by Ian Sales
“Same here,” added Alus, crouching by another black-clad corpse. Four identical attackers. He grimaced at the mess his boarding axe had made.
“They’re clones,” a voice said.
Rinharte spun about, her hand darting to her hip… But her sword lay on the floor beside one of the bodies. She was defenceless.
Standing at the far end of the bridge, where Valka had fought, were three men. The one that had spoken wore black, but it was not the close-fitting black coveralls of the attackers. His trousers, shirt and cloak were well-cut, patrician. Bizarrely, his head was a silver oval with two black circles for eyes. “Remove the glove from his right hand,” a flat toneless voice said. “Check the skin between thumb and forefinger.”
Rinharte did as instructed—she saw no reason not to. After peeling off the corpse’s glove, she spread his hand. Tucked into the web of skin between thumb and forefinger was a small tattoo of a ten-legged creature, armoured, and with an arched and barbed tail.
“The Serpent’s strike teams,” the voice explained, “are always clones. And they are always so marked.”
“Clones? Of who?”
“That we don’t know.” Coming to a halt before Rinharte, the masked man gave a brief bow. “Lieutenant-Commander. I would wish we could have met under more amenable circumstances.”
These, then, were the knights sinister.
Rinharte glanced at Kordelasz, who pushed his sword back into its scabbard with a guilty expression. Turning back to the knight sinister, she asked, “You are?”
“An Involute of—”
“—the Order of the Left Hand.”
“—of the… Yes.” The Involute turned and his silver ovoid of a head nodded at Kordelasz. “Marine-Lieutenant Kordelasz.”
“Marine-captain,” corrected Kordelasz.
“Ah. Forgive me. Congratulations, I suppose, are in order.” He turned back to Rinharte. “If you’ve come for the boy,” he said, “you’re too late.”
Rinharte accused, “You’ve hidden him.”
“No.”
Her heart fell. “The clones took him?”
“No. They were too late as well. And you appear to have accounted for them all.”
Rinharte didn’t understand. “So where is he?”
There was no discerning the Involute’s expression through the mask, and his voice—issuing from a miniature caster pinned to his lapel—was thoroughly disguised. “He escaped. He appears to have been none too happy under our protection and took himself off. With his young noble friend.”
“How embarrassing,” murmured Rinharte. Noble friend? What noble friend?
“I do feel somewhat foolish,” the Involute admitted. “I had not thought him so determined.”
“Do you have any idea where he’s gone?” put in Kordelasz.
“At a guess… to the OPI. He has an ally there.”
“Yes.” Rinharte nodded. “Finesz.”
The Involute added, “You’ll not be able to rescue him from her. Not even the Admiral would dare attack the Office of the Procurator Imperial.”
“You would be surprised, I think,” replied Rinharte stiffly, stung to anger by the accusation, “at what the Admiral would dare.”
“No doubt, no doubt.” The Involute stepped across to the side of the bridge, put both hands on the railing and looked down at Plessant’s body. “She would have been expelled for this,” he said quietly. “It’s as well it’s unnecessary now.”
Rinharte thought the remark callous. “She had principles,” she returned.
“She had orders,” the Involute snapped.
“She followed her conscience.”
The knight sinister gave a snort, a flat distorted burst of sound. “There’s no room for ‘conscience’ in this war. There’s only room for strategy and obeying orders. Our responsibilities demand so.”
“Then you’re no better than these,” snapped Rinharte, sweeping out an arm to indicate the slain attackers.
“And you are? Should I not mention Divine Wind? One of ours, you know. Or perhaps Sabre Horn?”
Rinharte turned away to hide her shame. She was directly responsible for the destruction of Divine Wind: it had been her faulty intelligence that led the Admiral to attack the data-freighter. “Mistakes happen,” she said reluctantly, although she found the glib sentiment offensive.
“Indeed.” The Involute grunted quietly. “The boy,” he prompted.
“Leave him to us.”
“The boy is ours,” the Involute warned. “Should you manage to extricate him from the OPI, you will hand him over to us.”
Rinharte stared at him. Who did this knight sinister think he was? “On the contrary, we’ll do whatever he wants. We aim to help him.”
“Lieutenant-Commander Rinharte, this is not a matter for bargaining. The Imperial Throne is in jeopardy, and we require the boy to keep it safe.”
“The boy,” retorted Rinharte, “is quite capable of keeping it safe without your help.”
“Rubbish!” scoffed the Involute. “He’s a proletarian brat living out some fantasy of greatness. These ‘magical powers’ of his are… are—” The knight sinister waved a hand, at a loss for words. He continued, “He is an instrument, lieutenant-commander, a tool. No more and no less. It is our duty to wield him.”
“I think you’ve underestimated him,” replied Rinharte, smiling. She looked across to Kordelasz. “Garrin?”
“Oh, definitely,” affirmed the marine-captain.
“Not at all,” said the Involute. “We have taken precautions against his… resourcefulness. The Order of the Left Hand, lieutenant-commander, has a long reach. You would do well to remember that.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
In a corner of the salon, in a nook framed by golden drapes, Finesz and a handful of sycophants occupied a clutch of spindly sofas. She had been hoping to wield some quiet influence through conversation with Lungsod’s great and good, but this exclusive club had proven to be populated entirely by lordlings and ladylets of little or no consequence. Of course, the court on Batasi would have been more useful but the island was too far from the city—a three-hour flight in an aerolaunch—and Finesz needed to be close to her investigation.
The arrival of a footman bearing a silver platter—he sidled stiffly amongst the sofas and bent forward before Finesz—was a welcome relief. A note sat on the tray. “For you, my lady,” the servant murmured.
Frowning, Finesz took the message, ignoring the young blade in mid-anecdote beside her. Some interminable story about a hunting trip in the company of a minor lord. He and his fellow fawners had been plying her with tales of their own daring from the moment she had stepped into the salon.
She scanned the words on the note. Looking up, she said to the servant, “Send him in,” and then rose to her feet.
“My lady, are you sure?” asked the servant, affronted.
“Send him in,” she repeated, her voice hard.
Troop-Sergeant Assaun entered the salon and marched towards her. As he crossed the room, conversations withered and died. All the young lords and ladies turned to watch him pass. Finesz smiled grimly. Once, she had been like these upper class twits. Now she found them annoying.
Assaun came to a halt before her and gave a quick nod. “Inspector,” he said.
Finesz ignored the muttering behind her. They had been only too eager to earn her approval when they thought her merely a well-connected lady who had spent time at Imperial Court. Now they knew her to be an inspector of the Office of the Procurator Imperial… She smiled: she enjoyed their discomfort.
“What is it, Assaun?” she asked.
“Escaped bird has returned home.”
Damn the man’s laconicism. Escaped bird? She frowned as she decoded his meaning. Casimir Ormuz! He had vanished sometime the previous day. Divine Providence’s crew had denied any knowledge of his whereabouts.
“Where is he?” she demanded.
“Outside. Troop carrier. Keeping him safe.” The corners of Assaun’s mouth lifted a fraction of an inch. “Got a friend with him.”
“Let’s go.” Finesz hitched up the skirts of her court dress and strode towards the exit. The heels of her court shoes echoed loudly on the polished wood floor, the only sound in the still-reigning silence. At the doorway, she stopped, looked back over one bare shoulder and said, “Carry on.”
An OPI troop carrier. Dear Lords. What in heavens had possessed Assaun to bring such a vehicle to this upper class precinct? It floated, an armoured brick, the mailed fist of the OPI prominent on its slab sides, against the kerb. Four troopers stood at attention by the open rear-hatch.
Ormuz sat hunched in bucket-seat in the rear compartment of the troop carrier. Dirt streaked his tight black trousers, pale grey shirt and black frock-coat. A sword, mud coating the decorative work curling the length of its scabbard, sat across his knees. His hair had been pulled back into a ponytail but some had escaped and hung listlessly about his face.
“Well, well,” said Finesz, standing stooped before him. “I thought you’d run out on me.”
He gazed up at her. His eyes fixed on the bosom of her low-cut dress and widened. He snapped his gaze away.
She spotted a figure sitting beside the youth. A young man, with long, braided hair, also dressed like a noble. And holding himself like one too. She frowned. It was no one she knew and certainly no one she had seen in Ormuz’s company before.
“We have to leave,” Ormuz blurted. “We have to leave Kapuluan. Now!”
Carefully, Finesz lifted her skirt and knelt on the metal floor of the troop carrier, bringing her eye-level down to match Ormuz’s. It would ruin her hose but never mind. “And why would we have to do that?” she asked. She couldn’t help noticing an amused smile on the face of Ormuz’s companion.
Ormuz still would not look her in the eye. He kept his gaze to one side. “To get away from the knights sinister,” he said.
A quiet jangle from his lap drew Finesz’s attention: Ormuz’s fist had closed about his sword, disturbing the lockets. Grazed knuckles stood taut and proud.
Despite the noble trappings, the certitude about his destiny, the determination to honour that duty… there was still a boy inside the young man.
“My, you have made some powerful enemies.”
Ormuz jerked his round to face her. “They’re not my enemies,” he said savagely. “They’re my allies.” He glared at Finesz. “I won’t be used by them.”
Finesz raised an eyebrow. “Tell me more,” she instructed.
“No! We have to leave. Ready your ship.” He leaned forward, seemed to deflate. “Please,” he said, his voice just above a whisper. “Please, Sliva, we have to leave Kapuluan.”
“Where would we go?”
“I don’t know.” Ormuz dropped his chin, gazed down at the sword across his knees. “Anywhere— Shuto. We have to go to Shuto.”
The young noble beside Ormuz put a hand to his arm. “Casimir, the journey will take almost a year.”
Ormuz lifted his chin in new-found determination. “It’s where everything’s happening, Varä. We have to be there.”
“A direct trip is out of the question,” Finesz put in. “We’ll need to stop en route.”
“Yes, yes,” snapped Ormuz.
“Nice clothes, by the way,” Finesz remarked. “You make a dashing young peer.”
Ormuz blinked, frowned. “Varä’s been teaching me,” he said.
“Varä?”
The young man with the long braids nodded at her. “Omais mar Puoskari, the Marquess of Varä, ma’am.”
Finesz was surprised. “The Duke of Uskolin’s youngest? You have high-powered friends, Casimir.”
“He’s a friend of Captain Plessant’s,” Ormuz replied—sourly? There was no love lost there.
Why exactly, wondered Finesz, had this young marquess attached himself to Ormuz?
“How likely is that?” Finesz said, smiling. “A data-freighter captain and a young noble from one of the Empire’s oldest families?”
Ormuz shook his head impatiently. “She isn’t just a data-freighter captain. She’s a knight sinister. They used Divine Providence to run errands.”
“What?” Finesz rose to her feet with difficulty. She felt her hair brush the vehicle’s low roof. Plessant a knight in the Order of the Left Hand? It… explained much.
“Assaun!” she called.
The troop-sergeant had been waiting outside the rear hatch. He clambered smartly into the troop carrier, gave a terse nod and said, “Ma’am.”
“We’re leaving,” Finesz instructed. “Contact Captain Jota and tell him to ready Lantern for departure.”
“Destination?”
“Shuto’s out of the question. We need somewhere closer… Um, Linna. Yes, Linna. You—” Finesz turned to Ormuz— “might find it useful.”
“You know the Yalosukinens?” asked Varä, clearly astonished.
Finesz was herself surprised the young marquess had so clearly understood her meaning. She was a second or two before replying: “Yes. Yes, I do. I had a… dalliance with the duke many years ago. We remained friends afterwards.”
Varä touched Ormuz on the arm. “Linna is good, Casimir,” he said quietly to the boy. “The Duke of Kunta can help.”
Ormuz accepted the comment with a terse nod. “We have to leave as soon as possible,” he told Finesz.
Finesz signalled for Assaun to go and do as instructed. The troop-sergeant disappeared as smartly as he had arrived.
Had it only been four days ago they had arrived on Kapuluan? It seemed much longer. Finesz climbed the ladder to Lantern’s airlock, and stopped in the hatchway. She glanced back and down, at Ormuz and his surprising companion, the Marquess of Varä. There was no doubt Varä was a good influence, a sobering influence, on Ormuz, but the very fact of his presence was puzzling. Finesz stepped into the ship and stood to one side to wait her charges.
Murily Plessant, mused Finesz; a knight sinister, a yeoman in the Order of the Left Hand. A not entirely shocking piece of news, she had to admit. It explained much. His Lordship Omais mar Puoskari, according to Ormuz, was a friend of Plessant’s. That was a little too difficult to credit. Plessant had insinuated the marquess into Ormuz’s confidence for a reason. And since Plessant was a knight sinister… well, it followed that Varä must be too. She would have to mention her deduction to Ormuz.
She looked up as Ormuz trooped past her, Varä on his heels. Well, it had to be said that the young marquess didn’t much seem like a knight sinister. He was an adventurer, had freely admitted as much.
“—that blade wasn’t cheap, you know, Casimir,” Varä was saying. “Be careful with it.”
“It’s a damn nuisance,” Ormuz snapped back over his shoulder. “I nearly tripped over it and broke my neck on the ladder! What’s the point of carrying it around everywhere if I can’t fight with it?”
“You have to learn how to wear it before you learn how to use it.”
Still bickering, the two passed into the sloop, ignoring Finesz. She waited patiently for Assaun, who appeared moments later. She stopped him with a hand to his shoulder. The troop-sergeant turned and looked at her blankly.
“Keep an eye on those two, Assaun,” she said quietly. “I don’t trust Casimir’s young ‘friend’.”
“Ma’am.”
“And be subtle about it,” she cautioned.
Assaun did not reply but his expression was comment enough.
Before Finesz could make some acerbic remark, her attention was captured by a crewman stepping through the hatch. He had a trunk balanced on one shoulder.
“What in heavens is that?” demanded Finesz.
The crewman straightened and tried to come to attention, but the trunk prevented him. “Luggage for the young lord, ma’am.”
“Which ‘young lord’?”
“The, er, the black-hair
ed one, ma’am. There’s another two for him, and three for the redhead and all.”
“From where?” demanded Finesz. What was this? Luggage? Four hours ago, the two young men had been closted in the back of a troop carrier with nothing but the clothes on their backs. Now they had trunks?
“A van delivered it, ma’am. Posted for Lord Puoskari and Lord Ormuz. The mate arranged for us to collect it.” The crewman held his features carefully noncommittal.
“Has it been checked?”
The crewman nodded. “Mate had a good look inside, ma’am. Just clothes.” He opened his mouth as if to add more, snapped it shut; but, with a shrug, said, “Real expensive clothes.”
Finesz gestured dismissively. “Stow it.” She turned to Assaun, who had remained in the ‘lock. “Find out where these trunks came from,” she ordered. Frowning, she watched the crewman enter the ship.
Lord Ormuz, she thought. Dear Lords.
And then: Varä! He had contacted someone, he had reported in to his masters. He would need watching, that one.
“And get me the mate,” she told Assaun before he could leave the airlock.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Lexander Lotsman, erstwhile pilot of the data-freighter Divine Providence, sighed and turned from the window. Marla Dai lay stretched out on a sofa, one arm across her eyes. Adril Tovar sat at a bureau pushed against one wall of the room. He was engrossed in some document on a notepad, tugging at his lower lip as he read. Lotsman let out another sigh.
“Where is she?” he asked.
“Probably still apologising to the Involute,” said Dai to the ceiling.
“Uhm?” asked Tovar, looking up from his notepad.
“How long does it take?” Lotsman glanced back at the window but there was nothing to see. It was night and light pollution from the city hid the stars. The nimbus—the window-sill hid the buildings which marched down the hill—seemed faintly magical, a fairy-tale aura, but it was nothing to fix the attention on for more than a few seconds.
“She’s got to apologise for you too,” Dai drawled. “Punching that knight. What a bloody idiot.”
