by Ian Sales
Kordelasz rose from his squat and the sudden movement startled Rinharte. She jerked forward but, as control reasserted itself, segued this into a smooth motion that took her to her feet. Strangely, once standing, she could no longer feel the chill. Perhaps the inhabitant of the sarcophagus had not appreciated being used as a seat.
She made her way towards the marine-lieutenant. “It’s safe?” she asked.
“I think so.” He grimaced. “There are no lights in any of the apartments.”
He pushed through the bushes and began picking his way to the gate onto the street. Rinharte stumbled after him. The faint whoosh of night-time traffic, none of it in the vicinity, drifted across the city. The river itself could not be heard, slipping silently between its banks.
Kordelasz crossed the street with quick strides and sidled into the entrance archway of the apartment building. His white-clad figure seemed to shrink as he moved deeper into the shadowed recess. Rinharte hurried to catch up. She had yet to be convinced this was the right course of action. Or even a sane thing to do. The marine-lieutenant was under her command, but she found it all too easy to defer to his plans. Ever since that knight stalwart had surprised her on Tanabria Station, events had taken on their own momentum, and she no longer felt in control.
Rinharte climbed stone stairs. Her hearing had gained an unnatural sensitivity: Kordelasz’s low breath, the slither of cloth, the scuff of their boots against the stone, her own heartbeat… She could see a pale shape half a flight above her. There were no lights in the stair-well or on the landings. Light pollution of a faint orange rained down from a skylight at the top of the building, giving Rinharte’s surroundings a dim air of unreality. She was reminded of her conversation with Kordelasz on the viewing-gallery in Tanabria’s boat-bay, but could not think why.
The marine-lieutenant halted, and crept silently towards one of the doors on the third-floor landing. He held up a hand, said, “Ah,” quietly.
Rinharte gripped the banister, felt cold steel tubing beneath her hand—and was briefly appalled at the industrial nature of something as prosaic as a hand-rail in a residential building for proletarians. “What is it?”
“Lock.”
Well, of course. The apartment door had a lock. Had Kordelasz not considered this?
She moved across the landing to stand beside him. Her eyes had not fully adjusted to the darkness, but the square plate of the lock was obvious. It glowed, faintly blue. And above it, only just visible, the occupant’s escutcheon: a bird’s head above an open book, both beneath a pointed arch.
Rinharte knew the type of lock. If it recognised the thumb pressed to the plate, the door opened. Otherwise, a buzzer sounded within the apartment. More sophisticated versions existed, but subverting this simple form was still beyond Rinharte and Kordelasz. They had neither the knowledge nor the tools.
The marine-lieutenant pressed his thumb to the lock. Rinharte heard a faint buzz through the door.
“What did you do that for?” she hissed. “You’ll wake them up!”
“How else are we going to get the door open, ma’am?”
Rinharte blinked. How indeed. Why in heavens did she agree to Kordelasz’s plans? Parachuting from a data-freighter, and now this: waking some prole in the middle of the night in order to take them hostage. It was not the behaviour of an officer of the Imperial Navy. Despite her renegade status, Rinharte still considered herself an officer of the Imperial Navy.
Light leaked from beneath the apartment’s door, accompanied by the approaching shuffle of footsteps.
“Follow my lead, ma’am,” Kordelasz said quietly.
The door slid aside, revealing a woman bundled in a threadbare housecoat and blinking owlishly. She opened her mouth—
Kordelasz stepped forward, grabbed the woman with an arm across her chest and propelled her back into the apartment. Rinharte hurried after him. The door slid shut behind them. His voice low and menacing, the marine-lieutenant snapped, “You’re harbouring a rated who’s jumped ship.” To Rinharte, he added, “Search the premises, corporal. We know he’s here.”
The proletarian woman struggled in Kordelasz’s grip. She shook her head wildly. “There’s no one here!”
Rinharte ignored her. She checked the first of the two doors leading from the living-room. A kitchen. Light-panels in the ceiling vibrated into life as she stepped into the room. She saw basic facilities, cupboards against every wall, and food-preparation clutter on the work-surfaces. The second door led into the bedroom. A large bed filled the centre of the room, its bedding rumpled and shoved to one side. She prodded the wadded up sheets but no one was hiding beneath them. Clothes were strewn across the floor and across a low chest. For one brief moment, Rinharte wondered why the woman allowed her servant to shirk his responsibilities—
But of course: this was a prole’s apartment. Proles did not have servants.
Rinharte returned to the living-room. She caught Kordelasz’s attention and shook her head, unwilling to speak and ruin her disguise. The prole was now sitting in an armchair and—
Rinharte turned to look at her. The woman was… amused? With both hands, she had pulled the lapels of her housecoat together just beneath her chin. A faint smile hovered about her mouth. Rinharte looked at the prole and saw in the woman’s eyes her ship’s corporal’s disguise crumble into foolishness.
Was it Rinharte’s appearance? She was clearly no native of Darrus, but there were worlds where the proles were tall and pale-skinned. The woman, of course, was Darrusï, boasting similar colouring to Kordelasz, but not his epicanthic fold to her eyes.
An unreasoning fury came over Rinharte, sparked by the smirk on the prole’s face. This small room, crammed with mismatched and battered furniture, close and oppressive with the fussiness of its furnishings, fuelled her anger. “Make some food,” she ordered. “We’re hungry.”
The prole rose from her chair, her features cycling from complicity through alarm to fear. She glanced across at Kordelasz, bobbed her head, and scurried into the kitchen.
“We can’t stay here,” Rinharte told the marine-lieutenant sotto voce.
“We have no choice.”
“I don’t care, Mr Kordelasz. I will not hide out among proles. Not for ten days.”
“Is capture preferable?”
Rinharte turned away. “Don’t be facetious. Perhaps there’s somewhere in the country we could hide out. A squire’s mansion, perhaps.”
Kordelasz shook his head. “That would cause even more comment, ma’am. Country folk gossip more than the lower decks.”
Far from resigned to the marine-lieutenant’s plan, Rinharte sat down in the nearest armchair. An uncomfortable silence fell.
“You’re not ship’s corporals,” the prole woman accused as she handed food to Marine-Lieutenant Kordelasz.
He pointed to the crossed keys embroidered on the brassard he wore on his upper arm. “What’s this, then?”
“You don’t speak like proles,” the woman insisted. “You’re yeomen, and yeomen are officers.”
“What makes you think that?” Kordelasz asked. He took the sandwich from the plate he held in one hand, and bit into it.
“I’m a research assistant for the Faculty of Philology at the University,” the prole said.
Rinharte spoke, “What do you mean?”
The woman moved to her and passed across another plate on which sat a thick sandwich. “I study languages,” she said.
“Our accent.” Rinharte took a mouthful of sandwich, and something fiercely spiced attacked the interior of her mouth. She coughed in surprise.
“It’s more than that,” the woman explained. “The Swovo you speak is… different. It has a more complex grammar: it requires agreements between subjects, verbs, objects and qualifiers, for example.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” scoffed Rinharte. “You speak the same language we do. You just sound less…” She trailed off.
“Edu
cated?” supplied the prole.
“Yes.”
“I’m better educated than you are,” the woman said, affronted. “I’m an academician.”
The statement amused Rinharte. A prole better educated? The woman would be claiming next that she owned property.
“What in heavens is in this sandwich?” Rinharte asked. Her mouth still stung.
“Cold meat and spiced pickle.”
“It’s very nice,” Kordelasz offered through a mouthful of bread. “Are there any more?”
“I can make another,” the prole replied.
Rinharte shook her head. She was hungry but eating more of the woman’s food would be tantamount to accepting their current situation. And that she refused to do.
“Why are you here?”
The marine-lieutenant answered the prole. “We need somewhere to hide for a few days.”
“Why?”
“None of your damn business,” snapped Rinharte.
The prole turned to her. “You’re going to keep me hostage while you stay here? What about my work? I have to go to work.”
“I’m afraid not,” said Kordelasz.
“My colleagues will come look for me.”
“I’m sorry,” Rinharte said bitingly. “Did we mention ‘choice’? For a philologian, you seem remarkably unsure of the meaning of words. We wish to hide from the viscount’s authorities for a few days, and we will hide here.”
The prole’s reply surprised Rinharte. “I won’t give you away. You have my word.”
“Why?” demanded Kordelasz. “There’s likely a reward.”
“She has no love of the authorities,” Rinharte said, peering at the philologian. It was true: it was there in the woman’s face.
“When the viscount succeeded his father thirty years ago, he determined to make changes. There was unrest. And reprisals. I lost my mother and father to the assizes.” The prole’s expression saddened. “And someone very dear to me.” Her gaze grew fierce. “I don’t care what you’ve done, or who you are. I’ll not hand you over to the constables. You’re clearly not common criminals—”
“That,” remarked Kordelasz, “depends on your point of view.”
Rinharte wove her way between hand-me-down sofa and armchairs to the window. Leaning against the back of the settee, she drew a small square on the pane. The glass within the square cycled from opaque through to transparent. She peered out into the street. She could hear the prole, Gallam, pottering about in the kitchen and making hot drinks. The street was deserted. Something drew Rinharte’s eye to the cemetery opposite. From this height, three storeys above ground, it appeared dark and mysterious, the pale slabs of gravestones resembling decaying teeth amongst the dark scrub.
“Are you seriously considering we hide out in this dingy apartment for ten days?” she asked Kordelasz. She wiped away her spy-hole with the palm of her hand and twisted round. “The woman’s absence at the University will be noted. The proctors may come searching for her.”
“What alternative do we have?” the marine-lieutenant replied. “We wouldn’t last a day in Dardina. No matter where we stayed, they’d find us.” He scowled. “Plus, we have nothing but the clothes we’re wearing.”
Rinharte remembered her travel trunk and smiled sadly.
Gallam appeared in the kitchen doorway, a tray in her hands. On it sat three steaming cups. She looked from Rinharte to Kordelasz, grimaced, and said, “It’s not what you’re used to, but it’s all I’ve got.”
After dishing out the drinks, Gallam lowered herself into an armchair. She set her cup in her lap, hands wrapped around it, and stared down at the liquid’s surface.
“Ten days?” she said. She looked up quickly. “I overheard you.”
Neither Rinharte nor Kordelasz answered.
“You can’t stay cooped up in here for ten days. I don’t have enough food to feed three for that long. I have to go get more.”
“You expect us to trust you out of our sight?” Kordelasz asked, clearly amused at the woman’s presumption.
“One of you could come with me. If you don’t speak, no one will know.”
“No.” Rinharte shook her head. “Having a ship’s corporal accompany you to the market would be too noticeable.”
“Then we’ll starve.”
For several long minutes, no one spoke. Rinharte had to admit the woman had a point. Foolishly, she had imagined that hiding out, evading the authorities, would not be that difficult. Perhaps because Kordelasz had made it seem so simple. If he thought any different, he had hidden his misgivings well. All they had to do, he had claimed, was go to ground amongst the proles…
They were yeoman. Why was she surprised they had not considered obvious needs like food? In yeoman society, they had servants to look after them. Rinharte had never been in a shop that sold foodstuffs in her life. She had never had to prepare her own meals. She did not know how.
“I might have some clothes that’d fit you,” Gallam said, breaking the silence.
Rinharte glanced up, ready to scoff at the woman’s suggestion. Gallam was more than a head shorter than Rinharte. But the woman was looking at Kordelasz.
The marine-lieutenant blinked in surprise. “Me?”
“You’d get by with a pair of loose trousers and a top. You can buy some clothes while we’re out. Have you got money?”
“I am not wearing her clothes.” Kordelasz was outraged.
“We don’t have a choice; you don’t have a choice,” Rinharte pointed out, enjoying the marine-lieutenant’s discomfort.
“I’d sooner starve.”
“Then consider it an order, Mr Kordelasz. You will dress in what is offered, and accompany Gallam to the nearest market to buy in provisions.” Rinharte took delight in the marine-lieutenant’s mulish expression.
Before he could reply, the prole woman interrupted: “Do you have money?”
“No,” said Rinharte.
“Yes,” said Kordelasz.
“You do?” Rinharte frowned at the marine-lieutenant.
He busied himself at the waist-band of his coveralls, and pulled a wide and flat belt from within its folds. Opening a pouch on the belt, he showed a glitter of gold to Gallam.
She was not impressed. “You can’t spend them. You need county scrip.”
“Sovereigns are Imperial tender. You can spend them everywhere.”
“Not if you’re a prole,” the woman replied. “We can only use scrip. It’s what we’re paid in, it’s what we spend. If I tried to give someone a sovereign, they’d call the constables.”
“That’s stupid,” Rinharte remarked. “How can the Empire’s chief currency be illegal?”
“Control,” Gallam said bitterly. “Scrip is only accepted within the county, so if we tried to leave, we’d have nothing to survive on outside. I think you’ll find it’s a common policy in most fiefs.”
CHAPTER TEN
The staff car settled to the ground before the entrance to the Order of the Star’s chapterhouse. Finesz scowled out of the window at the guard’s ornate full-face helm. Norioko had requested a second meeting. She had not seen or spoken to him since her last visit to the chapterhouse. Even at the viscount’s court, he had been noticeable by his absence. She wondered where he had been—holed up in the chapterhouse? Perhaps this time he would explain the reason for his presence on Darrus. She did not think it likely.
The guard returned Finesz’s identification to Assaun and gestured for him to proceed. The staff car rose smoothly from the ground, floated beneath the rising barrier, and sped along the drive.
Assaun brought the vehicle to a halt at the foot of the steps leading up to the chapterhouse’s veranda. “I won’t be long,” Finesz told him. She exited gracefully from the staff car and made her way up onto the veranda. Turning to her right, she saw Norioko rise from his seat. He had chosen the same clutch of sofas in which they had met before. It was typical of the baron. He preferred fa
miliar ground.
“Gyome,” said Finesz.
“Sliva,” he acknowledged gruffly.
“So, do I get to learn why you’re on Darrus?” She settled on the sofa opposite her superior.
Norioko ignored her question. “I hear you’ve seen some excitement,” he said, lowering himself.
Finesz winced. She had lost two troopers and the regimental-lieutenant to unknown assassins. It did not fit her definition of “excitement”.
“So tell me,” the baron ordered.
She straightened in her chair. This was no moment for languor. “I’ve discovered Merenilo’s reason for coming to Darrus, although it only deepens the mystery.”
“Go on.”
Taking a deep breath, Finesz explained, “He was here to assassinate a member of the crew of a data-freighter. The ship is Divine Providence, registered on Antyde, but serving a route out on the Empire’s rim. I think Merenilo’s target was the general crew-member, a youth called Casimir Ormuz.”
Norioko frowned. He leaned forward, hands on his knees. “‘Think’, Sliva?”
“Merenilo attacked them twice. The second time, all five were present. But the first time, only Ormuz, the cargo-master and the ship’s pilot were there. They protected Ormuz from Merenilo.” She gave a faint smile and added, “Oh yes, they know Merenilo is—was—a Housecarl.”
“How?”
“I don’t know.”
The baron leant back. His chair creaked. “Who is this Ormuz?”
“A nobody. Son of a farmer, trained as an accounting clerk, and then had his bond sold to Divine Providence. He’s from Rasamra, a world probably only appreciated, or liked, by those forced to live on it. It might be worth sending a team there to investigate his background.”
