by Sales, Ian
“Not likely, sir,” he said. He stepped back from the railing. “Looks empty. Empress Glorina must’ve been running low on supplies when she got the signal to go to Geneza.”
“Right,” Pulisz. “Carry on.”
They returned to the Supply Passage and continued forwards. This was, Ormuz decided, getting monotonous. They had seen only a handful of crew since beginning their trek to the bow and no indication of the missing clone’s whereabouts.
“We’ll never find him,” he complained. “This damn ship is enormous. He could be anywhere.”
There was something dreamlike about this hunt. The long, featureless gangway seemingly with no end. Marching along behind Rendo, with Pulisz at his side, and another rated behind. His hand to his sword, the calming sensation of it filling his fist. The passage almost deserted, as if the ship were abandoned. They marched forward and yet each yard appeared the same as the last.
Just as he thought the Supply Passage would never end—they must have walked a third of a mile, at least—the corridor debouched onto a ramp halfway up the wall of a circular chamber some thirty feet across and about forty feet deep, with a rounded dome for a roof. A ramp wound about its circumference giving access to the decks below.
“They call this the ‘Capstan’, sir,” explained Rendo.
He pointed at hatches below them on the spiral ramp. “Them’s gunrooms. Below that is the Below Supply Passages—port and starboard.”
“What’s that?” Ormuz asked. He indicated an open hatch across from them and some thirty degrees off the vessel’s centre-line. It had caught his attention because it was smaller and considerably sturdier in construction than the others.
“Starboard torpedo room, my lord,” Rendo replied, with a frown. “It should be sealed.”
“Perhaps our quarry went in there,” said Pulisz.
After Pulisz had reported in to Mate Maganda, they descended the ramp to the open hatch. Ormuz followed Rendo through it and found himself in a narrow featureless gangway with a low roof. It ran for’ard and was angled downwards.
They continued down for some fifty or sixty feet. The hatch at the other end of the tunnel was also open. Ormuz could see little at first. The chamber beyond was well-lit, but so crammed with machinery no clear line of sight existed. Rendo and the other ship’s corporal entered, both pulling their billy-clubs from their belts. Ormuz looked to Pulisz, raised an eyebrow, and then stepped carefully over the coaming.
He had never seen the interior of a torpedo room before, although he was familiar with their purpose. There would be one or more tubes, which acted as airlocks and through which the torpedos could be fired. The ordnance would not be stored in this chamber, but in a magazine below and brought up on a hoist.
Surely, he thought, in a vessel this large they could have designed a chamber that was not so crammed. There was barely room to move amongst the launch-tubes and control-banks and cranes. The whole chamber reeked of oil and hot metal. It was also silent.
He saw a narrow chamber two decks high. To his right were three tubes some six feet in diameter, stacked one upon the other. They were angled upwards about fifteen degrees. There were three more tubes to his left. The gap between the banks of tubes was occupied by several control-consoles. At the rear of the chamber, either side of the hatch and behind each bank of launch-tubes, were hoists, dangling like metal hands over open hatches in the decking.
Rendo squeezed along a narrow catwalk between the torpedo-tube banks. The other rated stood over one of the hatches to the magazines and peered down the shaft. Ormuz remained at the entrance with Pulisz. The pair of them drew their swords but Ormuz felt foolish for doing so. He glanced at the Provost-Aboard and was comforted by the young officer’s expression of professional wariness.
Rendo was back. He shook his head. The three of them glanced across at the other ship’s corporal—Ormuz had yet to learn his name. Rendo crossed to him. The two bent their heads together and discussed something in a whisper. Rendo bent over, the better to see something down the shaft. Abruptly, he straightened.
“Something here, sir,” he said.
Ormuz joined the two ship’s corporals and looked down the shaft. It was some six feet square and dropped thirty feet before abruptly angling off out of sight. Fifteen feet below the decking, a piece of blue cloth was caught on the cogs and chains which climbed one of the shaft’s walls. It could have been there for weeks, since long before the Admiral had seized the ship.
“This goes to the magazine?” he asked.
Rendo nodded.
“Why in heavens would he go this way?”
“Perhaps he plans to sabotage the ordnance,” said Pulisz.
“But there must be easier ways into the magazine,” said Ormuz.
“They’re locked, my lord,” Rendo pointed out.
The Provost-Aboard nodded at Rendo, who then turned to his fellow ship’s corporal.
Ormuz watched the rated lower himself into the shaft, holding onto the chains and gears which raised the torpedos up from the magazine far below. Once his head was below deck-level, he paused for a moment, and wiped an oil-covered hand on the seat of his coverall.
“Careful, man,” Pulisz warned.
The rated clambered lower. Soon he was at the piece of cloth. He stood, his feet on a cogged wheel, hanging onto a chain, and plucked the cloth from the cog in which it had been caught. He looked up, holding the swatch at arm’s length.
A clank echoed up the shaft from below.
Something rattled and began to make a grinding noise.
Rendo dropped to his knees. “Get up here!” he yelled. “Move!”
The rated shoved the cloth into a pocket and began to climb.
He was too late.
With a screech of metal and a jangle of chains, the hoist jerked into motion. The rated screamed as his arm was pulled into the gears and mangled. Blood sprayed across his face. He fell from his perch, his arm a bloody ruin. A sharp lever speared him through the torso.
“Dear Lords,” muttered Pulisz.
Ormuz turned away, feeling ill. Behind him, the machinery in the shaft continued to grind away.
He had never even learned the man’s name.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
There was, Finesz decided, something both forbidding and ominous about Lantern as she squatted on the apron, gas-rocket pods beneath outspread wings, hull dark against a red sun slowly sinking seaward. Heat radiated from her hull, warming Finesz’s face as she looked back over her shoulder at the ship. She heard footsteps approaching. A figure, in black trousers tinged red by the setting sun, and scarlet jacket turned dark by the fading light, was marching towards her at a smart clip. As it drew nearer, she identified it first as a man—broad-shouldered and narrow-waisted, close-cropped hair, darkly handsome—and second as a Housecarl. And from the lanyard looped through his right epaulet, he was a lieutenant-colonel at the very least.
He halted before her with a crash of boots and a smart bow. “Ma’am. You are Inspector Finesz? If I may see your warrant?”
She recognised his voice: she had spoken to this man from orbit. “Is this really necessary, Colonel Alezred?”
“Your warrant, please.”
Alezred had explained it all before allowing Lantern permission to land at Kukoi. His battalion of Housecarls controlled the aerodrome and had done since Ahasz had first besieged the Imperial Palace. No ship or boat was permitted to land. For the OPI, however, he was willing to make an exception.
A troop-carrier shot across the apron towards the two of them and came to an abrupt bouncing halt some ten feet away. Troopers scrambled out of its rear and hurried to take up position about Lantern. Finesz turned from watching them deploy and then held out the paper she clutched in one hand.
The lieutnant-colonel took the warrant, glanced at it and handed it back. “Who is aboard your vessel?”
“The crew. Oh, and a prisoner. A Navy officer.”
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br /> “He shall remain imprisoned aboard then, ma’am.”
Sometimes Finesz wondered how she managed to solve crimes. She knew she was not an especially organised person and felt most comfortable in a state of mild disorder. But on occasion her inability to reach the most obvious conclusion astonished even herself. Of course Ahasz would have seized the aerodrome. The Imperial Palace Wing was stationed at Kukoi and their boats would have been a threat to his siege. Not that controlling Kukoi would have really prevented an attack—jolly boats and pinnaces could land in any terrain. Still, Finesz knew little about tactics or strategy—could not, in fact, tell the difference between the two—but she should have guessed the aerodrome would be in enemy hands.
No matter. For the time-being, it was all very civilised.
“That’s not acceptable,” she told Alezred. “My prisoner has to be delivered to my superiors for interrogation. I have strict orders.”
“I have your word he is not a spy for Commodore Magwagi?”
“Who?” The name meant nothing to her.
“The commanding officer of the Home Flotilla. Aboard Triumphant.” Alezred appeared puzzled by Finesz’s ignorance. “There is an Imperial Navy flotilla in orbit about Shuto, ma’am. It is loyal to the Emperor. We must prevent it from attacking us.”
“I’m on OPI business, colonel. Not the Imperial Navy’s.” Not even the Emperor’s business, if truth be told; but she did not say so.
“Very well.” Alezred turned away and signalled to his troopers. “You may,” he said, not looking at her, “take your prisoner with you. Your crew must also vacate your ship. They will not be allowed to return. You are, ma’am, restricted to Shuto for the foreseeable future.”
“Seems fair enough.” She slid her warrant back into a jacket pocket.
The lieutenant-colonel gave another swift bow, spun about and marched off. Finesz watched him go. She had met a number of Housecarls over the years, most at Imperial Court. Many had been charming, but they had never impressed her as soldiers. Alezred seemed unusually… martial. A highly competent officer, she suspected.
If Ahasz had made a regiment best known for uniformed posturing into an effective fighting force, what did that mean for the Admiral and Casimir Ormuz?
There was nothing Finesz could do. By her reckoning, the Admiral’s fleet was not due in the Shuto system for at least ten days, perhaps more. And even after they had arrived… how was she to communicate with them? They had made no provision to do so, because neither Finesz nor the Admiral had foreseen any need for it.
She would not lose sleep over it. More than ever, Finesz felt a military response to Ahasz’s rebellion was wrong. There must be some other solution. Perhaps she should visit the Imperial Household District. Later, of course: she had things to do first. Perhaps she could parley with the rebellious duke…
But errands first.
She returned to Lantern, climbed the ladder to its hatch and stepped inside the sloop. Troop-Sergeant Assaun was waiting there, a small pyramid of four trunks crowned with a kit-bag beside him. “See if you can whip up some transport,” she told him. “We have permission to leave.”
She left him to sort it out and continued deeper into the ship. Her prisoner—lover—Abad mar Mubariz, was in his cabin. She did not knock. They had no secrets: she knew everything she cared to know about him, and what he did not know about her she had no intention of him ever finding out.
Mubariz turned from the scuttle, through which he had been peering out at Kukoi as night gathered and spread across the apron. The cabin light was dark, and Finesz saw only his familiar bulk sketched in by the light cast through the open door.
“What do you intend to do with me?” Mubariz asked. “An OPI prison cell?”
Finesz stepped into the cabin. She reached out a hand and searched about the wall beside her until she found the light switch. A flick and the panel in the ceiling gave out a soft yellow glow.
“Why would I imprison you, Abad? You’ve broken no laws.”
He stepped closer, looming over her. “Then I must go. I have an important mission to perform.” He waited for Finesz to move out of his way.
She did not budge. “I can’t do that. I told the Housecarls you were my prisoner. So you’re going to have to behave like one. At least until we’ve left the aerodrome.”
“Why?” His brows lowered. “Why did you tell them that?”
“I…” She blinked in surprise. “I don’t know. Wishful thinking?”
The commander did not rise to the bait. “Please, Sliva,” he said slowly, “I must go. You must understand that I must go.”
Finesz felt an urge to punch the man, damn him. She stepped back, through the door and into the gangway. “Go!” she snapped. She flung out a hand. “Go and pretend you can make things better by telling tales to the knights signet. The Admiral—the captain you swore to serve—will be here in about two weeks and there is nothing you can do to make what happens after her arrival easy. The knights signet won’t help; the Lords of the Admiralty certainly won’t help. How can you be so blind?”
Mubariz’s voice rumbled in his chest: “You would have me do nothing?”
“I would have you choose the best course of events and work towards that! You managed to follow two masters and be loyal to both for six years. We’re here, on Shuto. Ahasz is a couple of miles in that direction —” She pointed towards where she believed the Imperial Household District to be. “It’s time to stop following orders blindly, and try and resolve this.”
The commander said nothing. He stepped out of his cabin, squeezed past Finesz and marched off towards the main airlock. She watched him go. There was nothing else she could do. Let the man be true to himself. It was why she loved him, after all. She wondered if he still loved her. Perhaps not. The man was deep, but he had never shown any real depth of feeling.
She turned away, not wanting Mubariz to look back and see her emotions written on her face. Damn the man. Damn his insufferable rectitude. Damn him for doing the wrong thing because his sense of honour said he must do that very thing.
North of Toshi, in the foothills of the Kami mountains, the landscape turned green and pleasant. The silvery ribbon of the road led through undulating meadows, past tumbling brooks and through dark forests. Finesz stared out of the window of the staff car, chin cupped in hand, and wondered what she would say to Norioko when she arrived at the House of Rectitude. Setting him free… It had seemed so simple during the journey to Shuto. But now that she was here, an hour from Toshi, from Congress, Ministries, the Electorate and all the apparatus of the civil government. Now, it no longed felt quite so easy. Nor did she feel as indestructible as she had felt aboard Lantern. It was the conspiracy—Ormuz, the Admiral, even the Duke of Kunta… They’d all behaved as though they were untouchable, answerable only to themselves. And she’d started to believe the same of herself.
Of course she could not stroll up to the House of Rectitude and demand of the warden he release Gyome mar Norioko, Baron Kanban. Norioko had been put there by the Bailiffs and only someone with properly signed documents could release him.
The road crested a rise and began a gentle descent into a broad-sloped valley. Ahead, Finesz saw a collection of small houses, a village, and beyond them a mansion commanding the lea. The slope of the valley’s far edge was interrupted by a low conical hill, screened with trees, and it was among these the mansion lurked. She caught sight of a castellated roof-line, turrets and great windows which flashed rectangles of bright sunlight across the meadow. She did not know who lived there, whose fief this land was. Given its proximity to Toshi, she suspected a high noble, a marquess at least.
They were in the village now and it was, Finesz thought, disturbingly picturesque. There was nothing about it that told her she was on Shuto—it could have been found on any world. Generic Imperial. A row of terraced cottages, with low doors, narrow windows and steeply-pitched roofs. A street depended from the main road
, down which were visible more cottages. There were no people about, which struck Finesz as odd. Nor could she see a shop, a chapel, a pub, or anywhere for the residents to gather outside of their work hours. Perhaps then, this was no working village, but holiday homes for affluent yeomen.
She shrugged and settled back in her seat. She did not much care. Some mysteries captured her imagination—as the murder of Regimental-Lieutenant Merenilo had done a year ago on Darrus—but the reason for this deserted picturesque hamlet’s existence was not one of them.
They reached the walls of the House of Rectitude an hour or so later. The staff car sped along a road between walls of dark and regimented tree trunks, and shot out of the forest into a circular clearing. Just ahead, the road swung in close to a tall wall, incongruously topped by delicate stone tracery. There was an ornate bailey there, a pair of narrow towers which appeared ineffective as either watch-towers or defence. Between them, beneath a rounded arch, a single pole barred the entrance to the prison. The staff car drove up to this and came to a bobbing halt. Finesz pushed the door-release beside her and clambered out. Troop-Sergeant Assaun was already around the rear of the staff car, hand out to open Finesz’s door.
A man in a black uniform stepped out of the nearest tower and approached the staff car. His was not the same as Finesz’s uniform. The sleeves of the man’s tunic were white, and he wore silver lanyards looped across his chest and through one epaulet. His trousers also featured a silver and white stripe down the outside of each leg. On his head, he wore a bill-less kepi, from the crown of which hung a silver tassel.
A Bailiff.
He sketched a bow. “Ma’am.”
Finesz pulled her cap onto her head and positioned the bill low over her brow. “I have come,” she said, “to see Baron Kanban. I believe he is in custody here.”
“I’ll have to check, ma’am.” The Bailiff turned about and re-entered his tower.
Finesz put her hand to her sword’s hilt and gazed up at the arch above. The Imperial device of five gauntletted fists, each holding a different item, sat at the arch’s apex. She turned her attention to the tunnel through the bailey. It was no more than six feet long and bright lines to either side showed where vehicles had in the past scraped the walls.