Davin let his gaze fall to the open doorway. A blurry shape just outside the doorframe moved slightly. It startled him. When he squinted, a child came into view—a little girl, maybe seven or eight years old. Dark hair and dark, curious, unafraid eyes, staring at him as if he was an alien. One hand planted on the doorframe and half her body hidden behind it. She wore a sky-blue shirt with happy-looking butterflies on it.
Footsteps signaled someone approaching from down the hall behind the little Arab girl. One of the wood floorboards creaked. Something about the weight and walk of the foot falls told Davin it was a man. It took about two seconds for his theory to be confirmed.
An Arab man, somewhere north of forty, stopped just behind the little girl. Black stubble darkened his cheeks and jawline, and a submachine gun hung high on his chest from a shoulder strap. One hand held the handle, finger set beside the trigger, while the other hung a thumb from his belt. He eyed Davin suspiciously, a look that came just short of hostility, then put his free hand on the girl’s shoulder and nudged her away.
“Basema,” he said in an authoritative, staccato tone. “Go find your sister. The silverware needs polishing and the table needs setting for supper.”
Her lips curled down in dissatisfaction as she looked up at him.
“Do you think the table will set itself?” He didn’t flinch or soften as he stared down at her. An air of cool, quiet control emanated from him like an energy field. This was a hard man, a leader. But a strange gentleness underlay his strength.
Finally, she gave in. Her frown melted away, and she stole one last gaze at the alien handcuffed to the bed before running off.
When the Arab man sauntered in, studying Davin with a hard, unthreatened face, Davin sensed a distant familiarity about the man. A sort of “deja vu” feeling. It was unlikely Davin had ever seen this fellow in person before, but somewhere . . .
The man pulled a doctor’s stool out from behind a few boxes, rolled it closer to the bed, and sat. With his free hand, he reached up to a tray set on one of the boxes, holding a bowl of water, a few rags, and medical tools. He dipped a rag in the water, squeezed it out, then brought it to Davin’s forehead. The touch of it was cool and relieving.
“You’ll have a few impressive scars once the bandages come off.”
Davin swallowed. His throat felt clogged with sleep gunk from however long he’d been out. He tried clearing it, then tested his voice. “I—I hope girls are still into that kinda thing,” he croaked.
“I wouldn’t know.” The Arab man dabbed Davin’s cheeks a few times to soak up the sweat and trickles of water and placed the rag back on the tray. He pulled the gun strap so that the weapon hung at his side, under his arm. His scrutinizing eyes rested on Davin for a while, examining the alien from Agora. “Siraj al Din.”
Davin made a confused, growling sound in his throat. “Was I supposed to understand that?”
Still not the faintest of smiles. “It’s my name. You can call me Siraj.”
Davin tested his pronunciation of the word. “Siraj . . .” Not bad.
“And you are—?” Siraj asked.
“Davin,” he pushed out. “Say, Siraj . . . you wouldn’t happen to have any painkillers, wouldya?”
Siraj flicked his left wrist up to check the time on his silver watch, dulled and scratched with age. “I can give you more in about thirty minutes.”
“Thirty minutes . . .” Davin mumbled. “I mean, what’s thirty minutes in the grand scheme of things? I think it’s been long enough.”
Something sparked in Siraj’s eye. “I could give you something now . . . if you’ll answer a few questions.”
Davin grunted. “Figures.”
“Why are you in Jerusalem, Davin?” Siraj asked. “Why are you on Earth to begin with?”
Davin tried to think, to come up with a clever story. Brain still sluggish from the drugs, body so fatigued. With a story as wild as the one he’d just lived through, he figured a lie would be as easy to believe as the truth. But what to tell him?
“What makes you think I’m not from Earth?”
“We’ve had a number of offworlders show up in the Levant as of late,” Siraj said distantly, as if thinking out loud. Those dark, blank eyes were impossible to read. “You were fighting someone in the heart of Jerusalem, an odd place for a mysterious fellow like you to be. You weren’t fighting the Confed, so you’re not my ally. But you weren’t fighting the Defenders either, so you’re not my enemy. Not necessarily.”
Davin twisted around his stiff wrists. “Was there a question somewhere in there?”
“You don’t act like a Sagittarian, and you don’t sound like a Carinian. So you’re an Orionite. And you don’t look like a local, which could either mean you’re from the Confed or you’re an offworlder. But who would an agent of the Confed be fighting besides the Defenders? Drug dealers? Traffickers? No. Local police handle that. So you’re an offworlder. My guess? From the VN.”
Davin let out a breathy laugh. “Didn’t know I was in the presence of Sherlock Holmes. Except I thought he was British.”
“You really ought to take me seriously,” Siraj said flatly.
“I’m of the philosophy that life is just too short to—” Bloody images—memories—resurfaced in his mind’s eye. Rounds ripping holes in clothing, painting red splotches on the walls and ground behind exit wounds. He remembered the way Jabron tried to speak after taking those bullets . . . but couldn’t. Davin’s heartbeats turned languid. Suddenly, he felt much more fragile—as fragile as he truly was. “My crew . . . are they okay?”
He was almost too afraid to ask, too afraid of the answer.
Siraj frowned a moment, thinking, then shifted into an awful hesitancy. It conveyed everything Davin feared. The rough-riding scavenger’s throat tightened, constrained by emotion as if choked by a boa constrictor from one of Earth’s jungles.
“We found one other survivor,” Siraj said, gentler than before. It only took a few seconds before he hardened himself again. “If you want to know any more, tell me why you’re here.”
“Who?” Davin whispered, feeling his pulse in his ears and throat and in every suture holding him together. “Who made it?”
Siraj leaned forward, turning even more stern. “Why are you here?” He placed a hand flat on Davin’s bandage-wrapped chest, gentle at first but pressing harder and harder. “Tell me the truth or you’ll get nothing more from me. No information about your crew, and no meds.”
The pressure shot bursts of pain through Davin’s skin and dug deep into his core. Spiking, head-splitting pain. It felt like his ribcage would break apart and that his stitches would pop at any second. The air fled his lungs like a deflating balloon.
“Alright, alright!” he wheezed. “I’m from the VN.”
Siraj didn’t let up. “Why are you here?”
Davin gasped, and a half dozen throbbing burrs flared across his torso and shoulder. His eyes squeezed shut from the pain. Couldn’t think of anything. “Dammit, you wouldn’t even believe me!”
“Let me decide that.”
The pain was too much. “I’ll tell you, just let up!”
Siraj kept pressing for a moment, lips tight, eyes set. Then lifted his hand. Relief swept through Davin as the ripples of pain subsided.
“Tell me right now,” Siraj demanded. “Before you come up with a lie.”
Damn. Clever fella. His hand came to rest on Davin’s chest again. His elbow lifted and jaw clenched, preparing to press down.
“Wait!” Davin rasped. He met Siraj’s stony gaze. No time to think through the consequences. “What do you know about Sierra Falco?”
Chapter Eleven
Sagittarius Arm, on the planet Triumph . . .
The Royal Court bulged with Sagittarian pride, brimming with nobility from every remote reach of the Regnum that gathered here for the most significant event in the galaxy.
The Pledge of Levies ceremony.
Zantorian lazed on the Diamond Throne
as he looked out on the sons and daughters of his empire, packed into two dense columns on either side of the chamber. Lords lined the aisle, regents at the fore and planetary liege lords behind, black-painted prongs reaching from their rimmed eyes to points on their temples. Tall men, dignified in their many decades of governance, whispering to each other in baritone voices. Medallions of service to the Grand Lumis adorned their chests. An emblem of the Sagittarian Archer hung over their hearts, with the crests of their respective manors on the opposite side. The brilliant whites of their eyes shifted about the hall, awaiting the next pledge.
Behind them stood their matriarchs, huddling together more than the lords, caring less for the formalities of the ceremony. And behind them, the head courtiers, the Machiavellis to their various princes, stole glances up at the ceiling murals and exchanged smirks of wonderment. Zantorian appreciated their awe. The room radiated a celestial grandeur, and it would be a shame if it went unrecognized.
The Lord General of Redweaver, bedecked in the unmistakable red and black colors of his manor and flanked by two similarly dressed retainers, treaded down the aisle, having made his way down from the lord generals’ place on the balcony. Skyros of Redweaver halted before the throne dais, behind the crossed blazer pikes of two Guardians of Court. He waited for permission to speak.
On Zantorian’s right sat Raza the Tireless. On his left, Larkin, his new champion, stood straight-backed in intricately molded nanoflex armor trimmed in radiant orange. He held his hands behind his back and couldn’t seem to peel the complacent smile off his face. Zantorian allowed it. The young Larkin’s pride was Fox’s pride. Fox’s pride was Zantorian’s pride.
But not only that. Larkin showed initiative, pressed for involvement in the day-to-day affairs of ruling an empire. He bore an intellectual curiosity and aptitude lacking in his predecessor. Such a trait was to be admired.
The Grand Lumis nodded to his champion.
“Lord General Skyros of Redweaver,” Larkin pronounced, quieting the chamber. “What forces do you pledge your lumis and his queen?”
Skyros placed a hand over the Archer emblem at his heart and bowed his head to the Grand Lumis. “My lord, for the glory of the Regnum, Redweaver pledges the Fleet of Fangs, our finest ships bearing some of the deadliest guns in space. We also pledge fifteen thousand of the galaxy’s most renowned warrior-born, whose blazers will burn out the hearts of your Lordship’s enemies. Alongside them, we pledge a force of foot soldiers, eighty thousand strong, enlisted from the most loyal ranks of our commonage. And finally, to his Lordship’s war fund, we pledge eight million dicars.”
Diamond notes, Zantorian thought in annoyance. He didn’t need anymore diamond. He had that aplenty. What he needed was ships, soldiers, guns. Commanders who would sacrifice to win his war and further his Regnum.
Skyros gave another slight bow, and the gathering inside the chamber chanted in unison, “For the glory of the Regnum.”
As the Lord General of Redweaver turned and marched out with his retainers, Zantorian noticed Aermo, to the side of the throne dais, snap his wrist up to his ear and listen to a transmission from his cuff. It only took seconds for him to swivel on the heel of his glossy boots and steal up the dais steps. The ignited look on his face was hardly rare, but his wearing it during the Pledge of Levies gave Zantorian pause.
Aermo leaned over the arm of the throne and covered his mouth with a gloved hand. “My lord, we have a situation. Next in the order of pledges is Trifid.”
“Any why is this a problem?” Zantorian muttered, pretending in front of his audience that this conversation was not happening.
“Didacus is not here,” Aermo bit off in a harsh whisper.
Zantorian afforded Aermo his full attention. “The Lord General of Trifid is not present in my court? For the Pledge of Levies?”
“Neither is Lord Dallon or his matriarch,” Aermo said, eyes ablaze at the Trifid lords’ affront to the Royal Court.
Light chatter picked up throughout the floor and balcony as everyone waited for a pledge that wasn’t coming. Zantorian surveyed them, searched every face. How could he have missed the Trifids’ absence? He hadn’t felt he needed to take inventory of his lords and ladies.
No matter. They were absent, and that could only mean one thing.
Aermo’s cuff buzzed. He lifted it to his ear and listened, eyes staring off at empty space behind the throne. “It’s not just Trifid,” he said as the news trickled in. “Lord General Wyatt . . . and Terrowin . . . they’re not here either.”
Owl and the Wings, both in the same region of the arm as Trifid. Between Lagoon and the Orion Arm. Velasco had gotten to them, and they had listened. Zantorian clamped his teeth together until his jaw ached, enflamed by rage but forcing himself to show none of it. Not now. Not before a gathering of his vassals. They would find out in due time, if they weren’t aware already. Such betrayal merited anger and condemnation, a full-throated rebuke, but not from Zantorian. From their Grand Lumis, his vassals needed a steady hand. A dispassionate leader who would calculate the Regnum’s best interest rather than seek personal vindication. They needed strength, an unbending rudder to cut through the stormy seas.
Others—faithful lords—would condemn the traitorous manors, and Zantorian would not censure them. Their cries would have more sting than his own, castigation from peers rather than authority. No, others would damn the traitors, but Zantorian had to hold his Regnum together.
“Search their embassies,” he snarled under his breath to Aermo. “I want them brought into the light to be tarred and feathered.”
“With pleasure, my lord.” Aermo swished his cape as he whisked down the dais toward a pair of steely-eyed Guardians.
Zantorian snapped to capture the attention of a servant boy with golden bands around his silk-skinned arms. He flicked his fingers, and the boy, holding a tray of diamond chalices, glided up to the thrones. The Grand Lumis stood, took a chalice half-filled with brandywine, and looked out on his court.
“Servants!” he called out. “Bring wine. Let us pause to recognize and celebrate the unity of our Regnum. For our unity and our glory are inseparable.”
He lifted the chalice and drank deeply as servant boys and girls filed into the aisles with crystalline goblets and bottles of brandywine. Soon the chamber filled with prattling and laughter and, among a few observant courtiers, shielded whispers. The unplanned break from the proceedings had raised questions in the minds of the cleverest witnesses.
Zantorian couldn’t allow himself to overreact. There were cracks in the Regnum. Too strong a counteraction and it would shatter.
Chapter Twelve
Carina Arm, on the planet Baha’runa . . .
Aisha’s hip bones pressed into the barrier as he surveyed the disarray on the Upper House floor. The debate over vote proceedings had drawn every representative from across the arm. Those who stood at their smart desks to speak had to carry their voices over a low and constant chatter all around. Ice cubes clinked in the fancy, dense glass as Aisha brought it to his lips. The bitter bite of holly melded with sweet agave on his tongue. He desperately needed the caffeine as he’d been awake and working for almost two days straight.
The mysterious battle on Upraad seemed to have been a turning point for the entire galaxy—toward what, he had no idea.
In the corner of his eye, Aisha spotted a new figure joining the fray. Ulrich Morvan strode down the centermost aisle toward the platform, walking with purpose. His entrance quieted some of the chatter, and when he wheeled around to face everyone, an even deeper silence set in. Camera crews adjusted their shots on the media level below to frame Morvan just right.
“I have news!” he exclaimed in a grave tone, capturing all attention. “Right now, in Sagittarius, the highest lords and military officers in the Regnum have gathered on Triumph to pledge their loyalty and their armies to Zantorian.”
A collective gasp spread across the floor, followed by mutterings. Aisha straightened as a
newfound punch of energy woke him.
Morvan looked around the chamber with sober, wary eyes, making sure his words had taken effect. Aisha had noticed that about the Minister of Arms—always studying his audience as much as they studied him. The curate glanced at his tablet sitting on the barrier ledge, but his fingers were all tapped out. He didn’t have the mental energy to take notes. Besides, he grew more convinced every day that Riahn’s reason for the note-taking rule was educational rather than functional.
“I don’t doubt our sources that say Swan is acting on their own,for now,” Morvan continued. He held up a finger for emphasis. “But Zantorian is preparing for a galactic war because heknows one is coming.”
A volley of approval as well as objection returned from the floor, but Morvan spread his hands as a show of defense.
“Why should Carina stick our heads in the sand and pretend that the galaxy is at peace?” He was almost shouting over the fracas. “Let us not be the ones who proclaim, ‘Peace, peace,’ when thereis nopeace! No—” He held up his hands to keep the floor from tuning him out for other priorities and conversations. “May I humbly suggest, representatives of Carina, that peace isnotwhat we want right now. When there has been wrongdoing, we must first seekjustice, and only then can we have peace.”
A few Dominionist representatives stood at their desks and applauded while others either voiced their approval or jeered. Aisha saw a number of heads shaking. Many eyes grimaced at Morvan. Another representative— Jayeson Skance—thrust to his feet.
“And what if we have not been invited to act as the sword of justice?” Skance asked in a loud voice, clearly irritated by Morvan’s show. “Even now, the Confed still hasn’t asked for our support. Theydon’t . . . want . . . Carina . . . involved.”
The scattering of Unificationists throughout the chamber applauded. Some muttered, “That’s right.”
Horns of the Ram (Dominion Book 2) Page 7
