Ghost Legion (48 page)

"Not that I am defenseless, mind you, sir," Banquo's
machine voice told him. The eyes regarded Tusk with cunning. Banquo
patted the arm of his chair, and Tusk saw that it was really a beam
rifle. "Computer-controlled. I have only to press this button.
Fires forward or backward, sir. My own design."

Tusk grunted. They proceeded down the hallway to an elevator. Being
cooped up in a small, stuffy elevator with Banquo was not a pleasant
experience. Tusk held his breath as long as possible, was glad they
only had to go up one flight.

The doors opened. The chair whirred along quietly down the corridor.
Neither man spoke until they had reached Banquo's room. He fumbled in
a pocket for the pass card, handed it to Tusk.

"If you would be so good, sir. My manservant quit, the
ungrateful wretch. Abandoned me in this dreadful place. Come in, sir,
come in."

Banquo glided in through the open door, entering what Rozzle termed a
"sitting room," due to the presence of a couch and an
understaffed armchair. The Seldom Inn had only two suites: the
President's Suite—so named because some third-, fourth-, or
fifth-world president had actually been forced to spend the night in
it when his shuttlecraft developed anti-grav problems. The other
suite was what Rozzle termed— unofficially—his
High-Roller Special, and was set aside for those gamblers who took
the game seriously. This one was a cut above the President's Suite,
having three rooms: a bedroom, a small sitting room, and a bathroom,
complete with a jet-tub and a private safe in the bedroom. In
Banquo's case, the jet-tub was, apparently, a wasted feature.

"Shut the door, will you, sir? Take a look up and down the hall
first. Excellent. All this money. One can't be too careful. If you
would lock up securely . . ."

Tusk peered into the hall, reported it empty. He shut the door,
activated the lock.

Banquo wheeled the chair to the bedroom door, came to a halt.
Clutching the bag, he stared into the room nervously.

"Would you be so good as to check the bedroom, sir? Someone
might have entered during my absence and be lurking in wait. One of
the duties of my manservant, sir, is to investigate each room before
I enter. I never go anywhere without prior investigation.'

Tusk hesitated. He had the distinct and unpleasant feeling that the
"solution" to their "problem" was going to
involve Tusk's transformation from spacepilot to manservant. And Tusk
was fully prepared to tell Banquo to take his half of the Scimitar
and sell it to a scrap heap. What the hell? It was only a spaceplane.
There were dozens more like it out there. Work a regular job for a
couple of years, earn the cash ... As for XJ, it'd serve the damn
loudmouthed computer right.

Tusk walked into the bedroom, took a halfhearted glance around.

"Yeah, it's safe," he reported sullenly. "You can go
in."

"Excellent, sir. Excellent. I take your word for it, you see."
Banquo powered his chair into the bedroom. "If you will excuse
me for a moment, sir, I have some personal business to dispose of."
He patted the bag. "Don't be offended, sir, if I close the door
and lock it. I trust you, sir. I truly do. But money is money and, in
your dire position, the temptation might be too strong for you to
overcome."

Tusk glowered, considered telling Banquo just where he could stash
his filthy money. He swallowed his words, however, and couldn't help
noticing how rotten they tasted on the way down.

"Help yourself to a drink, sir," Banquo called, peering
around the door as he was shutting it. "You'll find a wide and
varied selection there on the desk. Oh, and take a look out the
window, please. I fancied I saw some derelict stragglers hanging
about out there yesterday, staring up at my room. Oh, and make
certain the window is shut and bolted."

Banquo closed the door. The lock clicked. Tusk heard the sound of the
chair whirring across the floor, then silence.

He stood in the center of the sitting room, which smelled of freshly
stirred-up dust and cheap furniture polish, and told himself to walk
out the front door and never look back. He couldn't ever remember
feeling this low. Not even the time when he and Nola were surrounded
by mind-dead and Corasians and the Scimitar wouldn't make the
liftoff.

"I'd've sold the damn plane for a handful of peanuts then. It
damn near got me killed. What do I care? Let the bastard have it."

Tusk actually took a step toward the door. He and Nola had been
married in that spaceplane. He'd rescued Dion from Sagan in that
spaceplane. Dion had saved his friend's life in that spaceplane....

Tusk brushed his hand across his eyes, realized he was actually
crying, and cast a swift, embarrassed glance toward the bedroom door.
It remained shut. Sighing, Tusk headed for the window. Might as well
get used to obeying orders. He peered out between the cracks in the
metal blinds, was rewarded with a magnificent view of the Seldom
Inn's parking lot and the open-all-hours grocery store across the
way.

Both were practically deserted. Vangelis' afternoon heat had driven
everyone with any sense indoors. A gigantic lizard was meandering
across the parking lot. A woman sat on a bench in front of the
grocery store drinking a can of pop and fanning herself.

The window was shut and locked, had probably been shut and locked for
the last twenty years. Behind him, he heard the door open.

"Its okay, Mr. Banquo. Hell, there's no one dumb enough to be
out in this heat this time of—" Tusk turned around.

Derek Sagan stood in the bedroom door.

It was fortunate the window was shut, or Tusk would have fallen out
of it.

As it was, he staggered back against it, crashing into the blinds,
nearly bringing them down on his head. He gulped for air, couldn't
find any. His chest felt like it was being squeezed in a vice.

"You're dead!" Tusk wheezed.

"Not quite," Sagan said. He walked over to Tusk, reached
out his hand.

Tusk made a good attempt at climbing backward up the wall. "Don't!
No—"

The Warlord took hold of the pilot's black arm.

Tusk gasped, flinched, expecting to feel corpselike fingers dragging
him down into a marble crypt. But the hand that touched him was warm,
its grip strong. Shivering, Tusk stared at it, his mouth opening and
shutting.

"Flesh and blood," said Sagan grimly. Steering Tusk to a
chair, he thrust him down into it. "Here, drink this." The
Warlord grabbed a bottle, poured something in a glass, put it in
Tusk's hand.

Tusk nearly dropped it. After fumbling with the glass for a moment,
he tossed the contents down thankfully. He had no idea what it was,
but the fiery burn in his throat stabilized him, though he was still
confused as hell. He began to catch his breath, decided maybe he
wasn't having a heart attack, after all. Just a stroke.

He picked up the bottle. His hand was shaking too much to hit the
glass; he sloshed the liquor all over his pant legs. Tossing the
glass, Tusk lifted the bottle to his lips, took another drink, and
found he could actually look at Sagan without shuddering.

"Where's B-Banquo?" Tusk mumbled, his lips almost too numb
to form the words.

Sagan cast a significant glance through the open door to the bedroom.

Tusk, peering that direction, saw the empty air-chair, a pile of
clothes and padding, and a plasticskin mask, lying on the bed. He
looked back at Sagan ... and understood.

"Holy shit," he whispered in awe, and gulped another drink.

Sagan took the bottle, set it back on the desk. "We have
important business to discuss, Mendaharin Tusca. I want my partner'
sober."

"Your . . . partner . . ." Tusk stood up unsteadily,
supported himself on the edge of the desk.

Sagan walked over to the window, began checking the vicinity. The
Warlord was dressed in military fatigues—pants only— his
chest and arms were bare. Tusk gazed in semi-drunken fascination at
the scars on the man's arms and back and chest. Battle scars, some of
them; others appeared to have been self-inflicted.

"Yes, partner," said Sagan. Making certain the blind was
securely shut once again, he turned to face Tusk. "Rather
appropriate, don't you agree? Seeing that it was
my
Scimitar
to begin with. I'm buying back my own stolen property."

"This ... this was a setup!" Tusk burbled. "You
swindled Link ... on purpose!"

"Indeed." Sagan seated himself on the edge of the desk.
"Sit down. We have a great deal to discuss. Perhaps you should
breathe into a paper bag...."

Tusk muttered something pertaining to paper bags and their ultimate
fate in the universe and collapsed back into the chair. He stared at
Sagan, unable to believe, yet forced to believe; completely unable to
comprehend.

"You're not dead," he said at last in wonder.

"I thought we settled that," Sagan remarked with some
asperity.

"Yeah, yeah. Just ... just give me a minute, will you? You're
not dead and you're half-owner in my plane. Not some clown named
Lazarus Banquo who never existed, but you—Lord Sagan. Christ!"

Tusk put his head in his hands, shut his eyes. This procedure didn't
help. When he opened them again, Derek Sagan was still sitting on the
edge of the desk. "What the hell's going on here? Why the
disguise? Why the setup? Does Dion know? This has something to do
with him, right?"

Sagan almost smiled. The muscles at one corner of his mouth twitched;
the dark eyes warmed briefly.

"Yes, this has something to do with Dion. You might say it has
everything to do with Dion. You are going to enter the palace,
Mendaharin Tusca, and abduct the king."

Tusk gawked, stared, then laughed,. "What's the punch line?"

"No joke," said Derek Sagan. "I am serious. Deadly
serious. You don't think I'd spend day after day wearing that
disguise"—he glanced in disgust at the remains of Lazarus
Banquo—"if I not serious?"

Now Sagan did smile, but the smile was dark and mocking. "Come,
come, Tusca. You were about to agree to indenture yourself to the
odious Mr. Banquo in return for the privilege of keeping your beloved
plane. You will simply indenture yourself to me. Either that or pay
me the cash you owe me."

Tusk was on his feet. "You know I can't. You knew that when you
cooked up this scheme. Trying your old tricks again. Still trying to
get hold of the crown for yourself. Well, you can count me out. I'll
blow up the damn plane first. I'll blow myself up with it. Go to
hell. Go
back
to hell "

Tusk made an unsteady lurch for the door. He had nearly reached it,
was astonished that he had come this far and was still alive, when
Sagan spoke.

"That was what I was hoping you would say."

Tusk stopped, half-turned, looked around. "What do you mean by
that?"

"His Majesty is in deadly peril, Tusca. Together, you and I are
going to try to save him. But we will be playing a dangerous game."

Sagan sounded sincere, Tusk had to give him that. Yet Derek Sagan was
Blood Royal. He had the gift. He could be charming when he wanted,
sound sincere when he wanted. When it suited his purpose.

The Warlord rose to his feet, reached into the pocket of his
fatigues.

"Take it slow," Tusk said, hand on the lasgun he wore at
his belt.

Sagan drew forth a small plastic computer disk. He held it up for
Tusk to see.

Tusk kept his hand on his gun, made no move to take the disk.

The Warlord walked over to Tusk, slapped the computer disk into his
palm.

"This is the deed to my half of the Scimitar. It's yours,
Mendaharin Tusca. Free and clear. Take it and walk out that door. I
won't stop you. I doubt if I could stop you," added Sagan wryly.
"I'm not the man I once was."

Turning, he walked back over to the window, lifted one of the blinds,
looked out. Tusk could see the scars on the man's back, as if he'd
been struck repeatedly with a whip.

"Like hell you're not," Tusk muttered beneath his breath.

He juggled the disk, flipped it up and down. He knew it, recognized
it. It was the deed, all right. The Scimitar was his again. All his.
He could walk out that door this minute, except he knew now he
wouldn't, and he knew Sagan knew.

"All right. If we're doing this for Dion, he must have given you
some message for me, some little something that would make me know
this is all legit.... We have a code, you see ..."

The earring. He would have sent the small earring made in the shape
of an eight-pointed star. Tusk's father had given it to him, to
remind Tusk of a vow—a call to serve a monarchy in exile. He'd
answered that call, reluctantly, but he'd answered. The call had
changed his life. He'd given the star to Dion, the last time he and
Tusk had met.

If you ever need me
... Tusk had told him.

"Dion didn't send me," Sagan replied. "He doesn't know
anything about this, and he mustn't. That's part of the game. They
sent me to recruit you. It was my—"

"They who?"

Sagan was irritated. "You're not stupid, Tusca. I don't hire
stupid people and once, for some misguided reason, I hired you. Who
do you think 'they' are?"

"That outfit that calls itself the Ghost Legion? I'll give 'em
credit. They're well-named. They dug
you
up from somewhere."

"What did you say?"

"Nothing, nothing." The more Tusk thought about this, the
less sense it made. He shook his head, baffled. "So it
is
the Ghost Legion? They sent
you
to get
me?"

"It was my idea, I must admit, but I allowed them to think it
was their own. You are going to join Dion's enemies, Tusca. You must
convince Dion that you are a traitor."

"Yeah, and maybe you're the traitor!" Tusk's head was
throbbing. "I don't like this. I don't like any of it. How do
you expect me to trust you? You had my father murdered. Damn near
killed me—" He stopped. It had suddenly occurred to him
that maybe he should be finding out a few things, pass them on to
Dixter . . .