The Lost King (44 page)

Dr. Giesk made no move
to stop him , but sat watching, the cold eyes observing the boy with
detached, clinical curiosity. "That's a very powerful sleeping
drug. You won't make it to the door."

Matter. You can
control matter
. I kept the silver globe in the air. I willed it
to stay in the air and it did—until . . . until . . .

Dion gritted his teeth.

"I'll make it!"

Why was the floor
floating ten meters beneath the bed? He'd have to jump for it. The
floor leapt up to meet him and he landed heavily on his hands and
knees. Standing, reeling against the side of the bed, Dion took a
step and realized he was naked.

"Can't be a hero .
. . naked. Can't go . . . t'rescue . . . 'thout clothes. All . . .
laugh. Sagan'd . . . laugh."

Peering around, Dion
discovered his jeans, neatly folded, on a shelf beneath the bedstand.
He made a grab for them, but they drifted away from him. He tried
again and this time snagged them. But, holding them up, he was
confused by the sight of two l§gs. He had no idea how to put
them on.

Seeing a patient
needing aid and receiving no orders to the contrary, the medicbot set
down its tray of medicines and went to assist. Dion allowed it to
dress him like a child. Dr. Giesk watched all this with intense
interest, never moving to stop him. Once his jeans were on, Dion
lurched toward a door leaning at an odd angle at the end of a long
metal and white tunnel.

"Follow him,
QUAC," Giesk ordered the medicbot. "Don't interfere with
him. What a marvelous research opportunity! I want to see where he
goes, what he does. Switch on your camera and your remote scanner.
Keep a record of brain activity. Monitor his heart rate and, when he
collapses, extract a blood sample."

The medicbot whirred
off in pursuit of its patient.

Giesk stood staring
after the two of them, his hands fiddling with his necktie. "I
wouldn't have believed it. I wonder how far he'll get? I almost think
I'll go along . . . No." He smacked himself on the hand.
"Naughty, naughty. You have work to do. Must prepare for the
autopsy. It isn't every day you get a chance to observe a dead Blood
Royal. And I'll be able to review the medicbot's vid tapes of the
young man. That kid! Doped to the gills and still functioning.
Remarkable! Absolutely remarkable."

Maigrey sat in the
empty lounge on the deserted level of the ship, watching the stars
glittering in the darkness of the universe's cold and endless night.
Her guards had retreated back near the door, standing well away from
her, unobtrusive, respectful of her desire to be alone.

She wasn't alone long.
Her back to the door, she heard behind her the muffled footsteps of
several men, the soft tread of one pair of booted feet walking across
the carpet. She knew that tread; it matched the beating of her heart.
Maigrey didn't move, didn't turn her head. Calm and relaxed, she
waited, never taking her eyes from the stars.

Heavy hands rested on
her shoulders with unwonted tenderness.

"It is time, my
lady."

Sagan's fingers brushed
softly through the pale hair. Maigrey closed her eyes, her courage
almost failing her. Why keep on fighting? Wouldn't it be easier,
better, just to let it end?

Yes, and he would
despise her forever.

The Warlord backed up a
pace. Maigrey rose to her feet, turned, and stood facing him. She
wore the indigo blue gown; the starjewel gleamed with its own light,
brighter and warmer than any of its namesakes. At her side, the
bloodsword,

"And how am I to
die, my lord?"

"The beam. It's
swift, painless. I owe you that much, at least." He frowned
slightly as he said this, then shook his head, to rid himself of a
disturbing thought.

Maigrey wondered very
much what that disturbing thought had been, but she couldn't see his
mind.

The beam. Laser through
the forehead. There were worse ways to die. She knew; she'd seen most
of them.

Maigrey nodded gravely.
"And what is the crime of which I'm accused?"

"If I read the
list, my lady, we'd be here for a light-year," Sagan evinced
some impatience. "But, since you insist, the crime for which you
must pay with your life is the crime of treason against the state."

"I have not
committed treason, my lord. My king lives and I am loyal to him. It
is you, my lord, and your state who have committed treason."

Sagan's eyes narrowed.
"If you're trying to stall—"

"It's my right to
know with what I'm charged, my lord."

The Warlord's lips
compressed; his jaw muscles tightened. "Very well, Lady Maigrey.
You are charged with breaking your oath of allegiance to a superior
officer. You are charged with refusing to obey his commands. You are
charged with betraying those who trusted in you."

For an instant, it
seemed the laser beam had struck her. Maigrey's face went livid, her
eyes rigid and staring. Her breath stopped. It took her a moment to
find the breath to speak, but when she did, her words were clear and
strong.

"According to the
law of your state, I have the right to be tried and convicted by a
jury of my peers. "

"You have been
tried by your peers, my lady," Derek Sagan said. "I am your
peer—the only one left alive."

"Then, my lord,
you can have no objection to a trial by combat."

The Warlord's
well-disciplined, well-trained guards stirred, turned their heads,
and exchanged glances.

Sagan heard them, if he
could not see them. His lip twitched slightly. He leaned close to her
and whispered, "I am pleased to see that time cannot stale, nor
custom wither your infinite variety, lady. I wondered what you had in
mind. I compliment you."

Maigrey lowered her
eyes. "Thank you, my lord."

Sagan said aloud, "I
have judged you, my lady. I have found you guilty. I have sentenced
you to death, and I will carry out that sentence."

"I dispute that,
my lord. And it is my right, being of the Blood Royal, to take my
case to the Supreme Judge, the Highest Judge, the Judge who will
someday judge us all. I challenge you, my accuser, to prove your
charge against me on the field of honor. Through my valor and my
skill at arms, I will prove my innocence. God alone will be my
judge."

The men behind them had
fallen silent, too silent. Every man was waiting, each seemingly
holding his breath, to hear his lord's answer.

"You can't turn me
down, Sagan," Maigrey said to him softly. "They would
always wonder if you were afraid to face me—the first crack in
the solid shield of their loyalty. And you're going to need that
loyalty when you commit your own brand of treason."

"Reconsider,
Maigrey. You can't win. Even if you do manage to slay me, my men will
kill you where you stand."

"One thing at a
time. That is what you always taught me, wasn't it, Commander?"
Maigrey looked into his eyes, saw reflected there the blue-white
light of the starjewel.

Sagan's thin lips
twisted in a bitter smile. "You have been very clever. I hope
you won't live to regret your cleverness." Reaching out his
hand, he touched the scar on her face, running his fingers down the
smooth skin. "This time, I will not be merciful. My lady."
He bowed, turned on his heel, and left her.

"My lord."
Maigrey pressed her hand against her cheek. The skin, where he
touched it, burned.

Die now!

Ancient Greek response
to good fortune

Dion wondered fearfully
if the ship was under attack. The deck canted away beneath his feet,
the corridors slanted at impossible angles, making it difficult to
walk them. He was continually dashing himself against the bulkheads,
hurtling into blast doors. But if the ship was being fired on, no one
seemed the least bit concerned. Everyone continued going about his
business. Those who noticed Dion at all regarded him with either
amusement or disgust.

"Please ..."
Dion lurched toward the two officers. "Lady Maigrey, tell me—"

But the men continued
past him, regarding him with disgust.

"Drunk! The
Warlord won't tolerate that!" one said to the other.

Dion leaned against a
wall to recover his balance and try to rediscover the floor. He could
hear the medicbot whirring along behind him, its metal fingers
clinking together, plucking at him if he allowed it to come too near.
Whenever he stopped, it sidled close to him. He could see himself—a
grotesque, curved, and convex reflection—in its round, lifeless
lenses. Pushing away from the wall, filled with a vague terror, he
stumbled on.

"Dion!"

The voice was familiar.

The boy stopped in his
headlong rush to nowhere and turned—too quickly. His body
couldn't maintain its balance and he fell. The medicbot's motors
whined in triumph, and Dion tried to scramble up and get away. He
managed to make it to his knees.

"Dion, what's
wrong? Look, it's me, Marcus."

Strong arms had hold of
him. Strong hands supported him. Peering into the man's face, Dion
knew him . . . one of his guards.

"He drank his
lunch," someone else said. "That's what's wrong with him."

"No!" Dion
protested, choking on his swollen tongue. "It's a . . . drug!"
He waved his hand at the medicbot, hovering over him with a syringe
in one metal claw, a ball of wet cotton in another, and a glass vial
in a third.

"Giesk?"
Marcus asked, eyeing the medicbot with a grim and unfriendly
expression.

"Can't fall . . .
asleep!" Dion clutched at the man. "Maigrey . . . execute.
Must . . . stop."

"So that's it,"
Marcus muttered. "Get away!" he ordered the medicbot. "Back
off, you metallic ghoul!"

The medicbot slid
backward, clicked to a stop, and remained standing, staring at them
through its myriad lenses.

Marcus said to his
companion, "Help me get the kid back to my quarters. Then you—"
he added something in low tones that were lost on Dion, who was
beginning to feel himself spiraling down into a deep pit.

He started awake,
grasping frantically at the edges of consciousness, trying to pull
himself back.

"I can walk,"
he mumbled, shoving the men's hands away from him.

Marcus helped him to
stand and guided him, offering a steadying hand when the boy's knees
began to sink beneath him. The centurions' quarters weren't far away;
Marcus and his friend had just left them when they ran into Dion. The
two guided the boy inside, the other guard left on his errand, and
Marcus shut the door in the medicbot's blinking face.

Dion gazed longingly at
the neatly made bed and planted his back firmly against a wall. "Lady
Maigrey ... is she . . . dead?"

"No," Marcus
said.

Dion closed his eyes,
almost sobbing in relief.

"Not yet,"
the guard added in a low tone. He stood in the center of the small
room in which there was a bed, a computer, a desk, a locker, and a
chair. "What did Giesk give you? Do you know?"

Dion shook his head
muzzily. "Sleeping . . . something."

The wall was starting
to tilt over backward, taking him with it. Marcus put out his hand,
caught hold of him.

"You better sit
down before you fall. You might hurt yourself."

"Can't. Must . . .
rescue . . . lady."

"There's nothing
you can do, Dion. She's chosen trial by combat. Against Lord Sagan."

Dion's eyes flared
open. He stared at Marcus—who was beginning to separate and
become three people. "I don't . . . understand."

"You won't
understand much of anything under that drug. I—"

"Take me ... to
her!"

Marcus shook his head.
"I've broken the rules, bringing you here. By rights I should
have marched you right back to sick bay."

"Then I'll go . .
. myself—"

Dion stared at the door
and willed his body to walk over to it. It was going to be tough
going, because someone had cut off his feet. At least he assumed that
was what had happened, since he couldn't feel them anymore. The door
slid open—

Shining gold and fiery
red filled his vision.

"My lord! Please!
You can't—"

Dion lurched forward,
clasped hold of metal, cold and unyielding. Flames burst in his skull
and he began a sickening, slithering fall . . .

The Warlord caught the
boy in his arms.

"You can put him
on the bed, my lord," Marcus offered.

"What's the matter
with him? Did he say?"

"Yes, my lord.
Apparently Dr. Giesk gave him some sort of sleeping drug. One of the
doctor's medicbots was following the young man."

Sagan gazed at the boy
in frowning thoughtfulness, then snapped into the commlink, "Giesk!"

"My lord."

"I'm with Dion.
Did you—"

"You're with him,
my lord? Excellent. I have a complaint to register against your
guards, my lord. They interfered with one of my—"

"Giesk, shut up."

"Yes, my lord."

"Did you give the
boy the drug?"

"Yes, my lord. As
you ordered."

"Then what the
hell is he doing up walking around?"

"Remarkable, isn't
it, my lord? His system is fighting it and was almost actually
winning! So to speak, my lord. In medical terms, I'd say it was his
chromosomes—"

"Damn his
chromosomes! What's the prognosis?"

"I couldn't say,
my lord." Giesk sounded hurt. "If my medicbot had been
allowed to take a blood sample—"

"Make a guess."

"Well, my lord, I
would guess that his system has successfully acted to dilute the
drug. Just as your system would, my lord, were I to give it to you."

"Thank you,
Doctor, but
I'm
not the one under sedation. I asked you—"

"Yes, my lord.
What's the young man's condition now?"