“Gentlesir Lokkelar,” she said. “I am Zeri Delaven.”
Zeri Delaven’s words had a strange rhythm to them, but nothing stranger than the way people from some parts of Entibor talked when they came to Felshang Province. Perada felt vindicated—people on Galcen didn’t have to speak the funny-sounding language of the signs if they didn’t want to. She opened her mouth to say so, then thought better of it. The white-haired woman had a look about her that made Perada think silence might be a wiser idea.
“Mistress Delaven,” Dadda replied. “This is the student Lady Shaja wrote to you about: the Damozel Perada. We … Shaja and I … hope that she’ll be happy here.”
Zeri Delaven fixed Perada with a penetrating glance. “We can’t guarantee happiness, I’m afraid. But that she will learn, and that she will be safe—those things, Gentlesir Lokkelar, we can promise.”
V. GALCENIAN DATING 974 A.F.
ENTIBORAN REGNAL YEAR 38 VERATINA
THE ’HAMMER dropped out of hyperspace after a journey of some two weeks. Perada was in the cockpit for the dropout, on the foldaway acceleration couch behind the two main positions. The navigator’s seat, Jos Metadi had called it; unused these days, since Errec Ransome was both copilot and navigator. Not even an Adept—and Perada felt increasingly sure that the Ilarnan was, or had been, a member of the Guild—could sit in two chairs at once.
She had traveled through hyperspace before, but only on commercial spaceliners and, rarely, on Entiboran Crown couriers like Crystal World. Neither the spaceliners nor the courier vessels allowed passengers onto the bridge, although she supposed that as the Domina she could insist on the privilege. It pleased her that Jos Metadi had granted the favor without having been asked. She was careful to stay quiet and out of the way, like an honored guest at an unfamiliar ritual.
“Dropout … now,” said Metadi.
The opaline pseudosubstance outside the viewscreens went away, replaced by starry blackness. In the distance—near? far? Perada couldn’t guess; she didn’t know how the terms worked, out here in deep space—she glimpsed something that looked like a tangle of colored light.
“All right, Errec,” Metadi said. “How close did we get?”
“Optimum range for the Farpoint beacon.”
“Good. Let’s talk to the nice people.”
Perada watched the captain’s hands playing over the ’Hammer’s comm panel. She’d heard of Farpoint, the manned beacon at the outside edge of Pleyver’s Web. The three-dimensional maze of fluctuating magnetic fields that encircled the system blocked all hyperspace transit. Farpoint marked the earliest possible hyperspace translation for outbound craft, and the nearest point of dropout for new arrivals.
“Farpoint, Farpoint,” Metadi said over the comm link. “This is Freetrader Warhammer. Request permission to make transit to Pleyver.”
“Warhammer, this is Farpoint,” came the reply, made faint and scratchy by the shifting electromagnetic discharges of the Web. “Interrogative do you require a pilot, over.”
Metadi and Ransome looked at each other. The captain raised an eyebrow. Ransome shook his head. Metadi turned back to the link.
“Farpoint, negative, over.”
“A pilot is recommended. Entering without a pilot requires you to make formal statement holding harmless Pleyver Inspace, over.”
“Statement made. I hold Pleyver Inspace harmless.”
“Roger, copy all. Interrogative how many individuals in your crew, so we know what priority to put on rescuing you?”
Metadi and Ransome looked at each other again. “Total of six aboard,” the captain said.
“Roger, copy six. Permission granted to enter the Web. Good luck, Captain, over.”
“Roger, out.” Metadi switched off the link. “Now comes the tricky part.”
“What’s that?” Perada asked.
“Getting through the Web without having an accident on the way in,” he said. “Those fields are hell on electronics, and they change all the time. We’ve got a fairly recent update—I bought a copy off of Sverje Thulmotten back during the payout for the Ophelan run—but that doesn’t mean something hasn’t changed in the last couple of months. We’ll have to keep our eyes and ears open the whole time.”
“Wouldn’t it be easier to hire a pilot?”
“Pilots cost money,” Errec Ransome said.
“If that’s the problem, I can—”
“So could I, if I wanted to,” Metadi cut in. “For what it cost me to get that coursebook from Sverje, we could have hired us a couple of pilots. But you hire someone, and the first thing they want to do is plug their book into main ship’s memory and record the run. And nobody does that on a privateer ship who isn’t a member of the crew.”
“I see,” Perada said. Security in all its forms was no stranger to her. The school on Galcen had gained its reputation as much for the safety it provided for its students as for its unquestioned academic rigor. The students, in their turn, had honed their skills against that same unrelenting watchfulness—she’d seen what could happen when a curious mind came too near something that was locked against intrusion.
So Jos Metadi was a cautious man, and not an overly trusting one. She’d guessed that much already, but the confirmation pleased her. If he intended to survive at court—and if he fell in with her plans, he would have to survive there in order to accomplish anything—he would need that caution.
“Shutting down vulnerable systems,” the captain said. “Now.”
He flipped a switch, and the ’Hammer’s comp screens went dark. Nothing reminded alive on the main console except a few red and green lights and a scattering of readouts from what Perada hoped were navigational sensors.
Errec Ransome slid open the drawer underneath his side of the console and took out a flat tablet not unlike a newsreader. A length of thin cable dangled from one side; on the other a stylus hung from a coiled-wire leash. He plugged the cable into one of the receptors on the bulkhead next to the copilot’s position, then swept the stylus across the face of the tablet. The surface lit up, as a reader would; but Perada, craning her neck for a look, saw that instead of the familiar news-service logo the tablet’s opening screen displayed a crudely drawn hand transfixed by a bloody dagger.
She must have made a noise without intending to, because Metadi chuckled. “I guess Sverje doesn’t like snoops.”
“Wouldn’t a simple ‘keep out’ have sufficed?”
Errec Ransome glanced back at her over his shoulder. She saw that he, too, looked faintly amused. “I’ve met Thulmotten’s crew,” he said. “For that lot, this is a simple ‘keep out.’”
“I see,” Perada said again. “You certainly have a … colorful … group of friends and acquaintances.”
“Shutting down nonessentials, now.” The captain flipped another switch on the main console. About half the telltales flashed from green to red. “Errec—how’s the coursebook?”
“Interfaced and running. So far, it looks like Thulmotten didn’t cheat us.”
“He knows what I’d do to him if he tried. Recording?”
“As full a transcript as we can get with most of our sensors off-line.”
“Good. We can sell the update later if we need the cash.” Metadi glanced over at Perada. “It’ll be pure old-style piloting from here on in: running through realspace with half-witted comps and half-blind sensors and a coursebook that was outdated as soon as it was made. So I’d advise you to stand by and be ready for anything.”
“I understand, Captain,” she said. “Pray carry on—I have every confidence in your abilities.”
And so does he, she realized as he went back to his work. He’s looking forward to making this run—it’s difficult, and he’s good at it, and there’s nothing in the galaxy that’s quite as much fun as a combination like that.
“Shields full,” said Metadi. He flipped another switch. “Now. Gunners on station?”
“Present,” came the voices over the audio link. Perada recogn
ized Nannla’s warm alto and Tillijen’s lighter, higher tones, the feed from the two separate gun bubbles combining in harmony. Then Nannla added, in solo voice, “Orders, Captain?”
“You know the drill. Sensors are down, except for the basics. Keep your eyes open and let me know if you spot anything, especially aids to navigation.”
“Rules of engagement?”
“Anybody can shoot at us once. Make sure they don’t get a second shot.” Metadi paused and added—mostly for her benefit, Perada suspected—“Not that anyone’s likely to try. Fighting in the Web would be more of a mess than anything I’d like to think about.”
“Understood, Captain,” Nannla said, and Tillijen echoed her, “Understood.”
The cockpit was silent. The swirling colors of the Web grew nearer as the hours and minutes passed. And then, before Perada expected it, they were in.
In the Palace Major of Entibor, on its hill overlooking the streets of the greater An-Jemayne metropolis, the ceremonial torches of scented heartwood smoked in their wall sconces in the public corridors. Discreetly, behind embroidered cutwork wall hangings and pierced metal screens, the palace’s environmental systems labored to keep the air clean enough for the household electronics to do their work undisturbed. Farther back in the palace, among the family rooms, glowcubes and light panels shed a dim and respectful light. The old Domina, Veratina, lay in the bed in which she had died, waiting beneath a stasis field until the new Domina should come home.
In another room nearby, Ser Hafrey sat among his racks of antique weapons, looking out over the spires and rooftops of central An-Jemayne. He fingered a plutonian equalizer—a beautiful thing, handmade out of ebony and adamant—and spoke to the man who had come to visit.
“I am uneasy with the reports of Galcenians here in the capital,” Hafrey said. “Can’t we gain access to them somehow? Are they all incorruptible? Surely one of them has, if not a secret vice, at least a tragic flaw?”
“No,” said Meinuxet. The armsmaster’s chief agent was a small man with a thick crop of burnished red hair. “Or if anybody has one, we haven’t discovered it.”
Hafrey regarded his visitor with an expression of grave concern. “Reports of failures among my own people distress me.”
Meinuxet shrugged. “What can I say? The Galcenians on-planet don’t talk much about their business. But they never try to hide anything, either. They’re open, they’re hospitable, they’re friendly—they do everything but invite our people to move in with them and read their mail.”
“It could be,” said Hafrey, “that the Galcenians are nothing more than what they seem to be—businesspeople, scholars, travelers, diplomats.”
The agent shook his head. “I’ll believe that story when you do. Not before.”
“Then discover their purposes,” Hafrey told him. “If they won’t lay plans in private where we can dig them out, learn how they manage to lay their plans in public.”
“Armsmaster,” Meinuxet said, “let me travel to Galcen. Maybe I can pick up their trail at that end, if I can’t unravel it here.”
“No,” said Hafrey. “I can’t spare—”
A knock sounded on the door.
“Enter!” Hafrey called.
The door opened and another messenger stepped into the room—a woman in Fleet uniform this time, with short dark hair.
“Armsmaster,” she said, “I have word from Central Command.”
Hafrey looked at her with mild curiosity. “And it is—?”
“That a special watch has been placed on the privateers of Innish-Kyl.”
The armsmaster frowned slightly. “I gave no such orders.”
“No. The order came from Fleet Admiral Pallit.”
“I am responsible for the safety of the Domina,” Hafrey said. “Not Pallit.”
“The fleet admiral claimed that his order was given for purposes of general security,” said the woman. “And he would not let himself be dissuaded.”
“Pallit … Pallit,” said Meinuxet, after the other agent had finished speaking. “Whose creature is he?”
“The fleet admiral has strong ties to the bankers’ guild,” Hafrey said. “And the bankers are entirely too friendly with our friend from Rolny.” The armsmaster paused, and smiled faintly. “I think I know who set the fleet admiral hunting down this particular trail. There’s no harm done, though, if Pallit is allowed to proceed—but with caution. He doesn’t need to catch any privateers, only to watch them. For they do, in fact, bear watching.”
Both agents nodded, and Meinuxet said, “What about my request?”
“To go to Galcen?” Hafrey shook his head. “The Galcenians would eat you alive and pick their teeth with your bones. The Adepts there are strong, and ambitious, and unscrupulous. Any two of those qualities would be troublesome. Taken together, they are deadly.”
“I’ll ask again some other time, then,” said Meinuxet, unperturbed.
“Feel free to do so.” Again Hafrey smiled faintly. “In the meanwhile, practice your skill in drawing secrets out of slabs of granite, so that someday you may work on those Galcenians who happen to be available here on Entibor.”
Meinuxet bowed and left.
“And now you,” Hafrey said to the woman, after Meinuxet had gone. “Aside from Pallit’s rather ill-advised set of orders, how are things at Central?”
“No different than while Veratina was alive.”
Hafrey’s lips tightened slightly. “A sinkhole of bubbling rivalries, then. Well, use what influence you have to build loyalties to the young Domina. She will arrive soon, and bring with her what I hope is good news.”
“Do I dare to speculate?”
“If you think it’s necessary,” said Hafrey. “It should be enough to say that she is not Veratina.”
“Ah,” said the woman. She looked pleased. “I take your meaning. In that case, there’ll be no problem raising support. Do you know if she plans to take an official consort? That would guarantee at least one faction on our side.”
“I have hopes,” the armsmaster said. “But Her Dignity is young and headstrong—”
“And the Domina.”
“Yes, and the Domina. Which means that almost anything is possible, and it will be our duty to see that her person remains safe throughout. For now—return to Central, and carry on with your mission.”
After the woman had left, Ser Hafrey turned back to contemplating the racks of weapons before him. He selected one at last—an energy lance, of Gyfferan mass-manufacture but an excellent weapon nonetheless—and settled it on his shoulder. Then he too left the room, and made his way to the Royal Firing Range, where one of the late Veratina’s nonsuccessive relatives was awaiting his daily lesson in marksmanship.
In the Web, the space outside Warhammer’s viewscreens was full of swirling, glowing clouds of dust—or at least something that looked like dust to Perada’s untrained eyes. She knew that in deep space any estimation of distance and proportion was unreliable at best; the clouds, vague and insubstantial though they appeared, could be in reality the size of continents, or of entire worlds.
Some of them, it seemed, even had names: Farren’s Lurk, Longstrands, the Gulper. That last one, she suspected, had a ruder name when well-born passengers weren’t around. She kept her amused speculations to herself, though, because the Gulper was apparently also a serious hazard, and one which—if Sverje Thulmotten’s coursebook held good—had shifted its position since the last time Jos Metadi took the ’Hammer through.
The captain sat leaning forward, one hand on the power controls and the other hovering above the steering panel. “Come on, baby,” he muttered. “Where’s the damned beacon?”
“Should bear one-five-two, plus two,” Errec said, not looking up from the coursebook. “That’s off by five point eight from last time.”
“I’m not picking up anything. Think it’s moved again?”
Errec closed his eyes and his face went blank. To Perada he looked for an instant like a painted
ivory carving of himself—warm and lifelike, but empty. She glanced over at Metadi, and caught the captain watching his second-in-command with something that looked very much like concern.
Then Errec came back into himself from wherever he had gone, opened his eyes, and said, “No.”
“Damn,” said Metadi. “If Sverje rigged that coursebook, I’ll—”
“Beacon in sight,” Tillijen called over the internal link. “Bearing one-five-two, plus two.”
Some of the tension went out of Metadi’s posture. “Good eyes, Tilly. I have it on the board now. The signal’s weak, though—remind me to put in a report to Inspace when we hit Flatlands. They need to send out a repair crew.”
It was some minutes before Perada herself saw the beacon: a patch of pulsing color against the greater display of the Gulper itself. The only way she could be sure which spot of light was the beacon—and she wasn’t sure, not really—was that it throbbed to a regular beat, rather than drifting apart and solidifying again like the cloudy mass behind it.
“Leave the beacon to port ventral,” Errec said. “Change course to six-eight-six.”
Metadi touched the steering controls briefly. “Speed?”
“Speed’s fine. I see us on track, on time.”
“Very well.”
Perada leaned back and watched the swirls of red and blue mist outside the cockpit windows. The masses of light took on fantastic forms, like the pictures she had found in the clouds over Felshang when she was little, but at the same time they looked like rocks, hard and broken and nowhere near as pretty as clouds. And all the while the colors shifted and changed.
Once another ship passed by—a big spaceliner, seeming almost close enough to touch, although Perada knew it must be some miles distant. The vessel appeared without warning, looming up out of the ever-shifting layers of cloud, pushing its way through, long tendrils of mist flowing back along its body as it headed outward past them. And all the while Ransome kept scanning the coursebook to follow their transit, while Metadi watched the way and the two gunners called contacts.
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