King's Test (52 page)

"The Lady
Maigrey is looking for two good men to engage in her service. Do you
know of two I can recommend to her?"

"Yes, my
lord," Marcus said, relaxing slightly, allowing his eyes to
shift for a moment to meet hers. "I would be honored, my lord."

"Caius?"

"Yes, my
lord. Certainly, my lord."

"My lady."
Sagan turned to her with a cold and formal bow. "These two men
are willing to enter into your service. Do you accept them?"

"I do, my
lord, with my most grateful thanks." She drew near him,
murmured, "They will obey my every command?"

"Every
command, my lady."

"What if I
ordered them to kill you, my lord?"

The dark eyes
behind the helm lightened for a moment, glinted with amusement. "I
trained them myself, my lady. They are well disciplined. I would
trust that, should you order my death, they would obey without
question."

"Thank you,
my lord," she said. "Just checking."

A signal came
over the commlink.

"The staff
car has arrived, my lord," the captain informed them.

Turn back,
Maigrey. Make some excuse. Pack away the silver armor.

Was it Sagan's
voice? Or her own speaking to her? It wasn't urging, tempting, or
threatening. It was, once again, offering her a choice.

A
choice . .
. Achilles' choice—glory or long life.

Maigrey looked
into the shadowed eyes behind the golden helm.

You accept
your fate, then, my lady ?

Maigrey grinned
suddenly, her spirits ebullient, her blood burning with excitement.
I
chose glory long ago, my lord. Didn't you?

The Warlord
bowed, offered Maigrey his arm. Bowing, she accepted. Silver-gloved
fingers shone brightly against golden armor.

Drawing her near
him, Sagan whispered softly, "Long ago, my lady. Long ago."

"Dion, my
dear boy, you look quite splendid!" Abdiel remarked, gazing at
the young man with a critical eye. "Mikael is skilled with his
fingers. Turn around and let me see you from the back. Perfect,
perfect. No one will suspect a thing."

Dion submitted
to the examination with as good grace as possible, considering that
inside he was hot as a malfunctioning lasgun, overcharged, building
to an explosion. His clothing had been designed to disguise the
cumulators and the boy, accustomed to plain jeans and Platus's
handmade shirts, thought he literally looked like a fool.

The "jewels"
that were the gun's energy source had to be placed on the body
directly over the nerve bundles that would activate them. Mikael had
designed and sewn a vest whose every centimeter was encrusted with
fake costume jewelry, decorated with sequins and garish embroidery.
Dion had, at least, been able to decide what pattern he wanted on the
vest.

"What was
my family's crest like?" he had asked Abdiel, and the young man
had frowned severely on being told it was a sun shining down on a
lion recumbent.

"But the
old has been washed away, hasn't it?"

"Washed
away in blood, my king," Abdiel had responded. "Leaving you
free to choose your own crest."

Dion had
disappeared into his room. Emerging several hours later, he'd handed
Mikael a drawing. Mikael had taken it to Abdiel.

A sun with the
face of a lion, the sun's flames forming the lion's mane.

Abdiel had
sniffed, shrugged. "Ostentatious. Typical of the Starfires. The
ancient Greeks would have termed it
hubris—
false pride
in oneself which offends the gods. Put it on the vest."

They were
preparing to depart for the Event. Abdiel and Dion stood outside the
prefab house, the 'copter that was to take them to Snaga Ohme's
warming up its engines.

The vest's
bright and shining lion-faced sun, done in crystal beads on the back,
caught the last rays of Laskar's sinking sun, and both seemed to
flame with renewed brilliance. On the front of the vest, two
eight-pointed stars, one embroidered on either side of his chest,
concealed the cumulators. A medallion, formed in the likeness of a
smiling sun with fat cheeks, hung from around his neck. Placed
directly over the sternum, it held the largest of the cumulators. A
jeweled belt, decorated with eight-pointed stars, fit snugly around
his waist and held two more. The gun, devised in the shape of an
eight-pointed star, masqueraded as the belt's buckle.

Dion flexed his
arms, shifting uncomfortably. The vest was heavy and hot, the
medallion thumped on his chest every time he took a step, and the
large belt was tightly cinched and seemed determined to cut him in
two. He was sweating profusely and reached inside the vest to
scratch.

"Your
Majesty, really! You mustn't!" Abdiel scolded, holding out a
restraining hand.

"It's the
heat!" Dion said, almost frantic with nervous energy. "I
can't stand this waiting around! Isn't that thing ready to go yet?"
he added, referring to the 'copter.

"Patience,
Dion. Patience. By the way, Your Majesty, I hope you will forgive me
the familiarity of calling you by your name when we arrive at the
Adonian's. There will be those in attendance who would not
understand."

"I don't
mind," Dion said nonchalantly, blue eyes blazing more
brilliantly than any sun. Abdiel was wrong. If all went as planned,
everyone would understand. But it wouldn't do to say anything about
that now.

Dion, to keep
his mind occupied and off the itching rash or whatever it was,
undipped the gun from the belt and studied it intently.

"Toying
with the weapon—a bad habit," Mikael said, coming up from
behind the young man suddenly. "You will make people
suspicious."

Dion glanced up,
startled. "I just wanted to—"

"Mikael is
right, Dion," Abdiel admonished severely. "Put the gun away
now, dear boy, and remember—don't draw it again until you are
ready to use it."

Dion didn't
respond, afraid he'd say something he'd regret. Pretending not to
have heard, he stalked over to the 'copter, ducking his head beneath
the whirling blades, and climbed inside. What does the old man take
me for? he thought. A child? I'm a man, doing a man's job. A knight,
riding to do battle to defend the weak and innocent. A king, setting
forth to claim my kingdom.

Abdiel attempted
to enter the copter. But the mind-seizer's magenta robes, decorated
with a slash of black lightning, whipped about him in the wind, and
he was having difficulty.

Dion extended
his hand, took the old man's hand, and pulled him into the 'copter,
assisted him in settling himself in the seat. Mikael took the
controls, and the 'copter lifted off.

The young man
watched the house and the ground fall away from him and was reminded
suddenly, forcibly, of the first time he'd ever flown in the
spaceplane. He'd been with Tusk . . . the night Platus had died at
the hands of the Warlord. Then it had seemed to Dion that his life
was dropping away from him.

His gaze left
the ground; he looked up at the sky, at the heavens, glittering with
stars. Now things were different. Now he was rising to meet it.

The 'copter
gained altitude. They could see, in the distance, the bright lights
shining from the Adonian's estate.

Abdiel, noticing
the boy's rapt face, seeing Dion occupied with inner thoughts, leaned
forward and touched Mikael gently on the shoulder.

"That other
matter of which we spoke. Is all arranged?"

"All
arranged, master," Mikael replied.

I'll never get
off this world alive.

Hank Williams,
from the song of the same title.

"That's a
'copter!" Tusk said, jumping up.

"Yeah, so
what?" Nola demanded listlessly, lounging back on the mattress
that was the room's only furnishing. "Those zombie types're
always coming and going in the damn things."

"Not in the
last few days they haven't been," Tusk commented. Restless, he
padded over to the door, pressed his ear against it. The whop-whop of
the 'copter blades faded fast and he could hear what sounded like
hammering, large objects dropping to the ground. Every once in a
while, he felt a shudder go through the floorboards beneath his feet.

"Damn!"
Frustrated, Tusk gave the doorknob a futile twist, the door an angry
lack. "I wish I knew what was going on!"

"Would you
stop it?" Nola said, brushing back her sweat-damp hair. "It
doesn't do any good, and it'll only bring one of the zombies to warn
us to behave. You know what they did to you the last time."

Tusk, grimacing,
rubbed his solar plexus. He was still sore, and it hurt to breathe.
He guessed he had at least two cracked ribs and probably a bruised
kidney. It was, he had to admit, one of the most effective beatings
he'd ever taken.

Two zombies had
hauled him into another one of the boxlike rooms, bound his hands,
and gagged him to keep him from screaming. The mind-dead then
proceeded to batter him senseless, delivering each punch with calm,
unemotional, ruthless efficiency. And there'd been no emotion in the
dead eyes when they'd informed him that if he made any more attempts
to escape, they'd give Nola that same treatment— only worse.

It was probably
the one threat that could have stopped Tusk. Having spent time in the
brig for insubordination (after which he'd deserted the Galactic Air
Corps), the mercenary hated confinement and would have gladly risked
another beating if he'd been on his own. He was worried about Dion,
too, though the first thing he planned to do once he got out of this
mess was grab the kid and shake him until his teeth rattled.

"Stupid-ass
kid," Tusk muttered, easing himself down on the mattress beside
Nola. "Those plans of his he was talking about—he's
decided he's gonna try to kill the Warlord."

"You don't
know that," Nola said wearily. She was hearing this for about
the thousandth time.

"I do, too!
I know him. He thinks he's some sort of goddam boy-hero—"

"What did
you think when you were that age?" Nola teased, nestling close
to him, hoping to change the subject.

"Hell, that
was different," Tusk said modestly. "I
was
a
boy-hero. I—"

"Shhh!"
Nola put his fingers over his lips. "Someone's coming!"

Tusk twisted to
his feet, motioning for Nola to do the same. Watchful and wary, they
listened to the approaching footsteps. There was more than one
person, by the sound of it. The footfalls came to a halt outside the
door. Bolts slid aside; a hand pushed the door open.

Four of the
mind-dead entered. Two remained standing in the doorway, two walked
into the room. The two framed in the door were holding needle-guns,
one aimed at Tusk, the other at Nola. The hammering sound was louder
and, over it, voices shouting instructions.

"What now?"
Tusk growled, eyeing the guns and the mind-dead holding them,
weighing the odds, itching to jump the guy and shove that gun down
his unemotional throat.

"Come."
The mind-dead gestured with the gun.

Tusk decided,
reluctantly, he couldn't risk it. While he was lunging, the bastard'd
shoot Nola.

"Come? Come
where?"

"Outside,"
the mind-dead repeated, emphasizing his words with the gun. "We're
going for a walk."

It's all over,
said a voice in the back of Tusk's mind. Dion's gone. They've done
with him whatever it is they're going to do and now they can get rid
of us. We're gonna take a walk, all right—the last walk. Guess
they can't kill us in here, probably don't want to get blood on the
walls.

Fight! The
temptation flashed through Tusk's mind. His muscles tensed in
response. What have I got to lose? He looked at Nola, saw that she
knew what he was thinking, saw that she was with him.

By God, I'm
proud of her. No tears, no screams. Calm, cool. And, oh God, how I
love her!

We'll die
fighting, but we'll die. Trapped in this box, we don't have a chance.
No room to maneuver, no hope of finding anything to use as a weapon.
Maybe once we're outside . . .

Tusk raised his
hands in the air, flicking a quick wink at Nola to tell her
Not
now!

The mind-dead
escorted them out of the room and through the maze of halls and
stairways, one marching behind Tusk, the gun pressed against his
back, the other behind Nola.

"That's why
you're evicting us, huh?" Tusk said conversationally, looking
around. "You guys are packing up and heading out."

The house was
being dismantled, the mind-dead swarming over it like ants over a
carcass. Walls were being unhinged and taken apart, stacked in neat,
numbered piles. Furniture stood on the desert floor, waiting to be
hauled into the waiting shuttlecraft. Its lights were on; several
mind-dead were working on it, apparently readying it for flight.

Tusk paused,
ostensibly to watch the activity. He was, in reality, swiftly
scanning the ground, hoping desperately to find a chance for escape.

It was night,
but the mind-dead had lit the area with nuke lamps to allow them to
continue with their work. The landscape was flooded with glaring
white light, almost as bright as, and certainly more appealing than,
Laskar's green sun. But, by that light, Tusk could see the prospect
for escape was bleak.

More mind-dead
than he could count surrounded them, and all of them were armed. The
area was wide open; the only cover was a large outcropping of
boulders scattered on top of the lip of a gully off to his left. As
for weapons . . . well, he could always throw rocks. . . .

The gun poked
painfully into his bruised flesh. "Move."

"All right,
all right!" Tusk grunted.

He kept his head
down, his eyes fixed on the ground. He couldn't face Nola. She'll
know, the minute she sees my expression, that it's hopeless, he
thought. Hell, probably she knows now.