But there is no one. He was never comfortable with people, and his wife and daughter are long gone. There is his boss, but they speak less often than he would like. Besides, his boss is a part of the same business as he is.
It is a pity, Morden thinks, as he watches hundreds of Centauri citizens being driven away by the City Guard. If only there was someone he could talk to and explain why he is doing this.
He paused, and looked back at the empty throne where, less than half an hour ago, Emperor Mollari II had suffered a heart attack. That was someone he supposed he could talk to. The Emperor was a complex man, driven by an unusual mixture of idealism and cynicism, genuine drive and ambition coupled with self-loathing and apathy.
That was someone Morden wished he could talk to, but Londo did not understand. He just could not see. Morden wondered sometimes if that was why he was here — to bring order not to an entire people, but to one man.
He certainly could not have expected, in that first glorious moment when the creature of light rose above him, that his destiny would lead him here — to the Centauri. But God moved in mysterious ways, as he had always heard. And there was no doubt that he — or someone like him — was needed here.
He looked out again at the scene before him, with eyes that were better than any human's ought to be at picking out minor details. He saw a guard repeatedly kicking a downed woman, raining blow after blow on her head.
Too much chaos. Too much disorder. There always was, everywhere, but Centauri Prime seemed worse than most. Morden knew full well the magnitude of the task he had been given here, but he also knew the honour that had been bestowed on him. He was determined not to fail, and nor would he.
He had had a year, and he had been working hard. The Inquisitors had taken away many of the suspected Shadow agents. Morden was ready to admit that some of the disappeared had not been working for the Enemy, but they had certainly been a part of the Centauri's 'Great Game of Houses' and that was chaotic enough to merit destruction. He had removed much of the old, corrupt and chaotic system.
Now, all he had to do was replace it with a better one.
A young child was screaming, pulling at the arm of a man, seemingly unaware that the man's head had been split open.
He had an idea of where to start. The Game of Houses was chaotic, yes, and it needed to be stopped, but it did tend to throw up certain types of people who could be used.... profitably. The enemy had taken advantage of it, and Morden intended to do the same.
He looked back at the throne. The Emperor had been overworking himself of course. When he recovered — if he recovered — he would have to reduce his workload. A dead Emperor and another civil uprising was in no one's interests at the moment. No, Morden would see to it that Londo got all the rest he needed. After everything he had already done, he deserved it.
If he recovered, of course. He was not a young man, and years of drink and food and carousing must have taken its toll, to say nothing of the stresses of recent years.
The rioting was breaking up now. People were running, scattering in all directions. Morden smiled. Londo had been a good man, and a compassionate ruler, but that only took one so far. Order and discipline were necessary. This protest should never have been allowed to happen.
Well, at least Morden had an opportunity to see that it was never repeated. He had a lot of work to do.
"I will not tolerate it!" the Centauri lordling was saying. "She was mine. Mine! I took her in conquest. I claimed her in battle! By all the laws we have forged, she was mine!"
Moreil listened patiently, looking at the lordling with a fixed, staring gaze. Many broke and trembled before that dark, silent stare, but not Rem Lanas. Moreil was not sure if that was a sign of great courage or great stupidity.
There was a thin mark down the Centauri's face, a slender red line. Moreil had a feeling he knew the weapon that had caused that cut.
"The laws of our order," he was continuing. "All of them support me on this! She was mine!"
Laws? The last refuge of the weak. They see someone taking things that are theirs, and they cry out - 'You can't do that! The law doesn't allow it!' - and the strong would laugh, of course. The weak never realised that the way to stop the strong oppressing them was not to appeal to some mythical 'law' but to become strong themselves.
Rem Lanas would never understand that.
But Moreil thought this Marrago did.
"What happened?" he asked at last. The Centauri looked at him, as if surprised that he was really there. The lordling might as well have been talking to a wall, and he probably thought he was.
"He took her. She was mine! Mine! And he took her! He thinks that because he is a noble he can take whatever he likes! Well, he can't! She was mine! The law says so."
If Moreil had needed further confirmation that Lanas was not the nobleman he pretended to be, that was more than enough. He did not care, though. He knew exactly why Lanas was here. He wanted a place where a new law would protect him, a place where he could be someone important, and all the time he never realised that the way to become important was to be important, or that the way to be protected was to be so strong that there was no need for protection.
Some people would never understand.
The light behind him seemed to fade as the Wykhheran appeared, and Lanas visibly paled. Moreil looked at him again.
May we feed, lord?
Not yet, Warrior. A time will come when you face one more worthy. This one would not taste well.
As you say, lord.
"What happened?" Moreil asked again. "Speak slowly and clearly."
Lanas bowed his head, shaking, and then he began to speak.
The girl was unconscious, her back a raw and ragged mass of flesh. His arms had tired from holding the whip for so long, but he did not set it down. He cradled it in his hands, feeling the knobs of flesh and blood that splattered the lash.
He grabbed her tail of hair and pulled her head back. Her long, soft, dark, beautiful hair. Her eyes were closed. He didn't like that. He wanted to see the anger in them, the defiance, the way she had cursed him, the way she looked down on him, thinking she was so much better than he was.
They always had. All of them. All the nobles. They'd all looked down on him. He'd seen them ride past in their fine clothes with their beautiful women and their big houses and they'd all looked down on him.
Well, this one wouldn't. Not forever. Eventually she'd beg him for mercy, and then after a bit longer she'd beg him for more. That was what he wanted. A fine noble's daughter begging him for things.
He chuckled and crossed to the other side of the room. There was a lot more here. A lot more. Books, jewellery, riches. He had taken a lot from Gorash. Not as much as he should have, though. The others had tricked him, taken his share. Just because they had the ships and the weapons and the soldiers and knew where to fence the items, that meant they thought they were better than he was. All of them, even that loathsome alien monster Moreil. Oh, he might have said he was taking nothing, might have said he was not interested in plunder, but Rem knew differently. Moreil was scamming him, taking what was rightfully his.
Wasn't he important enough to them? Hadn't he told them all about Gorash? He'd spent enough time there. He'd told them where the Governor's house was, where the nobles lived, where the museums and galleries and craftsmen's quarters were. What would they all have done without him to guide them?
And what did he have to show for it? A few pathetic baubles and one girl. He deserved more than that.