King's Sacrifice

by Margaret Weis

  "I'm fine!" he told her, trying to calm the blood pulsing in his temples. He shook off her hand, irrationally angry, wishing she'd stop treating him like a child. "And I'll carry the damn fish!"

  The silence grew between them like an ugly bramble bush, prickling with thorns. Each cast furtive, sidelong glances at the other when they thought the other wasn't looking. When their eyes accidentally met, each looked hurriedly and uncomfortably away. They continued walking in silence almost halfway around the lake. The light in the sky had dimmed to a soft, subdued afterglow. Dusk shadowed the woods.

  "We won't reach home before darkness falls," said the young woman, stopping to glance around her, "and I didn't bring a lantern. But we'll be able to see the castle lights. They will guide us."

  "I think I have found the light to guide me," said Dion softly, moving to stand beside her, thinking regretfully how difficult it was to be romantic when holding a stringer of twenty dead or dying fish.

  The young woman at first didn't understand his meaning, was slightly puzzled, as if she thought he might pull a flaming torch out of his pocket. He looked at her intently, however, again letting his eyes speak for his heart.

  Her face flushed. She lowered her head, but she kept near him. Together, their silence now warm and companionable, they walked slowly down the path.

  "Your name is Dion," she said, almost shyly. "Is that what everyone calls you all the time?"

  "Yes," said Dion, shrugging. "Don't they call you M-Maigrey?" It was difficult to say the name in reference to this woman. It didn't fit, carried with it too much pain.

  "No. Only on my nameday, and then I think it makes my father and mother sad. I am called by my second name, Kamil. You may call me that, if you like."

  "It's a beautiful name, Kamil. And you call me Dion."

  "I will . . . Dion. And I think, since you don't know the way, that you should walk closer to me."

  "Maybe I should hold your hand," suggested Dion, and thought it suddenly quite charming to be treated like a child. "So that I don't get lost."

  They moved nearer, fumbling in the darkness until their hands met and fingers twined together, clasping each other firmly.

  Night's shadows wrapped around the tree trunks, obscured the path, forced them to walk slower, take their time. It would have been dangerous to hurry. All too soon, however, the trees gave way to rolling hills and they could see the castle, far above them. Light streamed out the windows, setting the green grass ablaze, welcoming them home.

  Chapter Eight

  The deep, unutterable woe

  Which none save exiles feel. W. E. Aytoun, The Island of the Scots

  Contrary to the more sensational reports of the vidmags, Hell's Outpost acquired its name from being the last inhabited planet encountered before entering the Lane that led to the Corasian galaxy, not because it was decadent or sin-ridden or any of the other attributes popularly attributed to Lucifer's domicile. Those who had the leisure and time and money to spend on sin traveled to Laskar or any of a thousand other places willing and able to provide it. Those who traveled to Hell's Outpost could not afford the luxury of leisure—their time was generally running out—and they came to find money, not to spend it.

  Hell's Outpost was a quiet place, businesslike, reserved, and more secret than the dead. The planet was, in actuality, not a planet at all, but a moon that revolved around a nondescript planet that had no name. The moon's surface was gray, bleak, barren, half of it baking in the light of the sun, the other half frozen and dark. Its one town, located on the sunny side, consisted of innumerable geodesic domes of various sizes, depending on their use, all arranged beneath one gigantic dome with its own artificial atmosphere.

  Maigrey located the domed town, then circled the moon while Agis ran checks on the various spacecraft parked on the ground before making preparations to land. No government challenged their approach, no control tower issued coordinates and guided them safely. In landing, as in everything else on Hell's Outpost, you were on your own.

  It took some time for the three to outfit themselves in the spacesuits that would be needed to walk from the plane to the dome. Or rather, it took some time for Agis and Maigrey to outfit Daniel in his suit. The priest had worn a spacesuit only a few times prior to this, and that had been during emergency evac drills held at intervals on Phoenix. He had always thought he was putting it on wrong, but no one had ever bothered to show him how to put it on right.

  "Perhaps Broth ... I mean Daniel . . . should stay behind," Agis said to Maigrey in a low tone as they worked together to adjust the priest's gravity boots.

  "I thought about it," Maigrey whispered back, tugging at the straps. "But he ought to see and hear firsthand what he's getting himself into."

  "What if he wants out, my lady? We can't very well leave him here."

  "He won't, Agis. Make up your mind to that," said Maigrey. "But I want him walking ahead with his eyes open, knowing what to expect. Like it or not, my friend, he's one of us now."

  "What will he think?" Agis jerked his head in the general direction of the junker plane parked next to theirs.

  Examining the volksroeket through her viewscreen on landing, Maigrey had noted with approval and some amusement the various methods the half-breed had used to camouflage his innocent-looking volksrocket's true deadly capabilities.

  "Who knows what he thinks about anything," Maigrey muttered, standing up. "There, Broth—Dan—Oh, the hell with it!" she said to Agis. "Let's introduce him as Brother Daniel. We both keep calling him that. One of us is bound to slip, and considering his cover story, it makes sense anyway."

  Agis nodded.

  Brother Daniel, unaccustomed to the grav boots, clomped his way clumsily back and forth across the deck, attempting to grow used to the strange sensation of walking when it felt as if his feet were glued to the ground. Maigrey watched him a moment, started to make a helpful suggestion, decided it might simply confuse him, and turned back to the business at hand. She checked—again—the power supply of the blood-sword she wore at her waist, checked to see that she had the rest of the equipment she would need while on the Outpost.

  "Lasgun?" Agis offered, holding up one for her inspection.

  Maigrey considered. The bloodsword was the best close-range weapon ever developed. It could cut through a steel beam with as much ease as it could slice through a man's flesh. In addition, it gave the Blood Royal the ability to exert a powerful charismatic influence over any mortal, with the exception of the extremely strong-willed or another member of Blood Royal. The bloodsword was not designed, however, to be used in a laser-blasting firefight.

  But then, thought Maigrey, neither am I. The Blood Royal were never intended to find themselves in such a menial situation. Maigrey would have never learned to shoot at all, if Sagan hadn't insisted, and then he remarked in disgust that she'd better hope she scared her opponent to death rather than counting on hitting anything.

  She shook her head, deciding against the gun. There was the psychological angle to consider. She did not intend to walk into the Exile Cafe armed to the teeth, looking as if she were hiding behind her firepower. Wearing only the bloodsword, she would appear supremely confident of herself, of her ability to deal easily and effectively with any situation.

  Maigrey set about her final task of shutting down and securing the spaceplane until their return. Agis, holding the lasgun, turned to the priest.

  "Brother Daniel?"

  Maigrey, watching out of the corner of her eye, saw the young priest shake his head. "I am armed," he said, pressing the palms of his hands together, a somewhat difficult maneuver due to the insulated gloves he wore to protect him from the moon's frigid cold and lack of atmosphere.

  Agis glanced at Maigrey, who shrugged, shook her head, and continued with her task. The centurion came over to assist her.

  "Do you really believe, my lady, that he has and can use the power of God.?"

  "Lord Sagan believed it," said Maigrey shortly.

>   "But you, my lady?" Agis persisted.

  Maigrey's hand went to her breast, to the place where the Star of the Guardians had once hung and now hung no longer. "It's why I permitted him to come, Agis."

  "I understand, my lady."

  "Do you? Maigrey thought. Then perhaps you could explain it to me.

  They found Sparafucile, waiting patiently for them outside their spaceplane. Maigrey was thankful to see that the half-breed's helm at least partially obscured his malformed, misshapen features. It wasn't the sight of his disfigurement that would force her to steel herself to look at him again. It was the memories the face would bring back to her. Memories of the time on Laskar he'd saved her life, memories of the mind-seizers, memories of Sagan. . . .

  "Starlady."

  "Sparafucile."

  The half-breed was attired in a shabby pressure suit of a type that had been outdated when Maigrey was a little girl. Bulky and heavy, it was encumbered with numerous valves and gauges and a complex system of buckles and straps that clunked and jingled and made enough noise for a circus parade when the half-breed moved. Maigrey smiled grimly, wondering how many and what type weapons the breed had managed to stash inside the suit, wondered what telltale sounds those convenient clunks and jingles masked.

  "You remember Agis, captain of my lord's Honor Guard? Former captain," she amended.

  Agis and the assassin glanced at each other, said nothing, acknowledged each other with a nod—on the centurion's part—and a sort of shuffling wriggle on Sparafucile's. The two knew each other by sight; Agis having often been required to escort the breed into his lordship's presence.

  I warned Agis, Maigrey thought. He knew what to expect. Besides, they don't have to like each other. They only have to respect each other.

  Which brought her to the priest. And she could tell, by the direction in which the assassin's helm faced, that he'd been curiously eyeing the young man. "This is Brother Daniel. Brother Daniel, Sparafucile." She turned to Brother Daniel. "Sparafucile is a professional assassin."

  Daniel, having been prepared for this, made a clumsy bow.

  "Brother Daniel"—Maigrey turned to Sparafucile—"is a priest."

  "Sagan Lord, a priest."

  Maigrey wasn't surprised that the assassin knew the Warlord's most carefully guarded secret. From what little she had seen of the half-breed, and more that she had gleaned from Sagan's files, she knew that Sparafucile was perceptive, intuitive, highly intelligent. Reasons why she had decided to tell him the truth. He would undoubtedly find out anyway and she wanted him—as much as possible—to trust her.

  "That is the reason we have brought Brother Daniel with us. He carries no weapon, he will not kill another living being. He goes forth armed with the power of God."

  A trifle romantic, but it sounded impressive. And perhaps the assassin was impressed, for he made no protest against Brother Daniel, and when they started walking in the direction of the Cafe, Sparafucile fell into step at the young priest's side.

  "You not kill, eh?" the assassin asked.

  Brother Daniel, encountering difficulty in using the grav boots, shook his head. He had not learned the trick of rolling forward on the foot or "peeling" the foot off the ground, as the technique was known. Attempting to lift each foot with each step, he looked like a bird performing some bizarre mating ritual.

  "Ah, but if I try to kill you, you would try to kill me. Yes?" Sparafucile pursued.

  "No, I wouldn't," Brother Daniel replied. He studied the assassin walking beside him, attempting to emulate his rolling gait.

  Sparafucile considered this statement, then nodded. "I understand. Your God—He kill for you."

  Maigrey, listening to the conversation, wondered how Brother Daniel would slog his way out of this theological morass. She hoped he would realize that this was neither the time nor the place for a sermon and that he would do nothing or say anything to cause the assassin to begin to doubt him—and consequently doubt all the rest of them.

  "'We have made a covenant with death,'" quoted Brother Daniel, " 'and with hell are we at agreement.

  Sparafucile made a grunting noise that seemed to indicate he was impressed, though he probably had only a vague understanding of the priest's words. As for Brother Daniel, he spoke of "death" and "hell" glibly enough, but Maigrey knew he didn't understand either, not yet.

  Well, she thought grimly, entering the air lock that was the gate into Hell's Outpost, he will. Soon.

  The Exile Cafe was the largest structure on Hell's Outpost. A huge dome several kilometers in diameter, it was the central point in town. All roads led to it. All the domed structures built up around it supported it, in one way or another. And all people, human and alien, they met, as they walked toward it, were either heading that direction themselves or leaving.

  No one raised a hand (or any other appendage) in greeting; no one said a word to anyone, even if (especially if) the other person was known or recognized. Hell's Outpost had its own special code of etiquette and honor, a code that had been developed over the years of its operation for a reason—to protect the privacy and the lives of those who came to Hell's Outpost to conduct business. The code was broken only at one's extreme peril.

  A single door led into Exile Cafe. Another, at the rear, led out. The Cafe proper was designed to accommodate humans, its primary guests, but special rooms had been equipped to handle vapor-breathers and other life-forms if they desired a more familiar and homelike atmosphere.

  Weapons were not checked at the entrance, disputes were prohibited—a part of the unwritten code. The Exile Cafe was neutral ground. Mortal enemies, sworn to kill each other on sight, who met in the Cafe were expected, by the code, to buy each other a drink. Weapons were worn for show, for advertising purposes. No weapon had ever been drawn in anger during all the long years that the Exile Cafe had been in business.

  Maigrey had never been to the Exile Cafe—or Hell's Outpost—before, but Sagan had and, as was customary with him, he had also amassed an extensive file on it and its operations. She knew how to act, therefore, and what to expect.

  She entered the lobby. All rooms in the Exile Cafe were circular with domed ceilings, resembled eggs that have been cut in half. The largest of these "eggs" was the Cafe itself, which occupied the center of the dome. Private meeting rooms, located on the four levels surrounding the Cafe, looked out over it, providing the occupants with a view of all those who entered.

  Before one obtained access to the Cafe, one had to pass through the lobby. And before one entered the private meeting rooms, one had to pass through the Cafe.

  Maigrey walked a pace ahead of her cohorts, indicating that she was the leader. She alone would speak for the group. The others ranged in a row behind her—Agis and Sparafucile flanking Brother Daniel; the centurion prepared to muzzle the priest if he seemed likely to make a social misstep. Fortunately, having been raised in the strict discipline of the monastery, Daniel was accustomed to silence and passive obedience.

  The lobby was a smallish room, brightly lighted, with walls of plush red velvet. A 'droid made to resemble a human male of the clerk variety stood behind a desk of curved, blond wood. Above the 'droid's head, numerous vidscreens provided constantly shifting pictures of those who were already inside, these photos having been taken when they entered the lobby. Maigrey knew, as she walked up to the desk, that her own image and those of her companions was being transmitted on the thousands of vidscreens throughout the Exile Cafe.

  Looking at the vidscreen, Maigrey guessed her group must be occasioning quite a bit of comment inside. Her bloodsword gleamed brightly in the light, showed up well on camera. Those keeping tally inside would see that sword—capable of being used only by the Blood Royal—and would mark their scorecards accordingly.

  Agis to Maigrey's left, stood tall, straight-backed, square-shouldered, face impassive, gaze cool, unimpressed, appraising. The scorecards would read: highly trained, highly skilled combat veteran.

  Directly be
hind Maigrey, Brother Daniel. Silent, his face grave and solemn, he had an air of serenity about him that, in this place, was extremely daunting, disconcerting. Those keeping score would put down question marks.

  At Maigrey's right and slightly behind her shambled the assassin, looking more like a pile of rags someone had dumped in an alley than a living being. He moved with a shuffling gait, shoulders slumped, malformed head continually oscillating, attempting to focus the misaligned eyes.

  The shuffling, the shambling, the lethargic movement—all an act, intended to deceive the careless, the unwary. The scorecards for those who knew him would read: one of the most dangerous men in the galaxy.

  An interesting mixture, one that—she hoped—would cause the right people to sit up and take notice.

  The door through which they had entered slid shut behind them. Only single individuals or allied groups were permitted in the lobby at one time.

  "Welcome to the Exile Cafe," said the 'droid in a programmed, mechanical voice, devoid of expression. "I will explain the house rules."

  The 'droid greeted all those who entered the Cafe in the same manner, no matter how many times they may have been there. Again, part of the code. Once you left the Exile Cafe, it was as if you had ne^er entered.

  The rules were simple: Weapons could be worn but not used. No fights, arguments, or brawls were permitted on the premises or within a hundred meters in any direction of the premises. Maigrey listened, indicated that she understood and would abide by the rules, agreed that she would accept the penalty if she did not. The penalty—instant annihilation—had never, as far as anyone could remember, been exacted.

  "And now," said the 'droid when the formalities were complete, "how may we serve you?"

  "I want a private room," Maigrey replied.

  The 'droid assured her that this request could be fulfilled.

  "I want the upper room. Six hours," she added.

  "One hundred thousand golden eagles," said the 'droid.

  Maigrey agreed, ignoring a slight gasping sound that came from behind. Brother Daniel, no doubt.