by Jo Zebedee
“People.” Plessant gestured absently. “The people I… work for.”
“The people who hold your bond?” asked Rinharte.
Plessant jerked her head up. “No!” She scowled angrily. “I’m not a prole.”
Rinharte stared at her. Not a prole? Of course she was. She spoke like one, she wore an escutcheon at her collar, she was—had been—the captain of a data-freighter. What else could she be?
“It’s a long story,” said Plessant, relaxing. She sighed. “And it doesn’t matter now. They have Cas.” Reaching up, she combed her fingers through her hair and winced at some imaginary pain. “We met my… superiors. We— No. I was going to explain everything, that Cas didn’t need to go with them, that he was better off on his own. But I couldn’t. He tried to tell them himself. They weren’t interested. They took him.”
“Where to?”
Plessant shrugged. She reached for her beer, lifted the bottle and peered narrow-eyed at the liquid remaining. “They have a place on Tangi. They’ve probably taken him there.”
“Will they harm him?” Rinharte asked.
“No.” Plessant shook her head.
“You said we have to rescue him.”
“Can you? Just the two of you?”
“Ah.” Rinharte blushed. “We, ah, took… precautions.”
Kordelasz snorted audibly.
Plessant frowned and then turned to look in the direction indicated by Rinharte’s quick nod.
“Those four: Boat-Sergeant Alus, Marine-Corporal Valka, and Marines Sniskutte and Tatakia. Perhaps the most… formidable marine squad from Vengeful.”
“They certainly look formidable,” Plessant remarked. She drained her bottle of beer and slammed it down it down on the table-top. “So what are we waiting for? Let’s go get him.”
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Ormuz pulled off his cape with an angry jerk and dropped it on the window-seat. For a moment, he stared silently out of the window. There was a wide lawn behind the residence and at its far edge a wall of thick foliage. Beyond, the estate was entirely forested. On the horizon, he could see the ocean, an unwavering line of dark blue. “Damn him,” he said, taking care to use his newly-learnt upper-class Swovo. “What does he think he’s doing?”
“Who?” drawled Varä.
Ormuz turned to glare at him. “Who do you think?” he snapped. “The Involute.”
Varä shrugged negligently. He sprawled in one of the suite’s armchairs, his sheathed sword across his lap. The knights sinister had returned their weapons after imprisoning the two of them in the room. “You’d have to ask him.”
“I can’t do anything if they keep me locked up,” Ormuz said. He chopped the air with one hand. “Do they want the Serpent to succeed?”
Varä swung his booted feet up onto a coffee-table. “Come now, Casimir, you know that’s not true. You’re important to them. They’re protecting you.”
“I don’t need protecting.”
“You do,” insisted Varä. “The Serpent wants you dead. The knights sinister are your best guardians.”
“No.” Ormuz shook his head. He dropped to sit on the window-seat. “I have to fight.”
The marquess cocked his head and smiled faintly. “Fight? How? What can you do against the Serpent?”
Ormuz sighed. It was, he supposed, a valid question. Varä knew little enough about him… which in itself presented a puzzle: why had the young marquess chosen to attach himself? What could Ormuz do against the Serpent? He had been so fixed on forging his destiny, he had not spared a thought for hubris. He was a farmer’s son from Rasamra. Blood may out—and the nomosphere was frightening proof of that—but he had no credentials for the role he was determined to claim for his own.
“The… ‘ability’ I share with the Serpent—” He winced, deciding he didn’t like the word; it seemed far too prosaic for something as magical as the nomosphere— “that ability is what makes me the best person to fight him.”
Varä barked a laugh. “Casimir, the knights sinister have been fighting the Serpent for decades. Perhaps longer. Surely they’re better qualified, this mysterious ability of yours notwithstanding?”
Ormuz said, “No.” He dropped onto the window-seat, put his hands on his knees and gazed down at the rich carpet covering the floor. Its weave formed some abstract pattern in swirls of green, no doubt inspired by the lush vegetation on Kapuluan’s islands. With a start, he realised in places the pattern seemed to coagulate to form hidden faces, peepers amongst the foliage. It was, thought Ormuz, as good a metaphor of this conspiracy he fought as any.
“You honestly believe you can?” asked Varä. “Succeed where the knights sinister have so far failed?”
“Yes.” Ormuz lifted his gaze from the carpet and stared at the noble. “Have they failed? The knights sinister, I mean. I can’t see that they’ve done all that much.”
Varä’s eyes widened in surprise. He opened his mouth to speak, but closed it without saying a word. A smile began to build on his face. “No,” he admitted, “they would appear to have done little. But they are very secretive.”
“The Serpent isn’t. Not any more. He’s already mustering the regiments for war—those that he has in his pocket, of course. And he’s made a couple of tactical blunders—”
“Such as?”
“Sending Merenilo to kill me and then trying again on Ophavon. Tricking the Admiral into destroying Divine Wind.”
For several long minutes, Varä said nothing and stared at Ormuz. His expression was unreadable. At last, he said, “Divine Wind?”
“Another data-freighter operated by the knights sinister. It was destroyed by Vengeful. They thought Captain Tora was an agent of the Serpent.”
“The Admiral told you this?”
“No. I’ve never met her.”
“But you know what she looks like. I’ve heard you describe her. How do you know that? She never leaves her ship.”
Ormuz smiled mysteriously. “I have my sources.”
“I am,” admitted Varä, “somewhat shocked. I had not thought—”
“I knew what was going on,” finished Ormuz.
“Well, yes.” Varä lay his sword down on the floor beside his chair and rose to his feet. “Can you blame me?” He crossed to Ormuz and stood beside him, hands clasped behind his back, staring out of the window. “You’re a prole, Casimir,” he said. “By birth if not by breeding. Blood may out but it’s an uphill struggle at the best of times.”
“And a prole can’t hope to leadership?” asked Ormuz bitterly. “We—they… are no different to you, you know. We’re all the same species. Yes, I know they owe allegiance directly to a peer or yeoman and their lives are governed by that relationship. As mine was. But in their hopes and dreams, their aspirations, they’re no different.”
Varä glanced at him, one eyebrow raised. “Surely their ‘hopes and dreams’ are somewhat more… primitive?”
“More immediate, perhaps. Not ‘primitive’. Why can’t they dream of betterment, happiness, self-fulfilment? Admittedly, they’re less likely to see their dreams realised—a prole has to achieve something remarkable to be lifted to the yeomanry—”
“Or marry a yeoman.”
“Or marry a yeoman,” acknowledged Ormuz.
“And all this,” asked Varä, “is what you dreamt of when you… were a prole?”
Ormuz turned about so he too gazed out of the window. “I suppose so,” he admitted ruefully. “I would have liked to have been a yeoman, to do something noteworthy enough to see me rewarded with yeoman rank… And now I find I’m of noble blood.”
“It means nothing, you know.” Varä hooked an arm through Ormuz’s and squeezed companionably. “A by-blow of a noble on a prole is still a prole. I suppose the same is true of a clone that’s been brought up a prole.”
“Unless the noble chooses to acknowledge him.”
“And the Serpent’s hardly likely to acknow
ledge you.”
Ormuz let out a low snort. “He’s tried to kill me twice. Doesn’t that count as ‘acknowledgement’?”
“Not as far as the Electorate of Peers is concerned. Casimir, you can pretend to nobility all you want—and I will help you—but it’ll take an Act of the Emperor for it to be true and real.” He paused a moment. “Is that why you insist on fighting the Serpent?”
“Of course not!” Ormuz angrily pulled his arm from the marquess’s arm. “I can make a difference! I know I can! I’m the only one who can!”
Night had fallen, turning the window into an inky mirror. Varä snapped off the light and plunged the room into darkness. “Are you sure this is wise?” he hissed from his position by the door.
“Don’t be ridiculous!” snapped Ormuz. He bent and pushed up the window. Cool night air blew in, redolent with the rich smells of the island’s vegetation. Faint noises from the estate’s animal inhabitants drifted faintly to his ears. Turning off the room’s light, he saw, had achieved little. Rectangles of yellow marched alongside the building: light thrown from other windows. There was little darkness to hide them once they were on the ground.
“What now?”
Ormuz jerked in surprise. He hadn’t heard the marquess cross the room to his side. “We jump,” he said.
“That’s a twenty-foot drop, Casimir. I’m no acrobat.”
“Onto grass, Varä. It’ll be a soft landing.”
“You go first, then. If you break your neck, I’ll know to stay up here.”
“Some bodyguard you are,” Ormuz muttered. He clambered onto the window-sill and sat facing outwards, legs dangling.
“I’m not your bodyguard, Casimir, although I will defend you if the need arises. And take your damn sword off. You’ll stick yourself when you hit the ground otherwise.”
Sighing, Ormuz fumbled with the lockets attaching his sword to his belt. Once he had freed it, he let the sheathed blade drop to the ground below. It made no noise as it hit the grass.
“Try not to land on it,” Varä drawled. “A bent sword is no good to anyone.”
Ormuz twisted to face him. “Are you going to be like this all the time?” he demanded.
“Like what, Casimir?” he asked contritely. And promptly spoiled it by giggling. “This is just like when I was at school,” he added.
“I don’t want to know.” Ormuz had to jump. He didn’t want to: the distance looked too far. He was only delaying the leap with this useless banter.
“There was this bar we used to go to… We weren’t allowed to, of course, so we had to sneak out after lights out—”
“I said, I don’t want to know,” said Ormuz.
And pushed himself off the window-sill.
He fell… and hit the ground far sooner than he had expected. He rolled over onto his side and then onto his back, arms splayed wide. He could see Varä framed in the window above him. The young noble’s white trousers shone in the night.
Something glittered, and then landed on the grass with a faint tinkle. Varä’s sword. Varä followed it and hit the ground near Ormuz with a loud “oof!”. He too ended up on his back, staring up at the night sky. “Ooh, look,” he said. “All those stars.”
Ormuz found himself giggling. “Stop it,” he said sternly. “We need to get away.”
Varä had his hands clasped behind his head. “Where to? he asked. “Is that a starship?”
“There’s only one place we can go.” Ormuz scrambled to his feet. He brushed grass off his legs and rear and shook out his cape.
“Not to Murily. She’ll only turn you over to the Involute again.”
“No, not to Captain Plessant,” Ormuz said bitterly. He booted the recumbent marquess gently in the side. “On your feet.”
“Oh but it’s such a beautiful night, Casimir.”
“This isn’t a schoolboy adventure, rot it. The fate of the Empire is at stake.”
Varä rose to his feet. He flicked blades of grass from his arms and shoulders, and then looked down at his trousers and tutted. “Rubbish, Casimir,” he said, bending over to check a stain on one knee. “‘Fate of the empire’ indeed.”
Ormuz was stunned. “Haven’t you listened to a word I’ve said? Haven’t you understood anything that’s happened?”
Varä glanced at him sharply. “Of course I have. But I still fail to see how you hope to accomplish anything.”
“Then you may as well stay here.” Ormuz gestured angrily. “Go on, get into bed with the knights sinister! See what good they can do!”
“Casimir, you’re just one man—”
“With a battlecruiser.”
“Vengeful is not yours,” retorted Varä. “It’s the Admiral’s. And what makes you think she’ll do what you say?”
“She will,” Ormuz said determinedly. He knew she would. He wasn’t quite sure what formed the basis of his determination over this, but he was convinced she would indeed follow his lead. “And then there’s the Oppies,” he added.
“You’re a fool, Casimir,” Varä pronounced. “But since you’re determined to escape, let’s get away from here.”
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
With Tatakai at the controls, the van left Lungsod on the highway heading north. Plessant had “borrowed” the vehicle from the household fleet belonging to the mansion in which Finesz had put Divine Providence’s crew. The last building fell behind, and the road arced over water and became a bridge. It climbed as it vaulted further over the sea, reaching two hundred yards above the waves three miles out from the shore, without the benefit of suspension or supports. Rinharte, sitting in the cab beside Tatakai, gazed out of the window at her side. She saw only the Dagat Sea, and across it the island of Kalahati. Ships and boats carved white tracks in the blue; aerocraft left faded trails across the bowl of the sky. Lungsod was behind her, Tangi somewhere ahead, over the bridge’s apex, past Kalahati.
Twilight descended as they left Kalahati and crossed another bridge to the island suburb called Tangi. The setting sun, red and swollen, hovered in the cloudless sky. Bands of rose and salmon-pink spread gauzy wings to either side, their darker shadows painting the surface of the sea. The lush greenery of the islands of the Earl’s Crown faded to grey and was slowly subsumed by the encroaching night.
Tatakai turned on the forward lights, but the island ahead had turned dark and mysterious and remained that way. Lamps along the bridge’s balustrades flickered into life but provided little illumination for the speeding traffic. They were designed to indicate the span of the bridge to aerocraft, not light the way of travelling vehicles.
“How much further is this place?” Rinharte asked, turning to look back into the body of the van. Boat-Sergeant Alus, Marine Sniskutte and Murily Plessant sat to one side, behind the driver. Marine-Captain Kordelasz and Marine-Corporal Valka sat opposite.
“About another hour,” Plessant replied.
“What’s the address, ma’am?” asked Tatakai, not taking her attention off the road ahead.
“Bilanguan,” Plessant said. “It’s an estate on the north shore of the island.”
Tatakai leant forward and worked her way through the indices on the chart-console until she had the address. A route-map appeared on the console’s circular glass. Rinharte studied the map. Bilanguan was one of the larger estates at the northern end of the island, which was itself the site of Tangi’s biggest properties. The map showed little in the way of detail, only a representation of the main house and outbuildings near the access road. The rest of the land was… There was no way of telling. Landscaped gardens? Untouched jungle? Orchards and fields?
“They have money, these kidnappers,” Rinharte remarked.
“You could say that,” Plessant replied.
“Casimir seems to have powerful enemies.”
“They’re not enemies,” Plessant said, “they’re allies.”
“Strange allies, if they’ve kidnapped him.”
Ples
sant out a low sardonic laugh. “They’re the sort of allies who insist he does what they want, rather than what he thinks he should do himself.”
Rinharte said, “Where will he be? The estate covers forty square miles at least.”
“Casimir could be anywhere in that area?” asked Kordelasz.
“No.” Rinharte glanced back and saw Plessant shake her head. “They’ll keep him in the residence,” the ex-captain explained. “The rest of the estate isn’t used. There’s a small aerodrome about five miles from the residence and a barracks block for guards there—”
“Five miles, eh?” said Kordelasz. “How long would it take the guards to reach the residence once the alarm’s been raised?”
“Twenty minutes, perhaps. But there’s never more than a dozen at the aerodrome and perhaps half that number guarding the residence. There might be more since an In— ah, since one of my superiors is on-world, but not many.”
“So we can expect how many guarding the boy?”
“I don’t know. Six? Maybe only four: they won’t expect Cas to try and escape and they certainly won’t be expecting a raid.”
“This is going to be a doddle.” Kordelasz’s teeth flashed in a grin in the darkness of the van’s interior.
“They’re trained fighters,” warned Plessant.
“As good as knight stalwarts?” the marine-captain asked her.
“Yes.”
“Tell me more about these people you work for, Murily,” Rinharte said. “Who are they?”
There was a moment of silence. Plessant shifted in her seat, shadows flowing across her. “I—” She paused. “I don’t work for them. I— Oh, corruption.” She let out a sigh, as if ridding herself of long-held bonds and secrets. “I shouldn’t tell you this, but it’s only fair you know— No, you should know. The Admiral will certainly need to know.
“I’m a knight of an Order. We were created when the Empire was founded,” she explained. “After Emperor Edkar I formed the knights signet, the Order of the Imperial Seal, he instructed his captain of intelligence, Viscount Gichono, to watch the watchmen. He told him that the knights signet would be His right hand, but Gichono would be His left, and the right hand should never know what the left hand is doing. It’s been our motto ever since—”