He found his voice, which seemed to have seized up on him, and shrugged.

"It's not up to me to say whether Your Majesty does or doesn't have the right to poke around in your husband's classified files, but I would be interested in knowing how you happened to go looking for me. Or did Your Majesty just start at the bottom of the alphabet and pick the first name you came across?"

"A fair question," she said after a moment's thought and cool appraisal. "You may sit down." She made a regal gesture. "Don't smoke."

Xris had taken a twist out of his pocket. Now he looked at it, looked at her, then stuck the twist back in his pocket again. The queen walked over to the window. Parting the curtains, she glanced out.

"There's no one out there, Your Majesty, unless you were followed," Xris offered.

"No, I wasn't followed," said the queen. "I'm my mother's daughter, after all."

This meant nothing to Xris, beyond the fact that she said it with a hard and bitter edge to her voice. She let the curtain fall, turned back to face him.

"I heard His Majesty speak of you. He told me the story of how the Lady Maigrey hired you and your team. How you went with her into that terrible moon in the Corasian galaxy. How you risked your own life to save the life of Tusca. His Majesty's best friend. You helped the Lady Maigrey. She trusted you. It occurred to me, when I needed help, that I could trust you, as well."

The wine-colored eyes lifted to meet his. She was breathtaking. Xris would have taken off his cloak-had he owned a cloak-thrown it in the mud at her feet. Hell, he would have thrown himself into the mud at her feet, begged her to walk on him. But he reminded himself sternly that business was business and he'd better keep this on a business footing-which meant standing on his own two.

"Look, Your Majesty, the Lady Maigrey and I had a deal, a business deal, a contract-"

"You will be well paid, of course," said Astarte, with a slight smile. "I regret that I cannot give you a written contract, but there must be no record of our involvement. I am going to be asking you to do certain things and you will not know precisely why, nor will I be able to tell you. Is this going to be a problem?"

She was cool, very cool. This was some sort of test and "yes" wasn't the right answer.

"So long as you're not going to ask me to do anything that would make me a traitor," Xris said bluntly. "I live by my own rules, generally; I'm my own boss. I've been known to bend the law when I thought it needed bending, or break it on occasion-"

"Such as this last trip you made across enemy lines?" Astarte asked, interrupting. "To rescue your wife, wasn't it? Did you succeed? I hope you did. That was a strong point in your favor."

Xris stared at her, his brain feeling the way his body felt when his battery pack shut down-helpless, paralyzed. He opened his mouth, but no words came out. The silence was broken instead by a series of small beeps. Lights flashed-his weapons arm, undergoing a routine systems check.

"I'm sorry." Astarte said, not even glancing at it. "I shouldn't have interrupted you. You were saying?"

Xris had no idea. All he could remember was the substance. "I wont do anything to hurt the king," he said harshly. "He's all right I think he's doing an okay job. If you have anything like that in mind, sister you better pick up your hat and gloves and start walking."

He was rough on her, purposefully so. Her face flushed, but not in shame.

"I am not your sister. Nor will you address me as such." Astarte's voice lowered; she looked almost sad. "What I hire you to do will not harm His Majesty. You might say, in a way, it will save his life. Or what he values more than life."

She said the last in a soft tone, so soft only the cyborg's augmented hearing could have registered it. She began to droop, wilt like a cut rose. Had Xris's arms been flesh and blood instead of metal, he might have taken her into those arms, patted her on the back, told her to have a good cry. Had she been flesh and blood, instead of queen of the galaxy, she might have done so.

As it was, Xris shifted uncomfortably, began fiddling unnecessarily with the controls on his cybernetic leg.

She asked, in the same low tone, "Did you rescue your wife?"

"Yes," Xris said briefly.

Astarte waited a moment, giving him a chance to add details, something he'd never do as long as his artificial heart kept pumping what passed for blood through his body. But he did wonder what had prompted the question, which must have been tripping on the heels of whatever thoughts had gone before it.

He couldn't begin to guess what she had in mind. If he'd been watching the vids, reading the mags, keeping up with the latest gossip, he might have been able to figure it out. Too bad Raoul and the Little One weren't with him. Raoul would have known what was coming down. The Adonian could have named every garment in the queen's wardrobe, complete with accessories. And the little empath would have been invaluable. Not that it took an empath to sense that beneath the purple velvet mantle of royalty, sophistication, and power, this queen, who had-presumably-the resources of a vast empire at her disposal, was desperate, afraid, alone.

Which meant she'll pay big, he told himself. And he'd probably earn it. From what he remembered from college history class, those who got mixed up in court intrigues did not live long and happy lives. But that was a small consideration; almost no consideration at all. Xris's life wasn't so great that he'd turn down good money to prolong it.

Flesh-and-blood women. They could be grateful to a ma-chine that saved them, but never love one. No matter what they said.

He'd been silent so long that Astarte was looking anxious, apparently thinking he was still having doubts about her. "I swear to you, by the Goddess whom I serve, that I would never ask you or anyone to harm the king." She laid her hand on his arm. Her flesh-and-blood hand. His cybernetic arm. "You must believe me."

Xris smiled, shrugged. "Sure. Okay. I believe you. Feels strange, doesn't it, Your Majesty?" he added. "You expect it to be warm, like normal flesh."

"I didn't," she replied. "Also included in your file were complete diagrams showing how you've been put together. I studied them extensively."

Xris regarded her thoughtfully. Maybe he'd been wrong about her. Her touch was just as cold to his sensors as his own metal. Maybe colder.

She removed her hand, slowly, and turned away. Picking up her gloves, she put them on, smoothed them out. She then lifted her wide-brimmed hat, placed it on her head-this time looking at herself in the mirror-and adjusted the veil.

"All women in mourning on this planet must hide their faces for thirty days. You have your own spaceplane. Where is it parked?"

"Spaceport Central. Gate 16-X. Look, Your Majesty, now that you know that you can trust me and I know that I can trust you, why don't you tell me what's going on?"

She tied the veil around her neck. "We will leave now, taking the monorail to the spaceport. You are a transport pilot in my employ. My lover died off-world. I have hired you to bring her body back home for burial."

"Nice cover story, but I mean, what's really going on?"

"No. Not now. Not here." She glanced around at him. "Maybe not ever. You will follow orders."

Astarte looked back at herself made a minor adjustment to the hat. "When we reach the spaceport, you will go straight to the plane. I will gain clearance for our departure, as well as our return. The journey will be short: forty-eight hours. I will make all the other arrangements, including having the coffin loaded onto your plane."

"Coffin, huh? What's in it? Are they likely to X-ray it?"

"Nothing is in it. I told you. We are going to pick up my lov-er's body. Are you ready?" She turned to face him, her head back, chin tilted.

Xris took a last, quick swallow of the jump-juice, stuck the bottle back into his luggage. Since that was the only item he'd unpacked, he was ready. He pulled a twist out of his pocket, stuck it in his mouth.

"You will not smoke," she said.

Xris eyed her, considering.

"Royal command?"

"If you want to think of it that way."

"Huh-uh. And speaking of royal commands, just what or who's going to be in the coffin coming back, Your Majesty?"

He couldn't see her face. The veil concealed her features, hid them behind an intricate pattern of lacy black net. But he could see the coral lips part in a cool smile.

"That depends on you," she said. "And now we should go. Time is critical."

She turned, faced the door, stood waiting expectantly for him to open it for her.

Xris opened it.

She walked out, head high, without a backward look. She assumed he would follow.

"Damn," Xris muttered, half-exasperated, half-admiring.

He looked at the twist in his hand. Shrugging, he took the rest of the pack out of his pocket, tossed it on the floor, and followed. He'd been meaning to quit anyway.

Chapter Seven.

King: Where is the crown? Who took it from my pillow?

Warwick: When we withdrew, my liege, we left it here.

King: The Prince hath taken it hence. Go, seek him out. Is he so hasty that he doth suppose My sleep my death?

William Shakespeare, King Henry IV, Part Two, Act IV Scene v Twelve hours had passed since the voice had welcomed Sagan to the Valley of Ghosts. Twelve hours and no further communication. He spent the time retrieving more data on the planet, its double suns, and its artificial moons-the orbiting space stations.

The lid was off the box; one mystery was solved-only to find a nest of boxes inside. Thousands of people, concealed from the knowledge of the rest of the galaxy. Easy enough to spirit away one bastard child. But an entire civilization? It was not difficult figuring out what had happened to the probes. The "ghosts" that had moved the breviary had undoubtedly "moved" the probes as well. But how do you keep thousands of people silent? How do you keep them from saying to the rest of the galaxy, "We're here!"?

A strong leader could do it. A leader to whom all were unswervingly loyal, faithful. One of the Blood Royal. . . .

At least Sagan was no longer alone in space. Activity in the area had picked up. Sleek fighter planes, of a new design based on his old Scimitar, flashed past every hour or so, keeping an eye on him. At one point he caught a glimpse of a fleet of warships and support craft. Visual observation showed him very little: the flash of sunlight off a ship's prow, occasional streaks of tracer fire, the winking of running lights. His monitors gave him a detailed description, however. The numbers were impressive, consisting of battle cruisers, tankers, carriers, supply ships. Impressive, but not that impressive. It was not a force large enough to conquer a galaxy. Nor did it appear well trained or well organized.

A particularly ragged formation flew past. Sagan caught himself on his feet, his face grim, his hand on the commlink controls, about to give the pilots a brief lesson in flying. Recalling where he was-what he was-he stopped himself. Sitting back in his chair, he smiled over old memories.

But the smile was twisted by pain, a sweet honey drink laced with bitter poison-temptation, longing, sudden ardent desire. Once more he was on the old Phoenix, standing before the viewscreen on the bridge, watching the exercises, filming in impotent rage, shaking his head at some piece of stupidity, holding his breath over near disaster averted at the last minute, finally taking his spaceplane out himself and showing by example what he wanted, feeling that inner satisfaction when some terrified recruit overcame fear and confusion and actually did what he was supposed to do-that was life. That had been his life. And it could be again; Sagan recognized a shining red apple when he saw one. He didn't need to see the grinning serpent coiled around it.

He stared at the wheeling, flashing planes, the huge mothering ships that would receive their children home. In that life there was noise. In that life he would no longer hear the roaring silence.

And in that instant, it all vanished.

Ships, planes, stars, sun, planet. Everything went black around him. He darted a swift look at his instrument panel, but whatever was happening to him was sending the instruments berserk.

It happened too fast for fear. His first and most immediate reaction was: "What the-" A shattering crash cut that brief thought short.

The impact sent him sprawling across the console, knocked the breath from his body. The sharp edges of various knobs and switches jabbed into him, bruising and cutting him. The volksrocket jolted and jounced, then lurched to a stop that was as sudden as the initial impact, slammed Sagan into the steelglass viewscreen.

The plane wobbled, then settled to rest. The Warlord lay where he was for a moment, dazed and shaken. Gradually he recovered his breath. His head began to throb in pain. He shoved himself up off the console. Putting his hand to his scalp, he felt blood, warm and sticky.

He sank into a chair, to give himself time to recover and try to assess what had happened. A glance out the viewscreen showed him it was night and he was on land ... or a reasonable facsimile thereof. The lights on his plane shone on the leaves and thick boles of several huge trees-probably what he'd crashed into. Instrument readings, now back to normal, indicated that he was definitely on land. Judging by the strange gravitational fluctuations being recorded, he was on Vallombrosa. But how he'd arrived here in such a short time from outer space made for extremely interesting speculation.

Thinking back on the entire startling few moments, he had the distinct impression that his plane had been snagged, flung through time and space like a rock from a slingshot.

Well, demanded a voice in his mind, are you coming?

Someone was waiting for him, waiting impatiently.

Sagan stood up. The pain in his head subsided to a dull throbbing that he relegated to the inner core of his being, ignored. He washed the blood from his face, stripped off the battle fatigues, stowed them in the trash compactor. He dressed himself once again in the plain and shabby cassock of the humble Brother Paenitens.

The outside atmosphere was breathable. He opened the hatch, found a splintered tree limb lying across it, blocking his way. Heaving the tree to one side, he kicked his way through a tangle of broken branches, walked down the stairs to the ground.

Dark night. And cold. No wind, but the air temperature was chill. There would be thick, heavy frost by morning. The sky was cloudless, spanned by a rift of stars. His plane had landed (been dropped might be a more appropriate term) on the fringes of a forest of deciduous trees. Last year's rotting leaves matted the ground. And there were evergreens, too; he could smell the sharp, clean scent of pine.

Looking around, he saw that the spaceplane rested on the gently sloping side of a steep hill, extending upward. The tree line ended not far beyond. A vast expanse of smooth, cropped grass was clearly visible in the darkness, a lighter grayish color against the tree-covered hills surrounding it. At the top burned a fire.

The fire was the only indication of life, of habitation any-where around. The blaze was enormous. Flames leapt high into the air. He could hear the crackling roar from where he stood, several hundred meters away. A man stood before the fire, silhouetted black against it. Calmly waiting. Calmly watching. Yet with that hint of impatience that drifted through the air like the smoke.

Sagan drew his cowl up over his head, clasped his hands over his wrists beneath the sleeves of his cassock. He began to climb the hill, moving toward the fire.

Suddenly he had the strange impression that he was not walking alone. He was being followed. The hair on the right side of the back of his neck prickled; the skin on his right shoulder and back twitched, as if any second he expected a touch-a hand ... a blade. He listened, heard nothing. The soft, thick grass underfoot would muffle all but the most careless sounds. Sagan cursed the hood that blocked his peripheral vision, continued walking at an even, measured pace.

The man standing in front of the fire had not moved.

Sagan left the forest behind and with it any cover for his pursuer, who was still keeping close behind him-or so he sensed. The follower must be counting on his own silent movements not to betray him; that and the fact that Warlord's vision was partially obscured by the cowl.

But why track him at all? Why not watch from the cover of the trees? If the man waiting at the fire felt the need to guard the Warlord, why the stealth?

Sagan moved his hands silently from out of the sleeves, loosened the starjewel he wore on the leather thong around his neck.

The starjewel fell to the ground.

Muttering to himself, the Warlord halted, bent to retrieve it. He jerked his head, flung back the cowl, looked around to see behind him.

Nothing. No one. Yet in the instant of his turning, he'd caught, out of the corner of his eye, a flash of silver armor.

He picked up the starjewel, hung it back around his neck, working slowly, deliberately, giving himself time to think. Had he truly seen that flash? Or was it his imagination? He looked to the fire.

The figure standing by the blaze stirred impatiently, peered into the darkness to see what was causing the delay.

Sagan shook his head. With a wry half-smile, he replaced the cowl over his head, straightened, walked on, quickening his pace.

He stepped into the circle of light.

The figure remained standing where he was, aware that he was under inspection. A man of about twenty-eight years, with saturnine features, square-jawed, hawk-nosed, arched brows. His glistening blue-black hair was pulled tight from his face, gathered in a blunt-cut tail at the back of his head, in the fashion of Earth's ancient Oriental warriors.

He was clad in a richly embroidered tunic, worn over a long, flowing sleeved blouse. The tunic's stiff, extended shoulders enhanced muscular shoulders of his own, a wide chest, and strong arms. His stance was straight, upright, open. His posture was regal, self-confident.

Not much like his father, was Sagan's first thought.

Of course, when the Warlord had met the king, Amodius was in middle age, sickly, bowed down by the burdens of an empire that were rapidly burying him. But if Sagan had previously had any doubts as to this younger man's heritage, they were resolved when he saw the eyes; the Starfire blue eyes, brilliant, sharp, and many-faceted. And at his side he wore the bloodsword.

Derek Sagan halted within the outer edge of the circle of light. He said nothing, made no move.