“Second reason we want smooggler ship. Survey class alfvens. Grab strings of space deep in gravity well but not burn out like these poor ship.” She patted the control board fondly.
“Ravn? Why do you think the Shadow will kill the general?”
“Do not think—know. Fool try to warn us. That was very nice, and I kiss his lips, but not very wise. He knows Shadow War, stresses his loyalty for benefit of interrogator, but looks sidewise to warn us. Wink-wink, nudge-nudge. ‘Someone in room with me.’ But sooch body language and sly allusion subtle oonly to man of ‘bloont’ character. Shadow not fooled. So Mashdasan suffer fate of all who place generative organ between hammer and anvil.”
“So the Shadow did not go there intending to assassinate him.”
Ravn swung her seat around. “Likely noot. Oonly to torture him and learn what he could of the facemeet Dawshoo held there last year. Why do you ask this?”
“Mother taught me a thing or two. The Lion’s Mouth sends you out in pairs, don’t they?”
Ravn nodded. “Usually. Second kills first if first falters. Nice system. Encourages job commitment.”
“How sweet. But that suggests that while the first does not know how to contact the second, the second keeps tabs on the first.”
“Yayss…?”
“Then the Shadow in the swoswai’s office…”
Ravn grinned broadly and smacked the console desk with the flat of her hand. “… exceeded his instructions!”
“But the second would not know why. So if ‘Dawshoo’ sent a congratulatory message to the first in care of the swoswai’s office, the second…”
“… would intercept it, find it but moodestly difficult to decrypt, and perhaps woonder if his first is playing a traitor’s game. Young harper, I like the way you think.”
Méarana touched her forefinger to the tip of her nose. “Confusion to the enemy.”
“And perplexity upon our foes.”
“I wonder,” said Méarana, “why Mashdasan tried to warn you. It’s not as though he was on your side.”
“Perhaps he had something to prove to himself. Dawshoo humiliate him last year. Two such affronts he would not accept. Fool. But sometimes fools do brave things.”
“Are we going to make it?” The harper tried to ask with an air of nonchalance.
“All in hands of Fate. Tell me this, harper. Your mother taught you a thing or two. But did she teach you three?”
* * *
Space Traffic Control watched the monoship emerge from the detection-shadow of Asteroid Laatmui 27 and make a dash for the ships in the impound orbit. Grabbing space, she moved in quantum jerks, building velocity. STC noted, too, from the shell design that the ship was Peripheral built. This information spread across the surveillance web, downloaded into cognizant systems, was picked up picoseconds later by Midsystem Sector Defense. The field control officer noted the orbit and checked against the fire order sent from Siling Bo Henrietta. Burn the vessel matching orbit with the designated reference. Obvious now, the reason: an attempt by Peripheral agents to hijack a Fleet vessel. An earlier search had flagged the reference vessel as one promised to the Lion’s Mouth, and the officer shuddered to contemplate the consequence if he allowed it to be stolen. After verifying that no other ships were matching orbits with the reference vessel, he sent the release-to-fire message to the wave cannon Stout Defender, which was best positioned to take it out.
The range officer of Stout Defender pinged the target, obtained range and velocity, and computed azimuth and bearings and fed this to the gunner.
“Charging,” the gunner’s mate called from the bowels of the capacitor banks. “Flux nominal.” Then, “Charged ninety-five percent.”
“Locked on,” said the gunner. He studied the data on the monoship, decided it was unarmored, and computed the kill burst. Then he doubled that just for luck, what gunners called the “200% Kill” level. “One-bar-nine,” he ordered.
“One-bar-nine,” the gunner’s mate concurred, having carried out an alternative computation.
“Burn it.”
There was, of course, no bright streak of light of the sort entertainments liked to pretend. Nor was there anything so dramatic as a fireball when the target absorbed the gravity wave. But the monoship began to break up.
“Debris field confirmed,” the range officer announced. “Spreading. Talker, alert Range Safety Office at STC. Parameters follow. The pings show multiple large fragments following the original orbit, a few others tumbling off to the sides on daughter orbits.” Some were approaching the craft promised to the Deadly Ones. She hoped they wouldn’t hole the vessel. Shadows could be quite prickly when it came to their rides.
“Scratch one,” said the gunner.
The range officer continued to monitor the debris field while the gunner’s mate wound down systems and toggled them to safety mode. “I hope,” said the gunner, “this wasn’t just another drill.”
III. UNLEASHED
“Invisibility cloaks?” rumbled Grimpen. “The Seven Vestiges?”
“The Vestiges appear to be a sort of trove,” Bridget ban said, “that their Tech Control Ministry, the Gayshot Bo, sequesters and manages.”
“Vestiges…,” wondered Greystroke. “‘Leftovers.’ Old Commonwealth tech? The Confederation inherited most of the Terran Commonwealth of Suns.”
“What else could it be?” said Obligado.
“Prehuman,” suggested Little Hugh, “like the Ourobouros Circuit.”
“Seven Vestiges,” said Cŵn Annwn. “You’ve named the cloak and the quondam leap.”
“Leaping from world to world,” said Black Shuck, “sounds impossible.”
Matilda of the Night somehow caught their attention without saying a single word or making the smallest gesture. A secretive smile played across the scarlet of her lips. “Keep in mind,” she said, “that one ‘widow’ might birth more than one daughter. It is premature to tally them. The Gayshot Bo broods upon many wonders.”
“Why do they do that,” wondered Little Hugh, “when they could use them in the Long Game? It seems contrary to their own interests.”
Matilda smiled more broadly, “Darling, have you ever been Across?”
“But, Briddy, ’tis all hearsay,” Black Shuck reminded them. “It’s what Ravn told you, or what she told you that Domino Tight told her—or what she told you that Tight told her that the Technical Name told him. Hearsay, double and triple hearsay.”
Bridget ban leaned back in her chair. “And yet…”
“And yet,” Top Dog acknowledged, “why tell that tale and not another? Yes, it would slide down smooth should the Little One be willing to swallow. It is worth the sniffing out. But, Briddy…” His arm swept and encompassed the remaining Hounds at the table. “Had you mentioned these Vestiges before, the others might have stayed.”
But Bridget ban shook her head. “If they would nae stay for Méarana,” she said, “they should nae stay for tarnhelm.”
Black Shuck nodded, as if she had confirmed a matter already known. “Aye, you dangle these baubles to sweeten the Kennel’s disposition so that you may take a pack to rescue your daughter. You see? I understand your seductions. But it also changes the complexion of the quest. This is not a mere swoop-and-snatch off Terra, a feat difficult enough. These ‘Vestiges’ are held by the Names themselves, and to seize them wants penetration of the Secret City.”
“The rebels are planning an attack within the Secret City,” Bridget ban reminded him. “They intend to finish the Shadow War with a single bold stroke. In that confusion, a small band might slip into the Gayshot Bo and, while all eyes lie elsewhere, record the treasures.”
She gathered the eyes of all those present. “Are ye with me?” And this gathered the ayes of all those present. All but Black Shuck.
“And where do you stand, darlin’?” warbled Cŵn Annwn.
“Yes,” said Matilda of the Night, “are you with us?”
“It would mean a great deal if yo
u would come,” Bridget ban urged him.
Black Shuck moved away from the doorjamb on which he had been leaning and, in straightening, seemed to grow taller. He thrust his hands into his coverall pockets and lowered his head. The tink of glasses stilled to form a silence into which his words might fall.
“I’ve been hounding most my lifetime,” he said quietly. “Valency, Orsini’s World, Foreganger, Gehpari. A litany of crimes and disasters. But I like to think there were small, mean people—killers, tyrants, thieves—who watched nervously over their shoulders for thought of me; and refugees, prisoners unjust, and the helpless caught between two fires who knew some ray of hope when my name was whispered among them. I have fed the hungry when famines struck, clothed the naked after earthquake or flood, led the distressed to safety, and removed hobnailed boots from unnumbered faces; and never, I hope to tell myself at the end of days, did I do any mean or unworthy thing. But, Briddy ban, I am seven-score years, and my youth is behind me. I have been three times across the Rift, and from a fourth such journey I would not return.”
Bridget ban tried to speak, but Black Shuck raised a palm. “No, hear me. Your quest is worthy. Not for the Vestiges—although if found they may soothe the nerves of the Little One—but for your daughter. For her—and aye, for your Donovan, however little you’ve mentioned him—I would approve the quest. I will go—but I will go to High Tara for you. I will be your champion in the Kennel, secure you resources, deliver you what information might smooth your path. You will need identities, comm. channels, transportations. But none of this will I do unless…” And he turned his eyes on the seven other Hounds and Pups who sat at the table. “Unless you go in for Méarana Harper. If it is merely for the glory of it, or for the chance to snap up ancient baubles, it is not worth the going. So, tell me that this is so.”
* * *
Over the next two weeks, they reviewed the recordings Bridget ban had made of Ravn Olafsdottr and her tale, studied gazetteers of the Confederation, digested Gwillgi’s intelligence reports, planned their entries, their points of rendezvous, studied clothing styles, loaded earwigs with Confederal dialects, established passwords, and learned the identities they would assume. Black Shuck supplied them with contact information for agents-in-place—and for Gwillgi, too, should they find themselves in position to make contact.
“Though if Gwillgi ain’t wishful o’ being found,” joked Cŵn Annwn, “it ain’t likely that we’d be a-findin’ him.”
They split into two teams and worked tactical plans at opposite ends of the hall. Bridget ban naturally took the lead in planning the extraction of her daughter from Gidula’s stronghold on Terra. This proved remarkably difficult, since they knew almost nothing of its layout and facilities. It stood somewhere west of Ketchell, on the Northern Mark, but intelligence was scant and uncertain. They would need tactics flexible enough to conform to situational details as encountered.
Black Shuck took the lead in planning the extraction of the Seven Vestiges from the Secret City. But because he was often on the Circuit with the Kennel, the task more often fell to Matilda of the Night. Obligado’s master, na Fir Li, who had once walked the streets of the Secret City, also sent information, though of older vintage. Little by little, a simulacrum of the Secret City rose from the holotable.
“For such a secret city,” joked Little Hugh during a break, “we have more information on it than on Gidula’s station.”
Matilda smiled coldly. “Don’t suppose that streets and buildings constitute its secrets.” She regarded the ghostly structures on the holotable—simple blocks, since architectural details were lacking. “This one,” she said, pointing to a long oblong hard by the Red Gate. “That is the Gayshot Bo. The Vestiges will be in a vault somewhere in that building.”
“Do we enter by the Red Gate, then?” asked Obligado.
Matilda laughed. Cŵn Annwn studied the layout. “I don’t s’pose they open the Gates to any poke comes along. How’d yuh get in, Tilly? Or na Fir Li or Black Shuck?”
The Dark Hound had long changed her black robes for an equally black coverall. “Through patience,” she said, “establishing identities, securing migration chops, obtaining licenses and work permits. Na Fir Li was a licensed beggar and sweeper. I was a courtesan. Black Shuck…”
“I went in as a day laborer,” said Top Hound. “It took three years to become a Known Man in the San Jösing slums, a drinking companion to those who knew those who had passes. Three years to build the ID up. And it took the Protectors three weeks to tear it down. But I was in and out in two.”
Bridget ban had been listening to everything. “We dinnae hae years!” she cried. “Once we snatch my bairn from Ravn’s talons, we must enter the city quickly and be done.”
“You could,” Matilda pointed out, “return your daughter to the Periphery while the rest of us complete the quest for the Vestiges.”
But Red Hound tossed her head. “I’ll nae lead ye in if I dinna lead ye out.”
“Then,” said Black Shuck, “you will need to learn from your Donovan the secret passage by which he once escaped the compound.”
“He is nae my Donovan,” insisted Bridget ban, “but aye, we must needs free him from Gidula. His rescue is why Ravn snatched my daughter in the first place.” Méarana had gone willingly, even obstinately, but Bridget ban had not shared that deduction with her colleagues.
One of Tenbottles’ men entered the hall, looked from table to table, and strode up to Obligado with a message packet off the Circuit. The Pup broke it open and extracted the flimsy. “Ah!” he said after a moment’s reading. “My master has detached a cutter from the Sapphire Point Squadron for our use, the advantage of which is that it was Confederal built and pressed some years back into the Service as a prize. It is already en route.”
Grimpen grunted, and the sound was as of a quake deep within the earth. “Transport and logistics solved.”
“No,” said Black Shuck. “You’ll not put yourselves in one basket. Too much is at stake. We may lose some of you on this venture. It is no lackaday stroll. But a fell swoop ought not net all of you.”
An uncomfortable silence fell over the Hounds at both tables. Cŵn Annwn made a sign to avert the evil. Death was always a possibility, but they preferred that it remain only a possibility. Only Matilda of the Night smiled, and her lips were the color of blood.
They decided to go in as four teams, led by Bridget ban, Greystroke, Grimpen, and Matilda. Obligado would go with Grimpen and Cŵn Annwn with Matilda of the Night. Hugh, of course, would go with his master and Graceful Bintsaif with Bridget ban. They would take different routes and rendezvous on Terra.
* * *
On the last night, after everyone had taken leave, Graceful Bintsaif found Bridget ban in the library under the glitter of night. All the lamps had been extinguished and the room was lit only by the starlight that sifted like flour through the bay window. It was bright enough to see by but not so bright as to pluck out details. Bridget ban sat on the stool that her daughter had occupied during that fateful interrogation. She was merely a shape within the shadowed room, starshine highlighting her hair, accenting her profile. Graceful Bintsaif stepped within and closed the door behind her.
“Grimpen and Obligado have gone,” she announced. “They’ll nestle the cutter on the hull of Kethwick Harpy and pretend to be a navigation submodule. The border is open to trade ships. They’ll detach at Epsidanny. There’s a ship’s fu they can use for authorization within the…” She fell silent as Bridget ban failed to respond. “We received a message from Greystroke,” she continued. “He was about to enter the Roads. They’ll board Chettinad Rover as crew when they reach Abyalon, then jump ship once across the Rift and make their way as spacehands.”
The Red Hound might as well have been one with the furniture.
The junior Hound sighed and sat herself in the seat she had occupied while Ravn had spun her tale. Reflexively her eyes flicked toward the sofa, as if she expected to find Olafsdottr s
till in it. “It will all work out,” she said. “You’ll see.”
Bridget ban stirred. “Will it? Of the five Hounds who have infiltrated the Secret City, only three returned. So by the odds, I am leading three colleagues to their deaths.”
Graceful Bintsaif swallowed, said nothing for a moment. “The odds are there to be defied. We may not need to enter…”
The older woman put hands to knees and pushed herself upright. “Of course we will.”
“Perhaps it was only a story.”
Bridget ban went to the bay window and stood within its ambit. She threw open the casements, and the soft sounds and cool breeze of the prairie night swept in. A sheet of paper on the side table fluttered and the resinous odors of sunflowers and the more pungent milkweeds filled the room. A soft, distant hoot broke the night, and she shivered.
“Owl,” she said. “A poor omen.”
“Owls aren’t good,” Graceful Bintsaif agreed, “but we’ll find her.”
Bridget ban stared at the silhouette of Firstblest Mountain, the tallest of the Dōngodair Hills, backlit by the distant gleam of Port Kitchener. God, it was so lonely Out-in-back, lonelier still with but one soul missing from it. Had Méarana felt this way when her mother had been out among the bright stars?
“She is my life, Graceful Bintsaif. She is all I have, the one good thing I’ve done that might outlast me. And it’s been weeks already. They’ll be past Henrietta by now. My God, how I wanted to fly after her! But I knew that only fools rush in. I had to plan. I had to … bide my time. And every day that dies, she is a day farther from me.”
“There is a positive side to that,” ventured her aide.
Bridget ban turned away from the window and Graceful Bintsaif could just make out the quizzical twist of her features. But she did not ask what the positive side was. So the junior Hound took a deep breath.
“Ravn is going after Gidula, right? We’re certain she spoke sooth on that score. And Gidula holds Donovan buigh. So every day that passes, she is a day closer to him.”
On the Razor's Edge Page 4
