A Conflict of Orders (An Age of Discord Novel Book 2) (62 page)

“There was a conspiracy, yes. But it was not of my making.” He looked at her pointedly. “How long have you known?” Someone had sent clones to kill him during the siege. It could only have been Mayna.

She raised a hand and gestured vaguely. “Before you even made your move.” Her hand returned to her knee. “You are an open book to me, Ariman. As is your little clone.” Once again, her hand rose. She pointed a finger. “Had you succeeded in taking the Throne, then it served our purpose too. So we felt it… politic to let you continue.”

“The clone?” Ahasz frowned. “What have you done to him?”

“Nothing. I have plans for him, however. I did not invest all that time and effort in him just so he could go back to being a prole on some forgotten world on the edge of the Empire.”

“Neither Flavia nor the Electorate will give him my duchy.”

Another vague gesture. “I have a distant relative picked out for that. In due course, he’ll be presented to the Electorate. I foresee no problems there.”

Ahasz wondered at his own lack of interest in his successor. He didn’t want to know the man’s name—although he could think of a number of possible candidates. His own fate was of more consequence to him. Execution. But he would get his day in court, he would be given the opportunity to explain why he had rebelled, he would have the chance to shame them all.

“I’m forgetting my manners. Would you like a drink?” Ahasz asked. “I can have a servant bring you something.”

“I’m not here to socialise, Ariman.”

“Then, what? To gloat? To lecture?”

“Neither would serve any purpose. Oh Ariman, if only you had left Willim on the Throne. Perhaps I might have been able to save you. He has never been immune to my… charms.”

Ahasz was shocked. He had thought he had known the Emperor. But… Willim and Mayna? He could not help wondering if Flavia had known.

“But with your Flavia sitting there now,” Mayna continued, “I can do nothing. You brought it upon yourself, Ariman.”

“She’s not
my
Flavia, Mayna. She hasn’t been for a long time.”

“Indeed.” Mayna rose gracefully to her feet. One hand to her hip, she gazed down at her brother. “This is, I suppose, good-bye. I will not visit again.”

She reached up, lifted her veil and draped it back over her hat. Ahasz tried to interpret the expression on her carefully made-up features. It was not, he was dismayed to note, sadness. Mild annoyance, perhaps; a touch of regret.

He stood. They moved away from the coffee-table and came together in the centre of the withdrawing room. He took her gloved hands. She leaned forward and pecked him on both cheeks. He could smell her scent and knew it to be hideously expensive.

“You were a good duke, Ariman,” she said, pulling back and peering at him, head cocked. “One of the better ones in the line, if truth be told. It’s a shame that now was not the best time for a good man to hold the title. Not when our plans are finally coming to fruition. I shall miss you.”

She turned and strode out of the room. Moments later, the door quietly closed.

O
rmuz woke with the dawn, pulled from sleep by the sounds of the street below his room. He lay in bed a moment, puzzled by his surroundings, until memory of the previous night returned to him. He slid a hand under the bedding and gingerly touched the bandage over his wound. It was dry and the pain was now only a dull ache. Carefully, he drew the covers aside and swung his legs off the mattress.

Although Azeel had promised to have his clothes cleaned by the time he awoke, he could find only his underpants and boots—both of which were indeed clean—on the ladderback chair beside the bed. His jacket, trousers, shirt and socks were all missing. There was a dressing-gown on a hook on the back of the door. He pulled it on, opened the door and made his way to the bathroom.

He was washing his face—his wound prevented him from having a bath or shower—when he heard the bathroom door open behind him.

“Good. You’re up,” said a voice he recognised as Azeel’s. He glanced back at her. She was fully dressed and made-up. “Your trousers and shirt were ruined,” she continued, “so you’ll have to borrow some of my dad’s. They’ll be a bit baggy on you, but never mind. I’ll put them in your room.” She withdrew as abruptly as she had appeared.

In the bedroom, a pair of casual trousers in some sturdy blue fabric and a shirt of thick dark cotton now sat on the seat of the ladderback chair. But still no socks. He dressed quickly, pushing his bare feet into his boots, buttoning up the shirt and pulling in the belt about the trousers’ waist to its tightest notch. The trousers hung low on his hips.

From the expression on the face of Azeel’s father when Ormuz entered the kitchen, his presence was not especially unusual. He was standing at the cooker, preparing breakfast. Azeel was seated at the table and she gestured for Ormuz to join her. Her father supplied him with a mug of coffee and a plate containing meat grilled between two pieces of flat bread and scrambled eggs.

“Go on, eat up,” she said.

Ormuz set to. He was starving.

As he ate, Azeel said, “I’ve took the day off work so we can sort you out. I’ll get you some clothes and some proper dressings for your wound. You need to contact whoever it is to get a new escutcheon and some crowns. It’s best you not leave the pub—in fact, it’s best you stay up here in the flat.”

Ormuz nodded and chewed.

“I won’t be out long, but if you want to watch any of the entertainments channels, there’s a glass in the living-room. The caster is in the living-room too.”

Mr Azeel pushed back his chair, rose to his feet and left the kitchen. He had not said a word.

“It’s a shame you lost your escutcheon,” Azeel said. “If you had it, you could have come with me. I could’ve shown you round the valley.” She smiled brightly. “We’ll do that when you get your new one.”

After he had eaten and Azeel’s father had cleaned up after him, Ormuz made his way to the living-room. It was a small room, filled with heavy furniture. A pair of deep settees, placed at right angles, faced a large glass. A weighty sideboard of dark wood, older than the settees, sat against one wall. Against another wall stood a tall and narrow book-case. It was less than half full. The room was carpetted in a dark brown which had worn to mottled beige in the area before the settees.

He stood before the book-case and scanned the spines of the books in it. A couple of glossy books on Imperial history, an incomplete set of classic literature in cheap editions, some books on data-pools and protocols, and a pile of fashion magazines from the last few years.

“You can read a book, if you want,” said Azeel from the door.

He looked across at her. She now wore a coat which just covered her short skirt, and a pair of high-heeled boots. He smiled and shrugged. He had attempted most of the classics on the shelves—some while at school and others later aboard
Divine Providence
. Most he had not finished.

“I’ll be back in about an hour.”

Azeel clattered away and he heard her make her way down the stairs. He poked idly at the fashion magazines, lifted up the cover of the top one and flicked through the pages without really focusing on what he was seeing.

This pub, the Empress Glorina, was his refuge. But what was he to do here? For the moment, he was depending on Azeel’s charity. He could get crowns—from Inspector Finesz, perhaps. Or Lieutenant-Commander Rinharte. Perhaps even Romi Maganda. Varä, of course, would immediately tell his masters, the Involutes, of Ormuz’s location.

So, money. And assume an escutcheon which allowed him to remain here in Toshi. He could live in this flat, above the Empress Glorina. He could pay rent and… do what? Find a job of some description. Perhaps even attend technum; he was not too old to do so.

But none of it compared to what he had lost, to the life from which he had walked away. He knew the duchy would never be his, although he had at one time thought the Admiral might be. She would have made him a yeoman, as Imperial princesses cannot marry proletarians. He snorted in amusement, remembering that particular daydream.

His mood turned bitter, soured by memories of the Admiral. He had done so much for her and, by extension, for the Empire. If he had not walked away, would his contribution have been rewarded? Were they searching for him now, wondering where he had vanished to?

Let them. He’d had his fill of their world. He was where he belonged.

Ormuz left the living-room and thundered down the steep, narrow stairs to the pub. He found Hami Azeel in a room behind the bar, removing trays of glasses from a washing machine.

“Can I help?” he asked. “Is there anything I can do?”

Azeel grunted and turned round. He looked Ormuz up and down. “There’s a mop and bucket in the corner there. Think you can give the floor out there a good wipe?”

Ormuz was no stranger to the mop. Among his responsibilities aboard
Divine Providence
had been keeping the data-freighter clean. Cleaning mechanisms, under his direction, had done most of the work, but in some areas he’d had to wield a mop. That had been a long time ago and far away. And Ormuz had travelled more than just miles to reach Shuto.

As he pushed the mop back and forth across the floor, Ormuz found himself unaccountably happy. This job was not beneath him, it suited his new station in life. The simplicity of it, the immediacy of its results, appealed to him. Perhaps it would pall after weeks of doing it day in and day out, but for now he would cheerfully spend the rest of his days mopping floors.

To think that only the day before he had led an army to lift the siege of the Imperial Palace!

Yesterday he had been a prince, today he was a pauper. He gave a low laugh as he swabbed the floor beneath a table. If only his friends could see him now… He straightened—he had just remembered Murily Plessant and the rest of
Divine Providence
’s crew. They would not find his current situation amusing. But they were dead. Plessant had died on Kapuluan; Lotsman, Tovar and Dai had died aboard
Vengeful
during the battle about Geneza.

Saddened by their loss, he continued with his mopping. Twenty minutes later, he had finished the room. Mr Azeel handed him a cloth and cleaning spray, and told him to wipe down the tables. After that, it was polishing the brass footrail running along the bar.

Once he had completed his tasks, he settled at a table with a coffee and a copy of the local newspaper, while Mr Azeel went to unlock the front door. Ormuz was not needed behind the bar.

Innelda Azeel returned from her shopping-trip a good two hours after she had promised. She saw Ormuz and hurried across to him. She carried a large paperbag in each hand. These she placed on the floor and then sat down opposite him. He looked up from the newspaper. There had been nothing about the lifting of the siege in it, just local news—a murder committed nearby, sports events, new fiefal ordinances… He put the paper down.

Azeel reached across the table and took his wrist on one hand. “Come on,” she said with a grin. “I want to show you what I bought you.”

She hurried Ormuz upstairs and into his bedroom. “I got you some shirts and trousers and jackets,” she said. “They’re not new, I’m afraid, but they’re good quality. The underwear and socks are all new. The boots you’ve got on are better than any I can find here in the valley, so I didn’t bother getting you any shoes.”

She upended one of the bags, and folded shirts and trousers spilled across the bedding.

“There’s some toiletries as well and I bought some more bandages and stuff.”

The second bag’s contents were strewn across the bed.

“Is there anything I missed?”

Ormuz pawed through the clothing, toiletries and first aid supplies. He had not shopped for himself for years. Aboard
Divine Providence
, he had worn coveralls. What few items of non-work clothing he’d possessed, he’d had when he joined the data-freighter’s crew. He’d lost those, of course, when
Divine Providence
crashed on Bato.

“I think you got everything,” he said, lifting up a pair of new underpants and noting that they appeared somewhat skimpier than those he normally wore. Perhaps it was the fashion on Shuto.

The shirts, trousers and jackets were, despite being used, in very good condition and thoroughly clean. He wondered how much they had all cost.

“You can get out of dad’s clothes, now,” Azeel said.

He waited for her to leave. Instead, she unbuttoned her coat and slipped out of it. She put it on the chair and looked at him expectantly.

He smiled and shrugged.

“I want to look at your dressing,” she said.

“Oh.”

He began undoing his shirt. Once he had removed it, she bent over and peered at the bandage about his ribs, prodding it carefully with a finger. “Does it hurt?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“Not when you do that; it still ached a bit, mostly if I breathe too deep. But not as much as it did yesterday.”

He knew the wound would take a while to heal. In fact, he would probably have to make several visits to the nearest clinic over the next ten or so weeks. Once he had an escutcheon, of course.

“We’ll leave it as it is for now,” Azeel said, straightening. “You get changed. I’ll be in the kitchen.”

She scooped up her coat and left the bedroom, closing the door behind her.

Ormuz quickly stripped down to his underpants. He pulled on a pair of socks, trousers, and a shirt. She had done at excellent job at estimating his size. The clothes did not fit as well as his others had done—but they had been tailored for him. These were standard sizes.

Azeel had made lunch, a series of small dishes of dips and finger foods to be eaten with flat bread. She picked up the tray on which she had arranged these and said, “Let’s eat in the living-room.”

“Can we watch a news channel? I want to find out what’s going on.”

Once they had settled down on one of the settees, Azeel switched on the glass and clicked through the selector to a planetary news channel. Ormuz ate and watched, but still there was no news of the Admiral, Ahasz or the Emperor. “Is this all there is?” he asked, dismayed by the parochialism of the channels.