A Conflict of Orders (An Age of Discord Novel Book 2) (2 page)

The Involute nodded. “What of the Admiral?” he asked. “Do you have further intelligence?”

“She waits only on a handful of ships, and the moment they arrive she’ll make for Geneza.”

“I have taken,” the Involute said, “the precaution of ‘persuading’ the knights stalwart and knights militant to send four cohorts apiece to assist her. So there will be fewer forces to face when you attack the Imperial Palace.”

The duke gestured airily. He knew he would prevail.

The caster’s glass went dark as the Involute abruptly closed the connection.

Looking out of the window, Ahasz saw they had left Gahara behind, had climbed the encircling hills—black and brown and jagged like carious teeth—and were now descending. The highway, its roadbed of silver mesh tarnished and patched with black, swooped down and out into the air, ninety feet above the proletarian tenements filling the valleys. Ahead bulked Rook, second only to Gahara in prestige, a jumble of noble residences cramming the hilltop, safe above the prole masses. The road swept around it, and continued south-west, joining a main artery heading in that direction. Below the highway, elevated railways carried proles on their daily business, the trains occasionally diving underground or disappearing into tunnels in hill-faces. Eight millions lived in the city of Toshi, and only in Gahara could that crawling, grasping multitude be forgotten. Here, in the city proper, speeding along highways between hilltops where noble residences stood shoulder-to-shoulder, flank-to-flank, above a network of valleys overflowing with rude proletarian housing, Toshi’s populace could not be ignored.

As the highway left the city’s precincts, it gradually descended to meet the ground. Some five miles later, Industrial Sector 6 darkening the horizon ahead, the convoy left the road and approached the garrison of the Imperial Regiment of Housecarls. Ahasz could see the bailey which gave entrance into it. From one of the gatehouse’s towers the regiment’s standard—two hammers and a regulation sword, crossed, superimposed over a stylised representation of the Imperial Palace—flapped listlessly as errant gusts of wind caught the cloth. The guards at the gate stood to attention. There was no need to present papers: the winged snake on the sides of all eight vehicles was identification enough. The heavy gate rolled aside, and the lead command-car shot through.

The motorcade flew across the parade-ground, an area fully a mile square, and onto the garrison’s central avenue. Barracks blocks lined its five mile length. At the end, the road took a turn about a memorial to Housecarls killed in battle, and led left and right to officers’ messes and married quarters. They held no interest for Ahasz. His attention was focused on the garrison headquarters, a wide and low ersatz castle overlooking the memorial. Its castellated skyline and turrets were fancies, serving no defensive purpose. Battle honours hung limply from rooftop poles.

The eight vehicles drew to a halt at the headquarters’ entrance, and sat bobbing on their chargers. A section of eight household troopers ran back from one of the troop-carriers, and took position by the limousine door beside Ahasz. They carried hammers and wore cuirasses—even though, by law, only the Imperial Regiments were permitted to be so armed and armoured. Ahasz nodded approvingly. The limousine door slid aside and the duke climbed from the car. He rotated his shoulders, hitched his sword more comfortably on his hip, and strode forward.

The entrance hall was a monument to the Imperial Regiment of Housecarls’ martial history. Huge canvases presented artistic renditions of regimental victories. Smaller paintings depicted past colonels. The wooden pillars holding up the groined roof two storeys above were hung with campaign banners, and glass cabinets lining the walls held swords, decorations and battlefield souvenirs. Ahasz ignored them all.

He strode into the Situation Room at the heart of the HQ, his eight troopers at his heels. The nine halted just inside the double doors of the entrance. Before them, a short flight of steps led down to the room’s operations floor. Dominating this, the table-top glass of a campaign-consultant, fifteen feet by ten, displayed a map of the Imperial Household District. On balconies to left and right, overlooking the operations floor, clerks sat at consoles, ready to feed orders to soldiers in the field. A dozen red-jacketed officers stood about the great map.

This, reflected Ahasz, would be only the second time the Situation Room had been used in war. Almost a thousand years ago, the Imperial Guard had attempted to unseat the emperor, and the Housecarls had been called to stand in defence of the Throne.

But now this campaign-consultant would be used to manage a plan of attack. Against the Throne.

The regimental officers had noticed Ahasz’s arrival, and turned to look at him. The duke stepped forward to the head of the stairs.

“Gather your troops, gentlemen and ladies,” he said. “We attack today.”

There was a moment of embarrassed silence.

“‘Today’?” parroted a lieutenant-colonel.

“You are ready, I take it.”

“Yes, but…”

“You never thought it would actually come to this,” finished Ahasz.

The lieutenant-colonel gave a sheepish smile.

“Be warned, I’m serious in this.” He raised a hand to his eight troopers, and they stepped forward and brandished their hammers menacingly. “You knew this day was coming, and you accepted the part you must play. Get your men armed and provisioned.

“Or must I have you killed one by one until you do as I command?”

A regimental-major was the first to obey. Stepping up beside the lieutenant-colonel, he gave a bow, and said, “I shall have my company make ready immediately, your grace.”

More officers moved forward.

“Good.” Ahasz descended the stairs and crossed to the campaign-consultant. He put his hands to the glass and gazed at the map. “Call Tayisa,” he instructed the nearest of his troopers. “Tell him to bring his battlefield-consultant. We’ll pump the data from his plan into this monstrosity.” He slapped the glass before him. “By nightfall, I’ll either have my arse on the Imperial Throne…

“Or we’ll all be dead.”

The masked assassin lunged, the point of his sword aimed at Casimir Ormuz’s heart. There was no time to raise his own blade; Ormuz twisted. The blade slid by his ribs, whispering against the cloth of his jacket. He had his own sword held high, above his head. He swept it down, hooking the assassin’s blade with his hilt, pushing it aside. A flick of the wrist to disengage his sword—he pulled his arm back, he thrust. The assassin fell back, dead before he hit the ground. He made no sound.

Another blade slashed across Ormuz’s vision, and he turned to defend himself. His last attack had left him open. He danced back, whipped his sword up to parry. The assassin’s blade missed him by inches, but Ormuz did not have room to riposte. Instead, he stepped forwards, inside the assassin’s reach, and pushed him backwards.

Behind him, Ormuz heard Omais mar Puoskari, the Marquess Varä, grunt in surprise. Moments later, Varä was back at his side.

Two assassins lay dead at their feet but another two confronted them. The only sounds Ormuz heard were the rasp of steel on steel, the thudding of his own heart. His sword seemed to move of its own accord, an extension of his will. It arrowed in on his attacker’s weaknesses, darted forth to stab, to parry, to riposte. He had no time to think, his focus was fixed entirely on the point of his blade.

He stabbed the assassin before him in the throat. Blood jetted forwards, splashing Ormuz’s arm. He ignored it. The man stumbled backward, and Ormuz stabbed him a second time, his point sliding into his heart.

A body falling to Ormuz’s right abruptly captured his attention. It wore black, so it was not Varä. Ormuz sidestepped the corpse. He looked up, wondering at the lack of movement about him.

The corridor was empty but for himself and the marquess. They had killed all the assassins.

Ormuz glanced back, and saw a pair of bodies on the floor. There were also two at his feet. Four assassins. Each one clad in black, and masked. Ormuz had seen their like before, almost a year ago on Ophavon. On that night, four masked men in black had boarded
Divine Providence
and tried to kill him. Ormuz had been saved that time by Marine-Captain Garrin demar Kordelasz of the renegade battlecruiser
Vengeful
. But now Ormuz could fight his own battles, now he was a master swordsman himself.

“Where did they come from?” asked Varä. “How did they get here?”

“No idea,” replied Ormuz.

He looked at the marquess, and saw the same thought occur to him. They had come down to the surface of Linna to visit Inspector Sliva demar Finesz. She was, for the time-being, staying with her “prisoner”, Commander Abad mar Mubariz, in the pilots’ quarters at the ducal aerodrome.

“A boat,” said Ormuz. “Damn.”

He broke into a run, turned the corner at the end of the corridor, and leapt down the steps into the terminal’s examination hall. To his left, a windowed wall looked out onto the aerodrome’s apron. It was there, on that flat expanse of dressed stone—scarred by the fierce flames of gas-rockets, decorated with black glassy craters where the beams of field-pieces had hit—it was there Ormuz had witnessed the slaughter of the Duke of Kunta’s guests by the Imperial Provincial Foot. Sitting not ten yards from the launch which had brought Ormuz and Varä down from
Vengeful
floated a second boat. A pinnace, its bow-doors wide open.

“They must have come in that,” said Varä, stating the obvious.

“But which ship is it from?” asked Ormuz.

The only vessels in orbit about Linna were those in the Admiral’s fleet. The pinnace must have come from one of them.

“We have to find out which vessel the boat belongs to,” Ormuz continued. “If there’s a traitor in the fleet, we need to know who it is.”

Ormuz ran across to the door which opened onto the apron. As he approached, it slid aside. He exited under a pale blue sky like deep clear ice, a day so sharp he felt as though he could see for thousands of miles. He could certainly see, even from a distance of a hundred yards or more, dark shapes moving in the scuttles on the boat’s control cupola. He hoped they were not readying the pinnace for departure.

Increasing his pace, Ormuz ran for the boat. The bow-doors were moving now, slowly coming together.

“Faster!” he called to the marquess, but Varä was falling behind.

It was cold. Ormuz regretted shedding his greatcoat when the assassins had appeared, but he would not have been able to fight wearing it. An icy wind sliced across the apron, spurring him to run even faster. He reached the pinnace, out of breath, and jumped up onto the ramp leading into its hull.

Standing there, trying to pull air into his lungs, he saw that the pinnace was empty. Four lines of seats, all deserted. A thump above his head drew his attention. Behind him, he heard Varä scramble aboard. He looked back over his shoulder at the marquess, then pointed up with his sword.

Above his head, accessed by a ladder, sat the boat’s control cupola. If the crew completed sealing the bow-doors—and they were still closing slowly—the pinnace would launch.

The ladder to the control cupola was recessed into the ceiling to Ormuz’s left. He stepped beneath it and reached up. His fingers closed on the bottom rung. He pulled, and the ladder smoothly swung down. Once its foot touched the deck, he stepped onto to it and scrambled up. Someone in the control cupola let out a shout. The head of the ladder was located under the instrument panel between the seats of the pilot and the stationkeeper. Ormuz could see the lower legs and feet of the two crew, so he jabbed the pilot’s knee with his sword, hard enough to hurt but not to wound.

The pilot let out a yelp. Ormuz did the same to the stationkeeper. “Up,” he told them. “Out of your chairs. Move to the back of the cupola. Next to the artificer. Or I stick you through both kneecaps.”

The two crew scrambled to obey. Once they had left their seats, Ormuz clambered into the control cupola. He straightened and, blade at the ready, regarded the three rateds clustered at the rear of the cupola. No, two rateds and a petty officer; two men and a woman. They wore Imperial Navy uniforms, so they must be from one of the warships in the Admiral’s fleet.

Varä climbed into the cupola, and stood beside Ormuz. “What have we got here?” he asked archly.

“I don’t recognise the crest,” replied Ormuz.

On their right shoulders, each of the boat crew wore a ship’s crest. It depicted an old-fashioned timepiece and above it a red crown.

The marquess shrugged. He had no reason to recognise it either.

“What ship?” demanded Ormuz. He brandished his sword threateningly.

The petty officer stepped forward and spoke, “
Arnabyad
, my lord.”

“What’s that? A destroyer? A frigate?”

“Frigate, my lord.”

“And you brought the assassins?”

“What assassins, my lord?”

“The ones lying dead in the terminal building.”

“My lord, we were only obeying orders.”

“Not good enough.” Ormuz turned away from the three boat crew. He’d learn nothing from them. It was plain they were scared and confused, so he thought it unlikely they fully subscribed to the Serpent’s conspiracy. No, that would be the officers aboard
Arnabyad
, those who had cut the orders of these three.

He remembered enough of the workings of
Divine Providence
’s control cupola to spot the pinnace’s signals console beside the stationkeeper’s instruments. He reached out, selected an open circuit and called
Vengeful
’s launch. He could see the boat through the scuttle by his head, floating on the chargers in its keel as if it had yet to decide to touch ground.

After instructing the launch’s boatswain to signal
Vengeful
and let the Admiral know what had happened, Ormuz turned back to his three prisoners. What should he do with them? He could not kill them, he was not so callous. Nor could he let them go free.