by Jo Zebedee
The assembly had petered out at three o’clock in the morning. There had been no more excitement after “Lady” Aszabella’s attempt on Ormuz’s life. Not that the youth had taken any further chances: he had spurned every other advance made to him. Varä had been fetched and abjured to keep Ormuz safe from harm. Rinharte heard him joke at one point that, given the right clothing, he could prove as decorative a companion as Lady Aszabella but he would not be as murderous. Ormuz had not been amused.
Marine-Captain Kordelasz, Captain Vartoi and a platoon of Yalosukinen household troops searched for the baron and his wife, but failed to find them. They had probably left the moment Aszabella had insinuated herself into Ormuz’s company.
In the entrance hall, the Vengeful party gathered preparatory to leaving for the aerodrome and the flight up to the battlecruiser. The Admiral would not spend the night as a guest of the duke, but Rinharte and Kordelasz stayed.
“Tomorrow,” the Admiral told Ormuz, “you will join me aboard.”
Ormuz nodded.
“And me?” Varä asked.
The Admiral sighed. “Yes, you too. But you will behave or I will have your head.”
For a moment, Varä behaved as if the admonition did not deserve a reply but then remembered to whom he spoke. He dropped his gaze and murmured, “Yes, ma’am.”
“You will see Casimir comes to no harm,” the Admiral continued. “There may be more assassins creeping about the palace. In whatever guise. I am reliably informed you are skilled with a sword.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He brightened. “I shall spend the night with him,” he declared salaciously.
The Admiral gestured vaguely. “Arrange it how you will.” She turned to Rinharte. “You too, Rizbeka, I expect to be vigilant. You have Mr Kordelasz, and Boat-Sergeant Alus and his squad. Use them.”
“Ma’am.” Rinharte had no intention of entrusting Ormuz’s security to the Yalosukinen guards. Let Captain Vartoi feel slighted—Ormuz was now far too important to take chances with his safety.
Surrounded by her own Imperial Marine guard, the Admiral took her leave. Major Skaria and Lieutenant Gogos departed with her. The whine of a command car’s engine filled the entrance hall as the door swung open. Rinharte waited until the noise of the vehicle had faded before signalling for the servants to close the door. She turned and saw Finesz, who had remained silent during the leave-taking, hugging her torso and shivering. Cold had seeped into the hall through the open door and the OPI officer’s ball gown was no protection. She flashed a quick smile at Rinharte.
“Well,” Finesz said brightly, “wasn’t that a fun party. I don’t know about you but I need a drink. Casimir?”
“Uhm?” The youth turned from the closed door, a thoughtful expression on his face. He blinked, considering Finesz’s words, and said, “Good idea.” To the nearest servant, he added, “Have some brandy sent up to the Vankila Room.”
“My lord,” returned the servant with a bow.
They took the elevator up to the floor and made their way along the hallway to the Vankila Room, Ormuz’s jail cell and now guest suite. Alus and his squad took position outside the door. The rest of the party filed within. Ormuz seemed lost in thought, distant. He crossed to the window, pulled the drapes aside and peered out into the night. Rinharte doubted there was much to see, his reflection in the glass perhaps.
“I tried to get rid of her, but I couldn’t,” Ormuz said, apropos of nothing.
“Who?” asked Kordelasz, slouched on a sofa.
“Aszabella?” asked Finesz. She dropped to a seat on the bed, her gown spread wide.
“Yes. Aszabella.” He rested his forehead against the glass and spoke down at his feet. “I didn’t want her with me. I tried to tell her to go away. But first she wanted to meet the Admiral, and then she—he— wouldn’t go away.”
“It wasn’t your fault, Casimir,” Finesz said.
He straightened and spun round. “Of course, it was,” he snapped. “I took her into that room. If I hadn’t, Mate Kowo would still be alive.”
“Leka knew the risks, we all know the risks,” Rinharte put in. It hurt her to see Ormuz so upset.
“At an assembly?” he retorted bitterly. “What risk there? Being cut dead—I apologise: a bad choice of words. But. Being snubbed? Not a knife in the throat, surely.”
“You just need to be careful,” Varä admonished. He joined Kordelasz on the sofa but sat primly, one leg crossed over the other, in direct counterpoint to the marine-captain’s relaxed posture.
“I have been.” Ormuz smiled tightly. “Even with you.”
Varä pouted. “I’m hurt. Don’t you trust me?”
Ormuz scowled.
“She was quite a specimen though, Casimir,” Kordelasz said. “I would have been green with envy, if she hadn’t proven to be… well, a man, and… you know…” He trailed off in embarrassment.
The others turned to stare at him. The marine-captain turned a shade of red and closely inspected the fingernails of one hand.
“Garrin,” admonished Rinharte quietly. The man was incorrigible.
“Well said, captain,” came Finesz’s voice, heavy with sarcasm. She had flopped back on the bed and lay stretched out, her feet still on the floor.
Ormuz crossed to an armchair and fell into it, swearing as his sword caught him on the hip. Angrily, he fumbled with the lockets until he had the blade detached and then dropped it on the floor beside him. Changing subject, he said abruptly, “Tell me about the Duke of Ahasz and the Admiral.”
Rinharte straightened. “She loved him,” she said.
“Yes, she said,” Ormuz replied. “But she speaks of him with such anger now.”
“She doesn’t take betrayal well. She doted on him when she was a girl but he blackmailed the Emperor into giving him her hand in marriage. She never forgave him for it.”
“What’s Ahasz like?”
“I’ve never met him,” Finesz said. “Someone that powerful… Well, a different—higher—social circle to mine.”
“Neither have I,” said Kordelasz and Rinharte one after the other. Rinharte added, “In fact, we’ve never been to Shuto.”
“I have,” Varä said.
“And?” prompted Ormuz.
“He’s… charming. Very smooth, very aristocratic. A good-looking man— Of course you know that already, Casimir. An aesthete but a notable swordsman.”
“Sounds like a paragon,” remarked Kordelasz. “Is he a master?”
“He’s said to be,” Varä answered. “He was taught by the best.”
Kordelasz smiled wryly. “It’d be interesting to meet him.”
Rinharte had no doubt as to his meaning. “You might not come off better, Garrin,” she warned. She felt an interloper since she was still on her feet, so she took the armchair beside Ormuz’s. An occasional table separated the two chairs, a vase of flowers centred on its top. She moved the bouquet the better to see the youth. If only everything which obscured was as easy to remove. As a lieutenant of intelligence, Rinharte was used to gathering facts, suppositions, estimates, and in them seeing patterns. When she looked at Ormuz, she saw… nothing she could analyse, could build a strategy upon.
“Why not?” Kordelasz asked. “I doubt he’s ever fought in combat.”
“He’s said to have killed in duels,” Varä said. “I don’t know exactly how many, but close on a dozen. Defending the honour of his sister, I shouldn’t doubt.”
“He has a sister?” Ormuz leant forward and peered intently at the marquess.
“Lady Mayna, yes. The Marchioness of Angra. A celebrated beauty.”
“She sounds interesting,” Kordelasz remarked.
“I have a sister,” Ormuz said in wonder. “How old is she?”
“About the same age as the Admiral,” Varä replied.
Ormuz sat back and frowned. Rinharte wondered what he was thinking.
A knock sounded at the door. Rinharte glan
ced about the room but no one seemed likely to say anything, so she called, “Enter.” A servant bearing a tray entered. He crossed to the bureau sitting against one wall and transferred a decanter and five balloon glasses onto its top. With a quick bob in Ormuz’s direction, he left. Kordelasz rose languidly to his feet and crossed to the bureau. He set about pouring everyone a drink. The only sound was the clink of glass, the gurgle of liquid, and the occasional jingle of the marine-captain’s sword. Silently, he picked up two glasses and took them to Finesz and then Rinharte. She accepted hers with a nod of thanks and cradled the balloon-shape in her cupped palms. The rich smell of the brandy filled her nostrils and she noted it was a quality vintage.
Once everyone had a drink, Kordelasz returned to his seat. He raised his glass. “To the Admiral,” he said. The toast was repeated around the room.
Varä added, “And to Casimir.”
They drank a second toast.
Ormuz sat, staring into his brandy, deep in thought. Rinharte watched him for a while, then turned away. She could not forget the memory of that young woman in the gold ball gown leaping for Ormuz, a dagger in one hand. She relived her horror when the woman’s hair had come off in her hand, her confusion when she discovered the woman was in fact a man. If not for the preceding violence, and Kowo’s bloody death, the revelation would have been a shock. Now she could only look back on it with detached bemusement… and guilt, for not having spotted the masquerade. Despite the suspicions she had voiced to Finesz. She rued the fact she had not been more suspicious. It was not her fault she had failed to be so, but she could not help feeling responsible. With a sinking heart, she reflected that she felt as much to blame for endangering Ormuz as she did for putting the Admiral’s life in jeopardy. She could no longer separate the two. They were linked in her mind and had been, she realised dourly, for the last few days.
The Admiral and Casimir Ormuz… It seemed, on the face of it, ridiculous. Yet the Admiral had allowed the youth a level of intimacy she had permitted no one else. And, now that she considered it, the Admiral’s feelings for Ormuz were no more absurd than Rinharte’s own attraction to Lexander Lotsman. She smiled faintly as the pilot came to mind— No, not “pilot”: knight sinister serjeant. That prompted a scowl. They were not enemies but they were far from allies. His social rank did not bother her in the slightest. She had never pictured herself settling down with some worthy yeoman: her life was the Navy, would always be the Navy. Perhaps she had imagined some distant future wed to a fellow officer but she was not the sort to plan her life, and the idea of a family of her own had never occupied her thoughts.
She wondered what would happen once the Serpent was defeated. As an ex-mutineer—even though the mutiny had been for the best of motives and at the behest of the Admiral—she was unlikely to have much of a future career…
“Time to go,” said Finesz loudly, interrupting Rinharte’s thoughts. The OPI officer was on her feet, a hand decorously hiding a yawn. “It’s been a long night— ah, morning.”
Kordelasz too rose to his feet. Rinharte, seeing that the night was well and truly over, also stood. She gave Ormuz a smile and wondered if her expression matched his. He murmured, “Thank you,” but did not rise from his chair.
The three of them gathered at the door. Turning, Rinharte saw that Varä had shed his sword. The young marquess crossed to the bed and leapt onto it, rolling onto his back. He kicked off his shoes and flexed his stockinged feet. “Good-night,” he carolled, waving cheerily. He wriggled his hips, making himself comfortable.
“Off,” Ormuz ordered. “You can sleep on the sofa.”
“Casimir!” protested Varä. He rolled onto his side and propped his head on one arm. “The sofa, if you hadn’t noticed, my dear boy, is a good two feet shorter than I am. I could never sleep on it.”
Behind her, Rinharte heard Kordelasz snort in amusement.
“The floor, then,” Ormuz snapped. “You’re not sleeping in the damn bed.”
“Why not?” Varä pouted.
“Leave them to it,” Finesz said quietly. “They’ll be arguing all night.”
“Morning,” Rinharte said absently. “It’s been morning for a while.”
They gathered the next morning at the aerodrome to see off the last of the guests. Varä had declared it only polite and so Ormuz, Rinharte, Kordelasz, Finesz, the marquess and Alus’s squad had accompanied the Duke of Kunta to the aerodrome. Two platoons of Yalosukinen troops, led by Captain Vartoi, provided an honour guard. The party, well-wrapped in great-coats or fur-coats, stood on the apron and graciously accepted the thanks and well-wishes of those departing. It seemed an endless flow of faces, few of which Rinharte recognised from the night before. They all blurred into one, a composite being of florid features, well-fed and affluent, richly-dressed and of the best manners. She couldn’t feel contempt for these people because to do so would be contemptuous of her own place in society, but she could certainly wish that this cavalcade of gratitude would soon end.
During a break in the proceedings, Kunta asked Ormuz, “You’re leaving today?”
“We’re going aboard Vengeful,” Ormuz replied.
“Humpf. I can’t say it was a pleasure to have you but I’ll be sorry to see you go.”
“Why? Because it means events will take their course?”
“Don’t insult me, young man,” the duke growled. “I’ve done far more for you than you had any right to expect.”
Ormuz was uncharacteristically abashed. “I know, your grace. I’m grateful. You didn’t exactly welcome me with open arms but you’ve been a gracious host once the… misunderstandings were cleared up.”
“Remember that.” Kunta grimaced. “Some day, boy, I may have need of your patronage.” He turned to Rinharte. “And you, lieutenant-commander, tell the… Admiral that the next time I see her, there had better be no need of pseudonyms. It’s time she gave up this absurd masquerade of hers, and I’m not alone in thinking that.”
“No, your grace.”
“I’ll be sending a despatch to the Emperor with word of this week’s doings and I don’t expect Him to be happy about it.”
“It might be politic to wait until we’re back,” Ormuz said.
The duke took the news badly. “Back from where?” he asked in annoyance.
“It doesn’t matter where we go, but we’ll be returning here in about three weeks’ time.”
The duke opened his mouth to demand an explanation—
Something exploded on the runway.
Shocked, Rinharte turned… to see earth and shattered stone raining some fifty yards away. Bodies lay scattered across the apron. An arm, bloody where it had been torn from a shoulder, lay beside the upper half of some noble.
A bolt of directed-energy shot from behind one of the cutters waiting to take on passengers. It hit a group of yeomen running bent-double for shelter. Rinharte saw a man’s torso disappear in a detonation of blood and guts. Others, sprayed with red, fell to the ground. Someone began to scream.
“What in…?” demanded Kordelasz. He yanked his sword from his scabbard and brandished it.
“Your grace! Your grace!” yelled Captain Vartoi. “We’re under attack!”
Figures had appeared by the cutters. They wore yellow jackets with black cuffs and facings.
“Provincial Foot!” shouted Kordelasz, identifying the attackers.
More troopers rounded the cutters; three were pushing a field-piece, a wide-bore, short-barrelled cannon on a sled floating two feet above the ground. Behind it, a further two pulled a hovering power-cart.
The cannon fired. Directed-energy beams hit the duke’s guests. It was a slaughter. There was no defence. One woman, on the edge of a blast, reeled back, her mouth open to scream, one arm held high, a bloody stump just below the elbow. Rinharte fumbled for her sword.
Two household troopers grabbed the duke and hustled him back into the terminal.
Rinharte grabbed for Kordel
asz’s arm. “Garrin! No! The field-piece!” A sword was no defence against a directed-energy cannon—there was no defence against a directed-energy cannon.
Kordelasz shook off her hand impatiently. “You expect me to stand by while they attack?” he demanded. “You expect me to run?”
“Let the household troops deal with them! Let the Winter Rangers!”
A cannon bolt hit the terminal near Rinharte. Stone and glass exploded in a flash of light and an ear-shattering boom. She found herself on the ground, ears ringing. But still whole, still—Dear Lords—with all her limbs intact.
Kordelasz and Varä were on their feet, swords at guard. Ormuz scrambled to join them, though he was no sword-fighter.
The Provincial Foot cannon was still firing indiscriminately into the nobles. A second field-piece and power cart hove into view but directed at a cutter fleeing down the runway. The boat struggled into the air, wings waggling. Undercarriage folded smoothly away into the hull. A beam from the cannon hit. The cutter’s rear exploded. Fire burst out and roiled forward, engulfing the craft. Shrapnel flew in every direction. One wing went cartwheeling across the ground. The wreck hit the ground and ploughed a deep furrow.
Everyone was screaming or shouting. Yalosukinen troops knelt in line before the terminal, pikes at the ready.
“Where are the damn Rangers?” demanded Kordelasz angrily. “They must have cannon.”
“Waiting,” guessed Rinharte. “They’ll have orders to keep the duke safe, but these—” She waved an arm to take in the people dying on the apron— “These are not their responsibility. Why should they die for them?”
“They’ll die for me,” Ormuz growled. “I’ll have the head of their damn captain for this.”