"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.

"My, you are nervous," said Cynthia, resting her hand on his arm.

"Yeah, I ... I guess I am," said Tusk. "I'm not much used to being around royalty."

"But you're half Blood Royal yourself," Cynthia observed. "We know all about you, Mendaharin Tusca." She put her arm through his. "Calm down. You'll soon be as devoted to the prince as the rest of us. I promise you, once you meet him, this won't be strictly business' for you any longer."

"You don't think so, huh?" Tusk said, trying out a light laugh.

"I don't think so. I know so," said Cynthia earnestly.

An hour later, standing talking to the prince, Tusk was beginning to wonder himself. Flaim Starfire was exactly what everyone had said he was. He slid down the throat as easily and hotly as jump-juice, left you feeling slighdv intoxicated by the whole experience.

"Mendaharin Tusca, what an honor to meet you at last." Flaim stopped Tusk from his awkward bow, extended a hand, shook Tusk's warmly. The Starfire-blue eyes were brilliant, mesmerizing. The prince's smile was sincere, his handshake firm, dignified. "I cannot tell you how delighted I am you decided to join with us. I know-" his smile warmed, dazzled, "I know you're 'strictly business,' but I hope to win you to my cause. Come, I want to speak to you a moment in private."

Many people were hovering around the prince, waiting, begging for a share of that smile. But they' all seemed to evaporate the moment the prince gave the signal. Flaim placed one hand on Tusk's shoulder, drew him off to a corner by himself. Tusk felt Sagan's eyes on him, although the Warlord was standing in the far corner of the vast room, engaged in polite conversation. Sagan started moving in Tusk's direction, but was deflected by Cynthia. Taking hold of Sagan's arm, she began introducing him to other guests.

And that was the last Tusk saw of the Warlord for the time being. Flaim led him to a steelglass viewscreen, presenting a marvelous view of the prince's large fleet of ships and the space stations in orbit around Vallombrosa.

"I am pleased you have decided to undertake this delicate task for me, Tusca," said Flaim with a gravity that was every bit as becoming as his smile, "because I think you alone can convince my cousin of how much I look forward to meeting him. I know that the two of you have not been close in these past years...." He paused, looked at Tusk expectantly.

"Yeah, I mean, yes, Your Highness. I guess you could say that. It's just that he's so high and a king and all and I'm .. . well .. . you can't say it was really like we were mad at each other or anything . . ." Tusk was floundering, hoped someone would cast him a line.

Flaim came to his rescue. "Exactly. Change in circumstance, the passing of time, friends drift apart. It's no one's fault. A misunderstanding. And this will give you a chance to renew your friendship with Dion, Tusca. And you'll be doing both of us a great favor by bringing us together at last."

"At gunpoint," Tusk said, his mouth moving before his brain was in gear.

Flaim appeared more amused than offended. "I heard that you were candid, Tusca. Up front. You say what you think. I like that quality very much, far better than mindless flattery. And I trust that the use of force will not be necessary. For one thing, I don't believe His Majesty would harm you, do you, Tusca?"

Tusk shook his head, guilty and uncomfortable.

"No, of course he wouldn't. And there is another reason. Come. There's someone I want you to meet."

Confused and dazed, feeling as if he'd drunk too much wine and shouldn't be driving himself home, Tusk glanced about for assistance. He was relieved to note that Sagan-with the smoothness and skill of a longtime naval commander-had steered Cynthia onto the shoals of conversation with several high-ranking officers, and then had promptly and politely left her to her fate. Tusk had a last glimpse of Sagan bearing down on them, when he was forced to turn his attention back to the prince.

The reception room aboard His Highness's ship Flare was vast, intended for the diplomatic functions that often took place on naval vessels. Such ships were highly suited-when not at war-to the shunting of diplomats back and forth between planets. The room was furnished with the obligatory round tables and uncomfortable chairs, designed for the sole purpose of bringing together total strangers to stare blankly at each other while they sipped lukewarm drinks and ate food off toothpicks.

Prince Flaim was moving toward one of these tables, located apart from all the others, in a far corner of the room. Tusk had already observed this table and its occupants and had been curious about them for several reasons. The two people sitting at the table were women. They were both dressed in white gowns (when everyone else was in uniform) and there was something familiar about one of them, though Tusk couldn't figure out what, because she sat with her back to him. No one came near these two women, but that may have been because several men stood near the table. The men did not carry weapons, but they had the stance and quiet watchfulness of guards-whether bodyguards or prison guards was hard to tell.

The women didn't seem to be enjoying themselves, from what Tusk could see. Each had a drink before her, and food, but neither was eating. Both appeared tense, ill at ease, and both appeared determined to ignore what was happening around them. They did not seem to be finding much comfort in each other's company; however. They weren't talking to anyone, not even each other. An elderly black gentleman sat with them, smiling on them both, apparently trying to do what he could to entertain them.

At the sight of Flaim approaching, the three guards backed off. Tusk recognized one of them as Captain Dhure. The captain acknowledged Tusk with a friendly smile and a nod, but said nothing, seeing that Tusk was being escorted by the prince. The elderly black gentleman rose to his feet. He, too, seemed vaguely familiar to Tusk, but he didn't have time to think where he knew him. Flaim was making introductions.

"Her Majesty, the queen."

The shock went through Tusk like a laser blast. He'd never met Astarte, but he'd seen her on the vids, before his machine had been repossessed. At first he thought confusedly that this must be some type of trick, for his benefit, maybe an impostor . . . but he had to abandon the idea.

There was no mistaking, no imitating Astarte's startling beauty, or the cool, imperious attitude with which she snubbed him. Flaim bowed before her, accorded her respect, paid her homage as if she were on her own royal barge, of her own free will. Astarte accepted his homage as no more than her due, but with the set jaw and rigidly held emotional control of one who knows that it's all mockery.

The prince's game plan was obvious to Tusk now. Had Sagan known about this move? Had he been behind it? Or was he as taken by surprise as Tusk? The Warlord had come up to stand behind them. Tusk sensed the man's presence, though he couldn't see him. Flaim was introducing the elderly black gentleman, whose name Tusk recognized, though he was too distraught to try to place how he knew him.

Flaim didn't introduce the other woman; probably the queen's servant, Tusk concluded, glancing at her without much interest. Then he noticed that the woman had her head turned away, her hand before it. She was shielding her face, deliberately trying to prevent him from noticing her. Which, of course, made him notice her. There was something about her that had seemed familiar....

And then he knew.

Tusk gasped, sucked in his breath. "Kamil! What the hell-"

"No, sir, you must be mistaken," murmured Kamil. She flashed him a pleading glance, gave her head a quick shake. Her eyes darted swiftly to Flaim, then back to Tusk again. "My name is Diana-"

"What is this?" Flaim asked with sudden interest, looking from one to the other. "Do you know this woman, Tusca?"

Tusk glanced around. Sagan was watching him through half-closed eyelids. The Warlord's expression was impassive, but Tusk could see the sudden rigidity in the body, the slight twitch of the thin lips. Tusk had blundered, apparently, but what had he done? What the devil was going on anyway? And what in heaven's name was he supposed to do about it?

He thought fast. There was only one thing he could do now.

"Her name's not Diana. It's Kamil," he said harshly. "Maigrey Kamil Olefsky. She's a friend of the royal family-"

"Indeed she is!" said Flaim, turning and regarding Kamil with marked interest "What strange chance has thrown this prize into our hands? I would dearly love to know this story," he added, exchanging amused glances with the elderly black man.

Tusk still didn't understand, though everyone else seemed to, judging by the knowing smiles. He tried to look knowing himself but he felt like the only person at the party who doesn't get the host's dirty joke and has to laugh politely anyway.

Flaim turned back to him. "Tusca, my friend. Thank you for enlightening us. Now you will be able to tell His Majesty, when you see him, that we are entertaining not only his wife as our guest, but his mistress as well."

Mistress! Tusk, shocked and disbelieving, looked from one woman to the other, to Astarte-pale but unmoved-to Kamil- flushed and angry and wretched-and he had his answer.

"Close. Very close," Sagan murmured grimly, but Tusk heard approval in the voice, and he relaxed somewhat.

Kamil couldn't have gone on with this deception long. The prince was undoubtedly having some sort of ID check run on her. It was just a matter of time. And this revelation had, without doubt, raised Tusk a notch with the prince. Flaim was regarding the mercenary with new respect.

"If you will excuse me, Your Majesty," Flaim said, bowing to the queen with grace, "I must steal Pantha away from you for a moment."

The elderly man, Garth Pantha (that's who he was, Tusk realized) bowed and left the queen, came to join Flaim and Tusk. The prince laid a hand on Tusk's shoulder.

"You have already proved yourself invaluable, Tusca. You have my thanks and"-Flaim smiled-"my apologies for any uncomfortable moments you might have experienced since coming aboard. Captain Zorn was only obeying orders. I trust that from now on you two will be very good friends."

Calling off the dogs, are you? Tusk said, but he said it in his head.

"My Lord Sagan," continued the prince, "Pantha and I must greet the rest of our guests. Perhaps you and Tusca would be so kind as to entertain Her Majesty?"

Sagan bowed his acquiescence and there was nothing Tusk could do but bow his as well. The Warlord turned toward the queen, but not before he had cast a sharp, swift glance at Tusk.

Tusk didn't need the warning. Undoubtedly, either the two women or the table or all three were wired for sound. Feeling as if his skin-tight uniform were crawling over his body, Tusk set his face in what he hoped was a go-to-hell expression and accompanied the Warlord to the table.

Astarte had no intention of being entertained by either of them, however. Rising to her feet, she turned her back on them, faced Captain Dhure. "I find these people odious. I will retire now."