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

by Ian Sales

  “Ow!” Ormuz jumped back. A pale-blue diamond appeared on his green-clad chest, brightest at the point of impact and fading out at the edges. He put his free hand to the mark.

  “You’re dead, Casimir,” Varä told him gleefully. “Your blade was in the wrong quarter. That hit got you in the heart.”

  “I thought you were going low,” Ormuz said sullenly. “I was ready to parry.”

  “Watch the hand, not the point,” the marquess admonished. “How many times do I have to tell you?”

  “His footwork was good though,” remarked Kordelasz to Rinharte.

  Varä called out, “Now let’s go again.”

  Kordelasz offered further commentary: “He gets distracted by the blade—understandable since Varä likes to make it dance. But if he had been in the right quarter, Varä left himself open for a riposte with that lunge.”

  Rinharte, no aficionado of swordsmanship, let the marine-captain’s explanation wash over her. She fought to survive and providing she had sufficient skill to do that, she was happy. Admittedly, there had been a couple of close calls in recent weeks… But sword-fighting for the sake of sword-fighting? She could see no attraction in that.

  The pair below began another bout. Several times, Varä attacked and was rebuffed. Ormuz managed to riposte twice but the marquess’s sword whipped to the correct quarter and the clang of blades meeting rang out. A minute or two of circling followed the last parry, both combatants shuffling about, swords held high and parallel to the ground.

  Varä side-stepped, dropped his elbow, and flicked his blade into a new quarter. His elbow moved in and out as he attacked, his sword shifting too fast to see. Ormuz danced desperately to meet each new attack and succeeded in getting his blade to the marquess’s. Clatters, clangs and slithers echoed across the sports salon.

  “Yes!” hissed Kordelasz.

  The marquess back-pedalled away from Ormuz, dropping his sword to the floor as he did so. Ormuz put up his blade as Varä bent to pick up his sword. Straightening, he said, “That’s enough for today, I think.”

  “I got you!” Ormuz crowed.

  “A lucky jab.” But Varä reached up and pressed a hand to the biceps of his sword-arm. There was a yellow sunburst spread across his upper arm.

  “Does it matter if it was lucky?”

  “Casimir, you can’t rely on luck. You need skill.” Varä removed the button from the point of his sword and slid the blade into the scabbard hanging from his belt. “But you’re definitely improving.”

  Ormuz attempted to sheathe his own blade but had forgotten the button blunting its point. He fiddled to remove it and then carefully inserted the sword into its scabbard.

  “You’re keeping an eye on them?” Rinharte asked Kordelasz, wondering at his reason for lurking in the sports salon gallery.

  “No. I wanted to see Varä fight. Some day, I might have to take him, and it’s best to be prepared.”

  “I see… And?”

  Kordelasz stepped back deeper into the shadows. “He’s good,” he admitted. “He may be a complete fop but he possesses real skill with a blade. He’s more than the free scholar he claims to be.”

  “But you think you could beat him.”

  The marine-captain did not answer immediately. Rinharte glanced down into the salon and saw the two youths, unmasked, standing by the hatch.

  “Yes,” said Kordelasz. “But…”

  Surprised, Rinharte looked back at him.

  “His style,” explained Kordelasz, “is… overly elegant. It’s clear he had an excellent teacher. Against someone like that, it would be no contest. You need to take whatever opportunity offers itself, elegant or not. Every so often, Varä takes those opportunities. He’s fought to the death before. Several times.”

  “He could beat you, then.”

  Kordelasz crossed to the hatch. Before leaving, he stopped and said over his shoulder, “I still have the edge but it would be a close run thing.”

  When Rinharte stepped into the gangway moments later, the marine-captain was nowhere in sight. She hurried to the nearest ramp, descended swiftly, and marched to the salon’s hatch. Varä was just inside, his mask cradled in one arm. He smiled on seeing Rinharte. “Ah, you’re a moment too late, lieutenant-commander,” he said. “I killed Casimir and he managed to wound me in the arm.” He gazed expectantly at her and pouted in disappointment when she showed no shock.

  “I was watching from the gallery,” she explained.

  “We saw someone up there,” Ormuz commented, moving from behind the marquess. “But we couldn’t see who it was.”

  “That was Marine-Captain Kordelasz. I only caught the last few minutes of your practice.”

  Ormuz reached up and unfastened his leotard at the shoulder—the sleeves had built-in gloves, she noticed—pulling the front down and across to loosen the stiff collar which had protected his throat. Now that she was standing before him, Rinharte saw that the tight-fitting leotard was subtly padded to ape the musculature beneath. The reactive cloth, which changed colour if struck, was not new to her. Naval Academy cadets wore a similar material during wargames, but their outfits had resembled naval coveralls not exercise-wear.

  “So what brings you here?” Ormuz asked Rinharte. Passing his mask to Varä, he stepped out into the gangway, moving silently in his soft slippers.

  “The Admiral has agreed to let you meet your friends. They’re waiting for you in the masters’ mess.”

  He brightened. “I’ll be back later,” he told the marquess.

  Rinharte asked permission of the sentry to enter the masters’ mess. This was warrant officers’ territory and those holding commissions could only enter if invited. The sentry, a ship’s corporal, opened the hatch and stepped inside. He returned less than a minute later with Master of Guns Skudning. The master formally invited within the lieutenant-commander and her guest. Rinharte wondered what Ormuz made of this custom. To an outsider, it likely seemed ridiculous. The officers, after all, commanded the ship’s crew. However, the youth made no comment, other than to thank Skudning.

  They entered the mess. It was much the same as that used by the officers, although not so well-appointed. The tables were wooden but plain of decorative carving. The walls were panelled but bare of pictures. Seated about the small chamber were half a dozen warrant officers, most with beers. At one table, hunched over drinks of their own, sat Lexander Lotsman, Adril Tovar and Marla Dai. All three wore insignialess Navy coveralls.

  Tovar was the first to see Ormuz. He half-rose to his feet, said, “Oh my,” and dropped back down.

  Lotsman, his back to the hatch, twisted round. He grinned through his moustache on seeing the youth beside Rinharte. Or was it, she wondered, at seeing herself?

  Dai merely gazed implacably at Ormuz and Rinharte.

  “Cas!” said Lotsman, scrambling out of his chair. He crossed to them with three quick strides and enfolded the youth in a hug. Holding him at arm’s length, he looked Ormuz up and down. “I nearly didn’t recognise you: you look like a proper little lord— in fact, what in corruption are you wearing?”

  Ormuz explained, “I’ve come straight from sword-practice.”

  “And that’s what you wear at practice?”

  “Apparently,” returned Ormuz dryly.

  “Listen to him talk,” Lotsman said over his shoulder at Dai and Tovar. “He even sounds like a lord.”

  Rinharte had already come to the conclusion that the Marquess of Varä was not the best person to advise Ormuz on his wardrobe. She would have to have a word with… She tried to think who was the best-dressed officer aboard Vengeful.

  Turning back to Ormuz, Lotsman asked, “You didn’t pick it out yourself, then?”

  “No. A gift from an admirer,” Ormuz answered grinning.

  “That foppish marquess? We’ve heard mention of him from some of the masters.”

  “Yes,” Ormuz admitted sheepishly. “But he’s not that sort o
f admirer.”

  “Indeed,” remarked Tovar, appearing at Lotsman’s shoulder. “We’ve heard about your admirers, haven’t we, Lex?”

  “We have,” confirmed the ex-ship’s pilot with a grin. “A man dressed as a woman, we heard.”

  “But you’re safe, Cas,” put in Tovar. “And that’s what’s important.”

  “But for how much longer?” demanded Dai from her seat at the table. “This is a battlecruiser, Adril. Or hadn’t you noticed?” She swung out an arm. “See, all these people in blue uniforms.”

  “And I thought you only had eyes for the ones in green,” Lotsman threw back over his shoulder.

  Dai scowled.

  Ormuz stepped past Lotsman and Tovar and approached the table. “Hello, Marla,” he said quietly. “They’re treating you well?”

  “Like heroes, Cas,” she replied bitterly. “But they’ve still locked the door and thrown away the key.”

  “It’s for your own safety.”

  “No, Cas,” she sneered. “It’s for your safety.”

  “The Serpent—”

  Dai abruptly rose to her feet. “Not the Serpent, Cas. The knights sinister. The Admiral’s men think to save us from our own masters.”

  “Murily is dead, Marla. You have no masters.”

  She shoved her face close to his. “I took an oath, Cas. Lex and Adril might have forgotten theirs but I’ve not forgotten mine.”

  “So you still think you should deliver me to the Involutes?”

  “I don’t think, Cas. I follow orders. It’s not my job to think.”

  “Perhaps it’s time you started,” remarked Lotsman. He came to stand beside Ormuz.

  Dai turned on him. “And what good would thinking do me, Lex?” she spat. She fell back and dropped heavily onto the bench. Ignoring the two standing across from her, she folded her arms tightly across her bosom and scowled at the table-top.

  “We can’t go back, Marla,” Lotsman said sadly. “My life was aboard Divine Providence. I’ll not spend the rest of it running errands and performing dirty tricks for the Involutes.”

  “Does your word mean nothing?” the ex-ship’s engineer demanded.

  “It’s a two-edged sword, Marla,” Ormuz said. “Your Order has an obligation to you as much as you are obligated to it. The Involute was no friend of yours on Kapuluan. He sent you away as though you had done wrong.”

  Day looked up, her expression pained. “We had done wrong, Cas. Can’t you see that? We were to hand you over to him without fuss. But no, Murily had to go and do the ‘right’ thing.” She hung her head.

  Ormuz put his hands to the table-top and leant forward “And which,” he asked softly, “is it you can’t forgive her for? Doing the right thing? Or dying?”

  “Both!” blurted Dai.

  “Then you have a duty to her, Marla.”

  Although Dai was looking down and her platinum-blonde hair hid her face, Rinharte saw that her shoulders were shaking. She crossed to the table, slid behind it and sat down beside the woman. Putting a hand to Dai’s arms, she said softly, “Won’t you think about what Murily was trying to do? She held your bond. Casimir is right: you have a duty to her, a duty to follow through what she was doing.”

  “I swore to obey the Order,” Dai objected angrily.

  “And Murily was the Order. She gave Casimir his freedom from her masters’ plotting. Can’t you do the same?”

  “You’re asking me to choose between my Order and Cas.” Dai’s voice was flat.

  “No!” Rinharte was angry. “I’m asking you to do the same as Murily: see what’s right and do that.” She had never dealt with serjeants from a knightly order before and was shocked at the power their oath held over them. Although she herself owed allegiance to a viscount on Aithis she had met only briefly, it was merely that: allegiance. She would do his bidding should he request it but if that should run counter to her own morals she would happily disobey him. No, not simply morals. Rinharte was an Imperial Navy officer; the Navy held her loyalty. In the person of the Admiral. She would not disobey the Admiral’s orders at the whim of her oath-holder.

  Why could Dai not do the same?

  “There’s a greater good here,” she told Dai. “You have to look to the greater good.”

  “No, I don’t,” Dai replied flatly.

  “Oh Dear Lords!” Rinharte snapped. “You’re abrogating your responsibility, Marla.”

  Dai gazed at her, eyes wide, face blank. “I’m a prole, lieutenant-commander.”

  The answer threw Rinharte. She blinked in confusion, then glanced up at Ormuz. Proles had no responsibility. It was abrogated from birth. They did as they were permitted to do. Their various freedoms existed only at the whim of their liege-lords. Ormuz—true origin notwithstanding—was no ordinary proletarian. He had broken free of his bond, abandoned his oath.

  Perhaps. Rinharte, mused, social rank truly was inborn, as some insisted.

  No. She refused to believe it. She had met parole-officers, who had been born proles but promoted to life-yeoman on receiving their commissions. Some did overcome their beginnings.

  She tried a different tack: “And who will be responsible for you, Marla?” she demanded. “Murily is gone and no one from your Order will ever set foot aboard Vengeful.”

  “I will be responsible,” Ormuz said forcefully.

  “You?” scoffed Dai. “You’re a prole, Cas, Like me. You’re not a lord yet.”

  “That doesn’t mean I can’t take responsibility for my actions, or for the actions of others. If I can take responsibility for people’s deaths—” He grimaced sourly— “I can take responsibility for their actions.”

  “You mean those who died on Linna?” asked Lotsman, clapping a hand to Ormuz’s shoulder. “Cas, you’re not responsible for their deaths.”

  Ormuz rounded on him. “Of course, I am!” he blazed. “The Provincial Foot were there to kill me. The Serpent wants me dead so I can’t stop him.”

  “I don’t understand,” Tovar said. “I can see that you might possibly be dangerous to him but how can he know you intend to fight him? Why is it that you’re now an enemy and not simply an embarrassing loose end?”

  Ormuz stiffened.

  “The Admiral has allied herself with him,” put in Rinharte.

  “Yes, but how does the Serpent know that?”

  Rinharte blinked in surprise. “A good question…,” she said slowly. The thought had never occurred to her. She turned to Ormuz. “How does he know?”

  “He doesn’t,” Ormuz admitted quietly. “He suspects. But he does know I will stop him.”

  “And how does he know that?” she demanded.

  “I… met him. In the nomosphere.”

  “Dear Lords, Casimir. You didn’t think to mention it?”

  “Events,” he said sheepishly, “got in the way.”

  “We have to tell the Admiral,” she insisted.

  “Why? It doesn’t change our strategy.”

  Tovar looked from Ormuz to Rinharte and back again. “You have a strategy?” he asked faintly.

  “Of course,” Ormuz told him absently.

  “How am I supposed to do my job if you keep intelligence from me?” Rinharte was furious. The youth’s revelation had a profound effect on their plans. If the Serpent was expecting to meet resistance…

  “How are we supposed to do our job if we’re kept prisoner aboard this ship?” demanded Dai loudly.

  “Your job,” snapped Rinharte, rounding on the woman, “was to deliver Casimir to the knights sinister. You know full well we can’t allow that to happen.”

  “So we are prisoners?”

  “No!” objected Ormuz. “You can’t keep them locked up.”

  “Under guard,” corrected Rinharte, still simmering. “We can’t have them loose about the ship.”

  “They won’t harm me,” the youth asserted. “Will you?”

  “You have my word I’ll not harm
you,” Lotsman assured him.

  “Even if ordered to by your masters?”

  “That I can’t promise.”

  Ormuz straightened. Lotsman held up his hands placatingly. “I know, it’s not what you wanted to hear. But Marla’s right. Our oath does mean something. I must stand by it. I can dislike it but I have no choice.” He smiled sadly. “Cas, you’re taking on the Serpent, not the Empire. I’d rather not choose between you and the Order.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  The caster on the Admiral’s desk buzzed loudly. Ormuz turned from his pacing, startled by the abrupt sound. He watched the Admiral reach out and flick a switch. “Yes?” she demanded.

  “Ma’am, we are now in orbit about the gas giant. And—”

  “Yes, Mr Voyna?”

  “Sensors have picked up a large ship in our vicinity, ma’am.”

  “And, Mr Voyna?”

  “We have a match in the data-pool: she’s a Storm class troop-transport.”

  “The Provincial Foot’s.” The Admiral looked up at Ormuz. He nodded: he agreed with the Admiral’s estimate. Where else could the troopers who had attacked the aerodrome have come from but a troop-transport?

  “How many,” Ormuz asked, “does a Storm class carry?”

  “Two full-strength battalions,” she answered. To the caster, she said, “We will be on the bridge shortly.”

  “Ma’am.” The connection closed with an audible click.

  The Admiral placed her stylus on the desk-top and fiddled with it idly, rolling it back and forth across the polished wood. She gazed down at the words they had been working on: a call to arms. Ormuz stepped forward. He could not read the Admiral’s scrawl upside-down, although the words “Edkar’s Promise” were clear enough. While the threat posed by the Serpent was obvious to those aboard Vengeful, it might not appear so to the captains the Admiral had won to her cause during her six years as a renegade. And so she planned to invoke an ancient debt of honour. It would not be the first time Edkar’s Promise had been called upon but it certainly would be the first time someone not sitting on the Imperial Throne had used it.