Ghost Legion (39 page)

Sagan glanced back into the shadows, to the old man's gleaming eyes.

"I made certain, my lord," Pantha said, "that I found
out the name of every person on the staff. I kept files, complete
dossiers on each. I knew, you see, that someday my prince might need
these people to come forward as witnesses."

Sagan stirred, but said nothing.

"But, as I told you, I was not expecting the Revolution. It
upset our plans considerably—"

"
Our plans?
" Sagan interrupted.

"Mine ... Amodius's. Oh"—Pantha waved a hand, barely
visible in the shadows—"Amodius didn't instruct me in so
many words, but I knew him. He was ambitious, more than most would
credit him. Why would he give
me
the child, if he was not
certain that I would raise him to be a king, and that someday I would
bring the boy back to claim his rightful inheritance?"

"Not rightful," Sagan corrected mildly.

"And why not?" Pantha demanded, with a flare of anger.
"Taboos of the dark ages!"

"Taboos with a reason."

"Bah!" Pantha waved that away. "Such societal laws
made sense to our benighted ancestors, but that was before genetic
engineering. Are we saddled with any of the rest of their archaic
ideas? They used to believe that man could not travel faster than the
speed of light. They used to believe that they were the only
creatures with intelligence living in the galaxy. We no longer
subscribe to those outdated notions. Why should we be forced to
follow their outmoded codes of morality?"

"Pantha, my friend," interposed Flaim, suddenly cool and
imperious, with a hint of steel, "please desist. Now is not the
time."

The older man said nothing further, subsided back into the shadows.
Flaim turned to the Warlord.

"You must forgive my dear friend's ardor. He is right, of
course, and, as I said, I am not ashamed of my parentage. But I
understand that the taboo against incest is a gut-level feeling for
many humans, not something that can be argued away rationally. It
comes with the same cave-man instincts that pump adrenaline into our
blood, enabling us to run away from the lion.

"Pantha would have me reveal my birth openly, but I can see
where it would cause problems. I have therefore concocted documents
which prove my father's secret marriage to a woman of whom he was
enamored in his youth. What was her name, my friend?" Flaim
turned to Pantha. "I can never recall it."

"Magdelena of Artemis 6," answered the old man. "You
know the story, naturally, my lord."

"Yes," said Sagan. "I know Amodius loved this woman,
openly courted her. I also know that she died of the plague which
swept over that planet."

"Of course she did," said Flaim. "But who's to
remember that now? We play with the truth, keep the elements of the
truth alive. She goes insane. Her family locks her away, gives out to
the media that she's died of the plague. But Amodius, faithful to the
love of his life, visits her monthly, fathers a child. ..."

"Why didn't he introduce the baby into court as the legitimate
heir, then?"

Flaim shrugged. "Who knows? Many reasons. Perhaps Amodius wanted
to make certain I was strong and healthy. Perhaps he hoped my mother
might recover her sanity and could herself be introduced as queen.
Does it matter? Because then comes the Revolution. Amodius and my
uncle are murdered. Pantha, fearing for my life, keeps me hidden
away. Much as the Lady Maigrey and her friends kept my cousin Dion
hidden. You see, my lord, the seeds of the romantic tale are already
planted in the people's minds. They will accept my story without
hesitation."

"Ingenious," Sagan admitted. "And quite convenient of
the doctor to die and make a deathbed confession at this point in
time. How did you manage to find her?"

"Pantha discovered her." Flaim glanced at his mentor.

"The Revolution was a devastating blow to me," Pantha
conceded. "When I heard the reports—"

"You had a base established for yourself here on Vallombrosa
prior to your 'death,' I take it?" Sagan interrupted.

"Of course. The planet's 'inhabitants' performed the work for
me, built a place for me to live. But you will hear more of them
later. As I was saying, I was here on Vallombrosa when I heard the
reports. I feared the worst—that the hospital, all the records,
all witnesses had been destroyed. I hastened to the planet, traveling
in disguise, of course, for I was supposed to be dead.

"Investigation led me to believe that this doctor had escaped
the pogrom. I traced her—a long and tedious task. Eventually I
learned the name of the man with whom she fled. Fortunately, since he
was not Blood Royal and therefore in no danger, he saw no need to
change his name. She simply altered hers to his.

"A study of passenger ship records enabled me to discover the
name of the planet on which they disembarked. I found them and kept
them in sight, hoping that the day would come when the doctor would
be of use. And it did."

Sagan shook his head. "The doctor could testify that Amodius had
fathered a son. But she also knew that Flaim was not only
illegitimate—which would in itself prevent him from ascending
to the throne—but that Flaim was the product of an incestuous
union. I don't see how this helps you."

"I must admit that at first I wasn't certain myself. I had
various ideas. Perhaps we could 'persuade' the doctor to go along
with our story. A risky procedure, but . . . who knows?" Pantha
shrugged. "Everyone has a price. Fortunately, we did not have to
resort to that. Three circumstances made our next move ob-vions: the
fall of the corrupt government of Peter Robes; Flaim's young cousin
coming to power; and you, my lord, disassociating yourself from him."

"I felt your disappointment, my lord," said Flaim
earnestly. "I understood. Dion was not what you hoped he would
be. But then, he didn't even know his own name until four years ago.
I have always known who I am. I was raised to be a king."

He looked to Pantha and smiled. The younger man reached out and
clasped the old man's hand. Pantha nodded; the firelight in the dark
eyes shimmered a moment. Then, clearing his throat, Pantha continued
speaking, in a low and husky voice.

"You see, my lord, at that point, it was no longer a question of
having to prove my prince's claim to the universe. We had only to
prove it to you."

Sagan was silent, thoughtful. He shifted his weight, trying to get
comfortable. There is an art to reclining on rugs and cushions, just
as there is an art to kneeling all night in prayer on a cold stone
floor.

"You find the doctor. The doctor has contracted a deadly
disease." Sagan pursued the subject with interest. "What
did you do then?"

"I discovered that she was a convert to the religion of the
Order of Adamant. From there on, my course of action was plain. It
was
fortunate for us that she became infected with this
particular disease. The progression of the illness is slow. It does
not debilitate the mind, but leaves it—in its weakened
condition—open to outside influences. It was a simple matter to
induce the 'dreams,' drive her to make her confession."

"
Fortunate?
" Sagan asked.

Pantha smiled, shrugged. "Many of her patients were infected.
The odds were against her, and she knew it. She was not surprised to
find she had accidentally contracted it. Nor did she ever suspect
otherwise"

Sagan nodded. "The doctor's death was necessary," he
conceded. "But now two other people beside myself know the
truth. The reverend mother, who heard the confession, and the
archbishop."

"The reverend mother has suffered a most unfortunate accident,"
Pantha said gently.

Sagan frowned, said pointedly, "The archbishop is a friend of
mine. I trust he will not have an 'accident.' "

"Oh, no! Most assuredly," Flaim answered, looking
surprised.

"We would never— That is, we know you will be able to deal
with the situation."

Yes, I can deal with it, Sagan thought. I dealt with it in the past.

"Why did you bring me here?" he asked slowly. Holding up
his hand, he halted the immediate response. "First, know this.
If you're expecting me to use my influence to convince Dion to
abdicate the throne, forget it. He will never do so. He is strong,
stronger than you think, perhaps. His loyalty to his people is great.
He will not be easily coerced or intimated. And so long as he has the
space-rotation bomb in his possession, you are powerless to touch
him."

"I understand, my lord," said Flaim. "Do not imagine
that I underestimate my young-cousin. The same blood burns in our
veins. But Dion's very strength is also his weakness. He has the
space-rotation bomb, that is true. But he will not use it. Am I right
in this, my lord?"

Sagan made no response.

Flaim, smiling to indicate that the secret was safely held between
the two of them, went on.

"What do I want from you, my lord? Your support, of course. Your
expertise, your knowledge. Your leadership. I will make you Lord
Commander of my forces. My armies are immense, powerful. My people
are fiercely loyal and committed to one thing—making me king.
And then there is
our
secret weapon. You had a brief—but
I would guess impressive—demonstration of it upon your
arrival."

"You plan to go to war, then."

"No, my lord. I do not want to." Flaim shook his head
emphatically. "Cousin Dion once made an extremely interesting
point. It is not wise to declare war upon one's own people, he said.
You start out with half your subjects hating you. I would avoid that,
as he did."

Sagan was beginning to understand.

"My cousin must publicly abdicate," Flaim continued. "He
must publicly acknowledge my right to rule. That will make it all so
much simpler; don't you agree?"

"Yes, but as I said before, Dion will never do so."

"As circumstances stand now, no, he wouldn't. But circumstances
have been known to change."

And he will tell me no more, Sagan said to himself. Not until I
commit to him, and perhaps not even then. He will tell me only what I
need to know. As I would do....

"You understand, of course, that I can make no decision until I
give you the rite," Sagan said. "If you are not worthy—"

"I will be, my lord," Flaim said, rising to his feet. "
You
will see. I will prove myself."

"Very well, then." Sagan stood, somewhat slowly and
stiffly. "Tomorrow, at the suns' zenith. We must use this tent,
I presume?"

"Yes, my lord. Whatever you need. You have only to instruct
Pantha and me—"

"You will come alone." Sagan glanced at Pantha, who bowed
in silent acknowledgment.

"Certainly, my lord. And now, allow me to show you to your
quarters." With grace and dignity, Flaim led the way outside the
pavilion, pointed out several smaller tents placed around it.

"Thank you," said Sagan, grimacing and putting his hand to
the small of his back, "but I would prefer sleeping in my own
bed. And I must spend time alone, in private meditation."

"As you wish, my lord." Flaim smiled ingratiatingly. "I
will escort you back. Who knows what strange beings may lurk about
here at night?"

"Ghosts, perhaps," the Warlord suggested.

"Perhaps," responded Flaim with a quick, intense look.

Sagan's face remained impassive.

Flaim turned to Pantha. "I will see to it that our guest is made
comfortable and has all he requires. Good night, my friend."

Taking the hint, Pantha bowed, wished Sagan a healthful sleep, and
took his leave, heading for the tent closest to the fire. The blaze
was beginning to die down, the massive logs starting to crumble in
upon themselves. Gray ashes drifted upward, floated on the night
wind. It must have been one of these that brushed softly against the
Warlord's hand as he walked past the dying blaze.

He and Flaim continued down the hill. When they had reached the
spaceplane safely, the prince expressed his wishes for a pleasant
evening's repose.

The Warlord returned the compliment. He was about to enter the
volksrocket when Flaim stopped him.

"Do not be surprised to find that you are unable to send any
more transmissions, my lord. From this point on, I have taken the
liberty of having them blocked. I want my cousin to know my strength.
I want him to worry. But now he's learned enough from
you
. Let
him wonder. A sensible precaution, I think."

"Yes," Sagan agreed. "One that I would have taken
myself."

Flaim expression turned thoughtful. "Did you ever reach the
point where you could afford to trust people, my lord?"

Yes, Sagan answered silently, but by that time, it was too late.

"No, Your Highness," he said aloud. "That is the price
one pays."

Flaim nodded, the matter—for him—resolved. Smiling his
good night, he walked up the hill. Sagan watched him go, his strides
long and confident, his head thrown back, his hand resting upon the
hilt of the bloodsword at his waist.

Sagan waited until the bastard prince had vanished into the' shadows.
Then the Warlord entered the volksrocket, shut and sealed the hatch.
All was quiet within. So very, very quiet.

But he sensed a difference about the silence now. It quivered, like a
plucked string on the piano, whose note has faded away past hearing,
yet which continues to resonate, sings softly for those who listen.

"Well, my lady," he said aloud, "what do you think of
our 'cousin'?"

He received no reply, unless it was the sudden stillness, as if a
gloved hand had muffled the singing string.

Of all the plagues a lover bears,

Sure rivals are the worst.

I can endure my own despair,

But not another's hope.

William Walsh, "Song, Of All the Torments"