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

by Sales, Ian

  Although Azeel had promised to have his clothes cleaned by the time he awoke, he could find only his underpants and boots—both of which were indeed clean—on the ladderback chair beside the bed. His jacket, trousers, shirt and socks were all missing. There was a dressing-gown on a hook on the back of the door. He pulled it on, opened the door and made his way to the bathroom.

  He was washing his face—his wound prevented him from having a bath or shower—when he heard the bathroom door open behind him.

  “Good. You’re up,” said a voice he recognised as Azeel’s. He glanced back at her. She was fully dressed and made-up. “Your trousers and shirt were ruined,” she continued, “so you’ll have to borrow some of my dad’s. They’ll be a bit baggy on you, but never mind. I’ll put them in your room.” She withdrew as abruptly as she had appeared.

  In the bedroom, a pair of casual trousers in some sturdy blue fabric and a shirt of thick dark cotton now sat on the seat of the ladderback chair. But still no socks. He dressed quickly, pushing his bare feet into his boots, buttoning up the shirt and pulling in the belt about the trousers’ waist to its tightest notch. The trousers hung low on his hips.

  From the expression on the face of Azeel’s father when Ormuz entered the kitchen, his presence was not especially unusual. He was standing at the cooker, preparing breakfast. Azeel was seated at the table and she gestured for Ormuz to join her. Her father supplied him with a mug of coffee and a plate containing meat grilled between two pieces of flat bread and scrambled eggs.

  “Go on, eat up,” she said.

  Ormuz set to. He was starving.

  As he ate, Azeel said, “I’ve took the day off work so we can sort you out. I’ll get you some clothes and some proper dressings for your wound. You need to contact whoever it is to get a new escutcheon and some crowns. It’s best you not leave the pub—in fact, it’s best you stay up here in the flat.”

  Ormuz nodded and chewed.

  “I won’t be out long, but if you want to watch any of the entertainments channels, there’s a glass in the living-room. The caster is in the living-room too.”

  Mr Azeel pushed back his chair, rose to his feet and left the kitchen. He had not said a word.

  “It’s a shame you lost your escutcheon,” Azeel said. “If you had it, you could have come with me. I could’ve shown you round the valley.” She smiled brightly. “We’ll do that when you get your new one.”

  After he had eaten and Azeel’s father had cleaned up after him, Ormuz made his way to the living-room. It was a small room, filled with heavy furniture. A pair of deep settees, placed at right angles, faced a large glass. A weighty sideboard of dark wood, older than the settees, sat against one wall. Against another wall stood a tall and narrow book-case. It was less than half full. The room was carpetted in a dark brown which had worn to mottled beige in the area before the settees.

  He stood before the book-case and scanned the spines of the books in it. A couple of glossy books on Imperial history, an incomplete set of classic literature in cheap editions, some books on data-pools and protocols, and a pile of fashion magazines from the last few years.

  “You can read a book, if you want,” said Azeel from the door.

  He looked across at her. She now wore a coat which just covered her short skirt, and a pair of high-heeled boots. He smiled and shrugged. He had attempted most of the classics on the shelves—some while at school and others later aboard Divine Providence. Most he had not finished.

  “I’ll be back in about an hour.”

  Azeel clattered away and he heard her make her way down the stairs. He poked idly at the fashion magazines, lifted up the cover of the top one and flicked through the pages without really focusing on what he was seeing.

  This pub, the Empress Glorina, was his refuge. But what was he to do here? For the moment, he was depending on Azeel’s charity. He could get crowns—from Inspector Finesz, perhaps. Or Lieutenant-Commander Rinharte. Perhaps even Romi Maganda. Varä, of course, would immediately tell his masters, the Involutes, of Ormuz’s location.

  So, money. And assume an escutcheon which allowed him to remain here in Toshi. He could live in this flat, above the Empress Glorina. He could pay rent and… do what? Find a job of some description. Perhaps even attend technum; he was not too old to do so.

  But none of it compared to what he had lost, to the life from which he had walked away. He knew the duchy would never be his, although he had at one time thought the Admiral might be. She would have made him a yeoman, as Imperial princesses cannot marry proletarians. He snorted in amusement, remembering that particular daydream.

  His mood turned bitter, soured by memories of the Admiral. He had done so much for her and, by extension, for the Empire. If he had not walked away, would his contribution have been rewarded? Were they searching for him now, wondering where he had vanished to?

  Let them. He’d had his fill of their world. He was where he belonged.

  Ormuz left the living-room and thundered down the steep, narrow stairs to the pub. He found Hami Azeel in a room behind the bar, removing trays of glasses from a washing machine.

  “Can I help?” he asked. “Is there anything I can do?”

  Azeel grunted and turned round. He looked Ormuz up and down. “There’s a mop and bucket in the corner there. Think you can give the floor out there a good wipe?”

  Ormuz was no stranger to the mop. Among his responsibilities aboard Divine Providence had been keeping the data-freighter clean. Cleaning mechanisms, under his direction, had done most of the work, but in some areas he’d had to wield a mop. That had been a long time ago and far away. And Ormuz had travelled more than just miles to reach Shuto.

  As he pushed the mop back and forth across the floor, Ormuz found himself unaccountably happy. This job was not beneath him, it suited his new station in life. The simplicity of it, the immediacy of its results, appealed to him. Perhaps it would pall after weeks of doing it day in and day out, but for now he would cheerfully spend the rest of his days mopping floors.

  To think that only the day before he had led an army to lift the siege of the Imperial Palace!

  Yesterday he had been a prince, today he was a pauper. He gave a low laugh as he swabbed the floor beneath a table. If only his friends could see him now… He straightened—he had just remembered Murily Plessant and the rest of Divine Providence’s crew. They would not find his current situation amusing. But they were dead. Plessant had died on Kapuluan; Lotsman, Tovar and Dai had died aboard Vengeful during the battle about Geneza.

  Saddened by their loss, he continued with his mopping. Twenty minutes later, he had finished the room. Mr Azeel handed him a cloth and cleaning spray, and told him to wipe down the tables. After that, it was polishing the brass footrail running along the bar.

  Once he had completed his tasks, he settled at a table with a coffee and a copy of the local newspaper, while Mr Azeel went to unlock the front door. Ormuz was not needed behind the bar.

  Innelda Azeel returned from her shopping-trip a good two hours after she had promised. She saw Ormuz and hurried across to him. She carried a large paperbag in each hand. These she placed on the floor and then sat down opposite him. He looked up from the newspaper. There had been nothing about the lifting of the siege in it, just local news—a murder committed nearby, sports events, new fiefal ordinances… He put the paper down.

  Azeel reached across the table and took his wrist on one hand. “Come on,” she said with a grin. “I want to show you what I bought you.”

  She hurried Ormuz upstairs and into his bedroom. “I got you some shirts and trousers and jackets,” she said. “They’re not new, I’m afraid, but they’re good quality. The underwear and socks are all new. The boots you’ve got on are better than any I can find here in the valley, so I didn’t bother getting you any shoes.”

  She upended one of the bags, and folded shirts and trousers spilled across the bedding.

  “There’s some t
oiletries as well and I bought some more bandages and stuff.”

  The second bag’s contents were strewn across the bed.

  “Is there anything I missed?”

  Ormuz pawed through the clothing, toiletries and first aid supplies. He had not shopped for himself for years. Aboard Divine Providence, he had worn coveralls. What few items of non-work clothing he’d possessed, he’d had when he joined the data-freighter’s crew. He’d lost those, of course, when Divine Providence crashed on Bato.

  “I think you got everything,” he said, lifting up a pair of new underpants and noting that they appeared somewhat skimpier than those he normally wore. Perhaps it was the fashion on Shuto.

  The shirts, trousers and jackets were, despite being used, in very good condition and thoroughly clean. He wondered how much they had all cost.

  “You can get out of dad’s clothes, now,” Azeel said.

  He waited for her to leave. Instead, she unbuttoned her coat and slipped out of it. She put it on the chair and looked at him expectantly.

  He smiled and shrugged.

  “I want to look at your dressing,” she said.

  “Oh.”

  He began undoing his shirt. Once he had removed it, she bent over and peered at the bandage about his ribs, prodding it carefully with a finger. “Does it hurt?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Oh. Sorry.”

  “Not when you do that; it still ached a bit, mostly if I breathe too deep. But not as much as it did yesterday.”

  He knew the wound would take a while to heal. In fact, he would probably have to make several visits to the nearest clinic over the next ten or so weeks. Once he had an escutcheon, of course.

  “We’ll leave it as it is for now,” Azeel said, straightening. “You get changed. I’ll be in the kitchen.”

  She scooped up her coat and left the bedroom, closing the door behind her.

  Ormuz quickly stripped down to his underpants. He pulled on a pair of socks, trousers, and a shirt. She had done at excellent job at estimating his size. The clothes did not fit as well as his others had done—but they had been tailored for him. These were standard sizes.

  Azeel had made lunch, a series of small dishes of dips and finger foods to be eaten with flat bread. She picked up the tray on which she had arranged these and said, “Let’s eat in the living-room.”

  “Can we watch a news channel? I want to find out what’s going on.”

  Once they had settled down on one of the settees, Azeel switched on the glass and clicked through the selector to a planetary news channel. Ormuz ate and watched, but still there was no news of the Admiral, Ahasz or the Emperor. “Is this all there is?” he asked, dismayed by the parochialism of the channels.

  “Why? What did you want to know?” Azeel dragged a piece of bread through one of the dips and put it in her mouth. She chewed.

  “About the fighting in the Household District.”

  “Oh. That might be on one of the yeoman channels.” She got to her feet and crossed to the glass. “You’re not supposed to do this,” she said, looking back over her shoulder and grinning, “so don’t tell anyone.”

  Whatever she did with the controls, it brought up a menu on the glass. She navigated quickly through these, entered a code and then clicked back through the channel selector.

  Returning to the settee, she said, “Sometimes working with data-pools comes in useful.”

  The presenter of the yeoman news channel was better-dressed than the proletarian one had been. He also spoke like a yeoman. And the news was not just fiefal doings and local sports results.

  But still nothing was said about the Imperial Palace.

  “Why are you so interested in it?” asked Azeel. She pulled off her boots, sat back and tucked her feet under her. “Do you know someone who was fighting?”

  “Yes,” replied Ormuz, frowning in annoyance at the glass. “Several people, in fact.”

  “In the Palace?”

  “No.” He was not really concentrating on the conversation.

  “For the duke?”

  Her tone of voice caught his attention, and he turned to look at her. She appeared shocked.

  “You really are hiding out? Were you on the duke’s side? You’re a rebel?”

  “No, I was fighting against him. With—I mean, for the Admiral. We lifted the duke’s siege.”

  “You don’t look like a trooper, What were you, a batman or something?”

  Ormuz was insulted. “No!” he said. “I was…” He could not explain what he had been. The ridiculousness of it struck him, and he laughed. “Yes,” he said, still chuckling, “I was a valet.”

  His valet aboard Vengeful and Empress Glorina, Komornik, came to mind, and that too Ormuz found amusing.

  “What’s so funny?”

  He shook his head, still laughing.

  “Come on, tell me!” She leaned towards him and put a hand on his knee. “Tell me,” she insisted. “Please.”

  He looked at her and saw the hurt expression on his face. Abruptly sobering, he replied, “It’s nothing, just something silly. I was reminded of someone I knew.” He put his hand over hers.

  She stared at him. Slowly, she began to lean closer. Her lips settled on his. Her hand moved up his thigh and squeezed tightly. He could feel waxiness on her lips, tastes something sweet and sharp. He brought up his hand to the back of her neck and ran his fingers through the short soft hairs at her nape.

  They kissed deeply for several long minutes.

  She pulled away first. Her eyes were shining. She took his hand and gripped it with discomforting fierceness. “Who’s the Admiral?” she asked brightly.

  He pulled his hand from hers. “No,” he said. “I’m sorry.” He couldn’t do this. Not now. He scrambled from the settee and left the room.

  As he passed through the doorway, Azeel asked plaintively, “Cas?”

  “Ah. Good morning. I’m looking for Casimir Ormuz. Is he here?”

  “Who? Never heard of him.”

  “I’m certain he told me this was the place.”

  “You must have it wrong, my lady. Nobody by that name here.”

  Ormuz was halfway down the stairs, but the overheard conversation made him pause. He waited and listened.

  “Are you sure? You’re not hiding him, are you?”

  “No one here called that, my lady, so who’s there to hide?”

  “I’m his friend, you know. He asked me to come here.”

  “Of course you are, my lady. But I can’t help you.”

  Ormuz had heard enough. He thundered down the rest of the stairs and burst out into the bar. He had recognised the voice talking with Azeel and there she was:

  “Sliva!” he said, hurrying up to her.

  She was not in uniform, he saw, but standing just inside the door was Troop-Sergeant Assaun. And he was in uniform. That was probably why Azeel had insisted Ormuz was not here. He had assured her he was not wanted by the authorities, but it seemed she had not entirely believed him. Of course, there was also his missing escutchen. Perhaps she had been afraid he’d be arrested for not wearing it.

  A figure stepped out from behind Finesz, a tall young woman, with blonde hair and a long face, beautiful in a languid sort of way. She wore a smart jacket, tight trousers and high boots. She also wore a sword. Mate Romi Maganda. Her presence was a surprise.

  Reaching Finesz, Ormuz took her hands in both of his. She bent forward and pecked him on the cheek.

  “Casimir,” she said. “You’re looking… as well as can be expected.”

  “Thank you for coming,” he said. “I didn’t know who else to call.”

  Finesz gave a low laugh. “Well, she hasn’t mentioned you since you walked out.”

  “I didn’t think she would,” he replied bitterly. He shook his head. It was best not to dwell on such matters. Abruptly remembering his manners, he indicated Azeel by the bar and said, “This is In
ni Azeel. Her father runs this pub. Innelda, this is Inspector Sliva demar Finesz and Mate Romi mar Maganda.”

  Azeel gave a stiff curtsey and an even stiffer smile.

  “So tell me,” Finesz said to Ormuz, after directing a sunny but impersonal smile at Azeel.

  He led her across to a table, indicating with a gesture that Maganda should join them. As Finesz pulled out a chair and sat, he said, “Back in a minute,” and crossed to Azeel.

  She stared past him at the two women at the table. “This woman you’re hiding out from has powerful friends,” she said. She looked at Ormuz, and it was a moment before he recognised her expression as hurt and disappointment. “A plaything, were you, for some high lady?”

  “What?” He laughed. “You think I’m a gigolo?”

  “How else did you make friends like them?”

  “It’s complicated.” And, he thought, she wouldn’t believe him if he did tell her.

  “I’ll bet.”

  “Oh come on, Inni. Do I look like a gigolo?”

  “Well, you do a bit.”

  “I don’t!” He scowled, not knowing whether to be annoyed or amused. “Look. I’ll explain later. But, right now, could we have a pot of coffee?”

  “Just because you have posh friends, don’t think you can order me about,” Azeel snapped.

  He took her hand and squeezed it. “That’s not what I meant. Please, Inni, be nice to my friends. Make some coffee and join us.”

  “I suppose so.” Azeel adopted a mulish expression. She pulled her hand from his grasp. “But I want to know everything afterwards. Everything.”

  Ormuz joined Finesz and Maganda at the table.

  “I could feel your friend’s eyes boring into the back of my neck,” remarked Finesz. “Not too keen our presence, is she?”

  “She’s just a bit worried. I don’t have a coat of arms and you’re an Oppie.” He shrugged. “It’s understandable. She’s actually very nice.”