He thinks he knows what he is hunting. He thinks he knows why his mission is so important. He thinks he is the only one capable of what he is doing.
He looks into the shadows and feels no fear, for he sees only light. Sometimes — not always, not even often, but sometimes — it fills his mind, and he knows what he must do. He knows what is important. At other times he cannot see clearly.
But now he is sure.
He is going out into the hidden places of the galaxy. He is seeking ships both ancient and powerful. He believes these to be either tools or allies of the Shadows, and thus a threat to the fragile peace he has helped to create.
But somewhere, at the back of his mind, beyond the light, beyond the smell and the touch and the smile of his true love, there is a tiny part of him that does not want peace, a part of him that knows he is a warrior and that he was born to fight. His entire adult life has been spent at war, and future decades of bureaucracy and diplomacy and politics would drive him insane.
So he is here, seeking a war to fight, somewhere, anywhere. Seeking an opponent to fight.
He cannot see the future. He is intuitive, but neither psychic nor an oracle, and so he does not know what awaits him at the end of his quest.
If he did, it is doubtful whether he would think himself the luckiest man alive, or the unluckiest.
He continues, content to wait, content to inhale the smell of her on his skin and his hair, content to close his eyes and see the light, and content to wait.
The shadows do not scare him.
It has been a long, long time since anyone called him by his first name. It has been so long he has almost forgotten it himself. He does not regard that as a tragedy. He does not care what people call him.
But sometimes he does feel regret that there is no one close enough for him to want to care. He wants people to talk to. He wants to tell people of the things he is doing, in the calm, casual way he would tell his wife about his day at work.
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
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.
