By Honor Betray'd: Mageworlds #3

by Doyle, Debra; Macdonald, James D.

  The main picture dissolved again, this time into instructions on how to place a bet on the exact time of Beka Rosselin-Metadi’s death—“death” being defined, for the occasion, as the endpoint of her heart’s final contraction.

  Yevil closed her eyes. “Damnation,” she whispered, then keyed on the headphone link.

  “Lekinusa,” she said. “Report location and status of Domina of Entibor if known.”

  LeSoit still looked pale and grim. He’d already unfolded the comp unit out of its bulkhead niche, and was pulling what looked like Suivan commercial directories out of main ship’s memory. “‘Last Exits,’” he muttered under his breath. “‘Last Exits.’ If we can find out where the execution is going to take place, we can—”

  “Lekinusa just reported a blank on the Domina’s location,” Yevil said. “And Suivi local ten-time is real soon now. We don’t have time … .”

  “I’ve got an address. I’m going to do it anyway.”

  “Wrong. We’re going to do it.” She keyed on the link again. “Any unit in Space Force Suivi Det, this is SF Suivi Det. Send me engineering plans showing location of Suivi InfoTain Six studios and all spaces owned by Last Exits, Limited.”

  The little procession continued down the hall—the guard in the lead, followed by the hooded, chittering Rotis, then Beka, and the two ConSecs with blasters at the ready. They turned another corner and the corridor dead-ended in a solid metal door closed with a heavy cipher lock.

  The guard tapped out a sequence on the lock’s keypad. The door slid open. The pressure of a blaster muzzle against her back urged Beka forward, into a square, unfurnished room with glassy, mirror-polished walls. The round, outcurving lenses of holovid recorders goggled at her like fish eyes from all eight of the room’s corners.

  There was a metal ringbolt in the center of the polished floor, and a set of ankle binders attached to it by a short chain. Beka felt the blaster pressing harder against her back.

  “Don’t even think about it,” said the guard. “Or this will get a whole lot worse.”

  She felt binders snap around her ankles, so that she was chained to the floor, without enough slack in the binders to kick out, or to go further than one or two mincing, unbalanced steps in either direction.

  Don’t ask how it could be worse, Beka thought. This is Suivi Point. They can always come up with something.

  The metal wall ahead of her wavered and went transparent. Behind it stood a grey-haired, slightly stooping figure. Beka recognized Tarveet of Pleyver.

  Of course. No holovid newscast for him. If he paid for it, he gets to watch in person.

  “Can’t you take us down any faster?”

  LeSoit fed a measured increment of power to the ’Hammer ’s realspace engines. “I don’t like all this crawling either,” he said to Captain Yevil, “but if I try anything suspicious Local Defense is likely to stop me on the way in.”

  “Suivan Local Defense is a joke,” Yevil said. “It’s all contracted out, like surface security. Give them a show of force and they’ll back off.”

  She keyed on the Space Force ship-to-ship comms. “All units in Space Force Suivi Det, this is SF Suivi Det. Neutralize local defense forces. I say again, neutralize local defense forces. Cover Republic Armed Merchant Pride of Mandeyn. Over.”

  LeSoit fed in more power as the vessels in Yevil’s force responded to the order. He looked at the cockpit chronometer and the navicomp, and shook his head.

  “It’s going to be close.”

  Yevil gazed off into the middle distance as she estimated times and distances—the navicomp would have done it for her, but setting up the problem would have taken more time than she currently had.

  “Too close,” she said. “Unless there’s a last-minute hitch of some kind, we aren’t going to make it.”

  “We’re going to try.”

  She pressed her lips together. “Late is worse than never. And I have my oath of fealty to consider.”

  “So do I,” he said. “What do you propose to do about it?”

  “You’re on your own with that one.” She keyed on her comm link again. “All units in Space Force Suivi Det, this is Space Force Suivi Det. Unless countermanded by me personally, attack Suivi Point commencing at eleven-time local. Maximize damage to commercial and business property; maximize casualties. Out.”

  LeSoit glanced over at her. “I thought Suivi was part of what you guys in the Space Force were supposed to protect.”

  “Not anymore,” said Yevil. “It was their idea to execute the Domina; they’re the ones that can damned well bleed for it.”

  “You won’t get any argument on that from me.”

  “Good.” She looked down at the glowing comp screen on her side of the main console. “Ship’s memory is giving us a fix on our position relative to InfoTain Six and the Last Exits facility—they’re all a long way from the spacedocks and too close for comfort to Main Detention.”

  “Any surface maintenance locks nearby?”

  “I’m looking … yes.”

  “Fine. You take the controls and get us as close to one as you can. I’m heading back for the airlock. Soon’s all the motion’s stopped, pop the lock on the outside.”

  “Got it.” Yevil began switching over the ’Hammer’s main control functions to her side of the board. “What am I supposed to be doing while you’re gone?”

  LeSoit checked the charge on his blaster. “Watch InfoTain Six,” he said. “They might have more of a show than they expected.”

  In Karipavo’s sickbay, the prisoner lay under a light blanket on one of the beds. Only the basic monitors were hooked up and running, and she hadn’t required time in a healing pod—two facts that cheered Gil considerably. All his other fights with edged weapons had been sporting encounters, and he hadn’t much cared for the experience of mauling someone about with serious intent.

  The object of that intent was still a trifle pale and subdued, most likely from trauma and loss of blood. Her bearing, though, had none of the earlier desperation that had impelled her toward death on his rapier’s blade. Gil sat down in the visitor’s chair by the side of her bed.

  “Hello,” he said. “After the way we met yesterday, I suppose it’s time we got acquainted. I am Baronet D’Rugier. Whom do I have the honor of addressing?”

  The woman looked at him for a moment. Her eyes were pale grey, with a dark ring around the iris. Seen at close range she was somewhat younger than the silver in her hair had at first implied—about Gil’s own age, as far as he could tell, and certainly no older. Was it worry and hardship that had marked her thus, he wondered, or merely some quirk of heredity? When she spoke, her Galcenian had the heavy accent Gil had noted before, but the words come out fluently enough—he’d heard worse on some of the Republic worlds.

  “I am called Inesi syn-Tavaite, my lord.” She paused, as if searching her mind for something. “In your language, I think I am Doctor Inesi syn-Tavaite.”

  “Doctor syn-Tavaite,” Gil said. “I offer you a place in my crew.”

  When she heard the words, the prisoner’s grey eyes seemed to widen and grow lighter. Gil wondered briefly at the change in the woman’s expression—had she found the thought of being placeless so bad that even a niche among the enemy was better than nowhere at all?

  “You’ll take me on?” she asked.

  “I will,” he said. “Where I’ll assign you depends on your skills, of course.”

  She nodded. She had more control of her features now; the flash of gratitude was gone. “Of course.”

  Gil looked at her for a few seconds, assessing her. “You mentioned that you might be called ‘Doctor.’ Does this make you a medical practitioner, or an academician?”

  “Both,” the woman said. “I know something of diseases and of the body’s functions, but my work has been theoretical for some years.”

  “I understand,” Gil said. He rose. “When you’re back on your feet, I’ll give you an assignment where your talents will be bes
t utilized. Good day to you, Doctor syn-Tavaite.”

  He left the sickbay, and went out into the narrow corridor where Lieutenant Jhunnei was waiting.

  “Any luck with the prisoner, sir?”

  Gil shrugged. “Well, we know that she’s some kind of medical theoretician … at least, she says she is, and that’s the sort of thing we should be able to check out. For what it’s worth, I don’t think she was lying.”

  “Did you get anything beyond that, though?”

  “A name,” he said. “It might even be her real one. Nothing else just yet.”

  “Maybe you should have leaned on her a little.”

  “No,” said Gil. “I don’t want to scare her back into a suicidal fit. Slowly does it, I think.”

  “I suppose so, Commodore.”

  Gil laughed under his breath. “You don’t think it’s worth the effort of cultivating her, I take it.”

  “Well, sir … she is a Mageworlder.”

  “She is that,” Gil said. “But I think I can trust her, now that I’ve caught her. And I’ll remind you that I did so on your advice and with your suggestions.”

  “That’s not—”

  “I keep my bargains,” he said. “I’ll let Doctor syn-Tavaite have a chance to keep hers.”

  “What exactly has she agreed to, Commodore?”

  “Nothing yet. But I think that she will, given time.”

  Jhunnei frowned a little. “Yes, sir. And speaking of time … I’ve heard that some of the other ships’ crews are wondering when pay and prize money will be handed around.”

  “Merro’s been dropping hints, you mean.”

  “That’s about the shape of it, yes.”

  “I can’t say that I blame her.” Gil considered his options. “We’ve had slim pickings on this run so far. Nobody’s ever gotten rich or won a war off a single prisoner and a hold full of engine parts. But we haven’t taken any losses either, and I think we’ve pulled in enough loot to tease people’s appetites.”

  “Back to Waycross, then, for a payout?”

  “Looks like,” said Gil. He smiled slightly. “And if anybody on Innish-Kyl was betting against us making it back to port in one piece, this should give them a healthy surprise.”

  As soon as the ’Hammer was securely down, Yevil stood and walked back to the common room. The holovid set was still in place. She switched it on and started a recording sequence—when the war was over, if the Space Force won, she was morally certain that she’d have to write up a report on whatever happened today on Suivi Point.

  The special program had already begun. Yevil glanced from the holovid—an excellent three-dimensional representation with beautiful color—to the array of ship’s chronometers on the bulkhead. One displayed Suivi local time: straight up on ten. Another showed elapsed minutes and seconds since the ’Hammer’s outer airlock door had opened.

  Not long enough, Yevil thought. Hurry, LeSoit.

  The holovid tank showed the same bare metal cubicle that the advertisement had featured earlier. A fanfare sounded as a door in one wall slid open to admit four figures robed and hooded in scarlet, and a tall, thin woman in a pale green gown: Beka Rosselin-Metadi. A ConSec guard followed close behind her.

  “Here she is,” said the voice of an off-camera announcer. “The Domina of Entibor, tried and found guilty of treason! Last call for bets in the Dead Domina Pool!”

  Yevil moved to the other side of the holovid tank. Yes, the ConSec had a blaster pressed against the Domina’s back, and her hands were caught in binders. The room’s glassy, mirror-polished walls repeated the image all around—probably so that watchers who had to pick up the vid flat would be able to see all the details.

  A metal ringbolt was fastened in the center of the room’s polished floor, with a set of ankle binders attached to it by a short chain. The guard’s mouth started to move. Yevil turned up the sound to hear what he was saying:

  “Don’t even think about it. Or this will get a whole lot worse.”

  Two more guards entered the room and snapped the binders around the Domina’s ankles, chaining her to the floor. The binders on her wrists were removed, and the guards left. Another fanfare sounded over the speakers in the holovid tank.

  “That’s it!” called the announcer. “No more bets! And here he is, with a final offer of mercy—Tarveet of Pleyver!”

  In the holovid, the metal wall ahead of the Domina wavered and went transparent. Yevil had never seen the councillor from Pleyver, except in current-events stillpix and occasional clips on the holovid news, but the man on the other side of the wall matched the public images well enough. The Domina was looking at him with a disgusted expression, as if he were something she’d found on the bottom of her shoe.

  “You really should have accepted my offer,” he said.

  Beka didn’t change expression. “Maybe. Would it make any difference now if I said I wished I had?”

  Tarveet looked regretful. “I’m afraid not, my dear. Matters have proceeded much too far for that.”

  “Just as well. I’d be lying anyway.”

  “Charming as always,” Tarveet said. “So be it.”

  He gestured, and the clear glass wall in front of him wavered again, changing back into a mirrored surface. The creatures in scarlet threw off their robes. The claws on their hands and halfway up their arms shone golden in the light, making dazzles of reflection in the mirrored walls. They chittered back and forth in their own language and began to circle Beka where she stood chained to the bolt in the floor.

  “Those are Rotis,” the announcer said. “Fast, strong, sapient; some of Last Exits’ most popular technicians. And they only eat living meat!”

  “There’s just the four of them, though,” came the voice of a second announcer, unctuous with false concern. “Do you suppose they’ll be sated before she’s dead?”

  “I doubt it. They look pretty hungry to me—and if they get careless and nip an artery, she’ll die before they’re done eating. That won’t make them happy.”

  The sound switched again to the pickup from the execution chamber: chittering Rotis; the Domina’s heartbeat, specially amplified for the people with money riding on it; and then, cutting through all those, the whine of a blaster and a man’s cry of pain. An instant later the mirrored wall shattered inward with a tremendous explosion of sound.

  Collapsor grenade, thought Yevil, as the Domina wavered and fell forward, the binders around her ankles pitching her facedown onto the floor. Ignac’ must have gotten himself one from the weapons locker. Blaster bolts lanced in over the Domina’s head as she fell, taking down the Rotis. Then a tall, fair-haired man stepped in through the wreckage of the mirrored wall.

  Wait a minute, Yevil thought, that isn’t Ignac’!

  The man bent to lift the Domina onto her feet.

  “Nyls Jessan,” the Domina said. “You took your own sweet time about getting here.”

  Jessan raised her to her feet and kissed her quickly on the forehead. Then, using what Yevil noticed was a very good form and stance indeed, he began shooting out the holovid cameras one by one. The tank in Warhammer’s common room went dark, then lit up again with a TECHNICAL DIFFICULTIES notice.

  Yevil looked back up at the chronometers. Only four minutes after ten. But where the hell was Ignaceu LeSoit?

  Beka let herself rest against Jessan’s shoulder for a moment longer. The smoke and dust in the execution studio had begun to settle, and she saw the Rotis lying motionless on the metal floor, as well as more bodies—dead or unconscious holovid technicians—lying in the larger room outside the mirrored cube. She didn’t see Tarveet anywhere.

  “How did you get here?” she asked.

  Jessan set her carefully back onto her feet again, and bent down to wrap cutting charges around the ankle binders. The charges flashed, scorching the cheap fabric of her skirt, and the manacles fell away. He straightened.

  “Dahl&Dahl,” he said. “They couldn’t help you in the committee—or wouldn’t;
they might not have wanted to push a political fight they were bound to lose—but they stuck by us just the same.”

  “You mean they bought off the guards for you?”

  “And gave us maps and schedules.”

  “Good for Dahl&Dahl. Where’s Tarveet?”

  “He’s still breathing. Your brother’s got him.”

  Beka took one careful step, then another. Her knees were still shaky, and the binders had scraped her flesh. “Ari?”

  “No—the other one.”

  “Owen’s here?”

  She caught sight of her brother as the last of the smoke dissipated. He wore spacer’s coveralls as usual; these were cleaner than the ones he’d been wearing the last time they met, with a vaguely familiar ship’s ID patch on the breast pocket. He carried Tarveet’s gangling body draped over his shoulders. A young woman, also in plain coveralls, followed close after him. Both of them carried Adepts’ staves.

  “Owen!” Beka called the name aloud. “What do you need Tarveet for? We have to get out of here!”

  “He’s a souvenir,” said the girl. She spoke Galcenian with an accent that Beka didn’t recognize. “High trade-in value.”

  “Well, I’m not going to take a turn lugging him out to—to wherever we’re going.”

  Jessan handed Beka his blaster and unslung an energy lance from across his back. “Shuttle bay two. I’ve bought us passage the hell out of here and up to Claw Hard.”

  “Osa’s here too?” Beka closed her hand around the cool plastic of the blaster’s grip. Automatically, she checked the setting and the charge—both showed up full. “What’s the son of a bitch charging you?”

  “Nothing. He’s a volunteer.”

  “I’ll be damned.”