by Jo Zebedee
The newcomer was good. Very good. The four black-clad intruders had clearly realised as much. The first attacker had been joined by the remaining three. In the cramped space of the gangway, their numerical advantage amounted to little. But still the newcomer had to battle two swordsmen at once. When one fell back, another moved rapidly into his place.
The first intruder fell. Stabbed in the torso. The surviving three moved back, drawing the newcomer forward. He neatly side-stepped the body. He jabbed his sword’s point into the corpse’s chest, directly over the heart. The body jerked and lay still. If the fallen man had thought to play dead, his bluff had been called.
The intruders were trapped. The newcomer blocked their escape through the main airlock. They would have to kill him to get away. Two moved in to dispose of him.
The duel which followed was a confusion of flashing blades and dancing fighters. Clacks, slithers and grunts echoed from the ship’s pipe. The newcomer’s blade was a blur, tip flicking in and out, sword-hand darting up and down, left and right, to catch lunges on his quillons. Plessant watched in undisguised admiration. She saw him beat off attacks with the palm of his free hand. He parried a lunge from one intruder and moved smoothly into a riposte at another. His tip slid deep into the intruder’s abdomen. As the wounded man fell, one of the others shouldered him roughly forward. The newcomer dodged nimbly to avoid the toppling intruder—
One of the two remaining took the offered opportunity. He pushed his mate at the newcomer, straight onto the tip of his sword, and darted past in the ensuing struggle. He was through the main hatch in seconds.
It was over. Three bodies lay on the decking. The fourth man had escaped.
Divine Providence’s rescuer turned to the camera. He sketched a brief bow. Plessant saw that he was grinning. He turned and ran to the main hatch and disappeared through it. She knew there was no way she could catch him. He had vanished as mysteriously as he had arrived.
There were still, however, three corpses in the gangway. And a destroyed main hatch. With a sigh, Plessant settled back into her seat to call the authorities. She had some explaining to do and she knew she would hate it. Muttering under her breath, Plessant punched in the code for the local Sikkerpoliti station.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
They had certainly made a mess of the airlock hatch. The metal about the locking pins had curled open like some fantastic blossom and scorch marks streaked the hull. Both the hatch and its frame would need replacing before Divine Providence was re-certified space-worthy.
Finesz peered at the damage with interest. She was no ordnance expert but she could tell some form of directed-energy weapon had been used. A field-piece, perhaps. Even so, the smallest of battlefield cannons required a crew of three and a power-cart the size of a large trunk. It was hard to credit—and embarrassing to the Sikkerpoliti—that such a weapon could have been trundled about Ophavon with no one noticing.
She stepped past the workmen removing the damaged hatch—they regarded her warily in her black uniform—and through the open inner hatch. She found Ormuz in the gangway, hands in pockets as he watched a cleaning-mechanism scrub away at the decking.
He looked up as Finesz appeared, seemed to recognise her immediately, and said, “Hi”, with a warm smile.
Finesz’s own smile faltered—she could see no surprise at her arrival in the youth’s face. It was almost as if he had known she was coming.
Disconcerted, she gazed down at the stains on the floor. “I heard you had some trouble last night,” she remarked.
“We were boarded.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Boarded?”
Ormuz stepped closer and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “It was really strange,” he said. “These four men blasted the main hatch. Just before they could do anything, they were attacked. By another man. And he defeated them. Four to one. The captain saw it all. She said he was a superb swordsman.”
“Oh? And who was he?”
“That’s what’s so strange. No one knows. He killed the boarders—well, he killed three; one escaped—and then disappeared. And then the, er, constables— They call them something different here but I can’t remember what—”
“Sikkerpoliti,” supplied Finesz. “Or Opdagelsiti if they’re detectives.”
“Oh, right. Anyway, they turned up.”
“Well, you have seen some excitement. But that’s not why I’m here. I need to speak to your captain. Is she aboard?”
Ormuz gestured airily. “In the cupola.”
Finesz stepped from the tiny airlock into which the ladder from the main deck debouched. An elliptical chamber on the data-freighter’s dorsal surface, the control cupola was cluttered with consoles and equipment, and boasted a hemispherical roof composed of many panes of glass giving a 270 degree view. Plessant sat slouched at the captain’s position, hands interlaced behind her head, staring up at the berth’s ceiling through the glass roof of the cupola. Finesz opened her mouth to speak, but closed it when she saw Plessant’s gaze fixed on her in the rear-view mirror affixed to a mullion between the captain’s and pilot’s stations.
“Why am I not surprised to see you here?” Plessant said flatly.
Finesz responded with a smile. “That I wouldn’t know.”
“What do you want?”
“Some answers, I think,” said Finesz. Last night’s “excitement” had convinced her events were coming to a head. She would no longer feel her way blindly through this tangled investigation.
“What do you want with us?” Plessant sat up straight and lay her hands in her lap. She continued to watch Finesz in the mirror.
“What is it about young Ormuz that makes him a target for assassination by an officer from the Imperial Regiment of Housecarls?”
Plessant’s gaze narrowed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Finesz shook her head sadly—difficult as it was to read Plessant via that narrow strip of silvered glass, it was clear the woman was intent on prevaricating. “Oh, I think you do, Murily. I think you know exactly what I’m talking about. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if your, ah, intruders of last night were after him too.” She leaned close. “Who is he?”
“No one. Just a lad I took on a couple of years ago because we needed an extra hand.”
Finesz chopped the air. “Rubbish! You operated for a dozen years without him—”
“You’ve done your homework,” Plessant said dryly.
“Of course. This ship has eked out a living for over two decades, and only just managed to scrape by. You break your route to make Darrus, and you earn a huge profit. That alone is suspicious. But when you throw in Merenilo’s attacks in Amwadina, and last night’s attack…”
“You have no proof of anything.”
“You think I need it, Murily? I could take Ormuz into protective custody now, if I wanted. I have an Imperial Warrant.”
Plessant half-rose from her seat and then sank back down. “You could,” she conceded. “But you won’t.”
“Why not?”
“He won’t tell you anything. He can’t tell you anything.”
Finesz smiled. “Ah. Now we’re getting somewhere.” She stepped forward and settled on the arm of the pilot’s chair, looking directly at Plessant. Arms crossed, she gazed at Plessant, an amused smile on her face. “So young Ormuz is nothing but an ingénu, is he? He has no idea what’s in store for him. But you know. And you will tell me.”
“No.” Plessant shook her head. “You’ll learn nothing from me.”
“Then perhaps I should put a lien on your ship again. You are on your way somewhere, aren’t you?”
“It can wait.”
“You hope it can wait. What is your next port of call, by the way? You haven’t posted it yet.”
Plessant shrugged. “Kapuluan.”
It was no secret. Finesz knew the captain would have to declare it later that day.
“Kapuluan? Further away stil
l from your usual trade-route. What could have dragged you so far from the edges of Makarta Province? Are you heading further corewards after Kapuluan? All the way to Shuto, perhaps?”
Plessant said nothing, but there was something in her face which led Finesz to believe she had guessed wrong.
“No,” Finesz said. “Kapuluan is as far as you go.” She leaned forward. “Do you know the Viscount Malis?”
Plessant’s face betrayed not a flicker at mention of the viscount’s name, but Finesz was sure it meant something to her.
“He’s an important man in the Imperial Protocol Office,” Finesz added. “He’s also under investigation. He may go scot-free: he has the connections. But anyone working for him will not be so fortunate.”
“I’ve never heard of him,” Plessant grated.
“Um,” said Finesz thoughtfully, “you would say that, wouldn’t you?” She rose to her feet and dusted off the seat of her trousers. Gazing down at the data-freighter captain, she smiled indulgently and said, “I don’t suppose you’ve worked out the identity of your mysterious rescuer of last night, have you? No, I thought not.” She turned to go and strode across to the airlock. As she lowered herself down the ladder, she stopped, her torso still above the decking. “Murily.”
Plessant twisted round in her chair.
“I have a very good idea,” Finesz said, “who your rescuer might be.” She smiled. “I won’t tell you, of course. Allow me some secrets of my own. But—” Her smile widened— “I think I can safely predict you’ll be seeing more of him. And his compatriot, too.”
Ormuz was still overseeing the cleaning-mechanism near the main hatch. He glanced up as Finesz approached, still with that friendly expression on his face. Finesz was once again taken by the young man’s appearance. He did not really fit his surroundings, a bit too delicate, maybe even a little fey—perhaps he was the by-blow of some noble. But on Rasamra? Finesz had investigated Ormuz’s background: the youngest son of a farmer on a world so far removed from the mainstream of Imperial society that only those on worlds in its vicinity actually knew of it. When he lost his post-adolescent softness, he would be—
She frowned. Something had just struck a chord in her memory. She could almost feel the reverberations echoing. Young Ormuz, incredibly, reminded her of someone… She tried to think who. There was something in his appearance that put her in mind of someone else, someone… a noble… at Imperial Court…
But who?
She shook her head to clear it of her confusion, and returned Ormuz’s smile. She opened her mouth to speak—
“I saw you, you know,” he said.
Finesz mastered her surprise with some effort. “What?” she asked.
“I saw you. After that Housecarl attacked us the second time. You were on the other side of the street. You were watching us.” He said it again, confidently: “I saw you.”
“Housecarl?” Finesz raised an eyebrow questioningly. Perhaps she would learn the answer to one small mystery if she played this right.
Ormuz nodded. “The Imperial Regiment of Housecarls. The ‘Red and Blacks’. I looked them up in the data-pool on the way here. They guard the Imperial capital world.”
“They’re one,” corrected Finesz, “of the regiments responsible for guarding Shuto—”
“I know,” interrupted Ormuz. “The Housecarls share the duty with the Emperor’s Own Cuirassiers. And there’s the Imperial Palace Artillery as well. And the Imperial Baggage Train. And—”
“You have been doing your homework.”
“I don’t understand why he was on Darrus, though. Why would he leave Shuto?”
“As well ask why he would attack you.” She cocked her head and peered at the youth. “Tell me, how did you know he was a Housecarl?”
“Oh, he dropped his sword and Adril kept it. The regimental badge was on the hilt.”
One mystery solved and unsurprisingly the answer was entirely prosaic. Merenilo, Finesz remembered, had not been wearing his regulation sword when he had been killed. Nor had the Darrusï county constabulary found it in his hotel suite. The weapon was here, aboard Divine Providence.
“You’re sure he was after me?” asked Ormuz. He was not frightened by the thought but puzzled.
“You were definitely his, ah, target.”
“Was that why you were watching us? Or were you watching the Housecarl?”
Finesz blinked. The youth was quick. “Why would I be doing that?”
“Because of the money.”
She stared at him—
“The money from the Military Bank,” he added.
—in shock. Where had that come from? Merenilo was indeed linked to the Viscount Malis and his mysterious source of funds… But. Could it be possible? The Military Bank? Was the Paymaster General also involved in this conspiracy? Dear Lords. Finesz felt cold sluice through her from crown to booted feet.
“Explain what you mean,” she said hoarsely.
“Isn’t that why you were investigating the Housecarl? Because he was using money from the Military Bank that wasn’t his?”
“Who told you that? Captain Plessant?”
“No.” Strangely, Ormuz reddened. “I—” He broke off. Almost evasively, he said, “I don’t know who told me.”
The cleaning-mechanism had finished its buffing of the deck and buzzed loudly. Ormuz bent down over it—a boxy low-slung cart, its wheels hidden beneath a skirt—and tapped a series of instructions into its control. The mechanism jerked and trundled aft along the gangway. Ormuz turned to watch it depart.
“Tell me more about the money,” Finesz demanded.
“I don’t know any more.” He shrugged. “Not about that, anyway.”
There was more?
“But I know you’ve been following a man and a woman, too.”
The cold swept through her once again. Her gaze—fastened on the nape of Ormuz’s neck, beneath his pony-tail—sharpened. The texture of his smooth skin leapt into focus, the wispy shavings of hair, the burnished threads of his ship-coverall’s collar. She drew in a deep and soundless breath. How could he know these things?
“She’s here,” he continued. “The woman. We met her last night. She calls herself Riz Gotovach.” He turned back to Finesz. “But that’s not her real name.”
Finesz shivered. She wrapped her arms about her torso, not that it dispelled the chill. “I don’t suppose you’d know what it is,” she said sardonically.
Ormuz shook his head. “Not yet.” He shrugged apologetically. “I’ve decided to look for it, though.”
The gangway’s harsh artificial light gained a prismatic quality. “‘Look for it’?” she parroted.
“I don’t know if I’ll find it, but I’ll look anyway.”
“Look where—” She broke off. She had come to a decision. Ormuz had some secret source of information and she wanted it. “Never mind. Do you think you could find the local bureau of the Office of the Procurator Imperial? I’d like you to come and see me there. Tomorrow, I think.”
He blinked in surprise. “If you want me to.”
“I do. And I’d rather you didn’t tell your captain about our little meeting. Can you do that?”
Ormuz shrugged. “Sure. What time?”
“Shall we say… two o’clock?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Finesz pulled the caster on the desk towards her. It was a standard model, a circular glass on an angled stand, but set in a geometrically-patterned brass frame. It displayed a dismaying lack of taste. Commissioner of Enquiries Gawain demar Opisina was one of those administrators who used his office furniture to boast of his position and authority.
She called up the caster’s directory and scrolled through the pages of text until she had found the number of the local Court of Sessions. A receptionist answered after ten seconds. His face—he was a typical Opholdish—filled the display. Finesz saw his gaze narrow when he caught sight of her uniform. “Yes, ma�
�am?” he said.
“Mortuary, please.”
“Mor—? Ah, you mean the Obduktor’s Office. Transferring you…”
A view of Ophold from Ophavon replaced the receptionist’s face as the connection was being made. The seconds ticked by. Finesz drummed her fingers on the desk-top. No one was answering. She grumbled. Twenty seconds passed. She reached out to cut the call—
A face abruptly appeared on the glass. “Obduktor’s Office.”
“Ah.” Finesz withdrew her hand. “This is Inspector Finesz. I’d like to speak to whomever’s in charge.”
“I am afraid he is in the middle of an examination, ma’am.”
“The three bodies from the attack last night on Divine Providence?”
“I—” The coroner’s receptionist looked away for a moment, consulting something out of Finesz’s sight. “Yes, ma’am.”
“When will he be finished?”
“In two hours—” The receptionist looked up, above the caster. “Excuse me!” he said loudly. “You are not permitted—” He rose to his feet. His lower torso filled the glass.
Finesz sat up straight. What in heavens was going on?
A scream rang out. The stomach filling the glass suddenly receded. The receptionist toppled over backwards. Finesz saw a bloodied sword withdraw from one corner of the glass.
“Assaun!” she shouted.
The troop-sergeant—she had promoted him when she took him from his home and family on Darrus—appeared seconds later. Finesz was out from behind the desk, buckling on her sword-belt. “Get a provost section,” she ordered. “Someone’s attacking the Mort— ah, the Obduktor’s Office.”
Assaun accepted the news with an impassive nod. He spun on his heel and marched out of the office.
Finesz rushed to the office door. “Hurry, hurry!” she yelled. She turned to Opisina’s personal assistant, who was cowering behind her desk. “How far to the Obduktor’s Office?”
“Five minutes, ma’am.”
“It’s that close?”
“Um, five minutes of arc, ma’am. That’s about six miles.”
