could tell. The fruits of the raid on Gorash were long since consumed, and the Brotherhood had grown since then with Marrago's own addition, to say nothing of certain lesser mercenary companies. There had to be new, fresh ground somewhere.
But where? They had been arguing non-stop for over a week. Worlds and stations and bases had all been suggested and discarded and suggested again. Marrago wondered just how they had managed to attack Gorash at all. They would have trouble just agreeing on a seating order, let alone a battle plan.
Which of course made them a perfect target for him to take over eventually. He was the most experienced general among them — more experienced than most of them put together. He was also the newest, and the most distrusted, but still.... With time and luck and skill he would become their leader soon enough. A couple of good performances in a raid or two, and he would have them in the palm of his hand.
That had been his original plan, when he had followed up n'Grath's invitation and joined the Brotherhood. A couple of things had derailed it since then, but the basic plan held.
Well, three things in fact.
The first was the Narns. The captain, ostensibly, was G'Lorn, former aide to Warleader G'Sten, but it would have taken a much blinder man than Marrago not to recognise that it was the female who really wielded the power there. He had finally learned that her name was Mi'Ra, and that G'Lorn had brought her with him as his lover. He had not recognised her name, but he knew there was definitely more to her than appeared at first sight. Thenta Ma'Kur? The Narn assassin guild had come after him once or twice before, and their assassins had moved with the same easy grace she exhibited. He was determined to continue watching both of them.
The second was the Z'shailyl, the Shadowspawn. He held more power than any of the others, and he could have taken the leadership entirely if he had wanted to, if for no other reason than his Wykhheran monstrosities. That he had not done so suggested some deeper motive. Perhaps a simple strength-in-numbers philosophy. Perhaps he was testing the others just as Marrago was, biding his time, waiting for the moment.
The third was Senna, and he would not think about her. Not at the moment.
Sometimes he missed brivare. Or even jhala. He missed his old soldier friends. He missed Londo. He missed Urza. He missed Barrystan. Most especially, he missed Lyndisty.
But it was true. He was old. And bitter. And pained. Countless old wounds, countless old scars, countless dead friends.
He was thinking back to his encounter with Barrystan on the Day of the Dead more and more, and it was not helping.
He drifted around, angry and dark and bitter, dwelling on old melancholies, old loves, old friends, old things.
Waiting for something to happen, for the universe to let out its breath.
Delenn rolled over, coming quickly to full wakefulness as the strange noises roused her. She rarely slept well at the best of times — too many old ghosts haunted her at night — but lately her sleep had been even more fraught than usual.
And most of it was John's fault.
He was speaking now, again. He had done that almost every night since his return from the mission. It was a language she did not know. A language she could not even begin to recognise.
She could speak more languages than she could count, and she knew of many more, including dialects and sub-dialects. This was nothing she had ever heard before.
She had always planned to investigate, but the mystery seemed so trivial in the light of day, and her hours were always so busy, and there had never been time. For the hundredth time, she resolved to speak to someone in the morning. G'Kar, he might know something.
John suddenly convulsed, his arm flying out and smacking her across the face. She rolled backwards across the bed, raising her arms to block his flailing limbs. He was struggling against something, crying out, almost shouting.
'Na! Rwyti'nd we'udd w'rg. Na!'
'John,' she whispered, reaching out gently. His hand shot up in her direction. She caught it deftly and pressed her hand against his palm. His skin was so cold. She had held her father's hand after he had died, while preparing the words to speak at his funeral, and she had thought that was as cold as skin could ever be, but now she was proved wrong.
'John,' she said again.
He moaned, and his eyes fluttered open. His breathing was very heavy and he was staring at the ceiling.
'John?' she said again.
At times like this, she wished Lyta were here. Something was wrong with John, and he did not even seem to realise it. If only there was a telepath she trusted, who could scan his mind and find out....
No. She stopped. She could not do that to him. She could not violate him like that. She loved him, and she would have to help him deal with this himself. It could be nothing more than bad dreams. By anyone's standards, he had been through a great deal.
'John?'
'Delenn,' he said, almost too softly for her to hear. 'Was I.... dreaming again?'
'Yes,' she said, looking up at him. The chill radiated from him like an aura. She wanted to touch him again, but she was afraid the ice would burn her. 'Do you remember anything?' There was little point in asking. He never did.
'I was.... talking with someone, I think. I was walking through a room full of mirrors and someone was walking beside me, but I could only see him in the mirrors, and.... There was something else. I can almost....
'No, it's gone. I'm sorry.'
'Don't be,' she whispered. She was not even sure if she believed him. Trust seemed to have disappeared, one slow piece at a time.
'What time is it?'
'Too early,' she replied. 'An hour or two before we have to get up.'
He moaned. 'Oh, yeah. I've got a meeting with.... with somebody I really don't want to be meeting.'
'The Brakiri Merchants Guild,' Delenn replied. 'They're upset about so many of their ships being stopped and searched by
'That's it. How is it you know my timetable better than I do?'
'I make it a point to know everything you do.'
She said it with a smile, hoping to lighten the mood. He laughed awkwardly, like someone who doesn't understand the joke but responds out of false politeness. 'And you do it very well, too.' He paused again. 'How long until we have to get up?'
'Perhaps an hour?' She touched his shoulder. 'Hardly worth going back to sleep now, is it?'
'No,' he said, sighing. Rubbing at his head, he got out of bed, casually discarding the covers. Delenn looked at him, and with a sigh of her own, gathered them around her. If she had hoped they would warm her, she was disappointed.
She rested her head back, looking at anywhere that was not him.
'That's it,' he said suddenly.
'What?'
'The other thing in my dream. All those mirrors, a room full of them.
'And I didn't have a reflection. Not in any of them.'
Asleep, hovering, trapped between life and death.
As he has been for weeks unending, Emperor Londo Mollari II is at rest, as still as the grave.
He has had few visitors. Few speak his name. Few even think of him. He is as forgotten as if he were dead. Power makes one few friends, few true friends, and he has made fewer still, for he had the illusion of power without the reality.
His personal physician, the finest in the Republic, attends his bedside often, monitoring his condition and his equipment and administering more and more expensive medicines.
