Ghost Legion (58 page)

"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 as 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—"