Ghost Legion (46 page)

He appeared to be absorbed in his selection of the fruit. But,
watching closely from beneath lowered eyelids, he saw Flaim and
Pantha exchange glances. The old man drank his wine. Flaim, who had a
hunk of cheese in his hand, laid it back down untasted.

Lifting an apple, Sagan rubbed the red skin on the sleeve of his
cassock.

"About these vows of yours, my lord," said Flaim, leaning
back, regarding the Warlord with a darkened countenance. "Pantha
and I have been studying the Order of Adamant. We found information
on it in some of his old reference files. I find that the priests and
priestesses who belong to that Order must take a vow never to use
weapons of destruction."

"That is so," said Sagan calmly. "Unless they happen
to be a warrior priest, such as myself."

"Ah." Flaim's expression brightened. "Of course. That
explains everything. I had not known you were a warrior priest, my
lord."

"They were banned by His Majesty, I believe," Pantha
stated, eyeing Sagan curiously, somewhat suspiciously.

"My ordination was kept secret. My father, who was a High
Priest, foresaw the need of warrior priests in the dark days to
come."

But did he? Sagan wondered to himself. Did my father foresee all
this? If so, how he must have pitied his son!

"However," the Warlord continued, holding up the apple to
the reflected light of the fire, studying its skin for flaws, "I
have since renounced the status of warrior priest. My vows are now
the same as all the others in the Order."

He bit into the apple, watched the two. Again, the exchange of
glances. Sagan chewed the fruit, waited.

"But, my lord," said Flaim, shifting restlessly on the
floor, "surely your pledge to me frees you from those vows. If
it comes to war—I know we all hope it does not, but if it does—
the Church would naturally side with the anointed king. I say 'the
Church,' but, of course, I mean the archbishop. He and my cousin are
devoted friends, I believe."

"Yes, Your Highness. The archbishop would most assuredly back
Dion's claim, particularly since he knows the truth about yours."

Flaim waved that aside as unimportant. "As we have discussed,
you will deal with that. In any case, my lord, your pledge to me
frees you from these vows. You owe this Church no allegiance now.
Your allegiance is to me." "You misunderstand, Your
Highness," said Sagan quietly. "I did not take these vows
before the Church. I took them before God."

Flaim looked at Pantha, who merely raised his gray eyebrows and
nodded toward the Warlord, silently counseling his young friend that
the conversation was not finished.

The prince, frowning, turned back to Sagan.

"My lord—"

Sagan raised a hand. He tossed the half-eaten fruit down on the
wooden tray. "Perhaps we could save time if Your Highness will
tell me exactly what it is he wants of me."

Flaim stared down at the cheese, at the bread beside it, at the tray,
at his water goblet. His handsome face was brooding, thoughtful. He
glanced up once at Pantha, but it seemed that this time the old man
withheld his counsel. The decision was left to the prince.

At length Flaim lifted his blue eyes. The firelight reflected in them
seemed to spring up from the cheekbones, consume the eyes in flame.

"I need you as military adviser."

"I may advise. This does not break my vows."

"As general, field commander—"

"No, Your Highness. There are others as well qualified. You do
not need me for that."

Flaim was silent again. His hand absently sent the tray revolving
slowly around and around.

"I need you to bring my cousin here, to Vallombrosa. To me."

Sagan nodded. "I thought as much. And what do you want with him,
my prince?"

"I mean him no harm," Flaim said earnestly. "I only
want to talk to him. I want to meet him; I want him to meet me. I
want him to see for himself that—of the two of us—I am
the stronger the better qualified to rule. I want a chance to avoid
war, to persuade him to abdicate in my favor."

"As I told you before, my prince, Dion will never do that."

"I think he will." Flaim smiled. "I think he will have
no choice."

"Ah, you have a plan."

"I would be a poor prince if I did not. Forgive me if I do not
discuss it with you, my lord. As you yourself said, one cannot afford
the luxury of trust...."

Sagan inclined his head to indicate he understood perfectly. "You
could arrange a formal meeting with His Majesty—"

Flaim shook his head, laughed. "He wouldn't let me within a
hundred light-years of his sacred person. He'd be a fool if he did.
And then there would be the attendant publicity. I would be cast as
the long-lost relative, crawling from the darkness, seeking the
light. When I stand in the sun, I want to be seen standing upright. I
don't want the people to see me groveling at my cousin's feet. No.
This meeting between us must be kept secret."

"Your Highness has what must be the galaxy's most effective
secret police," Sagan said coolly. "The dark-matter
creatures. As you said, nothing can stop them."

Flaim did not, apparently, comprehend for a moment. He stared at
Sagan in some confusion. Then he smiled. "Ah, you are suggesting
that we have the creatures deliver His Majesty. ..."

"Much as they delivered me to you, Your Highness."

Flaim exchanged glances with Pantha, who gave a slight nod. "We
considered that idea, my lord. We have, in fact, conducted
experiments along those lines. We have had, from time to time,
certain undesirable elements appear in our population—
criminals, the mentally unstable, that sort. The dark-matter
creatures proved most effective in removing them. Unfortunately, the
creatures are not used to dealing with such fragile life-forms as
ourselves. Many of the prisoners were irreparably damaged."

"Plucking a solid, massive object like a spaceplane from the
heavens is one thing," Pantha offered. "Plucking a human
being from his dinner table is quite another. The shock alone killed
several."

"If His Majesty ever traveled by spaceplane alone . . ."
Flaim shrugged. "But that, of course, is one thing he never
does."

The prince leaned forward. "You, my lord, are the only person
who can penetrate the circle of steel that surrounds the king. You
alone can slip inside. You trained those men who guard His Majesty.
Admit it, my lord, their real allegiance is still to you."

"As you said, I trained them," Sagan remarked, "and I
would kill with my bare hands the first one who failed in his duty to
the king whose life he has sworn to defend and protect. Those men
would kill me without hesitation, at the king's command.

And he
would
command it. Dion doesn't trust me. I was his
teacher, you see. I taught him that he cannot afford the luxury of
trust. And if there was one lesson he learned of me," Sagan
added dryly, "it was that."

Flaim was not pleased. He contained his anger well; he had
self-control. But it was obvious he was not accustomed to having his
plans thwarted. He gave the tray a sudden, sharp spin that sent it
whirling, flung food in all directions. Bounding to his feet, he
walked away, walked to the open tent flap, stared outside.

Sagan watched, interested in the reaction. "There is one person,
however, who might be able to accomplish your objective, Prince
Starfire. One person the king trusts implicitly—however
misplaced that trust might be."

Flaim turned around. "Yes. Who is that?"

"A man named Mendaharin Tusca."

"Tusca." Flaim frowned. "That name sounds familiar—"

Pantha coughed, drawing attention to himself. "You recall the
man, my prince. You saw the reports. He is known as Tusk—"

"Oh, yes." Flaim shook his head. "I think you are
mistaken, my lord. We approached Tusca already. He wasn't interested
in joining us. His wife's pregnant or some such thing. And he told
our agent straight out that he and the king were no longer friends."

"Tusca lied," said Sagan.

Flaim regarded him with renewed interest. "Yes, my lord? Go on."

"The two are no longer close, certainly. That would hardly be
proper—a mercenary soldier and the king. Dion knows the value
of appearances. But if there is one person alive in this universe
whom Dion considers a friend, one person he would trust with his
life, it is Mendaharin Tusca."

"But," Pantha struck in, shrewd eyes glinting, "if
this Tusca is close to His Majesty, the mercenary would not serve our
purpose."

"I said Dion regarded Tusk as his friend. I did not say the
feeling was mutual."

"But this man Tusk owes the king his life!"

"Precisely. How many friendships have been destroyed because one
friend owed another money? The borrower comes to hate the lender,
because of the power the lender holds over him." "If you
are right, my lord, this Tusk could prove exceedingly valuable to
us," said Flaim after another exchange of glances with Pantha.
"Is there a way to convince him to join us?"

"Yes, Your Highness," said Sagan.

Flaim waited expectantly.

The Warlord remained silent.

A rueful smile twisted the prince's lips. "Ah, I see, my lord.
I'm being taught a little lesson here myself. The knife cuts both
ways."

"It does, indeed, Your Highness. I promise you, however, that in
a fortnight's time I will have Mendaharin Tusca standing before you,
eager to carry out your commands."

"And you with him, my lord?" Flaim asked.

"Certainly, my prince," Sagan said. "It is my honor to
serve you."

"Then nothing can stop me! Rise, Pantha. Rise, my lord. We will
toast this occasion." Flaim grabbed the wine carafe, poured wine
in the old man's goblet. He sloshed water into his own cup and that
of the Warlord's.

Raising his goblet high, Flaim said with a laugh, "I give you
the king! To His Majesty. God save the king!"

"God save the king," said Pantha reverently, tipping his
glass toward Flaim.

"God save the king," Sagan echoed, and drank deeply. "And
now, my prince, I bid you good night. I must prepare for my journey.
If I have your leave to go—"

They exchanged farewells. The Warlord left the tent, walked down the
hill. The mists had gone, blown away by a sharp, cold wind.

"And what do you think of him, my prince?" Pantha asked
when the two were alone.

Flaim looked after the Warlord thoughtfully. He was a patch of
darkness slashed into the fire's light. And then he was completely
one with the darkness, disappeared into it.

"I must confess that I am disappointed," said Flaim coolly.
"I had expected a warrior—an aging one, of course, but a
warrior still. Instead, I see a broken old man, old before his time,
older by far than you, my friend—in spirit, if not in years."

The prince shook his head, sighed. "A pity. One can still see
the greatness in him. It flashes forth, from time to time, only to
grow dim and flicker out."

"Your Highness must take into account the type of life Derek
Sagan has been forced to lead these past few years. He speaks of
taking this withdrawal from the world upon himself, but I have no
doubt that your cousin Dion was responsible for Sagan's banishment."

Flaim was doubtful. "I cannot imagine such a man as Derek Sagan
going meekly into exile."

"As you said, my prince, Sagan is not the man he was. He was
Abdiel's captive for many months. Who knows what the mind-seizer did
to the Warlord's brain? I see you looking dubious still, but you did
not know the mind-seizers." Pantha was grim. "They were
terrible, evil men. You owe your cousin a debt in that he removed
this most formidable enemy from your path."

"And I shall repay my debt, you may be certain," Flaim said
with a laugh. He bent down, picked up an apple, juggled it absently
as he talked. "When our 'gentle cousin'—to use a term
Shakespeare was so fond of—gives us the throne, he will be free
to do what he likes with the remainder of his life. A prisoner, of
course, but a prisoner in a gilded cage. He might even come to thank
me. According to our spies, that wife of his will desert him once he
is no longer king. Cousin Dion can have that mistress of his.
Olefsky's daughter. What's her name—"

"Maigrey, my prince. Maigrey Kamil. Not to be confused with the
Lady Maigrey."

"Now, there is a woman I would like to have met—the woman
who could charm Derek Sagan."

"She would have liked to have met you," came a voice from
the shadows, "when she could still use a sword."

Flaim glanced around swiftly. "Did you hear something?"

"Only the wind whipping through the tent, my prince," said
Pantha.

"If so, the wind has found a tongue. I heard words .. Flaim was
silent, listening intently.

"My prince, really ..." Pantha began.

"Well, it's gone now. Never mind. Speaking of Sagan, can I trust
him, do you think, my friend? As far as I trust anyone," he
amended, grinning.

"I think so, my prince. If the king cast him into exile, Sagan
will be happy to ally with the one who frees him. He was pleased with
your offer of a command, that much was obvious. And who knows, Flaim?
You might well restore him to true greatness. He might prove to be of
real value. The acquisition of Tusca will be the test."

"Yes, that would simplify matters. But we will, of course, carry
through with our other plan—just in case. The queen is on
Ceres, I believe you said?"

"Yes, Your Highness. She left the planet for a brief trip in
company with the cyborg, Xris. Our people attempted to follow them,
but the cyborg is quite adept at evading pursuit."

"Pursuit? The queen doesn't know about our spies, does she?"
Flaim demanded.

"No, certainly not, Your Highness. Unfortunately, our people
seem to have stumbled onto some sort of private intrigue. Her Majesty
is back on Ceres now, however, safely ensconced in the temple. There
appears to be no immediate likelihood of her returning to the
palace."