The Gathering Flame

by Doyle, Debra; Macdonald, James D.

  On that occasion, the new-minted officers had entered the palace by the state entrance, passing through massive bronze doors ornamented with bas-relief panels depicting the unification of Entibor. This time, however, the hovercar glided to a stop underneath a minor portico at the end of the palace’s eastern wing. The door through which the messenger escorted Gala and Tres proved to be of plain wood bound with iron—old enough to be preserved and restored, but not a work of art.

  The two captains wound up in a small chamber deep inside the palace. There were straight-backed chairs of carved whitebole wood lining the walls, and a low table with nothing on it in the middle of the carpeted floor. Their guide showed them into the room without explanation, and left them there.

  Gala looked at Tres, not daring to say anything in case of snoop-buttons, then folded her hands on her lap and waited. That was obviously what the room was for, and if service in the Fleet had ever taught anyone anything, it was how to wait.

  Eventually the room’s inner door opened to admit a slight, grey-haired gentleman. Gala didn’t know him, which meant he wasn’t Fleet and wasn’t connected by blood to any of the noble houses. He bowed; she and Tres rose and bowed also.

  “Captain Lachiel,” he said. “Captain Brehant. I am Ser Hafrey, Armsmaster to House Rosselin; I serve the Domina.”

  “We all do,” Gala replied, still standing. “What is it that you need from Captain Brehant and me?”

  The older man made a gesture toward the chairs. “Please—seat yourselves, and tell me what’s brought you so far from Parezul without orders.”

  Tres Brehant spoke up then, for the first time since the messenger had come for them at the visiting officers’ quarters. “What we’ve got to say is meant for Admiral Pallit. He’s our senior officer, and he has the right to hear us before anyone else does.”

  “I understand,” said the armsmaster. “But I may perhaps be of some assistance, if you allow it.”

  Gala lifted both hands briefly, palms-up like a petitioner. “Then will you help us speak with the admiral? We have so little time—”

  “My influence with the Fleet is limited,” Hafrey said. “But here at court I can expedite measures, or bring them to the attention of the Domina.”

  “Is the new Domina on-planet?” Tres cut in. “The last I heard, she’d been sent for, but that was all.”

  “He’s right,” said Gala. “We got the word on Veratina as soon as it happened, more or less, but we never heard anything about a coronation.”

  Before Ser Hafrey could answer, the outer door of the room flew open with a bang of wood against wall. A dark, heavily muscled man strode in, followed by a pair of palace guards carrying energy lances.

  Nivome, thought Gala unhappily. If he’s mixed up in this, we might as well say good-bye to the idea of talking to Pallit.

  The Rolnian-born Minister of Internal Security had been the old Domina’s last lover—strong rumor said that he’d wanted the name of Consort, but that Veratina had been too canny to give it to him—and he was no friend to the Fleet. Gala wasn’t surprised when Nivome pointed a forefinger at Ser Hafrey and said, “You’re exceeding your authority again, Armsmaster—and this time I’ve caught you.”

  Hafrey inclined his head, like someone receiving an awkward compliment. Nivome’s forefinger slewed around to point at Gala and Tres.

  “And you two have been aiding and abetting him.” Nivome looked over at the guards, then jerked his head toward the two captains. “Take them away.”

  Ser Hafrey watched without comment as Nivome’s guards took Lachiel and Brehant out of the room. The pair of officers were in no immediate danger. Entibor’s Fleet cherished zealously the right to discipline its own, and Captain-of-Frigates Lachiel, at least, was well connected enough that the Interior Ministry wouldn’t dare risk her convenient disappearance. Achieving the duo’s ultimate disgrace and execution would take time and effort—resources that Nivome shortly might find himself unable to spare.

  After the door had closed behind the two captains and their escort, Hafrey turned back to Nivome.

  “You mistake yourself,” he said quietly.

  “I don’t think so,” Nivome said. “Not this time.”

  “I plead ignorance. Enlighten me.”

  “Don’t make a joke of it, old man. There’s nothing funny about treason.”

  “True enough,” said Hafrey. “Am I a traitor, then?”

  Nivome glowered. “You’re conspiring with mutineers who’ve deserted their stations during a time of peril. When the Domina returns, she’ll have your head displayed in a stasis box right next to theirs.”

  “That will be as the Domina wishes,” Hafrey said. “In the meantime, gentlesir, pause and reflect a while on past experience. Do you truly intend to make me your enemy?”

  Nivome said nothing for several seconds, and his face darkened. But whatever his faults, the Rolnian had never lacked for nerve. He gave a harsh laugh, and said, “I can’t make what already exists. Enjoy your power while you have it. Once the Domina returns, your time is done.”

  “You’re ambitious,” Hafrey observed mildly. “But your intelligence gathering is not what is should be. Perhaps you haven’t heard—a free-spacer named Metadi entered Entiboran space this morning. Even now he and his crew are landing at the royal port.”

  Nivome’s features grew even darker with anger. “Metadi,” he said. He spat the word out, like a curse. “The gall of that man passes all belief … the royal port!”

  “And why not?” Hafrey said. “He has the right; he is carrying the Domina on her ascent to the Iron Crown. And more: the Domina asserts that she is, at this moment, gravid.”

  There was a long silence—an instant, Hafrey knew, in which anything could happen. He readied himself for action, if action should be needed.

  Then Nivome seemed to relax, and his high color faded somewhat toward normal. “Good … good. This should at least convince the populace that the Domina Perada is no Veratina as far as that problem goes.”

  “True enough,” Hafrey said. He regarded Nivome with an unsympathetic eye. “But if you see yourself as the next Consort, your sources have failed you and you need to develop new ones.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Hafrey shrugged. “Only that Captain Jos Metadi requested official transport to the capital for the Domina and her Consort—and you are already here. Moreover, when Captain Metadi spoke with Inspace Control, he styled himself General of the Armies of Entibor.”

  Nivome made a choking sound, and his right hand clenched into a massive fist. “Metadi … !”

  “Don’t do anything hasty,” Hafrey said. “Shall we go out and greet the Domina on her arrival? For myself, I’d prefer to have you alive and active about your duties for the next part of the history of Entibor, but be assured that if you are otherwise my plans will not be seriously discommoded.”

  He bowed and walked past Nivome as if the larger man weren’t there. Two more palace guards waited outside the door. The armsmaster walked past them as well. They fell into step a pace behind Hafrey as he walked down the passageway, seeming unsure whether they were supposed to arrest him or provide him with a guard of honor. All of them, including the now-silent Nivome, proceeded through the palace’s inner corridors to the entrance by the former stables, where ground transport from the ship would soon be arriving.

  Moments later the side door of the old stables slid open and admitted a hovercar in the blue and silver of House Rosselin. The car grounded there, and out of the passenger compartment stepped Perada Rosselin, with Captain Jos Metadi and another, much younger man behind her, one at each shoulder.

  Hafrey recognized the second man as the heir to Pleyveran-based Tarveet Holdings. Garen Tarveet had been at school with Perada on Galcen; perhaps, Hafrey reflected, they had become closer friends than he had thought. Or perhaps not. Young Tarveet looked as if he’d worn the same suit of clothing all the way from Pleyver, and his face was not that of a happy man.
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br />   The armsmaster bowed—the full bow of profound respect. “Welcome to your world, Domina.”

  Perada’s face revealed nothing, though she smiled at Nivome with the same bright goodwill as she had shown to the Rolnian on Galcen, before she had decided on the diversion to Innish-Kyl. She inclined her head in a well-schooled response to the armsmaster’s greeting.

  “Ser Hafrey,” she said. “Gentlesir Nivome. I apologize for making such an informal arrival—but there’s a great deal of work to be done, and much less time than I’d expected to do it in. I want to get the ceremonial part over with as soon as possible.”

  This time it was Nivome’s turn to bow. “Everything is arranged, Your Dignity. Veratina’s funeral rites need only your presence in order to begin.”

  “Take me to her, then,” Perada said. “We’ll have the public burning tonight, in the Grand Plaza. Meanwhile—” She glanced at Ser Hafrey, and the armsmaster saw that while she was smiling, her gaze was sharp and intent. “—General Metadi has business of his own to take care of. See to it that he gets whatever help he needs.”

  She left on Nivome’s arm, and Hafrey watched her go. The Ministry of Internal Security reckoned among its visible duties the supervision of those Palace departments which worked with ceremony and protocol, and if the minister himself—now that his ambitions had come to naught—resented the effort he’d expended in making everything ready, he didn’t show it.

  When the palace doors had closed behind Nivome and the Domina, Hafrey turned back to Jos Metadi. The privateer captain was dressed in all the customary finery of his trade—crimson velvet and gold buttons and high, polished boots, with a heavy blaster in a leather holster tied down to one thigh. Hafrey, who had long since investigated Metadi’s habits, knew that the gaudy display was not put on by chance. Away from the privateer ports, the captain dressed as soberly as any man of business from the Gyfferan merchant class.

  This man denies nothing, the armsmaster thought. He changes nothing. He believes that etiquette and protocol will change themselves instead to suit him.

  And his belief in his own luck is strong enough that he may indeed be right.

  Hafrey kept his thoughts to himself, as he had always done. “Welcome to Entibor, General. I am at your service.” “The first thing I need is a translator,” Metadi said; in passable Galcenian—grammar and syntax were clear enough, but overlaid with a strong home-world accent. Some people at the Domina’s court would find it amusing; but Hafrey doubted that Metadi would care. “For Galcenian and Gyfferan both. If the translator knows something about life along the spacelanes, that’s even better.”

  Hafrey nodded. He’d heard more outrageous requests in his time, from men and women far more nobly born than Captain—now General—Jos Metadi. “When will you require the translator?”

  “Right now,” Metadi said. “If I’m General of the Armies of Entibor, then I’m going to inspect my command.”

  Fleet Admiral Efrayn Pallit frowned at the sheets of flimsy scattered across his desk. Ever since word of the young Domina’s arrival in-system had reached Central, he’d been working on the Fleet’s official message of greeting. First impressions were vital, and Her Dignity was something of an unknown quality—All those years on Galcen, Pallit thought uneasily; as if Entibor didn’t have enough good schools of its own—the combination made him bite the end of his stylus and strike out line after line.

  And there was his own court presentation speech to polish after this message was done, not to mention some appropriate remarks of condolence for the old Domina’s public burning. So much work; so little time. He had waited too long to begin. He had, perhaps, not believed that she was going to come? He wished that he could assign writing the messages to a subordinate—but that would reveal his lack of preparation. That would give someone power over him. He turned back to the message blank.

  The sound of voices outside the closed door of his office broke into his concentration. Someone was talking very loudly. He couldn’t make out the words. The office door slid open. Pallit’s aide, red-faced, stood in the opening.

  “Admiral,” she said helplessly, “I tried to stop them, but they wouldn’t listen—”

  Two more people stepped in past him before he could finish speaking. The first was a tall man in a jacket of crimson velvet. The gold in the buttons would have paid the admiral’s aide for a month. He carried a blaster loosely in one hand. The second man Pallit recognized immediately as Ser Hafrey, the Domina’s armsmaster.

  The man in the crimson jacket began speaking in the same language Pallit had heard before. Without the office door to block noise, the admiral had little trouble recognizing the words as Gyfferan.

  “You,” said the man. “Are you the commanding officer of the Fleet?”

  Ser Hafrey echoed him in gently spoken Entiboran. “You. Are you the—”

  Pallit held up his hand. “Please,” he said in Gyfferan. “I speak this man’s language well enough to understand his question. Yes, I command here. And you are under arrest.”

  “Wrong,” said the man. He raised his blaster and pointed it at Pallit. “My name is Jos Metadi. I’m the General of the Armies of Entibor, and as of now you work for me.” The blaster didn’t waver. “Tell me quickly—what are you doing right now to take the war to the Mages?”

  Pallit glanced over at Ser Hafrey, then back at the man in the crimson jacket. “Right now,” he said, “we are defending ourselves whenever the Mages attack. Given the constraints of our resources, that is all we can do.”

  “In that case,” said Metadi, “I accept your resignation.”

  He turned to Pallit’s aide. “Mark down the admiral as ‘retired,’ and take me to the next person in the chain of command.”

  Before Pallit could raise his voice in protest, the Gyfferan had turned away and was striding down the hall, leaving Ser Hafrey to translate the last order in a hasty whisper for the aide’s benefit. The aide looked startled and hurried after Metadi; Hafrey followed at a more leisurely pace.

  After an instant of stunned silence, Pallit went after them. He arrived at the office of Admiral Tallyn, his second-in-command, just as Hafrey was translating again for General Metadi: “‘Mark down the admiral as retired. Take me to the next person in the chain of command.’”

  The group swept out of the office, and went on to the office of Admiral Leivogen. Feeling at wits’ end, Pallit followed—as did several of the other people who had been in Tallyn’s outer office, including a handful of junior officers who almost seemed to be smirking at the sudden changes in the upper staff.

  Metadi was a quick study. By the time he’d cleared the third office along the main hallway, he no longer needed a translator. He’d already learned how to say, “Mark down the admiral as retired,” in passable—if strongly accented—Entiboran.

  “Well,” Tres Brehant said, in the resolutely cheerful tones of someone who has decided to look on the positive side of things even if it kills him, “at least we’re in Fleet detention and not some wretched civilian holding pen.”

  “At least,” agreed Gala wearily.

  The room they were in now, somewhere in the depths of Central Command’s main headquarters building, wasn’t quite a cell—it had two chairs and a desk, and even a separate ’fresher cubicle—but it was plainly the last stop before the brig. For one thing, the ID plate was on the other side of the door, and the door was locked.

  Gala slumped in her seat and frowned at the toes of her highly polished boots. “Damn it, Tres—we got so close!”

  “Yeah.” Brehant’s attempt at positive thinking appeared to have been short-lived. “The palace and everything. Who was the old guy, anyhow?”

  “What he said. Armsmaster to House Rosselin.”

  “I know, I know—but what did he want to talk to us for?”

  Gala sighed. “In theory, the armsmaster is supposed to do things like take care of the antiques in the palace gunroom and teach rapier-and-dagger fencing and other useless sport
s to whatever members of the Ruling House happen to show an interest. In practice …” She shrugged. “He’s said to be very powerful, and to have the confidence of any number of people.”

  “And let me guess—Internal Security hates his guts.”

  “You noticed,” said Gala. She clenched her fist and pounded it, almost absentmindedly, on the metal arm of her chair. “Damn them. Both of them, for dragging us back and forth like counters in their stupid political games, when the raiders could be hitting the outplanets this very minute.”

  Brehant’s attempt at good humor vanished altogether. Even his mustache seemed to droop. “So what do we do?”

  “Eventually the folks on the top floor will remember that Internal Security sent us over here,” she said, “and order somebody to come around and write up the charges. When they show up, I’m going to demand a court-martial.”

  “Make them listen to us before they shoot us?”

  “It’s likely to be the only chance we’ll get. And we knew it might come to this when we left Parezul.”

  “I know. The things we do for crown and country.”

  The conversation lagged. Gala went back to studying the toes of her boots. Tres chewed at the ends of his mustache. The only sound in the room was the faint whisper of circulating air in the environmental-control system.

  Brehant stiffened. “Someone’s coming.”

  He was right; there was noise in the hall outside the closed door. Feet, a whole crowd of them, and voices. Gala stood up and straightened her tunic.