The Gathering Flame (26 page)
Read The Gathering Flame Online
Authors: Debra Doyle,James D. Macdonald
The cabin door opened and Metadi reappeared, carrybag in hand. Gala saw that he’d put aside his respectable Gyfferan outfit in favor of the clothes he’d been wearing on the day he first showed up at Central Headquarters—gold buttons and all. She realized that she wasn’t looking now at the Consort, or even at the General of the Armies of Entibor; she was looking at Captain Jos Metadi, the noted—and notorious—privateer.
She raised her eyebrows. “The Selvaurs do know this is a diplomatic mission, don’t they?”
“No, they don’t,” said Metadi. “Not officially. I didn’t want to give them the chance to say no before I got there.”
“So instead, we’re giving them the opportunity to say no from right up close.”
Metadi grinned briefly. “Something like that.”
One of the readouts on the bulkhead panel changed from green to flashing red. At the same moment, a metallic sound from above told Gala that another vessel had mated with them at the ’
Hammer
’s dorsal transfer ring.
Hammer
’s dorsal transfer ring.
“Right,” said Metadi. “Let’s go.”
Gala and the members of the ’
Hammer
’s crew picked up their carrybags and followed him to the transfer port. After that came the familiar and tedious business of cycling through the two vessels’ mated airlocks; then, at last, a door that opened into the body of the Selvauran ship.
Hammer
’s crew picked up their carrybags and followed him to the transfer port. After that came the familiar and tedious business of cycling through the two vessels’ mated airlocks; then, at last, a door that opened into the body of the Selvauran ship.
They were in a long compartment, high and metallic, with an arching, groin-vaulted ceiling like that of some antique great hall on Entibor. Along the walls, in between the metal ribs that rose and fanned out above, Gala saw body-sized patches of what looked like white foam. She didn’t feel like asking questions aloud in an unfamiliar setting—no telling who might be listening in, or why—but she managed to catch the eye of Tillijen the gunner and project an air of curious inquiry.
“Passenger pods,” said Tillijen. “Not much fun if you’re used to watching what goes on, but it’s the way they do things around here.”
While she was speaking, Metadi had gone over to the nearest pod. He stepped backward into it, and the foam closed over him. Gala contemplated without enthusiasm the prospect of doing likewise. She’d never cared for being blindfolded and helpless, and the Selvauran pods came too close for both for comfort.
Come on
, she told herself.
Are you going to be the last one in?
, she told herself.
Are you going to be the last one in?
Quickly, before her nerve could fail her, she picked out a pod and backed into it. The foam was body-warm and yielding; it flowed into place before she could close her eyes. She felt no irritation and no interference with her breathing. There was only a white fog in front of her face, and lukewarm, faintly synthetic-smelling air in her nose and lungs. She concentrated on the familiar sensations of acceleration and deceleration that were her only contact with what was going on outside.
Finally the cushioning foam broke away from her face and she was able to step free, clutching her carrybag in one hand. The door of the long chamber was open again, this time leading to a corridor walled on both sides with some unfamiliar substance cast into the semblance of great, overarching trees.
“Welcome to Maraghai,” said General Metadi. “The next step is getting in touch with Ferrda. If we’re lucky, he’s got enough standing these days to help us connect with the people who run things around here.”
“And if he doesn’t?” Gala asked.
“Then we might as well turn around and head back home,” Metadi said. “Because there’s no chance they’re going to talk to a bunch of thin-skins otherwise.”
Festen Aringher sat on the veranda of the Mount Kelpen Lodge, drinking redroot tea spiked with Felshang brandy and feeling pleased with the galaxy. The mountains, bright and gaudy in their autumnal foliage, rose up behind the lodge; and from his position on the front veranda, he could look downward and out across the plain to the spaceport at Wippeldon. From time to time, between sips of tea, he lifted his binoculars to scan the landing field and the sky above it.
His vigilance—he’d been lounging purposefully on the veranda for several hours today alone—was rewarded. About midmorning, he recognized the distinctive profile of a Fleet messenger unit from Galcen, with a pair of Entiboran heavy surface-to-system fighters flying beside it on its approach. “
Bardalft
-class,” he murmured under his breath, and was surprised when a voice behind him on the veranda said, “You have good eyes. What else have you seen?”
Bardalft
-class,” he murmured under his breath, and was surprised when a voice behind him on the veranda said, “You have good eyes. What else have you seen?”
Aringher lowered his binoculars and turned his head to see who had spoken. The new arrival was a tall young man of otherwise nondescript appearance, wearing the livery of the vintners’ guild. He could have been waiting for half an hour, or a few seconds; his bland features revealed nothing, neither impatience nor boredom.
“Whom do I have the honor of addressing?” Aringher had his suspicions, but on occasions like this it always paid to observe the formalities.
The other didn’t make a direct reply. “May I sit?”
“Of course.”
The young man folded himself into one of the cushioned lounge chairs with a sigh of relief. “The time has come for you to take your proper role here—the one which Crannach delivered to you.”
Aringher felt the flash of satisfaction that comes from seeing a theory confirmed. It was indeed possible that the newcomer worked for the vintners’ guild—it was a nice respectable job, excellent cover—but this was one of the Galcenian agents whom he had been warned to expect when the day came. The civilized galaxy’s politicians might not be Centrists, or anyway not enough of them were, but it was inevitable that sooner or later some planetary government would figure out the advantages of unity over local sovereignty. Nobody had expected the world to be prickly, custom-ridden Entibor; but one did one’s best with the material at hand.
Aringher thought for a moment; under the circumstances it was best to say something significant and, at the same time, noncommittal. “There have been a number of new arrivals today,” he said. “There weren’t any for quite a while, but there’ve been at least five since I’ve been sitting here. After spending much time on-planet, one comes to anticipate them eagerly.”
The younger man seemed to relax. “Is there a chance you could order up another cup of tea? I’d like to sit and watch the comings and goings at the field myself.”
“I was just leaving,” Aringher replied. “But you can walk along with me if you like. I was planning to go down to the port and check the boards for departures. I think it might be time for me to move on.”
“I’d be honored to go with you,” the other man said. “Maybe I can pick your brains on the way. I’m new here myself and I don’t have a guidebook. Are there any decent stage plays in town?”
Nivome do’Evaan of Rolny, Minister of Internal Security for the Domina of Entibor, left his desk and turned to the window overlooking the inner courtyard. He frowned at the time-polished flagstone and the marble fountain as if he considered them responsible for his current dissatisfaction.
Moving the Domina’s household back to the Palace Major had not improved matters as much as he had hoped. Perada remained unwilling to speak with him on anything other than business—as far as he could tell, she had no quarrel with his handling of state security, which meant that her reluctance was personal rather than professional.
His frown deepened. When it came to professional matters, he wished the Domina would pay more attention to some of the things he was telling her. There was, for example, the matter of an heir. He’d already warned her more than once of possible trouble if she didn’t produce one soon. That was true enough. Under the crust, Entibor was far more volatile than he thought the Domina realized.
He also knew that Perada would want a new gene-sire for her next attempt. A man who had already produced a male would be unlikely to get a second chance—not unless he was able to bring the Domina something else of value besides the needful amount of fertile seed.
“My lord,” said a messenger, breaking into his thoughts.
Nivome turned. “Yes?”
“A ship is arriving. A Galcenian ambassador.”
“The Galcenians already have an ambassador,” said Nivome, frowning. “And this is a highly informal way of getting the news.”
“We got an intercept of the report,” the messenger said. “Central was going to bring the ship in—it’s probably landing right now.”
Central
. Nivome wished, not for the first time, that Jos Metadi had left the Fleet headquarters alone.
Things were a lot easier back when the High Command couldn’t blow their own noses without having a week of meetings first.
. Nivome wished, not for the first time, that Jos Metadi had left the Fleet headquarters alone.
Things were a lot easier back when the High Command couldn’t blow their own noses without having a week of meetings first.
“Where did you intercept the news?” he asked.
“Our trace on Ser Hafrey’s communications.”
Nivome ground his teeth. The old armsmaster had his hooks set in far too many fishes for a man with only a minor position in the Domina’s household. Someday … He put the thought aside. “Hafrey has been spying on Central?”
“No. Someone there thought to pass the news direct.”
“Ah. I see. Do nothing to Hafrey for now—but can you tell me who reported to him?”
The messenger shook his head. “I don’t know. It came from within Central, we’re certain of that much.”
“That much isn’t enough. I want to know who’s feeding information to Hafrey before it reaches me. Find that person. But do it discreetly.”
“Discreetly, my lord.” The messenger bowed and stepped backward to leave. “I understand.”
Nivome held up a hand to stop him. “One thing more—where is this new ambassador arriving?”
“At Wippeldon, my lord.”
“Very well. Go.”
The messenger left. As soon as the door had slid closed behind him, Nivome leaned forward to touch the comm link on his desk. He wondered if Ser Hafrey was listening to the Interior Ministry’s communications, as he was listening to Hafrey’s.
“Send my ground transport,” he said as soon as the link clicked open. “And a note to the Galcenian ambassador. Tell him that I will meet him in his office in ten minutes.”
Then Nivome straightened his considerable shoulders and walked from the room.
It had been a while since Jos Metadi had last gone dirtside on Maraghai—the previous visit had been part of a trading trip, made in order to dispose of some pieces of looted Mageworlds gear that the regular market couldn’t handle—and he was glad to see that nothing had changed so far. Not surprising, really, since the Selvaurs weren’t in the habit of making decisions in a hurry. With their long life spans, they could afford patience.
Not for very much longer
, Jos thought as he and the rest of the ’
Hammer
’s crew reached the end of the decontamination corridor. As usual, the decon procedures, whatever they were, had been subtle; the Selvaurs liked their mechanical devices unobtrusive to the point of invisibility.
The Mages have noticed this part of the galaxy; and I think the Mages are working faster than anyone suspects.
, Jos thought as he and the rest of the ’
Hammer
’s crew reached the end of the decontamination corridor. As usual, the decon procedures, whatever they were, had been subtle; the Selvaurs liked their mechanical devices unobtrusive to the point of invisibility.
The Mages have noticed this part of the galaxy; and I think the Mages are working faster than anyone suspects.
Fleet Admiral Lachiel was looking about with a dubious expression. “This is all it takes to get on-planet?” she asked. “There are more checkpoints and paperwork to get from Felshang to Yestery back on Entibor.”
“Don’t let it fool you,” Jos said. “We wouldn’t have gotten this far if the Selvaurs didn’t know who we were, and hadn’t already decided to let us in.”
“I see,” said Lachiel. “So what do we do now?”
“We go where we’re taken.”
As Jos spoke, the doors at the far end of the long chamber opened up for them, revealing a vista of towering, forested mountains and one blessedly familiar Selvaur. Ferrda had cleaned off the metallic body-paint—it had been a formal outfit in honor of Perada’s accession to the Iron Crown—but he was wearing the gold and silver studs in his crest. A little bit of privateering display, Jos suspected, kept up for the benefit of the folks at home.
Ferrda raised a scaly green arm in salute. *Ho, Jos!*
“Ho, Ferrda,” Jos replied. “It’s been a while.”
*You’re not kidding. I thought you’d given up on the traveling life.*
“Not exactly. I’ve got something in mind that could work out well for both of us.”
Ferrda hooted derisively. *I should have known it wasn’t pure friendship that brought you out this far.*
“You think I make deals with my enemies?” Jos contrived an expression on injured innocence to go along with his protest, and Ferrda
hoo-hooed
with genuine mirth.
hoo-hooed
with genuine mirth.
*You’d make a deal with Death’s grandmother if you thought there was a profit in it,* the Selvaur told him. *Which is the way it should be, among respectable freetraders like us. Come along—I have an aircar waiting.*
The aircar was a big one, built to Selvauran scale, and it held all the
’Hammer
’s current crew, and Fleet Admiral Lachiel, in easy comfort back in the passenger compartment. At a gesture from Ferrda, Jos slid into the copilot’s seat. Ferrda engaged the nullgravs to lift the car from the holding pad, then fed in power. The aircar rose to its cruising altitude, and the mountain slopes diminished to gentle folds of green velvet far below. Jos watched the landscape unroll beneath them for some time, waiting for Ferrda to start the conversation. No good had ever come of hurrying a Selvaur—the saurians did things in their own way, and thin-skins already had a bad enough name for rushing matters.
’Hammer
’s current crew, and Fleet Admiral Lachiel, in easy comfort back in the passenger compartment. At a gesture from Ferrda, Jos slid into the copilot’s seat. Ferrda engaged the nullgravs to lift the car from the holding pad, then fed in power. The aircar rose to its cruising altitude, and the mountain slopes diminished to gentle folds of green velvet far below. Jos watched the landscape unroll beneath them for some time, waiting for Ferrda to start the conversation. No good had ever come of hurrying a Selvaur—the saurians did things in their own way, and thin-skins already had a bad enough name for rushing matters.
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