“I daresay we’ll ride out the lift-off on the couches in the common room,” Aringher said. “Or perhaps crew berthing. At an impromptu party such as this, seating arrangements are of necessity made on an informal basis. In any case, Your Dignity, you needn’t worry. We can take care of ourselves.”
But I’m the Domina, she thought, as the door of the captain’s cabin slid shut again behind the Galcenian Ambassador. If I don’t have my people to take care of, what reason do I have for still being alive?
“All hands, stand by for liftoff. Stand by.”
The announcement came over the shipboard speaker in the captain’s cabin. Perada recognized Jos’s voice, but she didn’t feel a welling of renewed emotion at the sound. She’d rather expected that she would—when he had first appeared out of the smoke on the landing field, then her heart had clenched within her. Instead, now, there was nothing, only a numbness where feeling should have been. She wondered a bit about that.
The nose of the ship came up, and in the same moment, as part of the motion, the press of inertia shoved her down into the couch. It was a hard, fast launch, the gees more than she ever remembered experiencing, but this time there was no exhilaration to it. Instead there was only the relentless pressure, and a heaviness in her mind like a cold, numbing fog.
I have to decide, she thought, as the pressure shoved her deeper and deeper into the padded couch. The child inside her kicked and squirmed in furious protest against the constraints of the safety webbing—a reminder that someone, at least, still needed help that she could give. When this is over, I won’t be the Domina of Entibor any longer.
I have to decide if I’m going to be anything at all.
Warhammer sped along the hyperspace arc to Galcen, safely out of reach of Mage warships and the firestorms of a dying planet. Jos Metadi set the cockpit controls on autopilot and headed for his cabin. Nannla and Tilly had already abandoned the gun bubbles and headed off together for a reunion in number-one crew berthing; Jos decided that he envied them. ’Rada had seemed glad enough to see him when they met on the landing field, but under the circumstances, she would probably have welcomed anybody who showed up with a working starship.
He started to palm the lockplate, then changed his mind and hit the buzzer first. Virtue, or at any rate courtesy, had its reward—he heard a muffled “Come in” and the door slid open. He entered, and the panel slid shut after him.
Perada was sitting up on the edge of the acceleration couch. She didn’t look well—her face was too thin, and her skin was too pale under its coating of grit and wind-borne ash. She sat awkwardly, as though the bulge in her abdomen belonged to somebody else altogether.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“Yes.” She gave a weak laugh. “But please—don’t ever let me ride through a lift-off when I’m this far along again. No matter how much I say I want to do it.”
“I won’t,” he said. He nodded toward her swollen belly. “How long before …”
“Soon. But not right away, I hope.”
“We’ll be on Galcen in a few days.”
“Good. I like Galcen.” She sounded tired; her brief humor of a moment ago had faded. “I used to have friends there. Maybe I can stay with them until I can think of what I ought to do.”
“What do you mean?”
She shrugged. “I trained all my life to be Domina of Entibor, and I don’t really know what else I’m good for. Maybe I ought to put up a sign and offer private lessons in folksinging and galactic politics.”
“You could do that,” he said. He took a deep breath. “Or you could marry me and stick around Warhammer for a while.”
“Marry you?” She stared; her blue eyes looked even bigger than usual without the braids to frame her face. “But you told me you weren’t … that you didn’t want to … that you weren’t going to do that with me anymore.”
“I told you a lot of things,” he said. “Most of them were pretty stupid. And I don’t believe in being stupid twice.”
“I’ve never been married,” she said. “I don’t even know where I’d go to sign the papers. Or whatever it is people do.”
“They share bread and wine in front of witnesses,” he said. “On Gyffer, anyhow. The paperwork is optional.”
“That sounds nice. Could we do it that way, do you think?”
“Right now, if you want. Tilly and Nannla can witness … what do you say?”
“Yes.”
Festen Aringher considered himself, if nothing else, a philosopher. So it was with an air of philosophical detachment that he agreed to preside over the wedding of Josteddr Metadi, citizen of Gyffer, and Perada Rosselin, not currently a citizen of anywhere. He’d never performed a marriage, but he supposed that it was one of the things that an ambassador from Galcen had the power to do.
“I suppose,” he remarked to no one in particular, as the crew decorated the common room of Warhammer, “that I could declare this to be the first act of the new Republic.”
The thought struck him as amusing, and he smiled.
“How are we doing this?” called a female voice from the galley.
“Gyfferan-style, I guess,” replied Tillijen the armsmaster, who was wiping down the mess table with a handkerchief she’d pulled from her sleeve. “Dominas don’t marry, so there isn’t any rite on Entibor.”
“How do they do it on Gyffer?”
“I spent my life avoiding finding out that sort of thing. Don’t ask me.”
Jos Metadi came into the common room from the engineering spaces as she spoke. “How we do it on Gyffer,” he said, “it’s bread and wine, and we pour wine for each other, and break bread for each other, and then say that we’re married. That’s how it’s done.”
“Bread and wine?” Nannla said. “Jos, Cap’n, we don’t have either, far as I know.”
“Philosophically,” Aringher said, “it’s the symbolism, not the actual items. Unless you wouldn’t feel married without the real things, of course.”
“Wouldn’t know how married feels,” Metadi told him. “So I suppose that part doesn’t matter.”
Tilly dived back into the galley and emerged with a packet of compressed ready-to-eat meatmeal and a brick of dry biscuit. “This is what we’ve got. Lots of both, but not much variety.”
“The biscuit,” Metadi said. “It’s closer.”
“Wait a minute,” Nannla said. She ducked out of the room. In a moment she was back with a bottle wrapped in tissue. “I got this, last port call in Innish-Kyl,” she said.
“Firewater? You expect anyone to drink that and be good for anything afterward?” Tilly asked.
“It’s good enough, and we’re honored,” Aringher said. “I think everybody’s ready. Shall we assemble everyone?”
“Let’s do it.”
The members of Warhammer’s temporary crew—the Entiboran Fleet ensign and young Wrann the Selvaur from Maraghai—joined the others in the common room. A moment or so later, the door of the captain’s cabin opened and Perada came out. She was wearing a borrowed night-robe that clearly belonged to somebody much taller; belted high under her breasts, it skimmed her ankles in front and trailed on the floor behind.
She looked apologetic. “Nothing else on board fits me anymore.”
“That’s all right,” Nannla told her. “Nobody’s handing out points for style.”
Aringher cleared his throat. “I think everybody’s here who’s going to be here—shall we begin?”
He stepped over to the mess table and set out two cups and two plates, with the opened bottle of firewater and the brick of compressed biscuit between them. Then he nodded to Perada Rosselin. “Pour the wine,” he said; “and let him pour some for you.”
She poured with a steady hand until the cup was full almost to the brim, then handed the bottle across to Metadi. He took it—Aringher noted, again with some private amusement, that the captain’s hands were not nearly as steady as hers—and poured a shallow splash of firewater into the other cu
p.
The biscuit was white and hard, and breaking it presented a challenge. After a couple of tries, Metadi took the dagger Tilly offered and used it to break off a chunk, then handed the knife to Perada. She worked at it for a minute and managed to lever a bit off of one corner.
At another nod from Aringher they exchanged scraps of bread, and then tasted the firewater. Perada only sipped at hers, which Aringher privately considered wise under the circumstances, but Jos Metadi drained his to the bottom.
“Now,” said Aringher, “do you two gentles have any statements or changes to declare?”
“Yes,” Metadi said. “I declare in front of the Lords of Life and these my friends that Perada Rosselin is my wife from now henceforward.”
“And I declare in front of the Lords of Life and these my friends that Jos Metadi is my husband from now henceforward.”
Aringher felt a deep sense of satisfaction. “It pleases me,” he said, still smiling, “as an ambassador plenipotentiary of the Republic and of Galcen, to know that I have seen both the beginning and the end of this affair. Be happy, children, and blessings on both of you.”
The iridescent nothingness of hyperspace made its swirling patterns outside the ’Hammer’s armor-glass viewscreens. Nothing on the console really needed tending while the ship was in hyper—the autopilot, though an older model, was reliable—but neither of the two men in the cockpit cared to attend the ceremony in the common room.
Errec Ransome, in the pilot’s seat, glanced over at the man sitting next to him. “Gentlesir Nivome do’Evaan,” he said. “I believe we need to talk.”
Nivome frowned. “I don’t think so.”
“I do,” said Errec. “You don’t understand. The smell of what you intended to do is impossible to miss. I’m surprised that Mistress Vasari never caught it—I suppose you waited until she was dead?”
The other man’s face darkened with anger. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. I find Mages, and those who deal with Mages. And I can touch your mind, whether you will it or not.”
“You’re lying.”
“So you say. You planned to kill the Domina in her underground shelter—you even brought her the Iron Crown as a pretext for the meeting—but you didn’t find her alone. And then you planned to abandon her on the landing field at An-Jemayne, but the ‘Hammer showed up before you could get away.” Errec paused. “What did the Mages promise you, Nivome do’Evaan, in return for her death?”
Nivome exhaled heavily, like an animal pawing the ground and getting ready to charge. “I don’t think I’m going to answer that. You have no proof.”
“No,” Errec admitted. “I don’t.”
“Then what’s your point?”
“Just this,” said Errec. “You’ll leave the ’Hammer as soon as we make planetfall on Galcen. You’ll go back to Rolny, and take up whatever position you hold there. And you’ll never again seek any role in the politics of Galcen, or of Entibor, or of the republic that’s forming.”
Nivome glowered at him. “You’re nobody. You’re from nowhere, and you’re going nowhere. Why should I pay attention to anything you say?”
“Because if you don’t comply willingly,” Errec told him, “I can force compliance upon you. And if you resist me, Gentlesir Nivome, I can do things that will leave what’s left of you fit for nothing except to sit on the sidewalk gibbering.”
There was silence in the cockpit for some minutes. Errec watched Nivome’s expression fade from belligerence to defiance and, finally, to resignation. Errec smiled.
“Good,” he said. “I believe we understand one another now.”
He gave a nod of satisfaction—Jos and Perada would never know about the wedding gift he had given them, but he felt happier for having given it—and went back to watching the mists of hyperspace.
“It was a nice wedding,” said Perada sleepily. The captain’s cabin of Warhammer was pleasantly dark and cool, and Jos was a comforting presence beside her on the bed. “I’m sorry we can’t really …”
“It’s all right.” He sounded embarrassed. “There’ll be plenty of time later. On Galcen or wherever.”
“That’s good.” She yawned and nestled close. They were lying front-to-back, like spoons; she’d almost forgotten how good it felt to drop off to sleep knowing that he was there. She was almost asleep when a bubble of curiosity worked its way up to the surface, rousing her. “Why are we going to Galcen, anyway? I forgot to ask.”
“Politics,” he said. “The Centrists on Galcen managed to grab the government when nobody was looking. They want to start holding talks about forming some kind of republic once the war is over.”
“Do they?” She was awake again. “Who do they think is going to be in it?”
“Them, naturally, and—” It was his turn to yawn; she waited impatiently for him to continue talking. “—Gyffer and Maraghai, probably Khesat … I don’t know all that much about it.”
“What about the colonies?” she demanded. “Parezul and Ghan Jobai and Tanpaleyn and all the other little worlds? What do they want to do about them?”
He yawned again. “Let them in, I suppose.”
“Galcen will eat them up alive. Or Gyffer.” She paused. “Do you think the colonies would let me speak for them, now that I’ve cut my braids and all?”
“Braids grow back.” He tightened his arm around her. “And I think that right now the colonies need to know that Entibor is more than just the home world. The galaxy’s changing; something has to stay the same for a little while, at least. You can be that thing for them.”
“It’s good I didn’t lose the Iron Crown, then.” She could sense the political implications of the new republic unfolding themselves in her mind. It felt like circulation coming back to a deadened limb, painful and vital at the same time. “But I’ll need to do more than wear the crown, if I’m going to reassure the colonies that their luck hasn’t gone completely. A boy-child on the way is encouraging, but they’ll want to see an heir to make certain—and fairly soon, too.”
“That part’s easy,” he said. “Galcen’s lousy with biolabs. Just find a good one and tell ’em what you want.”
“I think I’d sooner do it the way I’m used to,” she said. “If you don’t mind helping.”
Jos laughed quietly. She felt his breath stirring the short hair on the crown of her head.
“I thought I told you,” he said. “I don’t plan on being stupid anymore.”
Also by Debra Doyle and James D. Macdonald, from Tor Books
The Price of the Stars
Starpilot’s Grave
By Honor Betray’d
THE GATHERING FLAME
“You’ve made a name for yourself, Captain Metadi,” the Domina Perada said. “They say you are something more than a successful pirate—”
“Privateer,” he corrected. “I bear letters of marque and reprisal.”
“My apologies, Captain,” Perada said, her expression unruffled. “Privateer. If the newsreaders don’t lie, you have proven yourself able to meld independent raiders into a fleet and carry the war to the enemy.”
“Enemy?” Jos Metadi shook his head. “No. Enemies are personal. None of this is personal with me. I take prizes—rich ones—and I take them for the goods and merchandise they carry. If your sources are any good, they should have mentioned that I don’t fight warships when I can help it.”
“You fight when you must, and you win when you fight.” Her voice remained composed. “I have decided. You are the man who will return with me to Entibor and, once there, make a warfleet for me.”
“You’ve decided, have you?”
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.
THE GATHERING FLAME
Copyright © 1995 by Debra Doyle and James D. Macdonald
All rights reserved, includin
g the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.
A Tor book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates, Inc.
175 Fifth Avenue
New York, NY 10010
Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, Inc.
Cover art by Romas
eISBN 9781466802070
First eBook Edition : September 2011
First edition: July 1995
Table of Contents
Title Page
CAUTIONARY PROLOGUE
I. GALCENIAN DATING 974 A.F - ENTIBORAN REGNAL YEAR 38 VERATINA
PERADA ROSSELIN: ENTIBOR - (GALCENIAN DATING 962 A.F.; ENTIBORAN REGNAL YEAR 26 VERATINA)
II. GALCENIAN DATING 974 A.F. - ENTIBORAN REGNAL YEAR 38 VERATINA
JOS METADI: GYFFER - (GALCENIAN DATING 959 A.F.; ENTIBORAN REGNAL YEAR 23 VERATINA)
III. GALCENIAN DATING 974 A.F. - ENTIBORAN REGNAL YEAR 38 VERATINA
ERREC RANSOME: ILARNA - (GALCENIAN DATING 970 A.F.; ENTIBORAN REGNAL YEAR 34 VERATINA)
IV. GALCENIAN DATING 974 A.F. - ENTIBORAN REGNAL YEAR 38 VERATINA
PERADA ROSSELIN: GALCEN - (GALCENIAN DATING 963 A.F.; ENTIBORAN REGNAL YEAR 27 VERATINA)
V. GALCENIAN DATING 974 A.F. - ENTIBORAN REGNAL YEAR 38 VERATINA
ERREC RANSOME: ILARNA - (GALCENIAN DATING 970 A.F.; ENTIBORAN REGNAL YEAR 34 VERATINA)
VI, GALCENIAN DATING 974 A.F. - ENTIBORAN REGNAL YEAR 38 VERATINA
PERADA ROSSELIN: GALCEN - (GALCENIAN DATING 963 A.F.; ENTIBORAN REGNAL YEAR 27 VERATINA)
VII. GALCENIAN DATING 974 A.F. - ENTIBORAN REGNAL YEAR 38 VERATINA
JOS METADI: FREETRADER QUORUM - (GALCENIAN DATING 959 A.F.; ENTIBORAN REGNAL YEAR 23 VERATINA)
The Gathering Flame Page 44