by Blaze Ward
As Merryn approached, she noticed how much older Sri Redyert looked, like the last few months had aged him a decade. She knew him to be around fifty years standard, but right now he looked much, much older. And tonight he was dressed in his finest suit, while she was just in a clean outfit: gray slacks, gray ground shoes, three layers of shirt for warmth, and a blue jacket over top with pockets everywhere.
It did not leave her feeling secure. But then, nobody on Thuringwell really was.
Nobody could predict what Aquitaine would do next. They might all be broke tomorrow.
Meeting him here didn’t help her nerves.
This wasn’t his private club, but it was still among the nicest on the planet, catering to the flakiest bits of the upper crust. Merryn knew folks from the sector capital at Kittras who came to Thuringwell just to eat dinner at Sfacciato. She never had. Wouldn’t, except on someone else’s tab. A simple dinner party for four might run equal to her weekly operating budget.
But he had invited her. In words that let her know it was both safe, and serious.
Ulaffson Redyert rose from his chair as she got close and took her hand for a kiss. Old Imperial manners, even out here.
Merryn blushed, but not mostly from the embarrassment of the situation. She just didn’t belong in a joint like this.
What was he up to?
He even seated her like a perfect gentleman before returning to his own chair and pouring her a small amount of wine.
His own glass had lost more than he put in hers, but he knew she rarely drank. Conscious, careful, gentlemanly, precise.
Just how bad was it?
“You might have noticed some things have changed,” he cleared his throat evasively.
Merryn’s eyes danced in both directions, wondering how many of the people around the two of them were the sort of staunch Imperial citizens that would take offense at a rebel and a gun–runner in their midst, if they ever found out.
“The Aquitaine fleet introduced themselves personally,” she replied lightly, and with perhaps a hint of irony.
“And how did that go?” he asked with some concern.
She could see more in his eyes than just profit and loss. They had gotten deep into Imperial intrigue together. They might hang side by side.
“My papers were in perfect order,” Merryn hinted. “Seventh Son has now undergone a most thorough and complete inspection by Aquitaine Fleet Engineers. It was more detailed than anything I’ve ever paid to have done.”
Seriously. The Imperial yard at Kittras where she normally had maintenance and overhauls performed wasn’t as comprehensive. Those people would have found everything. Anything. A crate of rifles would have been nearly first on the list, to say nothing of trying to ship illegal narcotics in a crawlspace or secret closet.
At least they had been polite about it. And put everything back together better than they had found it. That one, twitchy light fixture in the kitchen worked right for the first time in nearly three years.
But that was what you got when you dedicated twenty expert men and women to a task and handed them the original design specs for the ship, which were always included in her manifest paperwork. She still wasn’t sure how frightened to be. They would know Seventh Son’s every nook and cranny next time they wanted to inspect her.
Merryn’s gun–running days might be over.
If she wanted to live to see thirty–three.
Ulaffson nodded at her and fortified himself with another gulp of wine.
“How lucky you came along when you did,” he said. “With the cargo manifest you had.”
Yes. Lucky. Without the contraband.
Merryn nodded. It was almost Kabuki Theater to talk in a room like this. Public. On display.
Exposed.
The man in the corner on her right had been and probably still was the biggest shipping magnate in the sector, owning two of the four mega–freighters that hauled ore out, and several of the smaller ones that brought in grain shipments regularly. Seventh Son had done neither, since that market was sewn up by friends and relatives of the Duke.
A thought struck her.
“So what happens to all the contracts with the former government, Herr Redyert?” she asked, perhaps a little louder than necessary. And more formal. But for public consumption.
He blinked at her for a moment, and then leaned back and got a canny look in his eyes. Now he was sipping his wine for effect, rather than strength.
“That, my dear, remains to be seen,” he pronounced. “I have had a meeting with the new Governor, and she is reviewing all existing contracts, as well as putting new tenders out for bid.”
Merryn felt her soul grow cold. If you wanted to hire a vessel, especially a formerly Imperial one, or at least one in Imperial Mail service, it made perfect sense to do a naval assessment of the vessel. Especially under the pretense of a customs inspection. One with a score of professional engineers on the task.
She wasn’t sure if she should feel honored or terrified.
“I was looking into the possibility of bidding on some of the upcoming contracts,” Redyert continued in an august tone. “That was one of the reasons I wanted to meet you for dinner this evening, Madam Teke. To discuss possible future business ventures, given that our regular sector mail contract is most indisputably terminated.”
Terrified.
Redyert hadn’t called her by her last name in years. Even in public. They were on stage here.
Or rather, she was. He was challenging all the other money in the room with his intent to change sides. To have her change sides as well.
Well, not change sides. Merryn had no intention of running guns to the Imperials. That was what changing sides would look like, to her. To the others, treason would be to take a contract hauling good and passengers to and from Aquitaine. Beyond that dark frontier.
Of course, the men in this room had never let politics get in the way of profit. It might, however, slow them down for a few months, leaving an opening for someone ambitious enough, nimble enough.
Crazy enough.
And if she had just had a major overhaul and tune job done by competent engineers, and hadn’t had to pay for it, she might just be in the running.
For a very short moment, deep in the dark places where she didn’t even whisper her secrets to herself, Merryn wondered how many other men in the room would try to outbid Redyert for her services. How many would try to buy Seventh Son, or her, or both outright?
She leaned back and took the slightest sip of her wine. It was amazingly good wine. It deserved better than the abuse Ulaffson had been subjecting it to.
Slowly she looked around the room. Several men were staring back. Electricity passed. None of them knew about the guns, but they apparently all knew about the inspection.
Just watching them, Merryn felt like she had just been delivered the best crème brûlée, the best cabernet in town. She was having dessert first tonight.
These men, these Imperial businessmen, would happily cut each other’s throats for a quick shilling. She had no doubts about that.
Redyert couldn’t doubt it, either. He was playing for the galleries, tonight.
How much money could she squeeze out of these people, if she wanted to dance?
Enough to retire? To buy a whole fleet of freighters and become a conglomerate?
Dad had invested his spare money over the years in a tavern owned by his best friend from school. It was supposed to be a place to live out his days in quiet, without the constant churn of travel and the risks of the life.
What did she want?
What did she want?
Up until this moment, Merryn had never gotten beyond the next quarter, the next year, the next major round of maintenance.
What is Redyert offering?
She leaned forward and put her elbows squarely on the table, resting her chin on her hands. He flinched briefly, but that was her not showing off the best Imperial table manners her mother had pounded i
nto her from a very early age. Merryn could probably do deportment better than Ulaffson, if push came to shove.
“You present a very interesting conundrum, Herr Redyert,” she purred.
Out of the corner of her eye, she could see several other men unconsciously lean closer as her words grew quiet. Ulaffson smirked very subtly. He probably saw the same things happening behind her.
“On the one hand, this world is under martial law,” she continued. “Aquitaine law. They would likely prefer that all trade goes across what used to be the frontier. Especially if this is now a war–zone.”
“Indubitably,” he replied, letting his smile hang the rest of his comment in the air.
“But this colony would probably collapse in short order without all the myriad spare parts and equipment that can only be acquired from Imperial suppliers in the short term,” she opined vaguely before pouncing. “Someone will have to go get those parts.”
“Someone who was willing to go through a much more rigorous customs inspection than is the norm for Thuringwell,” he agreed. “At a much greater risk, since either the Imperials or Aquitaine might confiscate cargo and vessel at any time.”
“Tremendous risk,” she countered.
“Tremendous need,” he replied. “And possibly a short–term monopoly on the supply of such parts, since I cannot imagine Aquitaine would sanction more than a very few vessels plying that shadowed line.”
Crap. How much money was he going to gouge the locals for?
A little light went on in her head.
Enough that they’ll consider replacing their machines with Aquitaine equipment over the next few years, committing them further to the Republic. Has he been a spy all along? A plant?
Merryn smiled. No. He was merely a businessman. One with a very long memory of slights and insults at the hands of the Duke and his friends.
Paybacks are a bitch, aren’t they?
A waiter interrupted her thoughts before they got too dark. He delivered salads and offered cheese with one hand and pepper with the other. Merryn hadn’t ordered. Ulaffson had apparently prepared everything in advance.
Yes, he was playing a much longer game than she had realized ten minutes ago. Deeper. Sneakier.
Better.
She smiled at him. Cracking her knuckles right now would feel appropriate, since they were about to get down to brass tacks, however poorly it might look in a joint like this.
But yeah, there was suddenly a lot of money on the table, for a woman willing to dream.
Chapter XXXIX
Date of the Republic July 2, 396 Backwoods, Thuringwell
Göll was feeling frisky. The roan mare sneezed at something and kipped her hips a little as they walked.
Dash flickered her wrist. Not much, just enough to twitch the bit in her mare’s mouth and remind her that they were on duty today.
On Patrol.
Nobody was signaling with the bugle, not in a back country heavy with ticks and Imperials, but all the horses were at least as well trained as the men and women riding them. They knew the signs.
Hunting.
The back country of northern Thuringwell wasn’t as heavy and impassible as it looked from the air. Not enough drizzle to support a full–on temperate rain forest, not like some of the places on Saxon. Just enough that tanks couldn’t run roughshod and infantry would get lost.
Of course, most infantry units could be counted on to get lost in the middle of a highway on the way to the bar or the brothel, if left to their own devices.
It had taken half the afternoon, circling around the launch point for the mortars and getting scouts down on the ground. The Impi’s probably thought they were being cute, coming in one way and heading out the other.
It made perfect sense if’n you were a city boy looking at things on a map from the air conditioned confines of your fine, expensive office. But most of Saxon was back country.
Her scouts had found both sets of tracks. Eight men. Five carrying heavy gear, the mortar team plus three men with ammunition boxes. Two more who were probably scouts and guards. Plus one officer in really nice boots. Expensive. Barely broken in.
Probably pulled them out of his foot locker when the flag went up five weeks ago and had barely worn them in the field before this. Certainly, the treads were still crisp.
Dash was pretty sure she’d be able to ID the man just from his feet, if they ever caught up with him.
Now, she had pushed out the whole patrol in separate groups. Ninety troopers, ninety–one with Vo, split into their nine lances, like fingers pushing through long hair, working out tangles and searching for ticks. Not that her brunette locks were ever that long. Usually just barely enough to pull back into a tail like Göll’s.
But they’d find the Imperials who thought they were being cute.
She snickered. The Fleet Centurion had been right. Fourth Saxon was absolutely the best unit for a back–woods task like this. Eleventh Xelni Rifles was the only other Legion she could think of with enough skill to do this. And they were mostly mountain infantry specialists.
They’d have all their fun farther north and way west of here, up in the cold, rugged nastiness of hill country.
Arlo glanced sideways at her.
Dash just smiled.
“It wouldn’t make any sense to anybody outside my head, Vo,” she said with a wave of her hand.
He nodded at her.
She’d been a mite anxious when they added that city boy to the troop. Never seen a horse in person, didn’t know a damned thing about them. But he’d turned out to be pretty good at it. And had been studying hard, mostly her from the bad habits he’d picked up. Shevi was doing fine, and Vo rode at least as well as her regulars, even if he’d never been in a hell–for–leather charge into enemy fire.
At least he wasn’t going to hurt himself falling off his horse. That had been a worry.
And he had proven himself crazy enough for Patrol Squadron. That went a long ways to cementing his place in the column.
A rider cantered close. Dash identified Hawne Sherazi, Decanus of 3rd Squadron’s Castle Lance, by his horse, Mitra. Her black coat was the single darkest in the Patrol, on one of the sweetest horses. He swung long ways around and ended up on her right, opposite Vo.
“Narwhal picked up something,” he said. “Figured you should see it.”
Nothing more than that. And that was a lot of words from Sherazi. Unless you wanted to talk music with the man. Then he might never shut up.
“Have everybody hold,” Dash called back to Aoibhín. “Fifteen minute rest stop.”
Mitra was already moving. Göll and Shevi followed, along with the rest of the lance.
She loved the Narwhal. Nobody ever gave it enough credit, thinking that her troopers were super–duper redneck hillbillies born with forest craft in their DNA.
Horse shit.
Saxon had running water and extensive public libraries.
Hard work and bleeding–edge electronics at every opportunity.
They had invented the Narwhal on Saxon.
Telescoping carbon–fibre rod that would bounce up to six meters with the flick of a wrist. Package on the top about the size of a lunch pail, covered over with every sensor a Legion Armorer could think of. Optical cameras, audio sensors, radio. The works. Plant it in the ground every hour or so and listen to the birds and squirrels, unless something made the little red light go ping.
Apparently, something had.
Castle Lance, 3rd Squadron was all dismounted when she arrived, splayed out in a rough circle with the horses to one side and guns pointed outward. Just like she had pounded into everyone’s head. She made a note to give Sherazi a gold star later.
Two lances mostly filled the little clearing, so she pushed her team off to the left and followed Sherazi on foot, with Vo, Aoibhín, and the Draconarius in tow.
She found Trooper Yağmur Küçük up a tree. Little Rain, her name meant in one of the ancient tongues. Today, she looked like
a squirrel. Being the smallest woman in the Squadron didn’t help.
She was also a Pioneer, the explosives and electronics expert for her lance, and the bearer of that squadron’s Narwhal.
Yağmur was intent on something. Her nose was almost pressed to the bark, as if she was sniffing.
“Little more left,” Yağmur called. “There. Now put me a second post and we’ll nail the line.”
It took Dash a second to figure out.
One of the lance’s troopers was up the way a bit. This was mostly a game trail, but deadfalls and age had cleared out some space as well. Not a highway, but also not a full–on bramble you had to shatter with machetes.
The second trooper had set one stick in the ground and was holding a second while everyone ignored them and watched the trees.
“A skoosh right,” Yağmur continued. “Bit more. There. Drop that.”
The little woman watched for a moment, then shimmied down to the ground and smiled up at the rest.
“Bastard thought he could get away with it,” she announced in a tone that sounded like victory.
“With what?” Dash asked.
Yağmur looked at her blankly for a second.
“Oh, right,” she said. “Hi, Dash. We were riding by and the Narwhal beeped. Went back and found a laser transmitter hidden in the tree. Nearly freaking invisible, but it’s on so I could scan it. Got a line on the next one. Someone’s being sneaky.”
“How so?” Dash asked.
Talking to Yağmur was like talking to a squirrel sometimes. You had to let her run out of energy. Interrupting her explanations just made them take longer.
Yağmur pointed to her left, the direction Scout Patrol had been headed.
“Shooters went that–a–way, Chief,” she said. “Nice and smooth and moving at a good clip.”
She held out her other hand, pointed to the right. Now she was the world’s smallest, cutest scarecrow.
“Laser’s pointed the other way,” she said. “They got us heading off after nothing but those eight goobers, and probably an ambush. Main force is north–east of here instead. Probably waiting for us to get lost so they can come in and hit the base again when nobody’s looking.