by Sales, Ian
Ahasz gave a low laugh. “This could be your chance, Sliva, to be a real law-maker. You have unprecedented access to the new Empress.”
She shook her head. “Not me. Not when it’s my boss himself who’s pulling the Admiral’s strings. I want to get as far away from here as possible. Some nice quiet bureau on a world where absolutely nothing happens. Yes, that’ll suit me perfectly.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
The train shook and rattled its way along the elevated track. Ormuz sat twisted to face forward, his elbow on the back of the seat, his chin cupped in his hand, and stared out of the window at the tenements below. He noted the narrow dirty streets, the ramshackle roofs, the occasional bursts of greenery in window-boxes and planters. And the people thronging the streets.
After leaving the Admiral in her father’s study, Ormuz had made his way back down to the trench in Palace Road. He had stood there outside the blasted Palace, still not believing what had just happened. To be discarded so easily. To have been lied to all this time. He had loved the Admiral but he had clearly meant nothing to her. He lokoed back over his shoulder—it was not just the Imperial Palace which lay in ruins.
Feeling numb—although his side still pained him from the wound Ahasz had inflicted—he made his way to the Roundabout and the railway station beneath it. They were shipping out the casualties, of both sides, on the trains. He stepped aboard one such carriage. Someone gave him a wet cloth and he used it on his jacket to remove the worst of the mud and blood decorating. And, accompanied by the moans and screams of the dying and injured, he had rode the rattling train into Toshi.
And now, several trains later, each one chosen simply because it was there, he found himself here in this narrow carriage. Battered wooden seats, against the carriage walls, facing each other across a central aisle, polished by generations of travellers’ rears. Although mostly empty, a smell of packed bodies still lingered in the air, left behind during the last rush hour.
Turning away from the window, Ormuz surprised a couple of proles staring in his direction. No, he should not think of them as proles. He was the same now: a proletarian. Owned. His bond held by… He tried to remember the name of yeoman who had owned Divine Providence. The Order of the Left Hand had actually owned the data-freighter, but some distant yeoman had purportedly held the crew’s bond. As he tried to recall the name, he realised what had prompted the looks from the other passengers.
He wasn’t wearing an escutcheon.
His clothes might be finer than was normal for proletarian wear. The style of his hair, his bearing, his very mien. Yes, they might all be mistaken for noble. But he was aboard a prole train, so he must be a prole. Except he wasn’t wearing an escutcheon.
He fingered his collar, which is where he should have been wearing the coat of arms of his bond holder. If any constables should board the train, he could be arrested. It was illegal for proles to appear in public without an escutcheon.
There was nothing he could do about it now.
Except perhaps not make it so obvious.
The train screeched and Ormuz found himself leaning to his right as it braked. With a rumble and a howl of metal, it slid into a station. Upright girders serving as pillars flickered past, gradually slowing, as if they were decelerating beside the carriage. With a last jerk and a bang, the train halted and the doors groaned open. Ormuz rose to his feet and exited.
He had no idea where he was. Somewhere in Toshi. A proletarian section of the capital city. The few people who had left the other carriages were making their way along the platform to the left, presumably towards the exit. Ormuz followed and soon passed a signed which read “Chikogu—Tani Valley”. It meant nothing to him.
At the end of the platform, an archway gave onto a staircase heading down. Unlike the station, the staircase was not enclosed and had only a metal railing. The drop to the street, at least sixty feet, was disconcerting. Hand firmly gripping the rail, Ormuz descended from the elevated railway station.
On the street, he had no destination, nor any reason to choose one way over the other. On the other side of the road which paralleled the railway’s support pillars, he saw a narrow street which appeared to head deeper into the district. He crossed to its mouth and entered.
The street was some fifteen feet wide and walled with sheer-sided tenements. Inadequate street lighting did little to dispel the approaching evening. Shadows crept across the pavement and puddled in corners and nooks. He walked on stone flags, dirty, with occasional weeds growing between, but free of litter. Every fifty feet or so was a small step up, no more than three or four inches high.
Twilight settled over the city, washes of orange, red and vermilion across the sky fading to indigo, which sank to fill the narrow canyon of the street. Now the streets light were all the illumination there was, and in their flickering autumnal glow the street seemed to turn its back on the night and hunker down for safety. People appeared, ambling along the street, passing in and out of the doors and ginnels which gave onto it. Up ahead, a door opened and threw amber light onto the pavement. Laughter and conversation spilled out. Above the door, sliced in half by the rectangle of light, hung a sign. Ormuz could just make out the words “Empress Glorina”, and he smiled at the coincidence.
A pub.
He felt a need to be surrounded by people.
The pub was not as busy as it had sounded. Perhaps two dozen people were scattered about the room, seated at tables or standing before the bar. One or two looked his way, then returned to their conversations or drinks. He was about to approach the bar when he realised he had no money on him, no crowns or scrip. In fact, he had no idea in whose fief he was, or what its inhabitants or visitors used as a medium of exchange.
Rather than leave, however, he decided to remain and sample the pub’s atmosphere.
He took a seat at an empty round table in a corner of the pub, partially hidden from the bar by wooden pillar varnished black with age. There was a glass on the table, abandoned although an inch or two of beer remained in it. He clasped his hands about the glass and drew it to him, as though it were his own unfinished drink. Head bowed, he sat at the table and eavesdropped on the conversations taking place around him. No one that he could hear spoke of Ahasz’s rebellion. There was no mention of the destruction of the Imperial Palace, of the battle which had taken place earlier that day, and in which he had played an important part.
The pub’s patrons discussed the day they’d had at work, neighbourhood or family gossip, speculations regarding some melodrama they’d seen on an entertainments channel or the result of a sporting match scheduled for a few days hence. There was something reassuringly prosaic about the various discussions.
Ormuz was not just listening to what was said, but also to how it was said. It had been so long since he had spoken proletarian language, he was worried he might have forgotten the trick of it. But his ear quickly attuned to the local speech.
Whenever someone came near the table, Ormuz would lean forward, his elbows on the table, his cheeks resting on his fists, and gaze down into the dregs of his ale. Not only did he look as though he would not welcome company, but it also hid his collar and his lack of an escutcheon.
After a couple of hours in the pub, which was warm and cozy, sleep began to steal upon Ormuz. It had been a long day, he had been in a battle, and he had lost some blood. He found himself repeatedly jerking awake and realising he had missed a minute or two of a conversation he had been following. He stifled his yawns in the crook of one elbow, but he could not prevent the soreness in his eyes, or the slow burning in his side caused by his wound.
“You going to finish that, or what?” demanded a voice at his elbow.
Startled, Ormuz jerked upright. His arm caught the glass and knocked it over. The dregs of beer splashed across the table-top.
“Now you’ll have to buy a fresh one,” the voice said, amused.
Ormuz turned and looked up at the speaker. He saw
a woman around the same age as himself, with pretty features just beginning to settle into pleasant character. She had a halo of short blonde curly hair, wore a tight-fitting and low-cut top in dark pink, a very short white skirt, flesh-coloured hose and had a very red smile on her face.
“I’ve spent all my scrip,” Ormuz replied. He gave an apologetic shrug.
“Of course you have,” the woman said. “Look, if you can keep quiet I’ll sneak you a pint and a bite to eat. How’s that?”
Ormuz gave a weak smile.
She leaned forward and picked up the empty glass from the table. Looking down at him, she said, “They’re posh clothes, aren’t they. Where did you find them? They could do with a good clean, though.”
As she straightened, she waggled a finger at him. “And you really ought to put your escutcheon on or the constables’ll nab you.”
“I left it at home,” Ormuz lied. In truth, he had no idea what had happened to the coat of arms he’d worn aboard Divine Providence. Since joining the Admiral, he had stopped wearing it.
He looked up at her escutcheon, which was pinned to the low-cut collar of her top on the upper slope of one breast. It depicted something which looked like a lamp but on its side—although an inviting glow still shone from it. Ormuz had no idea what it signified.
“‘Home’?” She laughed. “You don’t sound like you’re from round here.” She paused and a frown creased her brow. “You don’t much look like you’re from round here, either. Where you from?”
She glanced across at the bar, then back down to Ormuz. Pulling up a chair, she sat down and leaned forward, gazing at him intently. “You’re not a down and out, are you? We get them in here every now and again. Your clothes are a bit filthy. I suppose they could be cast-offs from some yeoman with more money than sense, but you don’t look like you been living on the streets.”
Ormuz had been staring at her knees, too embarrassed to meet her eyes. He dropped his gaze further, to her feet, to the strappy high-heeled shoes she wore. She flexed her toes, each one separately covered by her flesh-coloured hose, as if they were conscious his eyes were upon them. And it occurred to him that her clothing was simple and brightly-coloured, with no insignia: no meaning to be parsed, no history to impart. He could see her feet and toes; she did not wear sturdy footwear, suitable for a battlefield or parade-ground.
For one brief moment, he felt a heart-stopping vertigo. This young woman, so alien in appearance to the world in which he had lived since Darrus… What had he done? He felt panic. He had walked away. His place: gone. His carefully-learnt identity: lost. He looked up at the woman, at her made-up features, and her cheerful and open expression, her clothes, her bearing, they seemed to ground him. For half a year, he had experienced life as a noble. No longer. Now he was back among his kind, but he would have to relearn his place.
“I’m from… Makarta Province,” he said slowly. “It’s a long way away. Right on the edge of the Empire.”
“You’ve travelled a bit, then.”
Further than the woman realised.
“So what brings you to Tani Valley, then?” she asked.
He could not tell the truth—he had travelled to Shuto as the leader of a fleet and an army bent on lifting the siege on the Imperial Palace. Princess Flavia, soon to be crowned empress, had been his lover. And he was a clone of the rebel duke, Ariman umar Vonshuan.
No, he could not say any of that.
“I served on a data-freighter. It crashed —”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.”
“So my liege left me here while a replacement ship flies out from Craina Province.”
“What were you? A pilot? Or an engineer?”
“Er, cargo. A cargo-master.”
“That sounds like a good job.”
“It was,” Ormuz replied, remembering Adril Tovar. “You work here in the pub, do you?”
She laughed. “Not all the time. This is my dad’s place, so I help him out sometimes. During the day, I write protocols for data-pools at Abel Company.”
“I have no idea what that means,” Ormuz admitted.
“It’s not very exciting.” She leaned closer, and said quietly, “Look, I know that wasn’t your pint. You’ve been sat here with an empty glass all night. But the offer of a drink and a bite to eat still stands.”
He could smell her light floral perfume.
For a moment, Ormuz did not know how to respond. He had forgotten kindness and the response expected of it. “Thank you,” he said, a little hoarsely. “Thank you.”
“It’s only ale,” she said laughing. She gave him a wide smile, rose to her feet and turned to walk away. After taking a step, she stopped and looked back at him. “My name’s Innelda, Innelda Azeel,” she said. “You can call me Inni.”
“Cas,” Ormuz replied. “Cas Ormuz.”
“Pleased to meet you, Cas Ormuz.” She held out a small hand. He reached up and took it, and was surprised at how hot it felt.
Someone called for Azeel at the bar. She flashed Ormuz another smile and hurried away.
Ten minutes later, she returned with a full pint and set it on the table before him. Ormuz thanked her and looked down at the beer. It was a reddish brown in colour, fading to deep red at the bottom of the glass. It did not resemble any beer he had drunk on other worlds. He picked up the glass and sipped. It did not taste like any ale he had previously drunk. He could detect some fruit underlying its dark, heavy flavour, but could not identify which. It was not a drink designed to quench the thirst on a hot day.
Some time later—he had drunk a third of his pint—Azeel returned a second time. She carried a half-pint glass of some pale drink. She placed it on the table, then sat down on the chair beside Ormuz, and crossed one leg over the other. Taking the glass of pale liquid, she smiled brightly and sipped from it.
“I think my dad can cope on his own for a bit,” Azeel said. “I only help out since my mum died two years ago, although it makes a nice change after spending the day at Abel staring at data on a glass.”
Ormuz gave a weak smile, not knowing how to respond. This young woman had pushed herself into his loneliness and he’d not known he was lonely until she had done so. He’d walked away from the Imperial Palace, from the only people he knew on this world. And he’d done it because the woman he’d loved had admitted she had only used him.
He could not go back. He didn’t care if the Admiral now sat on the Imperial Throne. No, she was Empress Flavia now. Or would be shortly. He’d have to learn to refer to her as that. A memory of one of their nights in her bed, as Vengeful travelled through the toposphere to Geneza, abruptly leapt to mind, and he blushed.
“It’s not as complicated as it sounds, you know,” Azeel said. “Writing protocols—it sounds like it should be complicated, but it’s just like any other type of engineering, you know.”
“Pardon?” Ormuz looked up from his ale.
“I’m trying to make conversation,” she replied. “You were sitting there with a long face, like the world had ended.”
“It has, in a way.”
Azeel laughed. “Rubbish! Does it look like it has?”
“What about the siege of the Imperial Palace? They’ve been fighting there for half a year.”
“It’s finished now, though, isn’t it?” Azeel frowned. “I heard it was all over. Made a nasty mess of the Palace too.”
“Yes, it’s all over.”
“They caught him, too, didn’t they? The duke?”
Ormuz was puzzled. “You’re not worried about what’s going to happen? It doesn’t bother you that there’s been a war on your doorstep for weeks and weeks?”
Azeel frowned. “Why should it? That’s just the high nobles. Nothing to do with us down here. Oh, we might have to pay a bit more tax for a while, but it’s not like they asked us before they went ahead and started fighting.” She leaned forward, and put a hand on Ormuz’s knee. “But let’s talk about somet
hing more pleasant.”
“This beer is nice,” Ormuz said. He winced at the banality of his observation.
“Local brewery,” replied Azeel. “The owner of the brewery owns the pub—owns me and my dad, in fact. Well, you know what I mean—he has our bonds. That’s why I live here. And since I live here, they like me to help out when I can.”
Ormuz nodded.
“I mean, I like my job. It’s not the most exciting job in the world, and you sometimes wonder if some of the people you work with should be doing their jobs, but I don’t think I could stand to work behind a bar all the time. Not after going to Technum and everything. Oh, but listen to me—doing all the talking. What about you? You said you’re from some province out near the edge of the Empire?”
“A world called Rasamra. I grew up there.”
“So what are you doing in Chikogu? I mean, it’s like we’re at the completely opposite end of the galaxy.”
“I got lost.”
Azeel giggled. She kicked out with her uppermost leg and tapped him gently on the shin with her toes. “Silly. Do you know where you’re supposed to be? And how did you get so dirty?”
Ormuz was embarrassed. He could think of no good excuse for his presence in Tani Valley or the condition of his clothing. Fortunately, the black jacket and trousers hid the bloodstains. “I can’t remember the address.” It was feeble, but the best he could do. “And I, um, fell over. I tripped and landed in some mud.” He put a hand to his collar. “That’s when I lost my escutcheon.”
“Oh well. I suppose if you went back to Kukoi in the morning, someone there could tell you where you were supposed to go.”
“Kukoi?”
Azeel gave him an odd look. “The aerodrome.”
“Oh. Yes. Of course.”
“We’ve got a spare room,” Azeel said. “You can stay there tonight.”
He shook his head. “No, I should leave.”
“You need somewhere to stay, so why not stay here?”
“You don’t know anything about me.”
“I know that if you go wandering about the valley at night without your escutcheon, the constables’ll have you in jail before you can blink.”
