by Ian Sales
The parachute settled on them and wrapped her in its spectral embrace. Air whispered against the fabric as it sank over her. She closed her eyes, felt Kordelasz’s head beside hers, his arms about her waist, his legs beneath hers. Her sense of balance insisted she was still swinging in mid-air beneath the parachute. Every muscle in her body had relaxed. She drew a shuddering breath.
Kordelasz fumbled at the harness holding them tightly bound to each other. It opened with a snap. Rinharte jerked and tumbled off the marine-lieutenant as quickly as she could. A strap across her shoulder was slow to unfasten and yanked her arm across Kordelasz’s chest. She rolled into a fold of the parachute and it made a cocoon about her.
She felt Kordelasz clamber to his feet. The parachute billowed about her as he fought his way free. She was lost in fabric that seemed to have a life of its own. It slithered across her, disentangling her from its cloying embrace. Kordelasz stood at her feet, gathering up the parachute in his arms. He was a black cut-out against the night sky.
Rinharte lashed out and her heel thudded against his shin. He let out a yelp and stumbled back. She scrambled to her feet. She punched him in the shoulder, and drew back her hand to slap him. He dropped the parachute and caught her wrist.
“What in heavens was that for?” he demanded angrily.
Rinharte ripped her wrist from his grasp. She was panting with rage. She wanted to kick the marine-lieutenant. Hard. She shuddered, and it seemed to calm her. Her fists were clenched so tightly she felt the bite of her nails in her palm. “Any more bright ideas like that, Mr Kordelasz,” she said in a low, menacing tone, “and I’ll have you up before the mast on charges.”
Kordelasz stepped back a pace. Parachute fabric whispered against his feet. “Ma’am?”
“I will never do that again,” she continued. “You will never suggest we do that again.”
“We had no choice, ma’am,” the marine-lieutenant protested. “If we’d jumped separately, we could have spent days looking for each other.”
“I. Don’t. Care.” She reached behind her and slid a hand down her lower back. She growled something wordless and stepped forward.
Kordelasz retreated, stumbled and fell backwards. He swore as he landed on his rear.
“Get up,” snapped Rinharte.
Kordelasz remained on the ground. He grinned, a flash of white in the darkness. “You didn’t enjoy the jump, ma’am?” he asked.
She booted his ankle. “Get up.”
He scrabbled about on the ground, and rose to his knees. He was abruptly all business: “We need to get the ‘chute hidden, and we need to get as far away from here as possible by day-break, ma’am.” He stood, clutching the parachute. “We have… um, about four hours. They can pinpoint where we jumped, and from that calculate approximately where we landed.”
Rinharte nodded. Her anger had evaporated. “When we reach Dardina, Mr Kordelasz,” she said, “you will follow my orders to the letter.”
“But, of course, ma’am.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Two hundred yards beyond Minadar, a handful of finger-thin buildings spread from a low rotunda. There was something suggestive of a temple in the complex, but no religion was practised there. People did come to worship, but at the altar of luck and fortune. This was the Minadar Exchange, where cargoes, futures and commodities were traded.
The Exchange itself occupied the rotunda. Archways about its rim gave entrance to the dome. Within, a featureless lobby floored with flags of pale stone circled the interior. Inward of this, two rows of stepped stone benches ringed a huge central pit, a mercantile amphitheatre. On the floor of the pit, proletarian agents in brightly coloured livery made deals with much waving of hands and scraps of paper. Dotted about the pit-floor were tall sloped desks, above each of which a flag hung limply from a pole. These flags matched the liveries worn by the agents. Some agents hurried from desk to desk. Others gathered in knots and gazed up. An enormous clacking display hung from the apex of the domed roof. Words and numbers flickered on the display, constantly changing.
Ormuz gripped the railing before him and gazed in wonder. He stood on the lowest step ringing the pit, Tovar at his side. The dealing below him seemed chaotic and unregulated. He wondered how the agents managed to make money. A price could plummet in the blink of an eye, the demand for a cargo evaporate in the time it took to take a breath. He could see it happening on the display as he watched.
It was Ormuz’s first time in an exchange. During previous landfalls on other worlds, he had been refused permission to accompany Divine Providence’s cargo-master on his trips to buy and sell cargo. On this occasion, he was with Tovar because the agricultural protocols they were trading had been his choice. On the last planet they had visited, Hukul, Divine Providence had been offered a choice of cargoes—
Ormuz had been helping Tovar in the cargo-master’s office when Captain Plessant entered. In reply to her brusque “Well?”, Tovar brought up on his console a list of cargoes on offer. Ormuz blurted out, “We should buy the farming one.” The captain grimaced and Ormuz winced at her expression. She then surprised both Ormuz and Tovar by saying, “Why not? Do it, Adril.”
Tovar put a hand on Ormuz’s shoulder. Ormuz turned to him. The cargo-master pointed at the display beneath the centre of the dome. “There’s our cargo, Cas,” he said. “See? ‘Agricultural Protocols’: the fifth line from the bottom.”
Ormuz scanned the lines scrolling down the display. Yes, he could see it now. There was a number beside the cargo description. As Ormuz watched it began to flicker, to increase rapidly in value. Ten seconds later, it reached three figures.
“Oh my,” said Tovar. “Oh my.”
127… 143… A leap to 169… 181…
Ormuz turned to the cargo-master. “What is it, Adril? What’s that number?”
“Orders, Cas.” He sounded shocked. “We’ve had, ah, two hundred and seven orders for copies of our cargo in less than half a minute.” He shook his head in wonder. “I’ve never seen it climb so fast…”
“I don’t understand.”
“Two hundred and fifty-three— No, three hundred and seventeen traders have placed orders for copies of our cargo,” explained Tovar. “We’ve sold it that many times.”
“Is that good?”
Tovar blinked. “Good? Cas, we bought it at a price equivalent to eighty-five copies. We’ve just made our liege a… ah, four hundred percent profit in under a minute.” He shook his head in wonder. “I’ve never seen anything like it…”
He gripped Ormuz’s arm. “Wait here. I want to find out what’s going on. I don’t understand why we’re selling so many.” He scurried away.
Ormuz watched the number of orders for their cargo flicker ever higher. He understood something of data-trading from conversations with the cargo-master. It was essentially speculative. Tovar had made an offer to the factor selling the agricultural protocols on Hukul. They had both consulted the Imperial Standard Trade Index, and then negotiated a deal. Tovar believed he could sell no more than sixty copies of the cargo on Darrus. The factor felt the market was good for one hundred sales. The two eventually compromised on eighty-five… and Divine Providence was debited the cost of 85 copies of the agricultural protocols. A data-vial containing a master copy of the protocols was delivered to Divine Providence, after the factor had received his payment, and added to the data-vats.
Yet both, it seemed, had severely underestimated the demand for the protocols on Darrus. Already the number of orders was at 403. And still climbing. The rate of increase had slowed, however, from the initial rush of orders. Something had clearly happened on Darrus to fuel demand for agricultural protocols, and neither Tovar nor the Hukul factor had known of it. This was not unsurprising. News travelled from world to world at the speed of the fastest starship. Hukul was two weeks’ journey from Darrus. But time dilation during topologic travel meant a starship would arrive at its destination thirty-five days after lea
ving its departure world. Any news of Darrus on Hukul was, by definition, over four weeks old. It was on this chronological discrepancy that speculative data-traders relied for their profits.
Tovar was back. He seemed stunned by their good fortune.
“What is it?” asked Ormuz.
The cargo-master blinked. “We seem to have timed it just right,” he said. “Gin Illimirat—”
“Gin Illimirat?” asked Ormuz. “What’s that?”
“They manufacture agricultural mechanisms here on Darrus. They have a monopoly by dispensation of the viscount. As I was saying: Gin Illimirat re-tooled three weeks. A completely new range of mechanisms, incompatible with previous models. More efficient, too. My, ah, ‘source’—” He jerked a thumb back in the direction he had disappeared— “claimed a thirty percent improvement. The rich farms have switched across to the new mechanisms and the price of local foodstuffs has already dropped. A lot of farmers can’t afford new mechanisms and are losing money. Our protocols are twenty percent more efficient than those they currently have. It’s enough to take them back into the black.
“Who could have known?” Tovar paused. “We should,” he said, “stop off in a chapel on the way back to the ship and give thanks to Chian for our good fortune.”
Ormuz blinked. He had not known Tovar was religious. “You think so?” he asked. Growing up on Rasamra, his family had taken Ormuz to chapel once a week. During one service, while the reverend mumbled his way through the lessons to be learned in the life of one of the Avatars, Ormuz had experienced his own small epiphany. The Chianist Church was interested only in encouraging proletarian communities to be happy with their lot and pay unto their liege his or her due. The war between good and evil, order and chaos, Chian and Konran, was… no more than the parchment upon which a restrictive social contract had been written.
Chian had not bought Divine Providence her bounty. Giving thanks was mere superstition.
“Perhaps not,” Tovar replied. He peered intently at Ormuz. “Cas?” he said slowly. “Cas, what made you suggest buying the agricultural protocols?”
Ormuz blushed. He looked away and down at the floor of the Exchange pit. He had been embarrassed when he blurted out his thoughts before Tovar and the captain on Hukul. He had been more ashamed when he realised that his words could lead to a heavy loss for Divine Providence.
But the exact opposite had occurred. A massive profit. Which embarrassed him even more.
“I just—” He cleared his throat. “I remember you saying—” He snapped his mouth shut. No, he would tell the truth, no matter how foolish it made him seem. He turned back to the cargo-master. “I… dreamt it,” he said.
“What?” Tovar was shocked.
Reluctantly, Ormuz explained: “I had this dream. I saw all these farming mechanisms being destroyed, and shiny new ones taking their place. I, well, I sort of knew it was Darrus.”
“You dreamt it?”
Ormuz nodded sheepishly.
Tovar sighed heavily. “Cas, you can’t make trading decisions based on dreams.” He grunted and looked away for a moment. “Even if we did make a lot of money.”
“I know,” Ormuz said quietly. “I’m sorry.”
The cargo-master harrumphed. “Never mind.” He smiled warmly, and clapped an arm about Ormuz’s shoulders. “I think the profit makes up for it.”
Lotsman pushed open the door and reeled out onto the pavement. Ormuz laughed to see him having so much trouble staying upright. He had not drunk as much as the pilot, although he found himself laughing and giggling at the smallest things. Tovar pursed his lips in disapproval at Lotsman’s antics. Ormuz found that highly amusing too. Lotsman lurched off in the direction of the railway station.
“Don’t be such a bloody prude, Adril,” Lotsman said, looking back over his shoulder. He winked and grinned at Ormuz. “We just made our lord and master a shi— ahem, shipload of money,” he said. “You should be happy.”
“I am happy,” insisted Tovar. He did not sound happy, however.
Lotsman stuck his tongue out at the cargo-master. “You’re just afraid the captain’ll make Cas cargo-master since he’s so good at picking cargoes.”
“Don’t be silly,” muttered Tovar. “The captain’ll do no such thing.”
The three had been celebrating their unexpected windfall in the Sikkir. Ormuz had not bought a single drink. The triumph was his and he was celebrated for it. Neither had Tovar mentioned Ormuz’s dream, perhaps afraid it made them all look foolish.
The three of them passed the entrance to an alleyway. Ormuz gazed into it idly, but the street lights only illuminated the first few yards. The remainder was black and unknowable. It could have stretched ten yards, it could have stretched one hundred.
A couple of paces later, he heard running footsteps behind him. A blow to his shoulder sent him sprawling. He hit the ground with his chest. The breath was forced from him. He lay there, stunned.
He heard the slap of flesh on flesh. He rolled onto his back—
Lotsman and Tovar had squared off before a tall, muscular figure. The man’s blond hair was cut short in a military style. He wore a pair of black pocket-less coveralls. Dark patches on shoulder, breast and collar indicated where insignia had been removed. In one hand, he brandished a sword. He looked from the cargo-master to the ship’s pilot, and back again. He smiled grimly, but his confidence seemed unshaken.
What came next shocked Ormuz.
Lotsman batted the man’s blade away with one forearm. He delivered a straight-armed punch to the attacker’s face. The man’s head jerked back. His expression hardened. Blood leaked from his nose.
Tovar kicked. His heel caught the man in the side above the hip. The man twisted his torso and swung his sword. Tovar danced back out of its reach.
Moving forward, Lotsman stepped within the man’s guard. He threw a series of fast punches into his midriff.
Tovar chopped down on the man’s wrist. A clatter of steel on stone rang out. The sword was on the ground.
The assailant cursed under his breath. Abruptly, he grabbed Lotsman and swung him. The pilot pivoted neatly over the man’s leg and crashed into Tovar. The cargo-master staggered. The pilot hit the ground and swore loudly.
Ormuz heard footsteps approaching at speed. Someone yelled, “Hey!”
The attacker glanced back over his shoulder. He stepped forward. He stared intently at Ormuz for a brief second. Then he was gone, running down the street.
Hands grabbed Ormuz and hauled him to his feet. “You all right, youth?” He saw a compact man in nondescript clothing, flat-faced and with hair cropped short on a blockish head. “I’m fine,” he assured him. He brushed dirt from his front.
Another man was helping Lotsman to his feet. The pilot swore as he stumbled and was steadied.
“Never catch him,” the one beside Ormuz said to his companion.
Ormuz turned, and saw Tovar standing by the head of the alleyway. He looked both worried and afraid. He put up his hands to indicate he was fine.
“What was that?” asked Ormuz, still in shock.
Ormuz’s rescuer answered, “Mugging, most likely.”
Lotsman glanced at him sharply. “With a sword? Don’t be bloody daft!” He stepped forward, gazed down at the ground, and then turned to peer at Ormuz. He blinked in puzzlement. “He had a sword. He dropped it.”
“No sword here,” said the flat-faced man.
“He must have taken it with him,” put in Tovar.
The flat-faced man turned to Tovar and gave him a searching look. The cargo-master ignored him. “We have to report this,” Tovar said. “We have to tell the constabulary.”
The flat-faced man grunted. “Don’t need us for that.” He pointed down the street. “There’s an outpost down the street, opposite the railway station. Just give the duty constable a description.” He nodded curtly at his companion. They strode away.
“What was that?” repe
ated Ormuz. He looked from Lotsman to Tovar and back again. Neither appeared shocked.
“Shush.” The cargo-master was watching their two rescuers depart. Once they had turned a corner out of sight, Tovar darted into the alleyway. He returned holding the assailant’s sword. “The captain will want to see this,” he said.
Ormuz stared at the cargo-master goggle-eyed. His gaze dropped to the sword. Only yeomen and nobles were permitted to carry swords.
Tovar was inspecting the sword’s ornate hilt.
Lotsman held out his hand. “Give it here. Give me the sword, Adril.”
Reluctantly, Tovar handed the sword to the pilot.
Lotsman accepted it carefully, and peered at the hilt. “I can’t believe you stole a sword,” he said absently. He froze. Bringing the hilt closer to his face, he squinted at it. “Shit!” he said. “You know what this is?” He glared at Tovar.
“It’s a sword?” said Ormuz.
Lotsman held up the blade, its hilt at Ormuz’s eye-level. “Look,” he said.
There was a small badge at the centre of the cross-piece. Ormuz saw what appeared to be a mountain crossed by a pair of pikes and a sword, blade downwards. “What is it?” he asked.
“The coat of arms of the Imperial Regiment of Housecarls,” replied Lotsman.
“Lex!” protested Tovar.
The pilot rounded on the cargo-master. “He should know!” he told him.
“It’s not your decision,” said Tovar angrily.
“That was no ‘mugger’,” said Lotsman, swinging out an arm in a vague gesture. “He had a sword! And he went straight for Cas! If you hadn’t pushed him out of the way…”
“Don’t be silly,” replied Tovar. “Why would anyone want to attack Cas? And what would an officer of an Imperial Regiment be doing here? It’s ridiculous.”