The door slid open. The hall outside was full of Fleet uniforms. The man who came into the room, though, wasn’t Fleet at all—not even an officer in mufti. His clothes were too gaudy, his hair too untrimmed, and his whole bearing too casual. But he carried a sidearm like a man accustomed; and Gala wondered, after taking in the Ogre Mark VI heavy-duty blaster, if the man had come on a specialized errand for the Minster of Internal Security.
Too many witnesses, she told herself. Work like that gets done privately. And besides—she looked again at the crowd of other faces, and recognized one that she had seen for the first time only that morning—the armsmaster is with him.
The man with the blaster was saying something in slow, badly accented Entiboran. “You. Who is senior here?”
“We’re both under arrest,” Gala said, “so I suppose neither one of us has any rank at the moment. But until this morning, I was senior.”
Ser Hafrey spoke rapidly in an undertone—translating, Gala supposed. The man with the blaster listened, sharp hazel eyes fixed on Gala and Brehant. When Hafrey was done, the man spoke again, this time rapping out a question in a language Gala didn’t recognize.
Again the armsmaster translated. “Tell me quickly: what have you done to take the war to the Mages?”
Gala heard Brehant’s quick intake of breath, but she didn’t dare turn around. The man with the blaster had chosen to emphasize Ser Hafrey’s translation by raising the weapon and aiming it at her head. She looked at the hard line of his mouth and knew that he wasn’t one of those people who would hesitate to fire.
Hell with it. Neither am I. He can have the truth, and if he doesn’t like it he can choke on it.
“Until this morning,” she said, “the two of us were working on getting ships for an expedition—and trying to find out whether Central has any idea about the location of the Mage home worlds.”
On a hunch, she’d answered the man’s question this time in rusty schoolgirl Galcenian. The Mark VI blaster was a free-spacer’s weapon, and Standard Galcenian was the closest thing to a common tongue that you could find on the commercial spacelanes. The hunch paid off. The man’s face broke into a wide grin and he slid the blaster back into its holster.
“Finally,” he said. His Galcenian, she noted, was considerably better than her own. “I’m Jos Metadi, General of the Armies of Entibor, and you’re the fleet admiral.”
“Ah … no, sir. I’m Captain-of-Frigates Galaret Lachiel, commander of Fleet operations in the Parezulan sector.”
“Not anymore. Admiral Pallit decided to take an early retirement, and you’ve been promoted to fill his position. I want your plan of operations on my desk by local noon tomorrow.”
What is it the old grannies say—“be careful what you ask for; somebody may give it to you”?
“Yes, sir,” Gala said.
“Good,” said Metadi.
He turned and strode out, with Ser Hafrey at his heels. The crowd of Fleet personnel parted to let him pass. Soon there was nobody left in the room except for the two original occupants. Gala took a deep breath.
“All right,” she said to Brehant. “For my first official act, I pardon you and make you my second-in-command. Come on.”
Tres was staring at the open door. “Where do we go?”
“My new office,” Gala said. “Somewhere on the top floor. If we’re want to have an OpPlan by tomorrow, we’re going to be working all night.”
PERADA ROSSELIN: GALCEN
(GALCENIAN DATING 967 A.F.; ENTIBORAN REGNAL YEAR 31 VERATINA)
PERADA STUFFED the last pullover tunic into her carrybag and sealed the bag shut. Then she shoved the carrybag underneath her bed. Nobody was going to expect her to be ready for hours and hours, not when she was supposed to be going home this time with Zusala Reeth. Zusala had never in her life finished packing on time, and she wasn’t going to change because a friend was coming along with her.
After four years at Zeri Delaven’s academy on Galcen, Perada had grown accustomed to spending the holidays with one schoolmate or another. There was always somebody, she had discovered, whose parents or guardians liked the idea of saying later that one of the Rosselins of Entibor had been their houseguest for Midsummer or Winterend. She’d even stayed once with Elli Oldigaard, though neither she nor Elli had enjoyed it much; she suspected that the whole thing had been arranged by the grown-ups for their own reasons.
“Politics,” she said aloud.
Everything grown-ups did was politics of one kind or another—Perada had figured that out as soon as she learned the word in Gentlesir Carden’s third-year history class. It was politics that kept her stuck on Galcen during the long holidays, when all the other off-planet students got to go home, and it was politics that kept her from staying very often with schoolmates that she actually liked.
Some of them, like redheaded Vixy Dahl from Suivi Point, where everybody lived under big pressurized domes and never had summer or winter at all, weren’t “suitable” enough. Vixy had asked, more than once, and Perada had sent pleading messages home to Entibor begging to be allowed, but the result had always been the same. And some others never asked, like S‘yeze Chastyn, who was Perada’s best friend on the girls’ side of the school. S’yeze was a scholarship student, Zeri Delaven had explained to Perada one day in private, and her family couldn’t afford a Rosselin of Entibor for a houseguest.
Perada hadn’t thought much of the reason at the time—a Rosselin of Entibor didn’t eat any more food than anybody else—but most grown-up reasons didn’t make sense if you looked at them too hard anyway. So she spent her holidays with people like Elli and Zusala and Gryl, and wished, sometimes, that she wasn’t a Rosselin of Entibor at all.
That wasn’t a thing that she could change, though, and she didn’t let herself think about it too much. Now, with the carrybag tucked away under her bed, she decided to go downstairs and see if Garen Tarveet had finished packing yet.
She crossed the room and reached out to brush her hand across the lockplate on the door. The door opened before she could touch it, and Zeri Delaven stood in the hall outside.
Perada took a step back. The last time Mistress Delaven had come to her room before holidays started … she didn’t want to think about that, either.
“I’m all packed,” she said. Her voice sounded faint and croaky, like something that belonged to one of the prickly brown dust-crickets in the Academy garden. “If Zusula’s ready—”
Mistress Delaven shook her head. “I’m afraid there’s been a change of plans.”
“Oh.” Perada took another step backward, and another. The edge of her bed hit the back of her knees, and she sat down hard on the firm mattress. “What—”
Zeri Delaven’s thin mouth turned upward for a moment in a not-unkindly smile. “It’s all right, child. Nothing bad has happened this time.”
Perada blinked her eyes hard to keep from crying for no reason. “Then why aren’t I going home with Zusala?”
“Because you’ll be spending the long holiday on Entibor this year,” Zeri Delaven replied. “Your Great-Aunt Veratina has named you heir to the Iron Crown, and the Armsmaster of House Rosselin has come to take you back to An-Jemayne for. your formal investiture as Domina-in-Waiting.”
XI. GALCENIAN DATING 974 A.F.
ENTIBORAN REGNAL YEAR 38 VERATINA/1 PERADA
THE STATIS-PRESERVED body of Veratina Rosselin had lain in state on the unlit pyre in the Grand Plaza since late afternoon. Ranks of Domestic Security personnel stood about the perimeter of the immense open area, keeping back the local citizens, the curious foreigners, and the holovid news crews from all over Entibor. A light wind stirred the petals on the funeral garlands draped across the pyre: fragrant flowers, relics of an era when not even a Domina of Entibor could rely on a statis field to keep away the final indignity of fleshly decay.
As soon as full darkness fell, the bronze doors of the Palace Major swung open and a double line of palace servants bearing torches filed down the
marble steps into the open square. The smoky orange flame of the torches reflected off the darkened windows of the palace and cast disturbing shadows on the statues of long-dead heroes. When all the torchbearers were in place, a small figure in the white garments of mourning emerged from the palace and descended the steps at a stately pace, a taller, dark-clad figure walking behind her.
“The Domina Perada,” murmured Gentlesir Festen Aringher from his place among the honored outworld guests. He spoke for the benefit of his companion Mistress Vasari, but also for a palm-sized holorecoder that had escaped the attention of Domestic Security. “And her Consort, General of the Armies Jos Metadi, late of Gyffer by way of Innish-Kyl.”
The Domina stepped up to the funeral pyre and reached down into the blanket of garlands. The night breeze stiffened, blowing the flames of the torches sideways against the dark as she lifted the Iron Crown from Veratina’s body and raised the dark tiara of twisted metal up into the firelight. The watching crowd fell silent.
A moment longer Perada held up the Iron Crown where everyone could see it. Then she lowered it onto her own head, and a cheer rose up that echoed off the palace walls.
“Metadi’s come a long way in a short time,” Mistress Vasari observed under cover of the noise. From experience, she pitched her voice to escape the holorecoder’s audio pickup. “Consort and General, no less. I wonder what the lady’s getting from him besides the obvious?”
“I have my theories,” Aringher said. “Handsome young men are two for a credit on any planet you care to name, but successful privateers are a much rarer commodity.”
He waved a hand at Vasari for silence as the cheering died, and spoke again for the benefit of the holorecorder. “The Domina Perada has just formally assumed the Iron Crown of Entibor. We’ll be hearing the funeral elegies for Veratina shortly; after that, the lights will go on again in the Palace Major, where tables are laid for the formal reception that will mark the official beginning of Perada Rosselin’s reign.”
In the center of the square, one of the torchbearers stepped forward. A profound quiet descended over the crowd as Perada took the flambeau and touched it to the base of the flower-draped pyre. At first nothing happened; then there was a sound of rushing air as the oil-soaked wood ignited in a splash of orange-and-yellow flame. The delicate garlands shriveled in an instant, and the Grand Plaza began to fill with the mingled odors of ceremonial incense and burning flesh.
“‘Take the war to the Mages,’ the man said.” Gala pressed her fingers against her forehead and sighed. Behind her, on the broad desk that had been Admiral Pallit’s, the comp screen continued playing its simulation unheeded. “Maybe I should have kept my mouth shut and let them court-martial me instead.”
“It could be worse,” Brehant said. “You could be at the Domina’s reception with all the rest of the brass.”
“I could be snug in my own bunk, too,” she told him. “If I knew where that was. Something tells me fleet admirals don’t sleep in the visiting officers’ quarters.”
She turned back to the simulation and frowned. “This isn’t telling us anything we didn’t know already. We need to take and hold the Mageworlds before we can end the war, and we need the cooperation of at least one other space fleet before we can even stop losing. Two or more fleets if we’re serious.”
“Talk about things we don’t have and can’t get.”
Gala switched off the simulation. “I’ll be saying as much in the OpPlan when I deliver it.” She picked up her stylus and made a check mark on her datapad. “That’s one more document I can add to the stack I’ve got for our newly minted General. My letter of resignation. I can join Pallit in early retirement.”
“Put the letter of resignation on the bottom of the pile,” Tres advised. “And don’t date it.”
“All right,” Gala said, assembling her documents. “No date. But it goes in. Saves everyone concerned some time and trouble if they’ve got it on file.”
She slipped the collection of documents into a courier pack and summoned a messenger. “Deliver this to the office of the General of the Armies.”
“What, no personal delivery?” Brehant said after the courier had departed.
“No—we’re the high command, not a, bunch of errand-runners. Besides, he might think we don’t have enough to do.”
“And do we?”
“You know it,” she said. “Now that we’ve got our wish list finished, we need to review personnel records for the whole Fleet. I want to know who’s loyal to whom, and why. And after that, I want you to gen up messages to my opposite numbers in all the fleets that have suffered Mage raids, plus the commanders of all the fleets that might someday suffer Mage raids, plus the commanders of any other fleets you think could be useful.”
“Why not the Mages, too?”
“If I knew their address,” said Gala, “I might.”
Tres shook his head and made a note on his own datapad. “Notes to commanders. Got it. What then?”
“We wait for responses. Anybody who comes up friendly or even neutral gets offered everything we have on the location, capability, and intentions of the Mageworld raiders.”
“No request to reciprocate?”
“No.”
“You aren’t even going to ask permission first?”
“It’s in the OpPlan,” Gala said. “Annex L. If the General doesn’t like it, that’s what the letter of resignation is for.”
She pushed back her chair and stood up. “Oh, and one more thing: the officers who resigned or retired this morning while General Metadi was making his tour of headquarters. I want citations awarding them all the Legion of Merit.”
“You’re not serious.”
“Serious as radiation burns,” she assured him. “So get to work on it. In the meantime, if you want me, I’ll be in my quarters—assuming I can find them.”
On the other side of An-Jemayne, two men sat at a table in an outdoor cafe. The establishment’s usual patrons were absent—watching the old Domina’s public burning on their home holosets, most likely—and with the exception of a surly waiter and an even surlier cook, the pair had the place to themselves. They nursed their cha’a and watched night-flying insects blunder in and out of the glow of the lanterns. Finally one of them looked at his chronometer and said, “It’s time.”
They abandoned their table, leaving an octime tip, and wandered over to the café’s outside wall, where someone had pasted up a large advertising poster full of sporting announcements. The first man looked at the calendar block for the twenty-third of the month.
“Heavy-grav wrestling in the Old Arena,” he commented. Next to the announcement for the twenty-third was a tiny mark like an accidental smudge of ink. “We don’t want to miss that.”
“No,” said the other.
They left the café and went on foot through the deserted streets of the working-class district, into an area of more prosperous homes. At the third house from the corner on a certain street, they went up the front walk. The first man palmed the lockplate beside the door.
The door slid open. The two men passed through the vestibule into a sitting room full of overstuffed furniture done in glossy fabrics: An out-of-season flame display flickered on the artificial hearth, casting its light on the man who sat in an armchair nearby.
“Were you followed?” he asked.
“No,” said the man who had palmed the lockplate.
“Can you swear to it?”
The other newcomer frowned. “Do we have to go through this stuff every time?” he complained. “Nobody followed us. Nobody ever does.”
“It’s necessary,” said the man in the armchair. He stood and led the way toward the back of the house, through an unused kitchen into a small room that might once have been a pantry. Now it was bare except for a row of pegs along one wall. Most of the pegs were empty, but long black robes hung from three of them, along with featureless black masks of molded plastic.
The three men moved quickly, shedd
ing their street clothes and putting on the masks and the hooded robes. Black staves, hidden until now, hung from leather cords on the pegs where the robes had been: heavy rods of ironwood or ebony, each half again as long as a man’s forearm. The men took these down also and slipped them underneath their belts.
When they were done, they went back out through the deserted kitchen to another doorway, this one opening onto a short flight of steps. The steps led down to a basement chamber hung on all sides with heavy curtains of black cloth. Floor and ceiling were also dead black, with the exception of a white circle some eight feet across painted on the floor in the center of the room. A thick candle on an iron stand cast its light on the figures who knelt around the circle’s perimeter.
The leader spoke. “Tonight the young Domina takes the Iron Crown. Her luck is strong: already she dispels the fear that she might be another like Veratina, and she has named as her Consort one of our greatest enemies. We have to break her luck, and break it soon. But first—”
He paused and looked around the group. The flame of the candle was reflected in the shiny black of his mask as he swung his head to look at each one of the others in turn.
“First,” he said again, “I have someone to show you.”
The leader pulled aside one of the black curtains. It concealed an alcove that might once have held laundry equipment. Reaching down, he dragged out a bound and bleeding form.
“This man,” he said, “works for the Minister of Internal Security. I found him spying on this house. I suppose he wanted to see what we do here. What do you say—shall we gratify his curiosity?”
“Damned sorcerers!” the prisoner choked out.
“Not really,” the leader said, “but you can call us that if it makes you happy. It won’t matter for long.” He turned back to the others. “To break the Domina’s luck will require all of our energy, and more: an effort this great requires a life. I stand ready in the Circle; is there anyone who will match me?”
The Gathering Flame Page 18