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

by Ian Sales

  “Cas belonged with us,” Lotsman protested, turning back to the ship’s engineer.

  “We were delivering him, Lex, and you know it. Right, Adril?”

  Tovar jerked in surprise at being addressed. “Um, yes. Those were our orders.”

  “‘Orders’,” muttered Lotsman. He had disagreed with those orders, but there was nothing he could do about it. He had tried. Foolishly. He winced as he remembered the look Captain Plessant had given him after he’d attacked the knight sinister.

  “She’s been gone for hours,” he complained.

  “She’ll be back soon,” Dai said.

  “I’m afraid not,” said a voice.

  Startled, Lotsman looked across at the entrance to the drawing-room. His heart leapt when he saw the figure standing there: Riz. She wore a Kapuluani split-skirt, tight trousers and jacket, and had her sword in her hand. Behind her, he saw a dark-haired man, also armed: the marine-captain. Four shadows lurked in the hallway outside.

  Dai had scrambled to her feet. She tugged down her skirt, and scowled at the intruders. Tovar had frozen at the bureau.

  “Hi, Riz,” Lotsman said, trying for nonchalance. “What do you mean?”

  Riz stepped further into the room. “Captain Plessant—Murily—won’t be coming back. I have some bad news, I’m afraid.”

  “She’s dead?” squeaked Tovar.

  “The Involute killed her?” demanded Dai hoarsely.

  Riz shook her head sadly. “No, it was the Serpent’s men, the clones.”

  “The clones?” Tovar’s voice had risen an octave.

  “They were trying for the boy.”

  Lotsman was horrified. “Cas? He’s dead too?”

  “No, he escaped.” Riz gave a wry grimace.

  “‘Escaped’,” repeated Dai slowly. “So he’s… where?”

  “We don’t know. He was gone by the time the clones got there. They ran into us on their way out.”

  “And the Involute?” asked Lotsman, still trying to deal with concept of Ormuz—Cas, the youth who had always been underfoot aboard Divine Providence—escaping from the Order’s custody.

  “The who?” Riz frowned. “Ah, the one in the mask. No, he left us to sort out their… incursion. He even took the trouble to thank us before he demanded we leave. I assume he has some way of getting rid of the bodies without alerting the authorities.” She gave another wry smile. “I don’t think the authorities should be allowed to see those particular corpses.”

  Lotsman made a strangled noise in the back of his throat. He had so much he wanted to say but he couldn’t get it out.

  “Captain Plessant is dead?” squeaked Tovar a second time.

  “Lady Murily dem Plessant, you mean,” Riz corrected. “Yes, I’m afraid she is. If it’s any consolation, she died alongside us fighting the clones.”

  “Wait, wait.” Lotsman held up his hands, and shook his head to clear it of confusion. He was trying to picture what had happened but each time Riz spoke he only found himself even more at a loss. “Start at the beginning. Please. Riz.” He gave her a beseeching smile and was heart-warmed to see her answer with a smile of her own.

  “You remember the meeting we arranged on Bato? The one on the Puwit Kali? We were there, waiting for Casimir to turn up. Lady Plessant came instead. She told us you’d met the knights sinister earlier that day and they’d taken Casimir with them. She wanted us to rescue him from them.” Riz shrugged. “So we did. But he’d already gone. And we ran into one of the Serpent’s teams of assassins. Lady Plessant was killed during the fight.”

  “Thank you very much for coming to tell us,” Dai said. Lotsman was not sure if the remark was intended sarcastically. Her tone of voice was dry but she had her back to him so he could not see her face.

  “We didn’t,” Riz stated flatly. “We came to see if Casimir was here. He’s not, so I have to ask you to accompany us.”

  “To where?” wailed Tovar.

  “Aboard Vengeful.”

  “But we don’t know where Cas is,” protested Lotsman.

  “He’ll be with Inspector Finesz—” Riz began.

  “If you know where he is, why aren’t you there?” Dai demanded.

  “He’s probably left Kapuluan already. On the OPI sloop. We’re going to follow them.”

  Dai put her hands on her hips. “What do you need us for?”

  “No!” Lotsman shook his head urgently. “Marla, we’ll go with them. I’m not staying here if Murily’s gone. I don’t know what the Order will have us do, but I’d rather not find out.”

  Dai twisted at the waist to glare at him. She sneered, “You only want to go because—”

  “Marla!” Lotsman cut her off in mid-sentence. Was she stupid?

  Another voice spoke up impatiently: “Look. This is all very interesting but we need to get a move on.” It was the marine-captain. Lotsman didn’t know his name. From the way he was holding his sword, however, Lotsman had no intention of tangling with the man. And, of course, there were those figures in the hallway. Two of them looked frighteningly enormous.

  “We’ll come peacefully,” Lotsman assured Riz, hands held out placatingly.

  The marine-captain stepped forward and sheathed his sword with a smooth easy motion. He gave a courteous nod of the head and a charming smile, and reached for Dai—

  Who stepped back, grinned maliciously, raised her leg, and lashed out with her foot in a lightning-fast movement. Her heel caught him in the stomach. He let out a loud “Omph!” and began to fold. Dai punched him in the jaw. The marine-captain fell over backwards and hit the floor.

  For a moment, stillness held.

  A chuckle broke the silence. Lotsman was surprised to discover it was the marine-captain. He watched the man climb to his feet and was horrified to see the look of admiration he gave Dai.

  “I apologise,” he said to Dai and this time swept a courtly bow. “Would you care to accompany us, My Lady Dai?”

  The ship’s engineer stuck her nose in the air and folded her arms across her bosom.

  “I must insist,” the marine-captain continued. “Or I shall be forced to call upon Boat-Sergeant Alus and his squad.”

  “Do it, Marla,” Lotsman urged. Dai might be able to fight the marine-captain hand-to-hand but the four marines in the hallway were another matter entirely. Lotsman very much doubted Dai would cause any damage should she attack them.

  Dai grunted under her breath. She ignored the marine-captain’s proffered arm and followed Tovar out into the hallway. The marine-captain turned to watch her go and Lotsman felt one more worry settle on his shoulders when he saw the appreciative smile playing about the man’s lips.

  The jolly boat approached the island from the north, no more than twenty feet above the waves. Twin plumes of spray accompanied it, blown up from the surface of the water by the backwash of its passage. Lotsman watched in undisguised admiration. That was real flying. Keel gas-rockets burst into flame as the boat came to a halt some ten yards from the beach. Steam rose from bowl-like depressions in the water. They travelled outwards in circular wave-patterns. As the jolly boat descended, the waves grew stronger. When the boat’s hull was mere inches above the lagoon’s surface, the waves developed white froth. Lotsman took a step back so as not to get his boots wet.

  He glanced up at the burning sun. Here he was, standing on a beach on a deserted island hundreds of miles from Lungsod… and wondering why he wasn’t scared, or even upset, at having been kidnapped. Perhaps it was his surroundings. No ill could happen on this desert island with its shining sand, placid lagoon and lush greenery. He certainly didn’t feel like a prisoner, although he’d been forced to take this journey—first by truck, then by aerolaunch. He had gone quietly and Lieutenant-Commander Rizbeka Rinharte and Marine-Captain Garrin Kordelasz—both had revealed their real names during the ride in the truck—had treated their captives well.

  The jolly boat drifted sideways, undercarriage unf
olding from their housings. Once over the beach, it settled gently onto the sand. The bow split apart and slowly widened to reveal a ramp leading inside A helmeted head appeared. Lotsman saw enough to recopgnise an Imperial Marine. The sight of the uniform gave him a slightly queasy sensation and the vague smile on his face congealed. He glanced back over his shoulder, his happiness abruptly gone.

  Kordelasz was engaged in close conversation with Dai. Lotsman could read Dai’s expression and wondered if the marine-captain knew what he was letting himself in for. That smile did not bode well. Let the marine-captain find out for himself, he decided.

  “So.” Rinharte had wandered up to stand beside Lotsman. “Lexander.”

  Lotsman turned to her. “So.” He smiled, his misgivings forgotten. “Riz.”

  She flashed a tight smile and looked down. He followed her gaze and, amused, saw her trace idle patterns in the sand with one boot.

  “I wish,” she said slowly, “you could have learnt the truth under better circumstances.”

  “Oh, I already knew you were a Navy officer,” he admitted cheerfully.

  She jerked her head up and stared at him. “You did? How?”

  “Cas told me.”

  “Ah.” She scowled. “You knew this on Ophavon?”

  “No. Not until afterwards. I saw through your little fib about meeting on the Puwit Kali, though. You’re not a very good liar.”

  Rinharte had the grace to blush. “It’s not something I’ve had much practice in,” she said.

  “Not very Navy, is it?”

  Her gaze softened at some memory and she smiled wistfully. “No, we’re honest to a fault. We have to be: it’s thirty lashes with the cat if you get caught lying.”

  Lotsman was shocked. “It is?”

  She blinked, stared at him intently, said, “No.” She shook her head. “I’m joking.”

  “Oh.”

  “Lies, of course, come easy to you.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “The fact that you’ve been living a lie for the past dozen years,” replied Rinharte, as if it were obvious.

  “Well, actually—” Blood and corruption! How did he explain that away? He considered himself a fundamentally honest person—as a member of an Order, if only a serjeant, he valued his word—but she had a point. “That’s true enough,” he admitted, “but that doesn’t make me a silver-tongued liar.”

  This received a snort of amusement. “‘Silver-tongued’? Oh, I think you qualify as that.”

  He pounced on what she hadn’t said. “But not a liar?”

  “Um, no, I don’t think so.” She gazed out across the lagoon, eyes narrowed. “I don’t expect you to be entirely open with me—you have your duty, after all. But…”

  “You know there’s things I can’t tell you.”

  “Yes,” Rinharte said slowly.

  “I take it that means you’re not planning to rip out our fingernails or anything when we get aboard your ship.”

  Rinharte was plainly shocked. “Torture you? Of course not. We’re Navy.”

  “But you’re not Navy,” Lotsman pointed out. “You’re mutineers. Aren’t you?”

  “Technically… yes, I suppose we are.” She shrugged, reached down and took the edge of her skirt in one hand. Idly, she swung the cloth back and forth across the front of her legs. “It’s like we’ve been on a special mission more than anything. Covert ops.”

  “But you’re not under Admiralty orders.”

  “No…”

  Lotsman took a step forward with his right foot. His boot landed in wet sand. He took a second step, carefully lifted his right foot, turned and looked down at the clear imprint he’d left in the sand. Facing Rinharte, he spoke to his footprint: “Indirectly, we’ve been following the Emperor’s orders. It’s our… job. We’re your prisoners of war.”

  “Ah. The ‘war’.”

  “You destroyed Divine Wind.”

  “Yes. I’m sorry about that.”

  “But late for it now, isn’t it?” He lifted his head and peered at her. She did appear contrite.

  “It was… a mistake,” she admitted. “We— I was given bad intelligence.” She gave another shrug and a sheepish smile. “We were trying to destroy you, Divine Providence.”

  “You did.”

  “Ah. On Bato. I’m sor—”

  “Sorry about it?” interrupted Lotsman. “Riz, you thought we were the enemy. Cas insisted you weren’t our enemy but it wasn’t easy to believe him when you were shooting at us.”

  “We only wanted you to heave to.”

  “Why didn’t you just ask us?”

  “The port on Bato would have picked up the signal. The Admiral insisted we not identify ourselves. I agreed.”

  Footsteps hissing through sand sounded behind Lotsman. He looked back over one shoulder. A squad of marines had disembarked from the pinnace and was marching towards them. In the lead was a marine officer. He carried his sword bared.

  “Major Skaria,” said Rinharte.

  “So what will happen when we get up there?” Lotsman pointed vaguely in the direction of the heavens.

  “We track the OPI sloop and then we follow her.”

  “And what happens to us? To me and Adril and Marla?”

  “That,” said Rinharte sadly, “depends on the Admiral.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  Black rivers of light threaded the colourless heavens. Ormuz stood on nothing and gazed up. He could not tell what data were woven into that tapestry but he would learn. Spinning about, he looked for the blue figure, his guide of earlier visits to the nomosphere. It was not in evidence. He was alone.

  He reached out, his arm seeming to stretch to infinity, and touched one of the ebon streams which criss-crossed the sky. A plume broke from it and arced towards him. He immersed himself in information, showered in data. It meant nothing to him: an economic report from a world unknown to him, scattered images from a melodrama, a request for clarification from some Imperial bureaucrat to some other Imperial bureaucrat… Their random order removed meaning, made context nothing more than wishful thinking. He tried to connect the data washing through him, tried to perceive pattern, but he was too close. An act of will moved him back until he only bathed in the radiance of the fountain of knowledge. He concentrated and plucked forth a single item of data, a packet. Liking the metaphor, he gazed down at the darkly radiant object in his hand. It unfolded gracefully, revealing a portion of a document—a cargo manifest. He saw that the packet had originated on Otloti and was destined for Shiloti, both in Gromada Province.

  He was here for a reason. He needed information on the Serpent, his conspiracy. Yet the Serpent too had access to the nomosphere. He would not be so foolish as to allow incriminating evidence be accessible here. Ormuz would have to think around his needs, collect data the shape of which would give clues through its gaps and lacunae…

  He focused his will, holding the world of Shuto in mind. Nothing appeared to happen. He frowned—

  Arcs and plumes broke from the rivers of black light all about and curved towards him. They hit him in soundless explosions; he was drenched in information. It came too fast and too thickly for him to make any sense: a quick-fire montage of images, a thundering wall of sound. He was thrown about, bouncing from one jet of data to another.

  He cleared his mind.

  As abruptly as that, they were gone and he floated once again beneath a reverse-colour sky.

  It had been too much, he realised sheepishly. Shuto, as the capital of the Empire, was sure to generate, and receive, vast amounts of information. Perhaps if he thought of somewhere specific on Shuto, he could filter the data streams.

  Shuto… Imperial Ministries…

  This was more manageable. Dozens of jets broke from streams and hurtled towards him. He threw back his head and let them break against him…

  … a census from Reyki Province to the Imperial Capitation Agency
…

  … a legal docket for the Office of the Procurator Imperial…

  … reports to the Fleet Office of Strategic and Tactical Assessment…

  … a man in an unfamiliar uniform talking to camera…

  … music… of a sort…

  … a speech: a woman’s voice, strident, impassioned…

  Ormuz sorted and ordered the information coming at him. It was all prosaic, the uninteresting output of daily routine. He searched for a mention of the knights sinister or the Order of the Left Hand, but found nothing. If it was there, it was couched in euphemisms, in language that obscured meaning—

  Something gripped Ormuz on the shoulder and spun him away from the streams of light. The images filling his mind’s eye turned to dust and blew away. Startled, Ormuz looked up and about him. He saw nothing—

  No. A shape occluded the stars. As he focused on it, its outline became clear. It was a human figure, as sexless and featureless as the blue figure he had met before. But this one was gold. It swam with light, a gold so rich it seemed to ripple and flow. He sensed it was not the same person as before in a different guise. This was someone new, a stranger.

  Who are you? he demanded.

  The gold figure swung an arm. It seemed to stretch impossibly long. A blow landed on Ormuz’s cheek. He tumbled over backwards, spinning head over heels, until an act of will brought his tumble to a halt. He felt no pain, only a numbness. A second blow hit him in the stomach and he shot backwards. Again, he concentrated and brought his hurtling rush to a halt.

  No! Anger blasted through Ormuz. He caught his rage and turned it on the figure attacking him. He felt something indefinable change within him, some mysterious energy charge him and fill him to overflowing. He stretched out an arm. He was deep black; he drank in light. His energy spilled out of him, filling the space about him. His shifting attacker took shape in the darkness flooding over it. Its golden shape grew fixed, making of it a clear target. Ormuz lashed out.

  They traded blows, inflicting little harm on each other. Ormuz moved in close and grappled. Where his black hands gripped, the attacker’s golden flesh glowed red and painful. It grasped him, its hand tight about his upper arms. He felt its grip as patches of numbing cold. Bracing himself, he tried to force the iciness from his body. The gold figure’s hands burned as red as the flesh beneath Ormuz’s hands. They struggled. Ormuz felt the other’s greater strength. But—