By Honor Betray'd: Mageworlds #3

by Doyle, Debra; Macdonald, James D.

  Ransome laughed. “The Nammerinish tart? No. You failed me, and I have need of her. I have a great deal of work before me to undo all the damage that you have done, and she will be my apprentice here.”

  “You’ve done quite enough,” Perada said. Her voice was cold now, cold as the Void outside—as cold, Beka thought, as the Domina herself must have felt after she had resolved to lose Entibor rather than surrender the civilized galaxy to the Magelords. “You weren’t satisfied with winning the last war and humbling the Mages; you were the Breaker of Circles, and you wanted the Mages destroyed. You wanted to stop any movement toward unity, any chance that someone might persuade the Republic to bring in the Mageworlds as equals rather than keeping them locked away on the far side of the Net. And to do that, you needed to kill me.”

  Beka’s grip tightened on her blaster; only shock and a momentary disbelief kept her from firing. But the stricken expression on Errec Ransome’s face convinced her that Perada had spoken the truth.

  “You were committing treason,” Ransome said. “You were sworn to a Mage. You were a Mage. You had to die.”

  You bastard, thought Beka. After everything we did—after everywhere we looked—after I damn-near took the civilized galaxy to pieces with my bare hands—it was all done in the name of your precious Guild after all. And Dadda was blind enough to call you his best and oldest friend!

  But Perada didn’t look surprised. “Do you believe in vengeful ghosts?” she asked Ransome.

  “No.”

  “Believe in them,” Perada said. “We exist.”

  “Then believe in this also,” Ransome said. “I will bear no interference in my work. The war can still be won, if only I have the time—and here in the Void, I will have all the time I need.”

  There was a blur of movement beside him.

  “‘Nammerinish tart,’” Klea said, as her staff came down on him, her posture suddenly no longer awkward, her form in the Dance perfect. “I’m my own, not yours, and I’m not a tart.”

  Now, thought Beka, as Ransome staggered forward. She leveled her blaster and fired twice in rapid succession.

  The bolts flashed through Ransome without apparent effect. They slammed through the furnishings behind him without leaving holes. Their passage through the air left none of the usual acrid smell. But as their sound and light died, the stones of the tower began to waver and turn into smoke.

  The walls fell and the floor dissolved, and once more there was nothing, anywhere, but the swirling grey fog that was the mark and substance of the Void.

  Owen stepped forward, his staff a blazing bar of white light. “Now, Master Ransome—fight me.”

  Ransome smiled, and there was a bitterness in it that hurt Beka to look at. “The final, true contest for Mastery, after the way of the Mages? So be it, and let the apprentice here stand witness.”

  “Apprentice no longer,” said Owen. “She said it herself. She is her own. Mistress Santreny?”

  The girl took a step nearer. “Owen?”

  “Whatever happens, see that the others get home.”

  If the command—and the unexpected elevation in rank—were too much for Klea, Beka thought, she didn’t show it. Her eyes were clear, and she nodded gravely. “I will.”

  “Good.” Owen turned back to Master Ransome. “Let us begin.”

  The two Adepts faced one another, and their staves lashed out in swirling blazes of light, a basketwork of glowing lines surrounding them, swift and deadly.

  Ari stood looking at them with the same intent regard he had given to Llannat Hyfid’s duel in the cargo bay. “Master Ransome is the one who killed you, Mother?”

  “He gave the order,” Perada said. “He laid the track. He set hired assassins on you and on your sister, so that the Mages would be blamed.”

  “Then he’s mine.”

  With that, Ari walked into the fight.

  Beka watched him go, her useless blaster still gripped tightly in her hand. “It’s no good,” she said, half to herself and half to Perada. “Ari’s just going to get himself killed.”

  Perada laid a hand on Beka’s wrist. “No,” she said. “Errec has always been one to hide away his wounds, from friend and enemy alike. He was hurt when he came here, and now he lacks the strength to hold the citadel together around us. All he can do is keep up an illusion of soundness. That, and fight.”

  “And hope for a fair duel,” said Beka. Her lips curled back in a silent snarl. “He doesn’t deserve one.”

  “Perhaps; perhaps not,” said the Domina. “But the choice isn’t his any longer.”

  Beka turned her attention back to the fight. Ari had stepped into the midst of it, ignoring the random strokes that came his way, and Owen had seen him. Beka, watching them, was sure of it—she saw Owen’s gaze shift away from Ransome for an instant, and focus on his brother.

  Then Owen turned his attention back to Ransome, and began a flurry of fast, light attacks to the older Adept’s head—strikes not meant to hurt or slow him, Beka realized, but to distract him from the other man who was approaching from behind. Owen wasn’t even defending himself, even though more than one of Ransome’s blows fell solidly against his body. He didn’t stop weaving his elaborate web of feints and distractions until his brother had come within arm’s reach.

  Owen faltered, leaving himself open. Ransome lifted up his staff for the killing stroke. And Ari seized the onetime Master of the Adept’s Guild from behind, lifted him, and slammed him down across his knee. Ransome’s spine broke with a loud crack.

  “Hunters kill their own prey,” Ari said, dropping the broken body into. the fog-smoke. “Murderers hire others to do their killing for them.”

  The howling in the air faded and died. Only the chilling fog remained.

  “Now what?” Beka asked, holstering her blaster. “Ari, Owen—are you hurt?”

  “Maybe,” said Ari. “Nothing serious.” He turned to his brother, and his brother’s former apprentice. “Owen—Mistress Santreny—take us home.”

  “Hold back,” Beka said, and snatched out her blaster again. Another form was rising from the mist—Errec Ransome, but not as she had ever seen him.

  This Ransome was younger, and fanatic hatred had not yet cast its shadow over his face. He ignored all of them, except for the Domina. To her, he held out a hand.

  “Perada?” The voice was younger too, with a note of confusion in it. “What are you doing in this place? You should be home, and safe.”

  The Domina ignored his outstretched hand. “Now believe in ghosts, Errec Ransome. You died before your time, and didn’t have the grace to know it.”

  The young Errec lowered his hand and looked ashamed. “Have I wronged you, Perada? What can I do to make it right?”

  “You have wronged me grievously, Errec,” the Domina said. “Give me your name and reputation. This bloodstained disaster of a war needs a villain, if I’m going to have a chance at peacemaking afterward—and I will make that villain you.”

  Ransome bowed his head. “If I have wronged you, that is only just. Take my name and reputation; use them as you will.”

  “I already have them,” Perada said. “Now you are a wanderer. Go repair what you can. I give you leave.”

  The Domina of Entibor turned her back on Errec Ransome and faced her children. “Let’s go home.”

  “Mistress,” said Mid-Commander Taleion, “you have your duties to attend to.”

  “Yes, of course,” Llannat said. Her body ached, and her spirit was numb with fatigue, but the Eraasian stood waiting, patiently, for her to take the fealty that he offered. She groped in her mind for the proper orders. “Please have the people here seen to. Heal those who are wounded. Treat them as your honored guests—as you would treat me.”

  “Yes, Mistress,” Taleion said. “Come now to the control area. We have been hit by missiles and boarded by Adept-world troops. You are needed.”

  Llannat allowed herself to be drawn away, up through Warhammer and deep into Sword-of
-the-Dawn. She went up to the Sword’s fighting bridge, with Mid-Commander Taleion beside her, and sat in the Grand Admiral’s command chair. None of the brown-uniformed officers protested, or even appeared surprised. She wondered if they had been expecting something like this—a duel for mastery, and the changes it might bring—ever since Night’s-Beautiful-Daughter had brought a strange Magelord to join them.

  “Your Circle is gathered,” Taleion said. “Command us.”

  Llannat took a deep breath. I’m a medic. What in heaven’s name am I doing here? But the Second of her Circle was waiting, and sus-Airaalin’s last command lay heavy upon her. She drew upon what knowledge she had, and spoke. “How stands the battle?”

  “At the cusp of victory,” said Taleion. “Or of defeat.”

  “You said that we had been boarded?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you captured any of the boarding parties?”

  “Some have been overpowered. The rest fight on.”

  “Then bring the prisoners to me.”

  “There were only a few,” Taleion protested, “and fewer of those unwounded. Are you sure?”

  Llannat caught her Second’s gaze, and held it with her own. “Do you intend to question my orders, or to obey?”

  “I obey,” the mid-commander said, and departed.

  Llannat looked at the colored glyphs on the viewscreens around her. She could see the silver cords that surrounded her. They were straight, and overlaid in a pleasing pattern that while itself unmoving, nevertheless suggested movement. She turned her attention to it.

  “Mistress, the prisoners.”

  Llannat looked at the scene in front of her, with the cords still in her peripheral vision. The cords overlaid the young man in partial blast armor, bleeding heavily from a cut across his forehead. One of his eyes was swollen shut. She recognized his collar insignia—a Republic colonel.

  “What is your name?” she asked.

  “Natanel Tyche, Colonel, Space Force Planetary Infantry,” he responded. “Who the hell are you?”

  That was the question. And she knew the answer, fully and completely. “I am the commander of the Mageworlds warfleet, and the First of all the Circles.”

  The pattern was finished, perfect, and the power of the universe flowed through it without break or disturbance.

  “I am the First of all the Circles,” she repeated. “Now we stand at the Unification of the Galaxy, as was foretold.”

  Beka felt the shock of passage take her as Owen brought them out of the Void—Exactly like making a hyperspace jump without benefit of engines, she thought dizzily; I think I’ll pass on doing it again any time soon—and they were back inside the familiar, comfortable starkness of Warhammer ’s number-one cargo hold.

  Nyls Jessan was there, bless him, catching her as she stumbled and letting her lean against his shoulder until her shaking stopped. She didn’t see what the others were doing and she didn’t care; it felt too good to be touching someone warm and real for a change.

  Finally, she looked up. “At least that’s over,” she said.

  “Oh, I don’t know about that,” said another voice.

  Councillor Tarveet stood in the shadows of the bay—newly shaven, freshly dressed in what Beka recognized as yet another of Jessan’s better robes, with a blaster from Warhammer’s weapons locker in his hand.

  Beka pulled away from Jessan. “Who the hell let you go?”

  Tarveet gestured idly with his blaster. “Our mutual friend General Ochemet was so kind as to shoot open the locked door. His final folly, I’m afraid. Stand over there with the rest, if you please.”

  “You slimy, slug-eating bastard,” Beka said. “You’re only alive because I didn’t bother to kill you back on Suivi Point. I tell you what—I’ll let you keep on living, and I’ll let you leave.”

  “That’s out of your power, my lady,” Tarveet said. “The decision is mine, now. Maybe I won’t tell your secrets; maybe I will. You told me a lot of secrets, on Suivi Point. And I know some other secrets—like yours, Domina Perada. Shall I tell those, too?”

  “Do you think you can buy the Mages with your secrets?” Perada asked. “I tell you, they aren’t interested.”

  “Maybe not, my lady,” Tarveet said, “but I’m enjoying this. No matter who wins, I’ll be free. And you’ll be dead.”

  Beka drew and fired. Faster than she ever had before, with a speed that only Tarnekep Portree might have equaled. Before Tarveet could push his trigger stud.

  For a moment, there was silence in number-one cargo hold, except for the scrabbling noise of Tarveet trying to pull his dropped blaster to him. Lying on the deck with his guts shot out, he wasn’t making much progress.

  Beka walked over and set her boot on his wrist just as his fingers touched the weapon’s grip.

  He looked up at her, his eyes dimmed with pain.

  “I’ll tell you a secret if you’ll let me live. You want to know my secret, don’t you?”

  “Not particularly,” said Beka, and shot him in the head.

  RSF Veratina drove in toward the gigantic Mage flagship. The other members of General Metadi’s small task force were out of comms—destroyed, or adrift, or too battered even to respond to hailing—and the ’Tina herself was damaged. But the Mage flagship had been damaged too, taking missile hits at close range from some unknown ship. Metadi currently felt a vast sense of gratitude toward the commander of the unknown. Thanks to that vessel, the Mage flagship was now vulnerable, with parts of its sensor suite gone and a good portion of its shielding down.

  Metadi maneuvered to remain in the flagship’s sensor gaps. Soon he would be in range for a doubled attack: close enough to his target that none of his missiles would go astray; and close enough that he could time the ’Tina’s energy guns to hammer a fraction of a second later against the points where the missiles had hit. Missiles and energy guns together would strike inward, destroying the heart of the ship before the Mageworlders’ damage-control system could begin its work.

  “Status of the rest of the task force?” Metadi asked.

  “No comms with anyone,” said the TAO.

  “Net Patrol?”

  “Based on what we saw, they were getting shot up pretty badly too. Karipavo was hit, went dark and launched lifepods before we lost her.”

  “Right. Concentrate on the target.”

  “Ten seconds to designated range. Six. Five. Four …”

  The sensor tech stiffened abruptly. “Mage ship is dropping all shields!”

  “Missiles away.”

  “Message coming from Mage, all frequencies, in Galcenian.” The voice of the external comms tech was almost unnaturally calm, as if an excited stammer were only a few syllables away. “They surrender.”

  “Check fire!” Metadi half-rose from his command seat. “Check fire!”

  “Hi-comms are back up,” reported the sensor tech. “All Mage vessels have shields down, decelerating.”

  “Pass to all units, weapons tight, Metadi sends.”

  The comms tech looked up again. “Message from Mage vessel, marked Personal For General Metadi.”

  “I don’t have any secrets here,” Metadi said. “Put it on the speaker.”

  “On the speaker aye.”

  The speaker clicked on. “General, this is Colonel Tyche. I’m on board the Mage flagship. The Mages have laid down their arms. I have control here. The Mage commanders want to speak with you.”

  Metadi sat back again in his chair. “Put them on.” Quietly, to the TAO, he said, “Keep their vessel covered with guns. This might be a trap.”

  Over the speaker came another voice. “Dadda? This is Beka. I found the bastard who ordered Mother killed. Want to go somewhere for a drink? I’ll tell you all about it.”

  “You’re the Mage commander?”

  “No, my sister-in-law is.”

  “Sister-in-law? I think I need that drink.”

  “I’m buying the first round. Beka out.”

  Epilogue<
br />
  TELABRYK: THE SEVEN ORBS

  BY THE time Commodore Jervas Gil could get away from his battered command, the party at the Seven Orbs Tavern had been going on for several days.

  The celebration had begun when the first shuttles from General Jos Metadi’s task force hit portside. It gathered strength and continued as elements from all the other fleets in the system began to gather and send down liberty parties. At some point along the way—probably about the time that Jos Metadi conferred with Gyffer’s Citizen-Assembly and declared that Gyffer and the Space Force between them would pick up the tab—the gathering turned into a full-scale free-spacer’s wake and spilled over into a dozen or more taverns, pubs, bars, saloons, and dives.

  Now the epicenter of the party at the Seven Orbs was filled with an odd assortment of privateers from Innish-Kyl, Gyfferan LDF officers, Space Force troopers from Suivi, the Net, and Infabede, and free-spacers from everywhere. There were even a few Mageworlders, quiet and courteous in their plain brown uniforms, sampling the local hospitality and looking somewhat incredulous that they should be drinking here at all.

  In one of the tavern’s back rooms, a mixed bag of revelers were singing one of the traditional songs, one that Gil had last heard in the ’Pavo’s detention block, and before that at Beka Rosselin-Metadi’s wake on Galcen:

  “Assemble my spaceship around me

  And fuel it with beer when you’re done,

  I don’t need a life-support system

  If only the engines will run.”

  Of course, the fighting hadn’t come to an instant stop everywhere in the galaxy with the cease-fire over Gyffer. The Mageworlds reserve force under sus-Hasaaden had run into the Space Force’s Ontimi Sector Fleet a few days later, and each had attempted to surrender to the other before all the signals had been read; and the Pleyveran Sector Fleet was still involved in straightening out the civil war between groundside and High Station Pleyver. Nevertheless, the end of the Battle for Gyffer would probably go down in the history texts as the day the Second Magewar officially ended.