by Sales, Ian
Maganda answered, “It was like I expected it. I was at the rear, where you ordered me, ma’am. But the enemy broke through and we had to fight them off.”
Good. The young woman had shown sense enough to follow orders. Rinharte had not wanted her playing the hero. Those who did that generally did not survive. Like Kordelasz.
She would mourn him later.
“Someone told me they saw you take a field-piece, ma’am.”
“I did?” She could not remember.
Maganda nodded vigorously. “You were leading a platoon of hussars.” The woman’s expression abruptly saddened. “I heard about Marine-Captain Kordelasz. I’m sorry, ma’am.”
“Yes. So am I.”
Rinharte turned away. She crossed her arms across her bosom and squeezed. A shiver ran up her back and the landscape before her blurred and wavered for one brief second. She was used to death, she told herself. She had seen it many times before.
She remembered one engagement: shouting at rateds to pull on their air-hoods, yanking on her own… and grabbing for a handhold as the gangway before her abruptly disappeared. And the men and women standing there gone too. She had seen debris slice a man in half, and a bulkhead crush a damage control party to paste in a split second. She had watched helpless as spread-eagled corpses cartwheeled across the heavens from a ruptured hull. She had ducked and cowered as a wall of flame bore down towards her and men and women danced screaming in its burning heart.
And she had walked away after the battle and known there would be further moments in her life no different to them.
So why shouldn’t the Battle of Swava be the same?
That was what they were calling it already: the Battle of Swava. As if it were already fit to be written in the history books. Perhaps it was. The Admiral had won. “Prince” Casimir had won.
“Round up what remains of Tempest’s crew, Romi,” Rinharte said. “And find us a berth on the Admiral’s ship.”
“You mean Vengeful?”
“No.” Rinharte shook her head. “Vengeful didn’t survive the battle. The Admiral seized an enemy battleship as her new flagship.” Casimir had led the boarders. It had been a day for surprises.
“Vengeful gone?”
“Look for Casimir—ah, Lord… Prince… Casimir.” She gestured vaguely.
“Oh. I saw him over by the pavilion.” Maganda sketched a bow, turned about and hurried up the hill.
Rinharte envied the mate her energy. She herself felt too tired to even hold an emotion for more than a split second. She returned to watching the troops embark. Many were wounded, some with missing limbs, others with burns, some holding hands tight against torsos. All were dirty, with torn and stained uniforms. Rinharte could not tell what the original colour of many tunics had been. Still, it was a long journey to Shuto. They would have time to recuperate and recover. They would need it. She wondered how many would be fit for combat when they reached their destination.
After all, they had one more battle to fight. And that was likely to prove harder than this one.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
The senior officers’ wardroom was located in the forward part of Empress Glorina’s superstructure, forward of the conning-tower, on the second of the Great Hall’s mezzanine decks. It boasted a glass roof, not unlike that of Vengeful’s Pilothouse. In battle, the roof could be covered with armoured shutters. It was uncovered now. Ormuz stood at the forward bulkhead peering up at Geneza. Behind him, he heard stewards setting out cutlery and silverware for a meal. If it not had been for the view through the glass roof, he might have thought himself in a restaurant in some city. But not a prole restaurant, of course.
His attention shifted to a line of ships in orbit. The remains of the Admiral’s—of his—fleet. Their losses had not been as heavy as those of the enemy. He no longer felt anguish when he considered those who had died. It was over; there was nothing to be done now. He personally had killed some of the enemy himself.
Flexing his sword hand, he looked down at it and marvelled at the events of the last few days. Here he stood, a veteran of a space battle, having boarded and captured this battleship. Just over a year ago, he had been a young prole aboard a data-freighter. A nothing. An unusual prole, perhaps, inasmuch as he was permitted to travel from world to world. Now it seemed almost everyone called him “Prince Casimir”. They had heard how he had taken Empress Glorina for the Admiral. According to Varä, some of the rateds were running impromptu tours of the battleship’s lower decks, describing in salacious detail each of Ormuz’s sword-fights with the enemy at the locations at which the fights had apparently occurred.
Something moved against the planet. One of the ships was pulling out of formation. She was too far away for him to identify, although he estimated she was massive enough to be a cruiser. The vanguard, then. A small flotilla—not commanded by Livasto; he had not survived—would lead the fleet’s way to Shuto.
From orbit, Geneza looked as peaceful as ever. Henotic pilgrims came here. There was a city in the south of the continent called Zolima which they considered holy. Perhaps one day Ormuz himself would visit it. From what he had heard, it was an interesting place.
And perhaps too others would visit that green and pleasant valley near where the Old Empire’s capital had once stood. He could imagine some future tourist guide explaining how, on this very spot, the rebellion had been defeated. If this were some far future date, would their names survive? Princess Flavia leading the defenders of the Imperial Throne… and himself? Prince Casimir? Or perhaps the new Duke of Ahasz? The current duke, the Serpent, could not be forgiven for his attempt to seize the Throne. And that would leave his duchy without an heir. He had, after all, never married.
It was pointless speculating. While Ormuz had no desire to return to the life of a prole, he felt equally uncomfortable masquerading as a “prince”. He enjoyed the comforts he now received and was reluctant to lose them. But the responsibilities… He’d had enough of them. He felt the weight of every death he had caused on his shoulders.
He was getting maudlin, as he increasingly did when alone. Was this the price he paid for the role destiny had given him? He remembered happiness but only as something from the past. There had been brief moments of joy—a memory of a night in the Admiral’s cabin came abruptly to mind and he blushed—but they had been few and far between since Linna.
He turned about and wove his way between the tables to the exit from the wardroom. About him the stewards carried on readying the room for the first sitting. The double-doors of carved wood opened directly onto a balcony overlooking Empress Glorina’s Great Hall. He crossed to the railing, put his hands to the wood of the balustrade and gazed out at the two-storey chamber, at the balconies to either side, at the groined ceiling and wooden arches, at the martial honours which hung from flagpoles to left and right the length of the Hall.
He missed Vengeful and felt lost in this great castle of space. No, he missed Divine Providence. She had been nothing but a single gangway, with cabins to either side, a small hold and an engineering space, and a control cupola forward. He missed the simplicity of his old life and—as a pair of lieutenants stopped to bow as they walked past—he missed not having to play a role all the time. He had learnt in sword-fighting never to let down his guard. This journey from Linna to Geneza, and the ensuing battle, had taught him keep his guard up even when he did not have a sword in his hand.
And still the worst was to come.
Shuto.
Capital of the Empire. Site of the Imperial Palace, home of the Emperor. Once, Ormuz had never imagined he would visit Shuto. Now it seemed likely he would visit the Imperial Palace itself.
And meet Emperor Willim IX. The Admiral’s father. His lover’s father.
Now there was a battle he was not looking forward to.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Troopers huddled against the trench-wall, wrapped in dark red greatcoats streaked with mud, coughing p
hlegm into clenched fists. After seventy days, and thirty of them with bad weather, conditions had worsened, rain turning the mud behind the revetments into liquid. It seeped through the planking and soiled everything. The Housecarls officers had all retired underground, were now bivouacked in the railway station beneath the Pacification Campaigns monument. Some had talked of moving into the officers’ quarters of the district garrison. Colonel Tayisa had put a stop to that. The officers of Ahasz’s household troopers, made of sterner stuff, remained in the dank and uncomfortable command posts.
The troopers themselves had no choice.
The Duke of Ahasz picked his way along the trench, stepping over the stretched legs of soldiers. He moved in a daze, neither awake nor asleep. At some level, he took in his surroundings, reacted appropriately to them. Yet his mind was a blank; he thought of nothing. A bolt from a cannon within the Palace shot overhead, landing somewhere far to the rear. He ignored it.
The trench zigged to the left. A household trooper at the corner straightened from a stoop and saluted weakly. Ahasz made this patrol every day. He felt it important that his army see he too suffered as they did. Tellingly, Colonel Everst, commanding officer of the Imperial Regiment of Housecarls, had yet to make an appearance in the Imperial Household District.
Reaching a defile leading to the rear slope of Palace Road, Ahasz turned down it. Halfway along, he ducked into a low doorway leading to the dugout he shared with Tayisa. Blood streaked the wood of one jamb. Ten days ago, the Emperor’s Own Cuirassiers had made an attack. Having been barracked in the Imperial Palace, they were comparatively fresh. But they had been beaten back. At a loss. Of Ahasz’s near eight thousand men, less than five thousand now remained.
At least Commodore Magwagi had decided upon discretion. The duke’s swivels had shot down the sole boat he had sent over the District on a reconnaissance flight. But the potential loss of the Imperial Navy’s wealth had proven sufficient deterrent to keep away his Imperial Marines. Triumphant remained in orbit, watching events in the District from on high. According to Druzh, the Lords of the Admiralty had transferred aboard the dreadnought.
He pushed open the door to the command post and entered the dank cave of its interior. Tayisa, seated at a desk, looked up, gave a grim smile and returned to his reports. He appeared even more of a mess than the duke. His beard, matted and unkempt, had grown thick and shaggy. A sleeve of his uniform jacket had been inexpertly stitched back on. Much of the gold frogging on the front had been ripped off.
“No change,” Ahasz said listlessly. He crossed to his cot, sat down and lay back against the cold wall. “I don’t know how much longer we can keep this up. The next big attack may well finish us.”
“We still outnumber the defenders, your grace,” Tayisa replied.
“But we can’t take the Palace. Which means we cannot succeed.”
To have come so far, only to descend to this. Beaten off by a prepared defence, beaten down by poor weather. And it had all seemed so easy…
Ahasz could imagine the Electorate Hall ringing with laughter at his expense.
“Any word from Sofia?” he asked.
Tayisa lifted a folded paper. “A message from your sister, your grace.”
“Read it.” Ahasz could not work up the energy to cross to the desk to take it from the colonel’s hand.
Mayna, Marchioness Angra, had returned to Shuto and was busy settling into her apartments on the Vonshuan estate. During the journey from Syrena, she had paid a visit to the nomosphere. She had news of Geneza.
The Admiral’s fleet had beaten his own. Her army had landed on the world and defeated his forces. There would be no reinforcements from that quarter.
“At least,” the duke said, “one aspect of our plan goes as intended.” He wished he had the enthusiasm to feel some satisfaction at the Admiral’s victory. No, not the Admiral’s. The boy’s—the young “prince”, Ormuz. His clone. It had been so long since Ahasz had visited the nomosphere himself. Details of his trips there had gained a slippery dream-like quality.
“So,” he said, “the Admiral and the clone bring their forces here.”
“Yes, your grace.”
“I had hoped to force them to attack the Imperial Palace. I suppose lifting my siege will have the same effect.” Except more would die, he did not add. He had never expected his usurpation to be entirely bloodless, but he had hoped to keep casualties to a minimum. Tens, perhaps a hundred or so; not thousands, not fully a quarter of his own army. And an unknowable number of defenders.
Druzh maintained her informers within the Palace and assured him the Imperial Family remained hale and hearty. A boat had attempted to escape fifteen days ago from the Palace’s boat-bay. A swivel had shot it down. It had carried only a handful of proles. Ahasz suspected they had been used to test the escape route. He found the callousness of that action unforgivable. In law, proles may have been chattel but they were also people. And Ahasz refused to forget that fact. It had been brought home to him many years before…
Twenty-two years ago, Ahasz had been a young lieutenant in the Imperial Gold Watch, stationed on his home world, Syrena. During a training exercise, a vehicle accident had killed a prole trooper—a lapse of concentration, hastily barked orders to correct the situation and a man crushed between two troop-carriers. Ahasz’s company commander had been dismissive and his heartless unconcern had angered the young duke. Spurred to make amends, Ahasz visited the man’s widow two days later. A regimental driver took him into Samek and deep into the city’s proletarian heart.
Down from the hills and the regimental headquarters in Garnisz Castle, Ahasz sitting tense and still burning with fury and disgust at his regimental-captain, a pair of troopers in the staff car’s outside rear-seat. His sergeant had begged him not to go, not to visit places the young duke should not visit. The accompanying troopers were a compromise. The car swept onto North Prospect, one of the four wide avenues piercing the city, each leading directly to Zont Palace, the forty-two-storey stepped skyscraper which housed the fiefal government. Ahasz stared straight ahead, ignoring the imposing apartment blocks lining the Prospect. He had travelled this route many times before. The duchy was currently held in trust, administered by a council of seneschals until he had served his five years in the regiment.
He reached up for a handhold as the vehicle swerved, shooting between a pair of buildings and heading west over the river to the proletarian districts. Glancing back over his shoulder, he lost sight of Zont Palace, obscured by the blocky shapes of tenements. Never before in Samek had he been unable to see it.
The buildings grew increasingly shabbier, crouched lower to the ground, their facades plainer. Corners, lintels and dados no longer boasted devices, faces, flora or fauna cunningly worked into the stone. The roofs were no longer gilded or tiled, but plain wood. The buildings drew in closer until the road became too narrow for vehicles. The car halted and sat bobbing on its chargers.
For a moment, Ahasz did not move, his location and his purpose forgotten. Coming to, he adjusted his sword and exited the vehicle. Followed by the troopers, he strode ahead, taking a stepped wynd indicated by his driver. The journey was not a long one, even by foot, but the distance he travelled was great. The ways were narrow and oppressive, and busy with pedestrians and goods traffic in hand-pushed carts. Visible above was only a thin slice of sky, a line of energetic blue amongst the black and grey. Ahasz spotted a prole struggle past him on a pair of crutches, one trouser leg pinned up at the knee. He was disgusted. That people should be treated in such a way. Why had no one arranged an artificial limb for the man? Who was responsible for him?
The duke looked more closely at those he passed. Surprisingly, they seemed happy, even though they clearly lived greatly reduced lives.
He reached the address he had been given, a five-storey tenement block of begrimed stone, with square functional windows, lintels and roof-line. Ten steps led up to a double-door of sturdily-framed glass.
Ahasz mounted the stairs, pushed open the door. Opposite the entrance, a lift shaft gaped blankly, a length of rope across it signalling that it no longer functioned. He turned to the stairs to his right and began to climb them. His soldiers jingled and clinked after him, their boots loud on the stone treads.
The dead trooper’s wife and two children lived in a three-room flat on the third floor. The hallway was bare but scrubbed clean. Some of the light-panels on the ceiling fizzed and hummed but gave out only a dim glow. The woman opened the door at Ahasz’s knock—which had begun assertive, but been only tentative by the time knuckles hit wood.
She was attractive, in a pale, washed-out fashion. Blonde hair, pulled back into a loose pony-tail, wan features, no cosmetics—no effort made at all to beautify herself. Her frown turned to puzzlement as she took in the duke’s uniform, his sword.
“My lord?”
“You are Trooper Nevolnic’s wife?”
The woman nodded. Through the doorway, Ahasz could see a pair of small black-suited boys slumped listlessly on a sofa.
Whatever condolences he had been prepared to offer fled Ahasz’s mind. He had come here to show that he cared for the men under his command, that he felt remorse for the man’s death. But to have it demonstrated so forcibly that the soldier’s own liege cared not one whit for him…
“Who owns your bond?” the duke demanded, more harshly than he had intended, and peering at the woman’s collar for a sight of her escutcheon. It depicted a lit lantern in a window. He did not recognise it.
“Pardon, my lord? My bond? That would be Malik demar Huletomus.”
“Do you work?”
She shook her head. “No, no, I don’t. I gave up when I had the boys.”
“Good. I shall buy your bond from Huletomus. You will come live on my estate and I shall find you work. I would not have you live like this.”