Disciplined gazes facing forward, keeping close and careful watch, none of them noticed the single tear that slid down Astarte's cheek, a tear that dried on her skin, for she did not deign to lift her hand to brush it away.
Dion entered his office through a door accessible only from the king's quarters. The king's quarters were cordoned off under tight security, not so much for protection as for privacy. Only friends of the royal family—such as John Dixter, and relatives such as the queen's mother, were permitted to enter the king's quarters.
Their Majesties' private offices were located in what was known as the public part of the Glitter Palace. Actually, the general public stood about as much chance of getting into this part of the palace as they would have of breaking into the vault where the crown jewels were kept. It was here that Their Majesties conducted their daily business, here where they did their entertaining. People could even be housed in this wing of the palace, in spacious and luxurious apartments. Dixter had an apartment here. So did DiLuna, which she used whenever she came to visit her daughter. The closest the public came was a look at the exterior of the palace and a vid that they could view at the end of the excursion.
Entering his office, leaving the King's Guard to take up their posts outside the door, Dion was finally able to relax. He pulled off the sweat-damp gloves, tossed them on the desk, ran a hand through his hair. He was startled to notice he was shaking, his hand trembling. He would have liked to have flung himself into his chair, rested his aching head in his hands, devoted time to being alone, to being unhappy, to being frustrated and angry.
But such simple luxuries were denied him. He thought of what he'd said to his wife. Queen of the Galaxy. She could have anything she wanted. And so could he. Anything—except what he wanted most.
He pressed a button. A vidscreen flickered to life.
"Good morning, Your Majesty," came the cool tones of his private secretary.
"Good morning, D'argent." Dion smiled slightly.
D'argent's calm voice and expression spread like a soothing balm over the king's fresh wounds. Nothing ever disturbed D'argent, nothing rattled him, panicked him. No matter what the crisis, the secretary remained calm, detached, removed.
The palace still talked of the time, shortly after the coronation—when the strict security measures that surrounded the king had yet to be established—that a fusion bomb had been discovered, planted under D'argent's desk. If it had exploded, it would have taken out half the palace. His Majesty and the Royal Family were whisked to safety. The entire staff was evacuated, with the exception of D'argent. The secretary-refused to leave. His Majesty had important files that had to be saved if this computer system was destroyed.
The bomb squad dismantled the bomb while D'argent remained seated nearby, transferring material into a computer system far removed from the palace. He had been forced to do the work manually: The material was classified, and he could not use voice entry, due to the presence of the bomb squad. He had not made a single error.
The outer door to Dion's office opened: D'argent glided inside. He was of medium height, blond, slender, always dressed in a white linen suit, white shirt, and white shoes. Only his necktie changed color daily, on some sort of scheme known only to himself. Dion often wondered if the variation in color had some sort of relevant meaning to the man's life, for the king occasionally detected a pattern in the shifting colors. Dion could have asked, but D'argent had a way of surrounding himself with an impenetrable shield, generated by his own calm demeanor and vast efficiency.
D'argent's personal life was open to complete inspection, as were all those who served the king. D'argent resided, with a male companion, in a private suite in the palace. He was rarely seen out of either his office or his rooms, except for daily exercise that he took in the gym. He was known to be in exceptional physical condition, was a keen and deadly shot with a lasgun, and a reputed expert in the martial arts.
Today, D'argent's necktie was green. He had worn green for three days now. Prior to that, the necktie had been alternately yellow one day and red the next, for a full week.
D'argent performed the morning ritual. He brought Dion a cup of hot oolong tea. He placed a sprig of fresh flowers in a vase on His Majesty's desk. This day, it was a tropical violet. Yesterday had been lavender. (The flowers, too, went by a pattern, but it was even more complex than the ties.) Ordinarily he would have switched on the computer at Dion's desk, brought in the day's important mail which required the king's personal attention. Today, knowing Dion was preparing to leave, D'argent left the computer off. They would deal with the mail on board ship.
"Sir John Dixter is waiting, sir. Shall I send him in?"
"Do I have an appointment with him?"
"No, sire. He requested a meeting yesterday, after you'd gone. I took the liberty of saying you would see him first thing this morning."
No apologies. D'argent would not have taken up the king's time unless the matter was vital. Although how the secretary determined what was vital and what wasn't was, once again, a mystery. He had never failed, however.
He poured the fragrant tea.
"Bring him in. I don't suppose he gave you any indication of what this was about?"
"No, sir."
D'argent glided away, soft-footed, and returned steering John Dixter around the formal furniture groupings, across the wide expanse of carpet, to a massive, ornately carved desk.
"Sir John Dixter," announced the secretary formally.
Dion rose to his feet. Dixter bowed awkwardly.
The king extended his hand, shook the older man's hand warmly. Dion was conscious of Dixter's scrutiny, the affectionate gaze of a father. The king was comforted, felt less alone. And it was not often he felt less alone.
Once Dixter was seated, D'argent remained an instant, to make certain that the Lord of the Admiralty was comfortable, then departed. The secretary was back again with coffee—in a sturdy, substantial mug—for the admiral. D'argent poured, stirred in cream and sugar; then, having ascertained by a glance at His Majesty that his services were not required, D'argent glided from the room, shut the door behind him.
Dixter sipped at the coffee cautiously, smiled.
"This is exactly how I take it. How does he remember?"
Dion shook his head. The tension was starting to drain from him. "I have no idea. But he does it with everyone. How have you been, my lord?"
"Fine, Your Majesty. Fine. Thank you for asking." Dixter cleared his throat, flushed, shifted uncomfortably.
Gone was the unrestraint of earlier times, though Dion was far less formal, with his long-time friend than he was with others, using the singular pronoun "I" during their private talks, not the all-inclusive royal "we." But barriers existed between them now; both knew it and acknowledged the change as necessary. One was obvious—a barrier of light shining from a golden crown. The other was less tangible, but perhaps thicker, more impenetrable—the boy that Dixter had once called son was now a man. Now his king.
"How are you, Your Majesty?" Dixter wasn't asking the question out of politeness. He sipped at his coffee, regarded the king over the mug's rim, his expression grave, concerned.
"In excellent health, I'm happy to say," Dion answered coolly, faintly irritated with himself that he hadn't masked his inner turmoil. "I'm traveling to the Academy today. Tonight's the dedication ceremony. The renovation is complete. We've expanded the library. The new wing is being called the Platus Morianna Wing. And I'm dedicating a memorial to Lord Sagan and Lady Maigrey. I think they'd be pleased."
"Yes, sire," said Dixter guardedly, setting his coffee mug down on the stand at his elbow. "I'm sure they would be very pleased."
"I wish they could see the Academy, those who attended it so long ago. I'd like them to see how it's comeback to life. But they're all dead—all the Blood Royal. Either dead or they've hidden themselves so well that they've managed to avoid all our searching."
"They're dead, Your Majesty," said John Dixter.
He stared at the coffee. "Those who managed to survive the purge—and there weren't many—died later at Sagan's hands. He had his revenge on them for betraying him. May God have mercy on his soul."
Dion looked at his old friend sharply, thinking he detected an odd note in the man's voice. But the admiral's face was expressionless. He picked up his coffee again, swallowed it, smiled faintly, savoring the flavor.
Dion reprimanded himself. I'm starting to suspect everyone of playing devious games, of having ulterior motives. Dixter obviously meant nothing more by that remark than what he said.
"Is Her Majesty going with you, sire?" Dixter asked.
Dion wasn't paying attention. The admiral was forced to repeat the question.
"No," Dion said shortly.
He rose to his feet, walked over to the window. The curtains were drawn; the king preferred to work in an environment that was shaded, cool, restful. He parted the curtains slightly. A shaft of sunlight, bright and glaring, illuminated him, made his red hair bum like vibrant flame.
"What did you need to see me about, my lord?" Dion asked, glancing around. "Please be seated."
No one sat when the king stood. Dion returned to his desk, sat down. Dixter settled back in his chair.
"You recall the intelligence reports we received—reports stating that a group was seriously interested in attempting to acquire the space-rotation bomb?"
"Yes, I remember." Dion frowned, clasped his hands on top of his desk. His right thumb began to massage the knuckle of his left forefinger, a trick he'd acquired to conceal any nervousness. "You followed through on our plan to draw them out?"
"Yes, Your Majesty. I hired Xris and his squad of commandos to make the phony transfer to Snaga Ohme's. They made it look good, kept it strictly classified, top security. The word leaked out. We now know the person involved, know where the breach occurred. Unfortunately, we were a little late. He disappeared before we could get our hands on him.
"The group made contact with Xris's man—the Loti, Raoul, the supposed weak link. Three ex-starpilots paid a large sum of money for plans of Snaga Ohme's house, the garden, security layout—all what you might expect. Raoul provided it—again, enough to make it look good. His partner, the empath, went along, raided these pilot's minds. Apparently, Your Majesty; the group behind this is known as the—"
"Ghost Legion," said Dion.
Dixter's jaw went slack. "You knew about this?"
Dion shook his head. "No, I didn't know about it I've never heard of it. And yet, I have heard of it. Or maybe it would be more correct to say I've heard it." Unclasping his hands, he stared down at the scars—five of them—that marred his right palm.
Dixter noticed the gesture, guessed at the implication. "When you use the bloodsword."
"Yes. Thoughts, strange thoughts, come into my mind. Odd images, weird occurrences. Not a voice, not like Abdiel's." Dion frowned at the memory that was still painful and would likely always be. "It's as if some other consciousness were brushing against mine. I see shadows of whatever it's thinking. That name came into my mind the instant before you said it. Yet, I swear, I'd never heard it before. I don't know what it means or what it is."
He was silent, pondering. Then—shrugging—he shook off the cold spectral touch that seemed to be brushing the back of his neck. "I'm sorry, my lord. This is all irrelevant."
"Maybe not," said Dixter dryly. "You see, Your Majesty, they were successful."
Dion stared. "They successfully raided Snaga Ohme's! That's not possible. Why, that would take an army, and even then—"
"It wasn't an army, Your Majesty. We don't know what it was, to be honest. No one saw it. No one heard it. Nothing except the bomb was removed. No one was hurt. The reports have been analyzed, but all I've been getting back from the so-called experts are theories, some more far-fetched than others. Everything from a new type of probe to microscopic spacecraft to ghosts. I've transferred the files to you. You can read for yourself."
"They stole the bomb?"
"I'm afraid so, Your Majesty."
Dion sat in silence a moment, absorbing. "They know now they were tricked, that it was a trap. They know now the bomb wasn't real. And since the real bomb wasn't there, they'll keep searching for it."
"And they've shown us, sire, that there's not anywhere they can't go."
"But, my lord, as XJ used to say, it's a hell of a big galaxy. They could look for centuries and not find it. What have they accomplished? Besides letting us know they're after it?"
"That may be all they wanted to do, sire."
"But what for? What do they gain?"
Dixter rubbed his brow. "Let's say that you're a killer who's committed the perfect crime. No one can trace you. But when the detective starts getting close, you begin to feel pressured. You begin to imagine flaws and you go back and try to cover them up. And that's what gives you away."
"Thanks for the analogy," Dion said dryly.
Dixter flushed. "I'm sorry, Your Majesty. I was reading Nero Wolfe last night and this idea came into my mind."
"So you think they're hoping to pressure us into making another move? Pressure us into making a mistake?"
Dixter sighed. "To be honest, Your Majesty, I haven't a clue what they're hoping to do. But that seems the most logical."
"What have you done, then?"
"We're still investigating. But I've gone outside of official channels. I've asked Tusk to look into it."
"Tusk?" Dion smiled, memory flooding over him. "How is he? And Nola? And the baby? Your godson, if I remember right."
"Yes, Your Majesty." Dixter was pleased to be reminded. "Healthwise, they're all fine. Financially, it's a different story."
"I was afraid that would happen, once he got involved with Link. So Tusk is trying to track down this Ghost Legion."
"Doesn't need to. They tracked him down. They're advertising openly, apparently. Looking for pilots. That's all in the report."
"Hitting a little close, aren't they, sir? Though I haven't seen Tusk in years; but if they know he was once connected with me—"
"Maybe, sire. Maybe not. It might be coincidence. Tusk wasn't the only one. They contacted Link, too." Dixter's mouth twisted wryly.
"But how did they get those names? You kept those files secret, as I remember."
"Yes, that's another strange thing. Those files were secret."
"The security leak again."
"Had to be."
"And then they use them blatantly, openly." Dion shook his head. "That doesn't make sense. What's Tusk doing?"
"He's going to act as if he's interested, see who they are, what they're offering."
The commlink buzzed.
"Yes, D'argent?" Dion answered.
"Begging your pardon for the interruption, sir, but it is time we were going."
"Yes, D'argent. Thank you."
John Dixter was already getting to his feet. "I'm sorry to have to drop this on you before your trip, Your Majesty. But I thought you should know."
"I'll study those reports while I'm en route. You'll inform me immediately about what Tusk finds out."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
The king escorted the admiral to the door. Once there, Dixter paused, started to speak, hesitated.
"What is it, sir?" Dion asked. "You've got something else on your mind. You have, ever since you came in here."
"Just a suggestion, Your Majesty." Dixter looked at the king intently. "I think you should discuss this with the archbishop."
Dion stared incredulously. Then he laughed. "The archbishop? Are you buying in on this ghost theory, my lord? Do you think we should call in an exorcist?"
"No, Your Majesty," said John Dixter gravely, "but I think Archbishop Fideles knows someone who should be called in."
Dion's laughter died. He kept his expression carefully blank. "I can't think to whom you're referring, but I'll keep your suggestion in mind. Thank you for coming, sir."
Dixter was about to say something else, bu
t the cool glitter of blue eyes warned that further discussion would not be welcome.
The door slid open. D'argent was there. King and Lord of the Admiralty exchanged farewells. D'argent escorted Dixter to the outer door.
Dion returned to his office. The door slid shut. He leaned back against it, began to rub the five scars on the palm of his hand.
They had begun to pain him, of late.
Chapter Seven
. .. dead,
Breathless and bleeding on the ground.
William Shakespeare, Henry IV, Part One, Act V, Scene iv
Tusk drove his wife and slumbering child back to the small house. A monetary gift from His Majesty—in recognition of the heroic services of both Nola Rian and Mendaharin Tusca—had enabled them to buy it. The house now had a second mortgage, in order to make a down payment on a new anti-grav drive on the Scimitar.
At least, thought Tusk, steering the battered hoverjeep over the cracked tarmac of the spaceport, the money he made from this job of Dixter's should take care of next month's house payment. After that ... well, something would turn up.
Parking the jeep was always an adventure. Its air cushion system occasionally malfunctioned, causing it to shut off abruptly. When this happened—as it did now—the craft dropped to the ground with a bone-jarring thud. Certain his spine was sticking up through his skull, Tusk climbed painfully out of the jeep, clambered up the Scimitar's hull to the hatch.
"That brat with you?" XJ asked suspiciously when Tusk slid down the interior ladder.
"No, he's taking a nap," Tusk answered. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask for a cookie, but he choked it back. That bit of information was worth a fortune. He'd wait until he needed something badly, then spring his knowledge of the cookie scam on the unsuspecting "grandpa."
He continued his search through his disk library; looking for the disk the Ghost Legion had sent him. It would be toward the back, behind the entertainment disks he kept for the passengers.
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