by Sales, Ian
She stared at him, more puzzled than surprised. “Move, my lord? I don’t want to move. My family are here, my friends are here.”
Ahasz didn’t understand. “I have better quarters.” His proles lived in a model village, in far better conditions than this seedy tenement.
“But I don’t want to move.” Stubbornness set on her face. She had lost a husband, she would not lose the home she had built.
“Then—” Ahasz turned away. Damn the woman. Couldn’t she see he was trying to do good by her?
Or was he?
She did not want to be uprooted, especially now during her period of mourning. He must consider her wishes.
“Very well,” he said. “I shall have my secretary purchase this building. There may be some discomfort while we have it refurbished. And I shall have him look for a suitable position for you in the area, ready for when you feel able to return to work to support your family.”
“Why, my lord? Why do this?”
Ahasz did not answer. He turned away. A thought occurred to him. Turning back to the woman, he said, “Don’t doubt I can do this. Or that I will.”
“Yes, my lord.” Her frown deepened. “May I ask your name?”
The duke gave a curt nod and stepped away from the door. Hand to the hilt of his sword, he said, “Ariman umar Vonshuan,” spun on his heels and marched towards the stairs.
And he had done right by Valina Nevolnic and her two sons. He had bought her building—no one refused the duke—refurbished it as promised… and eventually bought much of the quarter. The area was now known informally as “Duke Street”. Nevolnic had taken a position as a clerk at a nearby firm owned by a yeoman who owed a favour to another who owed a favour… A long line of patronage and fealty. When each of the two sons had reached sixteen, they had joined the Imperial Gold Watch—
Which reminded him. He sat up and swung legs off the cot. “Tayisa? The Gold Watch?”
“Arrive today, your grace.”
Reinforcements. He had sent for them during the first week of the siege. Four battalions. With them, perhaps, he might have enough for an assault on the Imperial Palace. They would arrive in the Imperial Household District via the railway controlled by the duke’s army.
Four hours later, Ahasz, Tayisa and a handful of officers entered the railway station beneath the Pacification Campaigns monument. The duke and colonel had clambered down a ladder from the trenches. Stepping off the last rung, Ahasz had found himself in one of the tunnels which gave passengers access to the platforms. A hole had been crudely hacked in the passage’s arched ceiling; the rubble still lay piled about the ladder’s foot. From the décor—tiled walls between fluted half-pillars, the tiles artfully arranged to depict a representational skyline of Toshi the length of the tunnel—he judged they were in a passage for the use of yeomanry and nobility. He had never been in the station before: he customarily travelled by limousine to the Imperial Palace; and during this conflict he had so far remained above in the trenches.
Tayisa led the way along the tunnel. It was still well-lit, despite the war taking place above. The two of them met up with the senior surviving officers of the Imperial Regiment of Housecarls in the main concourse, a circular domed chamber some hundred feet in diameter, its décor better suited to an exclusive bath house. From there, it was a short walk along another tunnel to the main upper class platform.
Which followed the same pattern as the tunnel, but to a larger scale. Along the wall opposite the tunnel entrance, the train tracks ran. To the left, the wall separating the upper class area from that allowing proles to board their section of the train had been decorated with a vast mural. Ahasz recognised its subject: the Battle of Labanan. There was the original Triumphant, Edkar I’s flagship, poised above a planet of roiling hellish reds. Round and about the dreadnought, thousands of carefully-detailed ships traded torpedos and shots from their main guns. The mural had been “re-interpreted” a number of times since the railway station was built, each time to the prevailing fashion. The last had been more than a century ago, when the fantastical had been popular in the art world. The painted Triumphant in no way resembled the real warship. Its sweeping sensuous curves, its air of righteous menace… Aesthetically pleasing as they were, Ahasz would not have recognised the ship, given the photographs he had seen, but for its central position in the mural.
And Labanan… If the painting were to be believed, the planet was clearly uninhabitable. Yet it was not. A green and pleasant world, it boasted a large Sutler presence, who exported its bounteous agricultural produce to other parts of the Empire.
Privately, the duke preferred the Romantic school of the mid-fifth century. Art was, he felt, essentially an emotional process. The fantastical treatment of tropes obscured that process, misrepresented it. It was a form of cowardice, a refusal to recognise things as they actually were. And it was endemic throughout the upper reaches of Imperial society.
A faint breath of wind stirred his hair. He glanced at the archway into the prole section, saw the bullet-nose of a train fast approaching. The train shot through the gap, decelerating rapidly, and came to a smooth halt before him. The carriage doors hissed aside. Officers in blue jackets festooned with gold frogging stepped from the carriage. Seeing Ahasz, they saluted smartly, bared their teeth in a grin at the other officers and milled about, swords clattering and jingling.
The senior Gold Watch officer present, a lieutenant-colonel, approached Ahasz at a smart clip. Brushing past Colonel Tayisa, the regimental officer stopped before the duke, snapped his boot heels together and bowed. “Your grace,” he said.
“You are?” Ahasz asked.
“Dahabi. Second Battalion.”
Tayisa took position at Ahasz’s side. The lieutenant-colonel directed a puzzled glance at him—at the dirt encrusting Tayisa’s uniform, or the fact that he was not a Housecarl, Ahasz could not tell. No matter. Household troops could not boast the prestige—nor, in many cases, the effectiveness—of the Imperial Regiments; but Ahasz knew his troops to be a match for any regimental. Perhaps it was time he promoted Tayisa to brigadier.
“Any problems getting here?” Ahasz asked Dahabi.
The lieutenant-colonel abruptly grinned. “Our transport was stopped and boarded by the Navy. Triumphant, someone said.”
“They didn’t attempt to prevent you?” It had been a risk: would the Imperial Navy allow the duke to supplement his forces? Or was his control of the Navy Accounting Mechanism deterrent enough?
“No,” Dahabi replied. “But we were given a message to pass on. Some chap in a long coat with more gold than blue on it.”
A Lord of the Admiralty.
The lieutenant-colonel continued: “He asked to know if you wanted the Navy to mutiny. It’s likely, he said, in the next few weeks they’ll not be able to meet their wage bills. Whatever reserves each ship may carry has been spent and the rateds will want their pay soon enough. If there’s mutiny across the fleets, there’s no telling what may happen.”
“Describe this man.” Ahasz had his suspicions, but…
Dahabi frowned. “Small. Neat, very fastidious. More a mouse than a man. But with a personality, a will, that brooked no obstacle. Not a man I’d willingly cross, your grace.”
“Fisc,” said Tayisa.
Ahasz nodded. And thought: damn the man. Akob mar Fisc, Earl Dorsz, a Lord of the Admiralty less than a year, and firmly in Ahasz’s pocket. The duke had financed the campaign which brought Fisc his seat on the Board of the Admiralty; and paid a heavy garnish on top to have the man’s loyalty.
“That was the entire message?” Ahasz asked.
The lieutenant-colonel nodded. “There was an implied threat there, your grace. Triumphant is no longer alone—she has a good seven battleships, and double that number of destroyers, to keep her company now. Our transport captain took note of the names; my adjutant has the list.”
“An empty threat, your grace,” Tayisa put in. “If the
rateds mutiny, there’ll be no shots fired in anger at us.”
Ahasz did not believe the Navy rateds would turn on their officers, no matter how late their pay. Not for a year, at the very least. And he had no plans to still be entrenched in the Imperial Household District in one year’s time. By then, he would either be on the Imperial Throne, or under house-arrest.
“Very good,” he said, somewhat absently. His sister had made no mention of Navy orders detailing ships to join Triumphant in orbit about Shuto. They would not have come of their own accord. Not to Shuto. Yet why should Mayna keep the news from him? He recognised there was an element of chance, of serendipity, to any quest for information in the nomosphere—sometimes on past visits, he had not found what he sought; sometimes, he had found too much. But Mayna’s ability in that magical realm was far greater than his own. She boasted a connection to it that was beyond him.
“Tayisa,” Ahasz said. “Get the Watch settled, then call for a briefing. It’s time we made another assault, perhaps tried for an entrance through the garages. We have the men now to make a push and hold our position. I would not have this conflict drag out forever.”
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Lotsman gazed down at the body stretched out on the wardroom table with dismay. “Did you have to kill him?” he said. The corpse was a young rated. In death, his features had settled into blandness and his hair faded to a nondescript brown.
His neck had been broken.
“I didn’t mean to,” replied Dai. “He was a better fighter than the rest of them and he wasn’t pulling his punches.”
“You mean he was trained?” asked Tovar. The cargo-master stepped up to the table and peered at the body.
“Too good to be a hobby, yes,” confirmed Dai. The Imperial Navy did not give unarmed combat training to rateds. It was considered unnecessary.
Lotsman looked from Dai to Tovar and back again. They were thinking something, he could tell. Tovar had that look on his face which said he was about to suggest something they had not considered.
“Out with it,” said the pilot. He dropped onto the bench beside the table. “I know I’m not going to like it, so you might as well get it over and done with.”
“Well,” said Tovar slowly, “Marla will agree with me here, but this young man’s fighting ability alone suggests he’s not just a Navy rated.”
“Argh.” Lotsman grimaced. “A spy, you’re saying he was a spy.”
“For the knights signet, maybe,” put in Dai.
“Ah. Right. The Ulani.” Lotsman nodded knowingly.
“Or…” Tovar trailed away.
Lotsman looked at the cargo-master, saw the embarrassment on his face and leapt to the same conclusion. “Or one of ours,” he said.
Dai shook her head. “No. Why would they? They have us. They have that popinjay who sticks to Cas like a bad cold. Why would they need someone else to spy on things? In fact, why would they have someone in a ship suborned by the Serpent?”
“I’ve no idea,” admitted Lotsman. “But then, I’m no Involute.”
“So what do we do with him?” asked Tovar
They agreed to dispose of the body and, when they reached Shuto and reported in to their masters, they would make mention of what they had surmised. Lotsman and Tovar manhandled the corpse to the airlock. It was not a task at which Lotsman was practiced. Nor was Tovar, for that matter. They struggled with the body in the narrow gangway. Eventually, with a number of muttered oaths, they managed to get the corpse sealed in the lock. Before opening the outer hatch, Lotsman wondered if he should say something. It felt… discourteous to dispose of the dead rated as if he were rubbish. There should be some recognition that the contents of the airlock was once a living human being. He looked to Tovar, but the cargo-master seemed impatient to return to the wardroom. Sighing, Lotsman opened the outer hatch. The body shot out into the toposphere and rapidly vanished from sight.
Back in the sloop’s control cupola, the three occupied their stations. They had weeks ahead of them yet before they reached the Imperial capital, Shuto. It was going to be a long voyage. Especially since they had the sloop’s crew as prisoner. They could not afford to stop and drop them off—out in the country of an inhabited world, a few days’ walk from civilisation… or marooned on an uninhabited planet. So they would have to take them all the way to Shuto. And throughout those weeks the prisoners would be trying to escape, seeking to retake control of their ship.
Lotsman briefly wished he had the ruthlessness to kill Desert Runner’s crew. He knew of men-at-arms who would not have hesitated to do so. But it was an act beyond redemption. Lotsman had seen the idea flit across the faces of Tovar and Dai, and seen them dismiss it just as quickly.
They would cope. They had been trained to cope.
After his experience the last time he had visited the nomosphere, Ormuz was reluctant to return there. The Admiral urged him to reconsider: they needed to know what to expect when they reached Shuto. Would they have to battle their way to orbit?
“I don’t see that much will have changed,” Ormuz protested. “It’s been less than a week since my last trip to the nomosphere.”
Yet so much had happened: the Battle of Piorun, the Battle of Geneza and the Battle of Swava.
Ormuz outlined his fears to Varä later in the forward wardroom. The chamber had been configured to its between-meals layout, with large comfortable chairs arranged in cliques about small circular tables. To Ormuz, it seemed more like a nobles’ club rather than a refectory aboard a naval warship.
He leaned forward with a squeak of leather. A silver coffee-set occupied a tray in the middle of the table. He poured himself a cup. “How do I know I won’t end up back there?” he said.
“Well… exactly,” replied Varä. “You won’t know until you try.” He cocked his head and peered at Ormuz. “I can’t believe you’re afraid—not after your heroic storming of Empress Glorina.”
Varä was mocking him—that smile was too knowing—despite his deadpan delivery.
“I didn’t see you cowering much,” Ormuz retorted and gestured at the arm the marquess wore in a sling. He’d sustained a nasty break to his upper arm from a billy-club. Fortunately, as he would point out to all who would listen, it wasn’t his sword-arm.
“Was it really that frightening, when you saw Konran?” Varä asked.
“I don’t know that it was Konran; I don’t know what it was.”
He was used to knowing whatever he wanted. Not immediately, of course. But he could find it out. In the nomosphere. That strange creature, however… Nothing had prepared him for such a sight, nothing could explain it. He was not sure he could even describe it with any accuracy. The only language he could use was that of The Book of the Sun. Ecclesiastical language—but he was not by inclination religious.
But what, he thought, if it had been Konran, Chian’s evil twin? What if the hells were real places, just like the nomosphere and the toposphere?
He said as much, and was angered by Varä’s laughter. “So what was it then?” he snapped.
“Something you dreamt up, obviously.” The marquess gestured airily. “Perhaps from something you ate.”
“No.” Ormuz shook his head. “It was real. I know it was.”
“If you think that, then why aren’t you in the chapel every moment?”
“Because when you’ve seen a god, what use is religion?”
The Admiral’s suite of cabins were sited at the aft end of the Great Hall on the first mezzanine deck. They were more expansive than those aboard Vengeful had been. But they were intended for the use of flag officers, not the ship’s captain. A foyer, a reception room, a withdrawing room, a dining room capable of seating two dozen, an office, a secretary’s office, galley, two bedrooms, quarters for five servants… If she had not been brought up in assorted palaces, perhaps she might have considered it palatial. She stood in the doorway to the main bedroom and gazed at the vast bed occupying fu
lly half the chamber. It was not a bed for merely sleeping in. The carved headboard prominently featured the Duke of Courland’s coat of arms, a seal curled in an S inside a triangle with one serrated edge.
Someone moved behind her and she caught the motion out of the corner of her eye. She turned and saw it was her valet, Jener.
“Have the bed stripped and see if you can find some suitable bedding from the stores,” she told him. “I’ll not have Courland’s linen on that monstrosity.”
Courland. She must decide what to do with the man. Having met him, she could understand why Ormuz had thrown him in the brig. He had sneered at her for consorting with a prole and she had been hard-pressed to treat him with the courtesy due his rank. A thought occurred to her:
“Jener,” she said, turning back to the valet. “Make up one of the servant’s cabins in this suite. We’ll put Courland in there.”
Let him stew in that, she thought with satisfaction. A deliberate snub and yet still in the flag officer’s suite. And perhaps she should offer the second bedroom to Ormuz. Let Courland see then how closely they “consorted”.
He had done her beautifully, Casimir Ormuz. Empress Glorina was a ship worthy of pride. Too big, perhaps, for the Admiral’s preferred tactics; but powerful and intimidating. She would suit admirably once they had reached Shuto. Ahasz would think twice with Empress Glorina looking over him from orbit…
Finesz was no student of history. If anything, she held it in healthy contempt. There were no lessons to be drawn from the past, at least nothing that could not be solved using common sense. History was an excuse, a justification. The weight of tradition lay across the Empire and few could escape its enfolding strictures.
Young Casimir Ormuz had, however. The prole who became a lord.
The Duke of Ahasz too had broken against tradition. He had tried to seize the Imperial Throne. Finesz wondered what had possessed him. Of course, the two were one and the same, although it was often easy to forget. Finesz had never met Ahasz, had no way of comparing the young prole and the duke. She liked Ormuz and suspected she would like Ahasz. She fully intended to meet him—after she had freed Norioko, she was going to beard the duke in his den and ask him to surrender.