by Ian Sales
“But you’ll teach me?” Ormuz asked, turning to the noble. “She’s right: I need to know these things.”
“No, not teach. Advise, perhaps.” Nodding, he added, “Yes, I think I will.” He stepped back and swept a wide bow. As he rose, he beamed at Ormuz. “First, I think, we need to work on your wardrobe. You dress like a prole with pretensions.”
“He is a prole with pretensions,” grated Plessant.
Ormuz glared at her. She was the one who had pushed him to take charge of his own destiny. Her remark stabbed as sharply as a betrayal.
“A wardrobe costs money,” Plessant said. “You don’t have any.”
“Divine Providence does,” Ormuz countered.
“It’s not mine to spend. It belongs to—”
“Sir Borodisz?” interrupted Ormuz bitterly. “I’m sure he won’t mind… given he doesn’t exist.”
“He exists.”
Ormuz glared at her.
“Money,” said Varä,” is not a problem. I have more than enough.” He smiled. “One of the advantages of being a duke’s son.”
“Teach me to use a sword,” Ormuz demanded.
Varä arched an eyebrow. “Dancing-master and sword-master? A promotion so soon?”
It was Plessant who had suggested they take a private room at the San Mikel. It was better, she pointed out, they not have an audience. Ormuz disagreed. He wanted people about him. He had no reason to trust her masters. But she argued her point and he reluctantly acquiesced. In the San Mikel, Varä spoke to the barman, money changed hands, and a waiter led the party up a flight of stairs and ushered them into a small room containing a dining-table and ten chairs. Ormuz took the chair in the middle of one side, Varä and Tovar to the left, Plessant and Dai to the right. Lotsman stood in a corner, back against the wall, arms crossed. A second waiter appeared, carrying a tray of drinks: six glasses of beer. Lotsman paid him and the waiter left.
Sitting back in his chair, Ormuz sipped his drink thoughtfully. He smoothed a lapel of his coat idly. The fabric was rich and sleek beneath his fingertips. And expensive. Varä had bought it for him that morning. A tailor had been called to the mansion. For an hour or more, Ormuz was measured and draped in lengths of material; patterns and designs were discussed. Varä did most of the talking. Two hours before Ormuz was due to leave for the San Mikel, the first of his new wardrobe had been delivered: some coats, shirts, trousers, boots, underwear… all finely-made and suited to the scion of a noble family. After Ormuz had dressed in tight black trousers, pale grey high-collared shirt and a black frock-coat of superfine, Varä had presented him with a sword and sword-belt. The blade hung from his hip. He felt its awkward length and weight. Wearing a sword was not second nature to him, as it was for yeomen and nobility. He had to hold it when he walked to avoid tripping. And sitting down had become an exercise in caution. Of course, he had no idea how to use the weapon. Varä had promised he would begin teaching Ormuz sword-play shortly.
He returned his glass to the table and played with it, turning it slowly one way then the other and widening the ring of condensation that had gathered about its base. The beer was some golden variety, highly-carbonated and with a slightly tart taste. He preferred the sweeter beers of Ophavon, or even the richer stout beers of Rasamra. This Kapuluani beverage was too gassy and too light.
He felt a touch on his arm. Varä. The noble nodded at Ormuz and then jerked his head towards the door. Ormuz frowned. He heard footsteps in the corridor outside. More than a single pair. His frown deepened. Plessant’s masters had come in force.
The door slid open. There were five of them. The first wore a black cloak with a deep hood, hiding his face. All five wore swords at their hips. A chair scraped back to Ormuz’s right. Plessant had risen to her feet. Ormuz turned to her and saw the expressions of surprise on Dai’s and Lotsman’s faces. They clearly recognised the one in the hood. How, given that his features were hidden, Ormuz did not know.
“Cas,” said Plessant. “This is a… senior member of the organisation I belong to.”
Ormuz rose to his feet. He gave an attenuated bow, a brief nod of the head and shoulders. Varä had taught it to him that afternoon. It was the bow given to an equal. From Ormuz, it was a calculated insult.
The hooded man halted and turned to Ormuz. There was a flash of silver deep within the shadows beneath the hood.
Ormuz gestured for the man to take a seat. “Please,” he said.
The man acknowledged the invitation with a curt nod of the head—superior to junior. He sat opposite Ormuz, lifted his hands to his hood and folded it down about his neck.
Ormuz blinked in surprise. The man wore a featureless mask of silver metal. It covered his entire head. Two eye-holes, faced in black glass, gazed across the table. With careful deliberate movements, the masked knight pulled a small box from a pocket and set it on the table before him. It was a miniature caster. It spoke:
“Arrogation is a felony, you know.”
The other four men remained just inside the door, wary, hands on sword-hilts.
Ormuz sat, carefully holding his sword to one side. “It’s not a crime I’m guilty of,” he replied indifferently. “My blood is noble.”
“So it is,” said the caster. The voice was disguised: flat and toneless.
Ormuz said nothing for a moment. “Who are you?” he demanded.
“I am an Involute. I represent interests dedicated to seeing the Serpent causes no harm—”
Ormuz chopped the air with one hand. “That much I know.” He leaned forward. “You’re not a knight signet,” he said.
“No. Not the Order of the Imperial Seal.”
“So who are you?”
The Involute leant back in his chair and steepled his fingers. Ormuz found the posture irritating: it smacked of arrogance. “Perhaps a history lesson is in order,” the Involute said. “When Emperor Edkar I overthrew the Old Empire and formed the current Empire, he was not convinced he had bested all threats to his new rule. So he established the charter for our Order. Our brief was—and still is—to keep the Empire safe from enemies who might seek to harm the Imperial Throne. Such a task necessitates the utmost secrecy. The fact of our existence is known to few—”
“I ask again,” interrupted Ormuz, “Who are you?”
The Involute was not at all phased. “I believe I was explaining that.” He gestured negligently. “Forget the history. Let us just say we have been around for a long time.” He leaned forward. “We are knights sinister, the Order of the Left Hand.”
“I’ve never heard of you.”
“The fact of our existence,” the Involute repeated, “is known to few.”
“How do you plan to defeat the Serpent?” Ormuz demanded.
“We don’t,” the masked knight sinister replied smugly. “We will let him defeat himself.”
“And what do you have planned for me?”
“Evidence.”
“Because I’m his clone.”
“Correct.”
“Cloning may be illegal but is it enough to revoke a patent of nobility?”
“Corruption of Blood? Possibly not. But tampering with DNA is. You are not entirely human, young man.”
A moment of silence followed this pronouncement.
“Why now?” demanded Ormuz. “Why not when I was born? Why not earlier? You grew me from a tissue culture, why not use that?”
“We were gathering intelligence. The Serpent controls a widespread and powerful conspiracy. There is more than just one noble who must be brought to justice.”
“And now you have that intelligence?”
“We have passed what we have learnt to those who can make most use of it. The wheels are in motion.” The Involute laid his hands flat on the table. “But certain… facts have come to light and it is time to present you. Showing that a high noble has been genetically engineered would have… severe repercussions. The scandal will be catastrophic—”
>
“They’re desperate,” interrupted Plessant.
Ormuz turned to stare at her. She was scowling at the Involute.
“They never intended to use you,” she continued. “But they’ve been out-manoeuvred. All the evidence they’ve gathered, it’s not enough. The Emperor can do nothing against a peer without the approval of the Electorate of Peers. And the Noble Bailiffs will not present a case without damning evidence of high treason.”
“Evidence is not important,” snapped the Involute.
“The Electorate,” pointed out Varä, “would never condone an investigation of a high noble without some evidence.”
“They have no authority over us,” sneered the Involute. “We are direct vassals of His Imperial Majesty.”
“But a report from the Electorate censuring you…” Varä smiled wickedly. “Another ‘catastrophic’ scandal. It could ruin your Order.”
“Our effectiveness would be comprised, true,” admitted the Involute. “But we would never be ruined.”
A loud ‘crack’ rang out. Ormuz had slapped a hand down on the table, startling all those present. “This is all completely irrelevant,” he snapped. “I have no intention of going with you. I won’t be used as evidence.”
“No? So what do you intend?”
“To fight the Serpent.”
The Involute barked a laugh—a flat, humourless noise. “Indeed. And how would you do that, young man?”
“I’m not ‘entirely human’, remember.”
“If you think your tampered genes give you magical powers, you’ve watched too many melodramas.”
Ormuz gave a smug smile. “And I think you’d be surprised what they do give me.”
“Indeed.”
“You don’t know, do you?” Ormuz crowed. “You don’t know what the genetic engineering means. You know it must do something, but you don’t know what.”
“You do.” The featureless mask hid the Involute’s face, and the caster disguised his voice, but Ormuz felt the man was surprised.
“I do,” he confirmed.
“Then—” The Involute rose to his feet, and signalled to his four companions— “It is imperative you come with us.” He spoke with confidence.
“No.”
It was, Ormuz quickly learnt, bravado that had spoken. He was given no chance to defend himself. The four unidentified knights sinister withdrew their swords and held the tips to the throats of Dai, Tovar, Lotsman and Varä. They ignored Plessant. She did nothing. The Involute walked around the table, grabbed Ormuz’s arm and hauled him to his feet. Ormuz looked to Plessant but she refused to meet his gaze.
“Murily…” he said. “Captain…”
She shifted in her chair, turning away from him. She had betrayed him.
The Involute reached across the table and scooped up his caster. He directed it at Plessant. “Thank you, Murily,” he said. It was not sincere. He pulled Ormuz towards the door.
The sound of flesh on metal drew Ormuz’s attention. He twisted in the Involute’s grasp. Varä was attempting to win free of the knight before him. He had batted aside the sword at his throat with one hand. The marquess scrambled to his feet, pushing his chair back. It hit the wall with a bang. Struggling to pull out his blade in the confined space, he lurched sideways, away from the knight. His stumbled steps took him towards the knight holding Lotsman at bay. The knight turned his attention towards Varä—
Lotsman delivered a lightning-fast punch. He took the knight in the throat. The knight fell back. His shoulders bounced off the table. His sword hit the floor with a clatter. He landed beside it.
“Lotsman!” snapped Plessant.
The pilot held up his hands and backed away from the marquess.
Varä had his sword out. He held it before him, chest-high, parallel with the ground. He grinned at the knight and raised an eyebrow mockingly.
Plessant pushed her chair back in a sudden movement. The back hit Varä’s hip, and knocked him to the wall. The knight stepped forward and swung his sword, blade upright. The pommel connected with Varä’s temple. The young noble went over backwards.
The Involute let out a sigh. “Bring him too,” he ordered.
Ormuz was bundled out of the private room, down a flight of back-stairs and out of the San Mikel through a rear entrance. A boxy delivery vehicle waited for them, bobbing lightly on its chargers at the side of the service-road which ran behind the bars of the Puwit Kali. One of the Involute’s men lifted the rear door, disarmed Ormuz and shoved him inside. Moments later, Varä landed sprawling beside him. The door slammed shut. The interior of the van was sealed, cut off from the driver’s cab. Light slanted down from two small vents in the roof, dust dancing in the narrow blades of brightness. Varä groaned and rolled onto his side. He shuffled up to a seated position. “Damn,” he said. “My coat’s ruined.”
“Do you still have your sword?” Ormuz asked.
“No. They took it off me.”
Ormuz slumped back against the side of the van. He felt the vibration of the motor. “You wanted adventure,” he said acerbically.
Varä let out a low laugh. “So I did. And it would almost be fun—” He made a moue— “if it weren’t so… inelegant.”
“Why did they grab you as well? What did they do with the others?”
“Which question shall I answer first?” The marquess’ teeth flashed in the darkness as he smiled. “Your friends are, I assume, still in the San Mikel. They’re knights sinister too, you know. Well, Lady Plessant is; the others are serjeants.” Varä leaned forward and put a hand to Ormuz’s knee. “As for why they decided to kidnap me as well… Perhaps because I’m not one of them and they don’t want witnesses.”
Ormuz gazed at the young noble. Was he a spy? Did it make any difference if he were? The marquess seemed remarkably unconcerned. A line of blood trailed down the side of his face but he ignored it. He had his adventure and seemed to be enjoying it. As if he had read Ormuz’s mind, he barked a laugh, and grinned. “We have to escape,” he said.
“Easier said than done,” grumbled Ormuz.
“Can’t you use your ‘magical powers’?”
“No. They— It… doesn’t work that way.”
Varä was silent a moment. “So you really do have magical powers?” he asked in disbelief.
Ormuz gave a negligent gesture. “Of a sort.”
“So tell me.”
“No.” Ormuz shook his head. “They could be listening.”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Rinharte brought the aerolaunch into a smooth landing on the roof of the Bahay Mayaman. As soon as the undercarriage touched the ground, she switched off the chargers and felt the aerocraft settle heavily on its shock absorbers. She clambered down the from the pilot’s seat. “We’re here,” she told the others. “Mr Alus, if you would get the trunks unloaded?”
By the time the party had disembarked, their travel trunks floating obediently beside them, a welcoming delegation was crossing the landing pad to greet them. Rinharte ignored the approaching staff, and stared out across the island of Lungsod. On the peak of Mount Bundok squatted the forbidding Castilio. This was a many-sided tower of some ten storeys which seemed to grow from the rock itself. Rumour had it the Castilio boasted as many levels underground as were visible above the surface. An army of seneschals ruled the planet from the building, enforcing the earl’s word and leaving him to enjoy a life of luxury at his palace on Barasi.
Rinharte knew little about the Earl of Kapuluan. He was powerful, that much she had heard. He spent one year in three on the Imperial capital, Shuto, and exerted a great deal of influence in the Electorate of Peers. His ancestor had been a baron in the Old Empire. When Edkar I had seized the Throne 1,268 years ago, the baron had chosen not to fight him. For that, Edkar had raised him to viscount. The lift to earldom had come later, during the reign of Willim VI six hundred years past.
Her eyes drifted from the Castilio and she sa
w Tatakai standing beside the trunks. Wind gusted across the landing pad and the marine clapped one hand to her crown to hold her wig in place. Her maid’s skirt billowed about her ankles, revealing the black tights and soft slippers she wore beneath the dress. Poor Tatakai still did not look much like a lady’s maid.
Nor, for that matter, did Sniskutte resemble a valet. Rinharte turned to watch him. He was standing at Kordelasz’s shoulder, hoping to look attentive to his master’s every whim. And failing.
Our disguise is as transparent as water, thought Rinharte. Even now the Bahay Mayaman staff must be wondering why a secret squad of crack troops was infiltrating hotel.
Kordelasz, at least, played his part well. He posed, one booted foot on a grounded travel trunk, elbow on knee, other hand to his sword-hilt, gazing across the car park at their welcoming committee. Her “husband”. Dear Lords. The marine-captain had it right when he remarked they would hate being “married” to each other. They were congenitally unsuited.
And once again her thoughts returned to Lexander Lotsman. She grimaced self-deprecatingly at the realisation. In her mind’s eye, she could see his lop-sided grin, with its fringe of ridiculous moustache. She remembered her date with the data-freighter pilot on Ophavon: the lively conversation over dinner, dancing afterwards in a small night-club, holding hands as they sipped exotic cocktails, Lotsman’s gentle touches and her own quickened heartbeat…
Rinharte shook her head. No. She must not dwell on that night. She was here on Kapuluan for a reason and she should not forget it. Yes, she would see Lotsman again but the boy, Casimir Ormuz, was her priority…
Who was he? What did he know? How did he know what he had already revealed?
She would find out tomorrow in the San Mikel on the Puwit Kali.
Kordelasz set his glass down on the table angrily. “Where is he?” he demanded. “We’re here as he asked.” He glanced at a table across the other side of the San Mikel. It was occupied by four men: two huge brutes, a glowering man of wiry build, and a beardless youth. Boat-Sergeant Alus and his squad. Tatakai had abandoned her lady’s maid disguise and was dressed in male clothing. She made a more convincing young man than she did an abigail.
