"Like what?"

"Like being attacked by ghosts."

"Ghosts again!" Dion swore softly in frustration.

"Yes, ghosts again. There was no warning. No one saw any-thing coming. Suddenly metal buildings were crushed like beer cans. Spaceplanes crumpled into twisted rubble. The ground split wide open. And then . . . nothing."

"No strike force, no assault, no landing."

"Nothing," Dixter reiterated. "But there could have been. The outpost is finished, useless. All land-based weapons systems were either destroyed outright or their electrical systems so badly scrambled that they're unable to function. All shields were knocked out." He shook his head. "A group of kindergartners could have marched into that base and taken it over."

"And no enemy was ever sighted?"

"No, Your Majesty. There were several interesting and instructive points in the attack: wild gravity fluctuations, people reporting feeling 'heavy' or 'compressed,' slight changes in radiation levels . . ."

"And all the outposts attacked are located near Vallombrosa. My cousin's come out of hiding, it seems." Dion rubbed at his hand. "Sagan was right. I should have used the space-rotation bomb."

"That was never a consideration and you know it."

"My inherent weakness," Dion said bitterly.

Dixter shifted uneasily in his chair. "Speaking of Sagan, have you heard from him?"

"No. Not a word."

"You don't think he's . . ." Dixter hesitated.

"What? Shifted allegiance? You said he sent a warning about the queen-"

"Maybe he sent it. And it didn't arrive in time for us to do anything. That may have been a cover."

"I wonder-did I ever really have his allegiance to begin with? Where was he when I first became king? When I needed his advice and counsel? He simply . . . walked off. Left me to struggle with all this alone."

"I think he had his own struggle, son," Dixter said.

"A struggle he may have lost," Dion said grimly.

A faint buzz sounded. A red light flashed on a panel at Dion's right hand, below eye level.

"Security alert." Dion flicked on the commlink. "Captain Cato. What's going on?"

"Security reports a disturbance in the tourist area, Your Majesty. Some drugged-up Loti left the group and wandered into a secured area. He's been apprehended." "Loti!" John Dixter was immediately attentive. "That's odd. Captain, this is the Lord Admiral. Do you recall a Loti by the name of Raoul? He worked for Snaga Ohme."

"Good God!" Dion murmured.

"The Adonian? Yes, my lord."

"Would you recognize him?"

"Of course, my lord. There aren't many like him, thank goodness."

"Find out if he's the one they caught down there. Report back immediately."

"Yes, my lord."

"Was Raoul with Xris on Ceres?" Dion asked.

"He could well have been," Dixter answered.

The two men said nothing further, waited in uneasy silence until the call came through.

The king answered swiftly.

"It's Raoul, Your Majesty," returned Cato. "He insists on talking to you."

"Bring him straight up. The back route."

"Yes, sir."

Long minutes passed, longer than the ticking clock counted them. A portion of the wall at the rear of Dion's office slid open. Cato entered, half-leading, half-carrying a stumbling, weakly moving Adonian.

Dion thought that at first the centurion had made a mistake. This wasn't Raoul! The Loti's usually sleek black hair was ragged and unkempt, trailed over his face. The pink velvet costume was rumpled and torn and covered with ominous splotchy stains. His painted-nailed hands shook; his whole body shook. Cato lowered him gently into a chair.

"Raoul?" Dion asked in disbelief.

"It's him, sire," said Cato, speaking in a soft voice, as if the Adonian mustn't hear. "Though it took me a while to make sure. He's been through hell, from the looks of him. I wanted to take him to the infirmary, but he keeps saying he has to see you."

"Yes," said Raoul, lifting his head. The movement, it seemed, took a great effort. "Yes, I had to see you, Your Majesty." He closed his eyes. A shudder ran through his body. His hands twitched.

"Summon the doctor," Dion ordered Cato.

"No, Your . . . Your Majesty," interposed Raoul weakly. "Thank you, but . . . no. It . .. wouldn't help. It's the drugs, you see. Or rather the lack thereof." The Loti's eyes were shadowed, red-rimmed. But they were focused, clear, and in pain. "I have come from Ceres-" His words were broken off by a spell of coughing.

Dion poured a glass of water. Cato passed it to the Loti, assisted him while he drank it.

"How did you manage to escape, Raoul?" John Dixter asked, after a glance at Dion. "All flights are grounded."

Raoul gave a wan smile. "There is always a way for one of my talents." He drew a deep breath. "Brother Daniel . . . helped me. He has been arguing with . . . the baroness. Trying to convince her to . . . tell you the truth. But she's afraid. So afraid. Brother Daniel said . . . you had to know. And so I came."

He could no longer continue talking. He grimaced, gasped in pain. His hands clenched and unclenched spasmodically.

"The doctor could give you something-"

"No!" Raoul grasped hold of Dion's arm, held on tightly. "No, I . . . must make certain ... I tell this right."

"What is the truth, then, Raoul?" Dion asked sternly. "What did Brother Daniel send you to tell us?"

Raoul shook the black hair out of his face. "The queen has been taken hostage."

"Hostage?" Dixter repeated, seeing Dion too stunned to speak. "Who did it?"

Raoul's gaze held fast to the king, never leaving Dion's face. "I don't know. DiLuna knows, but she won't say. They told her .. . they told her they would kill the queen if word got out. And so the baroness . . . made up this story. Xris . . . Xris was there. He tried to stop-" Raoul choked, coughed again.

"Xris tried to stop them," Dion filled in the pause.

"They shot him and, unfortunately, they hit one of the few remaining human parts left to him." Raoul blinked his eyes rapidly. "He clings to life. He is stubborn that way. But he has not yet regained consciousness. Brother Daniel says that the baroness is using the cyborg as some sort of goat-"

"Scapegoat?" Dion suggested.

"Perhaps. I don't know. Very little of this has any meaning for me. You . .. note the absence of my partner?" Raoul glanced at the empty space beside him. He even reached out an unsteady hand to touch something that wasn't there.

Dion remembered the small, raincoated figure, the battered hat. The Little One,'' he said softly, at last beginning to understand. "Is he ... He isn't ..

"Not dead!" Raoul said swiftly. "Not yet. But perhaps . .. while I am gone." He closed his eyes again, shivered. "Brother Daniel promised he would stay with him and . . . wouldn't let him be afraid. You had to know. And I was the only one to come."

"Thank you, Raoul," Dion said, putting his hand over the Loti's trembling wrist. "You have performed an invaluable service. I'm sorry about Xris. Sorry about the Little One. If there is anything I can do-"

"You could come to them!" Raoul clung to Dion. "Your hands are the hands of the healer."

Dion looked grim. "I doubt if the baroness would permit it."

"She will. She must. Brother Daniel will talk to her!"

"Perhaps," said Dion thoughtfully. He exchanged glances with Dixter. "Perhaps that would be the best way, sir. She could hardly refuse an errand of mercy. I will see what can be done, Raoul. Now, if you'll go with Cato to the doctor-"

"I thank you, Your Majesty, but no." Raoul stood up. He nearly fell, put out a hand to steady himself on the back of the chair. He warded off Cato's assistance. "Forgive me. I don't mean to be rude. But I'm going back."

"Back? Back where? To Ceres?" Dion shook his head. "I'm sorry, Raoul, but that's not possible. The planet's under a self-imposed blockade. There's no way."

"For a person like me," said Raoul simply, "there is always a way. It may not be legal, but there is a way. I promised him, you see. I promised him I would come back quickly."

He appeared stronger, as if he were gathering up the various fragments of himself, putting himself back together. He even touched his hair, made a feeble and ineffectual attempt to smooth it. "It was . .. nice seeing you again, Your Majesty. I will tell Brother Daniel you are coming."

Turning, he launched himself across the floor, heading for the front entrance.

Cato looked at Dion questioningly.

Dion motioned with his hand. "Take him out the back. Have some of your men keep an eye on him. Don't interfere with him-unless he tries to kill someone," the king added, remembering Raoul's dubious talents.

"Yes, Your Majesty."

Cato caught hold of Raoul, steered him gently around a couch, headed him in the direction of the disguised door. Raoul suffered himself to be led, gave Dion a sad, sweet smile as he departed.

"So my cousin is holding the queen hostage," Dion said grimly when the two were alone.

Dixter's expression was grave. "You don't know that for certain, Your Majesty. I'll try again to establish some sort of communication with DiLuna. Maybe I can use this new information as a lever-"

"Tell her 1 know the truth now and I will come to Ceres to investigate. And I'll bring every warship I have in the galaxy with me. I don't give a damn about confrontation. Tell her I care about one thing-Her Majesty's safe recovery."

Dixter nodded, and left.

Dion returned to his desk, sat down, and tried to work. At length, though, he gave up. He couldn't concentrate. His thoughts kept going to Astarte. He thought of her captive, frightened, alone. And from there his thoughts sank deeper, into darker waters.

Surely they wouldn't harm her. Her usefulness to her kidnappers-whoever they were-would preclude that. They must plan to try to exchange her for . .. what?

Dion scratched his palm.

The crown. Astarte knows what I must say. We've discussed what I must do if she is ever taken hostage. She'll know I must abandon her to her fate. But she'll think I don't care. She'll think that losing her won't matter to me, because I don't love her. Perhaps she'll think I'll be glad. . . .

"Oh, God!" he cried in silent agony. "Am I guilty of this crime? Did I wish this? Did I secretly want this to happen?"

"Your Majesty . . ."

Dion gave a violent start, looked up. D'argent stood before the desk.

"I'm sorry, sir," said D'argent, concerned. "I thought you heard me come in."

"No ... I ... I must have dozed off," said Dion confusedly, wiping sweat from his face. "What is it?"

"Mendaharin Tusca is here to see you, sir. Shall I send him in?"

"Yes, please."

D argent left. Dion sat in silence a moment then he reached inside the top right-hand desk drawer, drew out a small, elegant box made of rich azure blue leather stamped with gold. The box had originally held Dion's wedding ring. Now it contained a single earring, fashioned in the shape of an eight-pointed star. Opening the box was like opening the door to memory. Dion stared at the small star, sighed.

"Strange, how Tusk always comes when I'm in trouble," he said to himself. "I can't tell him anything about this, of course, but just seeing him-"

"Mendaharin Tusca," D'argent announced.

Looking abashed and out of place, his hands jammed into his pockets, Tusk stood inside the door.

"Thank you, D'argent," Dion said, standing up. He placed the box with the earring down on the desk. "That will be all."

The secretary left the room, crossing behind Tusk, who took a step or two farther inside the office, then came to a halt, looked at Dion uncertainly. The mercenary was dressed much as Dion remembered, wearing battle fatigues over a green T-shirt and regulation boots, acquired from army-navy surplus. Two objects were new: a large, shining belt buckle in the shape of a snake, which was rather grotesque, and a pendant-a smiling lion-faced sun. Dion recognized the pendant as one of the cheap souvenirs popular on Minas Tares.

The king was somewhat puzzled by the sight; he'd never known Tusk to wear any jewelry except the one tiny earring in the shape of an eight-pointed star-which was currently resting on the king's desk. But he decided that maybe this was Tusk's idea of a joke.

"My friend." Dion crossed over to meet him. Extending his hand, he clasped Tusk's, shook it warmly. "How are you? How's Nola and the baby? And XJ?"

"Uh, fine," said Tusk, returning the handshake briefly, breaking loose as soon as he could manage. He thrust his hands back into the pockets of his fatigues, hunched his shoulders, glanced nervously about die spacious, richly appointed, elegant office. "They re all fine," he repeated mechanically. "Jeez, this is huge. Bigger'n my house."

Dion led Tusk to a comfortable chair in front of an ornate fireplace. "I forgot You haven't seen this part of the castle yet, have you?"

"No, they were . . . uh . . . still remodeling when Nola and I came last time." He stood awkwardly, staring at the chair.

"Please, sit down," Dion said. "No formalities between us."

Tusk sat down, sat perched on the edge. Dion pulled up a chair near that of his friend. "Would you like something to drink? I can ring for D'argent-"