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"I doubt it," O'Casey said. "I haven't seen a trace of any religious items here in the fortress. I think they probably just picked him up somewhere and stashed him until they were told what to do with him."
"Given our own experience, I can guess what that would have been," Roger snorted, leading the way down the flight of stone steps and along the narrow—for a Mardukan—passageway. They reached the cell door, and he threw back the bolt and pulled it open.
"And who might you be, Sir?" he asked cheerfully.
* * *
Mansul looked up at the human confronting him and frowned in puzzlement. Judging by the remains of the uniform, the person was an Imperial Marine. Given the rest of his appearance, he was probably also a deserter, because no Marine of Mansul's acquaintance who wasn't a deserter would ever have allowed his uniform to get into such a state.
The man in the cell door was not just a full head taller than Mansul. He was also either very clean-shaven, or had almost no facial hair. Good bone structure, a hint of pre-Diaspora Asian around the eyes, but otherwise very classically Northern European. Great hair falling in a golden mass, too. He'd make a wonderful picture all around, the photographer decided. Then there was the odd rifle—chemical propellant, by the look of it—and the long sword tossed over his back. Quite the neobarb. Absolutely perfect. Even the lighting was good.
It really made him wish those horned barbarians hadn't taken his camera.
Mansul took another look, and it was actually the family resemblance that caught him first. One of his last assignments before Marduk had been to cover the Imperial Family when Her Majesty had celebrated the Heir's birthday. Mansul couldn't remember having seen a shaggy, broad-shouldered, sword-toting barbarian standing around to help cut the cake or pour the punch, yet the young man before him had the distinctive MacClintock brow. So who—?
"Good God!" he heard himself exclaim. "I thought you were dead!"
* * *
Roger couldn't help himself. The astonishment in the prisoner's expression and voice was simply too great, and a trace of his own recent classical reading came to mind. Despite the response heknew it would elicit from O'Casey, he simply couldn't resist.
"I am happy to say that the news of my demise was exceedingly exaggerated." He waited for the groans to stop behind him, then held out his hand. "I'm His Highness Prince Roger Ramius Alexander Chiang MacClintock. And you are?"
"Harvard Mansul," the man replied in a voice which was still half stu
"I've been on Marduk, yes," Roger said. "The rest is a somewhat long story. And I believe we've gotten hold of some of your property." He held out a hand to Pahner for the tri-cam, then passed it over.
Mansul gave the item for which he had so passionately longed for more than a week barely a glance, then flicked the lenses open.
"Smile."
* * *
Roger knocked on the door, waited for the quiet voice from the other side to respond, then opened it, looked around, and gri
"Private room, I see," he observed. "Very nice."
"Quite the little love nest," Despreaux replied. She was propped up on a pile of cushions on the floor, her arm immobilized in the force-cast. Her face was slightly gray, she was still covered in mud from the trek, and bits of leaf and dirt were caught in her hair and on her pants. Any other woman would've looked like hell, Roger thought, but Nimashet Despreaux managed to come across like a tri-dee star made up to look like a maiden in distress.
"I'm really upset with you," Roger said, sitting down and taking her good hand. "You're supposed to take care of yourself better than this."
"I tried," she said, and leaned against him. "God, I'm tired of this."
"Me, too," Roger said as he wrapped an arm carefully around her.
"Liar. You're dreading getting back to court, aren't you?"
Roger paused for a moment, then shrugged.
"Yes," he admitted. "Marduk is ... uncomplicated. We make friends, or we don't. We negotiate, or we kick ass. It's black and white, most of the time. Court is ... all negotiation. It's all gray. It's all who you pissed off last, and people jockeying for position. There's nobody to ..."
"To watch your back?" she finished for him, leaning into him. "I will."
"You've never had to deal with the court ladies as a 'person,' " he replied. "You were just a Marine; you didn't count." He shook his head, eyes troubled. "It'll be different now, and their knives go right through armor."
"So do mine, love," she said, twisting carefully around until she could look him in the eye. "And, Roger, the Marines see everything, they hear everything. And you're going to be supported in a way that I doubt even another MacClintock ever was. We're going to be at your back."
He picked a bit of leaf gently out of her hair.
"I love you," he said.
"I look like hell," she snorted. "You're just trying to make me feel better."
"You look great," he said huskily. "Absolutely beautiful."
She looked at him for a moment, then pulled his head down to hers. The kiss lasted a long time, while Roger ran his fingers up and down her back. But finally she drew back with a snort.
"So that's it," she said. "You just like me when I'm immobilized!"
"I always like you. I was in love the first time I saw you out of armor, although I'll admit I was a bit ..."
"Intimidated?" Despreaux supplied.
"Yes," he admitted. "Intimidated is probably the right word. You're a bit overpowering, and I really didn't want to get into a relationship. But ... you're as good as it gets."
"Your mother is going to go spastic," Despreaux said. "I mean, completely ballistic."
"I don't really care about Mother's reaction," he replied. "Frankly, after what we've gone through, Mother is going to owe me, big time. And it's not as if I were the heir, so I'm not exactly a great dynastic match. Mother can kiss my ass before I'll give you up."
"I love it when you talk dirty," she said, and pulled him down for another kiss.
Roger ran his hands up her sides, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. After a moment, the hands migrated around to the front, as if by their own accord, and ran across her midriff in subtle fingertip touches. She writhed to the side, pushing up her T-shirt, and—
There was a discreet knock on the door.
"Shit," Roger muttered with intense feeling. Then he sighed, sat up, and raised his voice. "Yes?"
"Your Highness," Corporal Bebi said from the far side of the door, "Captain Pahner wants a command conference in seven minutes in the fortress commander's office. Sergeant Despreaux is excused on account of her injury."
Roger didn't have to see the private's face. His tone alone made it eloquently clear that butter would never melt in his mouth.
"I told you the Marines know everything," Despreaux whispered, pulling her top down with a moue of disappointment.
"Seven minutes?" Roger asked.
"It ... took a few minutes to find you, Your Highness," Bebi explained, and Despreaux took the opportunity to run her hands up Roger's back.
"I'll—" Roger cleared his throat. "I'll be right there."
"Yes, Your Highness."
"Two minutes to run from here to the commander's office," Despreaux said. "Now, where were we?"
"If I turn up out of breath and rearranging my clothes, everyone will know where I was," Roger said.
"Rogerrr," Despreaux said dangerously.
"On the other hand," he said, leaning back down towards her, "they can kiss my ass, too."
She smiled in delight as he ran his hands up her back once more. He leaned even closer, her lips parted, and—