She’d been lying on the bed, letting her stomach settle after the long, tense run through the Web. When the door snicked open, she sat up, curling her legs under her. Metadi let the door close behind him and stood with his back to the metal panel.
“Well,” he said finally. “What is it I need to do?”
She swallowed. This was going to be harder than she’d thought. Jos Metadi wasn’t Nivome, whose ambition kept his mind focused on his own advantage to the exclusion of everything else, and he wasn’t Garen, who had been her friend for so long now that some things didn’t need explanation at all. She would have to proceed very carefully.
“Nothing. I said that you didn’t have to worry.”
“That doesn’t matter. I can’t just leave you to it.”
“Didn’t Tilly explain? Entibor and House Rosselin take care of their own; there’s no obligation on you.”
She watched his face intently as she spoke. The relief that she half-expected to see never came; instead, Metadi’s eyes darkened.
“No obligation. And no claim, I suppose.”
“No,” she said, watching him. Now his face showed no expression at all, not even the watchful but slightly amused detachment he’d presented to the world while he masqueraded as her silent bodyguard. “Nothing. Except what you choose.”
“Oh. I have a choice, then.”
“Yes.”
“Tell me about it.”
Perada was reminded, suddenly, of their first conversation in the private room at the Double Moon. Jos Metadi had been wary and unrevealing then, too, though not as rigidly self-controlled. And she had been more sure of herself then. She wished she had the black velvet mask back again; the effort of keeping her face from betraying anything made her whole body ache from the tension.
“I am the Domina of Entibor,” she said. “No child of mine will ever need anything that Entibor can’t provide. But what Entibor needs …” She let the sentence hang unfinished.
He picked it up almost at once. “What does Entibor need?”
“A strong hand in the Fleet,” she said. “And more ships than the raiders—many more.” He hadn’t expected that, she could tell; the glint of curiosity came back into his eyes. She went on. “We worked it out, Garen and I, while we were at school: what the raiders would have to do in order to win effective control over the civilized galaxy. And then we looked closer, and saw that they were doing it already.”
“Strike and then retreat,” he said. He was looking interested in spite of himself. “Never attempt open battle against a larger force than your own. Break apart the galaxy a planet at a time.”
“You’ve seen it, then. You understand.”
“Dom’na, I’ve been fighting them ever since I got my own ship. If I didn’t see it, I’d be dead by now.”
“That’s exactly what I mean!”
In her excitement, she forgot herself enough to bounce on the mattress of the bunk for emphasis. She caught herself at it, and felt her face redden. The corners of Metadi’s mouth curved upward for a moment.
She took the slight change of expression for a good sign and continued hastily, “Nobody at Central Command thinks that way. I’ve heard the reports, and I know. Even if I could find them more ships somehow, they wouldn’t understand the right way to use them.”
“And you think I might.”
“I know that you would.
He chose to ignore her last statement. “Where do you count on getting more ships from? You can’t build a fleet from scratch in less than a couple of years, even if you fill every construction dock from here to Gyffer.”
“I know,” she said. She hesitated, then decided to tell him something more of the truth. “That’s why I had to talk with Garen. With his share of the money from Tarveet Holdings, and the money belonging to House Rosselin, I think I can hire the privateers out of Innish-Kyl. Regular pay plus whatever prizes they can take. What do you say, Captain?”
Again he almost smiled and then seemed to think better of it. “I say that we’ve come back around to our talk in the Double Moon. Why should the privateers give up making their own decisions and put themselves under some chairbound fossil?”
“They shouldn’t. That’s why we need you. The privateers will come and fight for you when they won’t come for anyone else. And whether they fight for you or not, they all believe in taking the war to the enemy.”
“That’s a lot of faith to put in someone you don’t even know.”
“I told you before, I’ve seen the reports. You may not own more than one ship yourself, but you’ve been leading fleets against the raiders for two or three years now.”
He made a sharp, dismissive gesture with one hand. She would have felt discouraged, except that it was the first time he’d moved since taking up his position inside the closed door. “Believe me, Dom’na, it’s not my pretty face that brings them along. When they go with me, they come back rich if they come back at all.”
“And what if you could offer them a guaranteed profit—plus a chance of coming back rich? Would they go with you then?”
Metadi laughed. “For a bargain like that, most of them would probably sign on with the Lords of Death.”
“You understand me, then.”
“I understand why you want me to do it. But I don’t know why I should bother.” He paused and looked at her narrowly. “Unless it has to do with those choices you mentioned.”
She drew a long breath. “If you like—if you agree—I can name you Consort, and General of the Armies of Entibor.”
“You put a high price on me, don’t you?” There was an edge to his voice that she couldn’t identify. “What does all that involve, besides the obvious stuff?”
“‘General of the Armies’ is a courtesy title,” she said. “But it would give you rank, if you needed it. ‘Consort’—”
“That’s the one I want to know about.”
“I thought it might be.” She wet her lips. This was even more difficult than she had expected. Galcenian was a stupid language; it was hard to translate the formal words. “As Consort, you would be father to any children I might have, and would give me your aid and support in whatever should be necessary, until I should say otherwise.”
“‘Aid and support,’ eh?” The edge had left his voice, replaced by a note of grim amusement. “That’s a phrase for it I haven’t heard before.”
Again she felt herself blushing. “Captain, you are incorrigible.”
“Everybody needs a hobby.” He pushed away from the door, and half-turned to set his hand on the lockplate. Over his shoulder, as the panel slid open, he said, “You drive a hard bargain, Dom’na. But this time I’m going to take your deal.”
The Armsmaster to House Rosselin sat in his chambers overlooking greater An-Jemayne. So far, the city outside his workroom window had stayed calm and free of civic unrest—though the longer the interregnum stretched on, the shakier that calm became. Fortunately, he reflected, the Palace had not fixed a date on the public calendar for the new Domina’s arrival from Galcen; the populace in general remained unaware that her prolonged absence was something that nobody—except, perhaps, for the Domina herself—had intended.
Hafrey frowned slightly. It should have occurred to him that Perada Rosselin might have ideas and plans of her own. The time she had spent on Galcen had made her half an outworlder in her thinking, and less predictable on that account than Veratina had been. He himself was a flexible man, capable of changing when the situation demanded change; but not all the members of the palace staff or Central Command could say as much.
The door to his private workroom chimed in a familiar pattern, and Ser Hafrey abandoned his meditations.
“Come,” he called.
The door opened to admit the dark-haired young woman in Fleet uniform who had visited his workroom before.
“I have news,” she said. “Interesting developments at Central Command—two of the commanders from the Parezulan sector have shown up at Central
uninvited. They insist on speaking with Admiral Pallit.”
“Ah.” Hafrey allowed himself a bit of private amusement. He had dealt with Pallit before. “And how is the fleet admiral reacting to this … irregular procedure?”
“So far, he has put off meeting with them.”
“Typical,” observed Hafrey. “And the commanders—who are they?”
“The Parezulan base commander and the CO of the sector squadron: Captain-of-Frigates Galaret Lachiel and Captain-of-Corvettes Trestig Brehant.”
“Unknown quantities,” Hafrey mused aloud. “How are they taking their reception?”
“Badly,” the woman said. “Their comments verge on insubordination; they say outright that Pallit is mishandling the conflict with the Mageworlds raiders. And Captain Lachiel, at least, is a woman of good family, with palace connections.”
Hafrey shook his head. “If Pallit doesn’t meet with them soon, then, a confrontation is bound to occur—and the fleet admiral’s reaction to unexpected developments is regrettably conservative. If he feels threatened by our Parezulan friends, he is quite likely to order their arrest for mutiny under the military code—their arrest and, since we are in fact if not by declaration in a state of war, their summary execution.”
“I hope not,” said the woman. “That would be a shame.” When Ser Hafrey looked at her curiously, she said further, “Some of us at Central feel that the captains have a point. About the war with the raiders, that is.”
“You count yourself in that party?”
The woman flushed slightly. “I hold by my oaths, Armsmaster. But philosophically—yes.”
From his expression, Ser Hafrey might have been amused. “I don’t require my agents to be mindless blocks. So long as you are loyal, your philosophy is your own concern.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
“I am not anyone’s lord,” Hafrey said, perhaps more quickly than he should have. Then, more slowly, “I serve.”
“As do we all,” said the messenger in soft agreement.
“Go, then,” Hafrey said, “and find a way for me to speak in private with these insubordinate captains. But hurry; the fleet admiral’s patience is even more limited than his understanding.”
PERADA ROSSELIN: GALCEN
(GALCENIAN DATING 964 A.F.; ENTIBORAN REGNAL YEAR 28 VERATINA)
PERADA GLANCED from the packing list in her hand to the open carrybag on her bed. She had trouble believing that everything on the list would fit into the carrybag, but Zeri Delaven—who had made the list—said that it would. Mistress Delaven also said that anyone old enough to be a student at the academy was old enough to start learning how to pack a carrybag.
The “do-your-own-packing” rule wasn’t an unbendable one, at least for the younger students; Perada knew that if she messed up badly enough, one of the teachers would help her finish the work. But Elli Oldigaard had given up with her bag not even halfway full—and Perada was determined to succeed where Elli had failed.
Mamma and Dadda will be proud of me, she thought. Packing all my own clothes—and even a present for the baby.
Perada had made the mobile in art class out of cut paper and black string, after Gentlelady Otalh, the art teacher, had said that babies liked to watch bright moving objects. She slid the pieces of the mobile into a stiffened envelope and tucked it into the side pocket of the carrybag.
She hoped that little Beka would like the present. This between-terms vacation—the first time she’d been home to Entibor since coming to Mistress Delaven’s—would also be the first time she met her new baby sister. She hadn’t seen Mamma and Dadda since coming to Galcen, either, except for the picture postcubes that sometimes came in the mail.
I wonder if everybody at the house will think I talk funny, after speaking nothing but Galcenian all year long?
The door to the room slid open. She turned, expecting to see Elli or Gryl. The newcomer wasn’t one of the girls, though, or even Garen Tarveet on a surreptitious visit from the boys’ wing—it was Zeri Delaven herself. Perada felt a twinge of uneasiness. Mistress Delaven never came into the students’ rooms except, on rare occasions, to enforce discipline.
But Perada’s conscience was reasonably clear. She hadn’t fought with Elli for months, and hadn’t broken any other rules lately that she knew of. So she smiled politely at the head of the academy and said, “Good morning, Mistress Delaven. Don’t worry—I’ll be packed soon. I don’t want to miss the shuttlebus to the spaceport.”
Zeri Delaven sighed, and Perada noticed for the first time that she was frowning. “I’m afraid I have some very bad news for you, my dear.”
Perada’s faint sense of uneasiness congealed into a gelid lump somewhere under her breastbone. The sort of bad news that Mistress Delaven had to bring in person usually meant that people left the school suddenly and didn’t return—and that wasn’t fair, not when she’d finally started understanding real Galcenian and Elli wasn’t winning all the fights anymore.
“Mamma doesn’t want me to come back after the vacation is over?” she asked.
Mistress Delaven looked right at her, not away like most grownups did when they were about to say something they knew you weren’t going to like. “No, dear,” she said—and that was another thing; Zeri Delaven never called anyone “dear”—“you’ll be in school here after vacation. But I’m afraid you won’t be going home to Entibor this year.”
Perada sat down on the edge of the bed. Her knees felt wobbly. “But I have to go … I have to take my baby sister her present, the one that I made … Mamma said … .”
Her voice trailed off. Mistress Delaven was shaking her head.
“No,” said Zeri Delaven.
And in careful, painful words, she explained to Perada that Mamma and Dadda and the new baby siser—whom Perada would not ever see—were all dead. And Great-Aunt Veratina, who was Perada’s official guardian, thought that her youngest great-niece should stay at school on Galcen.
After a while Mistress Delaven stopped talking and went away. When she was gone, Perada took the bright paper mobile out of her carrybag and tore it apart, one piece at a time, snapping the thin black string so hard that it cut her fingers and made them bleed. But she didn’t cry.
X. GALCENIAN DATING 974 A.F.
ENTIBORAN REGNAL YEAR 38 VERATINA
CENTRAL COMMAND Headquarters for the Entiboran Fleet was a sprawling complex, almost a city in itself, that lay beyond the outskirts of An-Jemayne. Visiting officers’ quarters occupied an older building, dating from the early Redactionist period, full of high ceilings and tall narrow windows, with not a sliding door in the place. Galaret Lachiel had never cared for the style—she had no use for nostalgia, and little patience with those who did—but after more than a week spent waiting in those taste fully appointed rooms, she was beginning to actively loathe it.
Today, as they had every day for the past ten days, she and Trestig Brehant prepared to spend their waking hours in the long drawing room on the building’s first floor. A holovid viewer set against one wall provided entertainment of a sort; so did a draughts table and several decks of cards. Other officers came and went, but Gala and Tres held themselves apart—it wouldn’t be fair to implicate the others in what might be treason just for a few minutes of idle talk.
Gala fetched a deck of cards from the games cabinet by the western windows, shuffled, and began to deal. “Double tammani this morning, I think. An octime a point for stakes?”
“Dangerous high living,” said Brehant. “You’re going to clean me out entirely if we keep this up much longer.”
“Don’t worry.” Gala picked up her cards and studied them. “We aren’t going to be here long enough for you to go under.”
“You’ve gotten word from Pallit?”
“No. But if we don’t hear something today, I’m going to make a few comm calls.” She smiled briefly. “My family owes me a thing or two, and it’s time to start calling the favors in.”
Brehant’s eyebrows twitched
downward in concern. “That could get sticky. Politics and all.”
“I know. But we can’t wait here forever.” She started to pull the first of her discards from her hand, then stopped and laid the cards facedown on the table. At the far end of the room, the main door had swung open. A junior officer with staff insignia on his collar came up to the card table.
“Captain Lachiel, Captain Brehant,” he said. “If you would come with me—”
Finally, Gala thought. Tres had laid down his cards as well; she put them all back into the box without looking at the hands she had dealt. As she worked, she said to the junior officer, “Are you taking us to talk with Admiral Pallit?”
The young man shook his head in what looked like genuine ignorance. “Captain-of-Frigates, I don’t know.”
Gala looked at Tres. The junior captain gave an almost imperceptible shrug. She turned back to the messenger.
“Let me put these cards back in the cabinet and we’ll be right with you.”
A hovercar waited at the edge of the lawn outside the visiting officers’ quarters. Gala recognized the Palace arms on the passenger door. A quick glance over at Tres showed that he’d seen the blue-and-silver blazoning as well.
Whoever wants to see us, it isn’t the fleet admiral. She slid into the rear seat of the hovercar. Tres followed. The messenger got into the driver’s seat, and the vehicle slid into motion. Gala leaned back against the seat cushions and tried to relax. I knew I was going to wind up playing politics. But I hadn’t expected the politicians to find me first.
The hovercar sped through the Headquarters complex and out past the guards at the main gate. Some time later, after a silent and uneasy ride first through the countryside and then through the crowded thoroughfares of An-Jemayne, they emerged from a tangle of narrow streets into a vast open area paved in white stone and set about with marble statuary. On the far side of the plaza rose a massive structure, also of marble, with many glittering windows: the Palace Major of the Ruling House of Entibor. Gala had been inside the palace walls once in her life, at the obligatory court presentation after her commissioning, and recalled almost nothing of the experience, except that her brand-new uniform had scratched the back of her neck all during the ceremony.
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