Either that or she'd think he was on the juice again. God! He wished she were here with him now. They were a team, a damn good team. She had a way of steadying him, of giving him confidence in himself, of . . .
"And they say women are vain!" Cynthia commented, coming up behind Tusk.
He realized he'd been standing there this whole time staring at himself in the mirror.
"I just want to make a good impression, that's all," he said. "What's he like, this prince of yours?"
"Yours, too, I hope," Cynthia countered.
Tusk turned around, faced her. "Yeah, well, right now it's strictly business with me." He'd decided in the shower that he shouldn't appear to be a pushover.
"That's because you haven't met him yet," said Cynthia. Her flirty, playful attitude was gone. She was subdued, awed. "He's an incredible person. He is handsome, charming, strong, intelligent. He has no vices, no weaknesses. He is completely focused on one thing—being king." She looked up at Tusk earnestly, almost fanatically. "Flaim Starfire will be an incredible king."
Dangerous, Sagan had said of the prince. Yes, Tusk thought, any man who could inspire loyalty like this in followers like Cynthia would well be classified as dangerous. Come to think of it, any man Derek Sagan termed dangerous must be . .. well . . . dangerous. And there had been respect in Sagan's voice, the same respect Tusk heard echoed in Cynthia's. . . .
Derek Sagan had never termed Dion dangerous.
Tusk's insides began to twist again. What if I'm alone in this? What if Sagan's laughing at me? What if they're all laughing at me? I net Dion for them and look around for help and they all laugh at me.
"My, you are nervous," said Cynthia, resting her hand on his arm.
"Yeah, I ... I guess I am," said Tusk. "I'm not much used to being around royalty."
"But you're half Blood Royal yourself," Cynthia observed. "We know all about you, Mendaharin Tusca." She put her arm through his. "Calm down. You'll soon be as devoted to the prince as the rest of us. I promise you, once you meet him, this won't be strictly business' for you any longer."
"You don't think so, huh?" Tusk said, trying out a light laugh.
"I don't think so. I know so," said Cynthia earnestly.
An hour later, standing talking to the prince, Tusk was beginning to wonder himself. Flaim Starfire was exactly what everyone had said he was. He slid down the throat as easily and hotly as jump-juice, left you feeling slighdv intoxicated by the whole experience.
"Mendaharin Tusca, what an honor to meet you at last." Flaim stopped Tusk from his awkward bow, extended a hand, shook Tusk's warmly. The Starfire-blue eyes were brilliant, mesmerizing. The prince's smile was sincere, his handshake firm, dignified. "I cannot tell you how delighted I am you decided to join with us. I know—" his smile warmed, dazzled, "I know you're 'strictly business,' but I hope to win you to my cause. Come, I want to speak to you a moment in private."
Many people were hovering around the prince, waiting, begging for a share of that smile. But they' all seemed to evaporate the moment the prince gave the signal. Flaim placed one hand on Tusk's shoulder, drew him off to a corner by himself. Tusk felt Sagan's eyes on him, although the Warlord was standing in the far corner of the vast room, engaged in polite conversation. Sagan started moving in Tusk's direction, but was deflected by Cynthia. Taking hold of Sagan's arm, she began introducing him to other guests.
And that was the last Tusk saw of the Warlord for the time being. Flaim led him to a steelglass viewscreen, presenting a marvelous view of the prince's large fleet of ships and the space stations in orbit around Vallombrosa.
"I am pleased you have decided to undertake this delicate task for me, Tusca," said Flaim with a gravity that was every bit as becoming as his smile, "because I think you alone can convince my cousin of how much I look forward to meeting him. I know that the two of you have not been close in these past years...." He paused, looked at Tusk expectantly.
"Yeah, I mean, yes, Your Highness. I guess you could say that. It's just that he's so high and a king and all and I'm .. . well .. . you can't say it was really like we were mad at each other or anything . . ." Tusk was floundering, hoped someone would cast him a line.
Flaim came to his rescue. "Exactly. Change in circumstance, the passing of time, friends drift apart. It's no one's fault. A misunderstanding. And this will give you a chance to renew your friendship with Dion, Tusca. And you'll be doing both of us a great favor by bringing us together at last."
"At gunpoint," Tusk said, his mouth moving before his brain was in gear.
Flaim appeared more amused than offended. "I heard that you were candid, Tusca. Up front. You say what you think. I like that quality very much, far better than mindless flattery. And I trust that the use of force will not be necessary. For one thing, I don't believe His Majesty would harm you, do you, Tusca?"
Tusk shook his head, guilty and uncomfortable.
"No, of course he wouldn't. And there is another reason. Come. There's someone I want you to meet."
Confused and dazed, feeling as if he'd drunk too much wine and shouldn't be driving himself home, Tusk glanced about for assistance. He was relieved to note that Sagan—with the smoothness and skill of a longtime naval commander—had steered Cynthia onto the shoals of conversation with several high-ranking officers, and then had promptly and politely left her to her fate. Tusk had a last glimpse of Sagan bearing down on them, when he was forced to turn his attention back to the prince.
The reception room aboard His Highness's ship Flare was vast, intended for the diplomatic functions that often took place on naval vessels. Such ships were highly suited—when not at war—to the shunting of diplomats back and forth between planets. The room was furnished with the obligatory round tables and uncomfortable chairs, designed for the sole purpose of bringing together total strangers to stare blankly at each other while they sipped lukewarm drinks and ate food off toothpicks.
Prince Flaim was moving toward one of these tables, located apart from all the others, in a far corner of the room. Tusk had already observed this table and its occupants and had been curious about them for several reasons. The two people sitting at the table were women. They were both dressed in white gowns (when everyone else was in uniform) and there was something familiar about one of them, though Tusk couldn't figure out what, because she sat with her back to him. No one came near these two women, but that may have been because several men stood near the table. The men did not carry weapons, but they had the stance and quiet watchfulness of guards—whether bodyguards or prison guards was hard to tell.
The women didn't seem to be enjoying themselves, from what Tusk could see. Each had a drink before her, and food, but neither was eating. Both appeared tense, ill at ease, and both appeared determined to ignore what was happening around them. They did not seem to be finding much comfort in each other's company; however. They weren't talking to anyone, not even each other. An elderly black gentleman sat with them, smiling on them both, apparently trying to do what he could to entertain them.
At the sight of Flaim approaching, the three guards backed off. Tusk recognized one of them as Captain Dhure. The captain acknowledged Tusk with a friendly smile and a nod, but said nothing, seeing that Tusk was being escorted by the prince. The elderly black gentleman rose to his feet. He, too, seemed vaguely familiar to Tusk, but he didn't have time to think where he knew him. Flaim was making introductions.
"Her Majesty, the queen."
The shock went through Tusk like a laser blast. He'd never met Astarte, but he'd seen her on the vids, before his machine had been repossessed. At first he thought confusedly that this must be some type of trick, for his benefit, maybe an impostor . . . but he had to abandon the idea.
There was no mistaking, no imitating Astarte's startling beauty, or the cool, imperious attitude with which she snubbed him. Flaim bowed before her, accorded her respect, paid her homage as if she were on her own royal barge, of her own free will. Astarte accepted his homage a
s no more than her due, but with the set jaw and rigidly held emotional control of one who knows that it's all mockery.
The prince's game plan was obvious to Tusk now. Had Sagan known about this move? Had he been behind it? Or was he as taken by surprise as Tusk? The Warlord had come up to stand behind them. Tusk sensed the man's presence, though he couldn't see him. Flaim was introducing the elderly black gentleman, whose name Tusk recognized, though he was too distraught to try to place how he knew him.
Flaim didn't introduce the other woman; probably the queen's servant, Tusk concluded, glancing at her without much interest. Then he noticed that the woman had her head turned away, her hand before it. She was shielding her face, deliberately trying to prevent him from noticing her. Which, of course, made him notice her. There was something about her that had seemed familiar....
And then he knew.
Tusk gasped, sucked in his breath. "Kamil! What the hell—"
"No, sir, you must be mistaken," murmured Kamil. She flashed him a pleading glance, gave her head a quick shake. Her eyes darted swiftly to Flaim, then back to Tusk again. "My name is Diana—"
"What is this?" Flaim asked with sudden interest, looking from one to the other. "Do you know this woman, Tusca?"
Tusk glanced around. Sagan was watching him through half-closed eyelids. The Warlord's expression was impassive, but Tusk could see the sudden rigidity in the body, the slight twitch of the thin lips. Tusk had blundered, apparently, but what had he done? What the devil was going on anyway? And what in heaven's name was he supposed to do about it?
He thought fast. There was only one thing he could do now.
"Her name's not Diana. It's Kamil," he said harshly. "Maigrey Kamil Olefsky. She's a friend of the royal family—"
"Indeed she is!" said Flaim, turning and regarding Kamil with marked interest "What strange chance has thrown this prize into our hands? I would dearly love to know this story," he added, exchanging amused glances with the elderly black man.
Tusk still didn't understand, though everyone else seemed to, judging by the knowing smiles. He tried to look knowing himself but he felt like the only person at the party who doesn't get the host's dirty joke and has to laugh politely anyway.
Flaim turned back to him. "Tusca, my friend. Thank you for enlightening us. Now you will be able to tell His Majesty, when you see him, that we are entertaining not only his wife as our guest, but his mistress as well."
Mistress! Tusk, shocked and disbelieving, looked from one woman to the other, to Astarte—pale but unmoved—to Kamil— flushed and angry and wretched—and he had his answer.
"Close. Very close," Sagan murmured grimly, but Tusk heard approval in the voice, and he relaxed somewhat.
Kamil couldn't have gone on with this deception long. The prince was undoubtedly having some sort of ID check run on her. It was just a matter of time. And this revelation had, without doubt, raised Tusk a notch with the prince. Flaim was regarding the mercenary with new respect.
"If you will excuse me, Your Majesty," Flaim said, bowing to the queen with grace, "I must steal Pantha away from you for a moment."
The elderly man, Garth Pantha (that's who he was, Tusk realized) bowed and left the queen, came to join Flaim and Tusk. The prince laid a hand on Tusk's shoulder.
"You have already proved yourself invaluable, Tusca. You have my thanks and"—Flaim smiled—"my apologies for any uncomfortable moments you might have experienced since coming aboard. Captain Zorn was only obeying orders. I trust that from now on you two will be very good friends."
Calling off the dogs, are you? Tusk said, but he said it in his head.
"My Lord Sagan," continued the prince, "Pantha and I must greet the rest of our guests. Perhaps you and Tusca would be so kind as to entertain Her Majesty?"
Sagan bowed his acquiescence and there was nothing Tusk could do but bow his as well. The Warlord turned toward the queen, but not before he had cast a sharp, swift glance at Tusk.
Tusk didn't need the warning. Undoubtedly, either the two women or the table or all three were wired for sound. Feeling as if his skin-tight uniform were crawling over his body, Tusk set his face in what he hoped was a go-to-hell expression and accompanied the Warlord to the table.
Astarte had no intention of being entertained by either of them, however. Rising to her feet, she turned her back on them, faced Captain Dhure. "I find these people odious. I will retire now."
"There is no need for that, Your Majesty," Sagan interrupted-bowing. "We would not want to deprive the rest of the assemblage of the pleasure of your company. We will withdraw."
"His Highness would like you to remain, Your Majesty," added Captain Dhure respectfully.
"On display?" Astarte said, her beautiful lip curling.
"When one has the jewel of the universe in one's possession, one naturally wishes to show it off," replied Captain Dhure gallantly. "Isn't that true, my lord?"
"An interesting analogy. I once heard the late Snaga Ohme say almost the same thing about a jewel he owned. A starjewel, given to him by the Lady Maigrey. Your godmother, I believe," he added, with a bow for Kamil.
"Don't speak her name!" Kamil flared angrily. Trembling and earnest, she faced the Warlord. "You're not only betraying Dion, you're betraying her! She sacrificed her life to save Dion. She loved him. For some reason, she loved you!".
Sagan stood unmoved. He regarded Kamil in silence. The dark eyes were rarely lit by any inner light, but now the darkness in them was cold and intense. It cloaked him, and it seemed that he cast the darkness over them, like a pall.
Kamil shrank beneath the chill and steadfast gaze.
"You are a child," Sagan said to her finally. "You know nothing about love and sacrifice. But you will." He looked back to the queen. "Your Majesty," he said, bowing deeply.
"My lord," she said stiffly, barely deigning to recognize him.
He flicked a glance at Kamil, but said nothing more to her. Turning, he walked off.
No one spoke. Astarte watched him go, her brow furrowed, her expression thoughtful. Kamil stood staring after him. She looked dazed and shattered and frightened. Tusk had gone hot all over; now he was cold. He had no idea what any of that had been about, wondered if Sagan himself knew.
"I need a drink," Tusk said, planning to make his escape back to his quarters. "If you ladies will excuse me." He gave an awkward bow, turned on his heel, and bumped right into Cynthia.
"Hello," she said, smiling at him. Resting her hands on his arm, she turned him around. "Introduce me."
"Uh, I don't think I'm real welcome here right now," Tusk said to her in a low tone, hoping she'd take the hint and leave.
"You're not," said Kamil, recovering herself. She looked at him now with more sadness than anger. "How could you betray him, Tusk? You're Dion's friend—"
"Yeah? He's been a real good friend these last three -years, hasn't he?" Tusk sneered, conscious of Cynthia's hands on his arm, of her eyes watching, her ears listening. "I helped put that damn crown on his head and what thanks do I get? He leaves me and my wife and kid to practically starve."
"But if you'd only asked him, Tusk! If you'd told him—"
"Come crawling to him like a goddam beggar? He would have liked that! I already owe him my life. I can imagine what'd it'd be like owing him money! Naw, I make my own way in this galaxy. Let's go," he said to Cynthia. "This company's too rich for my blood. I'll buy you a drink."
Startled at himself Tusk was thankful to escape. He'd sounded and acted very convincing. Too damn convincing. The words had come from somewhere deep and ugly inside him, spewed out as if he'd stuck a needle in a festering sore. Had he meant what he'd said? Did he resent Dion? Was he jealous of him?
Am I here because Sagan forced me into it? Tusk wondered uneasily. Or am I secretly looking forward to seeing Dion take a fall?
"That's stupid. I'm turning paranoid," Tusk muttered, running a hand over his tightly curled hair. "I don't trust Sagan. Now I'm even beginning not to t
rust myself!"
"What did you say?" Cynthia leaned near.
"Nothin', nothin'," Tusk mumbled.
"Don't let her upset you." Cynthia cast an amused glance back at the two women, who sat together disconsolately, for show, on display. "As Lord Sagan said, one is a child. And the Usurper's wife is a spoiled bitch. You're doing the right thing, Tusca. And you know it."
"Yeah, I know it," said Tusk.
He snagged his drink, would have liked about fourteen more, but knew better. A half-hour spent showing Cynthia John's baby pictures got rid of her. Prince Flaim was no longer interested in him. Sagan had long since made his excuses and left. Kamil and Astarte were eventually permitted to return to wherever it was they were being held prisoner. Tusk took the opportunity of slipping out himself, made his lonely way back to what he was beginning to see was his own prison cell.
Lying on his bed, he poked at his inner sores with a mental needle. Finally convinced that he was a thoroughly rotten human being, Tusk drifted into an uneasy and troubled sleep.
Chapter Seven
O villains, vipers, damned without redemption!
Dogs easily won to fawn on any man!
Snakes in my heart-blood warmed that sting my heart!
William Shakespeare, Richard II, Act III, Scene ii
Dion sat in his office, affixing his signature to the daily stack of official documents, moving his old-fashioned ink pen to this line and that as D'argent indicated with a gentle murmur, a gesture of his hand. When the process was finished, D'argent gathered the papers—many of them handsomely decorated with the royal seal—handed them to a servbot, and began to straighten up His Majesty's desk.
This complete, D'argent dispatched the servbot about its business. When it had whirred itself out of the room, the secretary said in a low voice, "Sir John Dixter is waiting to see you, Your Majesty."
"Very good. Cancel the rest of my morning appointments."
"Yes, sir. However . . ."
Dion, absorbed in reading a report, looked up. "What is it,
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