"He's talking to me," Kass returned. Jagan is powerful enough to communicate with a telepath of mediocre skills, like me."
Tal drew the Steg-9 from his right holster. "Kass, I consider myself a brave man, but tackling a roomful of sorcerers-"
"Warlocks," Kass corrected. "Probably a witch or two. Only Jagan is a sorcerer."
Tal loosed the Steg-9 in his left holster. "That makes me feel so much better."
"You are S'sorrokan, not a whining infant. And sarcasm does not become you."
"Wonderful." Tal groaned. "He's talking to you now?" He tightened his grip on both Steg-9s.
"We are to go in, but you must put the guns away-"
"When Hell Nine takes a beauty prize!" Tal growled.
Tal's guns thudded into their holsters, leaving him staring at his empty hands. "Did you do that, or did he?"
"I did. You need Jagan, and we're both going to have to feign a little humility to do it."
"Is he listening to every word?"
"It's possible, but, frankly, I don't think he'll bother. Jagan will do as he pleases, and he doesn't have to stoop to eavesdropping to make his decisions."
"Your thoughts or his?" Tal challenged.
"Mine. But I've known him all my life . . . until eight years ago, that is. I have a good feel for how he thinks. At least when he's not angry," she added softly.
They opened the warehouse door and walked in.
Chapter 22
An expansive circle of lanterns lit the ugly cavernous space inside the empty warehouse, revealing a glimpse of shadowed stone walls and stained faustone floor. Flickering candlelight cast four long shadows from the hooded and robed figures waiting inside the ring of lanterns. Nice setting, Kass had to admit. Jagan always did have a feel for ambiance.
But he wasn't one of the four. He was here-oh, yes, he was here-but she couldn't feel where. Having led her to this spot, Jagan had cut his essence down to a cool glow. No anger, no greeting, no questions. Jagan was simply here. Which was more than annoying. No wonder she'd refused to marry him.
"You, woman, may join us within the circle. Captain, you will remain outside."
The same obnoxious voice she'd quarreled with earlier. Kass's temper flared. "By what right do you give me orders?" she demanded.
The hooded figure jerked, a sound between a gasp and a groan escaping his lips. A general whoosh of breath from the others. Kass crossed her arms and allowed herself a small satisfied smile. Obviously, Jagan had not appreciated his minion's tone either. Swift punishment for lack of respect to the Princess Royal.
Kass stood, unmoving, chin up, while all five robed figures fell to their knees, tokens and charms jingling against the faustone floor, heads bowed in her direction. She didn't dare look to see what Tal was making of all this. A boom like a well-controlled thunderclap, and the five acolytes were gone, a solitary figure in their place in the center of the ring. No hood, no robe, just a flowing black shirt of ancient design, tight-fitting black pants, and brightly polished black boots. A single heavy gold chain fell to midlevel on his chest, hanging from it a cut crystal of particular clarity and brilliance.
Trust Jagan to make a grand entrance.
He was four years her senior and eight years older than the last time she'd seen him, but little had changed. Always tall for a Psyclid, he had grown a bit more, his height almost matching Tal's. But his build was still thin and wiry, his hair as black as her own, and almost as long. Matching deep-set eyes of midnight black blazed from a sculpted face that had deeper lines now, reminding her that Jagan Mondragon did have feelings. He wasn't always cold and scary.
His voice flat, aimed solely at her, Jagan said, "Everyone assumed you were dead. I didn't fully believe it-I thought I would know, but . . ." He shrugged.
Kass felt none of the anger she'd expected, only pain. Her planned greeting-a carefully crafted blend of the reunion of old friends and respect for his position-exploded into mist. This was Jagan, someone she'd known all her life. If he had suffered even an iota of what she'd suffered when she thought Tal dead . . .
Kass fell back, as she always did, on the strict formal training of her childhood, wrapping herself in a cloak of regal formality. "It was a very close thing," she told him, "and I feared you were dead as well. We may thank the goddess we have survived. And in my case, we must thank the captain here as well.
"Jagan, this is Tal Rigel. He saved my life on Regula Prime. I spent four years in confinement before he could rescue me, but we're both part of the rebellion now. Tal, Jagan Mondragon."
Black eyes snapped. A regal nod. "Rigel, our thanks. She is precious to us." Kass could only hope Tal had sense enough to keep his mouth shut about Jagan's use of the royal "we."
"I apologize for Tor," Jagan added. "He is native to this hellish place, an excellent bodyguard but unaware of the niceties that exist on more . . . civilized planets. You may both step within the circle. I shall not bite."
Kass didn't move. "Standing in a dark warehouse, inside or outside a circle, is not a good place for serious conversation. I would prefer to sit down with you, Jagan, and discuss why we have come so far to find you."
With a dramatic flare, Jagan Mondragon placed both hands over his heart. "Ah, you've come to tell me you have discovered you are my soulmate after all, and you can no longer live without me."
"Stop this nonsense, Jagan! You know quite well I have not changed my mind."
Jagan turned a bland face toward Tal. "Tell me, Captain, is she this difficult when she talks with you? Or is she, perhaps, more . . . accommodating?"
"Believe me, Mondragon, if Kass weren't so certain you're the rebellion's best hidden asset, I'd be delighted to leave you in this hellhole and get back to kicking the Empire's ass."
"Ah . . . the voice of a leader," Jagan purred, studying Tal with considerable interest. "And well done, midamara," he said to Kass, "you have brought me S'sorrokan himself. A Fleet captain. Quelle surprise!"
Before Kass could think of a suitable reply, Jagan scooped up one of the lanterns from the floor. "Follow me," he said, and headed off into the gloom. "It wasn't a magic circle," he added over his shoulder, "just a bit of showmanship. You could have shot me anytime, Captain, inside or out of it."
Don't tempt me. Kass heard the words loud and clear, even though Tal had only thought them. One of these days she was going to have to explain about telepathy between soulmates, but in the presence of the Sorcerer Prime was definitely not the right moment.
They climbed a stone staircase to the second floor and entered a surprisingly pleasant room, the most spacious, comfortable-looking space Kass had yet seen on Hell Nine. Four people, now hoodless, jumped to their feet, each looking chagrined and wary. The oddments on their belts clanked and chimed.
"Midamara," Jagan said, "you may remember D'nim, my assistant since school days."
"Indeed." Kass nodded to the thin-faced Psyclid who was half a head shorter than Jagan. She didn't think she'd ever seen him smile. D'nim took his job as assistant to the Sorcerer Prime very seriously.
"And this young sprig is T'mar," Jagan continued. "He was probably still in the schoolroom when you deserted us for the Academy."
Again Kass nodded, her lips narrowing as Jagan introduced a young woman whose features were sharper than the Psyclid norm-narrow face, strong nose, high cheekbones, masses of dark brown curls and huge brown eyes outlined in traditional charcoal black. Kass might not want to marry Jagan, but she found it difficult to be more than cooly polite to his long-time mistress, however psychically gifted B'aela Flammia might be.
Tal inclined his head in respectful greeting to Jagan's entourage. "May I assume all three of you have special gifts?"
"You may, Captain." B'aela offered a smile that managed to be both smug and seductive.
Stick with Jagan! This one's mine. Kass caught a sparkle of amusement in B'aela's eyes as she noted the warning before ducking her head and stepping back shoulder to shoulder with D'nim and T'mar.
"And Tor you've met," Jagan said, his voice going flat and cold. "Unfortunately, he was born on Folly and has no concept of manners, let alone the refined manners of Psyclid. But in a fight he could probably take on a roomful and win, so you could say he has his own set of assets." Tor studied his boots, his huge hands fully occupied with cracking his knuckles.
"And now," Jagan snapped, "the lot of you, go to your rooms, and don't put your ears to the door. Midamara, Captain, please be seated."
Robes swished as the four scurried off, the three men through one door, B'aela through a second door set into the same wall, probably Jagan's. He had never believed that old tale about celibacy enhancing a sorcerer's powers.