King's Test (23 page)

"You should
have fried him," Bosk said, wheeling another chair, identical to
the one destroyed, into the lavishly decorated office.

Snaga Ohme
yawned. "Abdiel would have only sent another in his place or
perhaps come himself." The Adonian sniffed at a flower in the
lapel of his morning jacket. "
That
I simply couldn't
abide! The man is sinfully ugly! All those horrid nodes and knobs and
welts, patches of skin falling off. Ugh!" He shuddered.

Bosk placed the
chair in its proper position, marked by a small metal plate embedded
in the luxurious carpet. Glancing up, he made certain it was in line
with the laser hidden in the painting that hung over Ohme's desk—a
portrait of the Adonian, done in classical tradition, dressed in
velvet doublet with a feather-adorned, gold-braided cocked hat, hose
and garters around his shapely legs. The lethal beam, when activated,
shot out of the portrait's left eye and was one of many such devices
located not only in the Adonian's office but throughout the house and
the gardens surrounding it. Snaga Ohme could, at the touch of a
button, wipe out an invading army.

The Adonian
stood up, smoothed his coattails, glanced admiringly at the smooth
line of his vest across his tight-muscled stomach, and carefully
adjusted the cuffs at his wrists.

"Abdiel
does have a point," he conceded. " T'isn't like Sagan to
send
anyone
to do his business, much less a female. The man
has liquid oxygen in his veins instead of blood. What do we know
about this agent of his?"

"She calls
herself Penthesilea and purports to hold the rank of major. She's
not, however, listed in any of our files of Sagan’s officers,
spies, or hired assassins. Our sources on the base report she arrived
in a spaceplane that had obviously been through recent combat. Haupt
was dubious about her himself, but the Warlord gave orders—his
own personal code—to render the woman all possible assistance."

"Odd. Very
odd. Is she beautiful?"

"That was,
of course, my first thought, although it would be extremely unlike
Sagan to try to either bribe you or seduce you. His mind doesn't work
that way. My source tells me that the woman is in her forties, human
years, and while she has an adequate figure and quite lovely hair,
her face is marred by a hideous scar."

"Gad!"
Snaga Ohme grimaced. "I trust she has the civility to cover it
up while she's here. But you reassure me, Bosk. She sounds just
Sagan's type. Well, well. It will be interesting to see what she has
to offer. When is she due?"

"An hour or
so. Speaking of offers, will you really sell the bomb to her?"

"My dear
Bosk"—Snaga Ohme poured himself a glass of champagne from
a bottle chilling in a silver ice bucket; raising it, he admired the
bubbles floating to the surface, then sipped at it delicately-"if
I handle this right, I can sell it to everyone!"

The Lady
Maigrey, beyond all doubt, is Sagan's representative .

"Indeed,"
Abdiel murmured. "And Snaga Ohme has no idea?"

None, my
master.
The mind-dead did not speak aloud; he had no need to.
Abdiel heard every word quite clearly. He could also speak to his
disciples mentally, and from great distances, and frequently did,
when they were out performing some task for him. But, when they were
alone, he did not. He always spoke aloud for no particular reason
except that he occasionally enjoyed hearing the sound of a voice.

The mind-dead.
The servants of the mind-seizers are known by that appellation among
those (and there are few) who still remember the Order of Dark
Lightning. The name is actually a misnomer. Those humans who served
Abdiel were not mind-dead. They merely looked it.
Mind-controlled
would be more precisely the correct term.

The viral
infection injected by the mind-seizer into a body of one of the Blood
Royal allows the seizer empathetic closeness with the person and, if
the seizer is quite strong-willed and his victim weak, the "bonding"
grants the mind-seizer a certain amount of ascendancy. The benefits
of empathetic connection between themselves had been enough for most
members of the Order of Dark Lightning. But sharing thoughts and
ideas with each other had not been enough for certain others,
including their intelligent and cunning leader, who called himself
Abdiel. He wanted power, wanted lesser beings to do his bidding, to
obey his every command without question.

Abdiel wanted
droids—living droids. Real androids had too many limitations,
the most serious being the lack of imagination, the inability to
adapt to new situations. The Blood Royal were not suited to his
purpose; even the weakest maintained a certain amount of resistance
to him. But ordinary mortals were eminently satisfactory.
Unfortunately, injecting ordinary mortals with the virus had a rather
serious side effect: death.

The mind-seizer
worked diligently to overcome this drawback, altering the structure
of the virus, watering it down, so to speak, so that it would operate
effectively on ordinary nervous systems without mutating into the
virulent cancer that killed within days. He achieved success, though
how many paid the cost of his experimentation was unknown.

To his credit,
Abdiel never took unwilling victims. He had no need. For some, to be
alive is to be in hell. For some, life is fear, insecurity, sorrow,
longing, frustration. And for these, Abdiel could make life a heaven.

Once connected
with Abdiel, a person would never know fear, for fear is an instinct
of self-preservation and the mind-dead have no such instinct. Abdiel
controlled all aspects of his people's lives, waking and sleeping. He
even ruled their dreams.

He could provide
exquisite pleasure. He could also, of course, provide excruciating
pain, but Abdiel refrained from mentioning that in his sales pitch to
the unhappy beings who came to him. His disciples never knew fear,
never knew hunger, never knew pain (unless they somehow managed to
displease him), or frustration. He gave them everything, including
the belief that they were free.

"When does
the Lady Maigrey meet with the Adonian?"

Noon, my
master.

"And what
of Lord Sagan?"

His shuttle
is
reported to have left
Defiant,
destination and
whereabouts unknown.

"But they
are obvious. Where else would he come? But why— Mmmm. Is it
possible? Could he and I have the same plan? Of course. It makes
perfect sense. You say there is no possible way to break into the
dwelling of the Adonian?"

I have given
the matter careful consideration, my master. It is my judgment, based
on my observations and thorough study, that it was easier storming
the Glitter Palace the night of the revolution than it would be
attacking the fortress of Snaga Ohme. An army could not do it and
succeed.

"Lord Sagan
could not do it, for example?"

If he could,
my master, would he not have done so before now?

"Excellent
point, Mikael. Yes, he and I have both devised the same strategy.
Both our hands reaching for the same pawn." Abdiel rubbed his
hands, dislodged a chunk of scabbed-over flesh. Absently, he
scratched at it, brushed it to the floor. "Mine will be the
quicker. And the boy?"

He is on his
way.

"Alone?"

With
friends—a human male and a human female.

"Excellent!
Excellent! This, then, is what you will order done."

Abdiel took hold
of the hand of the mind-dead known as Mikael—all those who held
this position of command were known as Mikael. There had been twelve
Mikaels through the years. The others were now dead. (The cancer no
longer killed within three days, but it killed, nonetheless.)

The mind-seizer
placed his palm over the palm of his disciple, jabbing the needles
into the man's flesh. Mikael did not flinch; he felt no pain that his
master did not want him to feel.

Abdiel gave the
mind-dead his orders.

The bonding was
not really necessary. Abdiel could have given his commands by word of
mouth or passed them from his brain to the brain of his disciple. But
the mind-seizer had discovered his minions performed their tasks more
efficiently if he renewed physical contact with them from time to
time.

To say nothing
of the fact that the bonding was the one and only physical pleasure
he enjoyed.

Queen to King's
Knight 4.

Chess move

Leaving Haupt's
office after hearing Sagan’s startling message, Maigrey spent
an unsatisfactory hour trying to figure out the Warlord's game. She
was hampered in her efforts by the fact of his nearness—not his
physical presence, but his mental. If she devoted too much thought to
him, she had the unnerving impression that she would hear his voice
providing her with the answers. At length, she abandoned the attempt
as being too unnerving.

A mind-clearing
rummage through XJ's musical files produced numerous selections of
whatever screeching harmonics the younger generation was currently
using to rebel against their elders. She did discover several files
long buried in the computer's memory.

"What's
this? Palestrina? XJ, how did you get Palestrina?"

"What is
it?" the computer demanded nervously. "A virus?"

"No, no,
not a virus. Palestrina was a composer. He wrote music for the
ancient church. He was . . . one of Sagan's favorites."

"You're
sure it's not a virus? It sounds like a virus," XJ insisted in
gloomy tones.

"Yes, I'm
sure." Maigrey smiled. "Where did you copy it? I don't
believe Mendaharin Tusca would enjoy this type of music."

"Tusk? He
tried playing
his
type of music in here once. Came near
melting my circuits. That Pally stuff must have been copied from the
Warlord's files. I . . . um . . . once spent some time with his
computer. Not a bad sort, personally, but I could never get used to
the military mind-set. ..."

"Play the
music," Maigrey ordered softly.

XJ did as
commanded. The chorus of monks' voices echoed in the small
spaceplane.

"I like
that," XJ said after a moment. "What're they saying?"

Et tibi dabo
claves regni caelorum.

"'I will
give unto thee the keys to the kingdom of heaven,'" Maigrey
translated. She went to bed and slept soundly. Her discipline would
allow her to do nothing else.

Morning on
Laskar dawned. The sky was hazy and overcast, its green color tinged
with brown, sullen and oppressive.

"There'll
be a storm before the day's out," XJ predicted.

Maigrey thought
it highly likely.

"Brigadier
General Haupt reports the hoverjeep you requested is outside, your
ladyship," the computer continued. "The estate's entrance
is about forty kilometers from here."

"Yes, thank
you, XJ," Maigrey said, preoccupied, trying to decide what to
wear, having completely confounded Brigadier General Haupt by
requesting that various articles of female clothing be sent to her
spaceplane.

The base housed
numerous women of various races and species. The corporal assigned to
the task had been able to supply Maigrey with everything she
requested. She spread the various garments out over every flat
surface she could find on the small spaceplane, much to XJ's disgust.

"I thought
this was a hazardous mission, your ladyship," the computer
complained, indignant over a pair of spike-heeled shoes resting atop
its console.

"It is."
Maigrey held up a purple brocade evening dress by its puffy, beaded
sleeves. "What do you think of this?"

"Blondes
can't wear that shade of purple. Makes your skin tone look gray. And
you couldn't move fast in that tight skirt. Why don’t you just
wear your uniform . . . like any sensible
man
would do?"

"Oh. I
could slit the side seams of the skirt open. I've done that before.
But you're right. This dress won't do. And neither would a uniform.
Adonians have rigid standards of propriety. Dressed as a man, I
probably wouldn't even be allowed in Ohme's presence. And if I were,
I'd lose ground in the bargaining. I'd be considered a freak, a
spectacle. I wouldn't be taken seriously. And, above all, he
will
take me seriously." She laid the dress aside, picked up a long,
shapeless black bundle, and studied it. "Yes, this. This will
do."

"A
bathrobe?" The computer was highly scandalized.

"A
chador
."

Maigrey shook
out the shapeless garment, then drew the enveloping robes over her
lightweight body armor. She struggled beneath the meters of
smothering cloth in her efforts to find openings for her head and
arms and finally emerged, face flushed, hair disheveled, shaking the
gown down around her. Black cloth enveloped her slender form,
shrouding her from shoulders to toes. Very little flesh was left
exposed. A high collar wrapped around her neck. Long flowing sleeves,
ending in tight-fitting cuffs, extended over her wrists and the backs
of her hands.

"Charming,"
the computer sneered.

Maigrey studied
herself in Tusk's shaving mirror, her fingers moving to touch the
scar on her cheek.

Adonians love
that which is beautiful, abhor that which is ugly, flawed, marred. I
could conceal the scar, I know. Plastiskin would provide me with a
complexion smooth and white as milk.

She lifted the
chador's black veil and wound it slowly and deliberately around her
face, her head, her neck, and her shoulders.

It was useless
attempting to cover the scar. She had never tried it, but she knew it
wouldn't work. Though others couldn't see it, she could. And because
she could see it, the scar would be visible even to the blind. Yet it
wouldn't do to offend the sensibilities of the Adonian. Maigrey
pulled the veil over her nose and mouth, hiding everything except the
gray eyes.