by Jo Zebedee
Lieutenant-Commander Rinharte had briefed her on the welcome she had received, which made this military tattoo even more pointed a message. From red carpet to military cavalcade… The duke, the Admiral guessed, was going to be an unwilling ally. Was it, perhaps, because of the farmboy? He had been a guest of the Yalosukinens for nearly two weeks. Had the Duke of Kunta proved as susceptible to his wiles as Rinharte?
The communications-circuit was open and occasional remarks from the drivers of the vehicles filtered into the Admiral’s headphones. She turned to Major Skaria and seeing he too wore headphones, she said, “How would you rate the Winter Rangers, major?”
He indicated the trooper manning the military caster by the driver with a nod but the Admiral wanted the Rangers to hear the conversation.
“An honest assessment, if you please,” she added.
“No more and no less effective than most of the regiments, ma’am. They lost a lot of troops abroad a couple of years ago and had to recruit levies, so they’re perhaps under-strength, with few seasoned men. But…” He shrugged. “They’re not the Commando nor the Skirmishers. And they’re certainly not marines.”
The Admiral nodded. She had made her point: some officer listening on the circuit would undoubtedly report it to the duke. She settled back to enjoy the ride to the palace.
After Kunta’s little game at the aerodrome, the Admiral was not surprised to be met in Rusko Palace’s entrance hall. She was not to be received in state, as either befitted her true rank or as a valuable ally. Instead, she was to be treated as no more than a guest, honoured but not entirely welcome. The Admiral was not insensitive to the nuances of the reception but the battlecruiser she had hanging over the palace was advantage enough in any discussion. Let the duke play politics on the ground: a sword was suspended above him and the Admiral wielded it.
An arched and groined space two storeys high, the entrance hall was lined with round pillars of red stone supporting a first-floor balcony on either side. Troops armed with pikes and clad in the pale blue, pale green and white of the Yalosukinens lined the balconies. Ahead, a wide staircase climbed to a landing, then split to head left and right up to the next floor. A huge banner depicting the Yalosukinen arms, a crowned keep over a green square, dominated the landing.
The Admiral came to a halt. Boots crashed behind her as her marine detail followed suit. Afveni mar Yalosukinen, the Duke of Kunta, stood on the bottom step of the staircase, the smile on his face belying the “messages” he had given the Admiral en route from the aerodrome. To the left of the staircase stood Lieutenant-Commander Rinharte and Marine-Captain Kordelasz, backed by Boat-Sergeant Alus and his squad. To the right a uniformed OPI officer and troop-sergeant waited, with two young men in noble finery. Where, wondered the Admiral, was the farmboy?
She strode the length of the entrance hall and came to a halt before Kunta.
He stepped down from the step and bowed. “Your Imp—”
“‘Admiral’ will suffice,” she said sharply.
“Admiral. An unexpected pleasure, er, ma’am.”
“Unexpected? Possibly. But a pleasure? I very much doubt it, Kunta.” She stripped off her gloves, tucked them into her belt and turned to Rinharte and Kordelasz. “Rizbeka, Garrin,” she acknowledged. “Mr Alus. Marines.” She turned to the OPI officer, a tall woman. The black uniform and short blonde hair made her appear more handsome than conventionally pretty but her features attested she was of good lineage. “Inspector Finesz, I presume? Norioko is fortunate to have your loyalty.”
Finesz blinked at the comment, schooled her face to blankness and said, “Ma’am.”
“You must be Mr Assaun,” the Admiral said to the troop-sergeant.
Assaun dropped his gaze and blushed.
The Admiral turned to the young men beside Finesz. She had thought they might be relatives of Kunta but there was no resemblance. Both were in their early twenties and clearly of aristocratic birth. She regarded the black-haired one stonily, thinking he was clearly something of a popinjay in his gaudy tunic and hose. His sword was overly ornate, complex curves of filigreed metal bent about the basket-hilt, but he wore the blade as if he knew how to use it.
He tried a smile and introduced himself: “Omais mar Puoskari, the Marquess of Varä, ma’am.”
“Uskolin’s youngest?”
He nodded.
“Your name is not unknown to me. Nor, I should add, is your reputation. It surprises me to find you here.”
Varä smiled weakly.
The Admiral turned to the second young man. He, at least, was more soberly dressed, in a black coat devoid of embroidery but well-cut. His sword was a more serviceable affair and he looked uncomfortable with it on his hip. If this was Casimir Ormuz, he was no farmboy. She took in the auburn hair, the smooth features—
For a brief moment, she felt mingled shock and rage. “You!” she hissed.
Ormuz jerked in surprise. He frowned suspiciously, then his face cleared as if the Admiral had just proven something to him. He nodded, as if to an equal.
“Major Skaria,” the Admiral snapped.
Her major of marines stepped forward, drawing out his sword as he did so. He grabbed the youth’s arm and held the point of his blade to his throat.
“Ma’am!” cried Rinharte, horrified.
“Explain yourself, Rizbeka,” the Admiral ordered. How dare she? Her anger threatened to overwhelm her. First Kunta and his little games. And now this.
“This is Casimir Ormuz,” Rinharte said, appearing at the Admiral’s side.
“So I had guessed.” She was pleased to see that the youth did not appear frightened by the blade at his throat but met her gaze levelly.
“He’s the person you’re here to meet.”
“Do you know who he is, Rizbeka?”
“Yes.”
The Admiral gestured for Skaria to lower his weapon. “I wish to speak with him. Alone.”
The Admiral stood before Ormuz, her hands clasped behind her back. She gazed implacably at the youth seated before her. She could see her enemy in his face, even in the way he held himself. Yet the likeness was not exact. The boy’s nature lay nearer the surface, his features were less dissipated by rich living. Perhaps those earlier years on a farm had moulded his character in ways different to that of her enemy. Or perhaps it was simply because Ormuz was twenty-five years younger.
“Do you know who you are?” she demanded.
“A clone of the Serpent.” He was not proud of it, she saw, but neither did he allow it to shame him.
“And do you know the identity of the Serpent?”
“No,” he admitted.
“He was…” She turned and gazed about the room Ormuz and she had been ushered into by the duke. It was a fine setting but the Yalosukinens had been nobility for generations. Their lineage was impeccable, second only to those who could trace their line back to Geneza. The Admiral, of course, could trace her own ancestry back to the early history of the Old Empire’s capital world. She turned back to Ormuz. “We were to be wed,” she said, harshly. Even now, the thought of marriage to… him rankled. She had admired, and then loved him. Marriage, however, had been out of the question—her naval career came first. So he had gone behind her back to the Emperor and forced Him to give him her hand. What had the Serpent held over His Imperial Majesty?
“You were going to marry the—” Ormuz began, shock plain on his face.
“I loved him,” the Admiral said simply. She scowled. “But I will not be forced into wedlock. Not even by the likes of the Duke of Ahasz, Ariman umar Vonshuan.”
“The Duke of…” Ormuz relaxed. “It… explains much.”
“It does not explain your existence, young man. It is not common practice for nobles to clone themselves.”
“The Serpent didn’t clone me, the knights sinister did. They claim it was because they were unsure of his identity.”
“I find that hard to believe. The
knights sinister are nothing if not thorough.”
“So do I. They’d probably known the Serpent’s identity for some time. I think they realised he had some… innate ability that made him dangerous. They wanted to know what it was.” He shrugged. “So they tried their own breeding experiment.”
“Did they find out?”
Ormuz smiled smugly. “No.”
“Did you find out?”
The smile grew wider. “Yes.”
She gestured peremptorily. “Come. We will take a walk. We have much to discuss.” She glanced about the room. “And I would rather not be overheard.”
She crossed to the door and pulled it open, causing a flurry amongst the guards waiting in the hallway. The marines remained blank-faced and alert. She started off towards the entrance hall, Ormuz at her side. They said nothing as they left the palace. The Admiral ignored the outdoors chill and headed for the chapel in the centre of the courtyard. She glanced at Ormuz and was pleased to see that he too took no notice of the low temperature. It was disconcerting seeing his face on the youth but she was already beginning to like this farmboy in noble finery.
She was amused to realise that, with a barely a word spoken, he had charmed her, despite her accusation to Rinharte.
Reaching the door of the chapel, the Admiral pushed it open and stepped inside. Its six-sided shape told her it was Archianist, not Chianist. They claimed to be the earliest incarnation of the faith and did not believe in the Avatars. According to their creed, Chian was aided in his battle against Konran only by a council of seven Archangels.
The chapel was laid out in the old-fashioned style, with the pews in a semicircle facing the altar. A round window in each of the six walls filled the interior with golden light. The Admiral strolled towards the altar, a circular plinth with a highly-polished metal top. Looking up, she saw the arrangement of lenses and mirrors which would focus the sun’s rays on the altar. In ancient times, cunningly designed and mathematically precise passages cut in each of a chapel’s six walls had channelled the sunlight onto the altar. The mirrors and lenses, a dilution of Chian’s bounty, had been an invention born of necessity. Chianists made do with altar cloths depicting Chian’s sun symbol, but the Admiral could not help thinking there was something pure and noble in the Archianists’ worshipping of simple sunlight.
She turned from the altar. Ormuz was standing by the front row of pews. “You wear a sword,” remarked the Admiral, who wore no blade herself. “Do you know how to use it?”
“Varä says I’m as good as any free scholar. But I’ve only been taking lessons since we arrived here.”
His arrogation, then was a recent thing, likely the result of events since Darrus. But to claim such a skill level in so short a time smacked of boasting.
She clasped her hands behind her back and frowned. “What am I to do with you, young man?” she asked.
“Isn’t it more a case of what I hope to do with you?” he replied.
“You presume a lot for a farmboy.”
“I was never a farmboy,” he returned angrily.
“You were born on a farm.”
“I was raised on a farm. I was never born.”
“So what do you intend with me?” She saw him scowl.
“Can I be blunt?” He frowned, and added, “Ma’am.”
She made an obliging gesture. “By all means.”
“The Serpent is gathering his forces. He plans to strike within the year. You can’t defeat him without me nor can I hope to beat him without you.”
“You cannot hope to beat him at all, young man. You have nothing.”
He smiled. “On the contrary, I have the most important weapon of all: myself.”
She snorted in amusement. “You are certainly presumptuous.”
“Perhaps.” He shrugged. “The Serpent is pulling back regiments from abroad and hopes to use them to crack the Imperial Palace—”
“The knights stalwart and the knights militant will stop him.”
“He has suborned the Housecarls. They sit on the Imperial Palace’s doorstep. The Martial Orders will have their hands busy dealing with them.”
“The Navy will stop him.”
He shook his head. “The Lords of the Admiralty are unlikely to interfere.”
“So the Serpent could well succeed.” She wasn’t sure which was the more surprising: that this farmboy had a firm grasp of the political and military situation, or that he was so well-informed on the Serpent’s plans.
“He will succeed,” Ormuz insisted. “Unless we stop him.”
“How?”
“We meet him as he’s gathering his forces. And we smash them.”
“Fine words. I suppose you know where he will be gathering his forces.”
“Not yet,” Ormuz admitted. “But I can find out.”
The Admiral did not reply but thought a moment on Ormuz’s words. She believed him but she did not know why. “Do you know the story of Lord Ogoshu?”
The swerve in topic clearly took the youth by surprise. He glanced up at one of the windows—but they were plain glass. He knew his way around a church, the Admiral noted with satisfaction.
“An Avatar?” he asked.
“Yes, an Avatar.” Briefly, she recounted Lord Ogoshu’s story. Ormuz listened in silence, frowning thoughtfully.
Once she had finished, he said, “A nice story.” He paused. “You think you might be the princess.”
She was pleased at his perceptiveness. She acknowledged his comment: “Is that not where you would put me?”
“On the Throne?” He gazed at her in surprise. “Not at all. It’s not mine to give.”
“I am glad you realise that much,” the Admiral returned dryly.
“But you’re not the princess,” Ormuz continued. “You’re Lord Ogoshu.” He waved a hand vaguely. “The story doesn’t map precisely onto the current situation. I’m surprised—” He gave her a sidelong glance— “you see it as any sort of allegory.”
“Explain.”
“The Serpent—the Duke of Ahasz—is Baron Gold: he comes of an ancient noble family and wants the Throne for himself. Me, I am… Lord Black. You can’t fight him without me and I can’t fight him without you, my champion. But I stand to gain nothing from winning.”
“Your birthright.”
Ormuz smiled. “It makes it easier for me to claim, should we win. But it is my due. I am the Serpent. I am the Duke of Ahasz. His blood flows through my veins. What he has should by rights be mine. He’s shown himself unworthy of his title.”
“You are very like him, you know,” the Admiral mused.
“Hardly surprising.”
“But I very much doubt you could take his place. There is no precedent for a clone to succeed to a title.”
“There is a precedent for a noble attempting to seize the Imperial Throne. You think the Emperor would sooner disband the patent than give it to a surviving relative who proved himself loyal?”
“You are not a relative, young man.”
He smiled. “Test my DNA, ma’am. I think you’ll find a match.”
She took a step closer, the better to see the youth’s eyes. “Is that what you are after? The Serpent’s title?”
He scowled angrily. “No! The Serpent—Ahasz—” He choked back a bitter laugh— “must be taken down. I’m the only person who can do that.”
The Admiral turned away. Gazing at Ormuz’s eyes had reminded her of her ex-betrothed but the resemblance had been purely physical. She was happy to see sincerity in the youth. This farmboy was no prole seeking a title by an accident of birth. He truly believed his destiny was to destroy the Serpent.
“We can deal together,” she said.
“You’ll join me?” He sounded surprised.
“Rather, you will—” She broke off and smiled wryly. “No, I stand corrected: I will indeed join you.”
“I won’t be a tool,” he said forcefully. “I won’t b
e used.”
“And I will not give you command of my Vengeful.”
“I didn’t expect you to. Ma’am.”
She turned back to him. “Good.”
And she wondered precisely what she had just agreed to and what it would mean for her and for the Empire.
The next day, the Admiral took Ormuz to see the False Palace. They went alone, accompanied only by a squad of marines. They drove out to the aerodrome in a command car and took to the air in Vengeful’s launch. The Admiral had another lesson for the boy and as was her wont looked to history as her teacher.
Once the launch was orbit, geo-stationary above Rusko Palace, she opened the shield over a scuttle and asked Ormuz to look out. “Tell me what you see,” she commanded.
“The continent we just left,” he replied.
She could see it over his shoulder, an irregular landmass too large to be called an island, glaringly white to the north with snow, the brownish-green of the tundra elsewhere. “What is the most significant feature?” she asked.
He hunched closer to the scuttle, craning this way and that to see more. “There’s a huge circle,” he said in wonder. “It must be hundreds of miles in diameter.”
“Almost two hundred, in fact. It is a wall. And within that?”
“There’s something in the centre, but I can’t make out what.”
The Admiral switched on the console on the bulkhead before their seats. An image of the continent below them occupied the circular glass, a feed from one of the launch’s optical sensors. She twisted a control, and the view zoomed in. The faint patterns in the exact centre of the great circle were revealed as a series of lines, squares and rectangles written on the land.
“Is that the palace?” Ormuz asked, regarding the display.