Suddenly Sten realized Mathias was no longer standing beside him. He glanced downward. The young man was on his knees, his head bowed in supplication.
"Theodomir," he intoned. "Your son greets you in the name of
Talamein. '
Sten hesitated, wondering if he should kneel, then settled for a courteous half bow.
"Who is that with you, Mathias?"
The Prophet's voice was thin and rasped like sawgrass.
Mathias was instantly on his feet and urging Sten forward. "Colonel Sten, father. The man we have been speaking of."
Sten blinked at the sudden promotion, then stepped toward the throne, all parade-ground military. He clicked his heels and semirelaxed into a parade-rest stance.
"A poor soldier greets you, Theodomir," Sten intoned smoothly. "And he brings a humble soldier's gift."
There were gasps around the room, and Theodomir went pale as Sten's hand went in his tunic and came out with a knife. Out of the corner of an eye he saw a guard start forward, and Sten laughed to himself, as he very carefully and very ceremoniously laid the knife at the Prophet's feet.
The knife was very valuable and very useless. It was made of precious metals and inlaid with gleaming stones. Sten glanced at Theodomir's frayed robe and wondered how quickly the Prophet would put the gift up for sale. If the fiche was correct and Theodomir's tastes were as earthly as it indicated, Sten figured it would take about an hour.
Theodomir recovered and motioned or a cupbearer to hand him a chalice of wine. He took a long, unholy gulp and then burst into laughter.
"Oh, that's very good. Very good. Slipped it past security, did you? Through the scanners and skin search."
The laughter stopped abruptly. The Prophet turned a yellow eye at an aide cowering nearby. "Have a word with security," he said softly.
The aide bowed and scurried off.
The Prophet took another gulp of wine, then began chortling again. He turned his head to a curtain beside him and toasted the shadowy recess.
"Well, Parral. What do you think? Can we make use of our clever Colonel Sten?"
The curtain parted and a small, thin, dark-faced man stepped out. He gave Theodomir a slight bow and then turned to Sten, smiling.
"Yes," Parral said. "I think we should have a little chat."
They sat in a small, dusty library. The chairs were cracked and ancient, but quite comfortable, and the walls were lined with vidbooks. Sten couldn't help but notice that the dust lay thick on the religious works and reference texts. A few well-worn erotic titles caught his eye.
Mathias refilled their cups with wine—all except his own. The Prophet's son preferred water.
"Yes, we are indeed quite fortunate to find a man of your talents, Colonel Sten," Parral said smoothly. He took a small sip of his wine.
"But I can't help but think we might be too fortunate. By that I mean you appear, shall we say, overqualified for our remote cluster. Why is a man with talents in the Lupus Cluster?"
"Simple," Sten said, "like all things military. After I, ah, resigned from the Guard..."
"Ah. Perhaps cashiered would be a better word?"
"Don't be rude, Parral," Mathias snapped. "From what we've heard of the colonel's background, the Empire appears to hold in low esteem a soldier who fights to win. The details of his leaving Imperial Service are immaterial to us."
"I apologize, Colonel," Parral said. "Continue, please."
"No apologies necessary. We are, after all, both businessmen." Sten raised the glass to his lips, catching the startled looks around the room. "You are in the business of trading. I am in the business—and I mean business—of fighting."
"But what about loyalties? Don't soldiers fight for causes?" Theodomir asked.
"My loyalties are to the men who hire me. And once the contract is signed, as a businessman, I must keep my word."
He gave Parral a conspiratorial merchant-to-merchant look. "If I didn't, who would ever buy what I sell again?"
Parral laughed. A cold bark. He leaned across the table. "And what exactly do you have to sell. Colonel?"
"To you, a vastly expanded business empire. The first trading monopoly in the Lupus Cluster."
Sten turned to Theodomir. "To you, a church that is whole again."
After a moment, Theodomir smiled. "That would accomplish my grandest wish," he said dreamily.
Parral remained unconvinced. "And where is your army, Colonel?"
"Within reach."
"To topple Ingild—and to destroy the Jann—would require an enormous force."
"You have beautiful forests on Sanctus," Sten replied obliquely. "I imagine with very tall trees. Trees that die, but still stand. How much force does the woodsman need to exert to topple that tree?
"Where my force excels," Sten said, "is knowing, just as the woodsman knows, where and how to exert the proper force."
"To destroy Ingild," Theodomir whispered. "All those worlds would be mine again. That's quite a lot." He turned to Parral. "Don't you think so, Parral? Don't you think that's quite a lot indeed?"
To Theodomir's delight, Parral nodded his agreement.
"Since you come so well, ah, provisioned," Parral said dryly, "I assume you have a budget describing the costs of your operation?"
Sten took the fiche from his inside tunic and passed it to the merchant.
"Thank you. Colonel. Now, if you'll excuse us, the Prophet and I shall discuss your terms."
Sten stood up.
"Although," Parral said quickly, "I'm sure we'll have no difficulty meeting them."
"I will show you to your rooms," Mathias offered. "I assume you will be willing to move into the palace?"
Sten smiled his thanks, bowed to Theodomir, and followed Mathias. The door had hardly closed before Theodomir poured down the rest of his wine and started worriedly pacing the room. "What do you think, Parral? What do you really think? Can we trust him?"
Parral shrugged and refilled the Prophet's glass. "It really doesn't matter," he said. "As long as we watch our backs."
"Oh, I'd love to see it," Theodomir said. "I'd love to see that idol-worshipper Ingild chased down and crushed—Do you really think we can do it? Is it worth the risk?"
"The only thing we can lose," Parral said, settling back in his seat, "are a few of my credits and the lives of his men."
"But if Sten wins—if he wins, what do we do with him?"
Parral laughed his cold laugh. "What you always do with a mercenary."
Theodomir smiled. And then he joined in the laughter. "I'll find a nice little tomb for him," he promised. "Right beside the place I'm going to put Ingild."
CHAPTER TEN
THE JANNISAR STOOD quaking by the missile launch tube. Sten could see his eyes rolling in fear above the big wad of stickiplast slapped across his mouth. His hands were bound behind him. His knees buckled and the two hulking figures on either side of him jerked him up.
The Bhor captain lumbered forward, his harness creaking in the silence. The bloodshot eyes of fifty crewmen swiveled, following him. as he paced up to the Jann and stopped. Otho peered up at his victim through the two hairy bushes the Bhor called eyebrows.
"S'be't," he mocked.
He turned to his crew and raised a huge hairy fist, holding an enormous stregghorn.