King's Sacrifice (34 page)

Maigrey took a
close look at the ship, then glanced at Agis. She saw his jaw muscles
stiffen, his expression remain carefully blank. Good, she thought. He
recognizes it. This must be the right one. But best to make certain.

She did not
attempt to establish verbal contact with the ship, but sent out a
general signal, nothing but a meaningless numerical sequence.
Collected, translated using the correct key, the numerical sequence
would be transformed into music, a line of music from the opera
Rigoletto
.

"Demonio!
E come puoi tanto securo oprar?"

"You devil!
And how do you avoid being caught?" sings the baritone in the
opera.

Maigrey, waiting
for the reply, hummed the response beneath her breath.

"Coming in
now, my lady," reported Agis.

Music and a bass
voice sounded from the computer, triggered by the correct code
signal.

"L'uomo
di sera aspetto . . . una stoccata, e muor."

"I await
the man at night . . . one thrust and he's dead."

"That's
him," said the centurion, tone grim.

"You
disapprove, Agis?" Maigrey asked.

He stared out
the viewscreen at the ship, drifting some distance from them.

"No, my
lady," he said finally, heavily. "I think you made a wise
decision. He is completely and totally devoted to my lord. To
my
lord,"
the centurion emphasized, glancing back at Maigrey.

She nodded. "I
understand. I judged so myself. But he's good. I've seen him at
work."

"My lord
would have no other," said Agis simply.

"It looks
like a peddler." Daniel was staring at the spaceship in
confusion.

The ship had
come to a halt, waiting for further instructions. A small vessel, it
was extremely nondescript in appearance, this particular model having
been cranked out by the millions during the space rush toward the end
of the second Dark Ages. Cheap and reliable, the saucer-shaped craft
had been used to carry a burgeoning population off a desperately sick
planet.

The craft's
original builders and designers—knowing that once most
travelers set forth in these vehicles, they would have a difficult
time finding a service station along the route—had made it a
selling point that their workmanship would last, and in case it did
malfunction, the craft was easily repairable. All parts were
interchangeable, detailed repair manuals were included with every
purchase, and the "volksrocket," as it came to be
affectionately known, was mainly responsible for the population of
other stars.

Due to their
high state of reliability, the proliferation of parts, and their
sheer numbers, many of the volksrockets were still in existence,
surviving mainly by cannibalism. Cheap and fuel efficient, they were
used by itinerant traveling salesmen, groupies tagging along after
rock stars, drifters, migrant workers.

"A
peddler?" repeated Maigrey, studying the vessel that had no
weapons, looked shabby and in need of a fresh coat of paint. "Yes,
you could say that. A peddler of death."

Daniel looked up
at her swiftly, a half smile on his face, thinking she was joking.
One glance at her—face pale and serious—and at Agis's
grim expression, and the priest's smile slipped.

"I don't
understand."

"Soon,
Brother Fideles, you will be introduced to one of the most dangerous
men in the galaxy. Sparafucile, a professional assassin. He could
kill you in less time than it takes to say the word."

Daniel looked
grave. "How did you come to meet such a person, my lady?"

"I met him
on Laskar. He saved my life. Lord Sagan introduced us. He works for
Lord Sagan."

Maigrey and Agis
both watched the effect of this information on the young priest's
expressive face. The blow was a telling one, striking deep, drawing
blood. He realized he was under scrutiny, looked from one to the
other, then lowered his eyes beneath the calm, penetrating gazes.

"You mean
my lord hires him to kill people. I don't believe it."

Maigrey sighed.
"Brother Fideles, look at me. Do you see the scar on my face?"

The young priest
lifted unhappy, confused eyes, focused on the terrible disfiguring
scar that marred the smooth complexion of the right cheek. He glanced
hurriedly away.

"Look at
it, Brother," Maigrey commanded. "Look at it closely. The
scar represents the flaw—the fatal, tragic flaw—in Sagan,
in myself. It led him to betray his king, to commit murder and worse.
It led me to break a vow, to betray a sacred trust. We are fallen
angels, cast out of heaven. Our redemption—if redemption is
possible for us—is Dion. The darkness has overtaken us; it has
overtaken Peter Robes. If it overtakes Dion, we are lost."

The young priest
sat with head bowed.

"Brother
Fideles"—Maigrey's voice was gentle, a whisper to be heard
by the heart—"I walk in darkness so thick around me, I
can't begin to see my way out. I shouldn't have allowed you to come.
And, in fact, I think I'll leave you behind. There's a small planet,
not far from here, where you could catch a freighter back to your
Abbey. You have duties there."

Brother Fideles
didn't answer her. Maigrey kept silent, aware that he was listening
to a voice she herself could no longer hear. At last he sighed,
raised his head, looked directly at her, at the scar on her face.

"God's will
is clear, my lady. I am to stay with you."

Maigrey rocked
back on her heels, stared at him, exasperated, not knowing quite what
to do. "Listen to me, Brother.

Those of us who
walk in darkness must use the ways of darkness. Do you understand
what you're letting yourself in for?"

"I
understand," said Fideles. His gaze, steady, unwavering, met
hers and did not falter.

Maigrey stood up
abruptly, turned and walked back to the living quarters.

"He
doesn't, of course," she muttered, throwing the wet towel
irritably to the deck, kicking it beneath her bunk with her foot. "He
has no idea what he's getting into. He's untrained, unfit for this
job. He won't carry a weapon, not even to save his own life. He'll
end up getting killed ... if we're lucky. If we're not, he'll end up
getting us all killed! Why? Why am I going along with this?"

Because, came
the answer, you have no say in this decision. He's gone over your
head, to the top. He's acting under Another's orders. You've been
outranked.

"All right,
then, but if he gets into trouble, You have to get him out!"
Maigrey put on her body armor, then her silver armor, pulled the
black tunic and pants over it, ran a comb through her wet, straggling
hair.

"Agis, I
want to talk to Sparafucile."

"Yes, my
lady." Agis raised the ship.

A voice,
sibilant as a snake's, came over the commlink.

"Starlady!
Well met."

The sound of
that voice conjured up unwelcome memories. Maigrey shivered
involuntarily, steeled herself to the duty at hand. The present. That
was all that mattered. The present.

"You
received my communication?"

"Sparafucile
is here, isn't he?"

"Do you
know why I sent for you?"

"I see
newsvids. Sagan Lord is truly in Corasia?"

"I have
every reason to believe so."

"He not go,
like they say, voluntarily?"

"No."

"Then we
get him back."

Maigrey smiled
at the assassin's confident tone. "Yes. We get him back. I have
a plan. But I need men—the kind who'll choose money over
scruples—and a small attack ship, a torpedo boat or something
similar."

"You have
money? Hard money, no credit?"

"Yes."

"Then I
know where we can find what you need. I send you course change. You
follow me. Your plane is, by the way, hot, Starlady."

"I know.
One reason I want to travel together. I presume that thing you're
flying is faster and better equipped than it looks."

"She fast,
Starlady. More to her than meet the eye."

"I'll bet
that's
true enough," Agis muttered beneath his breath.

Maigrey laid a
hand on his shoulder, counseled silence.

Coordinates
flashed on the screen. The centurion glanced up questioningly, asking
if he should enter them, make the necessary corrections.

"Get up,"
she said. "I'll take over."

Agis rose to his
feet, moved respectfully out of her way, and took his place in the
co-pilot's position, which was hastily vacated by Brother Fideles.

Slowly, Maigrey
sat down in the pilot's seat, her hand hovering over the needles
embedded in the arm of the chair, needles that would link her
directly with the spaceplane.

"Where are
we headed?" she asked the assassin.

"Hell's
Outpost. A place that calls itself the Exile's Cafe. You know it,
Starlady?"

"I know it.
At least, I knew
of
it. I'm surprised it survived the
Revolution."

"Kings come
and kings go but business is business forever, Starlady."

"A
comforting philosophy, Sparafucile. I'll talk to you on the other
side." She cut off communication. "This will suit us, Agis.
Exactly what we need. Go ahead and make the course change."

Maigrey rested
her hand on the needles, wincing slightly as the virus and
micromachines that made her mind one with the spaceplane flowed into
her bloodstream.

"Strap
yourself in, Brother. We'll be making the Jump. Oh, and now would be
an excellent time to say your prayers," she said, glancing back
at the priest with a smile.

She meant it as
a joke. It must not have come out that way.

"Yes, my
lady," said Brother Fideles softly.

In solitude What
happiness? Who can enjoy alone, Or all enjoying, what contentment
find?

John Milton,
Paradise Lost

"You expect
me to land there?"

"That's it,
according to the coordinates Olefsky gave us," Tusk answered.

"It's on
the side of a mountain!" XJ's audio crackled with shock. "I'll
fall off!"

"Scanners
indicate a nice wide ledge," Tusk said soothingly.

"Ledge!
Ledge!" The computer sputtered. "I want an airfield, a
space pad, a long, smooth runway. I want landing lights. I want air
traffic control!"

"Well,
you're not going to get it. According to the readings there are only
two directions on this world—up and down. This ledge looks to
be the longest, widest cleared patch of ground around for a few
thousand .kilometers."

"I refuse
to do it. I won't land."

"Fine,"
said Tusk. "And while you're at it, calculate the amount of fuel
we're using orbiting this planet."

XJ was silent,
avarice wrestling with self-preservation.

"All right,
I'll land. But I want to go on record ..."

The landing was
as tooth-jarring, bone-rattling, and uncomfortable as XJ could
possibly make it, including a harrowing dive between two snowcapped
peaks, ending in a near collision with the side of the mountain. The
plane's roar touched off a small avalanche, snow plummeted down on
top of the spaceplane, completely burying it.

"There,"
said XJ smugly when the plane had come to a shuddering, grinding
halt. "I hope you're happy."

"He is,
XJ," said Nola, digging her nails into Tusk's arm. "We've
never been happier."

Dion unstrapped
himself, looked ruefully at the bruises on his arms, carefully felt
his ribs to see if any were broken. Tusk, wiping blood from his mouth
where he'd bitten into his tongue, muttered imprecations and
attempted in vain to see out the snow-covered viewscreen.

"Better get
out our winter gear. XJ, turn up the heat."

"I will
not. If there
is
fuel to be found on this rock, which I doubt,
the price these Neanderthals charge is probably outrageous. I'm not
wasting any just so you can work up a sweat putting your shorts on.
Besides, the sooner you're out of here, the better. I've got repairs
to make."

"Repairs!"
Tusk swung around. "What repairs? What have you done to my
plane—"

"Y
our
plane!
Your
plane!" XJ momentarily lost the ability to
communicate and simply repeated the two words several times before it
could get its system straightened out.

"We'll see
when we get outside," said Nola hastily, zipping herself into a
fur-lined parka. "C'mon. Let's take a look. It's probably
nothing. ..."

"I dunno,"
said Tusk, pulling his parka on over his head. "I thought I
heard a crunching sound. That left deflector shield— XJ, was it
the left deflector shield?"

"I'm not
talking," the computer said darkly. "After all, it's
your
plane!"

Tusk headed for
the cockpit. "I'll have your microchips for lunch—"

"In case
you're interested," XJ continued smugly, "several large and
hairy brutes have gathered around
your
plane and are poking at
it with sticks."

Thumps and
rattles could be heard on the outside of the hull. Tusk, swearing
loudly, pulled on his gloves, and hastened up the ladder.

"Open the
hatch."

XJ did so,
obeying orders with startling alacrity. The hatch whirred open, a
shower of snow and ice cascaded down on Tusk's bare head. Nola began
to laugh, saw the look on Tusk's face, and buried her giggles in her
mittens. Dion bent over, rummaging in his rucksack to hide his smile.

Tusk brushed
snow out of his face, stared upward. "Jeez, that looks pretty
deep. I don't know how we're gonna—"

A gigantic hand
and arm punched down through the snow, sending another small
avalanche into the plane's interior. A bearded, grinning face thrust
through the hatch opening.

"Welcome to
Solgart!" boomed Olefsky in a bellow that shook the plane. "By
my ears and eyeballs, it's good to see you in my homeland. Come up!
Come up! Here, I'll give you a hand."