Ghost Legion (60 page)

"And all the outposts attacked are located near Vallombrosa. My
cousin's come out of hiding, it seems." Dion rubbed at his hand.
"Sagan was right. I should have used the space-rotation bomb."

"That was never a consideration and you know it."

"My inherent weakness," Dion said bitterly.

Dixter shifted uneasily in his chair. "Speaking of Sagan, have
you
heard from him?"

"No. Not a word."

"You don't think he's . . ." Dixter hesitated.

"What? Shifted allegiance? You said he sent a warning about the
queen—"

"
Maybe
he sent it. And it didn't arrive in time for us to
do anything. That may have been a cover."

"I wonder—did I ever really
have
his allegiance to
begin with? Where was he when I first became king? When I needed his
advice and counsel? He simply . . . walked off. Left me to struggle
with all this alone."

"I think he had his own struggle, son," Dixter said.

"A struggle he may have lost," Dion said grimly.

A faint buzz sounded. A red light flashed on a panel at Dion's right
hand, below eye level.

"Security alert." Dion flicked on the commlink. "Captain
Cato. What's going on?"

"Security reports a disturbance in the tourist area, Your
Majesty. Some drugged-up Loti left the group and wandered into a
secured area. He's been apprehended." "Loti!" John
Dixter was immediately attentive. "That's odd. Captain, this is
the Lord Admiral. Do you recall a Loti by the name of Raoul? He
worked for Snaga Ohme."

"Good God!" Dion murmured.

"The Adonian? Yes, my lord."

"Would you recognize him?"

"Of course, my lord. There aren't many like him, thank
goodness."

"Find out if he's the one they caught down there. Report back
immediately."

"Yes, my lord."

"Was Raoul with Xris on Ceres?" Dion asked.

"He could well have been," Dixter answered.

The two men said nothing further, waited in uneasy silence until the
call came through.

The king answered swiftly.

"It's Raoul, Your Majesty," returned Cato. "He insists
on talking to you."

"Bring him straight up. The back route."

"Yes, sir."

Long minutes passed, longer than the ticking clock counted them. A
portion of the wall at the rear of Dion's office slid open. Cato
entered, half-leading, half-carrying a stumbling, weakly moving
Adonian.

Dion thought that at first the centurion had made a mistake. This
wasn't Raoul! The Loti's usually sleek black hair was ragged and
unkempt, trailed over his face. The pink velvet costume was rumpled
and torn and covered with ominous splotchy stains. His painted-nailed
hands shook; his whole body shook. Cato lowered him gently into a
chair.

"Raoul?" Dion asked in disbelief.

"It's him, sire," said Cato, speaking in a soft voice, as
if the Adonian mustn't hear. "Though it took me a while to make
sure. He's been through hell, from the looks of him. I wanted to take
him to the infirmary, but he keeps saying he has to see you."

"Yes," said Raoul, lifting his head. The movement, it
seemed, took a great effort. "Yes, I had to see you, Your
Majesty." He closed his eyes. A shudder ran through his body.
His hands twitched.

"Summon the doctor," Dion ordered Cato.

"No, Your . . . Your Majesty," interposed Raoul weakly.
"Thank you, but . . . no. It . .. wouldn't help. It's the drugs,
you see. Or rather the lack thereof." The Loti's eyes were
shadowed, red-rimmed. But they were focused, clear, and in pain. "I
have come from Ceres—" His words were broken off by a
spell of coughing.

Dion poured a glass of water. Cato passed it to the Loti, assisted
him while he drank it.

"How did you manage to escape, Raoul?" John Dixter asked,
after a glance at Dion. "All flights are grounded."

Raoul gave a wan smile. "There is always a way for one of my
talents." He drew a deep breath. "Brother Daniel . . .
helped me. He has been arguing with . . . the baroness. Trying to
convince her to . . . tell you the truth. But she's afraid. So
afraid. Brother Daniel said . . . you had to know. And so I came."

He could no longer continue talking. He grimaced, gasped in pain. His
hands clenched and unclenched spasmodically.

"The doctor could give you something—"

"No!" Raoul grasped hold of Dion's arm, held on tightly.
"No, I . . . must make certain ... I tell this right."

"What is the truth, then, Raoul?" Dion asked sternly. "What
did Brother Daniel send you to tell us?"

Raoul shook the black hair out of his face. "The queen has been
taken hostage."

"Hostage?" Dixter repeated, seeing Dion too stunned to
speak. "Who did it?"

Raoul's gaze held fast to the king, never leaving Dion's face. "I
don't know. DiLuna knows, but she won't say. They told her .. . they
told her they would kill the queen if word got out. And so the
baroness . . . made up this story. Xris . . . Xris was there. He
tried to stop—" Raoul choked, coughed again.

"Xris tried to stop them," Dion filled in the pause.

"They shot him and, unfortunately, they hit one of the few
remaining human parts left to him." Raoul blinked his eyes
rapidly. "He clings to life. He is stubborn that way. But he has
not yet regained consciousness. Brother Daniel says that the baroness
is using the cyborg as some sort of goat—"

"Scapegoat?" Dion suggested.

"Perhaps. I don't know. Very little of this has any meaning for
me. You . .. note the absence of my partner?" Raoul glanced at
the empty space beside him. He even reached out an unsteady hand to
touch something that wasn't there.

Dion remembered the small, raincoated figure, the battered hat. The
Little One,'' he said softly, at last beginning to understand. "Is
he ... He isn't ..

"Not dead!" Raoul said swiftly. "Not yet. But perhaps
. .. while I am gone." He closed his eyes again, shivered.
"Brother Daniel promised he would stay with him and . . .
wouldn't let him be afraid. You had to know. And I was the only one
to come."

"Thank you, Raoul," Dion said, putting his hand over the
Loti's trembling wrist. "You have performed an invaluable
service. I'm sorry about Xris. Sorry about the Little One. If there
is anything I can do—"

"You could come to them!" Raoul clung to Dion. "Your
hands are the hands of the healer."

Dion looked grim. "I doubt if the baroness would permit it."

"She will. She must. Brother Daniel will talk to her!"

"Perhaps," said Dion thoughtfully. He exchanged glances
with Dixter. "Perhaps that
would
be the best way, sir.
She could hardly refuse an errand of mercy. I will see what can be
done, Raoul. Now, if you'll go with Cato to the doctor—"

"I thank you, Your Majesty, but no." Raoul stood up. He
nearly fell, put out a hand to steady himself on the back of the
chair. He warded off Cato's assistance. "Forgive me. I don't
mean to be rude. But I'm going back."

"Back? Back where? To Ceres?" Dion shook his head. "I'm
sorry, Raoul, but that's not possible. The planet's under a
self-imposed blockade. There's no way."

"For a person like me," said Raoul simply, "there is
always a way. It may not be legal, but there is a way. I promised
him, you see. I promised him I would come back quickly."

He appeared stronger, as if he were gathering up the various
fragments of himself, putting himself back together. He even touched
his hair, made a feeble and ineffectual attempt to smooth it. "It
was . .. nice seeing you again, Your Majesty. I will tell Brother
Daniel you are coming."

Turning, he launched himself across the floor, heading for the front
entrance.

Cato looked at Dion questioningly.

Dion motioned with his hand. "Take him out the back. Have some
of your men keep an eye on him. Don't interfere with him—unless
he tries to kill someone," the king added, remembering Raoul's
dubious talents.

"Yes, Your Majesty."

Cato caught hold of Raoul, steered him gently around a couch, headed
him in the direction of the disguised door. Raoul suffered himself to
be led, gave Dion a sad, sweet smile as he departed.

"So my cousin is holding the queen hostage," Dion said
grimly when the two were alone.

Dixter's expression was grave. "You don't know that for certain,
Your Majesty. I'll try again to establish some sort of communication
with DiLuna. Maybe I can use this new information as a lever—"

"Tell her 1 know the truth now and I will come to Ceres to
investigate. And I'll bring every warship I have in the galaxy with
me. I don't give a damn about confrontation. Tell her I care about
one thing—Her Majesty's safe recovery."

Dixter nodded, and left.

Dion returned to his desk, sat down, and tried to work. At length,
though, he gave up. He couldn't concentrate. His thoughts kept going
to Astarte. He thought of her captive, frightened, alone. And from
there his thoughts sank deeper, into darker waters.

Surely they wouldn't harm her. Her usefulness to her
kidnappers—whoever they were—would preclude that. They
must plan to try to exchange her for . .. what?

Dion scratched his palm.

The crown. Astarte knows what I must say. We've discussed what I must
do if she is ever taken hostage. She'll know I must abandon her to
her fate. But she'll think I don't care. She'll think that losing her
won't matter to me, because I don't love her. Perhaps she'll think
I'll be glad. . . .

"Oh, God!" he cried in silent agony. "Am I guilty of
this crime? Did I wish this? Did I secretly want this to happen?"

"Your Majesty . . ."

Dion gave a violent start, looked up. D'argent stood before the desk.

"I'm sorry, sir," said D'argent, concerned. "I thought
you heard me come in."

"No ... I ... I must have dozed off," said Dion confusedly,
wiping sweat from his face. "What is it?"

"Mendaharin Tusca is here to see you, sir. Shall I send him in?"

"Yes, please."

D argent left. Dion sat in silence a moment then he reached inside
the top right-hand desk drawer, drew out a small, elegant box made of
rich azure blue leather stamped with gold. The box had originally
held Dion's wedding ring. Now it contained a single earring,
fashioned in the shape of an eight-pointed star. Opening the box was
like opening the door to memory. Dion stared at the small star,
sighed.

"Strange, how Tusk always comes when I'm in trouble," he
said to himself. "I can't tell him anything about this, of
course, but just seeing him—"

"Mendaharin Tusca," D'argent announced.

Looking abashed and out of place, his hands jammed into his pockets,
Tusk stood inside the door.

"Thank you, D'argent," Dion said, standing up. He placed
the box with the earring down on the desk. "That will be all."

The secretary left the room, crossing behind Tusk, who took a step or
two farther inside the office, then came to a halt, looked at Dion
uncertainly. The mercenary was dressed much as Dion remembered,
wearing battle fatigues over a green T-shirt and regulation boots,
acquired from army-navy surplus. Two objects were new: a large,
shining belt buckle in the shape of a snake, which was rather
grotesque, and a pendant—a smiling lion-faced sun. Dion
recognized the pendant as one of the cheap souvenirs popular on Minas
Tares.

The king was somewhat puzzled by the sight; he'd never known Tusk to
wear any jewelry except the one tiny earring in the shape of an
eight-pointed star—which was currently resting on the king's
desk. But he decided that maybe this was Tusk's idea of a joke.

"My friend." Dion crossed over to meet him. Extending his
hand, he clasped Tusk's, shook it warmly. "How are you? How's
Nola and the baby? And XJ?"

"Uh, fine," said Tusk, returning the handshake briefly,
breaking loose as soon as he could manage. He thrust his hands back
into the pockets of his fatigues, hunched his shoulders, glanced
nervously about die spacious, richly appointed, elegant office. "They
re all fine," he repeated mechanically. "Jeez, this is
huge. Bigger'n my house."

Dion led Tusk to a comfortable chair in front of an ornate fireplace.
"I forgot You haven't seen this part of the castle yet, have
you?"

"No, they were . . . uh . . . still remodeling when Nola and I
came last time." He stood awkwardly, staring at the chair.

"Please, sit down," Dion said. "No formalities between
us."

Tusk sat down, sat perched on the edge. Dion pulled up a chair near
that of his friend. "Would you like something to drink? I can
ring for D'argent—"

"No, no, thanks." Tusk licked his lips.

"We'll have luncheon served in about half an hour. I can't visit
with you long, I'm afraid. Not as long as I'd like. You don't know,
my friend," said Dion after a moment's pause, "how good it
is to see you."

"Yeah. Well, it's .. . uh .. . good to see you, too, kid. I
mean, Your . . . uh . . . Majesty." Tusk shifted uneasily in the
chair. He eyed Dion. "Maybe I shouldn't be saying this, but you
don't look real good."

" 'Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown,' you know,"
said Dion with the practiced smile. "Pressures of the job. You
can't imagine," he added, voice softer, the smile fading, "how
many times I've thought about you. About the old days. When it was
just you and me and XJ. When I was ordinary."

Tusk ceased his restless fidgeting, regarded Dion with an odd
intensity. "You were never ordinary, kid. You were then what you
are now. Like that comet Dixter used to talk about. The rest of us
just sorta got caught up as you flew by. And I wish to God we never
had!" he exclaimed suddenly, fiercely, bounding out of the
chair.

Hands in his pockets, he headed aimlessly for the windows. "These
things open?" he asked abruptly. "It's stuffy in here."