Ghost Legion (27 page)

"No, don't say that. Don't even think it," she said
quickly, putting her hand over his mouth. "To wish for that
wishes harm on someone else. And a wish like that is a cursed wish,
so my father says, and, once wished aloud, it could turn on the one
who spoke it."

Dion assured her he'd meant no harm to anyone. D'argent served their
meal; no servants traveled with the king on this trip. The secretary
lingered to make certain all was well, and was on his way out to
leave the two in private when he was summoned to the bridge by
Captain Cato.

Angels and ministers of grace defend us!

Be thou a spirit of health or goblin damn'd,

Bring with thee airs from heaven or blasts from hell,

Be thy intents wicked or charitable,

Thou com'st in such a questionable shape

That I will speak to thee . . .

William Shakespeare,
Hamlet,
Act 1, Scene iv

The robed and hooded figure approached the shuttlecraft long after
darkness had fallen. He came on foot, startling the guards by
emerging out of the shadows around the brightly lit spaceport. He
had, it appeared, taken care to avoid the flooding lights that
illuminated the tarmac and turned night to white, artificial day. He
seemed to wish to avoid, too, the ever-watchful eyes of the remote
press cams, who kept eager watch on all those visiting His Majesty.

The hooded man kept his voice low, was careful to remain in the
shadows as he spoke to His Majesty's guards. He was clad in the long
black cassock that marked a brother of the Order of Adamant. He kept
his cowl pulled over his head; his face was hidden in darkness. He
walked hunched over, stooped, but the guards had the impression that
he was a tall man, powerfully built.

He spoke only two words—"Archbishop Fideles"—and
handed the guards his credentials.

Taking these, leaving the priest, standing within the perimeter of
the circle of steel that surrounded the king, the guard hurried to
the shuttlecraft, relayed the disk, which contained the archbishop's
personal request that His Majesty receive this messenger immediately.

Cato ascertained that the credentials were bona fide, but he was
reluctant to disturb His Majesty. Instead, the captain disturbed
D'argent. The two met privately—at Cato's insistence—
inside the secretary's small, yet elegantly appointed quarters aboard
the shuttlecraft.

There's something strange about this monk or whatever he is, sir;"
said Cato. "Everything checks out, but ... I don't know . . . I
think we should tell him to come back in the morning."

D'argent regarded Cato with interest. "I've never heard you talk
like this, Captain. Is the man dangerous, do you think?"

Cato answered without hesitation. "Yes, he's dangerous. But
maybe not to His Majesty. Not directly, anyhow." The captain
smiled ruefully, shook his head. "I know I'm not making a lot of
sense, D'argent. But I'd like to see this monk in broad daylight. I'd
like to see his face. We asked him to remove his hood, but he
refused. Said he'd taken a vow. . . . It's odd." Cato paused,
frowning.

"What's odd?"

"I swear there's something familiar about this man! My hand
itched to yank off that hood. I didn't," Cato added hurriedly,
noting D'argent's look of consternation. "But I thought about
it."

"I'm glad you restrained yourself, Captain," the secretary
said severely. "The archbishop would have considered such an act
of violence against one of his own messengers an insult."

"I know." The captain's expression was grave. "But
that wasn't the reason I didn't touch him."

"What was the reason, Captain?"

"I didn't dare," said Cato softly. "Look, sir, it's
like this. Have you ever stood near a high-voltage electrical wire?
You hear the hum of the power surging through it. You can feel the
aura of that power. It makes the hair stand up on your arms."

D'argent nodded to show he understood.

"Well, sir," said Cato, "I would as soon think of
touching a high-tension wire as touch that strange monk outside."

D'argent studied the captain intently. Cato had served the king ever
since he had come to the throne, had been a centurion under Lord
Sagan's command fifteen years before that. The captain was
levelheaded, pragmatic, certainly not given to flights of fancy,
premonitions, or dark forebodings. Cato had dealt with thousands,
millions of people—humans and aliens— over the course of
his service to the king. Some of them had been violent, some had
presented a real and cogent threat. Cato had handled all emergencies
with efficiency and dispatch. No talk then of high-tension wires.

D'argent was uneasy. "You scanned him for weapons, I presume?"

"Of course, sir. Nothing. He's clean."

"You can't give me any other reason for your suspicions,
Captain?"

"Logical reasons, you mean?" Cato's mouth tightened. "No,
sir, I can't. It's just . . . when he spoke to me . . . when I heard
his voice . . . something went right through me. A jolt, a kind of
shiver. I've never felt the like."

D'argent sighed. "I'm sorry, Captain, but unless you can come up
with some valid reason for keeping this monk away from His Majesty,
I'll have to admit him, if that is what the king commands. His
Majesty has been expecting a messenger from the archbishop. And the
archbishop's messenger requests a private audience with His Majesty."

"That, in any case, we should
not
allow," said Cato
grimly.

D'argent continued to ponder, then shook his head. "We may not
have much choice. It will be up to His Majesty." Crossing over
to a console, he flicked on the commlink.

Dion's voice. "Yes, D'argent? What is it?"

"Excuse me for disturbing you, sir, but the messenger from
Archbishop Fideles is here and requests a private audience with you
this evening."

"He's here now? Who is it?"

"A Brother Penitent, sir. His credentials check out. The
archbishop has sent a personal message, requests you talk with his
representative immediately upon arrival. The matter is, according to
the archbishop, extremely urgent."

There was a moment's silence. Kamil's voice could be heard in the
background, low and reassuring. D'argent couldn't make out her words,
but he guessed from the tone that she was urging the king to see this
visitor. Never mind that she had spent the day alone, looking forward
to this time together, these few precious, stolen moments. D'argent
smiled sadly, sighed briefly.

When Dion's voice returned, he sounded troubled. "Very well.
Escort this Brother Penitent to the meeting room. Bring him food and
drink and anything else he requires. I'll be there in a few moments."

"Very good, sir. And excuse me, sir, but Captain Cato recommends
that you keep the Royal Guard with you during the interview. There's
something about this Brother Penitent Cato doesn't trust."

"The archbishop requested a private audience with his
representative?"

"Yes, sire."

"Then the audience will be private, D'argent. So inform the
captain."

"Yes, Your Majesty." D'argent glanced over at Cato,
shrugged.

The centurion shook his head.

D'argent himself accompanied Cato back outside the shuttlecraft. The
secretary was curious not only to see this formidable personage who
had given the veteran captain of the guard a "jolt," but to
make certain that the roving cams of the media had not fastened onto
this midnight visitor.

At first D'argent could see no sign of anything out of the routine.
The guards walked their patrol, human eyes double-checking, backing
up electronic surveillance. The centurions had hustled their visitor
off to the mobile command unit, were keeping him well concealed.

Reasonably satisfied that none of the media had spotted the monk, yet
thinking it might be just as well to be prepared with a press release
tomorrow in case they had, D'argent entered the mobile command unit
to get a look at the messenger.

Brother Penitent stood alone, patient, silent, his face hidden, his
head lowered, his hands clasped within the sleeves of his cassock.
D'argent noted the shabby material, well worn, almost threadbare in
places. This man was not a monk, not a priest. He had not taken
orders. He was a lay brother, one who might almost be classified as a
servant. A strange emissary from the head of the Church to the king
of the galaxy.

Yet, as Cato said, there was something about this man .. .

"If you will accompany me, please, Brother," D'argent said
respectfully. "His Majesty will see you now."

The brother inclined his head, made no remark. Flanked by Captain
Cato and two of his men, they left the command unit, walked across
the tarmac to the shuttlecraft. The night was still, the air clear
and soft with the smells of new life coming to the land. A myriad of
stars were scattered across the black vault of the sky.

Their footsteps crunched on the gravel that was scattered— like
the stars, except in a more lowly setting—on the concrete
pavement. D'argent's footfalls were quiet, his tread delicate. Hie
centurions' footfalls were measured, rhythmic, as if they walked a
parade ground. And so, too, D'argent noticed, startled, were the
footfalls of the lay brother.

The secretary glanced down, saw the brother, in his frayed robes and
leather sandals, unconsciously matching his strides in military
precision to those of the centurions.

D'argent wondered that Cato did not notice this odd occurrence, could
not think of any subtle way of drawing the captain's attention to it.
The secretary was not even certain that he should; there could be
many plausible explanations for the fact that a monk marched like a
soldier.

By this time they had reached the shuttlecraft. Most interior and
exterior lights had been dimmed for the night. Hatches opened
silently, absorbed D'argent and the strange visitor into the shadows,
closed and sealed silently behind them.

"This way, please," said D'argent.

He led Brother Penitent into the shuttlecraft's interior, down a
narrow corridor, to His Majesty's audience chamber. The brother
followed silently, without hesitation. He did not raise his head,
appeared to take no interest in his surroundings, hardly seemed to
look where he was going.

D'argent, glancing continually and uneasily over his shoulder, had
the sudden, uncanny impression that this was because the brother knew
exactly where he was. That he could have walked the decks
blindfolded.

"In here," said D'argent. The door slid open. The secretary
stood to one side. "His Majesty will be with you shortly. Can I
bring you anything Brother? Something to eat, perhaps? A glass of
wine?"

A negative movement of the hooded head was the only response.

D'argent glanced significantly at Cato, who had come up behind him.
The captain nodded and left. The door slid shut, sealed, locking the
strange brother alone inside. The captain and his men would keep the
monk under constant surveillance through the room's hidden cameras.

Dion emerged from his private quarters, walked down the corridor to
the audience chamber. Though the hour was late, he was not casually
dressed for this meeting. He had taken care to change his clothes,
was wearing his black uniform, his purple sash and lion's-head pin.
He was troubled. Fideles would not have sent a personal messenger,
would not have claimed urgency unless the matter was serious.

He found D'argent waiting for him. The normally unflappable secretary
was disturbed, shaken.

"What is it, D'argent?" Dion asked, pausing outside the
door before entering. "Did the press get hold of this?"

"No, Your Majesty. I don't believe so. Might I suggest, sir,
that you take a look at this Brother Penitent before you—"

"Stop, Your Majesty!" Captain Cato's shout echoed off the
metal bulkheads. The captain and his men came running down the
corridor, lasguns in hand. "Don't go in there, sire!"

Weapons drawn, the King's Guard surrounded him.

"Why? What's happened?" Dion demanded.

"Either something's gone wrong with the surveillance equipment
or that man in there has somehow managed to shut it down."

Dion caught his breath, stared at the closed door. For an instant he
couldn't move, couldn't think. A blackness came over him, blotted out
all light. A roaring sound in his head deafened him. The captain, the
shuttle, the door began drifting out of reach, receding into the
distance, falling farther and farther away from him. ...

"Sire!" D'argent caught hold of the king.

The secretary's firm touch dispelled the faintness, brought Dion
back.

Cato had his hand on the door's emergency manual release. "You
men escort His Majesty back to his quarters—"

"Belay that, Captain," the king ordered sharply. He felt
chilled, numb, as if all the warmth of life had drained from his
body. "The surveillance equipment has probably malfunctioned.
One of the technicians can check it out in the morning. Stand aside."

"But, Your Majesty—"

Dion stared at the man.

"Yes, Your Majesty." Reluctantly Cato moved away from the
door, though he did not lower his weapon. "If Your Majesty will
permit me to enter first—"

"That will not be necessary, Captain. I will go alone, as the
archbishop requested. Post the guard, as usual, then return to your
duties."

"Yes, Your Majesty."

Dion shifted his gaze to his secretary, who had been holding on to
the king's arm.

D'argent flushed, removed his hand. "Sire, if you would allow me
to accompany you—"

"Thank you, D'argent, but that will be all for this evening. You
may return to your room."

The secretary had no choice but to bow and leave, first exchanging a
worried glance with Cato, who had no choice but to bow and do as the
king commanded.