by Sales, Ian
“Is Lady Mayna home?” Finesz asked as she climbed out. For appearance’s sake, she pulled her cap onto her head and, for the last time, pretended to be on official business.
“And Casimir Ormuz?” she added.
“Yes, ma’am. I will see if they wish to see you.”
“Tell them it’s Inspector Finesz.”
She followed the under-butler into the townhouse, nodding her thanks to the two footmen who held the door open. She had no sooner tucked her cap under her arm then the under-butler was back. He bowed deferentially.
“Her ladyship will see you, ma’am. If you would follow me?”
He led her deeper into the house, from the entrance hall and into a central atrium of dark-veined marble three storeys high. A wide staircase of polished black wood circled this space in an elegant curve and up this they trod. They passed the ballroom on the first floor and continued up to the reception rooms on the second floor. The under-butler stopped before one door, tapped lightly and then pushed it open. He stood to one side and gestured for Finesz to enter.
When Lady Mayna threw assemblies, Finesz suspected the room in which she found herself would be used for the playing of games. It was not really large enough to serve food—not unless the assembly were a very intimate party. At present, it was furnished with a sofa to seat six against one wall and a line of five armchairs against the wall opposite. It was otherwise unfurnished. The chairs were spartan in design, but their upholstered cushions and backs had embroidered upon them the winged snake of the Vonshuans. Finesz stood in the middle of the empty room, one hand to the hilt of her sword, and waited patiently for the lady of the house.
The marchioness entered five minutes later, stepping through a side-door to Finesz’s left. At her appearance, the inspector turned towards her and bowed.
“Inspector Finesz,” said Lady Mayna. “My brother has spoken kindly of you. As has Casimir.”
She crossed to the sofa and lowered herself gracefully onto it. Finesz was, perversely, struck by how much more regal this woman appeared in comparison to Empress Flavia. Yet they were so very different. Finesz had seen the broadcast by the Imperial Office of Promulgation, and had been embarrassingly amused by the sight of the Admiral with hair and wearing cosmetics. If Ahasz had won, Lady Mayna would now be a princess —
And that abruptly reminded her of the reason for her visit.
“I have some sad news, your ladyship,” Finesz said. “It’s his grace your brother. I’m afraid… well, I’m very sorry to say that he has been executed.”
There was a moment of silence. The polite smile on Lady Mayna’s face did not change.
At length, the marchioness said, “How is this possible?”
“According to Warden Straznik, representatives from the Imperial Household permitted his grace to take poison. The warden believed the order to be lawful.”
“Lawful? Without a judgement, a sentencing?” Lady Mayna sat up straighter. “I may not be an advocate, but I know full well the law does not work in this way.”
“You are correct, your ladyship. It was not execution but murder.”
As she said that, Finesz felt something insubstantial, and yet heavy, lay a spectral hand upon the two of them. Perhaps they had not felt the reality of the duke’s death until that moment, understood the ramifications of his execution. Something had lit the marchioness’s eyes, the same epiphany Finesz herself had felt. A connection sprang into being between the two women. It was brief but meaningful. Lady Mayna, seated as if upon a throne; Finesz, uniformed and a loyal subject before her. Ormuz had spoken of his destiny to Finesz, had told her how he had seen it and reached out for it and grabbed it. Now, for the first time, she understood why he had described it in such physical terms. From this time on, Finesz had a future—she could see it Lady Mayna’s features.
“Your ladyship,” Finesz began.
The marchioness rose to her feet and gestured peremptorily. “Do you plan to remain an officer of the OPI?” she demanded.
“No, your ladyship. I shall resign.”
“Good, then I would have you join my staff.” She put her hands together as if in supplication. “My brother shall not have been murdered in vain, Sliva—may I call you Sliva? I would keep his work alive. No —” She scowled and chopped the air dismissively. “No, not his foolish bid for the Throne. My brother believed first and foremost in justice and the fair treatment of the proletarians.”
Lady Mayna approached Finesz. She took the inspector’s hands in her own and squeezed them. “Would you come work for me as my… Seneschal for Social Justice?” she asked earnestly. “I would have you investigate all fiefs within my purview, all those who ultimately owe their allegiance to me. I would have you determine their proles are being treated as human beings, their housing is fit to live in, they are not being abused. Will you do this for me, Sliva?”
“Your ladyship, I will.”
A lump seemed to have formed in Finesz’s throat and she swallowed in an effort to remove it.
“Then I am glad.”
Lady Mayna stepped back and smiled, and it was a smile, felt Finesz, of such open-hearted gratitude and charity Finesz could not help but respond with a smile of her own.
“Now, Sliva,” the marchioness said, “if you go through that door you’ll find a lift. There is someone upstairs who I think will be most happy to hear you have decided to join us.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY
Finesz slid out of the limousine and smiled brightly at the tiger who held the door. She heard the door shut behind her as she stepped forward. Another sound intruded into her awareness and she halted, puzzled. Slowly, she turned about and looked across the roof of the limousine. She saw before her Mato Valley, Imperial Boulevard stretching its length some thirty feet above the elevated railway network, which in turn was sixty feet above the close-packed tenements. Opposite Congress, the jagged peaks of the mountains surrounding the Imperial Household district formed a close horizon.
That sound… The roar of a boat. No, many boats. In formation.
Finesz lifted her gaze to the sky but she could see nothing. The sky was clear, blue and empty. Yet still that roar grew.
She was not the only one staring up at the sky now. All about the area before the entrance hall, people had stopped and were looking about themselves in confusion.
What in heavens is going on? she wondered.
Her question was answered a heartbeat later. A pinnace came roaring into the city from the north. It was only the first of a fleet of boats. They shot into Mato Valley, tens of feet above Imperial Boulevard, and came to slow halts. No, she saw now—they were jolly boats, not pinnaces. Each had a turreted carronade on their dorsal surface. And now they formed a line the length of the valley.
Each boat yawed through ninety degrees, left and right, until every other one pointed at one valley wall or the other. Finesz stared at the nearest jolly boat directed at Congress. She could just make out a silhouetted pair of heads through the control cupola’s scuttles. The turret turned to bear on Finesz’s limousine.
No, just on Congress.
What in heavens was going on? A military coup? Impossible! These were Imperial Navy boats and Empress Flavia was ex-Navy. Did the Lords of the Admiralty think to punish her for her mutiny?
More boats appeared. Pinnaces.
One shot out of the sky, slewed to a fierce halt before Congress’s entrance hall and dropped to a landing. The boat’s prow split apart and a ramp levered out. Troops appeared, running out of the craft side by side. They wore dark green jackets with black frogging, and carried axes. It was a moment before Finesz identified them as Imperial Commando.
An officer ran forward, his sword in his hand. Behind him, his troops formed up in skirmish lines.
Finesz approached, and called out, “What is this?”
The officer, a commando-lieutenant, turned to her. “Ma’am, I would ask you to leave,” he said. He threw out a h
and to take in all the other pinnaces which were now falling from the sky and settling about them. “The Empress has ordered we seize Congress and vacate it of all found here.”
“She’s closing down the civil government?” Finesz could not believe it. Not yet a week on the Imperial Throne and Empress Flavia was removing what little democracy the Empire possessed.
“Ma’am, I’m not privy to Her Imperial Majesty’s intentions,” the commando-lieutenant replied. “I have my orders.”
“And they would be what?”
“To ask people to leave. And if they do not do so, to take them into custody.”
Shouts across the park drew their attention. The commando-lieutenant turned round to look. Finesz put her hand to her brow. The Imperial Commando troopers had met resistance. From Noble Bailiffs, by their uniforms. The Bailiffs did not stand a chance. As she watched, the Commandos moved in and began chopping with their axes. The Bailiffs carried only maces and they were chiefly ceremonial. She saw a Bailiff fall to the ground after an axe had buried itself in his shoulder. As the Commando pulled the axe-blade free, the Bailiff’s arm separated from his torso. She turned away. She had seen enough.
This, then, would be how Empress Flavia ruled the Empire.
Lieutenant Rinharte looked up from the report she was reading as the door to her office opened. Her department’s record-keeping was exemplary—no doubt the work of Petty Officer Shingo. The woman was indeed a boon, and Rinharte was only surprised she had not been promoted to higher rank. Perhaps Captain Sharazhka was one of those who believed it pointless to promote someone if they were doing an excellent job—as there was no guarantee they could fulfil a new role with the same level of mastery. To Rinharte, the promotion was reward.
And demotion was a punishment. Such as that suffered by herself and Midshipman Maganda, whose head it was now poked around the door. It hurt Rinharte to see Maganda once again wearing a coat with white facings and collar, but there was nothing she could do about it.
“Romi,” she said, smiling. “Come in.”
Maganda slipped inside, closing the door behind her, and settled on the only chair before Rinharte’s desk.
“What’s the matter?” Rinharte asked. “Is there something I can do for you?”
She had seen the young woman only a handful of times since they had both been assigned to Tinapon Archipelago for their part in the Admiral’s mutiny. She was only grateful they had ended up aboard the same frigate.
“I needed to see a familiar face,” Maganda admitted.
“Having a hard time of it?”
The midshipman nodded. She was a good deal older than the frigate’s other two midshipman—not only had Vengeful’s six-year mutiny prevented her from advancement, but so too had Lieutenant Gogos’ lies and innuendo.
“I’ll have a word with the department heads. They should know you’re capable of more than the average midshipman.
Maganda had been assigned to the Chart Room, a position no more glamorous than Rinharte’s own as lieutenant of signals.
“What can we expect, ma’am?” Maganda asked. “When we reach the Boundary Fleet, I mean?”
Vengeful had served in the Boundary Fleet before her mutiny, but she had been part of a flotilla. Frigates generally operated alone, on patrol and picket duty, often not returning to a naval depot for many weeks.
“I couldn’t tell you, Romi. I’ve never served aboard a frigate before. I suspect it will be not much different to life aboard Vengeful, although Tinapon Archipelago is great deal smaller.” She smiled. “We’ll get to see many different worlds.”
Neither especially wanted “action”. They’d had enough of that in the Battle of Geneza.
“Is it really over?” Maganda asked mournfully. “Can it really be over?”
Rinharte nodded. “I believe so,” she replied. “We won. We fought the Serpent and won. The Admiral is Empress now. We did what we set out to do.” Well, all except the Admiral taking the Throne. That had not been planned. At least not to Rinharte’s knowledge.
She leaned forward and put a hand on Maganda’s shoulder. “They had to punish us because we did wrong, Romi, but we have nothing to be ashamed of. We saved the Empire. Now everything will return to normal and we’ll be nothing but a minor footnote in the history books.”
And if everything resolutely refused to return to normal, she thought, the two of them would never learn of it, consigned as they were to a frigate patrolling the Empire’s furthest borders…
Ormuz had slipped back into his princely role as if he had never left it. Azeel, however, remained unable to break free of her proletarian upbringing. She wore the clothes provided for her, but the servants flustered her and she was often too embarrassed to give them orders. She stayed close to Ormuz, seemingly unable to leave his side yet confident enough in his affections to not seek constant confirmation of his loyalty.
Now they sat in the small study off the withdrawing-room in their suite, watching events unfold on the glass Azeel had demanded be installed. Nobles, of course, did not watch news or entertainments channels, but the device was an important part of Azeel’s life. As it was for many proletarians.
Today, it was proving most informative.
Displayed on the glass was a view of Congress and the many pinnances and jolly boats occupying it.
Azeel reached for one of Ormuz’s hands. “What does it mean, Cas?” she asked fearfully.
They saw the troops make their assault on Congress, watched as they boiled from the boats’ open bows and spread across Congress’s open spaces and disappear into buildings. They saw people flee, directed here and there by troopers. The view swung to Ministries, where similar events were occurring. Then onto Rook, to show boats landing and disgorging field-pieces. These were set up to fire down on Congress, and he knew there was no way of dislodging the occupying army.
Azeel’s hand was hot in his. “Who are they?” she said.
“The Empress,” he replied sadly. He had recognised the jacket colours he could see on Congress—dark green for the Imperial Commando, light blue for the Duke of Kunta’s Winter Rangers, grey for the Imperial Grey Jackets… All regiments which had fought on Geneza.
“She’s done what Edkar I did,” he said in wonder. “She used Ahasz to create a force loyal to her personally and now she has seized power with it.”
“But she has the Throne!” protested Azeel.
Ormuz shook his head. “That’s not enough. She needs funds—all the funds the Empire can muster. And most of them belong to the civil government.”
He pointed at a force of marines in the centre of the glass. “See, they’re going to take the Imperial Treasury.”
“Why? I don’t understand. Just to rebuild the Palace?”
“No,” replied Ormuz. “There’s a threat hanging over the Empire. Empress Flavia needs to prepare for it and clearly that’s going to be expensive.”
Azeel didn’t understand. “So why not ask the Electorate for the money?”
Ormuz shrugged. “I don’t know.”
When the platoon of Imperial Commando appeared in the corridor, the overweight yeoman in the nondescript suit watched with narrowed eyes as they marched past. Such a force of regimental troopers was an unusual sight in Ministries. When another platoon appeared, it was clear something odd was occurring.
The man continued on his way to the entrance, walking with a heavy rolling gait, as befitted someone of his girth. But it was all padding and the fat features were the product of specialist make-up.
Anyone seeing the obese yeoman would not have recognised him as Marla Dai.
For the past week, Dai had been watching the Imperial Historical Research Institute—in a variety of disguises, not just her current one.
After escaping the clone assassins, she had gone to ground for a week. She knew better than to contact her Order. They had tried to kill her once; they had succeeded in murdering Lotsman and Tovar. When she hea
rd the Serpent’s siege had been lifted, and the Admiral now sat upon the Imperial Throne, a course of action came to her:
She would investigate the knights sinister. She would learn the identities of each and every Involute. Then she would present that information to…
She had not thought that far, yet. The mechanics of her surveillance operation fully occupied her at present. But she knew the information would be valuable to someone.
Each time an Involute visited the Imperial Historical Research Institute—they did so secretly but Dai knew the ways—each time they made a visit and departed, she followed them. To date, she had identified two nobles, a captain in the Imperial Navy stationed at the Admiralty Fort, and a knight signet.
More troopers marched by her, heading deeper into Ministries. Dai turned ponderously to watch them pass.
What was going on?
She was near the entrance now. It was a great flat-roofed rotunda, into which many corridors led. In the centre of the chamber’s floor, a gentle ramp led down, into an open valley of dressed white stone, giving access to and from Ministries. Through the arched windows in the rounta’s wall, she could see the flanks of boats. Many boats. And many more troopers.
Dai became aware of someone’s gaze upon her. She looked round and spotted a figure in black lurking in the shadowed entrance to a corridor across the room from her. A slight shift in the figure’s stance and she caught a glimpse of curved silver from the figure’s head.
An Involute!
And he was watching her.
Pretending to nonchalance, Dai turned about and waddled back into the hallway from which she had exited. She took the first turning from the main corridor, avoiding the troopers emptying the building. She increased her pace. The corridor was deserted, the doors on either wall shut. Behind her, she heard the regular tread of boots on the stone flags.
A trooper? Or the Involute?
She left the corridor and crossed an internal courtyard. As she exited it, she glanced back. Whoever was following her wore black. It must be the Involute.