Ghost Legion (59 page)

"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 trust 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.

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,

D'argent?"

"You do have the appointment with Mendaharin Tusca this morning,
sir. Shall I cancel it, as well?"

Dion relaxed, sat back in his chair, smiled tiredly. "I'd
forgotten that was today. The first time he's come to visit in three
years. No, don't cancel Tusk. Plan on serving luncheon."

"Yes, sir."

"And you've summoned the prime minister?"

"He will be here this afternoon, Your Majesty."

"You better schedule a news conference for early this evening."
Dion rubbed the palm of his right hand, scratched at the inflamed
scars. "We should have an announcement for the press by then."

"Yes, sir. Would Your Majesty like more hot tea?"

"Thank you," Dion said absently.

The teacup beside him was still full, its liquid cold and un-tasted.
D'argent whisked it away, returned with a steaming pot of tea,
another one of coffee for the Lord of the Admiralty, and the Lord
Admiral himself.

Dion rose to meet him. The two shook hands.

"Any news, sir?" the king asked.

"No, Your Majesty," Dixter answered heavily. "I'm
sorry."

Sighing in frustration, Dion sat back down. D'argent poured the tea
and the coffee, waited a moment to see if there would be anything
else, then departed, gliding silently from the room.

"The baroness has effectively cut Ceres off from the rest of the
galaxy," Dixter continued. "All transgalactic shipping has
been halted, all spaceplanes grounded. No one is allowed to land on
the planet or leave it. Communications with the outside, including
her own systems, have been severed. Of course, this makes a certain
amount of sense if there truly was a conspiracy to murder the queen—"

"But not me!" Dion said angrily, slamming his hand on the
desk, causing his tea to slosh over the rim of the cup into the
saucer. "She has no right to refuse to communicate with me!"

"Rightly or wrongly, Dion," said Dixter, "DiLuna
blames you for what has happened—"

"What
has
happened?" the king demanded, frustrated.
"Do we even know? How is Astarte? Is she safe, well? Does DiLuna
have any idea who made the attack? If there even
was
an
attack—"

"There was," Dixter said grimly. "That's been
confirmed by all our sources."

"Then why does DiLuna blame me?"

Dixter's expression was grave. "The baroness has just issued a
communique. It came as I was leaving. I brought it along." He
handed a printed transcript to the king.

Dion read it. His face registered shock, disbelief. He reread it more
slowly, then looked up at Dixter.

"Xris? The Xris we know? The cyborg who helped the Lady Maigrey,
who risked his life to save Tusk? No, I can't believe it!"

"Nor can I. But he's been arrested, charged with the crime,
tried, and convicted. DiLuna doesn't waste time. I'm surprised he
hasn't been executed by now."

Dion studied the communique in perplexity. " 'The queen is in
retreat, praying for the souls of the dead.' " He looked up,
glowering. "We must find out the truth. What the hell are those
undercover people of yours doing?"

"They're our best, Dion," Dixter said gently. "But
there are problems. The incident took place inside the Holy Temple.
It was immediately sealed off. Our people aren't priests or
priestesses. They have no way to get inside, would probably be killed
if they tried. This is a serious offense. Blood was spilled on sacred
ground. The people of Ceres are angry and afraid. Afraid of the
Goddess's wrath."

"To say nothing of DiLuna's," Dion muttered.

"That, too." Dixter smiled wanly.

"If only I knew Astarte was safe! If only I could talk to her!"
Dion started to rub his right palm again, forced himself to stop. He
clasped his hands tightly together on top of the desk. "I should
have been there. I should have been with her. It was my place."

"There was nothing you could have done—" Dixter began
lamely.

"But you agree, I should have been there," Dion said
quietly. "At least I'd know the truth about what happened,
instead of being kept in the dark. The baroness wouldn't be able to
make me look like a fool. Though that's precisely what I've been."

Standing up, he walked over to the window, stared out of it. Tourists
swarmed over the sidewalk below. A small cluster of them had their
heads craned, looking upward, gawking at the top floors. Their guide
was undoubtedly informing them that His Majesty was at work behind
those steelglass windows this very moment.

"I thought I had it all under control. Everything was going
along fine, I thought—because that's what I wanted to think.
Talk about passion blinding you. It blinded me to duty,
responsibility, honor. I've hurt Astarte. And I never meant to. She
didn't deserve it. If she was cold and distant, whose fault was that?
I shut her out of my life deliberately, then blamed her for slamming
the door when she left."

And Kamil, he added to himself, brooding. I love her. I'd lay down my
life for her. Yet I hurt her, too. I hurt her as surely as if I'd run
the bloodsword through her. All for my own selfish desires. I should
have been strong enough, loved her enough to let her go.

"Now everything is falling apart," he continued aloud. "I'm
as bad as my uncle. How can I expect to bring order and sta-bility to
the kingdom if I can't bring it to my own life?" he finished
bitterly.

"Don't be too hard on yourself, son," Dixter admonished.
"You're young. You're human—"

"No," Dion countered, glancing around. "I am Blood
Royal. I am a king. Kings don't have the luxury of being young,
human, in love. Nor can they afford the luxury of self-pity." He
stared gloomily out the window.

"No, they can't," Dixter said bluntly. "Let's face it,
Your Majesty, DiLuna could be making things a lot worse for you.
Where's the war she threatened? She said she was going to declare her
systems independent, yank her representatives out of parliament. Has
she done any of that? No. And I almost wish she had."

"Why?" Dion turned to him.

"I think it's a bad sign. DiLuna's not acting out of anger.
She's reacting—out of fear. And as long as I've known her, I've
never known her to be afraid of anything."

"All the more reason to find out the truth!" Dion clenched
his fist. "If we sent in warships—"

Dixter shook his head. "There'd be a fight; at the very least a
confrontation. Any attempt to force her hand will only make matters
worse. We have to be patient. And you have to set the example, Your
Majesty. Six major systems had dignitaries on Ceres for the festival.
Clergy, ambassadors, government officials—all being detained on
the planet 'for their own protection,' according to DiLuna. That
includes the archbishop, by the way. The systems are edgy about this.
If they see that you're starting to panic—"

"—we could end up with a galactic conflict." Dion
sighed, frustrated. "I'll be patient. I'll continue to work
through diplomatic channels. It's all I can do, I suppose." He
stared unseeing out the window, thinking, trying to find some other
way. Dixter was silent, letting the king consider the matter. "Xris!
Of all people!" Dion repeated. "What was he doing there?
Did he tell you?"

Dixter shook his head. "No, Your Majesty. Except that he had
advance knowledge of the attack. He contacted me that very day, said
someone had sent an anonymous warning, in code, to his men at Snaga
Ohme's. Warned that an attack might be made on the queen. Strange
thing about that warning, though. The code used was Derek Sagan's old
code."

"Sagan:" Dion turned to face Dixter. "But how—
Why—"

"I have no idea, son." Dixter looked exhausted. He hadn't
slept in three nights. "Except that I do recall telling Sagan
that Xris and his team were working for us—independently. I
told him if he needed help—unofficial help—he could
contact them."

Dion was chilled. "That means that my cousin may be behind
this." He considered, then shook his head in frustration. "No,
it doesn't make sense. None of it makes sense. Why would my cousin
want to murder Astarte? What could he hope to gain by such a heinous
action? The people love her. . . ."

"There's something else, too, Your Majesty," Dixter said.
"The attacks on the outposts. They may be connected."

Dion left the window, came back to his desk, sat down. "Connected?
How? Your coffee's cold, sir. Let me warm it for you."

He reached for the coffeepot with his right hand. Seeing the hand for
the first time in the light, Dixter stared.

"My God, son! What happened?"

Dion glanced at his palm. The five puncture wounds were swollen; ugly
red streaks extended from them like the rays of a small, fiery sun.
"I have 110 idea. But it's been getting worse. The pain and the
burning is almost unbearable."

"The bloodsword—"

"I haven't used the bloodsword, not since Sagan advised me
against it. The dreams have been getting worse, too. I see my cousin.
See him so clearly. . . ."

Dion's hand was shaking. He set the coffeepot back down with a sharp
clatter, almost dropping it. "What about the outposts?"

"Three have been attacked. All in one area, as I told you."

"Around Vallombrosa."

"Yes, Your Majesty."

Dion looked back at his hand. "And you said there was something
strange about these attacks—"

"Yes, Your Majesty. Reports are beginning to come in. We've
interviewed the survivors. They said it was like . . . like . . ."
Dixter hesitated.

"Like what?"

"Like being attacked by ghosts."

"Ghosts again!" Dion swore softly in frustration.

"Yes, ghosts again. There was no warning. No one saw any-thing
coming. Suddenly metal buildings were crushed like beer cans.
Spaceplanes crumpled into twisted rubble. The ground split wide open.
And then . . . nothing."

"No strike force, no assault, no landing."

"Nothing," Dixter reiterated. "But there could have
been. The outpost is finished, useless. All land-based weapons
systems were either destroyed outright or their electrical systems so
badly scrambled that they're unable to function. All shields were
knocked out." He shook his head. "A group of kindergartners
could have marched into that base and taken it over."

"And no enemy was ever sighted?"

"No, Your Majesty. There were several interesting and
instructive points in the attack: wild gravity fluctuations, people
reporting feeling 'heavy' or 'compressed,' slight changes in
radiation levels . . ."