The Gathering Flame (34 page)
Read The Gathering Flame Online
Authors: Debra Doyle,James D. Macdonald
Maybe they had. Another thought to be avoided.
So far, though, the Mage ships that had been spotted in the home system were still hanging out beyond the orbital sphere of the farthest planet, and there weren’t too many of them. Which left open the question of why they weren’t trying to press an attack—typically, the raiders hit fast and hit hard.
He pressed the button for the comm link on his desk. “Any word yet from the couriers?”
That was one thing he’d known right away that he had to do: send out high-speed Fleet couriers looking for Lachiel and Brehant. As soon as one or both of them came back—with or without the Consort, he didn’t care—then everything, Mages and conspirators and Galcenians alike, would once again be somebody else’s problem.
“No reports from the couriers, sir.”
Damn.
“Thank you.”
“Thank you.”
He clicked off the link and rubbed his aching forehead yet again. More and more, he felt himself in sympathy with the officers who’d resigned their commissions after the Consort brought in Galaret Lachiel and made her fleet admiral over their heads in despite of custom. Maybe they’d seen what was coming, and made the right decision.
“Your Dignity,” said the Minister of Internal Security, looking up from the textcomm in his lap, “the majordomo at the Summer Palace reports that everything is in readiness. Your son, and the nursery staff from the Palace Major, arrived safely less than an hour ago.”
“Thank you, Gentlesir Nivome.”
Perada let the acknowledgment rest without amplification, and went back to watching the clouds outside her window. She wished that House Rosselin’s Summer Palace were either a longer or a shorter journey by aircar from An-Jemayne: longer, and she could have chosen with plausible grace to darken her side of the passenger compartment and close her eyes in feigned sleep; shorter, and she would not have been forced to cope with Nivome do’Evaan at such excruciating length.
Better yet, if Nivome had chosen to take the pilot’s seat—she knew that the Rolnian had the necessary skill, and presumably the appropriate licenses—she’d have had the compartment to herself, and could fret and worry in peace. But she supposed it was beneath the dignity of the Minister of Internal Security to handle his own aircar. If Nivome’s position entitled him to a pilot, he would make a point of employing one.
Not like Jos,
she thought, and smiled in spite of the day’s troubles. The Consort had startled people at first with his insistence on doing his own flying; later, Perada had watched with amusement as the wilder offspring of the fashionable nobility took up the practice themselves in imitation. A few of the less idle-minded ones had even gone so far as to join the Fleet, a move that had been out of vogue at court for some decades. She smiled again.
Give Jos another five or ten years, and the Fleet will be his from top to bottom.
she thought, and smiled in spite of the day’s troubles. The Consort had startled people at first with his insistence on doing his own flying; later, Perada had watched with amusement as the wilder offspring of the fashionable nobility took up the practice themselves in imitation. A few of the less idle-minded ones had even gone so far as to join the Fleet, a move that had been out of vogue at court for some decades. She smiled again.
Give Jos another five or ten years, and the Fleet will be his from top to bottom.
On the other side of the passenger compartment, Nivome cleared his throat discreetly. Perada braced herself for another round of helpful news reports and strong implications that she could do worse for a new Consort than the minister who labored so tirelessly on her behalf.
Tireless, yes. On my behalf … I doubt it.
She felt a moment’s envy for Garen Tarveet, also en route to the Summer Palace but in much more stimulating company. She’d have preferred to travel with Hafrey and the Galcenians herself—even with the unexplained and enigmatic Master Guislen—but Nivome would have insisted on accompanying her, and Garen deserved a chance to talk with the not-yet-accredited ambassador. Her former schoolmate had a knack for judging profit and loss, and for spotting the traps and pitfalls in a blandly worded proposition; she needed Garen’s insight if she was going to come out of the impending negotiations with Entibor’s honor and sovereignty intact.
Nivome cleared his throat again. “Your Dignity.”
“Yes, gentlesir?”
“You will be gratified to learn that the pilot transporting Lord Meteun and the Galcenian ambassador has landed safely at the field below the Summer Palace.”
“Excellent. I trust that they’ve been provided with suitable accommodations and a chance to refresh themselves after this afternoon’s brief unpleasantness.”
She turned back to the window.
Galcenians. Great-Aunt ’Tina always said that they’d steal your petticoats if you let them. But I don’t think she’d ever met a Galcenian in her life who wasn’t bowing to her in formal court.
Galcenians. Great-Aunt ’Tina always said that they’d steal your petticoats if you let them. But I don’t think she’d ever met a Galcenian in her life who wasn’t bowing to her in formal court.
They want a partnership, with Galcen as the senior member. That’s nothing to be surprised at—I’d try to get the same thing for Entibor, if I were asking Galcen’s Council for help against the raiders. The only crime here will be mine, if I give them everything they ask for. and forget that they were the ones who chose to come begging to me.
She was finding it harder and harder to ignore Nivome; the man’s ambition had an intensity that was almost palpable. It made him seem to take up much more room in the small passenger compartment than his physical presence implied, and it pressed upon her awareness whether she looked at him or not. She knew what was on his mind. He wanted to be gene-sire to the Domina-in-Waiting; well, so might any man. But Nivome hinted at more. He spoke of being both gene-sire and Consort.
He does worse than just want it
, she thought. The insight wasn’t a new one, but it was the first time it had affected her with such a sense of urgency.
He thinks he deserves it.
, she thought. The insight wasn’t a new one, but it was the first time it had affected her with such a sense of urgency.
He thinks he deserves it.
The corners of her mouth turned up briefly. Perhaps it was time for her to take a bit of the minister’s advice after all, for the sake of public morale and her own peace of mind.
As soon as Jos gets back from Maraghai.
In Entiboran nearspace, Captain-of-Corvettes Graene was on the verge of shuttling across to the Galcenians’ flagship when a comms runner brought her the message from Central. She accepted the slip of flimsy and read it, frowning slightly—Central had proved remarkably unhelpful so far in today’s crisis, and she didn’t have much confidence in their ability to make useful suggestions, much less orders that she would have to obey.
All units, crypto compromised, she read. Use plaintext only. Institute field-expedient recognition signals.
“Are you sure this message came from Central?” she asked the messenger when she was done.
“The communications officer verified it himself,” the messenger said.
Graene wondered where Central had gotten the word from. There was no point in asking the messenger; he wouldn’t know. Neither would the comms officer. Central knew—at least, she hoped Central knew the source of its own information. With Mage ships spotted in-system, Central Command had better not be acting on yet another of the vaguely worded bits of information, more hint then help, passed along by Internal Security or by one of the factions at court.
Sometimes she thought that General Metadi and Fleet Admiral Lachiel hadn’t gone far enough when they purged Headquarters. Their sweeping reforms had flat-out missed all those officers who’d made safe careers out of keeping their heads down when the trouble started. It was her own bad luck, and Entibor’s, that put one of them in charge at Central on this day of all days.
She gave a mental shrug. At least the message hadn’t contained orders to break off contact with the Galcenians. In fact, the orders to transmit all messages in plaintext and to devise recognition signals as necessary would make liaison easier if her proposal was accepted. And so far the Galcenians hadn’t refused to discuss the idea of a unified command, which was damned decent of them. But since the Galcenians, as a group, weren’t especially decent, that left the question of where the fishhook was hiding in their easy agreement.
I suppose I’ll find that out soon enough.
She tucked the folded slip of flimsy into her tunic pocket and hit the plate to open the airlock to the shuttle.
“Well,” she said to the messenger, “it’s time for me to go practice my Galcenian. Wish me luck.”
Mistress Vasari sat back on her heels and looked at the man whom she had been, after the Adepts’ fashion, interrogating. He lay sprawled supine on the thick carpet, a nondescript man in the palace livery of dark blue and dull silver. His chest rose and fell with his regular breathing, and his eyes were open.
He should have seen Vasari watching him, and after what she had done to him the sight should have made every muscle in his body recoil. But—to Vasari’s intense frustration, since she hadn’t finished questioning him—the man had nothing left in him to react with; his mind was as blank as his face. She’d had him on the verge of total revelation when he snapped, cutting off his mind from every physical contact so instantly and completely that it had to be a trained last-ditch defense.
Nobody home in there anymore,
she thought, with a touch of unwilling respect for her adversary’s thoroughness.
Wherever he’s gone, he isn’t coming back
.
she thought, with a touch of unwilling respect for her adversary’s thoroughness.
Wherever he’s gone, he isn’t coming back
.
She wished she’d learned either less or more before the defensive reaction took over. As it was, she had only partial information, the vague shape and outline of treachery without the names and times and places that would make it useful. That, and her now-certain awareness that the Mages on Entibor had not forgotten the promise they’d made to the Domina Perada on the night of her accession.
Vasari regarded the man for a moment longer, then reached out and put her hand lightly over his nose and mouth. A faint green light played around her fingers for a few seconds. The man shuddered once all over and then was dead. Vasari stood, dusted off her clothing where she had knelt, and left the room without looking back. The door locked itself behind her.
She left the palace, taking care to stay unseen by agents of both Internal and Domestic Security, and made her way back to her apartment in the Celadon Towers. Once there, she contemplated the blank screen of her desk comp and tried to decide to whom, if anyone, she should tell what she had learned.
Too much … she knew too much and not enough. Some people on Entibor were entirely too fond of hunting for spies and traitors. The Internal Security Minister, in particular, had a reputation she didn’t like—Adepts had run afoul of such men before, on one world or another over the centuries. On the other hand, there really were spies and traitors at work in An-Jemayne, and for all she knew, the Entiboran Adepts were numbered among them. She’d held aloof from them, avoiding their company and their Guildhouses, for just that reason.
She activated the screen of the desk comp.
I ought to send the follow-up to Master Otenu and let him decide.
I ought to send the follow-up to Master Otenu and let him decide.
But her hands remained motionless on the keys, and the screen stayed blank. She felt a vast if wordless reluctance to pass along to Galcen any of her most recent discoveries, and she had been trained to pay attention to such things. Such feelings as those had kept Adepts from harm in the past: the journey not taken, the door unentered, the hesitation with the cup of poison at the lip.
Not Galcen,
she thought, and turned the screen off again.
But who, then? The Domina is right about one thing. No one can fight the Mages alone.
she thought, and turned the screen off again.
But who, then? The Domina is right about one thing. No one can fight the Mages alone.
There was only one person she could think of who knew Mages, and who was free of political ties. And—it pleased her to think that, true to her training, she could make one action serve many ends—she already needed a good reason to make contact with Errec Ransome again.
The aircar set down on the landing field of the Summer Palace in early evening. The mountains rising beyond the grassy plain had darkened to blue-black shadows with the descent of the sun; and the palace itself, a long white building high among the foothills, seemed to float against the dark background like a pale cloud. A hovercar waited on the field to take the Domina and her Minister of Internal Security up the long slope to the palace gate.
Perada made the ride in silence, keeping her gaze fixed on the dark outside the hovercar’s armor-glass windows. She had no desire to catch Nivome’s eye and trap herself into once again recognizing his presence. The journey from An-Jemayne had been hard enough to endure already.
The majordomo of the Summer Palace had done well, in spite of the abrupt and out-of-season descent of a double-handful of assorted notables. Perada saw no white-shrouded furniture, and no blank spaces where valuables had been put into storage while she was in residence elsewhere. She let the majordomo escort her at once to the nursery wing—no doubt the way by which he chose to take her avoided those parts of the palace his frantic cleaning crews had not yet reached. Nivome followed her; she thought of dismissing him, but decided, reluctantly, that doing so would be unfair.
Little Ari was already playing contentedly on the thick rug of the main nursery, under the eyes of a veritable platoon of nursemaids. She picked him up—
oofing
slightly as she did so; he was still big for his age, and growing heavier every day—and hugged him. He caught one of her braids and began to chew on it thoughtfully. She laughed. “Mamma’s little placeholder’s not so little anymore,” she said. He was the lucky one, though, she reflected wistfully—nobody ever bothered to kill placeholders.
oofing
slightly as she did so; he was still big for his age, and growing heavier every day—and hugged him. He caught one of her braids and began to chew on it thoughtfully. She laughed. “Mamma’s little placeholder’s not so little anymore,” she said. He was the lucky one, though, she reflected wistfully—nobody ever bothered to kill placeholders.
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