formally announced to those inside the ballroom.

  "Pardon me, Lord Sagan, but would you mind stepping this way?"

  Raoul, splendid in velvet and lace, and the Little One, who had apparently exchanged his muffling raincoat for a bathrobe which served the same function, insinuated themselves into the Warlord's path. Other guests flowed around them with curious glances, some of the more knowing divining what was going on and grinning at each other.

  "My lady"—the Warlord turned to Maigrey—"would you excuse me for a moment?"

  "No, no," Raoul said, bowing, "her ladyship must not be inconvenienced by your a
bsence, my lord. Therefore, if she could come as well ..."

  The Little One didn't speak a word, but watched them both with glittering, ever-shifting eyes, peering out over the folds of the bathrobe.

  "I will be pleased to accompany you," Maigrey said gravely.

  Raoul led them to a doorway just off the hall, the Little One shuffling along beside them, his eyes never leaving them. Maigrey, mental barriers in place, was amused to witness the empath's mounting level of frustration.

  Lord and lady were escorted to a small room, comfortably furnished, tastefully decorated, and adorned—they both noted—with the very latest in hidden weaponry.

  A footman shut the door behind them.

  Raoul turned to face them, a blush mantling his cheeks.

  "I am deeply mortified. This has all been a terrible mistake and the fault is mine. But, pardon me, I have been remiss in my duties. May I offer you some champagne? Your ladyship—?"

  "I wouldn't drink anything he offers you, my lady," Sagan remarked coolly.

  "Thank you, my lord. I never cared much for that particular brand."

  Raoul shrugged delicate shoulders, waved a perfumed hand. "As I was saying, I am deeply mortified. I was supposed to have told you that no weapons were allowed. Apparently I was derelict in my responsibility. My employer, Snaga Ohme, is most displeased with me and hopes you will accept his humble apologies for the deficiencies of his servant. I assure you, I will be most thoroughly punished for occasioning you such embarrassment, my lord, my lady."

  "I trust your master will not be too severe on you," Sagan replied. "You made no mistake in regard to your invitation. You did, in fact, tell us that no weapons were to be allowed and therefore we have not worn weapons. Guards, present yourselves to be searched."

  The Honor Guard stepped forward with alacrity. Raoul, blush deepening, didn't even glance at them. "My lord, I beg to differ with you. You . . . and the lady . . . wear the bloodsword."

  "The bloodsword is ceremonial, as everyone knows."