King's Test (31 page)

"I trust
the blood on your armor is not the blood of my dear friend the
Adonian?"

"No."
Maigrey started to add something else, found she couldn't, and took
another sip of brandy. "I was attacked on my way back to base.
Drug addicts, most likely. Out for anything they could get—"

Haupt went
deathly white. "M-my lady! I didn't know! I offered her an
escort, my lord!"

"You are in
no way to blame, Brigadier," Maigrey said, smiling wanly. "I
knew the risks when I went. No harm was done. I returned safely."

"With that
which you were sent to acquire?" Sagan asked.

"If you
want to put it that way, my lord."

The Warlord's
gaze went to her breast, to the empty place upon it. Maigrey put her
hand to her throat, an almost physical pain choking her. She shifted
her gaze from him, fixed it, unseeing, on the bloodstone paperweight.

Sagan drew in a
deep breath through his nose, turned suddenly, his cape rustling,
booted feet scraping the floor. "Despite my lady's
protestations, Brigadier, I do not believe she is well."

"I can send
for the medic—"

"Thank you,
sir, but that will not be necessary. My lady needs rest, somewhere
quiet. I will take her back to my shuttle. Lady Maigrey?" Sagan
extended his arm.

There's no
business like show business.

Maigrey rose,
placed her fingers lightly on the Warlord's arm. Haupt was on his
feet again, looking as if he barely had strength enough to get there.
Courtly bows, formal good nights, and Maigrey and Sagan were at the
door.

The Warlord
glanced behind him. "Brigadier, you have served the Lady Maigrey
well. I hate to lose a good officer. I may be able to do something
for you about that retirement. ..."

Maigrey looked
back at the man. Haupt's bald head gleamed, sweat trickled down his
neck into the tight, braid-trimmed collar. He was being asked to
choose sides and he knew it. He found his backbone, straightened.

"Yes, my
lord. Thank you, my lord."

My lord.
Not
Citizen General. Sagan smiled, glanced significantly at the
bloodstone that sat upon the desk. "I'd get rid of that, then,
if I were you, sir," he said, and escorted Maigrey out the door.

Have you not
sometimes seen a handkerchief? . . .

William
Shakespeare,
Othello,
Act III, Scene 3

The route
leading to the Warlord's shuttlecraft wound down hallways and through
a tunnel underground, beneath the fort's landing and launching pads,
runways, and 'copter ports. Maigrey and Sagan walked the carpeted
corridors alone, the Honor Guard having cleared the area of all
indigenous military personnel and others not so indigenous—such
as the press, who had descended upon Fort Laskar like the locusts
which so plagued Snaga Ohme.

Every twenty or
so paces, the two passed one of the centurions, standing at rigid,
mute attention. The captain and four of his men followed at a
discreet distance. The hallways were empty, quiet. Lord and lady
walked in a silence that seemed to amplify small sounds—a clink
of armor, a muffled boot step, the rustle of the Warlord's cape, a
sigh.

Maigrey removed
her hand from Sagan's arm. "I suppose we may ring down the
curtain on your little show now, my lord?"

"'All the
world's a stage,' lady; however, I gather you are referring to
something more specific."

"Your
charade was, I admit, quite clever and well staged. The bloodstone
was a marvelous prop. Haupt played his role admirably. The two of you
should take it on the road!" Maigrey bit the words, her anger
threatening to overwhelm her. He had fooled her completely. For
several moments back there, she had been badly frightened. She
quickened her steps, moving to walk slightly ahead of him.

Sagan said
nothing, continued down the corridor at his measured, steady pace.
His thoughts were closed off to Maigrey, sealed up, shut down. Her
own mind was in such chaos, her own thoughts scattered, confused,
running hither and yon, uncontrollable, like frightened mice: the
strange, dead eyes of her attackers, the bloodstone, Sagan's fear.
Maigrey knew, deep inside, that if she grabbed hold of all these and
lined them up and considered them calmly, she would know the truth.
But it would mean drawing aside the dark curtain.

"Where is
the boy, Lady Maigrey?" Sagan asked.

"I haven't
any idea. Why? Have you lost him again?" Maigrey walked on, not
looking back, her head held stiffly.

"I thought
perhaps you might know. You are, after all, his Guardian."

The shot told.
Maigrey's hand went to the empty place on her breast, clasped the
starjewel that wasn't there. The pain seared, burned. Tears stung her
eyes, blinding her. Turning on her heel, she retraced her steps,
headed back to her plane. Sagan made no move to stop her. He didn't
have to. The Honor Guard closed ranks, ranged around her, blocking
her path. Maigrey came to a halt, hair falling over her face, cursing
him, cursing herself. His hand closed on her upper arm.

"Come, my
lady," he said softly. "You are not well."

The Warlord's
shuttlecraft was parked on the outskirts of the base, far from any
buildings, surrounded by a vast expanse of concrete. The area was
restricted. The fort's military police had it cordoned off, the Honor
Guard stood watch, a ring of steel banded around the craft. Inside,
the ship was dark; the only lights permitted were those necessary to
the systems that were operational on the ground. The shuttle's crew
moved about their duties efficiently and in silence.

Sagan and
Maigrey proceeded through the craft to the Warlord's private
chambers. Courteously, he stood aside, admitted her to his quarters
with a bow which Maigrey acknowledged with an inclination of her
head. Gliding past him, she stepped inside a room lit by only a
pinpoint of bright white streaming down from a spotlight in the
overhead.

"I am not
to be disturbed, Captain," the Warlord said, the white light
shining full on him, causing his shadow to expand up over the
bulkheads, fill the room, close around her. "Except for the
half-breed."

"Yes, my
lord."

The door slid
shut. Sagan sealed it.

Maigrey moved
away from him, to the center of the small room that did its duty
efficiently and without nonsense, serving in the capacity of office,
communications room, and sitting room. Through another door, she
could see a bedroom furnished without regard to comfort: cold,
Spartan. Or perhaps not Spartan. More like a monk's cell.

The door to the
bedroom slid shut. There was no escape, no way out. The two of them
were isolated, alone, cut off from the rest of the world, the rest of
the universe.

Nothing new. It
seemed to her they had been like that from the very beginning, when
the mind-link had first been forged, when he was thirteen and she was
six and they were trying to rescue Stavros from that ridiculous
statue. . . .

"And now,
my lady," Sagan said gently, coming to stand very near her, "let
us talk about the bomb."

"I won't
give it to you. You must know that." Maigrey slumped down
wearily in a chair beneath the bright light, her hand shielding her
eyes from the glare. "Why didn't you try to stop me from taking
it?"

"Try to
stop you?" Sagan removed his helm, ran his hand through the
thick black hair that was thinning at the top of the forehead, tinged
with gray at the temples. Damp with sweat, it glistened purple in the
light. He laid the helm to one side on a stand, unfastened his cloak,
and draped it across the helm. Seating himself in a chair opposite
Maigrey, he stretched out his long body, settled himself comfortably.
"I couldn't have hired anyone to serve me better!"

The light shone
between them, not on either directly. Their faces were masks—black
shadows for mouth and nose and eyes, white cheekbones, white lips, a
white scar.

"Abdiel—"
Sagan began.

Maigrey stirred
restlessly. "Must we continue this nonsense?"

The Warlord
continued, unperturbed. "Abdiel would not have permitted me to
acquire the bomb, my lady. He couldn't. He would have done everything
in his power to destroy me."

"If we
admit his existence, which I don't—why?"

"Because he
knew I would use it."

"And
therefore Abdiel let me acquire it—?"

"—because
he assumes you won't."

Maigrey was
silent. Her hand went to play with the chain around her neck, the
chain that wasn't there. She glanced at him, fearful that he'd seen,
moved her fingers to touch the wound. She drew them hack, saw them
dark with blood. It had broken open again. She looked across at the
Warlord. "I think perhaps he underestimates me."

"I think
perhaps he does, too." Sagan rose to his feet, came toward her.
"Let me look at that cut."

Maigrey shifted
in her chair, turned away from him, from the light, her pale hair
falling forward over her shoulders. "It's nothing, I tell you—"

"Let me see
it. Tilt your head back. Move into the light."

Maigrey sighed,
bit her lip, and obeyed, sitting forward on the chair, holding her
head back and at a slight angle. The Warlord bent over her, brushed
the pale hair aside, his fingers deftly and dispassionately probing
the wound on her neck. She flinched, gritted her teeth.

"Did that
hurt?" he asked coolly.

"No."
She lied, though it wasn't the wound that pained her.

Sagan smiled,
the shadows around his mouth deepening. "The cut is superficial.
I doubt if it will even leave a scar." He lingered on the word,
his gaze flicking swiftly to her right cheek.

Maigrey sensed
battle, tensed.

"It needs
cleaning, however, antiseptic to prevent infection." The Warlord
straightened, crossed the room, disappearing into the shadows. A
panel slid aside, revealing a compartment. He removed and opened a
metal box marked by a red cross.

"What's
this? No dressings! Dr. Giesk has been neglectful in his duty, it
seems. We shall have to make do"—Sagan reached into the
broad belt of his Romanesque armor, drew forth a scrap of cloth that
caught the light, seemed to burn in Maigrey's sight with a white
flame—"with this handkerchief."

Light reflected
off a plastiglass bottle; the Warlord dashed a pungent-smelling
liquid onto the cloth. He turned, moved back toward her, the cloth
held in his outstretched hand. Kneeling down, his body cut off the
light, threw a shadow over her. He started to lift the cloth to the
wound.

Maigrey's hand
closed over his wrist, fingers digging into his flesh.

"Where did
you get that?" She spoke without a voice.

"What? This
handkerchief?" He opened his hand, revealed it to her. His smile
deepened, darkening his eyes. "I took it from a prisoner, aboard
Defiant."

Maigrey clasped
hold of his arm more tightly. not in an attempt to hurt him—that
would have been impossible—but because she suddenly needed the
support. He gently disengaged her clutching hand.

"Sit back,
lady. This is going to hurt."

Furious, she
snatched the handkerchief away from him, tried to rise. He blocked
her with his body. Clamping his hands over her wrists, pinning them
to the armrests of the chair, he held her fast.

"John
Dixter is alive ... for the moment."

Maigrey froze at
his touch, made no further move except to close her fingers more
tightly over the handkerchief. She stared at him in silence, dark and
impenetrable.

"I knew
you'd be pleased to hear word of him," the Warlord continued
implacably. His mental hold on her was strong; he eased the physical,
his hands resting lightly on her forearms. "I was able to give
him news of you . . . when the drug wore off long enough to permit
him to distinguish reality from hallucination."

She couldn't
breathe. His presence enveloped her, sucked the air from around her.

"I respect
John Dixter, my lady. He is a strong-willed man, a man of honor and
of principle, and he has the misfortune to love you dearly. ..."

Maigrey
struggled to draw breath; her lungs burned. A single tear slid down
the scarred cheek, stopped halfway as if turned to ice, glistened in
the harsh light.

"I think
you might be interested, my lady, to know how John Dixter is spending
his time aboard
Defiant.
At the moment, perhaps, he is lying
on a steel table, stripped naked. Dr. Giesk is attaching the
electrodes to various sensitive places on his body—the head,
the chest, the groin, the fingertips, the soles of the feet ..."

Maigrey's eyes
lost their focus, stared not at him but through him, beyond him into
a darkness only she could see. "So this is how it is to be,"
she murmured, fingers twisting the handkerchief.

"Yes, my
lady," he answered softly. "Unless you return my property."

Maigrey thought
a moment, then slowly shook her head. "No. my lord. I will not
give it to you. Not until he is set free. "

"And I will
not free him unless I have the bomb." Sagan rose to his feet,
moved away from her, seeming to leave a vacuum where he’d been.
The air surged in to fill it. Maigrey inhaled deeply. The rush of
oxygen made her dizzy.

Sagan took a
turn about the small room, paused, and glanced back at her over his
shoulder. "I don't suppose I could simply kill you and take the
bomb."

Maigrey smiled
faintly, shook her head. "No, my lord."

"Of course.
Visual identification, voice pattern—that sort of precaution."

"Among
others, my lord." Maigrey started to rise from the chair. Sagan
politely extended his hand. She accepted his assistance, her chill
fingers closing over his. He saw the livid marks his hands had made
earlier on her wrists, darkening to bruises.