King's Sacrifice (7 page)

The Warlord
lifted his hand, stared at five marks upon the palm, continued in a
soft voice, speaking more to himself than to Aks.

"Abdiel,
former abbot of the Order of Dark Lightning, was at Snaga Ohme's that
night. Abdiel was the one who murdered the Adonian. Abdiel nearly
caused Dion to murder me. It was Abdiel who captured the Lady
Maigrey. She was strong enough to fight him, and so saved herself and
the bomb that he sought to acquire. But she could not overcome him.
He escaped her, escaped me, escaped Laskar, and disappeared.

"Now,
almost assuredly, he is with Robes again. That wretched girl with the
ravaged face who approached Dion— Abdiel's plotting, if not his
handiwork. He knows Dion, for he probed his mind. He knows what will
affect him, how to manipulate him without ever coming near. What is
worse, he has Dion's bloodsword. The fool young man, trusting Abdiel,
left it behind the night of Ohme's party."

"But what
could Abdiel do—"

"—with
the bloodsword? The Blood Royal can communicate with each other
through the sword, Admiral. It is even possible for a stronger mind
to control a weaker through the sword. Although I don't believe that
is the case with Dion, at least not yet. Dion is strong, stronger
than he gives himself credit for being sometimes. He defied Abdiel,
that night at Ohme's. He knows Abdiel now, knows him enough to be
wary of him. Still ..."

"His
Majesty is in terrible danger—"

"We are all
in danger, Admiral," Sagan snapped, straightening, stiffening.
He retreated back inside his stone fortress, the iron gates crashed
down. "And you, I believe, have your orders."

Aks, shaken and
unnerved, could only nod abruptly. He left in precipitous haste.

One of the Honor
Guard, standing outside the golden double doors, decorated with the
symbol of the phoenix rising from flames, regarded Aks with silent
concern.

The admiral saw
his face reflected in the man's shining helm and was shocked. His
skin had gone gray beneath its artificial tan. His eyes were
red-rimmed, the lids puffed and swollen. A nerve twitched in his
cheek.

Abdiel . . .
still alive.

The admiral
glowered at the centurion, harumphed an unintelligible remark, and
stalked into the elevator, ordered it to take him to the bridge. At
the last moment he reconsidered.

"Officer's
club."

Courage is
rarely found at the bottom of a Scotch bottle, but it couldn't hurt
to go looking.

Tusk was engaged
in his own exploration of the bottoms of bottles. He was not in an
officer's club; his ship was— ostensibly—not a military
vessel. When he first saw the yacht, Tusk had registered a strong
protest against trusting Dion's travel through a dangerous galaxy in
what appeared to be a space-going spa. On entering and discovering
the yacht's many secrets, the mercenary changed his mind.

He should have
known, he told himself. The yacht had, after all, once belonged to
the late Snaga Ohme. The vessel's sleek, almost sleazy outer
appearance belied its true nature. A fake hull, adorned with neon
lights that flashed witty epigrams to fellow ships passing in the
night, could be rolled up instantaneously, revealing a real hull
bristling with lascannons, banks of phasers, hypermissiles—the
very latest in death-dealing technology.

Inside the
yacht, the lavishly decorated interior altered itself the moment a
shot was fired or even contemplated.

Objets d'art
retreated back into the bulkheads or sank down into the deck. Classic
paintings slid aside to reveal instrument panels and weapons
consoles. Plush love seats rose up, swiveled to align themselves with
the guns that sprang out of the cedar paneling. The yacht was fast,
fester than anything Tusk'd ever down. Like a rat, it could run if
outnumbered, stand and fight if cornered.

Ohme had, in
fact, named it
The Rat.
Sagan had ordered the name changed to
something better suiting the dignity of the king it now carried. But
the crew called the ship by its old name, as a kind of tribute to the
late owner. Tusk heard it referred to as
The Rat
so often he
couldn't remember half the time what the new name was. He had come to
respect it, admire it, though he never could get used to blast doors
beautified by the very latest in modern art.

He highly
approved of the lounge, that was dimly lit, with large black marble
tables and deep white leather sofas. Vidscreens provided vicarious
amusement for those who couldn't find it anywhere else. The vidscreen
was currently replaying Dion's interview with news commentator James
Warden.

They had die
lounge practically to themselves, the few crew members who had been
present had quietly left, out of respect for the king's need for a
few moments privacy. As private as he could ever be, surrounded by
aides, bodyguards.

Tusk had his
back to die vidscreen, refusing to watch. Dion, seated across from
him, glanced up at himself occasionally, but mostly kept his morose
gaze fixed on the beer in front of him—beer which he hadn't
tasted and which by now must be warm and flat Nola looked from one to
the other and sighed.

"Boy, you
two are about as much fun as a TRUC marooned in deepspace. And to
think I washed my hair for this. Jeez, I wish link were here,"
she added teasingly.

"Me, too,"
Tusk said, clenching his fist a gleam in his eyes.

"I wonder
what he's plotting," Dion muttered, the first winds he'd spoken
since they'd left die comm over an hour ago.

Tusk assumed
they weren't referring to Link.

"Whatever
it is, you'll find out soon enough. Don't worry about it Look, I'll
get you a fresh beer. Drink it and go to bed. . .

"I
am
tired," Dion admitted wearily, shoving the glass aside.

He glanced up
again at the screen. The interview was approaching the end. He
started to say something, when the image abruptly changed.

"We
interrupt our deepspace broadcast for this GBC special report."

A premonition
swept over Tusk. "Switch that damn thing off!" he shouted
at a startled 'droid bartender, who stared at him in mechanical
bewilderment.

The controls
were located behind the bar. Tusk twisted to his feet, lunged over
the polished surface. He broke several glasses and sent a bowl of
pretzels flying, but accomplished little else. The voice droned on.

"The body
of a human female has been discovered floating in one of the
ornamental ponds located on the GBC grounds. She was the victim of an
apparent suicide. The body has not been identified, but reliable
sources tell us that she is the same person involved in a dramatic
confrontation that took place today with Dion Starfire,
self-proclaimed king of the galaxy—"

Tusk drew his
lasgun, aimed and fired. The vidscreen exploded, raining bits of
plastiglass down on the indignant, protesting droid. Too late to undo
the damage, of course, but shooting the damn screen gave Tusk an
infinite amount of satisfaction.

Dion stood
frozen, drained of all color, white and cold and stiff. His eyes went
vacant, glassy.

"Dion!"
Nola cried, frightened.

He didn't
respond.

"Tusk, he's
not breathing!"

"Kid!"
Tusk grabbed Dion's shoulder, shook him hard, fingers pinching the
flesh. "Kid, snap out of it. Nola, hand me that beer—"
he began, with the intention of throwing it into Dion's face.

But the blue
eyes slowly regained their focus, though he did not seem to recognize
his surroundings. He drew in a shivering, sucking breath.

"You okay?"
Tusk demanded, worried.

"Yes, I'm
fine."

Tusk shuddered
at the sound. "Come on, kid. I'll take you back to your room—"

"No, I'm
fine. I need time to think, that's all."

Dion shook off
his friend's hand, walked to the door. The Honor Guard came to
attention, saluted.

Tusk followed
after him, thinking he should, though he didn't particularly want to.
What could he say?

At the door,
Dion turned to him. "Tusk, report to the bridge. Tell the ship's
captain to take us into the Lanes. I want to reach
Phoenix
immediately."

"Sure,
kid," answered Tusk. He exchanged glances with Nola. Her eyes
were wide, her freckles stood out like ink blots on her pallid skin.
No need to mention that the ship was already in hyperspace.

"Thank
you," Dion said in the same flat and lifeless voice.

The centurions
were prepared to fall into step behind their king. But Agis, their
captain, brought them to a halt. The centurion then did the
unthinkable. He broke a rule, spoke without being spoken to.

Coming forward,
he said softly and most respectfully, "Your Majesty, I'm sorry."

Dion, who was
staring at nothing and seeing, perhaps, the body of the dead girl,
her pretty brown hair floating in the water, shifted his gaze to the
centurion.

"So am I,
Agis," he said quietly. "So am I."

She is drowned
already, sir, with salt water, though I seem to drown her remembrance
again with more.

William
Shakespeare,
Twelfth Night,
Act II, Scene 1

His Majesty,
King Dion Starfire, arrived aboard
Phoenix II
and was met with
due ceremony. Ranks of centurions stood to attention, forming an
aisle of gleaming breast-plated human columns on either side of the
path His Majesty tread. Behind the Honor Guard, those crew members of
Phoenix
not needed to keep the ship operational, attired in their
dress uniforms, were present to do their king honor.

Lord Sagan, clad
in golden armor, golden helm with blood-red feather crest, red cape
trimmed in gold with its golden phoenix stitched on the back, greeted
his king with grave and solemn ceremony and presented him to the
other dignitaries.

Dion knew what
was expected of him before an audience, knew it wouldn't be politic
to indicate, by either bearing or manner, that there was a rift
between himself and his chief military commander. He returned his
lord's salute with dignity and aplomb, acknowledged a bow from
Admiral Aks, advanced to meet the dignitaries.

"Lord
Rykilth, Your Majesty," said Lord Sagan. "Warlord of
galactic sector twenty-four."

An extremely
powerful Warlord, the vapor-breather had once, during the rule of the
old king, been Sagan's mortal enemy. They were allies now. Rykilth's
system had seceded, he had pledged the new king his support.

Dion spoke the
words of formal greeting in the vapor-breather's language,
acknowledged the swirl of yellow fog in the vapor-breather's bubble
helm that was his answer, remained a moment to exchange meaningless
pleasantries.

His mind was not
on the polite words, spoken in the language that sounded rather like
a hydraulic leak. His mind was on Sagan. What was he plotting? Why
was Rykilth aboard
Phoenix
and not in galactic sector
twenty-four, where he belonged?

"Baroness
DiLuna, Your Majesty, Warlord of sector sixteen." Sagan, moving
along gravely at his king's side, continued the introductions.

Another powerful
Warlord, another whose sector had seceded from the Galactic
Democratic Republic. Strong, swaggering, DiLuna ran a ship crewed
exclusively by women, many of them her daughters. Various Baron
DiLunas came and went. Always young, always handsome, they lived to
service the baroness. These men were provided one year of sublime
pleasure, anything and anyone aboard DiLuna's ship was theirs for the
asking. After that year, the barons were "retired." No one
ever knew what happened to them, the ceremony of retirement, like the
ceremony of marriage, was performed in strictest secrecy, a mystery
sacred to the baroness and her women. The following night, however, a
new young man warmed DiLuna's bed.

Dion, thinking
of all this, understood the woman's sardonic smile and did not take
offense at the coldness of her greeting. He may have been king but he
was, after all, only a man, an inferior being, who served one useful
purpose only. His face grew warm at the thought.

DiLuna's smile
broadened, perhaps she read his mind. He saw what he immediately
assumed to be glances exchanged between the woman and Lord
Sagan—obviously there was
one
man DiLuna respected.
Dion's anger swelled and served him well, burning away his
embarrassment.

"Bear
Olefsky, ruler of the planetary system of Solgart."

"Aye,
laddie, well met again!"

No formalities
of bowing and scraping for Olefsky. Arms like the limbs of sheltering
oaks clasped Dion to a breast rock-solid and big as a mountain. He
was nearly stifled by the smells of cowhide and sweat; a trophy of
human hair, dangling from the leather armor, tickled his nose; the
skull of a small animal (he hoped it was an animal) dug into his
cheek.

Dion extricated
himself from the embrace, did what he could to recover both his
dignity and the breath that had been squeezed out of his body. He
felt his anger begin to cool, he could see what was transpiring.
These people were the three most powerful in the universe, next to
Sagan. He had brought them here to pledge the king their allegiance
publicly, for the first time.

Out of the
corner of his eye, Dion saw they were under the close scrutiny of
vidcams; Sagan's public relations people were hard at work, recording
this historic meeting for posterity and the GBC.

Dion's eyes
sought those of the Warlord's, but couldn't see them, shadowed by the
helm. The two moved away from the line of dignitaries, continued down
the aisle of living statues.

"Very
impressive, my lord," Dion remarked out of the side of a mouth
that was smiling left and right. "But we need to talk. Alone.
Now."