A Conflict of Orders (An Age of Discord Novel Book 2)

by Sales, Ian

  There was no reason to keep the size of the Admiral’s forces secret, Finesz felt. So why not pander to Murë’s transparent bid for glory? “An excellent idea,” she replied, smiling brightly. “There’s little enough to tell. The Admiral’s fleet comprises four battleships, six battlecruisers and sixteen cruisers. She also has troop-transports, carrying some 11,500 soldiers.”

  “Twenty-six capital ships? Dear lords.” Murë’s brow furrowed. Moments later, his forehead smoothed as he began to smile. “There could be a promotion in this,” he said conspiratorially.

  Dropping his foot to the decking, he leant forward. “And the password?” he asked.

  More quick thinking. Finesz floundered for a moment, bereft of inspiration. A recent memory suddenly intruded:

  “Kwamatsz,” she said. “Poer Kwamatsz.”

  Murë sat back. “The author of A History of the Pacification Campaigns?”

  “You’re familiar with the book.”

  He waved a hand at a shelf books behind his desk. “I have a copy over there. There’s one in Cave Wolf’s data-pool too. I expect my officers to be well-read in the classics.”

  “Is that useful?”

  “I don’t follow,” Murë said, frowning. “Useful?”

  “In their, ah, duties.”

  “It is their duty to keep me satisfied in their performance.” His gaze narrowed. “I would not have expected someone in your position to question the need for a good education.”

  Finesz wondered what position Murë believed that to be. She could not boast the breadth of education of the frigate captain—at least not judging by the books on the shelf behind his desk. Even from the other side of the cabin, she recognised the spines of several classics, one or two of which she had tried to read herself. They had been hard-going, she recalled; she had never finished them. But a passing knowledge was all she had really needed at Imperial Court—just enough to make for sparkling conversation, but not enough to intimidate others with learning.

  On the subject of which, she hoped Murë was not hoping for erudite conversation. What little Finesz did know of whatever subjects passed as high culture she had long since forgotten. She winced inwardly as Murë said,

  “You will stay for dinner, inspector. We have few enough visitors aboard and I am sure my officers will be happy to see a new face.”

  “I wish I could, my lord. But I must leave as soon as my ship is ready. You know my intelligence is important.”

  “Yes, yes.” Murë gestured impatiently. “It had not slipped my mind. But if you feel you cannot spare the time… However, you shall stay for a drink at least.”

  Finesz stepped into Mubariz’s cabin. He turned from the desk and looked up at her. “We are moving,” he said.

  “Yes, we’ll be entering the toposphere soon.”

  “So you did not allow the frigate to detain you.”

  Finesz crossed to the bunk and sat on it, taking care to hold her sword out of the way. “No. I persuaded Captain Murë to let us go.” She cocked her head and peered at the commander. “Do you know him?”

  “By reputation.” Mubariz frowned heavily and looked down at his lap. “A strict disciplinarian, with powerful patrons.”

  “He has? Then why is he only in command of a frigate?”

  “There have been… incidents. Mutinies.” Mubariz glanced across at Finesz. “But no matter. I admit to being surprised that Murë proved so tractable.”

  “Well…” Finesz squirmed. “I didn’t exactly tell him the truth.”

  “You should not lie, Sliva. It demeans both you and the person you lie to. The truth would serve better given our situation.”

  “What truth, Abad? That you’re a prisoner of the Admiral and I’m taking you to Shuto for —” She threw up a hand, at a loss for words. “I don’t know why I’m taking you to Shuto! I need to go there to get Gyome out of the House of Rectitude. And I couldn’t leave you on Linna or with the Admiral’s fleet.”

  “You should not have accepted the burden of my imprisonment.”

  “But I want to be with you!” Finesz looked up at the cabin’s ceiling and groaned in despair. “You great oaf, I lied to the Admiral when I said I’d keep you prisoner. When we get to Shuto, you’re free to go wherever you wish. I hope you’ll stay with me but I’ll not make you.”

  For one long moment, Mubariz sat staring fixedly at Finesz. His expression did not change, although perhaps his brows lowered a fraction of an inch. When he did speak, it was in the slow, portentous voice he used when he believed that what he said was of the greatest importance:

  “I enjoy your company, Sliva, and I would have more of it. I cannot deny that. But now is not the time for liaisons. Circumstances have thrown us together and we have made of that what we can. When circumstance moves us apart, as it will on Shuto, then we shall have to live with it. Perhaps, when the Serpent has been captured, the Imperial Throne is safe and the Admiral has been gathered back into the fold. Perhaps then we can make more of what we have.” He gave a slow sad smile, then lifted a hand and reached out to Finesz.

  She too reached out, took his hand in hers, and they sat there holding tightly onto each other and knowing that they would see the end of this.

  And then they would be together again.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  As the pinnace approached Vengeful, Rinharte leaned forward in her seat and peered out of the scuttle beside her. The view was constrained by the boat’s angle of approach and she could see little of the battlecruiser. The rest of the Admiral’s fleet was in plain sight, however. The various warships’ hulls had a tendency to phase in and out of visibility as reflected light from Obok’s gas giant washed across them, but it was an impressive sight all the same. She spotted a pair of battleships and could make out enough of the lettering on their flanks to identify them as Bapor and Senkan.

  The pinnace had lined up with the entry to Vengeful’s boat-deck. Rinharte watched the battlecruiser draw nearer until, with a slight jerk from its gas-rockets, the boat penetrated the force-curtain and came to a halt. Crew hurried up and attached hawsers. With a series of thuds and clanks, the pinnace was slowly winched down into the dock.

  Once it had settled, Rinharte rose to her feet. She pulled her kepi onto her head and tugged on the peak until the kepi sat at the regulation angle. She adjusted the sword hanging from her belt. The boatswain was undogging the hatch into the airlock. Moments later, he had the outer hatch open too.

  “We’ll need a hand with this coffin,” Rinharte called to him.

  Strapped down between two rows of seats in the cabin’s rear, and overseen by Smarwi, was a wooden box hastily knocked together by Tempest’s carpenters. Inside it lay the corpse they had found in the armoury. The Admiral needed to see it—him.

  The boatswain was back, with a pair of rateds in tow. He led them to the makeshift coffin and brusquely instructed them to carry it out onto the boat-deck. Rinharte watched them struggle a moment, then decided to leave them to it.

  Stepping onto the wooden dock beside the pinnace, Rinharte was surprised to find herself alone. As a visiting captain, she had expected to be piped aboard. It was naval tradition. Who played the bosun’s pipe depended on the seniority of the captain—in her case, not very senior at all. Rinharte apparently did not even rate a petty officer. In fact, now that she looked, she saw that the boat-deck was entirely deserted but for those rateds who had winched her pinnace aboard and secured it. Vengeful’s own boats were stowed away in their berths. This was not unexpected: the fleet was not planning on staying long enough in the Obok system for them to be required.

  But where were the crew to pipe Rinharte aboard?

  Aboard another ship, it might have been a calculated insult. But the Admiral? It was not like her to snub a fellow officer, no matter the unauthorised nature of Rinharte’s promotion to captain. Perhaps, she mused, that was it: until her captaincy was ratified by the Imperial Admiralty—and given that the cr
ew of Vengeful were technically mutineers, that was unlikely to happen. But until Rinharte’s command of Tempest was made official… Until that day, the Admiral would not accord Rinharte the deference due her rank. It was characteristic of her: mutiny notwithstanding, the Admiral set her course through life by the rule of law.

  It was an annoyance but she could feel only weary resignation.

  Thumps and oaths sounded behind her. She glanced back at the pinnace and saw Smarwi leading the rateds carrying the coffin. They negotiated the hatch, scraping the box against both sides of the coaming, and stepped down onto the dock. Rinharte moved hurriedly aside.

  “Ma’am?” asked Smarwi. He looked pointedly to either side.

  “Someone is on their way,” Rinharte told him. Or so she supposed.

  Yes, there was Major of Marines Skaria. She saw him step through the hatch onto the boat-deck and make his way towards the dock. He was alone. Where, she wondered, was Ormuz? She had not expected the Admiral to greet her on arrival but she had thought the young “prince” might do so.

  Skaria grinned as he came to a halt before Rinharte. “Ma’am,” he said. “I hear you have a pretty puzzle for us.”

  “Puzzle? It’s not much of a puzzle. But it’s certainly something the Admiral needs to see.”

  The major turned to the box carried by the two rateds, who stood on the dock waiting stoically for further instruction.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “A body.”

  “A dead body?”

  Rinharte gestured vaguely—why else would it be boxed?

  Skaria stepped up to the coffin and peered down at its lid as if his gaze could pierce the wood. “Anyone I know?”

  “I doubt it.” She pulled her kepi from her head and tucked it under her arm. Having expected ceremony on coming aboard Vengeful and not received any, she felt over-dressed. Without her headgear she did not feel quite so foolish. “Smarwi,” she said, “Get the corpse to the sick-berth. Lieutenant-Commander Ishä will need to examine it.”

  The steward nodded, murmured “ma’am”, and urged the rateds off the dock with a series of gestures.

  “You didn’t bring Kordelasz?” asked Skaria.

  “No. The Winter Rangers are training him and his marines in land-battle tactics.”

  Skaria nodded. “A good idea. He’s set on fighting alongside them, then?”

  “The Winter Rangers? Of course. He’s no intention of missing out on a fight. You know what he’s like.”

  “A fine officer, ma’am.”

  Rinharte sighed. She would have used the term “incorrigible”. All the same, there was no other Imperial Marines officer she would sooner have by her side.

  “And you, Mattus?” she asked, pretending to a familiarity with the Major of Marines she had never possessed. “How goes it?”

  Aboard Tempest, it was easy enough to forget her years on Vengeful but standing here on the boat-deck, the battlecruiser’s launch stowed in its cradle above her head… She had missed this warship and all those who sailed within her. She missed the easy camaraderie of Vengeful’s officers, the keen decisiveness of the Admiral’s command, the omnipresent sense of might and righteousness that came with serving aboard a battlecruiser of the Imperial Navy.

  “Well enough,” replied Skaria. “It’s good to be doing something after waiting for weeks at Linna.”

  “Yes, I know the feeling,” Rinharte said absently. She started forward, stepping down from the dock onto the boat-deck’s decking. Skaria joined her and together they crossed to the hatch leading to the starboard supply passage.

  As they made their way through the ship to the conning-tower, Rinharte did not notice anything which seemed glaringly different. The remembered atmosphere of quiet professionalism still pervaded the ship. Those crew she saw appeared intent on their tasks, with no undercurrent of discontent. When she compared it with the somewhat haphazard daily routine aboard Tempest, she wondered how the Admiral managed it.

  “Things are a little subdued,” Skaria remarked. “We’re heading into battle, so that’s not unexpected. I’ve not heard any grumbles from the deck telegraph—young Ormuz has been visiting the lower decks and he’s got all the rateds firmly behind him. Born leader, that lad.”

  Rinharte nodded. She had seen Ormuz address the gathered captains of Commodore Livasto’s squadron all those weeks ago and his persuasiveness had surprised her then. It seemed incredible that only a year ago he had been a prole, the lowest member of the crew of a data-freighter.

  “Where is he?” she asked. She hoped she would get to see him during this visit. It had been too long since they last met.

  “With the Admiral. Thick as thieves those two. In fact…” He glanced across at her, his expression took on a conspiratorial cast and he dropped his voice to a low murmur. “In fact, the Admiral’s very taken with the young lad. He’s been spending nights in her cabin.”

  “That’s hardly surprising,” replied Rinharte. “He is the clone of the man she was going to marry.”

  The major blinked in surprise. “Of course he is. Never occurred to me.” He peered at her. “They’re that much alike?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never met Ahasz. Varä said the duke’s a charmer, so they can’t be that dissimilar.”

  They reached Vengeful’s Great Hall. Beneath the conning-tower well, they stepped onto a lift, and fell into silence as it rose six decks to the topmost gallery. Once at the top, Rinharte saw the Captain’s Bridge was empty. The Admiral was in her suite, then. With Ormuz, if Major Skaria were to be believed.

  They walked around the gallery to the hatch leading into the captain’s suite. As usual, there was no sentry. The Admiral had no need of guards aboard her own ship. Something that was far from true of every captain in the Imperial Navy. Rinharte pressed the entry switch and the hatch drew aside. She stepped over the coaming into the lobby.

  The Admiral’s secretary looked up from his console and rose to his feet. “Captain Rinharte,” he said. He did not smile but it was plain he was happy to see her.

  Someone, thought Rinharte, was at least pleased.

  He put out a hand, “Please. Go right in, ma’am. They’re expecting you.”

  “Thank you, Calihim.” Rinharte held out her kepi. “Can you look after this for me?”

  Rinharte pushed open the door to the Admiral’s day cabin to find herself confronted by three faces, two smiling and one as grim as ever.

  “Rizbeka!” said Ormuz, rising to his feet and turning towards her. His smile widened into a grin and he held out his hands to shake hers. Lieutenant-Commander Voyna, acting executive officer, also smiled in welcome. The Admiral’s features did not change expression.

  “Rizbeka,” said the Admiral. “It is good to see you.” She laid her hands flat on the desk-top and, gazing down at them, said, “So what is it, Rizbeka, that causes you to demand this meeting?”

  Was that disappointment? wondered Rinharte. There was no cause for it. Since taking over Tempest, she had obeyed every order with despatch and her ship-handling had been more than competent.

  She looked round for Skaria but he had vanished. So she began to explain: “When we took Tempest, the armoury was sealed. Marine-Captain Kordelasz made several attempts to break in but only recently did he succeed.” She paused for effect. The Admiral was looking at her now. And from her frown, she had expected some other reason for this meeting.

  “What we found,” she continued, “was a dead body. A Navy officer. Obviously, he’d been there for weeks—left inside, we think, when the clones who crewed the ship climbed into their sarcophagi.”

  “An intriguing puzzle,” the Admiral interrupted. “But I fail to see its importance.”

  “Ma’am, the officer was a mate from Puncheon.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Ormuz. “What’s Puncheon?”

  Voyna answered: “A destroyer. She joined us about six weeks ago.”

  “A
h.” That was Ormuz again. “If one of Puncheon’s officers was aboard Tempest before we took her, then she must be the Serpent’s.”

  “How is it, Casimir,” said the Admiral, “that you could name for me every vessel in the Serpent’s fleet? And yet you miss those hiding in our midst?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. I identified his ships by their orders. I saw no such documents for this Puncheon. And it was one person aboard Arnabyad: the captain and crew were innocent.”

  “So how many more might we have among us?” The Admiral rose to her feet. She turned her back on Rinharte and the others and stared out of the narrow arched windows on the external bulkhead. Much of the Admiral’s fleet would be visible, silhouetted against the aquamarine globe of the gas giant. “Why is it, Rizbeka,” she said, her voice weary, “these days you bring me only bad news?”

  Rinharte did not answer. She suspected the question was rhetorical.

  The Admiral reached up and wiped a hand across her shaven crown. “Must I consider every captain of my fleet a potential enemy? Must I ask each of them to re-affirm their loyalty to me and my cause?” She turned back to face Rinharte, Ormuz and Voyna. “And how am I judge the honesty of their responses?”

  “Make an example of Puncheon,” said Rinharte, surprising herself. She had not thought there was a solution to the Admiral’s dilemma, but… “Yes. Make an example of her,” she repeated. “It may flush others out.”

  “A court martial?” mused the Admiral. “We must be seen to give justice.”

  “No.” Rinharte saw the way forward. “No court martial. If we do that, we’d have to reveal the body from Tempest. We mustn’t let them know how we learnt that Puncheon is the Serpent’s ship. Let them think Casimir found some clue in the nomosphere.”

  The Admiral smiled grimly. “We pretend to omniscience? I like the idea, Rizbeka.”

  “But what if Puncheon is the same as Arnabyad?” demanded Ormuz. “What if this body you found was the only clone aboard?”