Ghost Legion

by Margaret Weis

  She gazed long at Kamil, then said, "I may not love him as you do, but I know him. I have faith in him to do what is best for his people. And I have faith in you. I think you are a good person, an honorable one. Eventually you, too, will determine what is right and you will have the courage to act upon your determination."

  Kamil turned her back on the queen, started to walk back down the path. She slipped. Unable to catch herself with her broken arm, she fell heavily. Pain, frustration, anger at both Astarte and herself, fear, and unhappiness blinded her with bitter tears. Lying sprawled on the path, she wept.

  Cool hands touched her; gentle arms cradled her.

  "You can't keep me here forever!" Kamil gulped, pulling away.

  "I don't intend to, Kamil. After a fortnight, you may leave in peace, no matter what your decision."

  "You already know my decision. You may as well let me go now."

  "We shall see. A lot may happen in a fortnight."

  Don't count on it, Kamil said, but she said it to herself. She was tired, her arm throbbed painfully, her head ached. Her legs were scratched and bruised from the fall.

  "Just leave me alone!" she mumbled. "I can get down by myself."

  "There is an easier path," Astarte said. "A path we use during festival. It is on the opposite side of the cavern. The way is much longer, but the road is smoother. You may take either one you wish."

  The queen left, wending her way down the steep and rocky path.

  Kamil sat on the hillside. From somewhere below, the flute music resumed, pensive, unhappy. Kamil dried her tears, sighed. Her very own father, against her. He'd always seemed so understanding, so supportive and sympathetic. But then, she'd never told him that she and Dion had become lovers. Not because she was ashamed of it, but ... well, it just wasn't the sort of thing girls discussed with their fathers. It wasn't his business.... It wasn't anybody's business!

  If we were nobodies, nobody would care.

  Kamil lay back on the ground, gazed through the leaves of the trees up into the empty sky.

  There was her answer.

  "If we were nobodies ..."

  Chapter Eleven

  . . . and out of his mouth went a sharp two-edged sword.

  The Bible, Revelation 1:14

  Flaim gave a celebratory banquet to honor Sagan and his pledge of fealty to the prince. The meal was gracefully served by the prince himself in homage to the two older men—his mentors and advisers. Food was placed on a large wooden tray on the tent floor. The tray revolved at the touch of a hand, bringing all the food upon it within reach of the guest.

  The fare was simple, plain: cold meats, cheeses, breads, fruits, and candied nuts. It was intended to be eaten with the fingers, no plates or implements necessary. The men lounged on the floor, leaning against the silken embroidered bolsters. Outside the tent, another fire—this one much smaller than the bonfire of the previous night—blazed brightly. Drink was served in silver goblets.

  "Wine for me, my prince," said Pantha, holding out his goblet. "Since you insist upon waiting on me."

  "It is an honor, I assure you, dear friend. An honor to serve both of you—mentor, father; new friend, adviser. Which will you have, my lord? Wine or water?"

  "Water, please, Your Highness."

  "My choice, as well. I detest alcohol." Flaim poured cold water from an iced carafe for himself and Lord Sagan. "It clouds the senses, robs a man of control."

  "At my age," Pantha remarked, sniffing critically at the wine, "a little clouding of the senses is a thing to be honored. I can afford the luxury of relaxation. Let other, younger, stronger hands do the work." He raised the glass of wine solemnly to the prince.

  "I took a vow, when I joined holy orders, never to drink strong spirits," Sagan commented, giving the tray a gentle push to bring the apples within easy reach.

  He appeared to be absorbed in his selection of the fruit. But, watching closely from beneath lowered eyelids, he saw Flaim and Pantha exchange glances. The old man drank his wine. Flaim, who had a hunk of cheese in his hand, laid it back down untasted.

  Lifting an apple, Sagan rubbed the red skin on the sleeve of his cassock.

  "About these vows of yours, my lord," said Flaim, leaning back, regarding the Warlord with a darkened countenance. "Pantha and I have been studying the Order of Adamant. We found information on it in some of his old reference files. I find that the priests and priestesses who belong to that Order must take a vow never to use weapons of destruction."

  "That is so," said Sagan calmly. "Unless they happen to be a warrior priest, such as myself."

  "Ah." Flaim's expression brightened. "Of course. That explains everything. I had not known you were a warrior priest, my lord."

  "They were banned by His Majesty, I believe," Pantha stated, eyeing Sagan curiously, somewhat suspiciously.

  "My ordination was kept secret. My father, who was a High Priest, foresaw the need of warrior priests in the dark days to come."

  But did he? Sagan wondered to himself. Did my father foresee all this? If so, how he must have pitied his son!

  "However," the Warlord continued, holding up the apple to the reflected light of the fire, studying its skin for flaws, "I have since renounced the status of warrior priest. My vows are now the same as all the others in the Order."

  He bit into the apple, watched the two. Again, the exchange of glances. Sagan chewed the fruit, waited.

  "But, my lord," said Flaim, shifting restlessly on the floor, "surely your pledge to me frees you from those vows. If it comes to war—I know we all hope it does not, but if it does— the Church would naturally side with the anointed king. I say 'the Church,' but, of course, I mean the archbishop. He and my cousin are devoted friends, I believe."

  "Yes, Your Highness. The archbishop would most assuredly back Dion's claim, particularly since he knows the truth about yours."

  Flaim waved that aside as unimportant. "As we have discussed, you will deal with that. In any case, my lord, your pledge to me frees you from these vows. You owe this Church no allegiance now. Your allegiance is to me." "You misunderstand, Your Highness," said Sagan quietly. "I did not take these vows before the Church. I took them before God."

  Flaim looked at Pantha, who merely raised his gray eyebrows and nodded toward the Warlord, silently counseling his young friend that the conversation was not finished.

  The prince, frowning, turned back to Sagan.

  "My lord—"

  Sagan raised a hand. He tossed the half-eaten fruit down on the wooden tray. "Perhaps we could save time if Your Highness will tell me exactly what it is he wants of me."

  Flaim stared down at the cheese, at the bread beside it, at the tray, at his water goblet. His handsome face was brooding, thoughtful. He glanced up once at Pantha, but it seemed that this time the old man withheld his counsel. The decision was left to the prince.

  At length Flaim lifted his blue eyes. The firelight reflected in them seemed to spring up from the cheekbones, consume the eyes in flame.

  "I need you as military adviser."

  "I may advise. This does not break my vows."

  "As general, field commander—"

  "No, Your Highness. There are others as well qualified. You do not need me for that."

  Flaim was silent again. His hand absently sent the tray revolving slowly around and around.

  "I need you to bring my cousin here, to Vallombrosa. To me."

  Sagan nodded. "I thought as much. And what do you want with him, my prince?"

  "I mean him no harm," Flaim said earnestly. "I only want to talk to him. I want to meet him; I want him to meet me. I want him to see for himself that—of the two of us—I am the stronger the better qualified to rule. I want a chance to avoid war, to persuade him to abdicate in my favor."

  "As I told you before, my prince, Dion will never do that."

  "I think he will." Flaim smiled. "I think he will have no choice."

  "Ah, you have a plan."

  "I would b
e a poor prince if I did not. Forgive me if I do not discuss it with you, my lord. As you yourself said, one cannot afford the luxury of trust...."

  Sagan inclined his head to indicate he understood perfectly. "You could arrange a formal meeting with His Majesty—"

  Flaim shook his head, laughed. "He wouldn't let me within a hundred light-years of his sacred person. He'd be a fool if he did. And then there would be the attendant publicity. I would be cast as the long-lost relative, crawling from the darkness, seeking the light. When I stand in the sun, I want to be seen standing upright. I don't want the people to see me groveling at my cousin's feet. No. This meeting between us must be kept secret."

  "Your Highness has what must be the galaxy's most effective secret police," Sagan said coolly. "The dark-matter creatures. As you said, nothing can stop them."

  Flaim did not, apparently, comprehend for a moment. He stared at Sagan in some confusion. Then he smiled. "Ah, you are suggesting that we have the creatures deliver His Majesty. ..."

  "Much as they delivered me to you, Your Highness."

  Flaim exchanged glances with Pantha, who gave a slight nod. "We considered that idea, my lord. We have, in fact, conducted experiments along those lines. We have had, from time to time, certain undesirable elements appear in our population— criminals, the mentally unstable, that sort. The dark-matter creatures proved most effective in removing them. Unfortunately, the creatures are not used to dealing with such fragile life-forms as ourselves. Many of the prisoners were irreparably damaged."

  "Plucking a solid, massive object like a spaceplane from the heavens is one thing," Pantha offered. "Plucking a human being from his dinner table is quite another. The shock alone killed several."

  "If His Majesty ever traveled by spaceplane alone . . ." Flaim shrugged. "But that, of course, is one thing he never does."

  The prince leaned forward. "You, my lord, are the only person who can penetrate the circle of steel that surrounds the king. You alone can slip inside. You trained those men who guard His Majesty. Admit it, my lord, their real allegiance is still to you."

  "As you said, I trained them," Sagan remarked, "and I would kill with my bare hands the first one who failed in his duty to the king whose life he has sworn to defend and protect. Those men would kill me without hesitation, at the king's command.

  And he would command it. Dion doesn't trust me. I was his teacher, you see. I taught him that he cannot afford the luxury of trust. And if there was one lesson he learned of me," Sagan added dryly, "it was that."

  Flaim was not pleased. He contained his anger well; he had self-control. But it was obvious he was not accustomed to having his plans thwarted. He gave the tray a sudden, sharp spin that sent it whirling, flung food in all directions. Bounding to his feet, he walked away, walked to the open tent flap, stared outside.

  Sagan watched, interested in the reaction. "There is one person, however, who might be able to accomplish your objective, Prince Starfire. One person the king trusts implicitly—however misplaced that trust might be."

  Flaim turned around. "Yes. Who is that?"

  "A man named Mendaharin Tusca."

  "Tusca." Flaim frowned. "That name sounds familiar—"

  Pantha coughed, drawing attention to himself. "You recall the man, my prince. You saw the reports. He is known as Tusk—"

  "Oh, yes." Flaim shook his head. "I think you are mistaken, my lord. We approached Tusca already. He wasn't interested in joining us. His wife's pregnant or some such thing. And he told our agent straight out that he and the king were no longer friends."

  "Tusca lied," said Sagan.

  Flaim regarded him with renewed interest. "Yes, my lord? Go on."

  "The two are no longer close, certainly. That would hardly be proper—a mercenary soldier and the king. Dion knows the value of appearances. But if there is one person alive in this universe whom Dion considers a friend, one person he would trust with his life, it is Mendaharin Tusca."

  "But," Pantha struck in, shrewd eyes glinting, "if this Tusca is close to His Majesty, the mercenary would not serve our purpose."

  "I said Dion regarded Tusk as his friend. I did not say the feeling was mutual."

  "But this man Tusk owes the king his life!"

  "Precisely. How many friendships have been destroyed because one friend owed another money? The borrower comes to hate the lender, because of the power the lender holds over him." "If you are right, my lord, this Tusk could prove exceedingly valuable to us," said Flaim after another exchange of glances with Pantha. "Is there a way to convince him to join us?"

  "Yes, Your Highness," said Sagan.

  Flaim waited expectantly.

  The Warlord remained silent.

  A rueful smile twisted the prince's lips. "Ah, I see, my lord. I'm being taught a little lesson here myself. The knife cuts both ways."

  "It does, indeed, Your Highness. I promise you, however, that in a fortnight's time I will have Mendaharin Tusca standing before you, eager to carry out your commands."

  "And you with him, my lord?" Flaim asked.

  "Certainly, my prince," Sagan said. "It is my honor to serve you."

  "Then nothing can stop me! Rise, Pantha. Rise, my lord. We will toast this occasion." Flaim grabbed the wine carafe, poured wine in the old man's goblet. He sloshed water into his own cup and that of the Warlord's.

  Raising his goblet high, Flaim said with a laugh, "I give you the king! To His Majesty. God save the king!"

  "God save the king," said Pantha reverently, tipping his glass toward Flaim.

  "God save the king," Sagan echoed, and drank deeply. "And now, my prince, I bid you good night. I must prepare for my journey. If I have your leave to go—"

  They exchanged farewells. The Warlord left the tent, walked down the hill. The mists had gone, blown away by a sharp, cold wind.

  "And what do you think of him, my prince?" Pantha asked when the two were alone.

  Flaim looked after the Warlord thoughtfully. He was a patch of darkness slashed into the fire's light. And then he was completely one with the darkness, disappeared into it.

  "I must confess that I am disappointed," said Flaim coolly. "I had expected a warrior—an aging one, of course, but a warrior still. Instead, I see a broken old man, old before his time, older by far than you, my friend—in spirit, if not in years."

  The prince shook his head, sighed. "A pity. One can still see the greatness in him. It flashes forth, from time to time, only to grow dim and flicker out."

  "Your Highness must take into account the type of life Derek Sagan has been forced to lead these past few years. He speaks of taking this withdrawal from the world upon himself, but I have no doubt that your cousin Dion was responsible for Sagan's banishment."

  Flaim was doubtful. "I cannot imagine such a man as Derek Sagan going meekly into exile."

  "As you said, my prince, Sagan is not the man he was. He was Abdiel's captive for many months. Who knows what the mind-seizer did to the Warlord's brain? I see you looking dubious still, but you did not know the mind-seizers." Pantha was grim. "They were terrible, evil men. You owe your cousin a debt in that he removed this most formidable enemy from your path."

  "And I shall repay my debt, you may be certain," Flaim said with a laugh. He bent down, picked up an apple, juggled it absently as he talked. "When our 'gentle cousin'—to use a term Shakespeare was so fond of—gives us the throne, he will be free to do what he likes with the remainder of his life. A prisoner, of course, but a prisoner in a gilded cage. He might even come to thank me. According to our spies, that wife of his will desert him once he is no longer king. Cousin Dion can have that mistress of his. Olefsky's daughter. What's her name—"

  "Maigrey, my prince. Maigrey Kamil. Not to be confused with the Lady Maigrey."

  "Now, there is a woman I would like to have met—the woman who could charm Derek Sagan."

  "She would have liked to have met you," came a voice from the shadows, "when she could still use a sword."
<
br />   Flaim glanced around swiftly. "Did you hear something?"

  "Only the wind whipping through the tent, my prince," said Pantha.

  "If so, the wind has found a tongue. I heard words .. Flaim was silent, listening intently.

  "My prince, really ..." Pantha began.

  "Well, it's gone now. Never mind. Speaking of Sagan, can I trust him, do you think, my friend? As far as I trust anyone," he amended, grinning.

  "I think so, my prince. If the king cast him into exile, Sagan will be happy to ally with the one who frees him. He was pleased with your offer of a command, that much was obvious. And who knows, Flaim? You might well restore him to true greatness. He might prove to be of real value. The acquisition of Tusca will be the test."

  "Yes, that would simplify matters. But we will, of course, carry through with our other plan—just in case. The queen is on Ceres, I believe you said?"

  "Yes, Your Highness. She left the planet for a brief trip in company with the cyborg, Xris. Our people attempted to follow them, but the cyborg is quite adept at evading pursuit."

  "Pursuit? The queen doesn't know about our spies, does she?" Flaim demanded.

  "No, certainly not, Your Highness. Unfortunately, our people seem to have stumbled onto some sort of private intrigue. Her Majesty is back on Ceres now, however, safely ensconced in the temple. There appears to be no immediate likelihood of her returning to the palace."

  "Excellent. We must not move too soon. We don't want to make our cousin suspicious. We will see what Lord Sagan brings us."

  "Yes, Your Highness."

  "You know, it's a pity—" Flaim took a bite out of the apple. "Pah!" He spit it out. "Rotten."

  "You were saying, my prince?"

  "What? Oh, yes. As Sagan said, it is a pity that we cannot use the strange dark-matter creatures as our secret police. What excellent spies they would be! Unseen, unheard. We could send them to keep watch over Lord Sagan."

  "Flesh-and-blood spies must serve the purpose there, my prince. Though I doubt that they'll bring us back much useful information, if they manage to keep track of him at all. Derek Sagan may be a shadow of the man he once was, but that shadow is still quite formidable."