A Prospect of War (An Age of Discord Novel Book 1)

by Ian Sales

  With a heavy bounce, Lantern hit Paliparan’s deck. The starship’s nose dropped. Ormuz gripped the edge of the table. Air-brakes deployed, gas-rocket pods swivelled through 180 degrees to reverse thrust. He was thrown forward. Paliparan was five miles long but the sloop would need much of that distance to come to a halt. Lantern was heavy and possessed a great deal of inertia.

  For five long minutes, the sloop decelerated. Ormuz saw buildings hurtle past at the periphery of the entertainment-console display. The end of Paliparan’s deck rushed nearer. It was difficult to judge distance: the runway’s end seemed much nearer than, intellectually, he knew it to be. For a brief moment, he was afraid they would hurtle off Paliparan, and dive into the depths of the Dagat Sea. They would survive the immersion—Lantern was a spaceship after all. But the sloop would never fly again.

  Their headlong rush visibly slowed. Ormuz let out his breath. The sloop was very definitely slowing, and soon came to a halt. It turned ponderously about, the view in the glass swinging from seascape to the greys, blacks and brightly-coloured warning-signs of the starport.

  A pair of black-clad legs appeared at the top of the ramp to the quarter-deck. Ormuz glanced up and saw Finesz descend into the wardroom. She held her regulation sword in one hand. She flashed Ormuz a quick smile and then bent her attention to fastening the sword to her belt. “Are you ready?” she asked without looking up. “We’ll be disembarking as soon as we’re berthed.”

  “I didn’t bring much aboard,” Ormuz pointed out. The bulk of his possessions, few though they were, had perished when Divine Providence crashed and exploded.

  Finesz peered up at him. “True enough,” she admitted.

  “Where are you going to take me?”

  Finesz’s sword was fixed. She straightened, and tugged on the hem of her tunic with both hands. “To the local bureau first, I think. We need to sort out somewhere for you to stay. Somewhere safe.”

  “And then?”

  She blinked in surprise. “That’s up to you, isn’t it?”

  Ormuz nodded decisively. “As long as you realise that much.”

  Finesz barked a laugh.

  After clambering down the ladder from the main airlock, Finesz led the way across the deck to the terminal. Troop-Sergeant Assaun marched beside her. The crew of Divine Providence followed behind.

  On the seaward-side of the sloop’s berth, a glass-walled elevator lowered the party to a level below Paliparan’s landing-deck. Ormuz gripped the waist-high railing and gazed out across the water. The islands on the other side of Dagat Sea were mere blurred humps on the horizon. He saw boats, ships, surfaced submarines—all manner of sea-craft. Looking down, he felt a moment of vertigo as the waves looked to be around five hundred yards below.

  The elevator halted, the doors slid aside, and Finesz marched out. Ormuz and the others followed. The area before them was a vast open space of hangar-like proportions. It stretched the entire width of Paliparan. To the right, behind a vast many-paned wall of glass, starships and boats rode sedately to berths below on huge elevator platforms. Three tiers of balconies of cafés, boutiques and rest areas filled the wall to the left. Yeomen and nobles leaned against the railings, stood chatting, sat at tables or browsed shop-windows. Ormuz had never seen so many members of the upper classes before. And yet more filled the concourse itself. At the far side of the space, the lower floors of the terminal buildings hung like upside-down ziggurats, or windowed stalactites, from the ceiling.

  “This way,” said Finesz curtly. She started forward, her black uniform clearing a space about her. Plessant frowned at Ormuz and then strode after the inspector.

  They marched at a fast pace across the concourse. Paliparan was busy, far busier than the number of berthed starships suggested. But Finesz’s and Assaun’s uniforms were all the protection the party needed. People saw black and avoided them. Authority cast a long shadow in the Empire.

  A profusion of scents assailed Ormuz’s nostrils. Barrows scattered about the concourse sold cooked foodstuffs. Most appeared to be fish of some sort, or fried vegetables or fruit. It was as alien a cuisine as any Ormuz had seen. Aboard Divine Providence, he had followed the same diet as the rest of the crew—meat and vegetables in a variety of sauces, some spicy, some rich. It was near enough the food he had eaten growing up on Rasamra. On Darrus, he had tried the various dips and salads with which the natives accompanied their predominately meat diet. On Ophavon, he had sampled some of the orbital city’s oddly-named dishes. He had found them a little too tart for his taste.

  He heard Lotsman groan beside him and turned to see the pilot looking back the way they had come. Ormuz followed his gaze. Dai was standing at a barrow, attempting to buy something to eat. The proprietor refused her service: she was a prole and should not be here unless attached to a noble or yeoman’s retinue.

  Disgusted, she hurried to catch up with the others and scowled when she saw Lotsman’s face.

  Plessant’s voice drifted back from ahead: a sharp, “Marla.”

  Dai fell in alongside Tovar. “So what happens now?” she asked. “No one’s bothered to let me know what’s going on.”

  “Sliva is going to find us somewhere safe to stay,” Ormuz replied.

  “Is she now?”

  “I’m not meeting the people you brought me here to meet,” insisted Ormuz. “Not on their terms. I’ll meet them on my own terms.”

  “Before or after you’ve seen Riz?” Lotsman asked.

  “Before. There’s things I need to know first.”

  “Cas,” said Tovar, “they might not tell you anything.”

  “They will.” Ormuz was confident. “They need me.”

  “So you say,” said Lotsman.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Once upon a time, the plaza had been open to the air but the demands of an increasing population meant it was now roofed over. Additional stories had been added onto the buildings forming the walls of the plaza, each subsequent extension cantilevered outwards until all the buildings met above the centre of the square. Plessant looked up: it was as if she stood inside a vast, irregularly-stepped pyramid. Huge lamps depended from gantries strung across the roof, mimicking sunlight. Shuttered windows looked down into the plaza. Many boasted window-boxes awash with foliage; some of the vegetation had escaped its confines to spread across walls, clinging tenaciously to the stone. Some windows were framed with ornately-carved shutters. Others were hung with drying laundry draped across frames bolted to sills. Twisting lengths of colourful cloth fluttered in the light breeze, putting Plessant in mind of a Great Hall lined with heraldic banners.

  The market filled the plaza and spilled out along many of the approach roads. Vehicle traffic had long since given up using these: only pedestrian traffic could wend its way among and between the stalls. Candy-striped awnings snapped fitfully. The varied nose-tingling reeks of spices drifted through the air. It was early morning but people thronged the narrow ways, a roiling mass of brightly-clad shoppers and browsers.

  Somewhere in the middle of the bustling crowd and grid-work of trading-booths was a monument, a fountain dedicated to a past Earl of Kapuluan and sporting a likeness of him. Plessant had seen pictures of it; the fountain still featured as an object of special interest in guide-books although the market had long since besieged and hidden it. The monument was in Plessant’s opinion nothing remarkable: a tableau depicting the long-dead noble, surviving only in weathered stone, distributing largesse to a grateful proletariat. Its sentiments may still have held true in some sectors of Imperial society but not here, not now. The evening market was proof of that.

  She squeezed between a pair of matrons in voluminous flower-prints and strode along an alley lined with drapery-stalls. Bolts of cloth, all the colours of the rainbow and more, lay spread across tables, some colours clashing, others drawing the eye with their harmony. The palette of fabrics shifting and changing in the corners of her vision were disconcerting and she blinked
repeatedly in an effort to concentrate her attention forwards. She reached a junction and peered to the left and then to the right. One way led down an aisle selling lingerie and underwear. The other was less busy: the stalls sold hats and cloaks. Plessant frowned in satisfaction. She turned to the left and started forward.

  Seventy yards from the junction, she came to a halt before a stall. Like all the others in the market, the stall bore no proprietor’s name. Its stock was identification enough. Plessant saw luxury underwear decorated with intricate embroidery, ornate lace-work, dyed feather-trim. The lingerie was aimed at proletarian buyers, as was everything in the market, but it was expensive and for special occasions only. Plessant, ever practical, dismissed much of it as worthless frippery. She fingered one garment, some form of bed-jacket in a gauzy cream fabric hemmed with sleek white fur. It was far too absurd to actually wear in bed. She wondered why anyone would bother purchasing it.

  The trader, a rotund man with a gleaming shaved head and button-bright eyes, appeared on the other side of the table. He wore a loose grey smock with short sleeves, and tight-fitting fabric gloves. The escutcheon pinned to his collar depicted two clasped hands. “An excellent piece,” he murmured, watching Plessant’s hands idly play with the bed-jacket. “The fur is from the snow-buck, a rare beast which must be hunted across the frozen wastes of Snegju’s northern latitudes. It fetches a premium price.”

  “The snow-buck is farmed,” snapped Plessant, angry at the man’s patently false spiel.

  The trader was not at all phased by Plessant’s knowledge. “You know Snegju.” He shrugged. “You might find the fur cheaper nearer that world but you won’t find as good a bargain here on Kapuluan.” He cocked his head and peered at Plessant. “The garment would suit you.”

  “I don’t want it.” Plessant dropped the bed-jacket. The man was talking nonsense. Suit her? She peered at him. “I’m here to see Bilin.”

  The trader’s manner abruptly changed. The unctuousness slid from his features like oil and he narrowed his gaze. He dropped his voice until it was audible only to Plessant. “Ah,” he said, “my lady. Forgive me.”

  “Well?” she demanded.

  “He’s on his way.”

  “He’s not here?”

  “Not yet, my lady. But he knows to meet you here. He will take you to your meeting. Do what he says.”

  Plessant sighed and turned her back on the trader. She folded her arms and gazed across the aisle. The stall opposite boasted a forest of multicoloured legs protruding from a white backdrop and writhing sensuously. The effect was off-putting. Plessant turned away.

  Sometimes, she reflected, all this cloak and dagger seemed unnecessary and overly-complicated. For more than one thousand years, her masters had kept their organisation’s existence hidden; but she could not believe it was because of all the ludicrous precautions they took. Contacts and blinds, dead-signal drops and meetings in secret places. For all the regimentation of Imperial society, the authorities ruled with a light hand. Plain prudence would be more than sufficient to hide their activities.

  “Perhaps,” said the trader behind her,” you wish to see other items. It would appear less… suspicious.”

  Plessant snorted in scorn. She was not wearing her ship-coverall—it was too easily-identifiable a garment; besides, she no longer had a ship to captain—but nor did she look the sort to spend time browsing decorative lingerie. Perhaps she should have brought Dai with her. Plessant could have played the bored companion while the ship’s engineer oohed and aahed over the underwear. It would not have seemed out of character for her.

  Sighing, Plessant turned back to the stall. She dragged a hand desultorily across the displayed night-gowns, bed-jackets, peignoirs and other garments. Rich fabrics slid under her fingers—

  “Well, well!” exclaimed a voice at her side. “Fancy meeting you here!”

  Surprised, Plessant jerked her gaze to her left. Her eyes widened. She had never met Bilin before—or rather, she had never met this particular “Bilin” before. The name was the contact, the body who answered to that name dependent upon a variety of factors. The same had been true on Ophavon.

  This Bilin was a slight young man, with straight black hair which fell to his waist in a pair of intricately-knotted braids. He wore an ankle-length robe in some sleek pale-blue material, tight about the chest and sleeveless. He perched a hand on one cocked hip, the bangles about his wrist jingling.

  “Bilin,” said Plessant flatly.

  The man raised an eyebrow. “But of course.” He gave a wicked smile. “Have you been shopping? Did you buy anything?” Turning to the lingerie laid out on the stall’s table, he dragged a hand across swathes of material. “You should,” he said.

  “I’d never get the chance to wear any…” Plessant grimaced— “Of them.”

  “No, perhaps not.” Bilin turned to her. “I heard about your ship. You have my condolences.”

  Plessant nodded brusquely. She was not surprised that the news had spread. Her unorthodox arrival, aboard an OPI sloop, would have demanded investigation—

  “Speaking of which,” continued Bilin, “you haven’t brought your new ‘friend’?”

  Plessant jerked in surprise. It was as if Bilin had been reading her mind. “She’s no friend of mine,” Plessant snapped.

  Bilin pursed his lips. “Well, perhaps you might introduce us? She could be a friend of ours…”

  “Shall we find somewhere a little more cosy?” asked Bilin. His phraseology and tone prompted a scowl from Plessant.

  All the same, she nodded. “You have somewhere in mind?” she asked. The proprietor of the stall, she noticed, had drifted out of sight and earshot.

  Bilin raised an eyebrow. “But of course,” he said, surprised. “Where I work.” He gave an arch smile. “Familiar ground, shall we say?”

  The Puwit Kali bar in which Bilin worked was no different to any other lining the infamous street: a narrow entrance several steps below street-level; and above this a pair of picture-windows in which swayed two scantily-clad and back-lit dancers, one male, one female. A sign declared the bar’s name as “San Gusto”. Bilin clattered down the steps and pushed open the door. Plessant followed him. She found herself in a large rectangular room with black-painted walls. An empty stage occupied the centre of the wall opposite. A bar stretched the length of the room to the right.

  “The show here,” said Bilin, “is very good.” He paused for effect. “I’m in it.”

  Plessant grunted noncommittally.

  Bilin led Plessant a torturous path through the tables scattered before the stage. Most were empty: even for the Puwit Kali, it was early. Some of the customers watched the two of them pass disinterestedly and then turned back to their companions and drinks. Plessant had visited a number of insalubrious drinking-holes during her captaincy of Divine Providence but this was her first time in a place like the San Gusto.

  Reaching a curtained archway beside the stage, Bilin lifted aside the drape with an arm. “After you, my lady,” he whispered, dropping out of character for a brief moment.

  Plessant stepped through and into a narrow corridor lined to the left with closed doors. Bilin joined her. The curtain fell back into place with a heavy rustle of cloth. He squeezed past Plessant and beckoned her to follow with a hooked finger held above his shoulder. At the third door, he scratched lightly and pushed it open at some signal from within.

  It was a bed-chamber. The only furniture was a plush mattress on the floor, bedecked with large cushions and bedraped with lush fabrics. Plessant entered; as did Bilin, to her surprise. He closed the door.

  A man rolled off the bed—he had been hidden by folds of material hung about the mattress—and rose gracefully to his feet. He wore a smart nondescript outfit of loose trousers gathered at his boot-tops, a high-necked shirt and a fur waistcoat, all in black. His carriage, and the brief bow he sketched, proclaimed him a noble although he had no sword at his hip. Plessant
recognised him.

  “Sir Bluret,” she said tonelessly. She knew him, knew him to possess a great deal of power within the organisation. It was rumoured that soon he would be made an Involute.

  Sir Bluret mar Sudnik acknowledged the greeting with a nod. He gestured at the bed. “Have a seat, Murily. I apologise for the furnishings.”

  “I’d rather stand.” She glanced across at Bilin and frowned.

  Sudnik said, “Lord Omais mar Puoskari,” giving Bilin’s real name. “The Marquess of Varä.”

  Plessant blinked in surprise. A noble? Playing such a part?

  The Marquess of Varä smiled. “I enjoy my work,” he said.

  “We were sorry to hear about Divine Providence,” Sudnik said. “She served us well for many years.”

  “She was my home for many years,” returned Plessant.

  Sudnik dismissed the sentiment with a wave of the hand. “This OPI woman, Inspector Finesz… You appear to have… allied yourself with her. We are not happy with that decision.”

  “I had no choice,” Plessant said flatly. She grimaced. “As a matter of fact, I did have a choice. But you would not have liked the alternative.”

  “Which was?”

  “A battlecruiser. A renegade, I’d guess.”

  “Ah,” said the marquess. “Vengeful? You ran afoul of the Admiral?”

  Plessant turned to the young noble. “You know about the battlecruiser?” she asked suspiciously.

  “We know of Vengeful,” corrected Sudnik. “We’ve been unable to place agents aboard her but we never considered her a threat to our plans. On the contrary, the Admiral and ourselves both want the same thing.”

  “The Serpent.”

  “Yes, the Serpent.” Sudnik acknowledged the guess with a nod. “Now, the boy—”

  “No.” Plessant crossed her arms across her bosom.

  “No?”