Free King's Sacrifice by Margaret Weis Page B

"I believe
that I too, will make arrangements to leave tomorrow. I can only
tolerate existence in this oxygen-contaminated atmosphere so long.
What about you, Olefsky?"
    The Bear
glowered into his mug, then looked up, eyes glinting. "Stomach
and spleen, I think you are wrong, both of you. And I think that
before you leave you two will pay me the money you owe me."
    "So much
for our trusty allies," said the Warlord dryly. He gestured
toward the screen. "Still, I can hardly blame diem. That, Your
Majesty, is the result of your refusal to act."
    Dion stared at
die screen, frowned, the foil lips petulant. "You're not angry
at them?"
    "Angry?
Over what?"
    "This—this
disloyalty."
    "Loyalty!"
Sagan snorted. "The vapor-breather's translator device wouldn't
know how to interpret the word. Your royal blood is so much water to
him. Talk to him of your divine right to rule and he'll drift off to
sleep in a cloud so thick you'll never find him. Talk to him of money
and the mists will part. His star systems are impoverished, with only
one resource: people. A mixed bag of human and alien life-forms, they
have one thing in common—they want what others have and they
don't and they're willing to die to get it. And they're willing to
back you because they like the odds."
    Dion switched
the cam to himself, saw his own image on the screen. He was startled
by his appearance. His skin was pale, purple smudges shadowed his
eyes. He couldn't remember the last time he'd slept the night
through.
    "Meaning,"
he said coldly, "that they would back another if the odds were
right."
    "If the
odds were right . . . or if they improved."
    Dion heard the
implied threat, chose to ignore it.
    "As for
DiLuna," Sagan continued, "she is loyal only to her
Goddess. She despised the Blood Royal once because we worshiped the
Creator; she was jealous of the power of the Order of Adamant. Now
that the Blood Royal are, in essence, gone from the universe, and the
Order of Adamant is no more, DiLuna sees her chance to bring the
worship of the Mother to the galaxy. Hers is a holy war."
    "How could
she expect me to help her in that?"
    "DiLuna has
a daughter about your age, I believe; a priestess ordained in the
worship of the Goddess. Rest assured, young man, that if you manage
to overthrow Robes and gain your throne, DiLuna will plot to make
this daughter your queen. You might not find it all that bad,
however. Her daughters have the reputation for being as skilled as
their mother in bed."
    Warm blood
rushed to Dion's cheeks. He turned stiffly away, but not before he
caught a glimpse of the Warlord's sardonic smile. Dion's shame
burned; he felt like a schoolboy caught watching a porno vid.
    How did Sagan
know? Was my unease and discomfort around the baroness that obvious?
    Dion was not
quite sexually inexperienced, not anymore. Kings throughout the ages
have always had their pick of amoretti and the attractive, vibrant,
and exciting Starfire was no exception. But Dion's ventures had been
less than satisfactory.
    The women in
whom he took an interest were screened, examined, searched. The
evening was directed, managed, staged. The centurions remained
standing outside the door the entire time. And although the women had
assured the young man in the morning that he'd been wonderful, an
angel, he knew himself that he was clumsy, awkward, inadequate. It is
difficult to enjoy the softness of silken sheets when you are
surrounded by a ring of steel. But at least he'd always supposed that
those feelings were private, his to hide and nurse like a wound in
the darkness.
    Now he saw that
even his shame was laid bare. Dion suddenly hated Sagan for knowing,
hated him for displaying his knowledge, for using it as a weapon.
    "And then,
of course, we still have the problem of Abdiel. Or perhaps not a
problem for you, Your Majesty. Have you been in contact with him?"
the Warlord asked with cool nonchalance.
    Dion flared,
rounded on him. "Meaning is he the one advising me? Is