by Sales, Ian
She marched across the office and out of the door. Ormuz and Maganda followed her.
Pulisz was waiting for them at the foot of the conning-tower. He had with him a dozen ship’s corporals. Ormuz saw Rendo among them. Together, they jogged aft, into the starboard passage, down the ramps and into the Upper Supply Passage.
The party descended to the lower decks, where the gangways were narrow, ill-lit and steel-walled, with steel gratings for decking. Everywhere smelled of people in close-quarters, of oil and grease and hot metal, of damp and chill.
When they arrived at the storeroom, the petty officer there admitted she had already investigated. And the chamber was empty.
“Stores missing, though, ma’am,” she told them. “Sir.”
“So he’s hiding somewhere around here,” Pulisz said.
The gangway was deserted but for the group of them packed tight about the storeroom’s hatch. Ormuz stepped away and walked aft a short distance. He heard footsteps on the decking behind him and glanced back. Pulisz had detailed a ship’s corporal to safeguard him. He turned back and came to a halt. There was little to see. The gangway was some six feet wide, its walls streaked with rust. The light-panels high on each wall, staggered at distances of some six feet apart, seemed to shed waves of light along its length. He continued on until he reached a hatch.
“My lord,” said the ship’s corporal and stepped past him.
The rated unlatched the battens and pulled the hatch open. The chamber beyond was dark. In the rectangle of dim light shed by the entrance, Ormuz saw the end of a bench. The rated blocked his view as he stepped over the coaming. Moments later, something began to buzz and cool light gently washed throughout the room. It was a workshop. Everything was neat and tidy: the deck swept clean, the bench-tops clear, the tools put away.
“Nothing here,” Ormuz said.
He turned away from the workshop’s hatch. Something further down the gangway caught his attention. Movement. It was difficult to be sure. He needed to get closer. He gestured urgently at the ship’s corporal and trotted along the gangway.
Yes! A hatchway just swinging shut. As he watched, the battens latched. He increased his pace. The rated lumbered after him.
They reached the hatch. The ship’s corporal put a hand to the lever which unlatched the battens. He jerked it down. And pulled.
The hatch swung open.
A lit room. Rows of shelving. A flash of movement. The ship’s corporal cried out and stumbled back. Blood fountained from his neck. He slapped a hand to the wound, then toppled backwards. Ormuz leapt aside. A lithe figure in blue hurdled the fallen rated.
“Hoy!” yelled Ormuz. He scrabbled for his sword. He had his hand to the hilt —
The clone lunged. Ormuz danced aside. He managed to withdraw his sword. Another lunge and Ormuz had his blade up in time for a parry. Behind him, he heard the thud of feet on the steel deck.
A wild swing from the clone. Ormuz ducked. The clone turned about and sprinted along the gangway.
Ormuz gave chase.
There was a ramp leading to the deck above. The clone ran up it and disappeared from view. Ormuz did not lessen his pace. As he cleared the hatch at the top of the ramp, he saw something from the corner of his eye. It moved fast. He dived to the deck. Rolling onto his side, he saw the clone had been lying in wait. Ormuz scrambled to his feet.
The clone advanced on him, blade held high. This was a wider corridor. There was room to circle. Ormuz saw Rinharte, Pulisz and Maganda, and behind them the ship’s corporals, running up the ramp.
Ormuz attacked.
He turned to his left, flicked the clone’s blade aside and stepped forward. His opponent managed to pull back his sword. Ormuz blocked the riposte. He punched out with his free hand, catching the clone on the cheek.
Their blades clashed again. The clone was good, very good. But Ormuz knew he was better. He feinted high and wide, the midshipman moved to parry. Ormuz flicked his blade down and in. The point slid into the flesh of the clone’s upper arm. His face did change expression.
Was the man not human?
The clone pressed an attack, forcing Ormuz to retreat. Thuds and clatter behind told him the others had scattered out of his way. And there was an audience beyond the clone: a handful of rateds, watching the fight and blocking his escape.
Ormuz recovered. He lunged low, used his palm to beat aside the parry. His point took the clone in the thigh. Blood immediately pooled beneath the cloth. He wanted this man alive. Even if he had fill each of his limbs with holes.
He felt the weight of the sword, its length an extension of his arm, the tip responsive to the merest flex of his wrist. The smallest of movements of his elbow, and he took the clone’s lunge on the tang of his blade. He stepped close. Brought up his sword in a sudden motion. The pommel hit the clone on the bridge of the nose.
The midshipman stumbled back. Ormuz brought his sword down, his elbow out. He straightened his arm.
The clone jerked sideways. Ormuz’s point, aimed for the shoulder, took him in the throat. The clone took a single step back. He fell to the deck. His sword rolled from his hand with a metallic clang.
“No!” Ormuz shouted.
He stepped forward, his empty hand out as if attempting to catch the clone as he fell. But he already lay dead on the decking. Ormuz looked down at him.
“Damn!” he said.
Ormuz dropped the point of his sword. He bent over and drew in a shuddering breath. He had wanted the clone alive, had wanted to question him. There was so much Ormuz wanted to know. He gazed down at the body. The clone still wore his midshipman’s uniform, his blue coat with its white facings, but it was smeared with dirt. Ormuz dropped to a squat and put a hand to the clone’s cheek. He felt it cool beneath his palm and he was angry that he’d killed him. Or had he? Had that last stumble by the clone been deliberate? Had he taken Ormuz’s point in his throat on purpose?
Certainly, these young men—and they had all been male and of a similar age to Ormuz himself—were not ordinary; which in turn suggested their conspiracy was also extraordinary. Ormuz would never know now. This dead midshipman had been his only clue, and unless they stumbled across another aboard Empress Glorina he would never find out the truth of the Urbat.
So, for now, Ormuz would keep his suppositions to himself, and focus only on fighting those battles needed to safeguard the Imperial Throne.
At that moment, someone touched him on the shoulder. He turned his head and looked up. It was Mate Maganda.
“My lord!” she said breathlessly.
He barked a laugh. He was no lord—he was no different to the young man he had just killed.
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
Finesz looked up as the entrance to the stockade rattled and opened. A pair of Vonshuan house troopers entered; more were visible outside. The prisoners, briefly stilled by her entrance, lapsed back into the languid unconcern of the incarcerated. The troopers marched towards Finesz. She stepped down from her shelter and awaited them, her arms crossed tightly across her bosom.
Good, she thought. About damn time.
Two days ago, she had demanded a meeting with her gaolers. How dare they permit the other prisoners to leave for the weekend, but not herself? At the agreed time, the gates had opened and the officers had filed out. But not Inspector Finesz. One of Ahasz’s masked militia had been there, an officer, and he had put out a hand to prevent her departure.
“You stay. On the orders of his grace.”
There was no arguing with the man. Regimental-Major Zabla had given a puzzled shrug and continued out with the others. Leaving Finesz alone in the deserted stockade. They’d not let her go hungry, however. More of the duke’s militia had delivered her meals at the appropriate hour.
The troopers reached her. The lead one spoke: “If you would come with us, ma’am.”
It could still be a trick. Finesz had never felt so suspicious of her fellows before; sh
e had never been imprisoned before. The irony was not lost on her.
She followed the two of them out of the stockade and along a road between two barracks-blocks. Near the entrance of one, the Duke of Ahasz sat on a flimsy chair before an equally flimsy table. A bottle of wine and a pair of glasses sat on the table. There was another chair across from the duke. He gestured arrogantly for Finesz to seat herself in it.
This was a surprise: she had not expected Ahasz himself.
“So,” she said, looking down at him, “why the special treatment?”
He gestured airily. “Sit down. Please.”
She looked at the chair, then across at the duke. He picked up the bottle, leaned forward and filled the glass before the empty chair. Cautiously, she seated herself, settling back into the chair, warily watching Ahasz.
“Well?” she demanded.
“Try the wine. I think you’ll like it.” He sat back. “And there’s no need for rudeness.”
“Forgive me if I don’t look upon you as a friend.” Nonetheless, she reached for the wine and took a small sip. It was, as Ahasz had, of the type she found most appealing—a rich ruby red in colour, redolent of dark berries and with a spicy aftertaste.
Ahasz snorted at her expression. “I have supplies shipped in on the railway,” he explained.
“And the Palace?”
“I should hope they’re drinking vinegar by now.” He took a deep mouthful from his own glass. “Would you have come back if I’d let you leave?”
“Probably not,” Finesz admitted. “But you let the others go.”
“They’re inbred nincompoops. They wouldn’t dare not return.”
Finesz agreed with his assessment, but she gave no sign of it. “I think I should be flattered,” she said.
“Doubly so.”
She raised an eyebrow coquettishly and took another sip of wine.
Abruptly, her behaviour caused her to bark a laugh. Flirting with the duke! In this of all places; and now of all times.
Sobering, she asked, “I should?”
Ahasz gave a tight smile. “I don’t as a rule invite my prisoners to join me over a glass of wine.”
“And why have you? I should have you know I don’t believe in battlefield romances.”
Now the duke laughed. “I’m sorry I never met you when you were at Court.”
“As I heard it, your heart was given to another.”
Ahasz did not reply. Finesz wondered if that had been a quip too far. He’d asked for Princess Flavia’s hand in marriage and she had refused him. And now she was en route to Shuto to fight him. A person with no knowledge of the clones might think this war nothing more than revenge.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said at length. “I brought you out here to talk.” He waved a hand vaguely. “Tell me what’s going on out there, what they say about my siege, about me. I know you move in high circles, for all your relatively low rank.”
In the light of day, the duke appeared older than Finesz had imagined—drawn, haggard. His jacket’s frogging was encrusted with dirt, and one epaulet torn. It was strange, she reflected, to see a high noble in such a state of dishevelment. They had always to her seemed a breed apart, with their pampered looks and finery. While she had striven for that effect, they had made it appear a natural consequence of good breeding.
As if reading her thoughts, Ahasz said, “I do vaguely recall you at Court. Did we ever meet?”
“No, your grace.” Impishly, she added, “Not for want of trying on my part.”
“Then your subtlety does you credit—I never knew.” He leant back in his chair and peered at her over the rim of his wine glass. “But you were very good at that, I understand.”
He’d had her investigated. It came as no surprise—she would have done the same—but she disliked the sudden vulnerability she felt. She hid it in her own glass, gazing down into the dark liquid and focusing on her warped and undulating reflection.
“Come, come,” he chided. “I didn’t mean to offend. If you’d rather I didn’t mention those years, then I shall not do so.”
He thought her embarrassed.
“What would you like to know?” she asked, looking up and fixing the duke with a level gaze.
“Whatever you see fit to tell me. How is the world outside reacting to my siege?”
“You’ve not left the District since it started?”
Ahasz laughed. “I am safest here, inspector. Who knows who would try to save the Emperor if they saw me out and about in Toshi?”
It was a valid point. Nobles were liable to take matters into their own hands, particularly if they benefited. The irony of it—that Ahasz himself had done exactly that; against the Emperor! She took another sip of her wine as she considered her reply.
“Life,” she at length, “carries on as it did before. No one out there seems at all bothered by what you’re doing. It’s business as usual.”
“No one?” Ahasz leant forward intently. “Nothing has been said in Congress?”
“Not that I’m aware of.” Finesz gave a shrug. “They’re waiting to see what happens.”
“Do they expect me to win? Or —” He gestured dismissively in the direction of the defaced Imperial Palace.
“I shouldn’t think it matters much to them.” She held up a hand, reconsidering her statement. “No, that’s not true. If you had won quickly, then perhaps they might have done something. But now? Now, they expect you to fail, I think. They don’t understand how you could afford such a long siege.”
“I can afford it a damn sight more than the Emperor can!” Ahasz slung back the last of his wine, and then grabbed fiercely for the bottle and sloshed more liquid into his glass. “It’s costing me crowns, this escapade, but I’ll not be beggared when it’s done. The Throne’s already a pauper.”
Finesz laughed.
“You think I jest? Not at all. The Imperial coffers have been empty since the Pacification Campaigns. The Throne is permanently in debt.”
“But…? How?”
“The Admiralty grabbed the Throne’s riches to fund the Pacification Campaigns. Since then, it’s been getting by on Tithe and hand-outs from the Electorate. And they make sure there’s just enough to pay the bills.”
“But the Emperor is rich,” protested Finesz. “All those pageants and assemblies! The Imperial Palace itself!”
“Oh, there’s been a lot spent, but there are no reserves. Willim has his family fortune—that’s not been touched. But I’ll wager that doesn’t match mine, or any of the top families. The Mishuans have double my fortune and they could buy the Shutans ten times over.”
“So you were never after the Throne’s riches?”
She had disappointed him. “Please, don’t be so foolish,” he said. He waved away Finesz’s question and returned to the subject at hand: “Do you know when she will arrive?”
There was no mistaking to whom he referred.
“A matter of days, I expect. I wasted a lot of time getting here from Linna.” She shrugged. “Assuming she won at Geneza, of course.”
“She did,” confirmed the duke.
Finesz wondered how he knew… and then remembered Ormuz’s strange ability. Of course, Ahasz would have it too. But… He had not left the Imperial Household District since the siege had begun.
How could he have visited the nomosphere?
The next day, a Vonshuan militia officer fetched Finesz once again. This time, she was led across the garrison to the corner nearest the Imperial Palace, and told to climb the staircase to the battlements. At the top of the wall, she found the Duke of Ahasz gazing out of an embrasure, his hands on the merlons to either side. Finesz stepped up to him and saw his vantage point gave him an excellent view of the trench system he’d had built along Palace Road.
“Made quite a mess of it, haven’t you,” she said.
Ahasz spoke without turning. “The Palace?”
“All of it: the Palace,
the gardens, the Road.”
A cannon in the Palace fired. Its bolt of directed-energy hit to the rear of the trenches, throwing up a cloud of dirt and smoke. One of the duke’s basilisks responded: it rushed forwards, a foot above the churned mud and craters, loosed of a bolt of its own and just as quickly retreated. A piece of the Palace’s facade exploded, raining stone down on the remains of the entrance portico.
“It’s going to cost a fortune to rebuild,” Finesz said.
“My fortune will cover it.”
“You still expect to win?”
Ahasz stepped back from the embrasure and turned about. He folded his arms across his chest and gazed sadly at the inspector. “No, I think not. But neither do I expect to survive.”
“I don’t understand.” Did he, Finesz wondered, intend to commit suicide? There was precedent…
“My estate will be sequestered by the Throne.” He gestured contemptuously. “Willim is not going to pay for this out of his own pocket if he can help it.”
“What about Casimir?” Finesz asked. Surely Ormuz was the duke’s heir? And he’d fought for the Emperor.
“Who? Oh, you mean the clone. He’ll get nothing.”
“But he’s you.” She shrugged a shoulder. “You know what I mean.”
“He’s a prole, Sliva —” He raised an eyebrow, as if asking her permission to be so familiar. “He’ll be lucky if he’s not tried for arrogation.”
Finesz shook her head. “No, the Admiral will protect him.”
For one long moment, Ahasz peered at Finesz, his features blank. Abruptly, he laugh. He turned from her, put a hand back on the merlon and laughed. “No,” he said. “No.”
“No? ‘No’ what?” Had the man gone mad? What was wrong him?
He turned back to her. “She’s fallen for him, has she? Has that cold heart thawed?”
“Well, I wouldn’t quite put it that way but…”
Still chuckling, the duke began to walk along the battlement, away from the tower on the corner. Finesz joined him and, side by side, they strolled along the wall. There was a railing beside her and she ran a hand along its banister, grateful for its presence. She had no desire to stumble and fall thirty feet to the ground.
