The Gathering Flame (19 page)
Read The Gathering Flame Online
Authors: Debra Doyle,James D. Macdonald
“So far, he has put off meeting with them.”
“Typical,” observed Hafrey. “And the commanders—who are they?”
“The Parezulan base commander and the CO of the sector squadron: Captain-of-Frigates Galaret Lachiel and Captain-of-Corvettes Trestig Brehant.”
“Unknown quantities,” Hafrey mused aloud. “How are they taking their reception?”
“Badly,” the woman said. “Their comments verge on insubordination; they say outright that Pallit is mishandling the conflict with the Mageworlds raiders. And Captain Lachiel, at least, is a woman of good family, with palace connections.”
Hafrey shook his head. “If Pallit doesn’t meet with them soon, then, a confrontation is bound to occur—and the fleet admiral’s reaction to unexpected developments is regrettably conservative. If he feels threatened by our Parezulan friends, he is quite likely to order their arrest for mutiny under the military code—their arrest and, since we are in fact if not by declaration in a state of war, their summary execution.”
“I hope not,” said the woman. “That would be a shame.” When Ser Hafrey looked at her curiously, she said further, “Some of us at Central feel that the captains have a point. About the war with the raiders, that is.”
“You count yourself in that party?”
The woman flushed slightly. “I hold by my oaths, Armsmaster. But philosophically—yes.”
From his expression, Ser Hafrey might have been amused. “I don’t require my agents to be mindless blocks. So long as you are loyal, your philosophy is your own concern.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
“I am not anyone’s lord,” Hafrey said, perhaps more quickly than he should have. Then, more slowly, “I serve.”
“As do we all,” said the messenger in soft agreement.
“Go, then,” Hafrey said, “and find a way for me to speak in private with these insubordinate captains. But hurry; the fleet admiral’s patience is even more limited than his understanding.”
(GALCENIAN DATING 964 A.F.; ENTIBORAN REGNAL YEAR 28 VERATINA)
P
ERADA GLANCED from the packing list in her hand to the open carrybag on her bed. She had trouble believing that everything on the list would fit into the carrybag, but Zeri Delaven—who had made the list—said that it would. Mistress Delaven also said that anyone old enough to be a student at the academy was old enough to start learning how to pack a carrybag.
ERADA GLANCED from the packing list in her hand to the open carrybag on her bed. She had trouble believing that everything on the list would fit into the carrybag, but Zeri Delaven—who had made the list—said that it would. Mistress Delaven also said that anyone old enough to be a student at the academy was old enough to start learning how to pack a carrybag.
The “do-your-own-packing” rule wasn’t an unbendable one, at least for the younger students; Perada knew that if she messed up badly enough, one of the teachers would help her finish the work. But Elli Oldigaard had given up with
her
bag not even halfway full—and Perada was determined to succeed where Elli had failed.
her
bag not even halfway full—and Perada was determined to succeed where Elli had failed.
Mamma and Dadda will be proud of me
, she thought.
Packing all my own clothes—and even a present for the baby.
, she thought.
Packing all my own clothes—and even a present for the baby.
Perada had made the mobile in art class out of cut paper and black string, after Gentlelady Otalh, the art teacher, had said that babies liked to watch bright moving objects. She slid the pieces of the mobile into a stiffened envelope and tucked it into the side pocket of the carrybag.
She hoped that little Beka would like the present. This between-terms vacation—the first time she’d been home to Entibor since coming to Mistress Delaven’s—would also be the first time she met her new baby sister. She hadn’t seen Mamma and Dadda since coming to Galcen, either, except for the picture postcubes that sometimes came in the mail.
I wonder if everybody at the house will think I talk funny, after speaking nothing but Galcenian all year long?
The door to the room slid open. She turned, expecting to see Elli or Gryl. The newcomer wasn’t one of the girls, though, or even Garen Tarveet on a surreptitious visit from the boys’ wing—it was Zeri Delaven herself. Perada felt a twinge of uneasiness. Mistress Delaven never came into the students’ rooms except, on rare occasions, to enforce discipline.
But Perada’s conscience was reasonably clear. She hadn’t fought with Elli for months, and hadn’t broken any other rules lately that she knew of. So she smiled politely at the head of the academy and said, “Good morning, Mistress Delaven. Don’t worry—I’ll be packed soon. I don’t want to miss the shuttlebus to the spaceport.”
Zeri Delaven sighed, and Perada noticed for the first time that she was frowning. “I’m afraid I have some very bad news for you, my dear.”
Perada’s faint sense of uneasiness congealed into a gelid lump somewhere under her breastbone. The sort of bad news that Mistress Delaven had to bring in person usually meant that people left the school suddenly and didn’t return—and that wasn’t fair, not when she’d finally started understanding real Galcenian and Elli wasn’t winning all the fights anymore.
“Mamma doesn’t want me to come back after the vacation is over?” she asked.
Mistress Delaven looked right at her, not away like most grownups did when they were about to say something they knew you weren’t going to like. “No, dear,” she said—and that was another thing; Zeri Delaven never called
anyone
“dear”—“you’ll be in school here after vacation. But I’m afraid you won’t be going home to Entibor this year.”
anyone
“dear”—“you’ll be in school here after vacation. But I’m afraid you won’t be going home to Entibor this year.”
Perada sat down on the edge of the bed. Her knees felt wobbly. “But I have to go … I have to take my baby sister her present, the one that I made … Mamma
said
… .”
said
… .”
Her voice trailed off. Mistress Delaven was shaking her head.
“No,” said Zeri Delaven.
And in careful, painful words, she explained to Perada that Mamma and Dadda and the new baby sis
er—whom Perada would not ever see—were all dead. And Great-Aunt Veratina, who was Perada’s official guardian, thought that her youngest great-niece should stay at school on Galcen.
er—whom Perada would not ever see—were all dead. And Great-Aunt Veratina, who was Perada’s official guardian, thought that her youngest great-niece should stay at school on Galcen.After a while Mistress Delaven stopped talking and went away. When she was gone, Perada took the bright paper mobile out of her carrybag and tore it apart, one piece at a time, snapping the thin black string so hard that it cut her fingers and made them bleed. But she didn’t cry.
ENTIBORAN REGNAL YEAR 38 VERATINA
C
ENTRAL COMMAND Headquarters for the Entiboran Fleet was a sprawling complex, almost a city in itself, that lay beyond the outskirts of An-Jemayne. Visiting officers’ quarters occupied an older building, dating from the early Redactionist period, full of high ceilings and tall narrow windows, with not a sliding door in the place. Galaret Lachiel had never cared for the style—she had no use for nostalgia, and little patience with those who did—but after more than a week spent waiting in those taste fully appointed rooms, she was beginning to actively loathe it.
ENTRAL COMMAND Headquarters for the Entiboran Fleet was a sprawling complex, almost a city in itself, that lay beyond the outskirts of An-Jemayne. Visiting officers’ quarters occupied an older building, dating from the early Redactionist period, full of high ceilings and tall narrow windows, with not a sliding door in the place. Galaret Lachiel had never cared for the style—she had no use for nostalgia, and little patience with those who did—but after more than a week spent waiting in those taste fully appointed rooms, she was beginning to actively loathe it.
Today, as they had every day for the past ten days, she and Trestig Brehant prepared to spend their waking hours in the long drawing room on the building’s first floor. A holovid viewer set against one wall provided entertainment of a sort; so did a draughts table and several decks of cards. Other officers came and went, but Gala and Tres held themselves apart—it wouldn’t be fair to implicate the others in what might be treason just for a few minutes of idle talk.
Gala fetched a deck of cards from the games cabinet by the western windows, shuffled, and began to deal. “Double tammani this morning, I think. An octime a point for stakes?”
“Dangerous high living,” said Brehant. “You’re going to clean me out entirely if we keep this up much longer.”
“Don’t worry.” Gala picked up her cards and studied them. “We aren’t going to be here long enough for you to go under.”
“You’ve gotten word from Pallit?”
“No. But if we don’t hear something today, I’m going to make a few comm calls.” She smiled briefly. “My family owes me a thing or two, and it’s time to start calling the favors in.”
Brehant’s eyebrows twitched downward in concern. “That could get sticky. Politics and all.”
“I know. But we can’t wait here forever.” She started to pull the first of her discards from her hand, then stopped and laid the cards facedown on the table. At the far end of the room, the main door had swung open. A junior officer with staff insignia on his collar came up to the card table.
“Captain Lachiel, Captain Brehant,” he said. “If you would come with me—”
Finally
, Gala thought. Tres had laid down his cards as well; she put them all back into the box without looking at the hands she had dealt. As she worked, she said to the junior officer, “Are you taking us to talk with Admiral Pallit?”
, Gala thought. Tres had laid down his cards as well; she put them all back into the box without looking at the hands she had dealt. As she worked, she said to the junior officer, “Are you taking us to talk with Admiral Pallit?”
The young man shook his head in what looked like genuine ignorance. “Captain-of-Frigates, I don’t know.”
Gala looked at Tres. The junior captain gave an almost imperceptible shrug. She turned back to the messenger.
“Let me put these cards back in the cabinet and we’ll be right with you.”
A hovercar waited at the edge of the lawn outside the visiting officers’ quarters. Gala recognized the Palace arms on the passenger door. A quick glance over at Tres showed that he’d seen the blue-and-silver blazoning as well.
Whoever wants to see us, it isn’t the fleet admiral.
She slid into the rear seat of the hovercar. Tres followed. The messenger got into the driver’s seat, and the vehicle slid into motion. Gala leaned back against the seat cushions and tried to relax.
I knew I was going to wind up playing politics. But I hadn’t expected the politicians to find me first.
She slid into the rear seat of the hovercar. Tres followed. The messenger got into the driver’s seat, and the vehicle slid into motion. Gala leaned back against the seat cushions and tried to relax.
I knew I was going to wind up playing politics. But I hadn’t expected the politicians to find me first.
The hovercar sped through the Headquarters complex and out past the guards at the main gate. Some time later, after a silent and uneasy ride first through the countryside and then through the crowded thoroughfares of An-Jemayne, they emerged from a tangle of narrow streets into a vast open area paved in white stone and set about with marble statuary. On the far side of the plaza rose a massive structure, also of marble, with many glittering windows: the Palace Major of the Ruling House of Entibor. Gala had been inside the palace walls once in her life, at the obligatory court presentation after her commissioning, and recalled almost nothing of the experience, except that her brand-new uniform had scratched the back of her neck all during the ceremony.
On that occasion, the new-minted officers had entered the palace by the state entrance, passing through massive bronze doors ornamented with bas-relief panels depicting the unification of Entibor. This time, however, the hovercar glided to a stop underneath a minor portico at the end of the palace’s eastern wing. The door through which the messenger escorted Gala and Tres proved to be of plain wood bound with iron—old enough to be preserved and restored, but not a work of art.
The two captains wound up in a small chamber deep inside the palace. There were straight-backed chairs of carved whitebole wood lining the walls, and a low table with nothing on it in the middle of the carpeted floor. Their guide showed them into the room without explanation, and left them there.
Gala looked at Tres, not daring to say anything in case of snoop-buttons, then folded her hands on her lap and waited. That was obviously what the room was for, and if service in the Fleet had ever taught anyone anything, it was how to wait.
Eventually the room’s inner door opened to admit a slight, grey-haired gentleman. Gala didn’t know him, which meant he wasn’t Fleet and wasn’t connected by blood to any of the noble houses. He bowed; she and Tres rose and bowed also.
“Captain Lachiel,” he said. “Captain Brehant. I am Ser Hafrey, Armsmaster to House Rosselin; I serve the Domina.”
“We all do,” Gala replied, still standing. “What is it that you need from Captain Brehant and me?”
The older man made a gesture toward the chairs. “Please—seat yourselves, and tell me what’s brought you so far from Parezul without orders.”
Tres Brehant spoke up then, for the first time since the messenger had come for them at the visiting officers’ quarters. “What we’ve got to say is meant for Admiral Pallit. He’s our senior officer, and he has the right to hear us before anyone else does.”
“I understand,” said the armsmaster. “But I may perhaps be of some assistance, if you allow it.”
Gala lifted both hands briefly, palms-up like a petitioner. “Then will you help us speak with the admiral? We have so little time—”
“My influence with the Fleet is limited,” Hafrey said. “But here at court I can expedite measures, or bring them to the attention of the Domina.”
“Is the new Domina on-planet?” Tres cut in. “The last I heard, she’d been sent for, but that was all.”
“He’s right,” said Gala. “We got the word on Veratina as soon as it happened, more or less, but we never heard anything about a coronation.”
Before Ser Hafrey could answer, the outer door of the room flew open with a bang of wood against wall. A dark, heavily muscled man strode in, followed by a pair of palace guards carrying energy lances.
Nivome
, thought Gala unhappily.
If he’s mixed up in this, we might as well say good-bye to the idea of talking to Pallit.
, thought Gala unhappily.
If he’s mixed up in this, we might as well say good-bye to the idea of talking to Pallit.
The Rolnian-born Minister of Internal Security had been the old Domina’s last lover—strong rumor said that he’d wanted the name of Consort, but that Veratina had been too canny to give it to him—and he was no friend to the Fleet. Gala wasn’t surprised when Nivome pointed a forefinger at Ser Hafrey and said, “You’re exceeding your authority again, Armsmaster—and this time I’ve caught you.”
Hafrey inclined his head, like someone receiving an awkward compliment. Nivome’s forefinger slewed around to point at Gala and Tres.
“And you two have been aiding and abetting him.” Nivome looked over at the guards, then jerked his head toward the two captains. “Take them away.”
Ser Hafrey watched without comment as Nivome’s guards took Lachiel and Brehant out of the room. The pair of officers were in no immediate danger. Entibor’s Fleet cherished zealously the right to discipline its own, and Captain-of-Frigates Lachiel, at least, was well connected enough that the Interior Ministry wouldn’t dare risk her convenient disappearance. Achieving the duo’s ultimate disgrace and execution would take time and effort—resources that Nivome shortly might find himself unable to spare.
After the door had closed behind the two captains and their escort, Hafrey turned back to Nivome.
“You mistake yourself,” he said quietly.
“I don’t think so,” Nivome said. “Not this time.”
“I plead ignorance. Enlighten me.”
“Don’t make a joke of it, old man. There’s nothing funny about treason.”
“True enough,” said Hafrey. “Am I a traitor, then?”
Nivome glowered. “You’re conspiring with mutineers who’ve deserted their stations during a time of peril. When the Domina returns, she’ll have your head displayed in a stasis box right next to theirs.”
“That will be as the Domina wishes,” Hafrey said. “In the meantime, gentlesir, pause and reflect a while on past experience. Do you truly intend to make me your enemy?”
Nivome said nothing for several seconds, and his face darkened. But whatever his faults, the Rolnian had never lacked for nerve. He gave a harsh laugh, and said, “I can’t make what already exists. Enjoy your power while you have it. Once the Domina returns, your time is done.”
“You’re ambitious,” Hafrey observed mildly. “But your intelligence gathering is not what is should be. Perhaps you haven’t heard—a free-spacer named Metadi entered Entiboran space this morning. Even now he and his crew are landing at the royal port.”
Nivome’s features grew even darker with anger. “Metadi,” he said. He spat the word out, like a curse. “The gall of that man passes all belief … the royal port!”
“And why not?” Hafrey said. “He has the right; he is carrying the Domina on her ascent to the Iron Crown. And more: the Domina asserts that she is, at this moment, gravid.”
There was a long silence—an instant, Hafrey knew, in which anything could happen. He readied himself for action, if action should be needed.
Then Nivome seemed to relax, and his high color faded somewhat toward normal. “Good … good. This should at least convince the populace that the Domina Perada is no Veratina as far as
that
problem goes.”
that
problem goes.”
“True enough,” Hafrey said. He regarded Nivome with an unsympathetic eye. “But if you see yourself as the next Consort, your sources have failed you and you need to develop new ones.”
“What do you mean?”
Hafrey shrugged. “Only that Captain Jos Metadi requested official transport to the capital for the Domina and her Consort—and you are already here. Moreover, when Captain Metadi spoke with Inspace Control, he styled himself General of the Armies of Entibor.”
Nivome made a choking sound, and his right hand clenched into a massive fist. “Metadi … !”
“Don’t do anything hasty,” Hafrey said. “Shall we go out and greet the Domina on her arrival? For myself, I’d prefer to have you alive and active about your duties for the next part of the history of Entibor, but be assured that if you are otherwise my plans will not be seriously discommoded.”
He bowed and walked past Nivome as if the larger man weren’t there. Two more palace guards waited outside the door. The armsmaster walked past them as well. They fell into step a pace behind Hafrey as he walked down the passageway, seeming unsure whether they were supposed to arrest him or provide him with a guard of honor. All of them, including the now-silent Nivome, proceeded through the palace’s inner corridors to the entrance by the former stables, where ground transport from the ship would soon be arriving.
Moments later the side door of the old stables slid open and admitted a hovercar in the blue and silver of House Rosselin. The car grounded there, and out of the passenger compartment stepped Perada Rosselin, with Captain Jos Metadi and another, much younger man behind her, one at each shoulder.
Hafrey recognized the second man as the heir to Pleyveran-based Tarveet Holdings. Garen Tarveet had been at school with Perada on Galcen; perhaps, Hafrey reflected, they had become closer friends than he had thought. Or perhaps not. Young Tarveet looked as if he’d worn the same suit of clothing all the way from Pleyver, and his face was not that of a happy man.
The armsmaster bowed—the full bow of profound respect. “Welcome to your world, Domina.”
Perada’s face revealed nothing, though she smiled at Nivome with the same bright goodwill as she had shown to the Rolnian on Galcen, before she had decided on the diversion to Innish-Kyl. She inclined her head in a well-schooled response to the armsmaster’s greeting.
“Ser Hafrey,” she said. “Gentlesir Nivome. I apologize for making such an informal arrival—but there’s a great deal of work to be done, and much less time than I’d expected to do it in. I want to get the ceremonial part over with as soon as possible.”
This time it was Nivome’s turn to bow. “Everything is arranged, Your Dignity. Veratina’s funeral rites need only your presence in order to begin.”
“Take me to her, then,” Perada said. “We’ll have the public burning tonight, in the Grand Plaza. Meanwhile—” She glanced at Ser Hafrey, and the armsmaster saw that while she was smiling, her gaze was sharp and intent. “—General Metadi has business of his own to take care of. See to it that he gets whatever help he needs.”
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