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don't
have time to talk to that fool—"
    "My lord,
he insists." Aks lowered his voice further. "He has heard
about our . . . um . . . danger, my lord. He wants . . . his money."
    "Money!"
Sagan exploded. Drawing a seething breath, he managed to regain
control of himself, but it was with difficulty. "Very well.
Admiral. I will speak to him. In my private quarters."
    Maigrey felt the
Warlord's attention turn again to her. He was staring at her,
wondering what to do with her. He was the only one aboard this ship
whose powers were equal to hers, who could stop her if she chose to
use her phenomenal, inbred abilities. But she was undoubtedly the
last person he wanted around while he was talking to this Snaga Ohme.
Quite a quandary.
    "Leave her
in my care, my lord," Aks said, voice softened. The admiral was
of the old school, obtuse, but chivalrous. "You can see, she's
exhausted, harmless—"
    "My lady
will be harmless only when she's dead. And somehow I don't think I
will trust her even then.' Sagan heaved an exasperated sigh. "But
I have no choice, it seems."
    Maigrey raised
her tear-streaked face, watched the Warlord warily. He had said he
would never allow her out of his sight. . .
    Sagan gestured
to his personal bodyguards, who had been standing at a discreet
distance during his conversation with the admiral. The men obeyed
with alacrity. The Warlord reached out, took the lasgun from one
guard's holster.
    Maigrey was too
dazed with fatigue to think what he was doing. She recognized his
intent only when he turned, pointed the lasgun at her, and fired.
    "I trust
your weapon was set on stun?" Sagan handed the lasgun back to
the shaken guard.
    "Y-yes, my
lord," the man stammered. "As you command, when we are
aboard ship. "
    "Very
good." The Warlord glanced down at the motionless body lying on
the deck. "Stay with her."
    Bending down, he
put his hand on the woman's neck, felt the pulse, then gently brushed
a strand of wet hair from her face. "After all, my lady, you did
complain of being tired. The rest will do you good."
Straightening, he involuntarily put his hands to his lower back, but
was careful to keep his face expressionless, careful to keep from
wincing in pain. "Aks, carry out your orders. I will be in my
quarters."
    Derek Sagan was
a tall man; his strides were normally long and powerful. He walked
swiftly through the ship, making certain he moved no faster than
usual, though the seconds ticked away inside him like the pumping of
his heart. Men caught dashing through the corridors in panicked haste
came upon their commander strolling purposefully, with measured
stride, and slowed their pace.
    The Honor Guard
were at their posts outside the double doors, which were splendidly
decorated with a golden phoenix rising from flames. The phoenix was
about to fall again, would have to rise again. Sagan wondered briefly
if he had the strength.
    "I'm not to
be disturbed," he told the captain of the guard, who wasted no
words in replying but nodded once and placed his men at the door,
weapons ready. The Warlord, seeing all was satisfactory, entered his
quarters and sealed the door shut behind him.
    He paused for a
moment, glancing around his rooms. He had few personal objects. He
preferred to live a Spartan existence. Those objects he did own were
valuable, priceless, rare. His hand lingered fondly on a breastplate
supposed to have belonged to Alexander, a helm that had been
Caesar's. All would be destroyed. There wasn't time to save them,
room to pack them. Evac ships were notoriously unfit to handle a
complete evacuation. Whatever space these took up might mean a man
left behind.
    All but one.
Sagan's hand passed swiftly over the valuable artifacts, stopped at a
glass case in which were placed several curious objects, including
one that most observers would have overlooked or—if they
noticed—wondered why it was here at all. It was given no
special prominence. Indeed, it seemed almost to have been placed