Читать книгу South of the Ecliptic - Donald Ph.D. Ladew - Страница 5

The great hall of Darien Sur Maine was shrouded in darkness. A dim light emanated from one corner, cold and feeble against the tangible blackness of the rest of the room. It was a room only a madman or a king could love. In it was a man who was quite mad and wanted desperately to be king.

Beneath the faint white light, behind an ancient stone desk, Sir Claren Trone watched the man in front of him squirm. His fear was a palpable stench in the still, humid air.

Vaslov Krasnieven, you are a coward, but a useful coward, Trone thought. You don't mind getting your hands dirty, and for a taste of the true power, you'd wallow in the blood of every man, woman and child in the Western Arm.

So would I, Trone thought with typical self honesty, so would I. But not just a taste; oh no, not even a bottle, nor a case. I want it all. He knew he'd lie to anyone for his ends, but not himself. That way is disaster. Your perception of people, events, the entire game became clouded when you lie to yourself. This game of power required the clearest perception of all, down to the smallest detail.

Trone spoke slowly and Krasnieven shivered. His voice was dry and piercing, painful as a knife scraping bone.

"Vaslov, old friend," his voice clearly sarcastic, "seven years ago I pressed to have Piehl and the men of the Legion executed as war criminals, you backed off; you sided with the King and the other admirals. I asked you then, why? You said the brigades were broken, destroyed forever. Piehl and the key officers were safely tucked away in Valshorn Prison."

"Sir Claren, please understand, I was in trouble because of that business with the 6^th Brigade and Colonel MacCreath. MacCreath went to service schools with many of the officers of my fleet. Before the war began, both the Imperial Navy and the Mars Legion exchanged officers and men on a regular basis. He was respected by everyone in the Imperial Fleets. There was talk of sacking me right then, maybe even putting me in prison. I didn't have..."

"Shut up! I'm not interested in your pitiful excuses, ex-Admiral Krasnieven. You were sacked shortly after that anyway, weren't you?" Krasnieven looked around nervously. There was no way to escape.

"Let's not dwell on that, Vaslov. My interest is now. You have been useful over the years. But, your advice regarding General Sir Aubrey Piehl is flawed. You've exhibited bad judgment, failed to stay current.

"Two nights ago I attended the King's birthday ball. Who do you suppose was there?" Krasnieven sat head hanging like a whipped child.

"Right; Sir Aubrey Jerrad Piehl, ex-Brigadier General of the Mars Legion, with a senior aide. They both looked fit, and very much in the good graces of the King. Both were in full dress uniform, Krasnieven. Do you understand what that means? Full Dress Uniform! Can you comprehend the significance of that? Do you even begin to sense the danger? It has always been one of your failings, Vaslov. You cannot grasp the long view. Can you imagine what might happen if an arrangement, an alliance were established between Piehl and the King?"

Trone was motionless. He looked toward Krasnieven but not at him.

"There are probably thirty to forty thousand ex-Legionnaires spread over the Western Arm. If Piehl sent a general call to them to rally to his standard would there be one who wouldn't answer the call? No, of course not. They would come.” He stared at Krasnieven for a long count. “I see you are beginning to get the message.

"Take it a step further. Consider Blair Prince, Colonel Blair Prince and the missing First Brigade. He was Piehl's best friend. We've done our best to destroy Prince through the News-Comp, but the fact remains, despite the reports of those liars and optimists in the Imperial Navy, he's never been found nor have any of his men been taken alive. That's ten thousand marines, eight or ten capital ships and as many support vessels. What common factor do you perceive?"

When Krasnieven opened his mouth to answer, Trone raised his hand like a weapon ready to strike.

"Don't answer, I don't need more stupidity. Piehl, Prince, the men of the Legion survived. Yes indeed," he said, looking inward at something only he could see. "They are good at that. Should Piehl and Prince get together, with the support of the King and those parts of the Navy I cannot control, all that I have worked for could be destroyed.

"I tried to penetrate the senior staff of the Legion for fifteen years. I did not succeed. The King made it plain at his birthday ball that he holds Piehl in the highest favor. I don't like this situation at all. I strongly suggest you spend less time with those wretched women of yours, and more on the affairs of Mr. Aubrey Piehl."

Trone spoke with grinding intensity, pinning Krasnieven with his eyes like a snake beneath a forked stick.

"Longevity in my service depends on utility. If you wish to have a future, I recommend you pay more attention to business. Do you understand me, Vaslov?"

A sheen of oily sweat covered Krasnieven's vice ridden face. "Yes, Sir Claren, I understand. I'll get more people on Piehl. You'll know every move he makes."

"That would be good, Vaslov. For instance, I have it from one of my people inside the palace the King intends to contact Piehl for an assignment of some kind, and that First Princess Iralane is involved. I wouldn't take it amiss if some kind of accident happened to Piehl, or the Princess for that matter.

"I understand, Sir Claren, leave it to me."

"I will, for now, Vaslov. Only for now. Great events are imminent. My destiny hangs in the balance. You know what's happening out on the Rim. I was distressed to hear rumors of what's out there circulating around the port area. The last thing I need at this point is that self-righteous, ex-Legionnaire meddling in my affairs. Remember this, Krasnieven, and remember it well. I do not reward error, nor do I forgive fools."

Vaslov felt as though he'd just been sentenced to death, then given a temporary stay of execution. His perception of the situation was accurate.

"That is all, Krasnieven, leave."

Krasnieven got up slowly; a fearful man, an evil man, with an indefinite future. He faded into the heavy blackness of the room knowing his absence wouldn't be noticed.

Trone brooded silently, his pale eyes half closed. Then, as though coming alive a piece at a time, the fingers of one hand lying motionless on the stone desk began to tap out a slow, monotonous rhythm and the flaccid muscles on one side of his face twitched asynchronously. His voice, when it passed his thin bloodless lips, was a piercing wail, penetrating to the furthest corners of the ancient hall. He sang! It was a song of madness and obsession.

"The King is dead, the King is dead, God save the King."

Finally he stood and walked to a passageway in a shadowy corner behind his delusory throne.