The Knights of the Black Earth (48 page)

This patio had
come to be a favorite sanctuary for the royal couple. Very few people were
permitted entry—only those considered close friends.

“We hope you don’t
mind the informal setting,” Dion said, smiling and rising to his feet, as he
always did when in Dixter’s presence.

“On the contrary,
I am honored,” the Lord Admiral responded.

Tusk glanced
around, sniffed the air. “That smell, the sage. Always reminds me of that night
on Syrac Seven. The night Sagan came after you, kid. I mean—Your Majesty.”

“The night you sat
on my chest and slammed my head into the dirt,” Dion recalled, smiling.

“Had to keep you
quiet. You would have gotten us both killed. Well, maybe just one of us.” Tusk
shook his head. “Sagan wouldn’t have killed
you,
at any rate. Not that
we knew that at the time. We didn’t know much of anything. Sort of like now.”

Dion appeared
somewhat startled at this off-the-wall remark, waited for Tusk to explain
himself.

Tusk raised his
eyebrows, cast a significant glance at Dixter, then walked over to investigate
the sage.

Further perplexed,
Dion turned to the Lord Admiral. But Dixter was talking to the queen.

“It’s good to see you,
my lord.” Astarte was widely acknowledged to be one of the most beautiful women
in the galaxy and her pregnancy had added to her beauty, not detracted. Within
a month of her time to deliver the long-awaited and much anticipated heir to
the throne, she looked radiant and, most important, happy— both in her
pregnancy and in her marriage.

The time had been,
not long ago, when that could not have been said. But that is another story and
it was now in the past. She and her husband were friends, if not precisely
lovers. Each held a genuine regard and respect for the other. Nourished and
tended with the same care they gave their plants, love might yet take root and
grow.

“How are you
feeling, Your Majesty?” Dixter asked, bending down to kiss the queen’s hand.

Astarte caught his
hand in hers, pulled him close, tilted her face to be kissed. “Come, Sir John.”
She laughed. “No such constraints between us. You are the baby’s godfather and
that makes you
my
father, in a way.”

Dixter kissed the
petal-soft cheek. His face was flushed, uncomfortably warm. “I am truly honored
and flattered, Your Majesty, but I really think you should reconsider that
decision. I’m too old—”

“Our minds are
made up,” Dion interrupted. “It has all been discussed, written down,
documented, officially stamped, sealed, and stowed away. Even the prime
minister agrees. If something were to happen to me, sir”—the king fell back
into the old way of talking, as if he were once more the kid Tusk had rescued
from Warlord Sagan, Dixter once more the outlawed mercenary general—”my last
moments will be easier knowing you are there.”

“Thank you, son,”
Dixter said, a huskiness in his throat. “This is the greatest honor, the best
compliment—” He stopped, coughed, and, frowning, turned away to pretend to
contemplate the magnificent view from the balcony.

“Coffee, my lord?”
D’argent was pouring.

Dixter shook his
head.

“Coffee for you,
Commander?”

“No, thanks, D’argent.”
Tusk, nervous and moody, had absent-mindedly begun to pull leaves off the sage.

Dion and Astarte
recognized the symptoms. They exchanged glances. The queen rose, rather
cumbersomely, to her feet.

“I will bid you
good morning, gentlemen.”

“If you could stay
a moment, Your Majesty.” Dixter turned around. “This concerns you both, I’m
afraid. Unfortunately, it has something to do with what we’ve just been
discussing.”

Astarte resumed
her seat, sat with her hands resting on her swollen abdomen.

“I thought that
might be the case,” Dion said calmly. “You have more information about the
Mohini kidnapping?”

“Not precisely.”
Dixter ran a hand over his chin, noticed that he’d missed a spot shaving this
morning. “If anything, the situation’s grown more confused.”

“According to
Olefsky,” Dion said, “Xris told him it was all a mistake. Have you heard Xris’s
side of the story?”

Dixter was mildly
exasperated. “Olefsky! You’re not supposed to be in contact with anyone, Your
Majesty.”

Dion smiled
ruefully. “You know the Bear. When he couldn’t get through to me via the usual
channels, he flew here to see me in person. ‘Attempts against your life are a
compliment, laddie.’ “ Dion imitated, as best he could, the Bear’s rumbling
baritone. “ ‘It means your enemies take you seriously. Be worried when they
don’t
threaten you!’ “

“And then he
laughed, broke a vase, and demolished an antique book stand.” Astarte sighed,
shook her head.

“It is not a
laughing matter, Your Majesty,” Dixter said gravely. He looked over at Tusk.

“Yes, sir.” Tusk
sat bolt upright. “A report came in that one of our NOROFs was attacked by a group
whose descriptions match those of Xris and his commandos. They hijacked a drop
ship.”

“Was anyone hurt?”
Dion asked.

It was Dixter who
answered. “No, Your Majesty. Xris is apparently going out of his way to avoid
harming people—”

“Just like I said.
He’s on our side,” Tusk added. He caught Dixter’s grim gaze, looked abashed. “Sorry,
sir.”

“According to the
report, Xris passed along this message. Here, let me read it.” Dixter removed a
small computer notepad from his pocket. “ ‘Tell the Lord Admiral that the king’s
life is in danger. Twenty-four hours from now. On Ceres.’ That report came in
eight hours ago.”

Again the king and
queen exchanged glances. Beyond that, neither reacted. Astarte asked, in quiet
tones, for D’argent to pour her another cup of tea.

“Are you certain
you won’t have any coffee, my lord?” Dion inquired.

Dixter heaved a
frustrated sigh. “Your Majesty—”

“I know what you’re
going to say, sir.”

The king rose to
his feet. He walked over to where the sage grew in its large clay pot and, like
Tusk, plucked several of the leaves. Dion ground them between his fingers. The
air was suddenly filled with the sharp, pungent odor.

“You’re going to
say that this is one threat I should take seriously, either because Xris is
involved in it or”— Dion looked up, smiled; the Starfire blue eyes were clear
and sunlit and dazzling— “or because he isn’t. You don’t seem to know which.”

Dixter, feeling
somewhat foolish, started to speak.

The king raised
his hand. He was suddenly cool and imperious. He had retreated into his formal
self; even his appearance altered. He was, unquestionably, the king.

“We want you to
know, sir, that we take all these threats seriously. We take sensible
precautions.”

“I am well aware
of that, Your Majesty,” Dixter argued earnestly. “I’m not suggesting you cancel
this trip, but you could alter your plans. Change the date, perhaps.”

“Would that really
help? Speaking of Lord Sagan, what was that dictum of his?” Dion reflected. “ ‘If
a man is truly determined to kill you, he will. There is nothing you can do to
stop him.’ In order to be completely safe, we would be forced to move to a
nullgrav-lined bunker a hundred kilometers below ground. And even then, I
suppose someone could blow up the planet.”

He tossed the
crumpled sage leaves back into the soil, much in the manner of a man scattering
flowers over a grave. Then, wiping his hands and clasping them behind his back,
he turned around.

“We thank you for
your trouble, my lord, Commander Tusca. But today’s trip to Ceres is most
important, both to Her Majesty and myself. We will not cancel it, nor can we
alter arrangements that have been months in the planning and preparation. The
diplomatic consequences alone would be disastrous. We will, however, pass your
concerns on to the captain of the Royal Guard. Captain Cato will be in contact
with your office to receive the details.”

“Unfortunately, we
don’t have a lot of details, Your Majesty,” Dixter said ruefully. “That’s part
of the problem. I’d feel better if I knew what we were up against. But ... we
still have sixteen hours. . ..”

He motioned to
Tusk. The two prepared to leave, well aware that the interview was at end.

“Keep a lookout,
kid,” Tusk said in an undertone, gripping Dion’s arm.

“I will, Tusk,”
Dion said softly. “Thanks.”

“God bless and
keep both Your Majesties.” Dixter bowed.

“He does, my lord,”
Dion responded. “He does.”

“The king’s death
will appear extremely mysterious. The weapon will leave hardly any trace. Not
even the most careful autopsy, performed by someone who is familiar with the
unusual genetic makeup of Blood Royal, would reveal the true cause of death,
since the micromachines will all be destroyed. It will look as if the hand of
God has struck the king down.” The Knight Officer was making his report.

“It
is
God
who strikes, Knight Officer. We but work His divine will,” the Knight Commander
reminded his subordinate. “Once the king is dead, we will claim responsibility
through divine intercession.”

“Yes, Knight
Commander.” The Knight Officer’s response was subdued; he was sensible of being
reprimanded. He continued.

“As for the
primary negative wave device itself, it functions well, far beyond
expectations. It is easily disguised. The waves are not visible, nor are they
detectable by any means. They are completely harmless to everyone but the king.
He will drop down dead. The people standing around him will suffer absolutely
no ill effects. The waves penetrate all shields, including laser-proof
steelglass. Only divine intervention
could
save His Majesty.”

“Unlikely. Still,
we will take no chances. You have completed the construction of the smaller,
handheld device?”

“Yes, Knight
Commander. It has been made to your specifications, but...” The Knight Officer’s
voice trailed off. What he had been about to say amounted to criticism of the
head of his order.

“What is it,
Knight Officer? Is there a problem?”

“The unit requires
a power source, Knight Commander. The device itself is disguised as you
required. It looks innocent enough, but the power source—”

“All is arranged.
You have your orders. Proceed.”

“The mission is
go, Knight Commander?”

“God is with us.
The mission is go.”

The Knight
Commander ended communication.

The Knight Officer
paused a moment, waited for the seconds to blink down. Then he was on the comm.

“Zulu time—sixteen
hours. Mission is go. I repeat. Mission is go.”

“We have sixteen
hours, by my calculations,” said Xris. “What’s our status?”

The team had
assembled in the launch module. The drop ship—intruder shields up—had come out
of hyperspace, was now lurking about the far fringes of the Ceres system,
avoiding any vessel that looked the least official. Fortunately, most space
traffic traveled in from a major Lane located near Ceres itself. And if any Navy
ship would happen to run across them, Operation Macbeth gave the team a perfect
reason to sit tight and keep quiet.

“I’ve been
monitoring the newsvids,” Raoul reported. “According to news anchor James M.
Warden, who is reporting live from the location . .. Have you ever noticed the
whiteness of that man’s teeth? It is said that they are all his own, down to
the last bicuspid. He must use—”

“Back on track,
Raoul,” Xris said patiently.

The Loti rerouted
himself. “Ah, yes. Where was I?”

The Little One
reminded him.

“Opening
ceremonies. They will take place on the steps of the Temple of the Goddess. The
same place”—Raoul waved a hand at Xris—”in which we had our most stimulating,
albeit terrifying, adventures. A viewing stand has been erected to accommodate
the king and queen and the numerous dignitaries during the ceremony. After
that, Their Majesties will retreat inside the temple for a private religious
service, which will not be made public. As you know, my friend, it is extremely
difficult to get inside the temple. Security has been tightened since the
attempted kidnapping of the queen.”

“So if the knights
are going to assassinate the king, their best plan would be to strike during
the opening ceremonies.”

“His Majesty would
be an ideal target,” Rowan said thoughtfully. “Seated on a platform out in the
open. His bizarre and mysterious death witnessed by millions. Yes, that would
be the time I would kill him.”

“When do the
ceremonies begin?”

“High zenith two
descending,” Raoul replied promptly. “Ceres time.”

Xris glared at
him. “Put that in real time.”

Raoul’s eyelids
fluttered. “Real time. What an extraordinary concept. When time itself is an
arbitrary device, inflicted upon events by those who— Oh, very well.” Sighing,
he began counting on his fingers. “Ten hundred hours. Eleven hundred hours.
Twelve hundred ... I always get confused after that. Twelve hundred is high
zenith. Thirteen hundred would be high zenith one descending. High zenith two
descending would be— Where was I?”

“Fourteen hundred,”
Xris said grimly. “Jamil, double-check that. Next: locating the negative wave
device. Did the computer files we stole from the knights give us any clue what
it looks like or how it’s going to be disguised?”

“Sorry, my friend,”
Quong said. He and Rowan both shook their heads. “We’ve been over it and over
it and nothing.”

“How do we locate
the damn thing, then?” Jamil demanded. “Sniff it out?”

“We use this.”
Rowan tossed a long thin sheet of paper, which curled around Xris’s arm like a
flat snake.

He stared at it
curiously. “Looks like my EKG the last time my battery malfunctioned.”

To his
astonishment, Rowan cast him a hurt and angry glance, irritably snatched the
tape back.