By Honor Betray'd: Mageworlds #3

by Doyle, Debra; Macdonald, James D.

  That had brought a skeptical look to the face of the Ministry rep who’d been asking most of the questions, but his manner had softened a little afterward. Whatever the Gyfferan’s feelings about the local Space Force contingent, at least Llannat and Vinhalyn—surprised themselves by the outbreak of war—weren’t being held personally responsible.

  The hovercar came to a halt outside the main building of the Space Force installation. Llannat and Vinhalyn got out, the lieutenant thanked the driver, and the hovercar sped back toward the gate.

  Llannat let out her breath in an explosive sigh. “Well. At least that’s over.”

  “Temporarily, at least,” said Vinhalyn. He glanced over at the sleek black hull of the Magebuilt ship. “Some of our hosts are certain to find the Daughter as fascinating as I do—there are one or two academics on Gyffer with an interest in Old Eraasian artifacts. But the preparations for war will keep them occupied for a while, I hope.”

  “Until you’ve got enough notes to publish something first?”

  The lieutenant smiled, a bit grimly. “I may be fated to end my scholarly career the way I began it—as a lieutenant in the Republic’s service—but the full report on Night’s- Beautiful-Daughter will keep my name alive in the archives all the same.”

  “Worse things could happen,” said Llannat. “And we may see a few of them, if we’re not careful. Let’s go on in and tell the others what the Ministry’s going to do with us.”

  Vinhalyn nodded, and led the way into the main building, where they’d left the rest of the crew. The courier ship’s original complement had been augmented by the four crew members of a Pari-class scout that had been docked with the Deathwing raider when the Mageworlds warfleet broke through the Net. That brought the crew up to twelve people, counting Llannat and Vinhalyn; not much of a Space Force presence on a planet facing imminent attack.

  The interior of the building was dim after the sun glare over the landing field. Llannat stood for a moment just inside the tinted armor-glass of the door, letting her eyes—and her other, nonphysical senses—adjust to the change.

  The Space Force installation hadn’t yet lost all traces of its previous inhabitants. She could sense the residual shock and tension of their hurried departure, overlaid by the auras of the building’s new occupants. After their time aboard the Deathwing, all of them were known to her. She relaxed a bit in their familiarity. With relaxation came a sudden awareness of another presence, one whose strength and steadiness had almost lulled her into accepting it as a part of the pattern.

  She caught her breath in surprise. That’s not one of the Daughter’s crew! That’s—

  “Ari?” she said, and heard her voice quaver on the edge of a shaky laugh. “What in the name of everything in the civilized galaxy are you doing here?”

  He stood up. As usual, he’d found the lowest chair in the most inconspicuous corner of the room, and had occupied it with a stillness that even some Adepts never managed to learn. It was a hunter’s stillness, that he’d learned from the Selvaurs who controlled Llannat’s homeworld. Ari had been fostered among the big saurians—he and they were built to the same scale—and the nonhuman training showed in the way he held himself. Most big men were awkward and clumsy, or at least to Llannat they seemed to be, but Ari moved with the easy grace of the Forest Lords.

  The bow of respect he gave Llannat had never been learned on Maraghai, however, and his Galcenian had the pure native accent.

  “I’ve been waiting for you,” he said. “I thought about going to the Defense Ministry, but decided that coming here would be easier.”

  She took a step closer, putting out a hand to touch the fabric of his sleeve and feel the muscular solidity of the arm beneath it.

  “No, no,” she said, struggling against laughter. “I mean, what are you doing on Gyffer? The last I heard, you were headed for RSF Fezrisond—we had a bet, remember, that she wouldn’t get out of the Infabede sector while you were on her?”

  “I remember,” he said, smiling down at her. “You lose, I’m afraid. The Fezzy hasn’t left Infabede yet that I’ve heard of.” His smile faded. “She’s Admiral Vallant’s flagship, you know. When Vallant declared his mutiny, I decided it was time for me to leave.”

  “Leave how?”

  “The Fezzy carries a fighter detachment on board. So I stole one of the long-range craft and brought it here.” He shrugged, looking unhappy. “Gyffer was the only place in range that looked safe. I didn’t know about the Magefleet then.”

  “Nobody did,” she said. She let her hand slide away from his arm; at the last moment, his fingers caught hers, and held them. “We knew there was trouble coming—but we all thought that we’d have more time.”

  VI. INNISH-KYL: WAYCROSS

  GYFFER: PORT OF TELABRYK

  LADY LEROI: HYPERSPACE TRANSIT TO PLEYVER

  BACK IN the days of the First Magewar, Waycross on Innish-Kyl had been one of the gaudiest and most riotous ports in the civilized galaxy. The privateers who preyed on the Mageworlds supply fleets had made Innish-Kyl their base, returning to Waycross between forays to sell off their stolen cargo and refit their battered ships. Three decades of peace and prosperity, however, had turned the onetime pirates’ haven into an ordinary third-rank trading nexus, a bit rough around the edges but rich in historical associations.

  That, at least, was how things had stood a few weeks ago, before the Mageworlders took Galcen. Now Innish-Kyl had a fighting fleet in orbit again—Karipavo, Shaja, and Lachiel, three capital ships from the former Space Force Net Patrol. The portside Strip was thronged with free-spending spacers, all with money in their pockets and full of the urge to party away the strain of combat. Captain Jervas Gil, commanding officer of the ’Pavo and commodore of the three-ship force, wasn’t surprised at how fast Waycross had snapped back into its old shape.

  “The changes never did go that deep,” he said to his aide, Lieutenant Bretyn Jhunnei.

  The two officers sat in one of the far back tables in the Blue Sun Cantina, nursing tumblers of the bad local brandy and making conversation as best they could over the gabble of voices. Gil and his aide were both in civilian clothing, as were most of the dirtside crews. Since coming to Waycross, the commodore had also resumed styling himself “Baronet D’Rugier”—a title he’d seldom bothered with since leaving his homeworld of Ovredis and going into the service. But now that he’d be associating with and commanding civilians …

  “The last time I was in Waycross,” he continued, “I lost count of how many laws I wound up breaking.”

  “All in a good cause, sir, I’m sure,” Jhunnei said. “Any leftover legal problems that we need to worry about?”

  “There shouldn’t be. We falsified the records and deep-spaced the body.”

  She didn’t blink. “Sounds like an interesting evening.”

  The lieutenant was a dark-haired woman with a sallow, bony face and an air of unobtrusive competence. In peacetime, she would have been on the fast track for advancement—Gil’s last promotion had come after his successful completion of a similar tour of duty as aide to General Metadi. These days, Gil wasn’t sure that there was a Space Force left for advancing in, outside of his own three ships and the handful of smaller craft that had survived the battle at the Outer Net.

  If only hi-comms weren’t still so damned spotty …

  The Mageworlders had pulled off their surprise attack by suppressing the hyperspace communications network upon which so much of the Space Force’s strategy and tactics depended. It wasn’t supposed to be possible, not with a multiply-redundant and self-healing system, but the Mages had done it. Even now, with the network slowly coming back on-line; outsector comms were erratic and subject to time lag.

  Several minutes passed. The crowd in the Blue Sun grew denser and rowdier. The dim air was streaked with the blue-grey fumes of incense and smoking herbs, and the mingled sweet and bitter smells warred with the odor of sweat and spilled beer. The Blue Sun’s climate-control system, al
ready overburdened, tried to compensate by drawing power from the light panels and the emergency glows. The system’s efforts gave the cantina’s illumination an irregular and unsettling flicker.

  “So what do you think, sir?” Jhunnei said at last. “Is this ‘Captain Merro’ person going to show up or not?”

  “I hope so,” Gil said. “Having him throw in with us will make it easier to get the rest.” He took another sip of the atrocious brandy. “Unfortunately, the sort of people we need right now are the sort of people who under happier circumstances would be right at the top of our stop-and-search list, and don’t think they don’t know it.”

  “Merchant-captains with fast mean ships that are a bit faster and meaner than they ought to be” was how Gil had phrased it to the Blue Sun’s bartender when he was first putting out the word. The bartender had understood him well enough: “You’ll want to talk with Cap’n Merro, then. If you can get Merro’s Luck of the Draw on your side, most of the others’ll follow.”

  Another few minutes passed. Just as Gil was about to give up and call it a night, a tall figure loomed over the table, blocking most of the light.

  *I’m Merrolakk. Are you the Baronet D’Rugier they said was looking for me?*

  The language wasn’t Standard Galcenian, but a hooting, rumbling speech that most human voices found uncongenial. Gil was not one of the few who could speak it; he wouldn’t have understood it, either, without the crash-tutoring he’d undergone during his stint as General Metadi’s aide. The General had negotiated the first firm alliance between the Republic and the Selvaurs, and was bound to the big saurians by complex ties of sworn-brotherhood and child-fosterage. Learning to “hear” the Forest Speech wasn’t an official requirement for working with Metadi, but Gil sometimes thought it should have been.

  Captain Merro wore a vest full of pockets, most of them sealed and bulging, and a holstered blaster on a weapons belt. No knife, though; the Forest Lords regarded edged weapons as fang-and-claw substitutes permissible only for infants or for those made feeble by age. Gil also noted Merro’s bright green scales and uncrested skull, the former marking the captain as belonging to one of the minor Selvauran subraces, and the latter marking him—marking her—as a female. The bartender hadn’t mentioned that last detail; perhaps he hadn’t known the difference, or hadn’t cared.

  Gil nodded courteously. “I’m D’Rugier, yes. Sit down, please, Captain. Would you care for some brandy?”

  The Selvaur took a chair on the other side of the table. *No, thanks. You say you’ve got a business proposal for me?* “Of sorts. Are you interested?”

  *It depends. Is it going to be profitable?*

  Gil shrugged. “As you said yourself, it depends. But with luck, yes. And the more ships who participate, the better.”

  Merrolakk’s yellow eyes dilated with interest. *What kind of job are you thinking about?*

  “A simple one, really,” said Gil. “I intend to enter the Magezone, find whatever merchant ships might be there, and transfer their cargos to mine.”

  The Selvauran captain hooted under her breath—with amusement, as far as Gil could tell. *Pirate, eh?*

  Gil shook his head. “No. Privateer. I’m carrying letters of marque and reprisal.”

  *Whose?*

  Before Gil could answer, he spotted a new arrival in the Blue Sun. The newcomer, a young Space Force trooper in an awkward mixture of uniform and civilian clothing, looked around the room, wide-eyed, before shouldering a way through the crowd to their table.

  “My lord Baronet,” he began—hesitating a bit on the title. “A word with you.”

  “Of course,” said Gil. He turned to Merrolakk. “Excuse me for a moment.”

  The Selvaur. laughed again with the breathy hoo-hoo sounds of her species. *He brings word that more of your fleet has gathered, twenty-seven vessels of various classes, coming in from the Net.*

  The messenger clearly didn’t understand the Forest Speech. He gave Merrolakk a curious look, then leaned closer to Gil’s ear and whispered, “We’ve found twenty-seven undamaged units in the Net. They’ll be making orbit later tonight or early tomorrow.”

  *Was I right?*

  Gil ignored the Selvaur. “When did you get the word?” he asked the messenger in an undertone.

  “We picked up lightspeed comms with them a couple of minutes ago. I came right over.”

  “Thank you,” said Gil. “Prepare to receive them; refuel, rearm, refit as necessary.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Gil nodded the messenger on his way, and turned back to Merro. “I believe we were discussing a business proposition.”

  *You could call it that,* said Merro. She still sounded amused. *Assuming it’s successful—what kind of prize fees are you talking about?*

  “You take half,” said Gil. He’d done some research on the subject before coming down to the Blue Sun this evening, and the cut he’d proposed had been a standard one in the old days, whenever an eager or ambitious captain brought together more than one ship for a privateering foray. “Divide it with your crew as you see fit. The other half goes to me—for the good of everyone under my flag.”

  *What happens if I hit a run of bad luck?* “You’ll be taken care of, don’t worry. I have some long-term investors backing the project.”

  Gil paused. The next bit would be tricky, even with the sweetening of that bad-luck guarantee. “I will also direct you as to the general area of your operations, the rules of engagement, and your treatment of prisoners, if any.”

  The captain smiled—an almost-human expression, except for the flash of predatory fangs. Gil knew enough Selvauran physiognomy to recognize that she wasn’t entirely pleased by his last statement. *I see. You keep tight control and you take half my profits. What have you got for me that’s worth it?*

  “Well,” said Gil. “For one thing … when the Republic is restored, I won’t have to hunt you down myself.”

  This time Merro did show her teeth. *Brave words for a man who’s lost his fleet.*

  Jhunnei spoke up for the first time. “If you think the Magelords can give you something better, you can go ask them.”

  *I might.*

  She’s bluffing, Gil reassured himself. The Selvaurs were allies of the Republic in the last war; the Mages won’t be eager to make deals with them now.

  “When can I expect your answer, Captain?”

  *Soon,* Merro said. *After I’ve spoken with my associates. *

  Gil nodded. “Call on me when you have something—but I can’t wait on your answer forever. I’ll be taking my fleet out of orbit before very long.”

  *I understand. Can you tell me when?*

  “It depends. As soon as possible.”

  *So.*

  Merrolakk regarded him for a moment longer without saying anything, then rose and walked away—but no farther than the bar, where she ordered up a mug of something green. Jhunnei looked after the Selvauran captain with a curious expression.

  “Do you think she’s going to go for it?”

  “I hope so,” said Gil. “Because it’s the only way we can get enough ships.”

  “We have a slight problem here,” Lieutenant Vinhalyn said to Ari. The two of them were conferring in what had once been the CO’s office at Telabryk Field. The Space Force evacuation had left the room as bare as the rest of the installation; even the files on the desk comp had been wiped. “I’m the senior line officer on-planet, and you’re technically a deserter—which raises the inconvenient question of what I’m supposed to do with you now that I’ve got you.”

  “I know,” Ari said. “If it’s any help, I can plead extenuating circumstances. I didn’t think I ought to stick around on Fezrisond and let Admiral Valiant drag me into mutiny.”

  Vinhalyn nodded. “True. Your family name alone would make you far too valuable as a potential hostage. But we still have to account for that fighter you appropriated for the journey.”

  “I was going to turn it over to the base CO as soon as I
reached Gyffer,” Ari said. “So I suppose it’s yours.”

  “Thus augmenting our little squadron to three ships; or two and a fraction, anyhow.”

  Ari smiled briefly at the mild witticism: Eldan dual-seaters were high on armament, and had considerable hyperspace range, but they weren’t very big.

  Vinhalyn continued, looking thoughtful. “Rather than putting you in the medical department with Captain Lury, I’m going to assign you to general duty and keep you as our one-man fighter squadron. As for your alleged desertion … I’ll fill out all the proper forms. Under the circumstances, though, it wouldn’t surprise me if the paperwork never made it all the way to Galcen.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Don’t thank me,” Vinhalyn said. “There’s a fight coming—Gyffer couldn’t get away with rolling over and playing dead even if the locals wanted to—and we’ll be right in the middle of it. I made a point, this morning, of offering our help to the Defense Ministry before anybody in the room could work up the initiative to commandeer us.”

  Ari followed his reasoning. Relations between the Space Force and the local defense fleets were a delicate matter, even in peacetime, and it was better to volunteer for trouble than to set a bad precedent. “What about that Deathwing raider you brought in?”

  “An armed ship is an armed ship,” Vinhalyn said, with a sigh. “I’d prefer to study Night’s-Beautiful-Daughter at more length, naturally; a perfectly preserved Deathwing raider from the early days of the Eraasian Hegemony is a scholar’s treasure beyond all price. But we do what we must.”

  “And Llannat—Mistress Hyfid?”

  “She stays with us, she says; but Adepts choose their own paths.” Vinhalyn looked at Ari curiously. “Mistress Hyfid is a friend of yours?”

  “We were stationed together on Nammerin,” Ari said. “She saved my life.”

  “I see,” said Vinhalyn. “Well, if you’re interested in renewing old acquaintance, I wouldn’t dally. Once the fighting starts, none of us are likely to have much time.”