by Jo Zebedee
“Yes, Murily.” Sudnik smiled. “We do have you.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Rinharte lifted her helmet from her head and pulled off her air-hood. She turned, bent over awkwardly, and set them down on a handy fallen tree nearby. “One of these days,” she remarked, “I’d like to make landfall on a planet the normal way.”
“Where’s your sense of fun?” joshed Kordelasz.
“Somewhere up there.” Rinharte pointed skywards. “Along with my stomach.” She sighed. Another parachute drop. At least this time she had worn ward-room dress, cuirass, air-hood and marine pill-box helmet; not just lingerie.
They had landed in clearing some ten yards across amidst deciduous trees. Leafs and twigs rained down as they dropped through the canopy. The forest marched over the central peak of the island and overflowed gullies. A small township at the northernmost tip tended the groves which had been planted around its circumference. The remainder of the small island was unused and uninhabited.
Rinharte removed her cuirass and shrugged her way out of her uniform. Alus’s squad were busy accessorising the prole outfits they had worn beneath their marine coveralls—secreting daggers and dirks about their persons, pinning escutcheons—depicting an anchor—to their collars. Rinharte glanced across at them. Tatakai, she reflected, made a poor lady’s maid. The marine looked ill at ease in her livery and wig. However, it would be unusual for a married noble couple to not have a servant dedicated to my lady’s service; and only in disguise would Tatakai look the part. The rough teasing the marine had received from the other two members of the squad had not gone unnoticed, but both Rinharte and Kordelasz had left any disciplining required to the boat-sergeant.
Kordelasz finished buckling his sword-belt about his middle and looked up. Behind him, Marine Sniskutte took the marine-captain’s uniform and threw it into the pit Alus and Valka had dug in the forest loam with trenching-tools. Rinharte wrapped her green ankle-length skirt about her middle and shook out its folds. The skirt was slit up one to accommodate the sword on her hip and she wore tight-fitting trousers beneath it. It was Kapuluani fashion. Tatakai, grimacing, handed Rinharte her cape. Rinharte raised an eyebrow. Tatakai’s grimace deepened but she reached up and fastened the cape about Rinharte’s neck and fussed with it until it hung correctly.
“I apologise for the indignity,” Rinharte told her quietly. “But it won’t be for long.”
“Ma’am.”
Kordelasz had disappeared. Rinharte peered about the clearing but saw only Alus and Valka filling in the pit, and Sniskutte standing to one side and watching them. She was about to say something when the marine-captain stepped out from between a pair of trees. “I’ve found the aerolaunch,” he said. “We should get a move on.” He flicked his cape over his shoulder with a debonair grin and swept a bow in Rinharte’s direction. “My lady?”
The aerolaunch, once Valka and Sniskutte had removed the camouflage netting, proved to be a standard planetary model, suitable for long journeys about worlds, and suited to the roles Rinharte and Kordelasz would play during their infiltration of Kapuluan.
Rinharte inspected the craft as the others climbed aboard. One hundred feet in length and ten across the beam, its slender fuselage narrowed to a knife-edged vertical prow. Powerful fans in wing-tip nacelles provided forward thrust. It possessed no tail: a mechanism controlled its attitude via system of bleed-jets from the fans. A pillbox control cupola set back from the prow gave an excellent view in all directions. Behind this, a large skylight gave onto the passenger cabin; beneath the wing, large circular scuttles also looked into the cabin. Access was gained through the belly of the launch, using a folding ladder. Rinharte bent and stepped beneath the wing. Twisting her head to look up, she spotted one of the charger plates, and crossed to it. Like some boats, this aerolaunch used chargers to lessen its weight and augment the lift from its wing. It was not powerful enough to reach escape velocity, however.
The five marines had already buckled into passenger seats when Rinharte clambered into the cabin. She closed the hatch behind her and made her way forward. The two flight-crew positions were on a platform raised above the cabin’s polished wood deck, reached by a narrow step-ladder. She climbed up and clambered into the pilot’s seat. One of the marines, as a retainer of Kordelasz and Rinharte, should have flown the launch, but none had the skill. It was not all that unusual for nobles to fly themselves—some actually enjoyed it.
Rinharte began flicking switches, bringing the aerocraft’s mechanisms on-line. This infiltration would not be the fiasco Ophavon’s had proven to be: she had taken precautions. Before arriving in the Kapuluan system, Rinharte had sent her chief clerk, Petty Officer Bagasz, to interview Romi mar Maganda, a midshipman currently assigned to the divisions department. Maganda was a native of Kapuluan, the daughter of a minor baron and, if rumour were to be believed, a proletarian night-club singer. Maganda had a reputation as an ineffective officer but she had provided valuable information on her home world.
“Going up,” Rinharte said. She pulled the left-hand control-yoke towards her, keeping the right-hand one steady.
The aerolaunch rocked briefly as the chargers took its weight. The ground beneath slowly receded.
A carpet of water rushed below Rinharte’s feet. At 800 mph and an altitude of five hundred yards, the waves smeared into a featureless sheet of blue. Pinned to this was the aerolaunch’s shadow, a black sword leading the way across the ocean from a position slightly to the left. She looked up and saw only bright cloudless sky. From side to side, a line scored her view, dark aquamarine below, pale blue above.
The aerolaunch had been “arranged” by a contact on Kapuluan during Vengeful’s approach to the world. The Admiral had her sympathisers scattered throughout the Empire. In Lungsod, Rinharte and Kordelasz had a hotel suite booked under the name Rasha, Baron and Baroness Jasus. They had a single day to reconnoitre the San Mikel, the rendezvous Casimir Ormuz had specified. Kordelasz was confident he’d have Alus’s boat-squad in place for the upcoming meeting and Divine Providence’s crew none the wiser.
A blurred reflection of a figure slid across a forward scuttle, and Rinharte twisted to see Kordelasz appear at the shoulder of her seat. “No offence, Rizbeka,” he said with a grin, “but I’ve a feeling we’re not going to enjoy being married to each other.”
Rinharte smiled back. “Our contact has a strange sense of humour.”
This comment generated a snort of laughter. “He’s damn perverse, is what he is.”
Rinharte smiled. “Possibly.”
“Uhm. No more perverse than meeting in a bar on the Puwit Kali, though. What in heavens possessed the boy to choose such a rendezvous?”
Remembering a conversation in a bar on Ophavon, Rinharte said, “I think I know.” She smiled wistfully.
When she saw Kordelasz’s eyebrows rise, she blushed. He had obviously misinterpreted her expression.
“I won’t ask,” he said.
She ignored his grin. She had no need to feel shame: the Puwit Kali had merely come up in conversation. “We’ll be flying directly to the hotel,” she said, changing the subject.
“A hotel,” said Kordelasz salaciously. “A proper suite?”
“Baronial,” affirmed Rinharte.
“I can’t say I’m complaining but if we’d taken the boy on Bato, we wouldn’t need to be here now.”
“I had my reasons for letting him go, Garrin,” replied Rinharte, irritated that the marine-captain would mention her decision to allow Ormuz to remain with the OPI. “They still stand.” She dropped her voice. It would not do for the marines to hear this conversation. “I won’t be questioned, Garrin.”
“Rizbeka—”
She cut him off. “No, Garrin. I let the boy go and he wants us to meet him in a Puwit Kali bar, and so we will. For now, we follow his instructions.”
Kordelasz put a hand to her forearm. She looked down at it in some surprise. Lifting her eye
s to his face, she saw that he was smiling. “Rizbeka, I have no intention of questioning you. I earned this second pair of crossed swords in single combat—” He twisted his head as if to look at the symbols of rank on his epaulets and grimaced wryly when he realised he was in mufti. “Well, you know what I mean.” He shrugged. “I’m not a strategic thinker, I don’t have your training or experience in such matters.”
Rinharte raised an eyebrow in mock surprise at Kordelasz’s outburst of honesty.
“Something is happening, Rizbeka,” Kordelasz continued. “I can feel it.” He gripped a fist and held it before him. “I’ll do nothing to jeopardise it. You have my word.”
For a long, silent moment, Rinharte stared at the marine-captain. She considered how to reply. Kordelasz had effectively declared his loyalty to her. Personally. Should she accept the gift in the spirit with which it had been given?
No.
She turned to face forward. “Admirable sentiments, Garrin,” she drawled. “Though somewhat hard to believe.”
He barked a laugh. “I admire you, Rizbeka. Honestly, I do.” He slapped the tops of his thighs with both hands. “I’m not sure which impressed me the most: the escape from Harab or you telling the Admiral she was wrong.”
“You didn’t give me any choice aboard that frigate,” Rinharte protested. “It was either that leap across space or stay behind and take my chances with the knights stalwart. And it was your idea in the first place!”
“Then it must have been when you said to the Admiral—” He put on a face of absolute seriousness and intoned, “—’No, ma’am. I made the right decision.’” He grinned. “Ha! I would never have dared do the same.”
“She’s just a human being, Garrin,” Rinharte said, thinking that there was no understanding some people, no way of knowing what acts it was which would earn their respect. Marine-Captain Garrin demar Kordelasz was a master swordsman; Rinharte would have believed he could only be impressed by acts of martial prowess.
“‘Just a human being’?” parroted Kordelasz in disbelief. “Dear Lords, Rizbeka, she’s more than that!”
Rinharte smiled sardonically. She had spoken without thinking. And it was, on reflection, a ludicrous statement. “Yes, well… She is.”
CHAPTER FORTY
The mansion was located high on Mount Bundok, with an excellent view out over the Dagat Sea: a carpet of blue and square in it the huge boat that was Paliparan. The dwelling belonged to a noble officer of the local bureau of the Office of the Procurator Imperial and had been arranged by Finesz. It was a good deal more opulent than Ormuz was used to, with its fine furniture, rich carpets and tapestries, its many rooms.
And yet even from its elevated height the mansion’s residents could not escape the proletariat. The Dagat Sea dominated the view from the window; but the tenements of Lungsod which tumbled down Mount Bundok’s slopes from edge of the estate were also visible. No people could be seen: the gaps between buildings were too narrow and too deep. But everywhere they left signs of their presence: laundry fluttering from windows, thin trails of smoke written on the air.
Ormuz stood before the window, his hands clasped behind his back. He wore smart black trousers, boots and a high-collared tunic in silvery-grey. Although he was a prole, he wore no escutcheon on his collar. He had refused to do so. With his hair pulled back into a neat ponytail, he looked every bit the young noble.
He fitted his surroundings. The drawing-room was not large, but was richly furnished and decorated. A tapestry on one wall depicted the Castilio in the days when it had been the earl’s home. It was clearly an antique.
Ormuz turned from the window as footsteps sounded in the hallway. He unclasped his hands and then re-clasped them at his front. Plessant stepped through the archway into drawing-room and came to a halt. She wore her customary scowl. She said, “Cas—”
He ignored her. There was someone standing behind the captain. A young man, a stranger, of an age with Ormuz. Waist-length black hair in a pair of intricate braids, a knee-length, dark blue frock-coat with white facings, skin-tight white trousers and soft black ankle-boots. The frock-coat bore elaborate silver stitching up both sleeves and across the shoulders. An ornate sword hung from his hip.
Ormuz frowned.
“This is Varä, Lord Omais mar Puoskari,” said Plessant. She was clearly not happy at her companion’s presence.
The young noble sketched a bow. “The Marquess of Varä, actually,” he said. He gave a faint smile.
“A friend of yours?” asked Ormuz tartly. He was annoyed: Plessant had been told to arrange a meeting in the San Mikel with her masters, not bring them here to the house.
“No,” Plessant replied.
“Then who is he?”
“A… friend of a friend,” Plessant replied.
“Another minion of your masters?”
Varä answered, “What masters would that be?” He looked from Ormuz to Plessant in puzzlement.
Ormuz frowned a second time. “So what’s he doing here?”
“Do you mind?” complained Varä. “It’s quite rude to discuss someone as if they’re not present, you know.”
“He insisted on coming.”
“You could have said no. I seem to remember you were very good at it.”
“Was I? It’s becoming hard to remember.”
“You should have said no.”
“A lot’s changed since then, Cas. Yourself especially. He could be useful.”
“Excuse me? I am here, you know.”
“Useful? How?”
Plessant sighed. “I don’t know, Cas. But he’s here now.”
“Indeed I am,” said Varä brightly. “You mustn’t blame Murily. I begged to accompany her.” He crossed the drawing-room and stopped before Ormuz. “Casimir— I can call you Casimir, can’t I?” He reached out and touched Ormuz on the arm. “I can be of use, Casimir. I can handle a blade.”
“I have all the protection I need,” Ormuz countered.
Varä raised an eyebrow. “Where? Do you mean Murily? She’s no swordsman.”
“I have no need of a bodyguard,” Ormuz insisted.
“Bodyguard?” Varä laughed. “Dear Lords, Casimir, I’m no bodyguard.” He arched an eyebrow mockingly. “I may only be a younger son but I haven’t fallen quite that low.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Adventure.” He put a hand on his hip. “I’m fulfilling an ancient tradition: seeking fame and fortune. And, if what Murily tells me is true, I’m sure to find it by your side.”
Ormuz glanced across the room at Plessant. What had she told this fool? Adventure?
Plessant grimaced, turned away and crossed to drop onto a plush sofa.
Ormuz turned back to Varä. “Will you go away?” he asked politely.
“No.”
“Perhaps you could use him to teach you the proper way to speak. You still sound like a prole,” Plessant said. “And etiquette: he could teach that, too.”
Ormuz turned to her but could read nothing in her scowl.
“You need to know how to behave,” she continued, “if you want people to take you seriously.”
“I don’t have time for a dancing-master!” he snapped, stung by the observation that he was, by birth if not by blood, a prole.
“I am not,” said Varä quietly, “a dancing-master.”
“But you’ll teach me?” Ormuz asked, turning to the noble. “She’s right: I need to know these things.”
“No, not teach. Advise, perhaps.” Nodding, he added, “Yes, I think I will.” He stepped back and swept a wide bow. As he rose, he beamed at Ormuz. “First, I think, we need to work on your wardrobe. You dress like a prole with pretensions.”
“He is a prole with pretensions,” grated Plessant.
Ormuz glared at her. She was the one who had pushed him to take charge of his own destiny. Her remark stabbed as sharply as a betrayal.
“A wardrobe cos
ts money,” Plessant said. “You don’t have any.”
“Divine Providence does,” Ormuz countered.
“It’s not mine to spend. It belongs to—”
“Sir Borodisz?” interrupted Ormuz bitterly. “I’m sure he won’t mind… given he doesn’t exist.”
“He exists.”
Ormuz glared at her.
“Money,” said Varä,” is not a problem. I have more than enough.” He smiled. “One of the advantages of being a duke’s son.”
“Teach me to use a sword,” Ormuz demanded.
Varä arched an eyebrow. “Dancing-master and sword-master? A promotion so soon?”
It was Plessant who had suggested they take a private room at the San Mikel. It was better, she pointed out, they not have an audience. Ormuz disagreed. He wanted people about him. He had no reason to trust her masters. But she argued her point and he reluctantly acquiesced. In the San Mikel, Varä spoke to the barman, money changed hands, and a waiter led the party up a flight of stairs and ushered them into a small room containing a dining-table and ten chairs. Ormuz took the chair in the middle of one side, Varä and Tovar to the left, Plessant and Dai to the right. Lotsman stood in a corner, back against the wall, arms crossed. A second waiter appeared, carrying a tray of drinks: six glasses of beer. Lotsman paid him and the waiter left.
Sitting back in his chair, Ormuz sipped his drink thoughtfully. He smoothed a lapel of his coat idly. The fabric was rich and sleek beneath his fingertips. And expensive. Varä had bought it for him that morning. A tailor had been called to the mansion. For an hour or more, Ormuz was measured and draped in lengths of material; patterns and designs were discussed. Varä did most of the talking. Two hours before Ormuz was due to leave for the San Mikel, the first of his new wardrobe had been delivered: some coats, shirts, trousers, boots, underwear… all finely-made and suited to the scion of a noble family. After Ormuz had dressed in tight black trousers, pale grey high-collared shirt and a black frock-coat of superfine, Varä had presented him with a sword and sword-belt. The blade hung from his hip. He felt its awkward length and weight. Wearing a sword was not second nature to him, as it was for yeomen and nobility. He had to hold it when he walked to avoid tripping. And sitting down had become an exercise in caution. Of course, he had no idea how to use the weapon. Varä had promised he would begin teaching Ormuz sword-play shortly.
