"What else should I have done?"
"Was she worth risking all this for? You have seen the operation of these people just as I have. You could lead them all in a sixmonth. Within twice that, you could have a force of outcasts big enough to take on the Alliance itself. Why risk that for one girl?"
"Ambition is a powerful thing," Marrago admitted. "And yes, you are right. This may risk everything, even our lives. But I will not stand by and watch a young girl tortured and beaten. If that risks my life, then so be it."
"You are a noble no longer. Remember that. Now you are an outcast like the rest of us. Have you ever thought that your old ways may not match your new life?"
"All the time. But some things are right, and some things are wrong, and what was done to her was wrong. There is no doubt about it."
"Ah. As I expected. Well, I leave you to your lady. The others need training."
Marrago nodded as Dasouri left, feeling both bolstered and weakened by what the Drazi had said. Every word was correct, every argument justified. Marrago had risked a lot by this action. It was not the work of a tactician, or a strategist, but it was simply right.
It was not as if she even looked like Lyndisty. Her hair was darker, her eyes a different shade. She was a little taller, a little younger.
She stirred, and sat up in one instant, her eyes darting around. She had awakened immediately, without weariness or confusion or disorientation.
She looked at him, and pulled the cloth around her like a shield. He thought she was trembling a little.
"Who are you?" she said at last, after a long pause.
"My name is Jorah Marrago," he said, his first name feeling strange in his mouth. Jorah was the name of a stranger, a young and ambitious man. He had not used that name since his father had died. "Once I was Lord-General. Now.... I am just an outcast."
"I've heard of you," she said slowly, pulling the sheet tighter around her. She said nothing more, merely continuing to stare. He was impressed. There was no fear there, no silent pleas, just a grim determination. You will not break me, the stare said. You may do whatever you wish to me, but you will not break me. She had learned pain, and a great deal of it.
"Might I have the honour of knowing your name?" he said at last.
She looked a little surprised. "My name is.... I am Senna. I used to be a lot of things, but now I'm just Senna."
He nodded. "It is an honour to meet you."
"You.... rescued me?"
"Yes."
"Did you kill him?"
"No."
"Why?"
"I have killed too much. I am tired of it. I will kill if I must, but not otherwise. Your.... captor was a weak man. He was no threat to me, and I have made sure he will not bother you again."
"No," she said firmly. "Why did you rescue me? What do you hope to gain from me? There will be no ransom."
"I do not want ransom," he said flatly.
"Then what? Revenge? Or perhaps.... a little.... something for night-time?"
"Neither," he said, his words hard. "That man. Did he...." A simmering anger was burning within him, but he fought to keep it down. He was not even sure who he was angry with. He was just angry. "Did he...?"
"Rape me?" she finished, in a harsh, sardonic half-laugh. "Would you have wanted him to? Would that give you an excuse to go to him and beat him to a bloody pulp? Would you have liked to watch?" He was silent. There was no reply he could give, and she seemed to sense this, instantly regretting her sarcasm. "No, he didn't," she said finally. "He thought it would be.... more fun for me to beg him to touch me."
"I am sorry," he said, looking down.
"Why? You didn't whip me senseless all these days and nights."
"I should have been here sooner."
She laughed again, a sound entirely devoid of any humour. "Why? Do you expect me to believe you are some sort of hero? That your only motivation is pure altruism? Rescuing the captive princess from the evil monster? I'm not a princess." She made to add something, but stopped. "There was something else there. If you didn't want me for yourself, then you wanted me for something."
"You are right," he said. This was not how he had imagined this conversation going. Couldn't she be more like...? "I have.... had a daughter. She would not have been a great deal older than you are."
"I am not her," she spat. "And whatever happened to her, you will not be able to bring her back through me."
"Why are you so cynical?" he shouted at last, unable to contain himself any longer. He saw her shrink back. "I know you are not her. That does not mean I would have let that go on happening to you. There was no ulterior motive, no dark plan. Nothing but some sense that there is still right and wrong."
"There isn't," she whispered. "There's no such thing."
"How can there be such cynicism in one so young?" he mused, mostly to himself. He was not expecting a reply, and there wasn't one. "Anyone would think you had no dreams at all."
"I don't," she said firmly.
He looked at her, and saw that she was telling the truth. She wanted to hurt him, yes, but her reply had been truthful. He sighed. "I think that is the saddest thing I have ever heard," he whispered. "When I was your age, oh, what dreams I had! What dreams we all had! We would shake heaven and earth and leave behind nothing but smiles and wit and a reputation all men would envy.
"They did not come true, and most of the men who dreamed are gone now. Yes, we failed, but that failure was the fault of the dreamers, not of the dream.
"And you say you have no dreams at all. Not a single one." He sighed again. "Go to sleep. Food and drink will be brought for you when you require them, and you have my word, if that means a single thing to you, that no one will try to harm you here. Not while I live."
"I...." She was shaking. "I am sorry."
"Go to sleep," he said, as he left.
Dasouri was not where Marrago had expected him to be, where the others were training. His little group of mercenaries and outcasts had grown a fair bit, and they needed to learn cohesiveness. There were many different races here, with many different fighting styles, and they needed to learn each others' strengths and weaknesses. They needed to learn to trust each other.
He found Dasouri in the antechamber, arguing with a newcomer. It was an alien, the one who had been at the council. He looked at Marrago with his strange, almost infinite, alien eyes, and behind him Marrago could see the shimmering heat-haze of a monster.
"This is Moreil," Dasouri said. "He wishes to talk with you. I did say she would be nothing but trouble."
Ambassador Durano put down the missive and looked up at the wall. For a moment he felt physically sick. Not just because the Centarum had waited so long to inform him of the situation, not even out of concern for the Emperor's health, not even because the missive was signed by a human called Morden.
No, it was the instructions that nauseated him so much.
Durano was a rational man, painstakingly so. He thought clearly before each action. He carefully weighed the consequences of his every move. He took time to think and debate and argue with himself. Those traits made him invaluable to his people, and also a very fine chess player. He had played the game a lot since he was introduced to it by the humans, and he was acknowledged a master.
He knew how to separate sentiment from practicality. There were things which, while unpleasant, were still necessary. That was a part of life, and only a fool disagreed with it.
But this?
He had argued against the sending of Narn peacekeeping troops to Gorash, knowing that such a move would both inflame public opinion among his people and, worse, send a dangerous message that the Republic was weak. The Republic was weak of course, fatally so, but it was hardly wise to let this fact be advertised. However, his cautious mind had ultimately decided that Narn aid was better than none, and so he had assented.