"And you're suggesting ... ?"

"Talk to Archbishop Fideles, son. Ask him to pass this information on to . . . whoever might be interested." Dixter spoke earnestly, forgetting they weren't both back in that trailer on Vangelis. "I mean"-the admiral flushed red-"I mean Your Majesty."

Dion smiled. "It sounded good to hear you call me son. It's been a long time." He fell silent. The smile faded. The room grew darker. A cloud, passing over the sun.

At length Dion sighed and raised his head, looked at Dixter. "How did you know?"

"Know what?" Dixter asked mildly.

"That he's still alive." It was obvious, from the inflection, that they weren't discussing the archbishop.

Dixter rubbed his grizzled jaw. "I didn't, Dion. Nothing certain. Call it a hunch. Or deduction. Derek Sagan considered suicide a mortal sin. And he wasn't the type to subconsciously put himself in the way of death. He was too good a fighter. His instincts would keep him alive, if nothing else. No, I never did believe Sagan died in our escape from Corasia. He meant us to think he died. And if he is alive, there'd be only one place he'd go, in the end-to the place where he began."

Dion nodded slowly. "Yes, that's how I figured it. I even asked Fideles about Sagan once, the day of the coronation. I said, point-blank, 'Have you had any word from Lord Sagan?' "

"What was the archbishop's answer?"

" 'He is with God,' Fideles told me. And then I asked, 'Is he dead?' But Fideles refused to tell me any more."

Dixter shrugged. "I'd say that pretty well confirms it."

"But where does this get us?" Dion argued. "If Sagan has forsaken the world, then he might as well be dead."

"Unless he hasn't truly forsaken it, Your Majesty. Unless he's part of this conspiracy."

Dion was silent. His hand nibbed the scars, back and forth, back and forth. He was looking at Dixter but not really seeing him. In his mind he had returned to that ghastly moon of death, to the last time he'd seen Derek Sagan standing at Maigrey's bier.

"No," said Dion after a moment. "I can't believe that. You were there. You saw what he suffered. When she died, part of him died, too."

"Maybe it grew back," Dixter suggested dryly.

Dion frowned, displeased.

The admiral shook his head, sighed. The memory was a painful one for him as well.

"I saw Sagan then, Dion. But I also saw him twenty-odd years ago, too, when he led the revolution that overthrew the crown. If he wasn't directly responsible for the deaths of the king and your parents, Derek Sagan was the moving force behind it. And there was no question but that he tortured and murdered Tusk's father and any of the rest of the Guardians he could lay his hands on. Including-" Dixter stopped, glanced at the king, fell silent.

"Including Platus," said Dion grimly. "I know. I was there. I watched. . . ." He stared back again, in time. "Odd. Platus quoted Milton that very night. . . ."

"Full circle," Dixter muttered.

Dion shook his head. "No, I won't believe it. But," he added, forestalling Dixter, "I will discuss the matter with the archbishop. Not that I think we'll find out anything. He's a man of the cloth, not a man of the sword."

"You never know," said Dixter, standing up, preparing to take his leave. "Not so long ago, Archbishop Fideles was Brother Daniel, a nurse on Phoenix. He served on a ship of war, and while he may not have wielded a sword himself, he knew and understood those who did. He's not as unworldly as some people believe. Tell him that you yourself are in danger, Your Majesty. You . .. and the galaxy. I think he'll help."

"Aren't you exaggerating?" Dion asked, smiling.

"No, son," said Dixter solemnly, this time not bothering to correct himself. "I'm not."

The admiral bowed and left. Dion sat a long time at his desk, then touched a switch. "D"argent, I want to speak to the archbishop, the Abbey of St. Francis."

But D'argent was forced to report to His Majesty that the archbishop was gone from the abbey and no one had any idea where he was or how he could be reached.

Chapter Thirteen.

Which way I fly is Hell; myself am Hell; And, in the lowest deep, a lower deep Still threatening to devour me opens wide, To which the Hell I suffer seems a Heaven.

John Milton, Paradise Lost Actually, Archbishop Fideles had not yet left the monastery when the king's summons came through. The archbishop was scheduled to leave and would have been on his private space transport, but his plans had been disrupted by an unexpected visitor.

Fideles had sent the brother who served as his aide off on an errand to pick up a breviary the archbishop had forgotten, and so the outer office was empty and Fideles was alone when the respectful knock came at the closed door.

The archbishop had his hand on the door's handle, having been just about to walk out. Thinking it was the aide misunderstanding instructions to meet the archbishop at his transport (the aide was an extremely devout brother, who tended to have his thoughts on heaven rather than on his more mundane and worldly duties, and was thus often and easily confused), Fideles flung open the door, a mild rebuke on his lips.

He was astounded to find not the wide-eyed and abashed Brother Petra ("Oh, dear. I was to meet Your Excellency at the transport, wasn't I?") but one of the lay brothers-those who had come to the abbey to dedicate their lives to the service of God but who, for various reasons, would never be permitted to take the vows or perform the duties of a priest.

The brother stood in respectful silence, his head bowed, his arms folded into the sleeves of the cassock that was frayed and threadbare-cast-off clothing from other brothers. It was not required of the lay brother that he dress in such humble garments; he chose to do so himself Nor was it required of him that he keep his cowl pulled low over his face or shun the company and conversation of his brethren. That too, he had taken upon himself, just as he took upon himself the hardest, most grueling, difficult, and demeaning tasks in the abbey.

Fideles was too astonished by the sight of this brother, standing in his doorway, to speak. Despite the fact that he could not see his face, the archbishop knew the man immediately, knew him by his above-average height and the extraordinary girth of chest and shoulders-though somewhat thin from fasting- visible beneath the shabby robes.

He was called Paenitens-the Penitent One. That was his formal name among the brethren. Privately, he was known as the Unforgiven. He had another name, too, his true name. But that name was known to only two people, himself and the archbishop, and to God.

"Brother Penitent!" said Fideles, marveling. "I ... I am extremely glad to see you!"

Extremely amazed to see you would have been nearer the truth, but Fideles trusted God would forgive him the lie. Never before had Penitent sought his archbishop. Generally, the lay brother went out of his way to avoid a meeting. Fideles could not recall the last time they had spoken, though he had often seen the silent, unsociable man working at his solitary labors about the abbey.

"I am pleased, very pleased, to see you, Brother," the archbishop repeated, somewhat flustered. "I have long wanted to speak with you, but now, I am afraid, is not a good time. As you see, I was just on my way off-planet. The matter is quite urgent or else I- I'm really afraid I cannot take time-"

"I am aware of this, Holiness," said the lay brother. Talking seemed to require an effort of him, as if speech were a power not often used, almost forgotten. "That is why I came. I must speak with you now, before you leave."

The archbishop was already late, but he found he could not refuse this dark and commanding presence any more than he could have refused Death, if he'd discovered that grim figure standing in his doorway.

"Certainly, Brother," Fideles said.

Dropping his small article of luggage on the floor, the archbishop stood aside, allowing the brother to enter the office. Fideles started to shut the door when a hand emerged from the rough robes, prevented him. Penitent glanced around behind him, into the empty outer chambers.

"We will be alone?" he asked.

"Yes, I believe so. I forgot my breviary and Brother Petra has gone to fetch it. He is supposed to meet me at the transport..."

Brother Penitent nodded silently, stepped inside the room, and stood waiting in silence, unmoving, hands again clasped beneath the sleeves of his cassock. Fideles shut the door and returned to his desk.

"Please be seated, Brother," said the archbishop. Placing his hands on the desk, he was about to sit down himself.

"There is not time, Holiness," intoned the brother.

Fideles levered himself back to a standing position. He was suddenly worried and alarmed, certain some dire catastrophe had befallen. "What is it, Brother? What has happened?"

The lay brother did not respond to the question directly, did not appear to want the waste of words that would be required.

He said only, "You must take me with you, Holiness."

Abbot Fideles was completely and totally confounded. He was also troubled. "Brother," he said, his refusal reluctant, "were it any other occasion, I would, of course, be glad for your company, but I have agreed to undertake this mission in secret and I-"

"I know the secret, Holiness." Brother Penitent's tone was low, his shoulders bowed, as if he bore some heavy burden. "I know where you are going and why."

"That is not possible," said the archbishop.

Brother Penitent did not appear to hear him, continued speaking relentlessly. "You have been requested to come immediately to a sanitarium run by the Sisters of Magdelen on a planet in the Central Systems. The sister superior herself contacted you directly, convinced you that the matter was of the utmost urgency and should be kept confidential, even to the extent of prohibiting you from telling anyone where you are going or why."

"How do you know this?" Fideles demanded, amazed both at the knowledge and the calm with which Brother Penitent recited it. "The message was sent through private channels."

Again the words came slowly to Brother Penitent's lips. "Let us say ... God revealed it to me."

"Did He?" asked Fideles, struck by the hesitating manner of a man who had never in his life hesitated to do or face or say anything.

Brother Penitent reached up his hand, slowly and deliber-ately removed the cowl, lifted his head, fixed his eyes upon the archbishop. The man's face was so deeply lined it appeared to be scarred. His black hair was streaked with gray and fell lank and long and unkempt on his shoulders. His mouth was thin-lipped, mirthless. But it was the eyes that arrested Fideles, caused his heart to wrench with pity. The man's eyes were empty, dark. The archbishop remembered those eyes when they had been vibrant, burning, alive.

Brother Penitent said simply, "Let us say that He did."

Uneasy, bewildered, the archbishop pondered what to do and, trying to find some clue, studied the brother standing before him. Fideles became aware of a tension within Penitent, a tautness that made the man's body quiver.

Fideles was suddenly afraid, but of what or of whom he couldn't say. And that made the fear more awful. Yet he was not the type to give way to fear or crumble beneath it. He had served as a nurse on a ship of war, served with courage and distinction, had been cited for bravery under fire. He had been forced, more than once, to make terrible decisions-decisions that meant life or death.

The archbishop, troubled and upset, prayed for guidance. Brother Penitent had done things during his life that were wrong. He had committed crimes of a most dark and fearful nature. But he had repented of these deeds and had since spent his life since in seeking God's forgiveness. And if Brother Penitent chose to be mysterious about this, then the archbishop must consider that God worked in mysterious ways.

Penitent had never before asked anything of his archbishop ... or of anyone. The lay brother knew details of the mission that no one could have possibly known unless by divine intervention. There were some-Prior John among them-who would have said that such intervention came from a dark and unholy source. But as soon as this thought crossed Fideles's mind, he knew the decision he must make. His faith in God remained steadfast.

"Of course, then, Brother, you must come with me," Archbishop Fideles said resolutely. "Are you packed? Do you need to bring anything?"

Brother Penitent did not reply. Drawing his cowl up over his head, pulling it low over his face, he indicated silently he was ready to proceed, empty-handed as he was.

Fideles left the abbey, satisfied that he had done what the Creator wanted. The two boarded the transport. At the last minute, Brother Petra arrived, apologetic, out of breath, and clutching the breviary, which he almost forgot to hand over, so astounded was he at the sight of the archbishop's strange companion.

"Tell Prior John that Brother Penitent goes with me" was all the archbishop had time to say, and he needn't have said that much, he reflected, for the news would be circulated through the small, cloistered community the moment Brother Petra had recovered breath enough to tell it.

Again Fideles reminded himself he was doing God's will.

The transport headed out into deep space. And it was here, among the stars, that the archbishop realized he was human after all, and that to be human was to continually battle against doubt.

He had his breviary, but in his distracted state of mind, he'd gone off and left his luggage sitting beside the office door.

Chapter Fourteen.

Cleanliness is, indeed, next to godliness.

Charles Wesley, Sermons Tusk-looking sharp and professional in the neatly pressed combat fatigues he wore when he was transporting clients- stood at the foot of the Scimitar's ladder, greeting his latest customers.

"Name's Tusk," he said, extending his hand.

"Don Perrin," said a man, blond, broad-shouldered, good-looking.

"Cynthia Zorn," said a woman, blond, long-legged, and good-looking.

They shook hands all around.

"Commander Link's already on board," said Tusk, "getting everything ready. We should lift off right on time. Can I give you a hand with your gear?"

The man and woman had arrived in a sleek new limo-jet. The driver had unpacked travel cases from the trunk, placed them on the ground.

"Thank you," said Don. "Oh, uh, here, Charles, let me handle that."

The driver had hold of something large and metallic, heavy and ungainly, and was attempting to wrestle it out of the backseat of the limo. He was making little progress and was obviously relieved to stand aside and let Don take over. Tusk grabbed hold of the two travel cases, which were light and small, hefted them easily, and waited to see what would eventually emerge from the limo.

"You two vacuum cleaner salesmen?" he asked when Don had the thing out and resting on the tarmac.

The woman laughed. "In a manner of speaking."

Don, flushed with his efforts, grinned. "I know she's not very pretty, but she's good at what she does."

"Uh-huh," said Tusk, eyeing a large metal canister that stood about one and a half meters tall and came complete with coiled hose, nozzle, and various appendages. "What does 'she' do?"

"Her name is Mrs. Mopup. Get it? Mop up? She's the Housewife's Dream. Or househusband's," Don added, casting an apologetic glance at his partner."

Cynthia smiled. "Haven't you seen our vid ads? Or heard our jingle? 'Let Mrs. Mopup mop up after your poppet?' It's quite catchy."

"No, sorry," said Tusk, trying to keep a straight face. They were customers, after all. "But then," he added, hurriedly, "we don't own a vid at home. The wife doesn't believe in them. Thinks the kid would spend too much time watching it instead of studying."

The vid set was, in fact, now siting in Mike's Friendly Pawnshop.

"I can't believe you haven't seen it." Cynthia seemed genuinely crushed.

Tusk made amends. "But I'll bet my wife would sure go for one of those things."