Perada got her balance again—keeping a hand near the bulkhead to catch herself if she needed to—and moved over to the closet doors in the outer bulkhead. The captain had put the whole cabin at her disposal, and she couldn’t wear her current garments all the way to Pleyver; with any luck, there’d be something in the captain’s locker that she could wear instead. She pulled open one of the closets, and discovered that it wasn’t a closet at all, but a refresher cubicle.
Even better, she thought, and began unbuttoning the bodice of her torn and mud-stained gown. First a bath, and then something clean to wear.
The ’fresher turned out to hold the only other touches of luxury in the cabin, a freshwater shower hookup and a bulkhead dispenser for what looked like real soap. Perada looked at them both wistfully, but opted for the sonics instead; she wasn’t sure if her free hand in the captain’s cabin extended to wasting the ship’s water. Sonics were good enough, anyway—she’d known a few people at school who actually preferred them—and they had the added virtue of speed.
She hit the On switch and stepped into the shower compartment, feeling the dirt and grime of her excursion into the back alleys of Waycross fall away from her as the vibrations excited the grease and soil molecules. She unbraided her hair and fanned it out with her fingers to release any dirt that might linger there as well. One of the sonic projectors was slightly out of balance; it made her teeth on the left side hurt a little.
Once she was clean and her hair was back up in braids again—simple plaits this time, no point in formality here—she checked the other closets. Most of the clothes hanging in them were plain and dark, like the wardrobe of a sober Gyfferan man of business rather than an Innish-Kyl privateer, and all of them were far too large. She eventually settled for a bathrobe of nubbly brown cloth over a loose white shirt that came down to her knees. The combination wasn’t especially becoming, but it would do until she could get some clothes of her own.
She opened the cabin door and padded barefoot into the common room. The deckplates felt cold underfoot, but that couldn’t be helped; her slippers had mud inside them as well as out, and she didn’t want to put them back on. The common room turned out to be empty except for Tillijen, who took one look at Perada and shook her head.
“Oh, dear,” said the number-two gunner. “Jos didn’t tell us you came aboard without any luggage. You come with me. We’ll go through the slop chest and see about getting you outfitted like a real spacer.”
“Where is everyone else?” Perada asked. “Still at their stations?”
“That’s right,” said Tillijen approvingly. “I’m off right now—we dropped out of hyper in a quiet sector, so the captain’s only keeping one gunner on duty, and Nannla’s got it. As for Jos and Errec, they’re hard at work plotting the course to Pleyver, and Ferrda hardly ever leaves engineering.”
“Really?”
Tillijen nodded. “Really. I was amazed when I saw him a bit ago. He couldn’t wait to see you, I expect.”
“I’m that odd?” Perada frowned. “Or is he one of those people who have a fetish about gawking at anybody who comes from a ruling House?”
“A Selvaur care about thin-skin royalty? Not likely. No, it’s … oh, never mind. Come along. I believe we have some clothes that might fit you.” Tillijen paused. “If you’re going to dress like a member of this ship’s crew, you’ll want guns. I think I have something that I can lend you until we get to Pleyver, but you’ll probably want to buy your own once we’re there.”
“My own what?”
“Your own blaster. You can’t be a free-spacer without one.” The ’Hammer’s number-two gunner chuckled. “Nannla has a song about it, of course. In the meantime, come along.”
Perada shook her head uncertainly. “I’m the Domina of Entibor. I don’t need guns.”
“Everyone is someone,” Tillijen said. “And at the moment you’re a spacer. Come along.”
They went.
ERREC RANSOME: ILARNA
(GALCENIAN DATING 970 A.F.; ENTIBORAN REGNAL YEAR 34 VERATINA)
IT WAS good to be home.
A year at the Retreat on Galcen was supposed to be an honor and a privilege, but Errec Ransome hadn’t enjoyed the time he’d spent away. Like any true Ilarnan, he preferred his own world and his own place, and he’d never grown accustomed to the stony bleakness of the Guild’s main citadel, hidden away in the northern mountains of Galcen’s emptiest continent. Even in midsummer the stone walls of the Retreat—ten yards thick at the base, and not much thinner above—drained the heat out of anything living; and in winter, when the north wind shrieked around the ancient fortress like a lost soul, nothing in the galaxy could make it warm.
The never-ending chill had seeped into his bones, settling there so deeply that he thought at the time the cold had gone away. I was wrong, he thought sleepily. I grew accustomed, that’s all. It took coming home to feel the difference.
Amalind Grange had never been a fortress like the Retreat. Ilarna had always treated its Adepts kindly, and the Grange had been a manor house and farm before a local squire had given it to the Guild as thanks for aid in some long-forgotten difficulty. The outbuildings had been converted into dormitories and guesthouses, and the manor house itself was given over to Guild business from root cellar to attic, but the Grange remained as it had been built, a place of comfort and solid prosperity. Even in the darkest part of winter, with snow lying thick on the rolling countryside all around, and a cold wind as biting as any on Galcen whistling outside the leaded glass of the windows, Amalind made a cozy shelter for those within.
Snow was falling, a steady quiet hiss against the curtained windowpanes. The bedchamber—one of many such little rooms in the uppermost story of the Guildhouse—had a small fireplace against one wall. A ceramic heat-bar glowed a dull red against the stone. Errec could see it from the bed. The room wasn’t as large as the guest chamber he’d lived in for a year on Galcen, but the size of the room didn’t matter. He would have traded the Retreat’s massive austerity for this snug corner of Amalind Grange on any one of the days he’d spent away.
For home, he thought, stretching out luxuriously under the rough wool blankets. And a chance to sleep without having bad dreams.
The Guildhouse had sent him to Galcen to study. The senior Masters said that he had a talent for advising rulers, and that it should be trained. He’d found out for himself that Power and the government on Galcen were not always in harmonious accord. The help that Galcenian Adepts stood ready to provide to the civil authority often served a double purpose.
“Thus,” he remembered one of Galcen’s Adepts saying, in the course of a long discussion, “favors are owed, and respect is maintained.”
“It’s not respect,” he’d said. “It’s fear.”
The other had made a dismissive gesture. “They come to the same thing.”
He’d let the subject drop, though not without wondering what use the senior Masters on Ilarna intended to make of his hard-learned skills. He wondered even more, now that he was home. In the refectory at dinner, the long tables where the apprentices and junior Masters sat had buzzed with rumor. Some said that the Master of the Ilarnan House was even now working out an arrangement with the government … there was a threat of raiders from the outplanets, people said, and the Adepts were needed to help counter it.
I’ll find out what’s going on tomorrow, he thought, and turned over onto his left side, away from the glow of the heat-bar. He slept deeply and without dreams.
IV. GALCENIAN DATING 974 A.F.
ENTIBORAN REGNAL YEAR 38 VERATINA
IN COMPANY with Tillijen the gunner, Perada went through the used clothing in Warhammer’s slop chest. The collection appeared to go back several decades at least. The overalls and work clothes hadn’t changed style much, but some of the port-liberty clothes reminded Perada of galactic fashions from her grandmother’s day. She tried on several of those, as much for the amusement of dressing up as for any other reason, but none
of them fit—the original owners had all been either taller or heavier than she was, and some of them had possessed what she could only regard as eccentric taste.
Finally Tillijen pulled out a set of newer garments from the back of the locker. “It’ll have to be these,” she said. “Put them on, and let’s see how they do.”
Perada took the lacy white blouse and the ankle-length skirt of supple black leather and regarded them uneasily. This outfit was no leftover product of a bygone era. Whoever had left the garments behind had done so in the recent past—almost certainly since Jos Metadi had become the ’Hammer’s captain. But they were, as Tillijen had said, the only clothes that fit.
“I’m afraid we don’t have a proper pair of boots for you,” the gunner said. “You’ll have to make do with sandals until we get to Pleyver. Now, about the blaster—”
Perada regarded the gunner dubiously. “Are you sure I need one?”
“Flatlands is a rough town,” said Tillijen. “And the ’Hammer’s got a reputation to maintain.”
“What is it—‘armed and dangerous’?”
“Well-armed,” said the gunner. “And exceedingly dangerous.”
Perada thought about the combination. “I can live with that,” she said finally. “You said you had something I could borrow—?”
“It’s in my locker,” Tillijen said. “Come along.”
Number-one crew berthing had bunks and acceleration couches for two occupants. Perada noted with interest, however, that only one of the bunks appeared to be in use. The other held an eclectic assortment of hats, holocubes, musical instruments, and stuffed plush animals, all held in place behind a net of zero-g webbing. Tillijen went to one of the bulkhead lockers and took out a small blaster.
“You’ll want a shoulder holster for this,” she said. “Nannla used to have … ah, here we go. What the well-dressed young lady wears to a gunfight.”
There was a full-length mirror bolted onto the inside of the locker door. Perada looked at herself and smiled. In the long skirt, with her hair in two plain braids hanging down past her belt, she looked both several inches taller and quite a bit older.
The hooting sound of a klaxon came over the cabin’s audio link, and a red light started flashing above the door.
“Ah,” said Tillijen. “Looks like Jos and Errec have found us a course. Time to strap in for the run-to-jump.”
The transition this time was smoother. Once the hazard light over the door had quit flashing, Tillijen said, “Well, let’s give the others a look at you,” and led the way back out into the common room.
Two of the ’Hammer’s crew members were there already. Errec Ransome sat at the mess table, and Nannla lounged on one of the acceleration couches. The gunner regarded Perada’s costume with approval.
“Not bad,” she said. “Needs a hat, though.”
“I don’t like hats,” said Perada. “I keep taking them off and losing them.”
“Hatpins,” Nannla advised; and Tillijen said, “Practice. You don’t want to leave the Iron Crown behind you someplace and lose it, too.”
“No chance of that,” Perada said. She eyed Tillijen curiously. “You’re Entiboran, aren’t you?”
The gunner didn’t answer.
“Time for another of Auntie Nannla’s Etiquette Lectures,” Tillijen’s partner said after several seconds had gone past. “Never ask a spacer where she’s from. She’ll tell you if she wants, but you mustn’t ask.”
Perada felt herself blushing. “Sorry.”
“It’s all right,” Errec Ransome said. “Everybody’s new once.”
She glanced over at the ’Hammer’s copilot, who had answered without hesitation when she’d asked him about his own origins a short time before. Is the difference because Tillijen and Nannla think they have something to hide, she wondered, or because Errec doesn’t think of himself as a spacer? And if he isn’t a spacer, then what is he?
She remembered how she had thought, for a few seconds in the alley back on Innish-Kyl, that the metal bar he’d used as a weapon was an Adept’s staff. And the way Captain Metadi had spoken to him about the diversion to Pleyver, as if expecting that Ransome might have knowledge that others didn’t … but why would an Adept give up the staff and the name and the respect of the galaxy, to sign on as a privateer?
To kill Mages, she realized at once. I don’t know about Tillijen or Nannla or Ferrdacorr, but Errec is one member of the ’Hammer’s crew who came to Captain Metadi for the same reason that I did—because nobody else is fighting the enemy the way the enemy needs to be fought.
At the Entiboran Fleet Base on Parezul, true dawn was almost an hour off, but the working day had already started. Base Commander Frigate-Captain Galaret Lachiel was not a young woman—her short black hair was liberally streaked with grey—but she was still a handsome one, and she wore her dark red uniform with undeniable panache. She also prided herself on working harder, and keeping longer hours, than any of the junior officers under her command.
Gala had almost finished her usual early-morning scan of the sensors in the OutPlanet Review Sector when she heard the swish-snick of the door behind her. Turning, she nodded at the stocky, brown-skinned man who had entered. “Morning, Tres. You’re up early.”
A quick grin flashed underneath the newcomer’s dark mustache. “No earlier than you are.”
As commander of the Parezulan Sector Squadron, Captain-of-Corvettes Trestig Brehant had authorization for the sensor area on the base. Out of courtesy, though, the squadron commander usually waited for Gala to pass along the reports. The fact that he’d come dirtside in person piqued her interest.
“I’m not bunking up in high orbit,” she pointed out. “Unlike some people I could name. If something’s got you worried …”
“Rumors,” he said. “Speculation that the Mages are gathering in force out by Monserath. Nothing definite, but persistent enough to make me want to take a look at the raw sensor data.”
Gala regarded him thoughtfully. Tres had never been stupid; if he thought there was a reason for checking this morning’s reports, he was probably right. She turned to the nearest comp station and began punching up the intelligence reviews. Even the most recent one was already out of date, but it was better than guesswork.
“Let’s see,” she said, running a finger down the screen. Her fingernails were blunt and neatly trimmed. In her youth she had bitten them, but she hadn’t given in to the impulse for almost twenty years. “This sector has been quiet. Unusual activities anywhere we have to worry about—none.”
Brehant didn’t look satisfied. “Anything from Home Fleet?”
“Nothing.”
“I haven’t heard anything either. And frankly, I don’t know whether to feel worried or relieved.” The Captain-of-Corvettes glanced about uneasily, as if concerned that a spy had appeared by magic to listen over his shoulder. “Central is a snake pit all the time anyway, and right now it’s even worse.”
“I know,” said Gala. Her agreement was more heartfelt than possibly Brehant realized—House Lachiel’s political standing was sufficiently high that one of her cousins had been a minor political casualty in the succession struggle a few years back. She’d cut her own braids when she joined the Fleet, and never regretted the choice. “But so far they’ve—”
A beeping noises cut her off in midsentence, and the comm panel began to spit out a sheet of flimsy. Gala looked over at the message header—FROM: ENTIBOR CENTRAL; TO: COMMANDER FLEET UNITS PAREZUL; INFO: COMMANDER, OUTPLANETS COMMAND; REFERENCE: GENERAL ORDER 672; HANDLING—and grimaced.
“They must have heard us talking,” she said. “Priority transmission. Eyes only.”
“Do you want me to leave?” Brehant asked.
“Don’t bother. Just let me have a look at it first.” She pulled the flimsy out of the printer and read it, frowning. “I wonder … this isn’t more than a couple of days old. Central must really be concerned.”
“What is it?”
Gala pas
sed over the slip of flimsy. “Nothing that you’d think was worth a max-pri override—it’s a standard request-for-information on privateer activity.”
“Privateers?” He shook his head. “Haven’t dealt with any. Central doesn’t trust them.”
“Central doesn’t trust anybody. The Crown backs a few of them, though, or used to. Mostly to spite Central, I think.”
“They’re a bunch of damned irregulars,” said Brehant, frowning. “Out for the money and unreliable as hell.”
“Good fighters, all the same,” she said. “From the reports, it sounds like one or two of them have managed to run fleet actions against the raiders.”
“Well, I’m glad somebody is.” Brehant handed back the slip of flimsy. “But it should be us, not them.”
“You won’t get any argument from me on that,” Gala said. She took the flimsy and stowed it in her tunic pocket. “But those aren’t our orders, and these are. Can you put as lock-and-trace on ships operating out of Innish-Kyl?”
“The ones who come into our patrol area, yes,” he said. “Which they generally don’t, thank fortune. Now, if they wanted reports of Mage activity … anything from the probes?”
Gala laughed. “Back to that, are we?” She waved a hand at the row of monitor screens. “What you see. All quiet in Parezulan space.”
“Which is why you’re up every morning before daybreak checking the sensors?” Brehant shook his head. “You don’t believe that, Gala, any more than I do. You’re tracking something. Give.”
No, Gala reflected, Tres Brehant had never been stupid. She smiled in spite of herself, but only for a few seconds. She had other things on her mind.
“All right,” she said. “I don’t know if this is significant, but it worries me: when I chart where things are moving, and where the last raids were, all the lines of transit go right through this sector.”
The Gathering Flame Page 6
