by Ian Sales
“Then how do you explain this?” Lotsman shook the sword.
“Perhaps he stole it.”
Lotsman barked a laugh. “Adril, no one steals a sword from a regimental officer.” He glanced up and down the street. “We have to tell the captain.” He slid the sword down the collar of his coverall until it was hidden from sight. Holding himself stiffly, he turned towards the train station. “We have to get back to the ship.”
CHAPTER SIX
Under the solemn gaze of a silent four-year-old boy, Rinharte waited uncomfortably for her clothes to be returned. She turned towards the window, and tugged listlessly at the towel wrapped about her torso. The boy’s mother was downstairs, pressing Rinharte’s laundered dress and underwear. The hiss and thump of the steam iron, and an odour redolent of childhood, drifted up the stairs. It evoked memories of belowstairs, a place Rinharte had not been allowed to visit since becoming an adult. She wished Kordelasz was with her, but he had gone looking for transport to Dardina. Something befitting their station, she hoped. Arriving in the city in the cab of a farm truck would be one indignity too far.
This mission had already provided indignity piled upon indignity. Accepting the kindness of strangers—proletarian strangers—had caused her composure to begin unravelling at the edges. Their pathetic eagerness to help had only added insult to injured pride. She could not fault Kordelasz’s logic: they needed help, but could not approach those of their own rank. And no one would think to ask proles if they had seen the two fugitives.
She wished the damn child would go away. She could feel its eyes boring into the side of her head. It— he—hadn’t said a word. He’d positioned himself on the landing, just outside the bedroom door, and just watched her as she waited.
Footsteps thumped up the stairs, and Kordelasz bounded into view. He ruffled the boy’s hair, and pushed into the bedroom.
“I’ve found us a ride, ma’am,” he said.
Rinharte sighed, expecting the worst.
“The village squire is up at the viscount’s court, but he has a second vehicle. A footman is going to drive us up to Dardina when you’re ready.”
He grinned as Rinharte jerked her head round to stare at him.
“I think your clothes are about ready,” he added. “Ma’am.”
She decided she hated him.
More thumps on the stair signalled the approach of the boy’s mother. She hove into sight, Rinharte’s dress folded neatly over one beefy arm. Turning sideways to enter the bedroom, she snapped, “Off with you,” at the boy, and then beamed at Rinharte. The smile widened noticeably when directed at Kordelasz.
“Here’s your things, my lady. There was some rips, so I give them a quick darn.” She stiff-armed the garments at Rinharte.
Kordelasz had the sense to make his excuses. He left, taking the boy with him. The mother stayed, waiting to be dismissed. “Will my lady need help?” she asked.
“No.” Rinharte paused, and moderated her reply. “No, thank you.” She had a personal servant aboard Vengeful, but she was perfectly capable of dressing herself.
Once alone, Rinharte struggled to pull on her clean and pressed clothes. She rued being forbidden to wear Navy uniform on this mission. But she was undercover. She could neither reveal Vengeful’s presence in the region, nor the fact of her upcoming meeting. She had even kept her purpose on Darrus from Kordelasz, but he would learn of it soon enough.
She was to meet Captain Tobasz mar Dradzasc, Viscount of Nosc, of the destroyer Galaba. She knew him of old and thought it typical of the man to name his warship for the famous Pacification Campaigns victory which had given the Empire dominion over the worlds of Makarta Province.
Dressed, Rinharte descended the stairs, and found the marine-lieutenant in the kitchen at the back of the house. She hovered in the doorway, watching as the boy’s mother fed him bread and tea, not wanting to enter the room. Kordelasz could make easy with the prole woman, but Rinharte would not.
As if reading Rinharte’s mind, the woman looked up. “My lady,” she said. “If you’d go through to the front parlour, I’ll bring some food.”
“Not for me.” Rinharte turned to Kordelasz. “Is our transport ready?”
“Waiting outside,” he said through a mouthful of bread.
“Then we should leave, Mr Kordelasz.”
It was with a sense of relief that Rinharte led the way to the front door and stepped outside. Every moment she had spent in that house, she had felt a trespasser. She was no longer a child, ignorant of rank, willing and able to cross social boundaries. Now she knew: a place for everything, and everything in its place.
At a height of two feet above the glittering road, the car flew towards Dardina. The vehicle was not a particularly new model, but it was better than Rinharte had expected. The “village squire” lived well.
“Don’t you think you were getting a little too familiar with those proles?” she asked Kordelasz.
“Ma’am?”
“They’ll only take advantage, you know.”
Kordelasz smirked. “And we weren’t?”
“You know what I mean,” she snapped. The man was insufferable. She only had to open her mouth and he turned her remarks back upon her. He was as much a fencer with words as he was with a blade.
Annoyed at the marine-lieutenant’s verbal parry, she turned and gazed out of the car’s window. The road ran straight beside a wide river. Brightness rippled and sparkled across the surface of the water, an ever-changing cloak of splintered sunlight. Beyond, green hills tumbled upwards to the horizon. From the back of a speeding vehicle, it was pretty country. Stumbling through it, ankle-deep in mud, it was anything but. Rinharte’s interests had never lain in engaging with nature. She would sooner admire majestic scenery from civilised surroundings—better yet, she would appreciate the artistry in some painter’s rendition of a landscape. A battlecruiser was not a clean environment, but it was never muddy.
The squire’s car entered the outer precincts of Amwadina, sped along an express route raised above the narrow streets, and shot over the city’s single bridge into Dardina. From the foot of the bridge ran an arrow-straight tree-lined boulevard, cleaving the city. It led to the University.
“Where are we?” asked Kordelasz.
“Nearly there,” Rinharte replied.
“Nearly where?”
She said nothing and peered out of the window:
Cube after cube of tan stone, each faced with ranks of windows, and set in a square of green bounded by pathways. Chiselled into the lintel above the porticoed entrance of each block was a name. The buildings were set too far back from the boulevard, and the car was moving too rapidly, for Rinharte to read the words above the doors.
“The University,” said Rinharte.
Kordelasz leant past her and gazed out of the window. “It is? This place,” he said, “is huge.”
“The student body is about two hundred and fifty thousand.”
The marine-lieutenant shook his head in wonder. “There were less than a thousand at the school I went to.”
“Schools are smaller than universities. The Imperial Academy on Shuto has only three hundred pupils.” Rinharte smiled. “But you have to be related to the Imperial Family to be accepted there.”
Kordelasz gestured vaguely out of the window. “So what are all these?”
“Halls of residence.”
Ahead rose the University Administration building, a narrow stepped skyscraper. As the car drew closer, more details became apparent. The two wings of the building curved around to right and left to enclose a greensward. Each floor was lined with windows. And the building’s height… Rinharte craned her neck to look up. One hundred storeys. From the top floors, the whole of the vast campus was likely visible.
The footman-turned-chauffeur spoke. “Where would my lord and lady like to be dropped?”
Kordelasz gave Rinharte an accusatory look. He could not answer the driver
’s question because he did not know the answer.
“The Library,” she said.
“We’re here for research?” asked Kordelasz incredulously.
“No.”
“Are you ever going to tell me what the mission is?”
“You’ll find out soon enough— Oh, I don’t suppose it makes much difference now.” She twisted on the bench-seat to face the marine-lieutenant. “We are on Darrus,” she explained, “to meet a contact. A captain of a destroyer. I’m to ask him to support the Admiral.”
“Which captain?”
“Dradzasc. Ah, Viscount Nosz. Of Galaba.”
Kordelasz shook his head. “Don’t know him.”
“We served together as middies.”
“An old friend, then.”
“No.”
Dradzasc had been a brute aboard that frigate all those years ago. He had terrorised the other midshipmen and Rinharte did not remember him with fondness. But he was well-connected, and the Admiral felt he might be a worthy recruit to the cause.
The car had reached the Library, a long and low colonnaded building. Its interior proved to be an open space, partitioned into study-carrels, and threaded by a labyrinth of narrow corridors. The ceiling far above was a detailed mural dedicated to learning: richly-dressed students poring over richly-bound tomes, painting still life subjects in still groups, gazing blankly at glasses filigreed with arcane equations, prodding and poking antiquated machinery.
Rinharte and Kordelasz strolled through the building until they came upon an ornate railing. Below them, occupying the floor beneath, serried ranks of golden data-vats—the actual library itself—bulked large with the knowledge of ages. Rinharte was impressed: so many facts and figures, collated, indexed, annotated… Kordelasz gave a noncommittal grunt, displaying the soldier’s typical disdain for learning.
“Where now?” he asked.
“Downstairs. There are private seminar rooms.”
“Relax, Mr Kordelasz,” murmured Rinharte. “There’s no danger here.”
He snorted. “Do we know that? I won’t relax until we’re back aboard Vengeful.” He scowled. “Even then, I won’t relax: someone must have told the knights stalwart you were on Tanabria Station.”
Rinharte frowned. “True. What made Major Skaria suspicious?”
The marine-lieutenant shrugged. “I don’t know that he was. My presence was only a precaution.”
Rinharte opened her mouth to voice her suspicions of the major of marine’s “precaution”. A knock rapped out on the door to the seminar room. She closed her mouth.
Kordelasz moved to stand where he would be hidden when the door opened. He put his hand to the hilt of his sword.
The knock came again.
The marine-lieutenant put his finger to his lips.
“Rizbeka?” bellowed a voice from the corridor.
“I thought you said these rooms were private?” Kordelasz remarked dryly.
Another knock. “Are you there?”
Rinharte rose to her feet. She strode to the door and pulled it open. A figure stepped into the room. A man, large and tending to heaviness, with bluff features, dressed in the white coveralls and navy-blue long-tailed coat of wardroom kit. A sword hung at his hip.
The man grinned at Rinharte, and gave her an avuncular slap on the upper arm. “What’s this, ‘Beka, wearing a skirt? In disguise, eh?” He winked broadly.
Rinharte’s heart sank. Dradzasc had turned into an oaf. Dear Lords, he was even in uniform.
She stepped back and smiled tightly. “Tobasz.”
Kordelasz closed the door. The captain of Galaba jerked in surprise, and then spun about. He caught sight of the marine-lieutenant, and straightened his back.
“Mr Kordelasz,” said Rinharte, “may I present Commander Tobasz mar Dradzasc, Viscount Nosz, captain of the destroyer Galaba. Tobasz, this is Marine-Lieutenant Kordelasz.”
Kordelasz did not relax, nor drop his hand from his sword-hilt. He took position, back to the door.
“Your own personal jolly, eh?” said Dradzasc, glancing at Rinharte. “The Admiral looks after you well, ‘Beka.”
Rinharte ignored the comment. Returning to the chair, she sat down, crossed one leg over the other and idly smoothed her ankle-length skirt over her knee. “You know why I’m here, Tobasz.”
“Your message said you needed my help,” Dradzasc said.
“No, it said we wanted your support.”
“For what, ‘Beka?”
“For when the Admiral makes her move. The Lords of the Admiralty refuse to accept the existence of the threat she is fighting. The enemy will make a bid for the Throne, Tobasz. They’ve been gathering their forces for years—”
“As you are now, eh?”
“What?” Rinharte was at first confused, and then horrified. “You can’t believe the Admiral intends to make her own attempt on the Throne?” she protested.
Dradzasc gestured lazily. “Why not? It’s why she ran away, is it not?”
The slur on the Admiral’s honour angered Rinharte. “She did not ‘run away’, damn it! Fisc was determined to see her dead. He did everything within his power to ensure it happened—”
“Come now, ‘Beka. Fisc is no villain. They’ve made him a Lord of the Admiralty.”
Rinharte was astonished. Vice-Admiral Fisc, Earl of Dorsz, was a block-headed blunderer, with no more idea of fleet strategy and tactics than the lowest rated. “He’s no longer on the staff of the Boundary Fleet? When did this happen?”
The destroyer captain tapped the side of his nose. “Not official yet. But the news is all over the fleet.”
“And what else does the deck telegraph say?” asked Rinharte suspiciously.
Crossing his arms, Dradzasc let out a noisy wheeze. “Let’s see… More keels have been laid in the last three quarters than in the five years before. They’ve upped the Quota, and the Impress Service are the busiest they’ve been for many a while. Empress Glorina and her escorts have been attached to the Home Fleet. Baalscourge is due to follow…”
“How much of this is true?” Rinharte caught Kordelasz’s eye over Dradzasc’s shoulder, and raised an eyebrow.
“All of it,” the captain admitted. “But it means nothing.”
“It means, Tobasz, that someone is taking the threat of the enemy seriously.”
“Rubbish! No one even takes the threat of your Admiral seriously, ‘Beka. And if there is any danger to the Throne, it’s her and her damn terrorist activities.”
“So why did you come?”
Silence.
“Ah,” Dradzasc said at length. He smiled sheepishly. “Well, ‘Beka, you see… Ahem. You’re a deserter. Doing my duty, eh?”
Rinharte stared at him. He actually looked embarrassed. “You didn’t…,” she accused.
“Got a squad of ship’s corporals out in the corridor,” he admitted.
“A ‘squad’,” Rinharte repeated sadly. “You don’t think very highly of me, do you, Tobasz?”
“You only got those two and a half rings because she took you under her wing,” he sneered.
“And you resent that? You resent that I have the Admiral for a patron?”
This generated a guffaw. “After she deserted? Hardly.” He sobered and gave a grunt. “Did before, though. I was much the better officer. Always was. But you got a battlecruiser, and I got a damn ordnance-barge. I had to work my way up to a destroyer.”
“You fool, Tobasz.”
Kordelasz spoke up: “Ma’am?”
She answered him absently, still staring at Dradzasc. “Yes, Mr Kordelasz?”
“We need to leave.”
“Yes, yes, of course.” She rose to her feet. Putting out a hand, she said to Dradzasc, “Give me your sword, Tobasz. I believe I need to make use of it.”
“Don’t be ridiculous!”
“Or,” she added acidly, “Marine-Lieutenant Kordelasz will be forced to subdue yo
u. Painfully. He is a master swordsman, I’m afraid, and I’m told he’s very handy with his fives.”
Muttering under his breath, Dradzasc reluctantly unclipped the lockets of his regulation sword and handed the sheathed blade to Rinharte. She pulled it from its scabbard, and was unsurprised to note that it was an expensive weapon. She doubted it had ever been used in anger.
She was admiring the intricate wire-work on the cross-piece when Dradzasc made a grab for the blade. She rapped him on the forehead with the pommel. Hard. He blinked owlishly. His brows lowered and he opened his mouth to bellow in pain.
She raised the sword’s pommel a second time.
Dradzasc lunged at her. He grabbed at her upraised wrist and clamped a meaty hand about it. She jerked her arm back but his grip was too strong. She pulled harder, stumbling backwards in the process. Dradzasc, caught by surprise, followed. His foot caught one of Rinharte’s feet. He tripped, and fell forwards against her. She managed to catch him a blow on the temple with her free hand. But she had not clenched her fist fully and it caused no damage.
Held together, the two of them staggered backwards. Dradzasc grunted. Rinharte hissed and tried again to break her attacker’s grip. A chair fell to one side with a clatter as they reeled against it. Dradzasc trod on her foot and lurched to one side.
“Damn bitch!” he wheezed.
She caught the inside of his leg with her thigh and pushed him further off-balance. He began to topple. She punched him more firmly but only caught him a glancing blow on the cheek. He grabbed for her collar with his free hand, caught the material and held on. Rinharte wedged an elbow under his chin. He grunted once again. Spittle leaked from his mouth.
Neither could stay upright, they were going over. Dradzasc’ greater weight took him down faster, Rinharte rolling to land on top of him. The sword between them caught in the folds of her skirt, scraped across Dradzasc’s thigh and stuck him through the fleshy part of his calf.
“Argh! Damnation! You traitorous bitch!”
He still had her by the wrist. She was thrown to the side. Her head hit the wooden floor, stunning her. Dradzasc panted like a winded beast and his hand dropped from her collar.
