“And on that very night that damnable marauder attempts—nay, succeeds in this raid?”
“Sir?”
“Are you blind as well as stupid? Do you think this a coincidence?”
Barcon had in fact not thought of it at all, but he was not about to admit that to the governor. Especially not when his rage was becoming both palpable and towering. “I did wonder,” he began.
“We have a traitor in our midst. Someone betrayed us to this mutilated blackguard, and I will have his head.”
Barcon’s mind raced, not something he was adept at even under normal circumstances. He preferred plenty of time and planning and calculating exactly how much he could get away with. The approach had served him well. After all, had he not handed Ziem over to them, intact and with the mines still functional? And when they and their equipment had been unable to counter the mist of Ziem, had he not pointed out the most vulnerable of the native miners, who could be forced to work for them?
They owed him. And he would not allow himself to be blamed for this. “And his entrails, governor, I’m certain,” he said, his tone as obsequious as he thought Sorkost would tolerate.
“Get me Frall!” the governor shouted.
Relief that Sorkost was apparently going to channel his rage elsewhere flooded Barcon. And then he remembered, and apprehension filled him anew. If the proper target of his fury was not available, he knew too well Sorkost was likely to vent it on the nearest target. Which was equally likely to be him.
“Frall isn’t here. A new post commander came in with the new guards.”
“Then get me him, whoever in hades it is!”
“Immediately, sir!” Barcon turned on his heel. He wished more than anything to run, and in fact did the last few steps to the door. He didn’t draw another breath until he was safely outside and the door was closed behind him.
He ordered the guard—despite the fact that there had been little trace of rebellion other than that hideously scarred raider in years, Sorkost maintained the pretense that he needed guarding—to get the new post commander here instantly. He sent another messenger for Jepson Kerrold, his liaison in matters of state. He would have him handle this from here on. For having come from one of the most elite families on Ziem—at one time, anyway—the man was rather useless, too terrified of even the lowliest Coalition official to do much good. But Barcon had no hesitation about sending him into the breach for just that reason; if a Coalition official became irritated enough with Kerrold to cut off his head, it would be no great loss to him. No, if he needed something actually done, he used Kerrold as a distraction and called in Jakel, the agent who saw to his dirtier work with a brutal efficiency.
Orders given, Ordam retreated to his own office, a suite of rooms looking out over the town square. The office that had once belonged to Torstan Davorin, a fact that gave him no small amount of glee, and was the reason he’d chosen it of all the ones available to him.
This was where the true power was. The power he wanted, anyway. Power over the people of Zelos, and by extension all of Ziem. And he had achieved it. He had shown all those who had belittled him over the years, those who had laughed at his awkwardness, his way of speaking, the way his ears sat upon his head. He had shown all those who had preferred the likes of the Davorins, especially that craven Drake, who in the end hadn’t had the nerve to stand up to anyone.
He’d always suspected there was a coward hiding behind that dashing, handsome exterior, and it was one of the greatest satisfactions of his success that the entire planet knew it now. Especially the women, who had once fluttered at the man, whispering over his pure Ziem eyes, thick black hair, and even, disgustingly, publicly slavering over his taut, strong body. While they looked past he himself with dismissive or even derisive glances.
It was not his fault his eyes were so pale, barely blue at all. Or that he was thin, and his ears stuck out a bit. At least he was not a slimehog like Sorkost, concerned only with the delights of the flesh.
It would all come out right in the end. He knew that. What he had done, and continued to do, was the best thing for Ziem. It was not his fault they could not yet see that, that they were much better off with the presence and support of the Coalition.
But someday they would see it. This would pass and he would maintain the position he had worked so hard to attain. Eventually even the Raider would fall; the odds would see to that. The man was reckless, and by now likely blinded by his successes, small though they were. He would one day—hopefully soon—take that risk too far and come to a messy end. Barcon simply had to be patient.
And he had learned long ago how to be patient.
Chapter 12
THEY WERE LIKE children with new toys, the Raider thought, watching them touch and poke at the air rovers. It gave him no small amount of satisfaction. His band had little enough to fight with; these vehicles would make a mountain’s worth of difference. They might only carry a half-squad, but they were quick and powerful, and brand new, with fully charged power cells that would last a year at least. They would have to have a charging source then, but time enough to work that out. He—or more likely Brander—would think of something.
Besides, they would serve a more important purpose soon.
Brander left the excited group and strolled over to him. “This has done them good.”
“Yes.”
“Worth the risk.”
“Yes.”
“So what’s next?”
He gave his second a sideways look. “Did you not say this should hold everyone for a while?”
Brander grinned. “I didn’t mean me.”
His mouth quirked. “Of course not.”
“I know you have something brewing.”
“Do you?”
“I can see it. Practically feel it. Your brain is running in the highest gear, my friend. Has been for a while now. You have something even bigger in mind.”
He turned, gestured to Brander to follow him. They stepped into his quarters. It was a chilly day on Ziem, and he could feel the cold from the tunnel, his back way in and out, known only to a few.
He turned his head to look at the man who had stood beside him since before the day he had begun this misadventure. Over and above his knack for clever inventions and unusual tactics, he was uncommonly brave and there was no man the Raider would rather have at his side in a fight.
“I do.”
“But you’re not going to tell me what this plan is.”
“Yet.”
Brander studied him for a moment, then nodded. “All right, my exalted commander.” He added an exaggerated bow. “Do as you must.”
“If you continue with that blathering, you’ll find I must pummel you into oblivion.”
“Now that would be an interesting contest,” a woman’s voice said.
Kye had quietly slipped up behind them. Quietly enough that he hadn’t been aware until she was almost within a double arm’s reach. Kye had become that good. She had become everything he’d known she could be, even as it pained him to watch her change.
“And would you oversee it for us?” Brander asked her with a grin.
“No. It would be embarrassing for me to have to rule against my own cousin for cheating.”
Brander put on an exaggeratedly aghast expression. “I’m hurt, cousin. How can you accuse me of such?”
“Perhaps because you cheated in a game of seek when I was but five?” she asked, her tone sweet. Too sweet.
Brander winced. But there was a twinkle in his sideways glance at the Raider. “Be thankful, my friend, that you do not have a cousin with the memory of a leathertrunk.”
“I shall consider that fair warning,” he said, wondering if that had been Brander’s intent. If so it was needless; he already knew Kye remembered well. Everything. It was why he had t
o hold himself apart from her, whatever guise he was in.
How much he wished it could be otherwise was something he didn’t dare think about.
He spoke before he could lose himself down that alley. “I am glad you are here,” he said to her. “I have need of your artistic skill.”
“Going to have her do a mighty portrait of you?” Brander teased.
“Better than a portrait of an insufferable creature such as yourself,” she retorted.
“Children, children,” the Raider scolded, hiding a smile. They were like siblings, these two, and sometimes as difficult to keep in line. “I have need of a map.”
“A map? You know this countryside like no other except perhaps Eirlys Davorin. If you need aid, perhaps you should call her in.” Kye eyed him levelly. “She would come in an instant.”
“She is too young.”
“Not for long. And she has promised her brother only to wait until she is of age.” She lifted one brow. “And it could not hurt to have a Davorin alongside you.”
He trusted to the helmet and the scars that masked the left side of his face to hide any change in his expression. And said only, “This map needs to be large enough for . . . a briefing.”
She went very still. “A mission briefing?”
“Yes.” She did not, he noted, ask what mission. He knew she was clever enough to realize that if it required preparation this formal, it was something big. “It needs to cover from Halfhead and the Brothers to Highridge, and from The Sentinel to the mouth of the Racelock.”
Kye frowned slightly. “That’s a huge area. And you know mapping is not one of my greater skills.”
“There are images to be used. Brander got that flyover working.”
Her expression cleared. “Aerial pictures?”
He nodded. “We do not have the paper to print and join them, so I need you to use them as a guide and transfer the necessary details.”
“That I can work with,” she said.
And if he knew her—and he did—it would be as near perfect as could be done by hand. Again, the ache that she was using her talent for such purposes rose in him. He fought it down, as he always fought down his other reactions to her lovely, vibrant presence. In either guise he wore. Drake Davorin might want her desperately, but the Raider—and the rebellion—needed her. So it had to be Drake who pushed her away. It had to be.
“On what?” she asked.
He shoved aside his roiled emotions. “Whatever you can find that is big enough to be seen across the gathering room.”
She nodded, clearly already thinking. “I will see what I can find,” she said, and left the room.
He turned to Brander, who had been uncharacteristically quiet.
“Have them get those rovers under cover. You know they’re searching like sniffhounds. And have them keep them separate, not all in one place.”
Brander nodded, all light-heartedness vanished now. When need be, his second could project incredible command presence. Perhaps because he was so droll most of the time; when he was serious, everyone knew it was time to take notice.
Alone now, the Raider faced the fact that soon he would be regularly alone in his quarters with the one person he needed to keep at a distance. The one person he had to keep separate from. The one person who made him want to jettison everything and grab for some tiny bit of a normal life.
But he was who he was, the Coalition was who they were, and a normal life was nothing more than a fool’s dream.
He was grateful when he was interrupted by a knock on the door.
Galeth, the eldest Harkin brother, came in and handed him a folded page, then stood at attention before him. It still disconcerted him a bit, yet he understood the need for it. Command wasn’t only for battles, it must be ingrained so that there was no questioning when instant decision and response meant getting out alive.
“Where did this come from?”
“It was in the hive, sir.”
He looked the man up and down. There were no visible telltale marks or welts. “No stingers returned?”
Galeth smiled at that. “No, sir. I think Brander’s repellant solution worked.”
He smiled. “Get yourself something to eat.”
Galeth nodded gratefully. Making the comm rounds was a long day. The various message drops were scattered not just all over the mountain, but up the canyon, on the flats, and in town as well.
When he was again alone, he smothered a sigh of frustration. To be reduced to such means was beyond slow and irritating, it was infuriating. To think a people who had once but to activate their wristlet to speak to anyone now had to leave words committed to paper, paper that was in constantly shorter supply thanks to Coalition crackdowns for precisely this reason, stirred up the fury that was never far from bursting to life in him.
He knew it was what they intended by never rebuilding any sort of system other than one for their own use; it was that much harder to conspire against them if you couldn’t communicate easily. And it was effective; each day of checking the drops was a day the runner was out of the fight, and yet they must be checked daily. Even so, information was often received too late to act upon, and a prized target was missed because of the delay.
It was not that they could not reproduce the technology; he knew Brander could put together a system easily, given the time and materials. The problem was reproducing a system the Coalition could not spy upon or jam. And that was beyond their capabilities at the moment. So they made do with things like the hive, their most successful drop. They’d had to change many of the others, the tree hollow, the rock wall, but never the hive. Kye’s idea of adhering several dead stingers to the outside, in a manner that made them appear alive, had been genius. For who of sane mind would dare to stick their hand into what appeared to be an active stinger nest?
But then, the woman was insanely clever.
And a brilliant fighter.
And brave to the point of foolishness.
An old pain jabbed at him at the thought of the danger she put herself in. She should be safe at home, pursuing the talent she’d been born with and the work she’d been born for: creation. Creation of things of such beauty they took human breath away.
Instead, she pursued destruction. Often risking her very life to rain it down on the Coalition.
That it was most often at his own order made it a thousandfold worse.
Shoving that worry aside, he unfolded the page Galeth had pulled out of the hive. He knew immediately who it was from; the graceful signature accented with a drawing of a feather told him. The being that most thought was only fable, the unknown creature he himself never spoke of except to agree she was but a legend, to avoid drawing undue attention, or the suspicion he had finally cracked and lost his mind.
The Spirit.
When the first note had come years ago, he had scoffed and tossed it. He had thought it the work of a prankster, or perhaps even a Coalition spy, attempting to set them up for a trap.
But later, when he was in a more reflective mood, he had remembered the note and its claim. And when the opportunity arose unexpectedly, he set out himself to see if there was any truth in it.
It had been all true. From his hiding place above the Coalition compound, he had watched as they unloaded cases of rich food and kegs of brew, things his own people had not seen nor tasted in years. Had he believed the information in the note, they could have waylaid the shipment before it was delivered. The big cargo ships could only land on the flats, which meant transport from the landing zone through the high valley. And he and his band could take anything less than a full battalion in that narrow valley. They had. He had learned early on to use the Coalition need for uniformity, precision, and unthinking obedience against them.
The next time a note signed with the feather had come, he had
again watched and found the information to be both valid and valuable. And again, until the string of accuracy became too clear to deny. And the next day another message had come, saying only, “Trust me.”
So while he still didn’t believe this was truly the legendary Spirit, rather assumed it was someone using the myth for their own reasons, the next time he took a small squad with him. And had managed to liberate three cases of fuel cells, leaving the Coalition scrambling for power for nearly a month. Although they could not use them, the thought of the Coalition existing in the same darkness they had brought upon Ziem had been beyond sweet.
The next result of one of the notes was a cache of fresh crops shipped in from some other world the Coalition held and looted, that had fed them for days. He had even allowed those of the band with families to take some home with them, with the instruction that, were they discovered, they must lay the blame at his feet. The Coalition was already after his head, so he would lose nothing. And build the Raider’s reputation in the process, not because he wished it, but because it would help rally the people.
And that had been another bit of advice that had come from the one calling him or herself the Spirit. Along with the suggestion of a calling card, to be left at the site of each successful foray. Eventually he had seen the sense of it. The people—and the Coalition—needed to know not all had buckled. And while having the occupying troops on high alert at all times had both good and bad sides, he could see that the wear and tear was worth the danger. And besides, being always on edge could lead to mistakes. And they could capitalize on mistakes.
This was, after all, a war. The Coalition might not think it so; they might consider Ziem well and truly conquered, but as long as even one man stood, they were wrong.
And so he had turned even then to the one person he knew could do it. He had sent Brander to Kye, to ask her to draw something that could represent the rebels, something both stark and taunting, to be left for the Coalition to find. Then still trapped in Zelos with her paralyzed father, she had seized upon the small idea with relish, and what she had presented them with mere hours later was a triumph. The bold sweep of the traditional Ziem saber with the words she had pulled from his statement of their mission, “Without Warning,” had encapsulated what he’d wanted it to say. And that symbol had been left clearly visible after every successful raid, until not just the Coalition but everyone was buzzing with it. Were it not for the fact that it would betray them—some lived here in the mountain ruins, but many more led double lives, responding to his call but otherwise staying with their families—he thought many of his force would have it permanently etched on their skin.
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