“I suppose you’re going to kill me. No matter to me; everyone dies. But hundreds, thousands, millions dead before their time, all so some spoiled bitch can keep her power twenty minutes longer? That’s too high a price. And you, with your silly broadcasts and disguises, you’ll prolong a war and kill who knows how many more. A bad peace is better than a good war, my lady.
“Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll find that cha’a that you talked about.”
Tarveet turned and walked into the galley. Beka watched him go with a skeptical expression.
“You know,” she said after he’d come back, “a few weeks ago I might have believed in your sincere desire for peace. You give a good speech, and I’ll grant you that not everybody out there thinks that standing up to the Mages is a good idea. But feeding me to the beaky-boys—you can’t tell me that idea was just good old Pleyveran boosterism at work.”
“Perhaps not, then.” There was, finally, a glint of malice in his expression as he added, “Perhaps I should have spent a little more money and taken your Consort first. With certain knowledge of his death you might have been open to reason and called off your charade.”
“Not likely. The people who killed my mother—and tried to kill my brother Ari and tried to kill me—used Pleyver for a base of operations. That’s when the war started. You must have known something was up. And you never let out a peep.”
“Does that still bother you?”
“Three guesses. The first two don’t count.”
“So,” he said. “Now we come to what I have that you want. You want to know what I know.”
“That’s right. Who else on the Republic side of things was part of the plan? There was Nivolm the Rolny and Ebenra d’Caer—but they were from the neutral worlds. There must have been people inside the Republic involved. I think you’re one of them. I want to know the names of the rest.”
“For what? Revenge? With the galaxy coming apart all around you?”
She said nothing. Suddenly Tarveet leaned back and smiled.
“If you must have answers,” he said, and paused to take a sip of cha’a, “go find the Master of the Adepts’ Guild. Ask Errec Ransome to tell you what happened to the Domina Perada.”
V. INNISH-KYL: COUNTRY ESTATE OF ADELFE ANEVERIAN
GYFFERAN NEARSPACE: RSF VERATINA
“OH, DEAR,” murmured Nyls Jessan under his breath. “I seem to have been abandoned.”
The other members of Warhammer’s crew were scattered by now all over the crowded lawn of Adelfe Aneverian’s country estate. Beka and Commodore Gil had gone off to discuss something; Ignaceu LeSoit had escorted the commodore’s Eraasian prisoner of war over to the buffet tables for refreshment and animated conversation; Owen Rosselin-Metadi and his apprentice had drifted away from the main area some time ago for reasons that Jessan didn’t feel qualified to guess.
He shrugged and began to stroll about the grounds in search of some temporary diversion. The diversion found him, instead, in the form of a Space Force lieutenant with an aide’s gold aiguillette and a nametag that read JHUNNEI.
“Lieutenant Commander Jessan,” she said. “I’ve been hoping for a chance to talk with you.”
“Oh, dear,” said Jessan again. “I suppose it was inevitable … . Exactly how much of my disgraceful past are you familiar with, anyway?”
“All of it, Commander. And I know who rewrote your records.”
Jessan looked at her with renewed respect. “You wouldn’t happen to be working for our friends in Intelligence?”
“Of course not,” she said promptly. “Given their success rate these days, who’d want to?”
“You have a point there, I’m afraid. In that case, you must be the commodore’s aide. My compliments on an excellent party.”
She accepted the praise without any blushing or false modesty. “Thank you, Commander. I notice you showed up in civilian persona yourself.”
“Not civilian,” he corrected her. “General of the Armies of Entibor. Since the public record still has me down as cashiered from the Space Force, I really didn’t have any choice.”
“Probably not. But we both know the truth; and you are still under oath and under orders.”
“Mmmh,” said Jessan. He accepted a glass of the sparkling punch from a passing waiter and turned back toward Jhunnei. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with those ships, would it?”
Jhunnei didn’t blink. “The commodore needs them. You’re staff corps, not a line officer; and the Domina isn’t space-command qualified any more than you are.”
“True enough,” he said. “But there are some things that it’s a good idea to ask for politely rather than to demand. The ships are, after all, hers—to give you or not as she pleases.”
“Not exactly a realistic position.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that.” Jessan sipped at his punch. “The commodore’s not running a pure Space Force operation here. A lot of his people haven’t sworn oaths to anybody—they’re a bunch of heavily armed civilians who’ve thrown in with him based on a little sentiment and a lot of self-interest. If the Baronet D’Rugier starts commandeering people’s ships and claiming to outrank the Domina of Lost Entibor, he’s going to lose them.”
“You approve of that idea, Commander?”
He shook his head. “Nobody, I think, is going to deny that the Space Force can make more use of the Domina’s flotilla than she can, acting alone.”
“Then what was that speech in honor of?”
“It’s advice, Lieutenant,” he said. “From somebody who knows Beka Rosselin-Metadi rather well. If the commodore wants those ships, he’ll need to go about it carefully—and if the Domina asks him for something in exchange, he’d better be ready to give it to her.”
Klea Santreny stood leaning on her staff and waiting. At her feet lay Owen Rosselin-Metadi—that part of him not traveling out of the body somewhere in the vastness of space and time—and beside Owen the shadowy form of the other. Or at least, shadowy to her eyes, as if he were somehow both visible and obscured. How Owen had perceived the stranger she couldn’t begin to guess.
“You have good eyes,” said a voice beside her.
She turned her head, and saw the stranger standing there. If I look back around, she wondered, will I see him where he was before? She didn’t look.
“Tell me who you really are,” she said. “He thinks you look like him—I could feel him thinking it—but you don’t.”
“Names aren’t important. I gave mine away long ago.”
The stranger’s accent wasn’t like Owen’s, either; wherever he came from, it wasn’t Galcen. Wherever he came from—she shivered. Her grandmother had told her about creatures who looked like men, who didn’t have names and weren’t there when you looked at them, creatures who arrived after sunset and departed before dawn, taking things with them.
She clutched her staff so tightly that her knuckles hurt. “What do you want?”
“Only to help. There was something else, once … but I lost it when I lost my name, and it doesn’t matter any longer.”
“I don’t care,” she said. “If this is helping, I don’t see much use for it.”
“There are some things that no one can tell the Master of the Guild. Some things he can only learn for himself. Or never learn.”
I don’t know what you are, Klea thought. But you sound crazy.
She didn’t say it, and by the time she’d thought of something else to say instead, he was gone. She went back to watching over Owen’s motionless body. The twilight deepened; the garden was lit by the warm yellow glow of the lanterns hanging in the trees. She kept on watching.
I like it better here anyway. There’s too many people out there, and they think too loudly. And that aide person, Lieutenant Jhunnei … I could feel her listening to me think.
Footsteps crunched on the turf, breaking into her reverie. She looked toward the noise, half-expecting to see the stranger coming back again, but this time the newcomer wa
s clearly real and fully present. With his elegant ruffled shirt and glittering red eye patch, and the black velvet long-coat over it all, he looked like one of Baronet D’Rugier’s free-spacers—half merchant, half pirate, and completely dangerous.
Klea held herself stiffly, hoping that the privateer wasn’t in a mood to cause trouble. He stopped a few feet away, and glanced from her face down to Owen’s motionless body.
“Taking good care of him, are you?”
The voice was familiar and the accent unmistakable. Klea risked looking deeper, and caught her breath.
“Domina Beka?”
The young man’s mouth quirked up in a tight smile. “So much for trying to fool the Adepts around here.”
“I don’t understand,” said Klea. She supposed she ought to be more formal—this was, after all, the first time she’d spoken with the Domina alone—but it didn’t seem to matter.
The privateer shrugged. “Why would anybody want to be the Domina of Entibor for one second longer than they had to?”
Klea recognized sincerity when she heard it, even in disguise. I didn’t think it was possible for somebody else to hate anything as much as I hated working for Freling … but this comes close. “What should I call you, then?”
“Tarnekep Portree. Merchant captain. And other things.”
“Captain Portree.”
“That’s right.” He looked down again at Owen. “How long has he been out like that?”
“Since dark.”
“I hope he knows what the hell he’s doing.”
Klea weighed her answers, and decided that honesty was the best after all. “So do I.”
“I want him with me when I talk to the commodore,” Portree said. “I’ll stay here until he comes back.”
Klea didn’t say anything. They waited: Klea leaning on her staff, Portree with his back to a tree and his arms folded across his chest. At last Owen stirred, opened his eyes, and sat up.
“Where—?” he muttered. Then his gaze landed on Tarnekep Portree, still watching impassively. Recognition was instant. “Bee?”
“Tarnekep Portree.”
Owen looked at the privateer and shook his head. “You’re not planning to talk to the commodore like that, are you?”
“As a matter of fact, I am.” Portree glanced from Owen’s face to Klea’s. “Let’s go collect the rest of Warhammer’s merry band of misfits, so we can corner the baronet and have ourselves a serious discussion.”
Aboard RSF Veratina, a dull midwatch was half-over. In the Combat Information Center, the sensor technicians on duty watched their screens while the comptechs ran internal maintenance checks. The Tactical Action Officer leaned back in his chair, watching the empty battle tank and sipping at a cup of lukewarm cha’a that had steeped far too long in the pot.
One of the sensor techs bent forward to look more closely at her screen. “Wait a minute. I’m tracking some motion out here. New stuff.”
“Put it up in the tank,” the TAO ordered.
The tank lit up with the by now familiar diagram of the Gyfferan system. A mass of blue dots was expanding outward from the home planet like bubbles in sparkling wine.
“Ships rising,” said the sensor tech. “Too many for an accurate count at this range without going active.”
“Shrink it for the display.”
“Shrinking it, aye.”
The blue effervescence coalesced into a single bright blue dot, still moving outward from Gyffer.
“That’s better,” said the TAO. “Looks like we’ve got everyone who can boost leaving orbit there. Things could get interesting.”
“Shall I inform the General, sir?”
“The General already knows,” said Metadi, from near the entrance to the CIC.
“Ah, there you are, sir. I didn’t see you come in.”
Metadi came farther into the CIC. Commander Quetaya, trim and efficient as usual, was with him, ever-present clipboard in hand. “Learn to keep your eyes open,” Metadi said to the TAO. “You won’t always find your enemies on the other side of a glass screen.”
The TAO looked abashed. “Yes, sir.”
“Right, then.” Metadi gazed at the display in the battle tank. “Looks like the LDF’s gone out hunting for Mages. I’ll need a set of contingency battle plans based on the assumption that they find what they’re looking for—and at least one other set assuming that the Mages start their attack before the LDF can make contact. Records from the last Space Force/Local Defense joint exercise are probably in the ’Tina’s main memory somewhere; use them for an idea of how a big fleet would go about attacking Gyffer and what kind of resistance the Gyfferans would put up.”
“When do you need them, sir?”
“Yesterday,” said Metadi, “but as soon as possible will do.”
Quetaya stepped forward and proffered her clipboard. “I have a set of preliminary plans prepared, General. Would you care to review them?”
Metadi took the clipboard. “Just out of idle curiosity, Commander, when did you start drawing these up?”
“When you announced our destination, sir,” she said. “Given two knowns, our strength and our location, there weren’t a whole lot of branches on the decision tree.”
He looked at her. “And where do you see those branches taking us?”
“Frankly, sir—barring wild luck or divine intervention—they fall into two main groups: either we run like hell or we all die.”
“Wild luck is nobody’s friend,” said Metadi. “And we aren’t so all-around virtuous that some deity is going to pull us out of the soup from sheer admiration. And running isn’t an option.”
Quetaya looked resigned. “That leaves us with the plans in the ‘we all die’ subgroup, then.”
“Right. Tell me more about that one. Do you have any branches where we accomplish our mission before we all die?”
“Without being a mind reader or a fortune-teller? Nothing’s certain. But some of them have a better shot than others.”
“Very well, Commander,” Metadi said. “I want two of your sets of plans for review at the head of the queue. The branches in which we gain victory, any way at all—and the ones where we lose the quickest. I’ll be looking for the gambits of both of them.”
“Yes sir,” said Quetaya.
“I’m commandeering the TAO’s chair for this one.” Metadi suited the action to the words. The displaced officer moved over to stand near the bulkhead, while Metadi turned back to Commander Quetaya. “You can start your presentation any time you want. Plug your clipboard into the tank console and display it up there.”
The commander looked dubious. “Sir, a lot of this material is classified at quite a high level—”
“Anyone in this compartment might become the senior survivor at almost any time, and have to carry out the remnants of whatever plan we’re using. Start your presentation.”
“Sir,” called out a sensor tech, “farspace probes show energy releases. Possibly more than one location. Attenuation medium.”
“Closer than the last group,” Metadi said. “Things are heating up. Commander, let’s get the briefing started—we may need those battle plans sooner than we thought.”
The library of Adelfe Aneverian’s country estate was a spacious, well-appointed room, its walls paneled in polished ocherwood, its windows curtained in thick, sound-muffting velvet. The books in the tall, glass-fronted shelves were all printed antiques, leather-bound and paper-paged; if Aneverian or any of his guests ever indulged in textchips or holovids, the evidence was tucked well away out of sight.
A vast ocherwood desk filled up one end of the room, but nobody was sitting behind it. There was a library staircase—a masterpiece of the woodworker’s art, done in yet more polished ocherwood—at the other end of the room, and Tarnekep Portree was sitting on the top step. If Commodore Gil wanted to make eye contact with the Mandeynan, he’d either have to crane his neck awkwardly upward, or stand well back.
If the situation weren’t
so serious, Jessan reflected, it would have been amusing. Beka’s choice of incognito hadn’t really taken him by surprise. Captain Portree was considerably plainer spoken than the Domina of Entibor could afford to be, and the one-eyed starpilot had the further advantage of making respectable people like the commodore distinctly nervous.
The rest of the ’Hammer’s crew were scattered about the room. Ignaceu LeSoit stood warily with his back to the paneled wall. Owen Rosselin-Metadi sat motionless and black-clad in one of the big, high-backed chairs, with his staff across his lap; his apprentice, equally immobile, stood at his right hand. Jessan himself, his legs stretched out before him, lounged in a wing chair near the library staircase, where he could get a good view.
Commodore Gil stood gazing at Tarnekep Portree for a moment, then chose for himself a comfortable armchair a carpet’s width away from the library staircase. His Eraasian prisoner of war, silent and nervous-looking, sat rigidly upright on one of the uncushioned ocherwood side chairs a foot or so away. The commodore’s aide, Jhunnei, had taken a stance near the door—like Ignac’ LeSoit, and like Jessan himself, she’d picked a position affording both a good view and a clear line of fire.
I couldn’t have set it up better if we’d been playing at Living Pictures, Jessan thought. Subject of tableau, “The Three Pillars of the Republic”—the Space Force and the Adepts and the Old Nobility, all of us armed and dangerous and watching each other like cardsharps. And this, Fortune save the galaxy, is supposed to be a friendly gathering!
By Honor Betray'd: Mageworlds #3 Page 27