She had a vague memory of Ferrda showing them to the guest wing of his big, rambling house—lots of porches and covered walkways and rooms that seemed half open to the outside air—and telling them that they could den up with him for as long as they needed to. She didn’t know enough about the length of Maraghai’s days and nights to judge how long she’d slept.
Long enough, I think. We need to go back home and make certain everything’s in order there. There’ll be time to talk ships and guns with these people after the papers are signed.
And after we bring back the kid.
Gala flopped over and buried her head in the pillow with a groan. She’d forgotten, for a moment, about Metadi’s bargain.
Her Dignity isn’t going to like it one little bit.
She groaned again, then pushed herself out of bed and began dressing. Her carrybag had made it into the bedroom somehow; maybe she’d carried it in herself after all the drinking and singing had faded into the grey of early morning. At least she had a clean uniform to put on. She wanted a turn under the sonics to shake the sweat out of her pores and the sleep-fuzz out of her brain, but she didn’t think she was likely to get one. The Selvaurs acted like people who thought it was more fun to stand underneath a freezing waterfall.
Worse than that, she thought as she struggled to pull on her boots. They act like people who’d build a freezing waterfall if the place they lived in didn’t come by one naturally.
She sealed the fasteners on her tunic and ran a brush through her hair. Then—because the habit of years remained strong—she made up the long, wide bed and put her wrinkled clothes away in her carrybag before pushing open the door and stepping out onto the wide veranda.
The pungent, bitter aroma of fresh-brewed cha’a told her that someone else was awake. She let the smell guide her along the veranda and down a covered walkway to an open-sided dining shelter—little more than a shingled roof over a table and benches. A self-powered galley urn stood on the table, surrounded by empty mugs and flanked by platters of fruit and cold meat. Warhammer’s two gunners were already there, and so was Errec Ransome; she didn’t see Ferrda or Jos Metadi.
Gala filled a mug with cha’a and drank it without speaking while she waited for the stimulating effect of the drink to click in. She eyed the breakfast table suspiciously, but the smoked sausages and slices of cured meat lay quiet and behaved with proper circumspection.
She poured more cha’a into her empty mug. “Where’s the General this morning?
Tillijen and Nannla looked at each other and then at Errec Ransome. The Ilarnan shrugged. “With Ferrda, I think. Doing sworn-brotherhood stuff.”
Gala reached for a slice of the cold meat, then thought better of it and opted for a segment of pink-fleshed melon instead. The sweet, slightly acid taste washed away the lingering residue of booze and soberups. She ate it all, then took a second piece and nibbled on it between sips of cha’a.
“Does it have to do with that deal of his?” she asked.
“I think so,” Ransome said. “Getting him tied in to all Ferrda’s connections and obligations, making him family—Selvaurs are very concerned about family.”
“So are Entiborans,” said Gala. “Unfortunately.”
Tillijen nodded. “You’ve got that right.”
Nannla picked up a blue ovoid from the fruit tray and began peeling the skin away in strips. The pulp inside was bright yellow-green.
“Tell me something,” she said. Her manner was casual, but her voice and eyes were not. “How much trouble is Jos going to get into over this?”
“A lot,” said Tillijen.
“Maybe,” said Gala. “We’re dealing with a placeholder, not the heir. Nothing says treaties can’t be made that way.”
“By people who have the right. Jos doesn’t.”
“We’ll be fine as long as Perada doesn’t repudiate the alliance,” Gala said. “Or name a new Consort. Metadi’s the one who lit a fire under Central Command when nobody else could; if she ditches him now, we’re dead meat.”
“Hell with the alliance,” Nannla cut in. “What about Jos? He’s too sentimental for his own good anyway—if Her Dignity throws him out, it’s going to take somebody else a long time to patch him back together again.”
In the upstairs sitting room of the Orgilan Guesthouse, Gentlesir Vannell Oldigaard had at last worked his way around to talking business. Perada hadn’t learned yet whether the envoy was a Galcenian councillor himself, or simply authorized to speak in the Council’s name—not that it mattered, since any promises he made beyond his original instructions would have to be ratified in Council later. She wondered if Oldigaard knew she realized as much, and decided that he didn’t.
“The new Domina’s just a schoolgirl,” somebody probably told him. “Make all the concessions you have to; we can always repudiate them later.” It’s a good thing this schoolgirl stayed awake in Gentlesir Carden’s history class.
“It is the Council’s belief,” Oldigaard was saying, “that a joint effort to drive the raiders from those areas of space claimed by us and by our trading partners would best be carried out under a unified command, with the backing of a unified political unit. To this end, we believe that it would be best for Entibor to place its fleet under—”
The tramping of heavy boots drowned out the rest of the sentence. Perada heard the voice of the Fleet officer outside the door raised briefly in futile expostulation. Then the door of the sitting room slid open and Nivome do’Evaan came stalking in with half a dozen Internal Security guards at his back.
“Arrest them,” he said to the guards. “Him, him, him”—pointing as he spoke—“him, and him.”
The guards pushed into the room and started putting binders on everybody insight—even Master Guislen. Nivome turned to Perada. “Gentlelady, will you accompany me?”
She made no move to rise. “Call your people off. This is a private conference and under my protection.”
“As an incognita, you have no protection to give. Let me speak with you privately.”
“Very well,” Perada said. She stood up. “In the meantime, treat these others with respect.”
She headed for the door. Nivome nodded to the guards in a “you heard the lady” gesture, and followed her out into the hall. The Fleet officer who’d stood guard at the doorway was gone—Perada hoped that the guards hadn’t arrested him, too, in an excess of patriotic enthusiasm—and the corridor was empty. She walked a little farther, to make sure of being out of the Galcenians’ earshot, and turned to face the Minister of Internal Security.
“Gentlesir Nivome,” she said, and took off the mask. “You had something to say to me?”
“Do I speak to the Domina?”
“For simplicity’s sake—yes.”
“Then you should know, Your Dignity, that the Palace Major has come under assault.”
The smoke, she thought. It wasn’t just the hovercar.
“Who did it? Was it—” She remembered the reception after Veratina’s burning, and the hovercar that had come crashing through the windows with its fearful cargo. “—was it the Mages?”
“No, Your Dignity, it was not.”
“Then who?”
“The members of the group appear to comprise a number of officers from your military forces.” He glanced back at the room they had left. “And the Galcenians have chosen today to start new machinations of their own. The coincidence has not escaped me.”
She drew a deep breath. Her hands were shaking; she couldn’t tell if it was from anger or from fear. “And because of this … this coincidence … you decided to break into my private negotiations with an extraplanetary ambassador? Gentlesir Nivome, I have entrusted the security of my palace and my government to you. I do not, however, recall appointing you to my diplomatic staff.”
Nivome bowed his head briefly, accepting the rebuke. “Your Dignity, may I speak plainly?”
“I thought you had been.” She sighed. “Oh, go ahead.”
; “Thank you, Your Dignity. Bear with me, then. Your policies have not met with universal approval among the merchants and the aristocracy. To be frank, they suspect you of harboring Centrist leanings.”
“Because I tell them we can’t defeat the Mages alone any more than Galcen can, or Khesat, or Maraghai? That’s not Centrism, that’s the truth.”
“And it’s thinking so that makes you a Centrist,” Nivome said. “At least, to certain of your subjects. And as long as you have no direct heir, those subjects will find excuses to plot against you. Your only guarantee of safety—”
“—is to provide myself with a daughter. Rest assured, I shall endeavor to do so.”
“Your Dignity,” he said, “you are, at this moment, both nongravid and fertile. With all respect, the carpet on the floor here is quite soft.”
She felt an angry rush of blood to her cheeks. “If you want to be gene-sire to the Domina-in-Waiting, you have strange ideas about the best way to advance your cause.”
This time he did not back down, but met her eyes squarely. “I am, as you have reason to know, fertile. Is your Consort? If so, he has shown little evidence.”
“And you produce males!” Perada snapped back. “Don’t deny it—just last month, Karil Estisk registered you as gene-sire to her son. No. I will not risk it.”
“Then find someone more to your liking, only do not delay.”
Perada drew a deep breath. Sometime during the argument her hands had clenched into fists, and she could feel the fingernails digging into her palms like knives. She forced her fingers to uncurl, then spoke to the Interior Minister with all the calm civility she could muster.
“The subject, Gentlesir Nivome, is closed. As for the attack on the Palace Major—”
“Your Dignity need not concern yourself. I took the matter in hand before proceeding here.”
“In that case,” she said, “we have nothing more to discuss.”
She put on the velvet mask, then stepped past the Minister of Internal Security and went back to the sitting room. Between the Galcenians, the guards, and her own entourage, the elegant chamber had become uncomfortably crowded.
“Gentles,” she said, “I apologize on the Domina’s behalf for any inconvenience you may have suffered. Gentlesir Nivome do’Evaan of Rolny is the Domina’s Minister of Internal Security, and his zeal for her service sometimes outweighs his wisdom.”
She paused for a moment, and watched as the guards unfastened the binders with which they had confined Ser Hafrey and the others. Garen was pale with suppressed indignation, and kept rubbing his wrists as if he had bruised them. When all the men were free, she continued.
“The Domina has further informed me that henceforth the seat of government and the official residence of the Ruling House shall be the Summer Palace. Gentlesir Nivome will see to your transportation.”
Oldigaard looked flustered. “Your Dign—Gentlelady Wherret, this is most irregular. I’ll need to contact my ship.”
“Your message will be carried,” Nivome said. “In the meantime, since the Domina has ordered it—” He paused and looked at Perada. “—transport awaits.”
“Excellent,” she said. She glanced over at Garen. “Lord Meteun—please continue your discussion with Ambassador Oldigaard during the journey.”
Oldigaard harrumphed. “Strictly speaking, Gentlelady, I’m not yet the ambassador, since I haven’t presented my credentials.”
“You can present them at the Summer Palace,” she said. “I’m sure Her Dignity will forgive any small irregularities.”
Captain-of-Corvettes Graene watched the status board on the bridge of her ship and tried not to make matters worse by drumming her fingers on the edge of the comp console. Gladheart and Bright Prospect had escorted the new ambassador’s vessel safely dirtside, but the other Galcenian ships were still out there: numerous, uninvited, and armed.
She hoped that the courier she’d sent out looking for Trestig Brehant found him before too long. She wasn’t senior enough to handle a sensitive development like this, and she didn’t like having to do it. Even less did she like the fact that nobody at Central had assumed command as soon as she made her report.
What’s the problem? Did everybody down there get paralysis of the brain as soon as the General and the fleet admiral had to leave the system?
The status board blinked into life. She leaned over the comp-console officer’s shoulder to interpret the signals, and swore under her breath. More dropouts, coming fast and thick—“Somebody must love me. Whoever those guys are, they aren’t us and they aren’t Galcenian either.”
“I’ll tell you who they are,” said the comp-console officer. “I saw ID signatures like that once before, off Parezul. Those are Mages.”
Graene straightened her shoulders. She wasn’t senior enough to handle a development like this one, either, but it looked like she was stuck with it. She forced a deliberate lightness into her voice.
“Galcenians at our back. Mages in system space. Who invited all these tacky people?” As soon as the burst of nervous laughter from the crew had died, she continued. “Report to Central, then get me an intercept course on those dropouts.”
She turned to the crewmember on comms. “Make a signal to the Fleet. ‘Mage ships entering the system. Attack and report.’ Send to all units, inserting the coordinates and all other data we have.”
“What about the Galcenians?” the comp-console officer inquired.
“We’ll send them a thank-you note when this is over. It’s because of them that we’re as ready as we are—if they hadn’t shown up looking big, bad, and dangerous, we’d still be scattered all over local space.”
Graene frowned. Having the fast, heavily armed Galcenians frighten the Home Fleet into readiness was a good thing; having them available to throw against the incoming Mages would be even better. She wished she had the authority … .
“Patch me through to Central and ask—no.”
Central had been sitting on its collective hands ever since this mess started. Once the Mageships made contact, she couldn’t afford to wait while crucial messages lay unattended on somebody’s desk. Better to explain at her court-martial why it was that she’d bypassed Central than how she’d managed to lose the battle. She started over.
“Inform Central of the situation. Then get me the senior Galcenian commander. Tell him the Entiboran commander desires a face-to-face conference on the subject of unified command.”
JOS METADI: SAPNE
(GALCENIAN DATING 966 A.F.; ENTIBORAN REGNAL YEAR 30 VERATINA)
THE PURSER was the last one off Meritorious Reward. He turned at the sealed hatch, and, with the help of two of the junior cargo clerks, put a stencil across the metal: THIS SHIP IS NOT TO BE CONSIDERED ABANDONED PROPERTY, SALVAGE, OR WRECK. FORWARD ALL MONIES DUE FOR CARGO TO ACCOUNT 4816576, MERCHANTS’ COOPERATIVE CREDIT UNION, SUIVI POINT, IN NAME OF FT WANDERING STAR. LENAR COVAIN, CAPTAIN, ACTING, MERITORIOUS REWARD; FOR, SMYTT AND TRUBRUK, OWNERS.
“Right, then,” he said. “That’s the last paperwork I’ll do on the Merry, I think. Let’s go.”
The little party—less than a third of the Merry’s original muster roll, counting those on stretchers—made their way across the field to where Wandering Star stood on her landing legs under the crisp sky. As Jos walked across the field, he saw drifts of the red sand around the legs and fins of other ships, and, beside one ship with an open ramp, a half-fleshed skeleton facedown on the hardpack.
A woman, black hair streaked with grey pulled back from her face, met them at the top of Wandering Star’s ramp. “Captain Covain?” she said, her outplanets accent making the vowels sound twice as long as they should. “I am Captain Maert. Please to come aboard, you and yours.”
Maert’s clothing was far more informal than anything worn by the party from Meritorious Reward. Rather than the customary merchanter’s gear of unicolored coveralls with a ship’s emblem on the sleeve, she wore a velvet waistcoat, a spidersilk shirt, and a scarlet
cummerbund over trousers tucked into high boots. Jos had seen her kind around the ports—hard drinking, free spending—the small independents who ran fast, worked armed, and died young.
“I think we should be leaving soon.” she said, her sibilants drawn out into long hisses by the unfamiliar accent. She led the party forward through work-scarred passageways to a vaguely circular common room—mess hall, recreation area, and overflow bunk space all in one, with a miniature galley in a closet-sized nook off to the side.
“Do you have acceleration pads for everyone?” Covain asked.
“No, but we do our best, eh? Sick men get pads. Those with no pads, stand against aft bulkheads and hold on tight. Where is your pilot?”
“Here,” Covain said, indicating the stretcher with Jos standing beside it.
“Him? Can he fly?”
“Not the sick one. The boy.”
“Aye. Well, go you both forward. I see you there soon.”
Jos went forward, strapping the master pilot into one seat behind the forward windows and himself into the other. He looked at the command console. Someone had used red plas-tape to relabel all the controls in a script he couldn’t recognize, but the layout looked standard, if old-fashioned, and the basic functions—throttle, course, turn—were plain. He picked up the clipboard with the launch checklist he had carried over from the Merry and began running it down.
“Rated/certified pilot in command seat, check,” he said, looking to his left, where the master pilot lay strapped, eyes squeezed shut, lips moving in a constant, soundless muttering. Jos went down the list. “Engines on-line. Engineering reports ready to reply to all orders. Check.”
Captain Maert walked into the bridge, and began strapping herself into the remaining seat. “Are you ready?” she asked.
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