"Yet you're not above using the information he gained, no matter how he gained it."

"As a scientist yourself, my lord, surely you would agree that valuable information should not be wasted simply because it was obtained in a manner we might not approve. After all, we owe our very existence as Blood Royal, as genetically superior beings, to experiments done by the Nazis in their concentration camps."

"Which might suggest something to somebody," Sagan remarked.

Pantha frowned, wondering if he was being insulted. Then- eyeing Sagan closely-the old man apparently decided that the Warlord was making a joke and let it pass.

"Considering the way in which the information was obtained." Sagan went on coolly, "didn't you fear that some of it might not be accurate? That I might have deliberately lied to him?"

That was to be expected. But with my technical expertise-almost as great as your own, my lord, or so I flatter myself-I was able to determine what was workable and what was not. Something the Corasians were never able to figure out, which was why they have not been able to produce a space-rotation bomb of their own. I discovered, for example, the cyborg's 'arming' device. I must say I had a good laugh out of that. And you should see the monstrosity the techno-moronic Corasians created because of it. I lacked only one thing-"

"A working model."

"Yes. And now that is being supplied. I believe, mind you"- Pantha raised a bony index finger-"that I could have developed a working bomb myself. I am very close. But this will make it all so much easier."

Sagan regarded the man intently, wondered if he was telling the truth; if so, how much? Pantha was adept at keeping his thoughts hidden; he had not used the bloodsword in years. Might have been afraid to do so, after his disappearance. There was no way even Derek Sagan could penetrate that old and cagey mind. But he guessed that Pantha did have some knowledge of the bomb, though probably not as much as he boasted, else why the desperate need to get his hands on the real thing?

Which might make matters awkward. Still . . .

Sagan trampled his thoughts down swiftly, shoved them back inside his mental strongbox. He could still feel Flaim's quick, jabbing probes, like uncomfortable surges of electric current passing almost continually through him.

An interruption came in the conversation. Sagan experienced the unpleasant compressed sensation he had learned by now to associate with the dark-matter creatures. At the very same instant, the space-rotation bomb appeared out of nowhere, resting securely on the top of the marble stand.

He had not seen it since that fateful night Lady Maigrey had convinced him-and others-she was planning to detonate it. A trick, as it turned out. But a trick that had won Dion the prize.

Sagan, coming forward to look at the bomb, lifted his hand involuntarily to the starjewel he wore around his neck. And, as he did so, he saw Garth Pantha do the same; the old man's hand going to his neck.

There gleamed the Star of the Guardian. A rare jewel, the secret of whose creation died with the priests of the old Order of Adamant ... and the triggering device on the space-rotation bomb.

Garth Pantha was in possession of a starjewel. Probably, aside from Sagan's own, the last one in existence. How? Pantha had not been a Guardian, and only the Guardians received the coveted, mystical starjewel. Amodius, of course. He must have given his favorite this valuable token of esteem and friendship. Or perhaps as payment for removing the unwanted fruit of the king's sins.

Awkward indeed.

Flaim was gloating over the bomb like a doting mother over a new baby-hovering near it, afraid to touch it. Pantha regarded the prince with amusement.

"You may pick it up, Your Highness. It is quite harmless, when not armed."

Flaim lifted the bomb gingerly. It did not look like what it was-the ultimate destructive force in the universe. A solid crystal cube, about ten centimeters in height and width, it might have been mistaken for a lady's jewel box-of a rather bizarre design. Embedded in the crystal was a pyramid made of pure gold. A small flat computer keyboard containing twenty-six small keys was affixed to the top of the crystal. The point of the pyramid connected to the underside of the keyboard.

"Even when armed," said Sagan, "the correct code would have to be entered in order to detonate it."

" 'The center cannot hold,' " quoted Garth Pantha.

Sagan cast him a swift glance.

"One of Abdiel's earliest acquisitions," Pantha explained, almost apologetically. "Obtained first from the Lady Maigrey, confirmed through yourself. I was not familiar with the quotation, not being a student of ancient literature. However, I discovered it in my files. One of Yeats's poems, I believe. A most apt quote, considering the way in which the bomb works.

"The quarks of the atom pulled apart, the color bond which holds them together stretched to its limit, the space between them rotated in such a way that, upon release, the quarks rushing back together collide, totally annihilating matter. In theory, it could tear a hole in the fabric of the universe. Quite ingenious."

Sagan acknowledged the compliment with an oblique nod, all the while wondering how the fact that Pantha knew the key to exploding the bomb would affect his plans, not daring to give the matter thought. The Warlord turned to the prince.

"You have the bomb now and the knowledge and the capability of detonating it. In what capacity can I serve Your Highness?"

"Let us be seated," suggested Flaim, "and discuss this comfortably." He replaced the bomb back on its marble stand, gave it one more covetous glance, then sat down at a table. He indicated chairs. Sagan took one located directly opposite the electronically controlled and guarded door that was the room's only entrance, only egress.

"You, my lord, will take command of the fleet," Flaim told him. "I want to move ships into position in key areas of the galaxy-Minas Tares, the Houses of Parliament, DiLuna's system. I have taken your advice and disguised my ships to resemble those of the Royal Navy. But I want to take no chances. I want to keep out of detection range of any naval vessels. Can this be done?"

"Certainly, Your Highness."

"When the king's death is announced, my ships will then be ready to move into position. I don't anticipate any trouble, except perhaps from DiLuna . ..?" Flaim looked at Sagan questioningly.

"Astarte can handle her mother," Sagan responded. "The queen is shrewd and ambitious. She wants her child to be king. I do not foresee DiLuna or her allies giving you any difficulty."

"Excellent." Flaim leaned back comfortably in his chair.

"However, such a plan will require your entire fleet, Your Highness," said Sagan. "We will not be able to spare even one single ship to guard Vallombrosa."

"The dark-matter creatures will guard it, such as it is." Flaim glanced around the room with disfavor. "I, for one, do not intend to ever come back here. All my people will come with me. The one thing I regret is the loss of the ship that will be carrying the king."

"We discussed other options," Sagan said. "Are you, perhaps, reconsidering?"

"No, no, my lord. You're absolutely right. Any other way of disposing with His Majesty would look far too suspicious. The ship has been fitted out to match the king's royal flagship. The crew has even been issued copies of official naval uniforms-not that there will be enough left of them to identify. If what you say is true, the blast will vaporize them."

"It is never wise to take chances, Your Highness. You must remember that this bomb has, for obvious reasons, never been tested. We are not certain precisely what it will do. It would be a shame to have your hopes dashed by the discovery of a fragment of a body clad in the wrong uniform."

"You have made your point. All has been attended to. Any debris found floating in space will confirm the tragedy: The royal flagship blew up, lost, with all hands on board."

"A pity about the crew," Sagan commented.

"Yes, I will lose some good people. But they have all pledged to give their lives to me. I shall miss the ship more." Flaim sighed, frowned. "I can get men far more cheaply and easily than a naval vessel."

"If all goes well, Your Highness, you will soon have the Royal Fleet under your command," Sagan reminded him.

"True." The prince glanced again at the bomb and smiled. "I do not foresee anything going wrong, do you, my lord?"

"Certainly not, Your Highness."

"Pantha, have we forgotten anything? Any final details we need to discuss?"

"No, my prince. Your orders have been issued. By tomorrow morning, all will be in readiness. This is the last night you will spend on Vallombrosa, Flaim," Pantha added in a softened tone.

Flaim stood up. Reaching out his hands, he grasped hold of the old man's. The moment was special between them. Sagan politely moved away to give them privacy, walked over to stand near the door.

"The goal we have worked for all these years is within sight, my friend," Flaim said. "The crown is almost within my grasp. I am reaching out for it, even now. Do not think me ungrateful when I say I never want to return to Vallombrosa. It is you who have always taught me that we never look back, only ahead."

"I know. Flaim. I know," Pantha said softly. He looked around the room and shook his head. "Many were the hours I sat here and stared in hatred at these walls. I-who had roamed a galaxy, who had riches and wealth beyond belief- had imprisoned myself inside a chill and dismal cavern.

"I thought I would go mad in those early days," he continued. "Oftentimes I sat here bitterly regretting the fact that I hadn't died in that fake explosion. And then you would toddle into the room." Pantha looked at Flaim with a sad and wistful smile. "Excited about some discovery-a bug, a rock, a half-dead flower. You were a beautiful child, strong, healthy, intelligent. I would tell you everything I knew-the scientific names, the chemical composition-and you understood, young as you were.

" 'What a king you will be,' I would say as I lifted you into my arms. "What a magnificent king.' No, Flaim, my son"- Pantha had tears in his eyes-"I do not ever want to return to Vallombrosa either. There were too many times I thought I would die here. Still, its memory will be blessed."

Sagan, embarrassed, cleared his throat.

"Your Highness-"

Flaim turned a tear-streaked face, looked somewhat ashamed. "Forgive me, my lord. Of course, you have duties to attend to. You don't want to stand around watching Pantha and I make fools of ourselves. You have leave to go."

Sagan bowed, turned toward the door.

Flaim activated the control. The door slid open. The Warlord walked out. The door shut and sealed behind him.

Sagan took a moment to study it from the outside, then, nodding to himself, left with what he had come planning to obtain-a complete knowledge of how the door operated, including its security devices and alarms.

He had already checked on the other two doors he would need to open this night. Both were simple-plain and ordinary bolt locks. Returning to his room, the Warlord lay down upon his bed, prepared to slip into the quiet meditative state that was, for him, more restful than sleep.

And much safer.

Fortunately, Flaim would have a lot on his mind tonight. Composing himself for rest, Sagan reflected on the fact that sentiment was a ruinous emotion.

Chapter Thirteen.

Look into my face; my name is Might-have-been; I am also called No-more, Too-late, Farewell.

Dante Gabriel Rossetti, "A Superscription"

It was a quiet night in the alcazar. Quiet as far as those guarding the halls and corridors were concerned. There were, of course, the usual disturbances, usual for a planet the dark-matter creatures roamed: an entire shelf of books was thrown down in Pantha's library; several dishes were broken in the kitchen; motion was detected in a corridor, but no visual confirmation could be made by the guard who went to inspect; a minor disruption occurred in the electrical system of the communications room. The electricity shut off but then flashed on practically before the system had time to register the interruption. Again, on inspection, nothing untoward was found.

The guards shrugged, shook their heads, and muttered that they would be glad to leave Vallombrosa.

The night was not particularly quiet for any of the rest of the inhabitants of the alcazar, with the exception of Flaim, who slept soundly and dreamed of glory. Pantha spent the night in his room, studying computer analysis of the space-rotation bomb. By morning, he was confident he could make another. Astarte, her regal facade shattered, cried herself to sleep. Kamil sat up with the queen until Astarte, worn out and exhausted, finally slept. Unhappy and restless, Kamil lay down on her bed, staring into the darkness, drifting in and out of a feverish doze, dreaming strange dreams of a woman with pale hair and silver armor.

Pantha had provided Tusk with medication to ease the pain of his injured head. Tusk swallowed the tablets, wished they could ease the ache in his heart, and flung himself down dispiritedly on his bed. His thoughts writhed in his brain like snakes in a pit. He didn't trust Sagan, then he did. He would free Dion, then he wouldn't. He was going to fly to Dixter for help, then he wasn't. He flipped and flopped and was sorry he'd taken the medication. Pantha had warned him-rather tersely-not to mix it with jump-juice.

Having at last decided gloomily that he was going to be up all night and he better make the best of it, Tusk immediately fell sound asleep. He was dreaming that a tall, dark figure loomed over him when a strong hand, clapped tightly over his mouth, brought him to heart-stopping wakefulness.

Tusk thrashed out. A weight like someone had landed a spaceplane on his chest pressed him into the bed.

"Don't move!" cautioned a voice in his ear. "Don't make a sound. Listen."

Tusk, recognizing the voice, did as it commanded. He had little choice in the matter. His bruised lips, covered by the hand, hurt like the devil. He could barely hear over the pounding in his ears. Try as he might, he couldn't see a thing in the darkness.

"Make certain you board the king's ship tomorrow," the voice breathed directly into Tusk's ear. "I understand that you have become friendly with several members of the crew?"

Tusk nodded.

"Tell them that they are being sent on a suicide mission. Tell them that the space-rotation bomb is aboard the ship and that Flaim intends to detonate it, destroying the king and the crew. You will convince them of the danger and persuade them to take over the ship.

"You will need proof. When Flaim and Pantha leave the ship, I will discover where they've hidden the bomb. It will be armed and set to explode when the ship reaches its destination. You will show the bomb to your comrades. That should be proof enough."

And then the hand was gone, the voice was silenced, the dark form no longer present.

Tusk lay still a moment, wondering if he'd been dreaming. But the slowly subsiding racing of his heart was real; so was the fear, which was rapidly being replaced by excitement and grim satisfaction. Now, at last, he had something to do, something positive to do. It wouldn't be easy, but if all else failed, he'd fly Dion off in the Scimitar, shoot their way out.

They'd done it before.

Relaxing, sighing deeply, Tusk whispered a good-night to Nola, as he always did, even when she wasn't lying beside him, then rolled over and slept.

Dion lay awake all night, staring into the darkness. He, too, saw-or thought he saw-the woman in silver armor.

"I made the right decision, didn't I, my lady?" he asked.

She didn't answer, but he didn't expect her to. After all, it had not really been a question.

He was still awake when the twin suns lifted up over the walls of the alcazar and the guards came to his door.

The rattle of a key sounded in the door lock. Astarte and Kamil looked at each other. Astarte held out her hand. Kamil took hold of it. They stood waiting. The door opened. Dion, accompanied by armed guards and Flaim, entered the room, He looked at Astarte. "I am being permitted to say good-bye to you, madam," he told her quietly.

Astarte's lauded beauty was gone. She was small and crumpled, her eyelids heavy and red and swollen from weeping, her lips gray and colorless. They trembled when she spoke. Her hair was disheveled, uncombed.

But despite the fact that they were in a prison cell surrounded by armed guards, and he was about to be killed and she was about to become the wife of his murderer, she was still queen and he was king and they had an audience.

Astarte drew herself up with dignity, cast an imperious glance at Flaim. "Please, leave us alone."

"Certainly," said Flaim. "The guards will be right outside the door, should either of you require anything." The prince turned to Kamil. "You acquitted yourself with remarkable courage yesterday. I therefore give you a choice-life or death. You may either stay with the queen and enter her service permanently or you may travel with the king."

"Stay with Astarte, Kamil," said Dion swiftly. "I want you to."

"Please. Kamil." Astarte turned to her. "Please, stay with me."

"No." said Kamil, not looking at either of them. "I'm going with the king."

"Kamil-" Dion began, his face troubled.

"If you don't mind," Kamil interrupted, speaking to Flaim, "I think I would like to leave now."

Flaim was all sympathy and understanding. "We are boarding the Royal Flagship. The guards will be happy to escort you."

Her back rigid, Kamil walked out of the room without saying a word to either person she left behind.

"Her Majesty will be traveling in my flagship," Flaim told Dion. "I will do everything in my power to make her journey comfortable. We will be returning to Minas Tares. It would be best for the queen to be in the palace when word comes of the tragedy. And, of course, I want to be near at hand."