by Ian Sales
A booted foot landed on Dradzasc arm and ground into the biceps. He let out a yell and released Rinharte’s wrist.
Foot still on Dradzasc’ arm, Kordelasz reached down a hand and helped Rinharte to her feet.
“Thank… You… Mr Kordelasz.” She tried to control her breathing. Reaching up her hand, she fingered the collar Dradzasc had ripped. Her dress had not fared well during the last few days.
She still had Dradzasc’ sword in her hand. She relaxed her grip on its hilt, and felt a twinge from her bruised wrist. Damn the man. She could see the marks of his fingers in the flesh below the heel of her palm. She looked down at the destroyer captain.
What an ass, she thought. Lying there on the floor.
A bruise had flowered between Dradzasc’ eyes. With that, and the beetled glare he was directing at Kordelasz, he appeared ridiculous.
“Ma’am?”
Rinharte blinked, and glanced to Kordelasz. “Um? Yes?”
“We need to leave. Now.”
“Yes, of course.” A thought occurred to her. “Ah. The ship’s corporals. Waiting outside.”
“Not a problem, ma’am,” replied the marine-lieutenant, sounding almost nonchalant.
“And him?” She indicated the supine Dradzasc with a jerk of the chin.
“Even less of a problem…”
Ship’s corporals were little more than thugs in uniform. Little was required in the way of skills or intelligence by the Provost branch—merely the ability to hit an unruly rated with a billy-club. Hard. The four ship’s corporals waiting outside the seminar room were typical of the breed. The shortest of the squad was Rinharte’s height, half-a-head taller than Marine-Lieutenant Kordelasz.
“Gentlemen,” Rinharte said. She and Kordelasz had stripped Dradzasc of his coveralls, boots and long-tailed coat, which she now wore. She felt somewhat foolish: the commander’s wardroom kit plainly didn’t fit her. But a Navy uniform was a Navy uniform… even if pretending to a rank higher than that actually held by an officer was a crime.
“Gentlemen,” she repeated commandingly. “If you’d care to step in here. We’ll need your help to subdue the deserter.” She thought it unlikely Dradzasc had told the ship’s corporals exactly who it was they were there to take into custody.
She moved aside and the four rateds marched past her into the seminar room. They came to a stumbling halt when they saw Dradzasc lying on the floor, gagged, hands and feet bound by strips of green cloth ripped from Rinharte’s dress. Kordelasz stepped out from behind the door. He had his sword in his hand and he pointed it at the ship’s corporals.
“Take off your clothes,” Rinharte ordered. “Or Marine-Lieutenant Kordelasz will be obliged to stick you somewhere painful.”
Two of the ship’s corporals reached for the billy-clubs hanging at their belts. They yelped in pain when Kordelasz pierced one man, and then the other, through the wrist.
With much swearing, the rateds removed their belts, coveralls and boots. Clad only in their smalls, they cuffed themselves together at Rinharte’s instruction. Some leftover cloth from Rinharte’s dress served to gag them. Kordelasz swapped his clothes for the smallest ship’s corporal’s coverall. Mindful that proles did not wear swords, he handed his blade across to Rinharte for her to carry. An officer with two swords was unusual, but considerably less so than a rated with a single blade.
Ten minutes later, a Navy officer, accompanied by a ship’s corporal, left the University library. There were no vehicles—not even a launch or an aerocraft—awaiting Dradzasc and his squad parked outside the building. Rinharte had expected as much: the destroyer captain had probably travelled to the university on the train. The authorities would never have let him land a boat on the campus.
“So what happens now?” Kordelasz asked, as they headed for the University train station.
“Nothing.” Rinharte looked back at the marine-lieutenant. He was walking behind her, as befitted the rank he had assumed as his disguise. “If Tobasz had agreed to join us, we would have waited for Vengeful’s return aboard his destroyer. But…”
“How long until the Admiral returns, ma’am?”
Rinharte calculated quickly. “Another three days for her to reach Ralat. If she returns as soon as her mission is accomplished… um, we have about ten days in total to wait.”
“Do you have a plan?”
She glanced at him sharply—was he being facetious? Judging by his expression, no.
“I mean,” he continued, “we can hardly take a hotel room in Dardina, can we? We know the knights stalwart are looking for you, and now Commander Dradzasc is going to be just as eager to get hold of us. I wouldn’t recommend breaking into an empty house and bunking down there. That’ll probably bring the constabulary down on us—”
“You’re leading up to something, Mr Kordelasz,” Rinharte snapped, annoyed at his dismayingly accurate description of their current situation. “Spit it out.”
“Amwadina.”
“Amwadina?”
“Amwadina.”
He did not explain further. He had no need to. Rinharte could guess his meaning all too well.
“Amwadina…” she repeated cheerlessly.
There was an inevitability to Marine-Lieutenant Kordelasz’s conclusion—more so because he had not spoken it. Rinharte and Kordelasz had to remain undiscovered for ten days. There was nowhere amongst yeoman or noble society where they could do so. The only place where their hunters would not think to look—and Rinharte herself had followed the same chain of logic herself back on Tanabria Station—was among the proletariat. Neither the knights stalwart, nor Dradzasc, would think to look for two yeomen in Anwadina. Yeomen never ventured there. Except perhaps when slumming, sampling the rough delights of the proletarian night-life. And then only for a night at most.
Kordelasz had taken the precaution of bringing along another set of ship’s corporal’s coveralls. While the marine-lieutenant kept watch, Rinharte sneaked into the prole ladies toilet at the University railway station, and changed out of Dradzasc’ ill-fitting uniform.
From one disguise to yet another, she reflected sourly. This outfit was Navy, as the last had been, but it was not her. It felt so strange to wear a blazon, a coat of arms—another’s coat of arms. As a yeoman, she was not obliged to bear her own. Rinharte’s identity was invested in her uniform and her coat of arms. Without them, she felt stripped of it. Her device—a stag of pure and snowy white on a field of dark blue—represented her position in society. She twisted her arm and peered at the blazon on the coverall. It depicted some feline beast with a spotted coat. She did not know it.
Two ship’s corporals boarded the train to Amwadina. Neither spoke. At a station in central Dardina, the male member of the pair darted off the train and returned moments later without the bundle of clothing he had been carrying. The two rateds disembarked at a station deep in Amwadina.
“Finding Dradzasc’ wardroom kit in Dardina should throw them off the scent for a while,” Kordelasz remarked. “A pity I had to leave the swords, though.”
“It was too dangerous to keep them,” Rinharte replied. She gazed about her worriedly. “It may be no less dangerous here.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Finesz gazed with dismay at the incident report displayed on her console. Assaun had posted it that afternoon. She had only popped into the bureau to see if Merenilo had done anything interesting during the day.
According to Assaun’s account—and his prose was as terse as his speech—Merenilo had attacked three ship-crew in Amwadina the night before. Astonishingly, they had managed to defend themselves. Assaun had been on hand to witness the attack and remembered the ship-patch worn by the regimental-lieutenant’s victims. A quick search of the heraldic data-pool had identified the crew as Lexander Lotsman, Adril Tovar and Casimir Ormuz of the data-freighter Divine Providence.
Had Merenilo travelled all the way from Shuto simply to assault a prole crew-member of a d
ata-freighter?
Finesz pulled out her chair and sat down, taking care not to crease the court dress she wore. She swapped from Assaun’s incident report to the Merchant Register, and typed in ‘Divine Providence’. Data scrolled down the glass but there was no clue there. A Barko S-Type data-freighter, her hull was some seventy-four years old and her present crew had operated the ship for more than a dozen years, bar the recent hire of a general crew-member. She was owned by Sir Borodisz demar Lewy, a yeoman on Antyde. Divine Providence’s registered route was a circuit of eight worlds further rimwards in Makarta Province. Her presence on Darrus was unusual but not suspiciously so. The profit the crew had earned their liege with her cargo the day before might well explain it. This, however, begged a question: how had they known of the demand for agricultural protocols on Darrus?
The caster on Finesz’s desk buzzed shrilly. She jerked in surprise. Turning from her console, she reached out and accepted the call with a flick of a switch. A face formed in the caster’s glass: Assaun.
“Yes?” Finesz snapped. “What is it?”
“Tried calling you earlier.”
“I’ve been out all day. Up at the viscount’s court.” Taking a day off and socialising with her peers, she did not add. Her timing could not have been worse.
“Rafeer is dead.”
Finesz sat up straight. “What? Dead?” She asked, “Are you sure?” And immediately felt foolish.
Assaun nodded. “Run through.”
“Run through?” Dear Lords, what an idiot. All she could do was parrot the trooper. “Was it Merenilo?”
Assaun blinked. “No witnesses, but… I’d say so.”
“Where is he now?”
“The constables took his body to the mortuary—”
“Not Rafeer, you fool. Where’s Merenilo?”
Assaun gazed back at her impassively.
“Where’s Merenilo?” Finesz demanded.
“Headed for Minadar. Lihik’s on him.”
How had Merenilo spotted Rafeer? Finesz had debated panicking the regimental-lieutenant into action by showing that he was under surveillance, but she had decided against it. She could not guarantee that he would not… well, that he would not do exactly what he had done.
“Where are you? I’m coming down.”
“By the hotel. I’m meeting Lihik at Minadar.”
“I’ll drive out to the port. Call me when you get there,” Finesz ordered. She signed off.
Minadar? Merenilo was heading for the starport? It was that data-freighter again. Finesz was sure of it. The regimental-lieutenant was intending to make a second try at the crew of Divine Providence.
Finesz rose to her feet, grabbed a leather greatcoat from the coat-stand, and hurried from her office. It was after working hours and the bureau was deserted. She came to an abrupt halt at the lift-shaft. As the lift-platform shot out before her feet, she scowled at her high-heeled dress sandals—
She needed a driver.
Grimacing, she glanced back over her shoulder at the darkened offices. There were troopers on call at the OPI garrison but it would take time for one to pick her up. She needed someone here, now, to drive her out to Minadar.
She pulled on the greatcoat. She had no idea whose it was, but it fit her. A driver… Inappropriate footwear aside, she had never learned the skill. There had been no need. On Shuto, as the mistress of various nobles, she had always been driven.
She stalked through the bureau, hands shoved deep in pockets, the hem of the black leather greatcoat flapping about her ankles. The Enquiry branch workroom was empty, the spectral glow of console glasses giving the unlit room a haunted air. She moved deeper into the bureau.
Turning a corner, she halted in relief. An open doorway threw a rectangle of light across the floor. She looked into the room. A uniformed clerk, working late.
“You,” Finesz said, impatient and relieved. “Can you drive?”
The clerk spun round in surprise and dropped the case docket she was holding. “Who— Er, ma’am?”
“I need a driver.”
“I’m a clerk, ma’am. I’m not a driver.”
“I can see that,” Finesz snapped, relief turning to asperity at the woman’s intransigence. “But you can drive, yes?”
The clerk nodded fearfully.
“Drop what you’re doing and follow me.”
“I need to contact my officer—” the clerk began. She looked worriedly across the room at the caster on the desk.
“There isn’t time.” Finesz moved into the room and reached to grab the clerk’s arm, but thought better of it. She dropped her hand. “I’ll clear everything with your officer in the morning. I need you to drive for me. Right now.”
Finesz glanced back as she returned to the lift-shaft at a quick pace. The clerk was behind her, black uniform little more than a shadow in the dimness, an anxious face all that could be seen. Finesz needed a driver. If there were any repercussions from this abrupt secondment, Finesz would deal with them.
At the lift-shaft, they stepped out together onto the lift platform and descended to the garage. Finesz explained, “I need to get to Minadar as fast as possible. But we have to be discreet when we reach the port.”
There were a variety of vehicles available in the garage, from fast two-seater pursuit cars to slab-sided troop-transports. Finesz chose a sleek van in civilian livery. Its cramped rear held seats for four armed OPI troopers, and she would need the room for Assaun, Lihik and, perhaps, their prisoner.
The clerk clambered into the vehicle and started up the motor. Moments later, its chargers powered up and the van rose gracefully from the ground. Parking-legs whirred and clunked as they retracted into their housings. Finesz climbed into the front-passenger seat, and glanced at the clerk behind the wheel with some misgiving. Needs must… but the clerk was young, normally worked in an office, and was clearly somewhat nervous at having been dragged out into the field.
No matter.
“Minadar,” Finesz prompted.
The clerk directed the van out of the garage and turned towards the Nahri river with a twist of the wheel. Traffic was light. Most residents were at home, and those proles who worked in Dardina were back on the other side of the river. The van roared across the bridge and into the tangle of streets at its foot in Amwadina. The young woman behind the wheel appeared to have found her confidence and performed her new role with an eager gusto.
Somewhere deep in Amwadina’s labyrinth—Finesz was tracking their progress on the van’s built-in navigation console—the caster in the centre of the dashboard gave a shrill buzz. Finesz flicked it on. Assaun’s face appeared. The small glass rendered his features flat and characterless. Finesz grimaced at his image. “Well?” she demanded.
“Lihik reported in. He’s on his way back in.”
“Who? Lihik? Or Merenilo?”
“Both.” Assaun blinked. “Subject was seen looking about a data-freighter on the port apron—”
“Divine Providence, yes?”
Assaun nodded. “The ship is all locked up—”
“So Merenilo’s on his way back to the city.” Finesz swore under her breath. She instructed her driver to pull over to the side of the street. “There’s no point in me coming out to Minadar,” she told Assaun. “Call me when you know where Merenilo’s heading for, and I’ll try and find it..”
Finesz was busy trying to familiarise herself with a map of Amwadina when Assaun called once again. The glass of the caster lit and his face gazed out at her. He said, “The subject is watching a bar, the Sikkir.”
“The data-freighter crew are there?”
“Yes.”
“He’s probably going to make another attempt,” Finesz suggested. Why did the regimental-lieutenant wish to kill the crew of Divine Providence?
“Where are you?” asked Finesz.
“Arak’s Bar, Sharia Street. Across from the Sikkir.”
“Get Lihik out
on the street,” she ordered. “I want a witness there when Merenilo’s targets leave the Sikkir. He won’t make a move if someone’s watching.” I hope, she added silently.
Assaun nodded and signed off.
Finesz located Arak’s Bar on the navigation-console. Sharia Street was deep in the dark heart of Amwadina, in a district that catered to transient proles: bars, night-clubs, hostels, and shops with incurious proprietors. “Do you know this place?” Finesz asked the clerk behind the wheel.
“Sharia Street? I can find it, ma’am.”
The van pulled away from the kerb.
Finesz twisted sideways and regarded her driver thoughtfully. Yes, definitely more confident. There was an almost martial gleam in the young woman’s eyes. “What’s your name?” Finesz asked.
“Sayara, ma’am.”
“You’re from here? from Darrus?” A foolish question: Sayara boasted the dark colouring and olive complexion of the Darrusï.
“Ma’am.”
“How long have you been with the OPI?”
Sayara paused as she negotiated a corner. Once the van had straightened, she replied: “Two years. I was recruited in my last year at technum.”
Finesz leaned close, the better to see the escutcheon pinned to the clerk’s collar. A bird’s head in red on a field of gold, three long quills hanging back from the head, and a snake dangling from its beak. She did not recognise the breed.
Finesz wore no escutcheon. She was a yeoman and it was not a requirement. She had her coat of arms—a naked woman with wild and abundant hair standing before a tree—but she had no obligation to wear it.
She turned to face front. She had her own proles but they were back on Shuto. Domestic staff, chiefly. She had been content to borrow detectives whenever she needed them—much as she had “borrowed” this young clerk. There were, now she thought about it, distressingly few proletarians wearing her escutcheon. She would have to get some more when this was all over.
