by Ian Sales
They had obviously discussed Lord Ogoshu, then.
Intercepting a puzzled look from Finesz, Rinharte leaned close and whispered, “A story from the Book of the Sun. I’ll explain later.”
Gogos, the Admiral’s protocol lieutenant, stepped forward. “Ma’am, we should pay our respects to his grace.” As an Imperial princess, second in line to the Throne, the Admiral had been assigned a protocol lieutenant to manage her affairs but his duties also included etiquette. The Admiral used him infrequently in the latter role.
“So we must,” said the Admiral.
The duke greeted the Admiral with grace, his politeness attesting to his breeding. He gave no indication of his real thoughts on the Admiral’s presence. Rinharte, however, knew full well how he felt. She had witnessed several stormy meetings between Kunta and her commanding officer. But the man was a high noble and there were forms to be followed. If Kunta’s feigned pleasure stuck in his throat, he disguised it with all the tact common to his rank. She could understand why his patronage was so valued.
Rinharte turned her gaze from the duke to Vetlina, the duchess. She marvelled at the woman’s seeming delight at the Admiral’s presence. Rinharte knew it for a front.
Gogos, acting as liaison between the Vengeful’s party and the ducal entourage, suggested the Admiral’s aims would be better served if done in private. There was a series of chambers off the ballroom, small exquisitely-furnished withdrawing rooms, and Kunta was happy to allow the Admiral use of one.
As they made their way across the dance-floor—the withdrawing rooms were sited beneath the ballroom entrance—Gogos said smugly to Rinharte, “The words, ‘The Admiral wishes to speak privately with you on a matter of some importance’, will be just as effective as her presence.”
She frowned in annoyance. The protocol officer’s role usually bred arrogance in an officer and she did not like it.
Oblivious to her disapproval, Gogos hurried on ahead to open the door to the withdrawing room and usher the Admiral within. The chamber, ten feet on each side, was furnished with three spindly sofas arranged as three sides of a rectangle. A line of matching chairs sat against the back wall. The walls to left and right were hung with tapestries depicting martial scenes from the ducal family’s history. If this withdrawing room was the only one decorated in such a fashion, Rinharte wondered at Kunta’s choice. Was he trying to tell the Admiral something?
The Admiral settled on the sofa facing the door. Ormuz, the baron’s daughter still on his arm, sat on the settee to the right. Finesz folded gracefully onto the sofa opposite the youth. Everyone else remained standing.
“You may stay a moment,” the Admiral told the girl. “I would not have us appear too stand-offish.”
“Would you like a drink, ma’am?” Gogos asked the Admiral.
She gestured vaguely and said, “Something non-alcoholic. Tea, perhaps.”
Finesz spoke up: “A wine, if you can find any. Not that appalling punch.”
The protocol officer darted out of the room and returned moments later with a pair of servants in Yalosukinen livery.
Once the servants had left with their orders, Finesz asked conversationally, “So, how do we work this?”
“The important work has been done,” the Admiral replied. She stroked a hand over her smooth scalp and then tugged at the hem of her uniform tunic.
Finesz blinked in surprise. “It has?”
“Casimir?” the Admiral prompted.
Ormuz shrugged. “Commodore Livasto won’t make his decision without feeling out what others think. Word will spread amongst the Navy and regimental officers. When they’ve made their decision, they’ll come to us.”
It was, Rinharte had to admit, a masterly reading of the situation. She had not known him to be so perceptive or so well-versed in such political machinations. She peered at him with interest.
“So we just wait,” said Finesz.
“Some will need prompting,” the Admiral commented. “Mr Gogos will do whatever is necessary.”
The drinks arrived and everyone fell silent as they were served. Rinharte found her attention fastening on Lady Aszabella, the young woman who had attached herself to Ormuz. She could not think who the girl resembled. Finesz had commented, in their discussion of earlier, that the baron’s daughter was older than she pretended. There was something suspicious, Rinharte felt, in that masquerade, but no reason for the deception came to mind. Nothing other than the obvious one: the baron had heard the duke had two important young men as guests of honour and had encouraged his daughter to “pretty” herself and act to ensnare one of them. Perhaps it was that simple… but for the nagging suspicion Rinharte had seen the girl somewhere before.
Her dress provided no clue. The lustrous gold fabric was expensive and the jewellery Aszabella wore appeared equally costly. She wondered what was hidden beneath the ballgown’s material. The long sleeves, with their built-in gloves, disguised Aszabella’s arms and shoulders. The full skirt hid her legs.
The effect made Aszabella appear more than real, a fantasy figure. Not, Rinharte hastened to assure herself, a figure from any of her fantasies. But what could she know of the dreams of young men like Ormuz? Perhaps that was the point of the whole masquerade…
It was an effective act and Rinharte wondered if Ormuz had seen through it. She thought it likely—he seemed to accept the woman’s presence on sufferance and rarely looked at her. She hung onto his arm as if she were already married to him and yet he had barely exchanged a dozen words with her in Rinharte’s hearing.
The Admiral sipped from her tea. Cup and saucer held before her, she turned to Ormuz. “I am afraid you will have to leave your young man,” she said to Lady Aszabella. “He has work to do.”
The girl pouted. “I can’t stay longer?” she complained.
“No,” the Admiral replied sternly.
“But I want to stay with Casimir.”
Ormuz extricated his arm from Aszabella’s grip and rose to his feet. He did not look at her, which was just as well given that he seemed more relieved than disappointed.
“Run along to your parents,” the Admiral instructed the girl. “You may seek out Casimir when we are done.”
Rinharte leant against the door-jamb and folded her arms. She abruptly straightened as Aszabella rose gracefully to her feet and glanced Rinharte’s way. There had been a calculating look in her eyes. Aszabella turned back to Ormuz. There was a moment of embarrassed stillness. Rinharte abruptly noticed Kordelasz’s absence—he had not followed them to the withdrawing room. He should be here. Gogos frowned and stepped forward. Kowo put a hand to his arm.
In a whirl of motion, Aszabella leapt at Ormuz. She had a dagger in her hand, blade held high. Gogos moved to intercept and stumbled. He caught himself on a sofa-back. Kowo was more sure-footed. She managed a hand to the girl’s arm and hauled back. Ormuz had both arms held before him, crossed to ward off a blow. He did not cower but coolly defended himself.
Aszabella’s arm flashed down. Ormuz blocked her. The dagger jerked to a halt inches from his face. A quick twist of motion and he had two hands to the girl’s forearm. He spun her away. She recovered in an instant. Her blade flicked out and took Kowo in the throat. Blood jetted from a gaping line beneath the mate’s jaw.
Gathering up her skirts, Aszabella hurdled the toppling coxswain and ran for the door. Rinharte moved to block her exit. The girl bowled into her, shoulder down. Rinharte grabbed… and something came away in her hand. She threw it away with an oath. Aszabella’s chestnut hair. She had been wearing a wig. Beneath it, her hair was pale brown and cut close to the scalp.
As Rinharte toppled off-balance, something black flapped past her face. There was a meaty thunk as it collided with Aszabella’s head. A swear-word rang out. Rinharte hit the floor. Her breath rushed out of her. Aszabella landed atop her. Before she could grab the girl, black cloth whispered across her vision a second time. The girl fell away. Rinharte looke
d up, to see Finesz balanced on one leg and cradling a foot.
“Damn it,” the OPI officer said, grimacing. “I should have worn boots.” She had kicked the young woman. In her high-heeled sandals.
“They wouldn’t have suited the ball gown,” Rinharte remarked, amazed at her own nonchalance.
“I could have worn my uniform.”
Rinharte scrambled to her feet. “Why didn’t you?” She winced. She had bruised herself on her sword-hilt when she landed.
“I would have done, if I’d known Casimir was going to pick up an assassin.”
“Speaking of which…”
They looked down at the girl lying comatose at their feet. An assassin…
Rinharte glanced up, saw Kordelasz approaching, a grin on his face and a young woman on his arm. The smile fell from his face when he spotted the figure on the floor.
“Garrin!” Rinharte gave him no time to gawp. “Baron Epalulo,” she snapped. “Find him!”
The marine-captain yanked his arm from his escort’s, turned about and hurried away. The woman stood there foolishly, looking from the departing Kordelasz to the comatose assassin and back again. Her hand drifted up to cover her mouth.
“Kowo!” Rinharte had just remembered the blood. She spun round. The Admiral was on her knees, cradling Vengeful’s coxswain. She looked up at Rinharte and her eyes flashed angrily. “How,” she demanded, “can I fight an enemy who stoops to such low tricks?”
“That’s who she was?” asked Gogos, shocked.
“If you’re suggesting she tried to knife Casimir simply because she was told to go away…” started Finesz.
“No, no. Not at all,” blustered the protocol lieutenant. “But…”
“She was one of the Serpent’s assassins,” snapped the Admiral. “Don’t be a fool, Mr Gogos.”
Chastened, he murmured, “Ma’am,” and looked away.
“Is Leka…?” asked Rinharte, fearing the worst. There was a lot of red decorating the mate’s uniform front.
“Dead? Yes, she is.” The Admiral lay Kowo down gently and rose to her feet. “Casimir,” she snapped.
“Ma’am?”
“This officer died for you.”
Ormuz lifted his chin defiantly. “I’m aware of that, ma’am.” He looked down at the dead officer and his expression faltered. “I’m sorry, ma’am.”
Rinharte turned back to Aszabella and was grateful to see that Finesz was keeping watch on the girl. Aszabella lay on the floor, out cold. “How is she?” Rinharte asked.
Finesz bent forward and turned Aszabella’s face towards her. She frowned and put two fingers to the girl’s neck. “Dead,” she said flatly.
“You didn’t kick her that hard,” protested Rinharte. Finesz could not have done, not in the flimsy sandals she was wearing.
“No. Poison, I should think.” The OPI officer rolled the body onto her back and gazed down at her slack features. Aszabella’s eyes were closed and she looked to have died painlessly.
The girl appeared strange, thought Rinharte, with short hair. It did not fit the heavy make-up, or the large jewelled earrings the girl wore. A tangle of chestnut tresses lay on the floor beside the body. Rinharte frowned. “Why the wig?” she asked.
Before she had even closed her mouth, the Admiral’s mention of the Serpent’s assassins sparked off a memory. Rinharte remembered peeling black hoods off faces and seeing six identical men. She gazed at the dead girl on the floor. There was a resemblance. Aszabella reminded Rinharte of those six cloned assassins on Kapuluan. But if she was a clone…
Finesz had picked up the hairpiece. Straightening, she turned it over in her hands, as if inspecting it for clues. “I don’t know. It doesn’t make sense.”
“No,” Rinharte said. “It does.” She dropped to one knee, picked up the assassin’s dagger and used it to slit the ball gown down the front. She struggled to pull the dress down the corpse’s torso.
“What in heavens are you doing?” demanded Finesz.
“Look.” Rinharte pulled the gold fabric apart to reveal complicated underwear. A few passes of the knife and she dipped a hand into one of the corset’s bra-cups. And pulled out a shaped mound of some flesh-coloured jelly-like substance. It felt heavy in her hand. She put the prosthetic breast to one side and continued her crude undressing. Soon, Aszabella’s flat, hairless and entirely male chest was visible. A second prosthetic slid to the floor.
“Dear Lords,” breathed Finesz. “It’s a man.” She snorted in amusement. “She had me fooled.”
“He,” corrected Rinharte, peering at the assassin’s face. There was a likeness, beneath the heavy cosmetics, to those assassins on Kapuluan but it was not exact. It should be. They were clones, after all.
Rinharte continued her surgery on the assassin’s dress. Lifting her—no, his—right arm, she cut the glove from the sleeve. Yes, there it was, tattooed on the web of skin between thumb and forefinger: a ten-legged creature with an arched tail tipped with a poisoned barb.
“What’s that?” asked Finesz, bending over to see better.
“A scorpion. The clones had the same tattoo. The Involute told us they all have it.”
Someone appeared in the doorway. Rinharte looked up, saw a pair of legs clad in dark blue hose, followed them up… and saw that it was Varä.
“Well,” he said, eyebrows raised. “There are other ways of ridding yourself of unwanted admirers, Casimir.” His eyes widened as he saw the assassin’s chest.
“You’re not helping,” Rinharte snapped, rising to her feet. She still held the dagger. Seeing the blood smeared along its blade, she shuddered.
“Who was he?” asked Varä. “What did he do— Oh.” His face fell as he saw the Admiral standing by Kowo’s bloodied and lifeless body.
“The Serpent,” spat Rinharte.
“You’re sure?” asked Finesz.
“We had an… encounter with six of them on Kapuluan. But this one—” She gestured at the dead assassin with the dagger— “looks slightly different. He should be the same.”
Intrigued, Finesz dropped the wig she held, knelt and took a swathe of gold fabric from the assassin’s ball gown. She began wiping off the make-up. “In what way?”
“The face is rounder, the cheekbones different. And the lips are fuller.”
“Implants,” said Varä abruptly.
Rinharte looked at him.
“There is,” he expanded, “a compound you can inject into the lips to make them more plush. You can use it on the cheeks as well.” He smiled lopsidedly. “The procedure is quite painful but the compound is harmless. The body absorbs it after a few weeks.”
“You’ve used this compound?” asked Finesz. She had removed all the assassin’s cosmetics but his face still looked pretty.
Varä squirmed in embarrassment and flashed a quick glance at the Admiral. “Once or twice,” he admitted sheepishly. “Although, ah… past acquaintances of mine used it on a more regular basis.”
Ormuz appeared beside Rinharte. He stooped and picked up the wig. “All part of the disguise,” he said glumly. He dropped the wig on the body, covering its face.
“Disguise?” asked Rinharte. “You knew it was a disguise?”
Ormuz frowned. “What?” He shook his head, confused. “No, I was completely taken in.” Pointing at the man on the floor, the skirt of his gold ball gown splayed wide, chest revealed, Ormuz added, “He had to get close to me, so he disguised himself as someone who—” He grimaced. “Someone I wouldn’t suspect.”
The Admiral approached. She had blood on her hands and sleeves. “You did well, Casimir,” she said quietly, touching him on the sleeve and leaving a splash of dark red. “You too, Inspector Finesz.” She sighed heavily. “I bring my best fighters but must rely on others to defend me.”
Rinharte stepped over the body into the ballroom. A crowd had gathered, arrayed in a semicircle about the doorway. None had approached nearer than three or four yar
ds and all looked shocked and horrified.
“Varä,” the Admiral said, her voice clipped. There was no mistaking her rage. “You are the expert on such masquerades, are you not? How long would it take to effect?”
“Ma’am? Ah.” He cleared his throat. “A couple of hours preparation and… no longer than it takes to dress, ma’am. But knowing how to walk, the posture, the gestures, the behaviour… that takes training.”
“How long?” demanded the Admiral.
“For someone with the talent or aptitude? Several weeks.”
It had been, reflected Rinharte, a much better disguise than she had imagined. Gazing at the gold-clad semi-denuded body on the floor, she found herself astonished that she had not seen through the impersonation. It had been that effective. She had been suspicious, yes. But she had never imagined the pretty and voluptuous girl who had attached herself to Ormuz was not actually female.
“It was doomed to fail,” the Admiral said.
“It very nearly didn’t,” Finesz pointed out.
“Why kill?” Ormuz asked. “Surely knowing our plans would have been more useful to the Serpent.”
“We would prevent them in their struggle,” the Admiral replied. “Removing me would achieve that.”
“You might not have been the target. She—I mean, he—went for Casimir, after all,” Finesz suggested.
“They’ve tried for me before,” Ormuz added. “At least four times.”
“Four?” asked Rinharte, surprised.
He nodded. “Twice on Darrus, once on Ophavon and then on Kapuluan.” He grimaced, as if mention of the last world had brought back a memory of Plessant’s death.
“They will try harder now,” the Admiral said flatly. “Casimir was an embarrassment, I was an annoyance. Now we are both dangerous to them.” Her voice abruptly changed, became commanding. “Ah, Kunta. Your security is sadly lacking.”
Rinharte turned from the Admiral. The duke, accompanied by Captain Vartoi, had pushed through the onlookers. He glared at the tableau arrayed before the withdrawing room’s entrance: a body on the floor and five standing about it. “What,” he demanded angrily, “is going on here?” He stopped short. “My security?”
