"But, my lord!" Nada stared after him. "What are your orders?"
"Orders, Captain? You have my orders. My orders stand."
"I was not referring to that, my lord. We are maintaining our current position in deepspace. I was referring to the deserter, Tusca. Shouldn't I send a squad to arrest him, my lord?"
"Have you gone deaf. Captain? My orders stand. You will do nothing. And make no mention of this in the hearing of Lady Maigrey."
Nada's cheeks sucked in, puffed out. His brows would have met over his nose in a frown had they not been kept apart by a roll of fat. This smacked of intrigue. Admiral Aks had hinted that this search for a deserter was being performed with the President's knowledge and approval. Nada wondered, however. He knew the Warlord was in communication with someone on the planet. These communications were coded Red, which meant that no one, not even the admiral, could understand them. Was this a proper action for a citizen of the Republic who lived, after all, to serve the people? One of the tenets of the revolution had been "No secrets from the people!"
Believing in this tenet strongly, Captain Nada had made certain secret reports himself to the President. The reports had been well received. It was about time, he thought, that he make another.
The main viewport aboard Phoenix was a gigantic porthole, its diameter over one hundred meters in length. Several decks bisected the viewport—the relaxation lounge for the crew looked out of the lower part of the circle, the lounge for officers was on the deck above that, the porthole's top formed an arched window that extended from deck to overhead in the Warlord's chambers. The bridge had the benefit of the view from the viewport's very center.
The traditional "captain's walk" on the bridge was a narrow catwalk built in front of the gigantic porthole so as to obtain full benefit of the magnificent view. The "captain's walk" was suspended above the command center of the ship and it allowed those privileged enough to set foot upon it the privacy sacred to the workings of their mighty brains. At the same time, it enabled them to keep themselves appraised of all the functions of the ship that were being controlled and monitored on the deck below them.
On a flagship, the captain's walk could be somewhat crowded, since both captain and admiral came here to stroll about and enjoy the panorama of suns, double suns, nebulae, distantly seen galaxies, comets, asteroid belts, insignificant planets, moons. On a flagship such as Phoenix, with a marshal present in addition to a captain and an admiral, the three might find themselves bumping into each other on the catwalk had not protocol dictated that whenever a marshal was using the walkway, no one else was allowed on it except by invitation.
Pacing the bridge alone, Lord Derek Sagan caught a glimpse of pale hair on the deck below. Pausing in mid-stride, he watched the woman walk toward him, and for the first and only time in his life Sagan regretted his sarcastic speech to the admiral. Seeing Maigrey, he understood why work came to a halt in her presence, why his men could do nothing except stare.
If Corasians, in their horrible trundling mechanical bodies, had boarded his ship, Sagan's men would have responded swiftly and efficiently, reacting as they had been trained. But how were they to react to this? How were they to react to the sight of that pallid face set in rigid calm, the fixed, staring gray eyes? The only life visible in that face was the blood that pulsed in the scar.
Sagan had won. The woman who stood before him was crushed, beaten. But the Warlord felt cheated in his victory. He didn't want a lifeless corpse. A corpse wasn't useful to him, and he needed to make use of this lady. Somehow he had to jolt the body back to life. The guards brought the woman to the foot of the ramp ascending to the catwalk. The Warlord descended to greet her.
Their eyes met—his shadowed behind the helm, hers gray as the sea beneath a winter sky. Two enemy commanders taking up position on opposite ridges, the field of battle spread before them, each trying to spy out any weakness in the other.
Sagan bowed, a courtly gesture. "Lady Maigrey, a rosette nebula is currently visible from the viewport. You shouldn't miss this sight. I would be honored if you would join me." He held out his hand to her.
Both were fully aware of the eyes of the crew watching them; both were reacting to the crowd. This is what they had been born to. The tragedy of their lives had been played out before thousands.
"Thank you, my lord."
Very precisely and coldly, she placed the tips of her fingers on his open palm and walked up the stars beside him, making it quite apparent by her stiff back and high-held chin that she was a prisoner obeying a command. Her cheeks were flushed, there was a spark in the eyes.
The Warlord experienced the elation of Dr. Frankenstein. The corpse was coming to life.
Glancing behind him, Sagan indicated that the lady's guards were to remain below. Together, in silence, he and Maigrey walked up the ramp. The murmured low voices of the men watching was their applause. A sharp, biting rebuke from Captain Nada recalled the crew to its duties, but both lord and lady were aware they held their audience still.
Arriving on the bridge, Maigrey removed her fingers from the Warlord's palm and stood staring silently out the viewport, her hands clasped before her. Sagan crossed his arms behind his back, beneath the folds of his cape, and settled into a relaxed stance. Both gazed out at the nebula with such rapt attention it seemed neither had ever seen one before. Neither was—in reality—seeing this one now.
"It's beautiful, isn't it, my lady?"
"Yes, my lord. I know how highly you value beauty. What do you intend to do—blow it up?"
The upper part of his face was covered by his crested helmet, but Maigrey could see clearly—though she was not looking at him—a faint smile widen the lips that were a dark slash across his face. Like a severed limb sewn back on the body, the mind-link—newly joined—was still raw and bleeding at the edges, sensitive to the touch. Each kept bandages wrapped around the wound, to hide it from the view of the other, but this wasn't completely successful.
Maigrey had been six years old by her planet's reckoning when the two of them had met and their minds had first, by accident, been joined. Sagan had been fifteen. The melding had lasted nearly twenty years before his sword slashed it apart. Now, reestablished again, it was natural that, however well protected, certain thoughts and feelings must seep through.
"No. I think I'll leave the nebula as it is, my lady. It serves a useful navigational function. Because of it, in fact, I can tell you the name of the planet over there." The Warlord pointed to a speck of light, indistinguishable amid a myriad specks of light. "Vangelis."
Maigrey felt the probe of his mind flick into hers, a surgeon's scalpel touching the wound. Involuntarily she flinched. What did he want? What was on that planet? Was it supposed to mean something to her? It didn't, but she wasn't going to let him know that if she could help it.
"How interesting, my lord. Named for the twentieth century composer, I presume?"
Music. She filled her mind with music, one of the techniques their teachers had taught them to use to enable them to retain a sense of their own identities. Sagan could make out nothing in her mind except a cascade of bells and swooping melody. Something by the very Vangelis of whom she'd spoken, no doubt. The Warlord did not recognize it.
"More likely it was named after some whore," Sagan commented. "The planet was established as a mining colony—it's composed almost entirely of uranium. "
Maigrey's mind touched his—not a probe but delicate, cool fingers. Sagan allowed her to touch, allowed her to find part of what she sought—the boy. Maigrey snatched her mind back. The Warlord saw, by the sudden livid appearance of the scar against her skin, that she had cut herself.
"If you will excuse me, my lord, I am extremely tired. I wish to return to my quarters."
Maigrey turned to leave. Sagan, politely, gave her his hand.
"I was hoping you would be my guest for dinner this evening, my lady," he said as they walked slowly to the ramp.
Maigrey, keeping her eyes any
where but on his face, saw the sinew, muscle, and bone of his arm clearly delineated beneath the tanned skin crisscrossed by the battle scars. Some she remembered, others were new.
"Thank you, my lord. I prefer to dine by myself."
"I have no doubt," he said in a low, wry tone for her hearing alone. "Betrayal leaves a bad taste in the mouth."
"I'm surprised you noticed, my lord. I should think you would've become accustomed to it, by now."
In silence, they walked together down the ramp—the lord brilliant in shining gold and flaming red, the lady pale as the moon beside him. The centurions snapped to attention; the eyes of every man in the crew that were not absolutely required to be somewhere else were on them.
I have been remiss in my duties as host," Lord Sagan said loudly, for the benefit of the audience, when they arrived on the deck. "My officers have been eagerly awaiting the opportunity of dining with you, Lady Maigrey. This night seems a fitting occasion."
"What is the occasion, my lord?"
"One which vou will have cause to celebrate, I trust, my lady."
The Warlord handed the woman over to the custody of her guards. "Dinner this evening is formal, my lady." He glanced somewhat scathingly at the nylon, zippered men's gym suit she was wearing. "I have arranged for suitable attire. You will find it when you return to your quarters. We dine at 2200. I will send my orderly for you. My lady." He bowed.
Gravely, she returned the courtesy. "My lord."
For an instant the eyes met, the mental blades touched, but it was in salute, not contest. Not yet. The combatants parted, the Warlord ascending back up the ramp, the lady leaving under guard for her quarters.
"Pass the word for Admiral Aks," Sagan commanded.
The message was sent, and the admiral appeared. Aks and his lord walked together the length of the catwalk. Nada, out of earshot on the deck below, would have given his pension to know what was being discussed up above him.
"The Scimitar's been sighted."
"Yes, I am aware of that, my lord. Captain Nada wanted to send a patrol to arrest Tusca."
"Nada's a bungler. He wouldn't get within ten miles of the mercenaries. They're undoubtedly monitoring our transmissions. By the time we arrived, they'd have ducked down some other hole. We'd lose them again and maybe not find them so easily."
The admiral glanced around to make certain they could not be overheard.
"What of the boy, my lord?"
Sagan paused in his pacing; his gaze went to the bright speck in the blackness that was Vangelis. "I see him, Aks. Not clearly, he's a shadow on my mind, but I see him. And she sees him, too."
"Doesn't that make it conclusive, then, my lord? Only those of the Blood Royal could touch each other—"
"I don't know! That's the hell of it! My desire, her fear. Maybe those are the shadows we're seeing. I can't put a face to him, Aks, and I don't believe she can either."
"Then how are we to resolve this dilemma, my lord? We can't go in and seize him because we have no idea what he looks like, who it is we're supposed to seize! Not to mention"— Aks's voice sunk even lower—"Snaga Ohme."
"The damn fool," Sagan was bitter, "reacted with typical Adonian paranoia. Someone's bound to wonder where the devil those stone-age oligarchs came up with a prototype torpedo boat." The Warlord stared out the viewport at the glittering nebula. "Do you remember what I said to you the other day, Admiral, in regard to God?"
"I beg your pardon, my lord?" Aks had not been prepared for this sudden leap from the mundane to the metaphysical.
"The Lord works in mysterious ways, his wonders to conceal.' The Creator is working, Aks. He is bringing all together—my greatest desire, my most dangerous enemy, and my gravest threat."
"Your greatest desire is, I presume, the boy." Aks, seeing his lordship was in good spirits, decided he would be safe to indulge in a bit of sarcasm. "I suppose God's going to drop him into your hand, my lord?"
The Warlord glanced at the admiral from out of the corner of his shadowed eyes. "Precisely."
Chapter Nineteen
Footfalls echo in the memory Down the passage which we did not take Towards the door we never opened Into the rose-garden. My words echo Thus, in your mind.
T. S. Eliot, "Four Quartets"
Returning to her quarters, Maigrey slammed shut the door and stood leaning against it. She had to sort out her thoughts and she was reluctant to disturb them by even the simple act of walking across the small area of floor space and sitting down in the one chair provided for the "guest's" comfort.
Outside, she heard the boots of the centurions take up their accustomed places on either side of her door. On the bed Maigrey saw what she assumed to be the "attire" Sagan had mentioned. It was wrapped in white linen, like a shroud. Maigrey was reluctant, suddenly, to touch it.
This is nonsense! Since when are you afraid of a dress?
But she didn't lift the white linen covering to see what was beneath. She did move away from the door. Walking over to her nightstand, Maigrey pulled up the chair, sat down before the mirror, and told herself she was going to fix her hair.
"The boy," she said quietly. "That was the thought in Sagan's mind, the thought he wanted me to find. The boy is there, on that planet. He can see him just as I can, a shadow on the mind. Why is he letting me know? Why is he telling me? Surely he must know I'll do everything I can to keep the boy safe."
Maigrey's hand touched the scar, the fingers following its line from her cheekbone to her lip. From the pain she felt, she would not have been surprised to see that touch draw blood. She could have masked the scar—plastiskin could make a human of one hundred appear no older (at least on the surface) than one of twenty. But Maigrey knew that nothing would cover it, nothing would blot it out. Were she to put a metal helmet over her head, the scar would bum through.
Picking up the brush, she began to smooth the tangles from her long, pale hair. "And what is safe? For the boy to live his life in ignorance? To never know who and what he is? Is that what you truly want for him? But if you really believed this, why did you hide away the child? He was to be our hope. 'Sick of ourselves, we have dreamed a king.'
"But not like this. Not Sagan taking him to that man who calls himself President." Maigrey's hand jerked. The brush turned, the bristles missed on a hard downward stroke, and she let it fall. "Of course! Sagan doesn't intend to take the boy to Robes! He's going to keep him, use the boy himself!"
Her gaze went to the white linen shroud.
Kicking the brush aside, Maigrey rose to her feet and walked slowly over to the bed. She knew, yet she was afraid to know. She reached down, grabbed a handful of the linen, and tried to tear it off. The shroud was tightly wrapped around whatever it covered and she was forced to fumble at knots. Maigrey could feel the gown beneath the covering. Its weight was heavy; made of thick fabric. The knowledge increased her certainty and she tore at the knots that refused to give way to her trembling hands. Finally they came undone, and hesitantly, afraid to breathe, she lifted one comer and peered beneath it.
Maigrey closed her eyes. She sank to the floor, suffocating, the pain in her chest constricting her breathing. Let me die, Creator! she pleaded silently. Let me die as I should have died then!
Her hand remained on the bed. Beneath its fingers she felt fabric so soft and smooth it was almost warm to the touch. Blue. Indigo blue velvet. A ceremonial gown, worn on state occasions. Worn by the Guardians on state occasions. State occasions such as a dinner given in their honor by King Starfire. A dinner in the palace, A dinner in the palace on the night of the revolution. Indigo blue velvet, matted black with blood.
Her hand clutched the velvet, crumpling it between her fingers. She saw them entering, moving with quiet, ordered assurance to their places at the long tables set out in the palace ballroom. Each man, each woman dressed alike in robes of shimmering indigo blue. On each breast glittered the starjewel; the Guardians wore no other adornment, no jewel ever mined was of greater value. Stavros w
alked in front of her, Platus behind her. They moved to their table, the king's table, for tonight they—the Golden Squadron—were being specially honored. But Sagan wasn't there. He hadn't entered with them. He was late. Stavros made a joke; he was always making jokes. Maigrey couldn't remember it. It hadn't been funny. Nothing was funny. The room was too crowded, the voices rose in a mindless hubbub and gave her a throbbing headache. She wanted them to be quiet. Couldn't they tell? Some dreadful calamity hung over them. Why couldn't they understand? She would tell them! Warn them. Before she could do so, Sagan entered. All the Guardians were seated except him and he was there, standing in the doorway. He, alone, was not clad in indigo blue. He was wearing battle armor. . . .
Darkness.
And then the hospital and pain and bandages and fear. And the worst pain, the most terrible pain was discovering that she was still alive.
Dr. Giesk and his infernal machine with its wires and bits of adhesive plastic could have inflicted no more exquisite torture on this victim than did the Warlord, using nothing but a few yards of blue cloth. And even Sagan might have been amazed at his success. He knew the pain he must inflict by summoning memory. He couldn't know how much greater the torment of not remembering!
I won't wear it, was Maigrey's first coherent thought. I won't go to his dinner. I won't leave this room. I am a prisoner and I will be a prisoner! I won't set foot out. I'll hide—
Pulling herself to her feet, barely able to stand, Maigrey backed away from the bed. She was forced to open her eyes and all it seemed they could see was indigo blue. Before she fell, she caught herself on the back of the chair and, leaning against it for support, stood staring at the robes.
And then Maigrey sensed Sagan's mind. He had hit her, drawn blood. Weakened, she had lowered her guard. Would she fall down now and die?
She sank into the chair and moved her hand to pick up her comb. Her fingers brushed against the rosewood box that stood in an honored place on her vanity. The wood was smooth and warm, warmer and smoother than the fabric of what had come to be known as the robes of death. Her hand closed over the box.
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