Adrienne Martine-Barnes

by The Dragon Rises (v0. 9) (epub)

  “Are we expecting guests, m’alba?”

  “Admiral Gyre wants to see you. They wouldn’t let me tell you during that meeting. He says ... he wants her back, or you’ll be sorry. I thought that wine and food might make the meeting a little less ugly.”

  “Less ugly? With the odious Guthry? You have the instincts of a great political hostess, little one. It almost seems a shame to waste them. Damn! I wanted to get out of this uniform. It itches like madness. Ah well, duty before pleasure; What do you call that garment you are wearing?” “I don’t know. A pseudo-uniform?” She was wearing a gray, high-necked, long-sleeved single-suit with wide legs. It had the dragon symbol at the top of each sleeve but was otherwise plain. “I get bored, just sitting around. I can’t read all the time. So I go down to Lefair’s shop and nose around. He says I have the makings of a good tailor’s mate. I don’t really enjoy feeling . . . like a ship’s woman. And

  Lefair says he hasn’t enough work to keep him busy.”

  “I am glad you have found an occupation to suit you, though I would never have chosen that one for you, myself. In fact, 1 am surprised that Vraser hasn’t copped you for his work.”

  “Oh, no. Derissa is the Healer in the family.”

  “I meant your other talent.”

  Alvellaina gave him an angry look. “I never want to do that again, so don’t even bother to ask me.”

  “So, Lefair complains of lack of work. I suppose that being a master tailor on a naval vessel must be . . . unchallenging,” he said, changing the subject from Alvellaina’s capacity for forced rapport.

  “What happened at the meeting?”

  “A great deal. It needs sorting out yet.” He went to his communicator. “Have Commanders Buschard and Frikard and Chief Vraser report to my quarters.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Are you planning on staying for the party, m’alba?” “If that is alright with you.”

  “Certainly. It will brighten the room considerably. You know, since that animal,” he said, pointing at the pard, “seems to have decided to make his home in my quarters, do you think we should offer it a name?”

  “Offer?”

  “Pards all have their own names, secret names, and the labels which people give them are quite arbitrary and often wrong. So, it is more polite to offer a name than to give one.”

  “Yes, it might be more convenient to have something to call it, though it’s so independent. What do you think Gyre wants?”

  “Who knows? My vitals on a platter, no doubt. But, beyond that is anyone’s guess. I would give a great deal to know the precise extent of his involvement in Marpessa’s little adventure, however.”

  The communicator beeped. “Admiral Gyre is arriving, sir.”

  “Have him brought to my quarters,” he answered.

  “Speak of the devil.”

  “And he will appear.” Alvellaina rose gracefully and smoothed the front of her garment. “At least I don’t have to dance with him.”

  She busied herself carrying trays from the sideboard to the table. He watched her arrange the fruits and vegetables to make interesting patterns. Then she put out carafes of wine and juice. Gilhame picked up a carafe and sniffed it.

  “That’s Grentarian or I’m no judge. Where did it come from?”

  “I. . . took the liberty of ordering some things while we were on Attira. There’s durek and vidar for Buschard, Rurian for Vraser, and four kinds of elixir. Commander Frikard is very fond of Mardean elixir.”

  “You behave like a wife in every way but one.” “Elfdun, your commissary officer was a little . . . nonplussed, but I did not think you would mind,” she answered, ignoring his remark. “Besides, though we entertained very rarely, I was my father’s hostess for three years. It is a thing I can do. I prefer to be something more than an ornament in the crown of your achievements.”

  “Forgive me, m’alba.” He bowed his head. “I am a selfish brute.”

  “Save that twaddle for someone who does not know you in and out,” she answered sharply. “I trust my choices of refreshment do not displease you?”

  “No, of course not.” He had noticed that they both backed away from the sharp debates which had marked their early acquaintance. They had not had a proper fight since the night he recovered consciousness. Gilhame was not sure if he missed them or not. “It just seems a shame to waste good things on the likes of Guthry Gyre. Don’t we have some . . . Paladomian cream?”

  “What’s that?”

  “A perfectly dreadful drink which resembles canine urine in both taste and smell.”

  She giggled. “No. And I wouldn’t put it on the table with Vraser here if I did. I wish to have a good reputation about my table. Do you know, all that time you were asleep, he talked of nothing but food and drink and the history of same. I believe he was trying to distract me, but it was most educational.”

  “Were you worried, little one?”

  “I. . . cannot lie to you. I was frantic, both for Derissa and for you.”

  “An odd attitude for a woman who professes to hate me.

  “I don’t think I precisely hate you. I rather like the person I was with on Attira. 1 just don’t like Admiral ur Fagon, the Black Dragon. You can be quite charming when you’re not killing people. Close your tunic. They’re coming—rather a lot of them,” she said with a frown.

  “What does it feel like . . . mind-seeing?”

  “Right now it is like many candles in a dark hall. I am not ‘seeing’ thoughts—for that I need contact—but am visualizing life forces. I have to know someone fairly well to actually divine his thoughts at a distance. Here, let me. You missed a button and you are crooked.” She unbuttoned several buttons and redid them. She looked into his face for a moment, then reached up and brushed back a lock of hair that had fallen on his forehead.

  The door intercom sounded. “Admiral!” The voice on the other side was strained.

  Gilhame released the lock. There were indeed a large number of people in the corridor. Two frightened-looking midshipmen, one of each sex, wearing the dragon emblem, escorted Admiral Gyre and his escort of eight heavy troopers and three line officers. The troopers were wearing enough battle gear to sack a small city, and Gilhame could see a platoon of his own marines coming quietly into the corridor behind them, armed and anxious-looking.

  “Precisely what the devil do you think you are up to, Gyre?” he roared.

  “Didn’t your whore deliver my message?”

  “You know I am not in the habit of taking you seriously, Guthry. Now, unless you really wish to cost the Emperor two Admirals, I suggest you send your braves away. I have you surrounded—again!”

  “What?” Gyre turned around and saw the marines and the portable cannon. At that moment, six of ur Fagon’s troopers in heavy armor entered the corridor. “Damn you!”

  “The element of surprise has never been your strong suit, Guthry. Come in, won’t you, and have some wine? The smell of burnt meat would be so distasteful in these close quarters. Send your troopers away. You know I never bargain at gunpoint. Let me see.” He pointed at one of Gyre’s officers. “I seem to remember you. Mafrin, isn’t it? Please, Guthry introduce me to your officers, and try to behave as if you were well brought-up.”

  Gyre, red-faced, motioned to the troopers. “Return to your ships,” he said in a voice almost strangled with rage.

  “I am sure my men will be happy to escort them off the Dragon after they have had a little refreshment. Wearing all that gear must be very tiring. Major Freedel,” he said to one of the marines, “will you see that our guests get something to eat and drink before they leave?”

  Gilhame was aware that Alvellaina was standing behind him and to his right, out of the doorway, and seemed to be staring at the wall. He could not tell if she was angry or near laughter. He watched the troopers and the marines vacate the corridor. Frikard came into the end of the hall, looking harassed.

  Alvellaina walked to the portal. “Come in, won�
�t you, Admiral Gyre?” she said prettily. She slipped her arm through his and drew him ruthlessly into the room.

  Gilhame turned his attention to the three officers and Frikard a little uneasily. He mistrusted Alvellaina in that sugary mood. Out of the corner of his eye he saw her lean over Gyre as she sat him down at the table and whisper something into his ear. The flush on Gyre’s face indicated that she had not said anything loving.

  Frikard and Mafrin, Gyre’s officer, made introductions. Then Vraser stumped in, looking grumpy, and introductions were repeated. Alvellaina cut the Healer out and herded him over to the table. She served him some wine, ignoring the protocol which demanded that all the guests be seated before wine was served. Buschard came in, and everyone went to sit down.

  Gilhame half-smiled at Buschard. “Ah, there you are, Pers,” he said to his handsome friend. “Let me do the introductions this time. Frikard is quite worn down with it. Commander Mafrin, who was leaving the Academy as I entered, Commander Villiam, and Captain Dunegan. Formalities are so exhausting, but they do keep society running smoothly, don’t they?”

  He knew that his languor would alert his three officers. Buschard had once told him, “I never trust you when you get polite, Gil. You’re like a damned pard at a rathole, playing. You’ve gotten me into more brawls with that polite voice of yours!” Gilhame smiled. Certainly, it was one of the aspects of the real ur Fagon’s personality which he understood.

  Vraser raised his face from a rapt olfactory examination of his wine and nodded genially. Commander Mafrin, seated beside him, nodded back.

  Vraser put down his glass and said, “Would you like some wine? Here, try some of this. That wine in the blue jar is pretty poor stuff. You wouldn’t like it.”

  Mafrin laughed. He was a small man, square and solid, with stiff, crinkly brown hair and a ruddy complexion. “So, of course, from politeness, you are forced to drink the contents of the blue jug yourself. Really, Vraser, your reputa-' tion as a wine expert is almost as respected as your talent as a Healer. Let me at least taste the stuff in the blue jar before you sacrifice yourself and drink it all.”

  Vraser balked, then poured a generous amount into Mafrin’s glass. “It’s nice to know my opinions are appreciated.” He glanced up and down the table benevolently and stopped in horror as he watched Admiral Gyre open his belt pouch and remove a sizable wad of choon. “Admiral . . . that will ruin the taste of your wine.”

  Gilhame, sitting at the head of the table and on Gyre’s left, reached out and grasped Gyre’s wrist. “Put it back. No drugs at my table, Guthry.”

  Gyre just stared at him for a moment, then shrugged and put the stuff back. “You didn’t used to be so particular, Gilhame.”

  “I was younger then, and less aware of my mortality.”

  Gilhame looked down the table. Alvellaina had seated herself at the foot and was serving Captain Dunegan and Frikard, saying something which made them laugh. Buschard and Commander Villiam appeared to have found some common ground on the right side of the table below Gyre, while Vraser and Mafrin on the left seemed amiably engaged in wine talk.

  “Have you studied the trader’s films on Copia, Guthry?” Gilhame asked as he picked up a tray of fruit and offered it. “Try the vidar grapes. They are quite tasty for having been grown in a tank.”

  “Thank you.” Gyre had apparently decided to control his temper and observe the amenities, as if he had not entered the ship with an armed force. He took some grapes and a kimis-fruit, a kind of peach. “No, I’m letting my staff handle that.” He lowered his voice and looked across at Vraser. “Why is that old cripple on your staff?”

  “Good Healers are hard to come by, and Vraser is one of the best. Besides, he’s been with me for years.”

  “He gives me the creeps.”

  “You never cease to amaze me, Guthry. I had no idea you were an aesthete. Do you prefer Rurian or Grentarian

  wine?”

  “Pard-lap! Oh, well, give me some of the Grentarian.” “There is durek down the table. We can probably pry it away from Buschard if we try.”

  “Don’t bother.”

  Gilhame, watching his fellow admiral carefully, poured some wine into his cup. The man’s hand trembled slightly when he raised it, draining the vessel in a few swallows. Gilhame refilled Gyre’s cup, then took some for himself. He noted the absence of the elegant, long-stemmed glasses which usually graced his board and wondered at Alvellaina’s choice of table setting. Still, it presented a pleasant and unified picture—no cloth, so the high shine of the wood of the table showed, carved wooden trenchers, earthenware cups, no utensils except fruit knives. All very rustic. Gilhame wondered if Gyre read any insult into the table setting and contrasted it with the almost indecent luxury of the party they had given for Niyarkos. ‘She has a bit of the devil in her,’ he thought irreverently, lifting his cup and toasting her silently. Alvellaina caught his gesture and gave him a tiny smile.

  “Well, since you didn’t come to talk about the curthel, is this a social call, Guthry? No, I suppose not. I was forgetting the troopers. One doesn’t bring troopers, however well-behaved, on a social call.”

  “You know very well I want Marpessa back.”

  “Dear Guthry, I would give her back in a moment, but I haven’t the faintest idea where she is. I cannot quite comprehend why you are so anxious to have returned to you such an unreliable officer. Sentiment has never been one of your characteristics. Oh, I admit, her tactics were occasionally brilliant. But so erratic. Now, if it were Captain Letitia Branwen, say, or Commander Kylaa Vitz’erbert, I could understand your frantic desire. They are officers anyone would be proud to have in his command. In fact, I would not be surprised if Vitz’erbert doesn’t make admiral soon. She has the brains, the drive and the discipline to do it. But Marpessa? Or is there sentiment involved?”

  Gyre clenched his teeth. “Don’t play games with me, ur Fagon!”

  “After Feebus? I wouldn’t think of it. I never kick a man in the same place twice. But I swear I have not seen her since that unfortunate evening two weeks ago when I found her trying to make chopped meat out of Derissa Krispin.” Gyre slammed his hand down on the table, making the cups bounce a little. Gilhame was now quite glad for the rustic table setting. “Where have you put her?”

  “I believe I recommended fleet prostitution. You might, after moderating your voice, inquire of Commander Frikard. He was managing the store at the time. Really, the whole subject bores me. Let us change it, shall we? You were, I believe, patrolling the Nabatean interface before you put in for repairs. What is their ship strength these days? I’ve heard some curious rumors about a new chemical weapon they’re using.”

  Gyre was white and tense now. “Weapons? I don’t know about that. But then, I didn’t have any actual encounters with their fleet—except on Muria.”

  “Muria? That’s one of the neutral worlds, isn’t it?” “Yes. We sent a few of our ships there for some rec-time. There were a couple of Nabatean ships in at the same

  time.”

  Gilhame could tell that Vraser was listening to their conversation while appearing to talk to Mafrin. Gyre, ignoring formality, refilled his own cup.

  The pard, which had continued to sleep on the chair, woke, stretched and leapt onto the table. It looked around, sniffed and started towards Gilhame. The little animal scented Gyre’s still extended hand, spat, bottled it’s tail and gave a hideous yowl. It’s paw raked Gyre’s outstretched hand before he could snatch it back.

  Gilhame hauled the pard off the table and into his lap, ignoring several scratches he got from the still-growling beast. He stroked it beneath the table, feeling its trembling, and said, “I’m afraid my friend doesn’t like you, Guthry. There, there, my pretty. He didn’t mean to frighten you.” The pard made a number of untranslatable but obviously rude remarks in gutter-pard and dug its claws into Gilhame’s leg. “Pards are such temperamental creatures, aren’t they?”

  Gyre sucked his hand meditatively. He p
ut his hand down from his mouth. “That one is!”

  “Don’t worry. I am certain her claws aren’t . . . septic. She’s quite fastidious,” Gilhame answered, enjoying the ghastly color Gyre turned at the suggestion. “Frikard, we’ve been so busy. What did you finally do with Captain Devero?”

  “Sir? Oh, Captain Devero. Well, sir, we packed her in ‘cold’ and shipped her off to the Havassit Institute before we left Attira. She was truth-blocked, and they’re the only ones who can reverse the process. She should be as good as new in a week or so.”

  “I protest,” said Gyre. “You had no right to do that.” “My dear Guthry, we had every right in the cosmos. She was found doing damage to one of the fleet’s personnel.” “That’s nonsense. Ship’s whores don’t count.”

  Vraser cleared his throat. “Halba Derissa Krispin was made a member of my staff two days after she came on board, Admiral. We gave the standard tests and found she had a very good ‘healer’ index. The paperwork is still in the works, but I doubt if the Admiralty would pass over any Healer, even if he or she were blind or lame. The need is too great, you know. I also take offense at your language. I think you should apologize quickly.”

  “The devil I will!”

  Buschard, with Villiam between himself and Gyre, leaned forward and looked at him. He frowned and seemed to consider the matter with his usual gravity. Then he took up his wine and said, “The Admiral is entitled to his opinion, Vraser. ‘Names break no sinews,’ you know.” He paused while everyone at the table absorbed the implication of his use of one of the Healers’ Proverbs.

  Gilhame pursed his lips to keep from smiling. ‘Good old Pers, always makes his words count,’ he thought. “Still, one must consider that any man who countenances an attack on a woman, whatever her station, is a coward.”

  Gyre half-rose from his chair. “You . . Gilhame grasped Gyre’s arm and forced him back into his seat.

  “I think the insults are even now, gentlemen. Guthry, I suggest you drop the entire matter. Surely you have someone to replace Captain Devero on your flagship.”