Ghost Legion (57 page)

Kamil suddenly began to cry.

A gentle hand, cool fingers, brushed against hers. Kamil wanted to
shake the hand off, but its touch was comforting, eased the bleak
unhappiness, the pain, the anger.

Kamil clasped her hand over Astarte's, held on fast.

Neither woman spoke. Below, in the temple gardens, smoke drifted
among the trees like ghosts.

The King has killed his heart.

William Shakespeare,
Henry V
, Act II, Scene i

Tusk climbed out of the Scimitar's hatch, descended slowly down the
ladder, taking in everything around him as he went. He'd landed the
spaceplane on a hangar deck in a warship, a ship of the same type and
variety as the old
Phoenix.
The hangar bay was now shut and
sealed. Breathable air was filling the chamber, and an honor guard
was marching out across the deck to welcome them.

"At least that's what I hope they're doing," Tusk said to
himself. He loosened his lasgun in its holster, marked places in the
hangar bay he could use for cover.

The honor guard drew themselves up in formation, raised their weapons
in salute, did not appear prepared to gun anyone down. Two officers
stepped forward, bowed with utmost respect to Lord Sagan, who had
left the plane first. They were all now waiting for Tusk.

Reaching the deck himself, Tusk was less than pleased to recognize
his two former passengers—Commander Perrin and Captain Zorn.

"Welcome aboard, Tusca," said Cynthia with a cool smile and
a firm handshake.

"Got any more scotch?" asked Don, broadly winking.

Tusk watched his hand clench into a fist—apparently of its own
volition; knew that in about three seconds that fist would be giving
good ol' Don something to wink about. Seeing Lord Sagan watching him
without seeming to be watching him, Tusk forced a grin, uncurled his
fingers, and permitted Don to wring his hand practically off at the
wrist.

"How's the vacuum cleaner business?" Tusk asked.

"The vacuum—?" Don blinked, then his booming laugh
echoed through the hangar bay. "Oh, you mean Mrs. Mopup? Ha, ha.
That's a good one." He clapped Tusk on the shoulder. "She's
fine. Just fine. She'll appreciate you asking."

"I'm so glad that you've decided to join us," said Cynthia.
She turned back to Sagan and, unless Tusk was mistaken, the woman was
regarding the Warlord with far more than professional interest. "My
lord," she said in softer tones, "His Highness has asked
that you would attend him immediately in the royal quarters.
Commander Perrin will escort you there. I will take Commander Tusca
to his quarters."

"I am at His Highness's command," said Sagan with a slight
inclination of his head.

The Warlord was wearing the long black cassock of a priest of the
Order of Adamant. Tusk had wondered at first at the change of
costume—Sagan had dressed in fatigues during the trip across
the galaxy. The cassock's long skirts were cumbersome and—to
Tusk's mind—implied weakness. But now, standing on the hangar
deck, Tusk revised his opinion. The black-robed man stood out in
sharp contrast to the uniformed soldiers surrounding him. And the
robes didn't imply weakness so much as latent power, a mysterious
power that awed, frightened, and—apparently—attracted.

"Will you be dining with His Highness tonight, my lord?"
Cynthia asked.

"I am entirely at His Highness' disposal," Sagan answered.

"Then perhaps I shall see you there, my lord," Cynthia
replied, smiling.

Sagan bowed and walked off with Commander Perrin. The Warlord didn't
give Tusk a backward glance.

"Just delivering the goods, aren't you?" Tusk said to
Sagan's back, somewhat bitterly. It was all part of the act, of
course, and Tusk had to admit that their entrance had played well.
But somehow he hadn't expected his costar to walk off stage and leave
him to face the audience alone.

The honor guard tromped after Lord Sagan. Tusk was left with Cynthia.
He smiled at her and hoped his smile didn't look as sick as he felt.

"This way, Commander," Cynthia said formally. Though she
was automatically returning Tusk's smile, her eyes had strayed once
more to Derek Sagan.

And though Tusk was a happily married man, he couldn't help but feel
somewhat slighted. My God! Sagan had to be sixty, at least!

"What'd you call me—Commander?" Tusk forced a laugh
that he was afraid sounded forced. "I thought we were close
friends. After all, you did shoot me—"

"
I
didn't shoot you," said Cynthia, looking at Tusk
with more interest.

"Well, your vacuum cleaner shot me," Tusk amended.

"Not the same." Cynthia moved close, twined her arm around
his, drew him along. "If
I'd
shot you, you would have
remembered it."

Jeez, this woman moved fast. Not five seconds earlier, she would have
been lifting Sagan's skirts. Now her hips were rubbing against Tusk's
as they walked along, side by side (practically cheek to cheek).
Maybe she's been ordered to move fast, Tusk thought, which thought
effectively shriveled any desire he might have felt. He grinned,
gulped, and tried to look as if he were enjoying himself.

Only when they reached his quarters did it occur to him that he had
no idea where he was. He hadn't bothered to keep track of where he
was going and it was a hell of a big battleship. That was stupid.
Damn stupid. And he prided himself on being levelheaded, skilled!

"Uh, this may sound dumb," he said, "but . . . where
are we?"

Cynthia laughed pleasantly. The compliment had not been lost on her.
"Officer's quarters. B deck." She led him to a door. "If
you want, I'll draw you a map."

She drew him inside the small berth, shut the door behind them. At
this point, Tusk expected to have to put up a fight for his honor. He
fully intended to, of course; he was a happily married man. But,
somewhat to his disappointment, Cynthia merely took a turn about the
room, making certain everything was in order.

Smoothing out a wrinkle in a perfectly flat, smooth, and wrinkleless
blanket, she said casually, "You've known Lord Sagan a long
time. What do you think of him?"

Tusk dumped his gear on the deck, shrugged. His insides were tying
themselves up in square knots. What the hell was she after?

"Nobody knows Derek Sagan," he said, which was, after all,
the truth. "Least of all me."

"You served under him." Cynthia sat down on the bed.

Tusk sat down in a chair on the opposite side of the bed. "Way
under him."

"You went AWOL—"

"Look, you know my life history. I don't see—" "But
because of the Usurper—"

"Who?" Tusk stared.

"The Usurper. Dion Starfire. Because of him, you and Sagan
became friends."

"Not friends," said Tusk. "Never
friends.
"
He laid emphasis on the word and knew he meant it.

Cynthia looked surprised. "But you came with him—"

"Because I needed the cash. Plain and simple."

"We offered you cash."

"Yeah, and shot me in the bargain. Are you here to interrogate
me, Captain?"

"Call me Cynthia, please," she said. "And you can't
blame us for being curious about why you changed your mind."

"And maybe making sure I
did
change my mind." Tusk
was growing angry, found himself resenting the fact that she didn't
trust him. Not that she should trust him, but, damn it, she didn't
know that! "If you're wondering how much money His Highness is
paying me, I guess you better take that up with him."

Cynthia rose languidly to her feet. Coming over to stand in front of
Tusk—which put him at about eye level with her extremely
slender waist and softly rounded stomach—she rested her hands
lightly on his shoulders.

"Don't be mad, Tusk. I know what His Highness is paying you.
It's less than you deserve." She ran one long fingernail slowly
up his neck, under his chin, tilted his head back, forcing him to
look at her. Her lips pursed, she leaned over him. "The
reception takes place at 1800. That's about an hour from now. It'll
give you time to shower and shave. Dress uniform. You'll find yours
in the closet there. I hope it fits." She ran her hands over his
shoulders. "I think 1 remembered your size pretty well. I'll be
back to escort you."

Placing her finger playfully on his lips, she turned and walked out
of the room. The door shut behind her.

Tusk remained seated in the chair, unable to move. For a minute he
was afraid he was going to get the shakes. His shirt was soaked with
sweat; he was shivering. He went over every word, tried to see if he
had slipped up anywhere. No, it all rang true. Or did it? Maybe he
shouldn't have gotten angry. Maybe that had been too much. Or maybe
not enough. Maybe he should have stormed around, punched the wall.

"Every minute! Every hour I'm around her, around any of them,
I'll have to watch myself watch every goddam word I say!" He
flung himself back in the chair, accidentally banged his head on the
wall. "How the hell did I get myself into this?"

It was when he found himself tugging on his earlobe, tugging at an
earring that wasn't there, an earring in the shape of an
eight-pointed star, that Tusk said several bad words and went to take
a shower.

He'd have to look up that word—
Usurper
.

Tusk had forgotten how much he detested dress uniforms. Ordinarily
they either choked him or pinched him or an interesting combination
of both. This one didn't do either. It was worse. It was a one-piece
nightmare that slid over him like a second skin, and he knew the
moment he squirmed into it that this second skin and his original
skin weren't going to get on well at all. He was still wriggling
uncomfortably when a buzz came at the door.

"Me," said Cynthia, and walked in.

"You got something against privacy around here?" Tusk
demanded, scratching at his left arm. He'd made an attempt to lock
his door, discovered it wouldn't.

"You got something to hide?" Cynthia returned. She ran her
gaze appreciatively over Tusk's lithe, firm body. "No, I'd say
you didn't. We're very informal around here, Tusk. I don't suppose
Derek Sagan would approve. He was a strict disciplinarian, wasn't he?
Which might be nice under some circumstances." She paused a
moment, smiled slightly, then shrugged. "But that isn't Prince
Flaim's style."

Back to Sagan again. What was going on? Was she hoping to play each
of them off the other? Fishing for information? Or was she simply a
woman in love?

Tusk studied himself gloomily in the mirror. He looked like his young
son, decked out for the night in his stretchy pajamas. The thought
made Tusk desperately homesick. He hoped Nola and John were okay.
He'd only talked to them once—via Rozzie—right after
they'd left Vangelis, prior to making the Jump. At Sagan's "advice,"
Tusk had told Nola about Link losing the plane to Lazarus Banquo.

"I'm going to go with Banquo," he'd said, "and try to
work out a deal to get my Scimitar back."

It was the first time in his life he'd lied to her, and he knew she
knew he was lying. He'd been thankful Rozzie didn't believe in
vidphones; at least he hadn't had to try to feed her that line
face-to-face. He had heard in her voice that she was scared—not
for herself, but for him. Remembering that he'd been followed from
their house, Tusk tried to impress on Nola that she needed to be a
little bit scared for herself.

It hadn't been easy, with Sagan breathing down his neck, but Tusk had
managed to tip her off. At least he hoped she'd gotten the message.

"I'm sorry I'm not going to be able to go to Marek's party
tonight, sweetheart," he'd told her. "But you go and take
John with you. He can wear that bunny rabbit costume you made him.
You know, the one with the tail. The jeeps at the spaceport. Drive
careful, sweetheart. Love you."

He'd signed off quickly, before she could say anything. Marek wasn't
having a party. But he did have a vacation villa up in the mountains,
one he'd been trying to get Nola and Tusk to use for a holiday. And
she was bound to pick up on the word "tail" and his warning
to "drive careful," since John didn't own a bunny rabbit
costume.

Either that or she'd think he was on the juice again. God! He wished
she were here with him now. They were a team, a damn good team. She
had a way of steadying him, of giving him confidence in himself, of .
. .

"And they say women are vain!" Cynthia commented, coming up
behind Tusk.

He realized he'd been standing there this whole time staring at
himself in the mirror.

"I just want to make a good impression, that's all," he
said. "What's he like, this prince of yours?"

"Yours, too, I hope," Cynthia countered.

Tusk turned around, faced her. "Yeah, well, right now it's
strictly business with me." He'd decided in the shower that he
shouldn't appear to be a pushover.

"That's because you haven't met him yet," said Cynthia. Her
flirty, playful attitude was gone. She was subdued, awed. "He's
an incredible person. He is handsome, charming, strong, intelligent.
He has no vices, no weaknesses. He is completely focused on one
thing—being king." She looked up at Tusk earnestly, almost
fanatically. "Flaim Starfire will be an incredible king."

Dangerous,
Sagan had said of the prince. Yes, Tusk thought,
any man who could inspire loyalty like this in followers like Cynthia
would well be classified as dangerous. Come to think of it, any man
Derek Sagan termed dangerous must be . .. well . . . dangerous. And
there had been respect in Sagan's voice, the same respect Tusk heard
echoed in Cynthia's. . . .

Derek Sagan had never termed Dion dangerous.

Tusk's insides began to twist again. What if I'm alone in this? What
if Sagan's laughing at me? What if they're all laughing at me? I net
Dion for them and look around for help and they all laugh at me.