by K. Eason
“Huh.” Hworgesh did not sound convinced. “Well. Maybe she’ll tell you herself. Here she comes.”
Here, indeed: the captain had disengaged from her conversation with the adept, involving a pointing finger and sharp words whose meaning seemed to be stay right there, I’ll be back to deal with you in a moment. Then she crossed the bridge with the jabbing steps of profound irritation and stopped in front of Rupert. Then she pointed at him. She was unarmed, Grytt noted, though the way her un-pointing hand twitched toward her hip suggested that was not always the case.
Whatever Hworgesh said, this was a warship, and the captain, a soldier.
An angry soldier.
“You,” the captain said, in more heavily accented GalSpek than Adept Uo-Zanys Kesk’s, “Vizier. A word. With me, please—not you.” That was aimed at Grytt, who was already releasing her safety harness. “I require the vizier only.”
She said vizier the same way Hworgesh had said diplomacy.
“Uh oh.” Hworgesh looked brightly from Rupert to the captain and then to Grytt. His eyes glinted with ill-concealed curiosity.
Grytt, meanwhile, had already discarded several retorts as inappropriate to an ambassador’s head of security, or attaché, or whatever Rupert was calling her on his forged credentials. She contented herself with standing up and, since that motion brought her uncomfortably close to the captain, staring down at her.
“It’s all right,” Rupert said smoothly, entirely unruffled, his tone at odds with the round-eyed glare he jabbed at Grytt over the captain’s head. “I am happy to come with you, Captain.”
And so Grytt sat down again, while Rupert unclipped his harness and rose and followed the captain and the adept—who threw Grytt a furious, sympathetic scowl before she stalked away.
Hworgesh looked vaguely disappointed. “He’ll be fine. Captain might yell a little, that’s all. She won’t lay hands on a diplomat.”
“What about the tenju? What if we were on Bane?”
“I’d say you should get up and follow him.”
* * *
—
Rupert felt better now that he was in trouble. He knew what to do with angry people who weren’t trying to shoot him, and, like Hworgesh, he was certain the captain meant him no actual harm. Unlike Grytt, he had not noticed the wistful drift of her hand toward an absent sidearm; if he had, he might have been less sanguine as he followed the captain back across the bridge, where he and Adept Uo-Zanys Kesk fell into her wake like the recalcitrant offspring of a furious mother duck. The captain led them to a room just a door down the corridor from the bridge, which was probably spacious by alwar standards, and seemed extravagant even to Rupert, who had to duck slightly to come through the door. It was an ovoid space, which was unusual enough on a ship, but it was also big. The overhead in here was easily a half-meter over his head, which seemed excessive. Elaborate, intricate murals covered most of the bulkheads, depicting (mostly) female figures in varying costume engaged in pursuits that likely held significance to the alwar, more than a few of whom wore robes like the adept’s, with their hair in that same distinctive topknot. A holographic projector dominated the center of the room, rising from the center of a table like some kind of primitive effigy. Around the table, a ring of chairs was bolted to the deck, the surface of which had an actual carpet on it worked with geometric designs of unusual, uncomfortable dimensions in varying shades of red, black, and a vivid mid-range blue.
The captain did not suggest anyone sit down, and so Rupert did not. He stopped when the adept stopped—just inside the door—while the captain stalked to the projector and with angry jabs summoned a three-dimensional, slightly translucent detail of the bridge display, with the battling ships enlarged so that Rupert could make out the surface architecture. The silhouettes were familiar from the years of the war he had overseen when he had served Samur and the Consortium. The Protectorate, outlined in violent purple, was faintly avian in design, with angles that, if they translated to the ship’s interior, would make it a rather jagged place.
“That is Sissten,” said the captain with no preamble whatsoever. “It is a vakari ship, a—how do you say—” she glared at Adept Uo-Zanys Kesk and spat out a stream of syllables.
There were hexes that helped with translation (or hindered it). Rupert had used them from time to time in his duties for Rory’s father, when negotiating with other humans who maintained private languages other than GalSpek. He had never used one for a first contact situation, for obvious reasons, but the theory should work. He diverted his attention to the appropriate layer of aether and assembled and deployed a hex, hoping that the relative time-lags between layers and the captain’s demands on the adept would conceal his activities.
He surfaced to find both alwar staring at him. The captain looked less than amused. Adept Uo-Zanys Kesk wore a small, unsurprised smile.
“Did it work?” she asked. “Your hex?”
“It did.” Though Rupert perceived GalSpek, the liquid alwar syllables lingered like an echo.
“An arithmancer.” The captain said the word like Hworgesh had said diplomacy.
“As I suspected,” said Adept Uo-Zanys Kesk. “The discourtesy is ours, Captain. We should speak the language our guest understands. And we should make introductions. Vizier, this is Captain Kahess Trylor.”
“Captain Kahess is fine, or just Captain,” snapped Captain Kahess, in her accented GalSpek. “Vizier Rupert, I have questions.”
It was at this point that Rupert decided two things: that an alw’s first name was sufficient for formal address, and consequently that he would shorten Adept Uo-Zanys Kesk to Kesk in his head, if not aloud without invitation (and so too shall this account, reader), because after their arithmantic conversation, he felt a familiarity to and with her that bypassed the formality of family names and title.
He bowed instead, in the Thorne Consortium manner, slightly and from the waist. “How may I assist, Captain?”
“You may tell me the truth. Make sure he’s telling the truth,” she said to Kesk, who pursed her lips and said nothing. Her gaze slid sidelong at Rupert, thoughtful. The rings in her ear glinted in the light.
It was the look one arithmancer gave another, a measuring of potential. Rupert kept his own expression bland, and quietly shored up his own defenses. He did not intend to lie, but he was also not going to take the option off the table when he had no idea what the captain intended to ask, or why she was so upset.
“The captain was saying,” said Kesk, “that Sissten is a Protectorate interceptor. They are designed for surgical strikes rather than line warfare. Its presence here suggests the Protectorate was intending to, well, intercept something, not to engage in battle.”
“They destroyed the Tadeshi corsair.” Kahess did not bother with GalSpek. “You can’t see that here”—she jabbed at the hologram—“but our scans show damage on the hull consistent with a Protectorate attack.”
Rupert elected to hoist one eyebrow, which might be surprise or acknowledgement, and then wondered if the alwar—who also possessed eyebrows—would understand the expression.
Adept Kesk’s mouth lifted slightly in one corner. “That the Protectorate and the Tadeshi are at odds is well known; the Free Worlds borders on the Protectorate Expansion, and there have been skirmishes. But Samtalet is out of both of their territories by a significant margin. So—”
Captain Kahess interjected. “So why are they here, Vizier?”
“I don’t know. I assure you, Captain, that their presence here is an unpleasant surprise to us both.”
“And yet, they’re at war with your Confederation.”
Yes, thought Rupert. It is my Confederation. Only mine, and for which I bear sole responsibility. Is there a question? He noted simultaneously that his irritation was unusual—he really was out of practice with diplomacy—and that he retained enough facial and vocal discipline to conc
eal it. All that emerged from his lips was, “They are, Captain. Though as you have noted, Samtalet is very far from the front. Nor is Samtalet part of the Confederation.”
“So there must be a reason they’re out here.”
“One assumes so.”
“Then what is it? Because I am finding it hard to believe the Confederation doesn’t keep close intelligence on its adversary.”
Rupert wondered what sort of systemic competence the Harek Empire maintained, if the assumption that what one should do, diplomatically and politically, was in fact what one was doing. The alwar must be very organized people, or very good at bureaucracy, or at least maintain an effective network of spies. “If such information exists, I assure you, Captain, I am not privy to it.”
“You were the Thorne Consortium’s vizier during their war with the Free Worlds of Tadesh.”
“I . . . was.” Apparently the Imperial intelligence machine was very well-informed. How uncomfortable.
“So why would they send you, an expert in Tadeshi warfare, out to Samtalet unless they expected something like this?” Captain Kahess waved her hand at the holographic display.
“Honestly, Captain,” Kesk interjected, her voice pitched between conciliatory and exasperated. “The battle out there is between Protectorate and Tadeshi. It’s got nothing to do with the Vizier, or the Confederation. You may have answered your own question: the Vizier is here in Samtalet, with his expertise, to ascertain the reason for the Tadeshi interest in the region.”
The adept, at least, used his title correctly, pronouncing its capital letter. She also earned a scowl from Captain Kahess for the interjection. And, to Rupert’s considerable discomfiture, she still wore that tiny, secretive smile, as if she and he were sharing a great secret at the captain’s expense.
Kesk had not yet attempted to breach his aural camouflage. Either she believed him, or she was allowing him the opportunity to lie for her own benefit, which suggested she knew the truth. Or suspected it.
Rupert found a small smile setting up residence on his own lips: he had missed this, living among sheep, Grytt, and Ivar.
Fortunately for the fledgling diplomatic relations between Harek and Confederation, Captain Kahess did not notice Rupert’s smile. She had, however, noticed Kesk’s, and took immediate offense.
“You’re going to tell me it’s coincidence? You saw what just happened. The Tadeshi missiles got through Sissten’s shields.”
“That happens. The vakari are not invincible.”
“Did you not see the readings?” Kahess flailed in the general direction of the vakari ship on the hologram. “The shields just went down. Nothing even hit them. That’s a battle-hex. The Tadeshi do not have anything that sophisticated.”
“I did see.” The balance of Kesk’s voice tipped toward exasperation. “This is precisely the conversation we were having on the bridge. I also told you then that I thought the hex was a single deployment, rather than sustained and built into the dreadnought’s defenses, for the very reason that its configuration does not match anything we’ve seen the Tadeshi produce.”
“And you couldn’t hazard a guess how many of those they might have, either, and I still want to know where the Tadeshi got that hex.”
“You can’t think that he had anything to do with that.”
Rupert elected to overlook both Kesk’s tone and her expression of amused incredulity. “I assure you, Captain, I am not a battle-arithmancer.”
“Of course you aren’t. But you are at war with the Tadeshi, and you’re an expert, and you’re a diplomat. So where, from whom, are they getting that kind of hexwork?”
“I don’t know.”
A prickling sensation crawled over Rupert’s scalp. It had been many years since his examinations, but he recalled the circumstances of his last experience of it. Kesk had just pierced his hex.
“He is telling the truth, Captain.”
Rupert had learned that, although prevarication and evasion could guide a conversation in the desired direction, if those options were not available, aggressively unvarnished truth could accomplish the same goal. It was the difference between a scalpel and a battering ram, but one used what one had available.
“I’ve never seen a battle-hex like that before, Captain. Nor have I seen reports of such being used on Confederation ships. Or, for that matter, League ships or Thorne Consortium ships or any human vessel. It may be a hex designed particularly for the Protectorate, by parties unknown to us.”
“I did suggest as much, Kahess,” Adept Kesk murmured.
Ordinarily Rupert would have offered a sympathetic glance (for who among us has not experienced the frustration entailed when our expertise is ignored?), but his scalp, and pride, still prickled. Instead he gazed at the captain with composed candor as she in turn transferred her scowl to Kesk, even as she aimed another question at Rupert.
“Why are the Tadeshi attacking the Protectorate out here, right now, with a dreadnought?”
“Again, Captain, I don’t know.” And then he added, somewhat reluctantly, because playing dumb can occasionally have the unfortunate side-effect of convincing people of one’s incompetence, which can be detrimental in long-term negotiations: “Perhaps the Tadeshi were transporting someone, or something, of interest, that the Protectorate tried to intercept. Or perhaps did intercept, given the damage to the corsair. Perhaps the Tadeshi want that something back.”
“But you don’t know what.” Kahess thrust her face up at him. If the disparities between their heights disturbed her, she gave no sign of it. “Because listen to me, Vizier, the Tadeshi are pirates on a good day, and if they have a weapon like that, then they’re a threat to everyone, no matter the size of the vessel.”
“I—have no idea what that ship was carrying.”
“He is telling the truth,” said Kesk, “which I have also suggested, before this embarrassing confrontation.”
This time Rupert glanced at the adept; although I told you so often crosses the minds of political advisors, it rarely crosses their lips. Clearly, Rupert needed to recalculate the nature of the relationship between a ship captain and an adept.
“The Vizier is not here to intercept some shipment of arms for the Confederation,” the adept continued, in the tones of someone who is repeating herself. “We are not at cross-purposes. The Confederation is not our enemy. That”—and she pointed, not at the wounded Sissten, which had been Rupert’s expectation, but instead at the drifting, crippled Tadeshi vessel—“should be what concerns us. The Tadeshi and vakari are clearly fighting over something. We should know what.”
“And as I have said,” snapped Kahess, “I’m not taking this ship into a firefight to satisfy your curiosity.”
“I assure you, it is not my curiosity—”
“It is until it’s got an official Senate seal on a set of written orders.”
At this point Rupert realized several things: that Kesk had reverted to her own language, and that although she might be reading his aura, she had either neglected to, or declined to, destroy his translation hex. He suspected the latter; Kesk did not seem the sort of woman to neglect things. She wanted him privy to the conversation, and she was trusting him to be clever enough to maintain the illusion of ignorance. Because it was clear that the captain thought herself safely unintelligible. He was not sure Kahess even recalled his presence in the room.
“You said he had ulterior motives for being here. You said—”
“He does. But it’s got nothing to do with the Tadeshi and whoever their new allies are, and that is why we—you and me and this ship, this Empire ship—are out here. Not this alleged favor we’re doing for the Merchants League.”
Interesting. Usefully interesting.
Kahess snorted with a well-worn disgust. This argument had happened before, clearly, and several times. “This supposed secret weapon of yours again.”
“Not of mine, and not supposed. We have intelligence indicating something was smuggled out of Protectorate space, by the Tadeshi, headed for Samtalet. What we did not know was for whom it was intended. I think that dead ship out there was carrying it. I think the vakari have it now. I think the Tadeshi have sent that dreadnought to recover it. And thus this interests the Confederation at least as much as it interests the Empire.”
“How do you know that? Bah, don’t.” Kahess made a pushing away gesture. “Do not say it’s classified.”
Kesk raised both eyebrows and, deliberately, stayed silent.
“Well, fine, what do you expect us to do about it? Favored Daughter and Bane together can’t defeat a dreadnought.”
“I suggest hailing the vakari and offering our help.”
“To the vakari. Help. You’re out of your mind.”
Rupert felt a bit like the murals on the bulkhead. Meanwhile, on the hologram, the Tadeshi ship continued its attack on the vakari vessel, which had coughed up another whitefire attack despite its fluctuating readouts. Rupert wished he knew more about ship engineering and what those numbers meant. He suspected the captain would know, but he could hardly come out and ask—
“. . . and why he is out here.” Kesk switched back to GalSpek. “Why are you, Vizier? Out here in Samtalet, I mean. It’s not to establish an embassy.”
Rupert’s face flushed. He really was out of practice, if he had lost the thread of their conversation. He fell back again on truth for his strategy, albeit this time a bit less unvarnished. Quite varnished, in fact. Shiny with it.
“Retrieval of important Confederation personnel,” he said, and added, with the half-beat pause intended to convey the word intelligence could take the place of the entire prepositional object, “I cannot give you more detail than that, Adept. Captain.”
“I’m afraid you may have to,” said Kesk. “Because retrieving your personnel now aligns with Harek Imperial goals. We became aware of a Tadeshi plan—”