Chen looked at the mundane, and suddenly he remembered who he was. 'You're Captain Ben Zayn,' he said. 'You work for Mr. Bester.'
'I work for her now,' he said, pointing at the woman. 'And so do you. It's the least you can do in return for us saving your life.'
'Who are you?' he said to her. 'What were those things? What did they want with me?'
'Do you believe in evil?' she asked simply.
Chen blinked. 'I.... I don't know. I've never really thought about it. Why?'
'Those things are evil. What they do with telepaths is evil. We'll tell you all about it, but you'll wish we hadn't once you know everything. You really will. You can call me Talia. I know who you are.'
'How...?' Chen stopped. He believed her when she said there would be explanations later.
He also believed her when she said he would not like the answers.
* * * Whispers from the Day of the Dead — I For one night, and one night alone, Brakir belonged to the ghosts. Marrago could see them moving through the streets of their cities, costumes of flamboyant whites and golds, masks and banners and jewellery.
There were many strangers here this night, aliens come to witness an event that most would never see in their lifetimes again. The Day of the Dead. Some came merely to say they had been there. Some came seeking answers to what lay beyond. Some came hoping for one last word with a loved one, now passed away. Marrago had his reasons for being here, and they had little to do with his mission for Sinoval. For six months he had been scouring the galaxy seeking soldiers and mercenaries and sellswords. Now he had a force of nearly thirty, with at least two he trusted as lieutenants. He had given them command, and he had come here.
They had tried to argue against him travelling alone, but he had come anyway, despite their protests. There was a price on his head from the Court, and there had already been three attempts at claiming it. He was still a recognisable figure and his refusal to cut his hair only made him the more recognisable.
But still he came alone. This was something he had to do alone.
As he walked beneath the night sky of Brakir, seeing the glow of the comet passing overhead, he spotted other outsiders, others here seeking.... perhaps the same things he was seeking.
A Minbari woman was standing on a balcony above him. She was short, slender and pretty, and her bearing spoke of power. She was looking up into the sky, and toying absently with an amulet draped around her neck. A human, his clothes stained and muddy, was sitting in a corner of an alley, starting at shadows and whispering names under his breath. A Narn, one Marrago knew he recognised, walked into the doorway of a temple, where hundreds of Brakiri knelt in prayer and meditation.
And a Brakiri, wearing the uniform of a captain in the Dark Star fleet, walked purposefully towards an abandoned building. He stopped before it, staring silently for a long, long time.
Marrago moved past them all. They had their own stories, but so did he.
He had rented a room in a quiet inn, not remotely surprised that the enterprising landlord had increased the rent tenfold for the Day of the Dead. He had paid. The funds he had gathered from various mercenary jobs were not inconsiderable, and what else did he have need to buy?
He sat down, trying to remember what he had been told. 'The dead will come to you.'
'Are you here?' he asked softly. 'Lyndisty, are you here?'
There was no answer. He was not sure if he had been expecting one. The whole concept of the Day of the Dead sounded strange to him, and he had been weaned on ghost stories, usually bloody and melodramatic. His father had disapproved, of course.
But if there was even a chance, however slight, that he could see her again.... There were some things he had to say to her.
Softly behind him there came gentle footsteps, whispered breaths of the dead. His breath became very cold in his mouth. And he turned.
It was not Lyndisty.
A man was standing before him, young and handsome, dressed in the uniform of a Centauri officer, a kutari at his side. For a moment Marrago did not know this man, but then he spoke, and there was understanding. 'Jorah?' the man said. 'Jorah, is that you?'
Only one person had ever called him that. Even to Londo he had always been known as Marrago.
'Barrystan,' he whispered.
'By the Great Maker,' Barrystan said. 'Look at you. You look old.'
'I am old,' Marrago said. 'Older than I look. Sometimes older than I feel. But you.... you look just like you did when you....' He stopped, not knowing how to say the word 'died'.
'Has it been that long, then?' Barrystan sat down, as did Marrago. 'How long has it been? Time doesn't seem to pass the same way there.'
'It must be.... twenty-five years. Perhaps even more. Yes, twenty-five years since Immolan.'
'Twenty-five years? Great Maker! That explains why you look so old.' He suddenly straightened. 'Lyndisty! How is she? She must be a young woman by now. Did you....? Is she...? Did you even hear me when I asked you to look after her? I don't remember.'
Marrago fell silent. He remembered hearing his old friend's last request to him. A young wife, a baby daughter. Could he look after them?
How could he tell Lyndisty's father that she was dead?
'I heard you,' he said. 'She is fine. A beautiful young woman.'
'Is she married yet?'
'No, but there are several candidates. I think she enjoys the attention. She has.... a way of looking at the young men, a way of moving her eyes that draws them all in. She got that from your sister. Exactly the same tilt of the head.'
'And Drusilla?'
Another pause, as Marrago thought of something to say. Drusilla had become selfish and spoiled and shrewish. The two of them spent as little time together as they could. She played the Game of Houses and took young lovers to her bed and enjoyed intrigues and gossip.
But he remembered a time when he had danced with her at Barrystan's wedding, and watched her eyes sparkle with love for his friend, her new husband. He remembered as the light in her eyes died when he told her of his death. He had married her for honour, and she him for protection. There had never been love there. Her capacity for love had died when he had.
'She is well,' he said simply.
'You did it, then?' Barrystan said. 'Thank you, Jorah. Many would not have.... Thank you.' Marrago did not say anything. There was very little to say. He had come here hoping, praying, for a chance to talk with Lyndisty one last time, to tell her he loved her one last time, to tell her that she had been the light illuminating his world.
He had never expected that he would have to tell the truth to one of his oldest friends twenty- five years after he had died.
'I cannot believe how old you look,' Barrystan said again.
'I am old. I have been old for a very long time.'
'Still playing at war? Are you Lord-General now?'
'I was. I.... serve the Republic in another way now. One better suited to my talents.'
'What fool of an Emperor let you go from being Lord-General? Who is Emperor now, anyway? Turhan cannot still be alive?'
'He's been dead for a while. No.... a.... you won't believe this. Londo Mollari. Emperor Mollari II.'
