"Full of events," Magnus said, "not relationships." He turned to her. "That has been my choice, though. I have no right to feel bitter about it."
"You have when your choice was determined by the events of your past." Alea felt her own anger begin. "When having feelings for someone only let them use you and humiliate you, of course you would choose not to let that happen again!"
Magnus gazed into her eyes, and for a moment, Alea felt she was shrinking, that his eyes were growing almost to encompass her—but he spoke and was only a man again, one with a very tender voice. "And you—was that not your case, too, attraction only a tool that let someone use you?"
Alea started to answer, but the words caught in her throat and she turned away. "That doesn't matter—what happed to me. That doesn't matter at all, now."
"It does to me." Magnus dared to let his hand rest on hers. "It matters most greatly to me."
He waited, and she trembled within, longing to spill out the story with the flood of emotions, of infatuation and pain and shame—but no, not yet, not when he had so much to contend with …
Not when she still didn't trust him enough.
After all, how could Magnus think she was important? She was only a gawky, homely girl grown into a woman with no talent or skill, a peasant from an insignificant town in the outlands of a planet no one could find on a star map.
When she did not speak, Magnus lifted his hand and sat back. Afraid she had hurt him, she darted a quick glance at him, but he seemed restored somehow, full of confidence again, his smile open and warm without the slightest trace of pity but a great deal of caring. "We are shield-mates, after all," he said. "I have trusted my life to you, and will again."
Alea could only stare at him, wondering at what he had said, but even more at what he had not.
"IT'S GOOD TO have you back, sir," the Home Agent for Savoy and Bourbon said with her most winning smile.
"And a sad thing that I have to be," the Mocker snapped. "A fine mess you amateurs have made of the planet while I've been gone."
The Home Agent lost her smile for a moment and bit back a retort—that the Mocker hadn't done so well himself, when it had been his job to organize a rebellion against the Crown. Oh, he'd organized it well enough, but when they were almost ready for battle, the Lord Warlock had led a commando raid of three, tied up the Mocker, and let that half-dunce Tuan Loguire steal the Mocker's whole army and turn it against the anarchists—not a bad idea in itself, but considering they'd been trying to overthrow the queen at the time, not the best either. The Mocker also seemed to forget that he had been removed from his command in disgrace, not promoted to a desk job in the coordinating office.
But she remembered her priorities—ingratiating with senior officers always came first—and forced the smile back into place, making it as dreamy as she could. "There have been a few setbacks," she admitted.
"Well, let's see about setting them forward," the Mocker said as they went in the door.
They came into a large panelled room occupied by a long table and decorated with pictures of the great dictators of history. When the Home Agent sat, all the chairs were filled except the one at the head of the table. The Mocker sat and let himself savor the feeling of triumph for a moment, of vindication. What mattered a failure he couldn't have prevented? But now that he knew what he was up against, he would clear it away in days! He would have his revenge!
Then he thrust down the emotion and turned to assessing the situation. He surveyed the faces around him—some expectant, some clearly hiding worry, some completely bland, more skillfully hiding their emotions.
He nodded and said, "Understand—for you, it's been thirty years since my last foray against the Gallowglass clan, but for me, it's been scarcely a month."
"We do understand that," said a portly, middle-aged man. "I was a young recruit in your peasant uprising."
The Mocker frowned. "Name?"
"Dalian," the man said.
The Mocker's face went neutral to hide the shock. "Yes. I remember you."
Dalian's face turned bitter. "I've toiled in the ranks for the decades you've been gone."
"And think you should have been appointed Chief, hey? But the job needs perspective, Agent, not just experience— and I toiled in the VETO ranks for thirty years before I was given this post. Would have overthrown the monarchy neatly, too, if it hadn't been for the interference of that backstabber Gallowglass!"
"It was the coalition he put together that was too much for your army," said a motherly woman in her forties, "mostly that witch Gwendylon."
"Yes, well, he's lost her now, hasn't he?" the Mocker said with bitter satisfaction. "And lost all the influence she brought with her."
"He's made some connections of his own," said a man who seemed young until you looked closely.
"Connections his wife made for him," the motherly woman returned, "who will stand by him out of loyalty to her memory."
"Let's find out just how far that loyalty goes, shall we?" the Mocker said. "Start by sending out agents disguised as forest outlaws, to circulate in the villages and remind the people how badly they're being exploited."
"We've tried that," a pretty older woman said. "Whenever we manage to build a movement and gather some steam, Gallowglass sends one of his brats to hypnotize the people into thinking they're well-treated."
"Gallowglass, or his wife?" the Mocker asked with a sour smile. "Send out the agents and tell them to be ready to fade into the greenwood quickly if Gallowglass does send in his goons—but I don't think he will."
Dalian frowned. "Why not?"
"I don't think he'll have the heart," the Mocker said, "not with his wife gone. Who did you lot think was really running this land, anyway?"
WHEN HE WOKE the next morning, Rod chewed a heel of bread while he cooked the eggs he had found the evening before, and with them the strip of jerky that had been soaking all night. Breakfast done, he saddled Fess and rode down the woodland path. They had not gone far before Fess lifted his head, nostrils spread wide.
Rod knew the robot-horse didn't have a sense of smell as such—just an ability to analyze air molecules and detect anything that shouldn't be there. "What's wrong?"
"The smell of blood," Fess said.
Nine
ROD DREW HIS SWORD. "WHAT KIND OF BLOOD?"
"It is difficult to say when the molecules are so thinly spread," Fess answered, "but I am fairly certain that it is not human."
"Won't hurt to make sure. Follow your nose."
"I can scarcely do anything else, Rod, since it is so much farther in front than the rest of me."
"A point," Rod agreed. "Follow your scents."
"Technically, Rod, a robot has no sense."
"Nor do I, half the time," Rod sighed. "At the moment, though, I'll rely on your tracking ability."
They turned off the beaten track and broke through a screen of brash into a small clearing, where a boar lay on its side, blood spreading from a rip in its abdomen.
"It would seem we have found the loser in a fight over a female," Fess said.
But Rod dismounted and knelt beside the boar, inspecting the wound. Then he rose, shaking his head as he remounted.
"It was no tusk that made that wound, Fess. It was a blade with a serrated edge."
"Only a boar hunter, then?"
"If so, he was a very clumsy one—hunters meet a boar's charge head-on, or step aside and stab for the ribs and the heart. This poor beast must have staggered for hundreds of yards before it finally collapsed."
"Perhaps, then, the hunter is tracking it."