Ki-Lynn stopped walking and stared into her commander's eyes. "You ask the wrong question, Marcus. It should not be, if he can, but when he will? And that is as soon as he sees no further chance of obtaining your assistance through easier means."
* * *
From an upper-floor balcony, two men looked down on the mercenary commander and his communications officer as they rounded a corner toward the rear of the palace. Both men held cups filled with deep purple wine that had been served chilled but was rapidly warming.
Demi-Precentor Cameron St. Jamais watched his companion carefully. "You are sure, Arch Vizier? Caliph Shervanis will deliver them into my hands with their 'Mechs?"
The dark-skinned man ran a large hand back over his smooth-shaven pate. "You can see that we already have their leader and four of his Mech Warriors as our"—he smiled—"guests."
St. Jamais waved that aside imperiously. "But the machines. They are worth millions of C-bills each, and that is where the Angels can best be hurt. They can refill empty cockpits with new warriors. Perhaps from another caliphate."
"We had hoped they would parade their 'Mechs into the city, which would get them away from their DropShip. Caliph Shervanis is now attempting to convince them to bring the machines out under the ruse of a mission."
The demi-Precentor stared at Ji-Drohmien over the rim of his cup as he took a healthy drink of the sweet cool wine to hide his anger. "Do not ever consider me a fool," he said, keeping his voice low and even. "Shervanis hopes to pressure the mercenaries into attacking Caliph Rashier or possibly Caliph Zander."
Ji-Drohmien's smile was wide and full of strong white teeth. "You promised us the machines. What does it matter if we put them to use before or after we acquire them?"
"It pushes back my time table. I'm not sure how much GioAvanti knows, but if he and his people are here, then the Magistracy Armed Forces might not be far behind. I showed you the dispatches. Emma Centrella is up to something, playing with JumpShip schedules and shuffling her troops. The Angels must be dealt with and my forces removed from Astrokaszy before MAF JumpShips begin arriving." Not for the first time St. Jamais cursed the loss of demi-Precentor Nicholas. She had been an important cog in his intelligence machine, and now he felt as if he was stumbling about half-blind. "Do you have any good news to report?"
"The commander, this GioAvanti, he is disturbed by the news that his force is under a seizure edict."
St. Jamais nodded. It was just as he knew it would be. "A ploy that will only work for as long as we can keep the Angels isolated. But if we deny them use of the HPG facility for too long, they will grow suspicious. Malachye-pasha had better act fast."
"Do not worry, my friend. His Highness has kept every promise so far, and will deliver on this one as well. You will have the mercenaries and we shall have their machines."
St. Jamais spun on his heel, the cape of his Word of Blake uniform flaring out behind him as he passed through the open balcony doors. "Soon, Ji-Drohmien," he said over his shoulder. "Just make it soon."
24
Grand Pavilion, Palatial Estates
City of Shervanis, Shervanis Caliphate
Astrokaszy
The Periphery
28 June 3058
"Not quite the place for a private meeting," Jericho Ryan half-yelled.
The music thrilled around them, the deep rolling bass of a dozen drums underscoring the higher-pitched crash of cymbals and tambourines. It washed through the high-vaulted pavilion in waves, sensual and wild. Dark-skinned dancing girls moved about the floor with erotic abandon, hips gyrating and arms and legs trailing long ribbons of colorful silk that swirled and snapped behind them. Others moved about bearing huge platters of steaming food and ice-cooled fruit or large jars of wine that they would slosh into any proffered glass. The scent of cooked meat and the musky fusion of perfume, incense, and sweat hung over the room.
Thomas Faber skewered a hunk of charred flesh from the tray of a passing servant and added it to the growing pile on his plate. "Maybe not private, but it's well catered," he said, drawing a flash of annoyance from Jericho.
"You must not have walked around much this afternoon." Jase Torgensson sipped from the pewter cup he'd been given upon entering the ballroom. "I saw the caravan of slaves delivering this feast. An old woman dropped a basket of oranges." His soft voice carried only far enough to reach the rest of the group. "They beat her to death."
Faber looked at the orange slices balanced on his plate and suddenly stopped chewing and spit out the fruit. "Sorry," he said, looking embarrassed.
Marcus paused to let the awkwardness of the moment pass before speaking. "Find anything else out, Jase?" His voice was dead and flat, about the way he'd felt since his second meeting with Shervanis. He kept a smile painted on his face for the benefit of their host, who now and then glanced over as if to reassure himself that the Angels were still present. Catching the Caliph's eye, Marcus raised his glass in a silent toast. "Serpent," Marcus muttered into his glass as he forced himself to take a swallow.
"My watchdog scares away anyone who might talk with me," Jase said, referring to the guard assigned to follow him around. "Hard to make friends. But I did get in touch with a Word of Blake acolyte. He happily informed me that ComStar no longer maintains the facility here and that was Shervanis who invited in the Blakists. I asked about sending out some priority messages t'Outreach, but all I got was a run-around. Apparently I have to speak with the demi-Precentor—who was unavailable." He shook his head. "Seems like they're trying to keep us incommunicado. Can't say for sure that it's Shervanis, but I'll know before tomorrow is over."
Ki-Lynn's voice was soft, but she could still be heard over the commotion of music and revelry all around them. "I managed to speak with Arch Vizier Ji-Drohmien after our talk, Marcus. As your comm officer, I was allowed limited access to Malachye-pasha's communication room." Marcus knew it went without saying that she'd been well-guarded the whole time and her communications monitored.
"I spoke to the Heaven Sent, and they've received only a single communique from Charlene. The Head of a Pin acquired visual on some BattleMechs operating in the Shaharazad south and west of here. Older machines. Poor repair."
That meant those couldn't be the Hegemony raiders.
And if the Pinhead had spotted any newer 'Mechs in the city of Shervanis, Ki would have mentioned it. Marcus lowered his voice as the music began to fade. "Tomorrow the Heaven Sent will report an ammunition explosion in the 'Mech bay." He saw the look of surprise on all but Ki-Lynn's face. "It's something I arranged before we left the ship, just in case. It should be enough for Shervanis to let us return to the DropShip. We'll be under heavy guard, that we can count on. Our host won't want us lifting off without paying a tribute of some type, but I have no intention of playing into his greedy hands." He grimaced under the amused stares of Faber and Jericho. "All right— greedy hand. Jase, you've got until mid-afternoon tomorrow to find out what you can."
"Got it."
"They'll be wanting to keep us away from our 'Mechs, but a tech will be sitting in each one and the machines’ll be in maintenance mode. Not much they can do but move the arms, but from our guards' standpoint it should be intimidating enough."
There were nods all around. Then Jericho frowned and tipped her head toward the main floor of the pavilion. "What's going on out there?"
The music had died to just the low rumbling of drums as the dancing girls escorted the guests off to one side, creating a large open circle in the center of the room. Two of the caliph's men entered the open area, both wearing only flaring black trousers and each carrying two scimitar-style blades in one hand. The men were large and well-muscled, one with dark olive skin and the other black as polished ebony. The olive-skinned man wore his hair cropped close to the scalp and his upper chest was tattooed with a large flaming sword. The black warrior wore his hair long and plaited, almost like a horse with a braided mane.
"Bloodsport," Ki-Lynn whispered.
<
br /> Bloodsport. Marcus watched with morbid fascination as the two warriors saluted the caliph, each touching his free hand to his chest and then his forehead. Then they turned to each other and transferred one of the blades they carried to the other hand as they struck classic defensive poses. Marcus knew bloodsport had once been a form of entertainment in the Draconis Combine, and he'd heard that it was still practiced in some areas. But to watch these two face off with such casual disregard for what they were about to enact sent chills up his spine.
Caliph Shervanis rose from his pillows, holding his arms up for attention. The drummers quieted down, so as not to compete with their master. "This day a group of warriors came to Astrokaszy and courteously paid their respects to me before others. Now, I return that gift with a demonstration of the prowess of two of our warriors." He reached down with his good hand and helped a dancing girl to her feet, both her hands held high to show a beautifully jeweled dagger. "To the winner," he proclaimed.
Marcus thought the caliph might be referring to more than just the jeweled blade. And the noticeable tightening around the dancer's eyes told him he wasn't the only one who thought so.
As the caliph sat down, the drums rose in a crescendo that was capped with a loud crash of cymbals. As if transformed, the two big men moved toward each other, masks of hate suddenly contorting their faces as the blades whirled in front of and around their bodies in an incredible display of technique. They met with a ringing of steel against steel as each made and quickly deflected a good dozen slashing strokes from the other. It seemed as if it could go on forever in an endless chain of slash and parry when the olive-skinned warrior suddenly kicked the other man in the chest hard enough to send him stumbling backward a good three meters.
But the ebony warrior rose smoothly to his feet, and they were at each other again. Now it was the olive-skinned man who went tumbling away, this time from a kick to his shoulder that was also beginning to leak blood from a cut.
The ebony-skinned man tossed his head back to flip the long braids back over his shoulders and charged in. Again the clanging of steel on steel. Each man tried to kick the other way, and both pulled back under a sudden flurry of whirling blades. Then the olive-skinned man tried to press in past the other's defenses, but was just as suddenly sent reeling with his left foot neatly severed at the ankle and a second cut opening a red line across the tattoo on his chest. Even with the fight clearly over, the ebony-skinned warrior offered no respite and drove in to impale his opponent on the end of his left-hand blade.
The sound of the drums and crashing cymbals echoed hollowly in Marcus' ears as the wet choking of the dying man reached him. Had Shervanis offered this display in some attempt to win him over, he wondered. Was Marcus supposed to be impressed by how little the caliph valued the lives of those he ruled? That thought made him remember Charlene's accusations. He'd never sacrifice any of his people in some kind of game or amusement, but he hadn't been able to shake his doubts ever since she'd confronted him.
The drums had died away under the cheers and shouts of the dark-skinned Astrokaszy natives. Standing up, Caliph Shervanis shouted over the din toward the Angels. "Commander GioAvanti, what did you think?"
For a moment it occurred to Marcus to pretend not to hear, but he changed his mind as the dark-skinned warriors nearest the Angels turned expectantly toward him. He took a healthy drink from his cup, buying himself a few extra seconds as he swallowed the sweet wine. "A remarkable display of skill," he finally called back to the Caliph. "A fearsome warrior."
Caliph Shervanis smiled, his lips skinning back from his teeth in an almost feral grin. "Fearsome. A fine quality in a warrior. But the greatest quality? What do you say, Commander GioAvanti? What is the greatest quality to be found in a warrior?" His spoke the words in an obvious challenge, then calmly picked up the stem of a large hookah and sucked in a lungful of whatever drug they smoked here on Astrokaszy.
Marcus stood staring at the caliph for a moment before replying. He knew he must choose his words carefully. "A belief in his cause," he said. "A righteousness that always leads to victory, even when the battle is lost."
Shervanis exhaled noisily. "An interesting thought, Commander: And most appropriate coming from a man who commands a military unit known as the Angels." He sat up straighten "I would like to test this. You will fight Kabahstalla," he said, nodding toward the black man, who had remained in the circle formed by the crowd of spectators. "No," he corrected himself, "one of your warriors should fight him. A test of belief in his or her commander."
Marcus stared at the caliph, eyes wide with astonishment. Shervanis expected him to let one of his warriors fight against that—he reached for the words—whirling dervish? It would only be a death sentence. "Caliph—" Marcus began what he hoped was a polite refusal, but was cut off.
"That one," Shervanis said, pointing his stump of a right hand at Faber. "He looks like a good match."
Think fast, Marcus chided himself. Stall. Then he thought of how a superior Clan force would bid away some of its strength for the honor of being allowed to participate in combat. Could Marcus work a similar deal here? Try to bargain.
"He might be," he said, then paused to let the Caliph recognize the reluctance in his voice. He felt the warning pressure of Ki-Lynn nudging him in the back. "Thomas is a fine warrior. I suppose it would depend on the terms."
"Terms?" The black, soulless eyes of the caliph narrowed, and his tone was sharp. "What do you mean by terms, Commander?"
Thomas Faber rose from the cushions to stand next to Marcus, his large frame dwarfing his commander's. Before Marcus could speak, Thomas answered for him.
"Terms are always the most important question, Caliph Shervanis," he said, shrugging as though it was obvious. "I am a mercenary. What am I fighting for?"
* * *
Thomas Faber had watched the bloodsport event with the critical eye of a professional warrior. As a young man he'd participated in such contests back in the Draconis Combine. His size and temperament made him a natural for it, even when still in his teens. Born to the lower class, Thomas had viewed it as his one way off the world of Bjarred. He'd worked hard, risen up through the ranks until finally attracting the direct notice of the planetary governor, who asked Thomas to fight for him against champions of neighboring worlds. In return the man promised Thomas admission to a minor Mech Warrior academy; all Thomas had to do was survive one year of fighting.
In the years since, the big man had tried to forget that year of fighting and blood, though it still showed in his slugging-match style of BattleMech combat. Now the memories boiled to the surface, and Thomas hated Caliph Malachye Shervanis for bringing it all back.
He had recognized immediately that the dark-skinned man held the advantage in the first fight. His opponent had feared him. He'd also seen the naked hunger for the dancing girl in the black man's eyes, almost like a trained dog being offered a slab of meat as a reward for work. Through the entire contest Thomas studied each move by both combatants, muscles tense when he spotted a slight opening the olive-skinned man could have exploited but didn't. Then it was over, and Thomas ground his teeth together as the final bubbling gasp of the dying man reached him.
When Caliph Shervanis suggested a match against one of the Angels, Thomas knew he would be the one. The women would be exempt here, prizes only, and Thomas was not about to let either Jase or Marcus step into the arena against this Kabahstalla. So as Shervanis asked about the terms, Thomas rose to his feet to bargain for himself.
His words seemed to amuse Shervanis, who laughed full and rich for several seconds before answering. "A mercenary indeed," the caliph said, rubbing his good hand against his side. "What would you have?" he finally asked.
The question echoed in the recesses of Thomas' mind. What would you have? The very question posed him by the governor back on Bjarred so long ago. Those words had set him on the path to becoming a Mech Warrior, a station far above what he could otherwise have hoped to achieve.
Thomas doubted he could push Shervanis quite that far. He pointed to the dancing girl standing at the edge of the dais and still holding the prize dagger across unturned palms. "Her. You would release her completely to my"—he paused—"care." He grinned wolfishly, trying to look every ounce the crude warrior.
Thomas had never been heavily trained in the warrior arts of sensing out another person's wa or ki or whatever they called it, but he could still feel the sudden hostility in Jericho Ryan and the astonishment in both Jase and Marcus. I know what I'm doing, he wanted to tell them as Shervanis' feral grin grew even wider. "Done," the caliph said, slapping the silver cap on his right arm into the palm of his left hand.
"Then we shall need two neural whips," Thomas said simply, catching Shervanis just as he settled back against the cushions again.
"Two what!" the caliph asked, decidedly less delighted than he'd been a moment before.
"Neural whips. They are the personal weapon of choice in the Draconis Combine," Thomas lied. Neural whips were a sadistic weapon, causing extreme pain with the disruption of the neural system wherever it struck an opponent. They were banned throughout most of the Inner Sphere, though the Combine still allowed their use in certain agencies.
Thomas looked surprised by the Caliph's sudden silence. "Forgive my presumption, Highness, but I thought it was custom for the challenged to choose the weapon. I'm afraid all I know is the whip and regular hand-to-hand." And there would be no way you could make me pick up a blade again, not unless it was to slice your head off your shoulders.
Thomas kept his eyes locked to the caliph's. Again, he wished he'd been trained more as Ki-Lynn had, able to sense another's internal energies and overwhelm them with your own. Instead he could only wait calmly for the caliph's decision.
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