A Conflict of Orders (An Age of Discord Novel Book 2) (39 page)

Back in the sloop’s control cupola, the three occupied their stations. They had weeks ahead of them yet before they reached the Imperial capital, Shuto. It was going to be a long voyage. Especially since they had the sloop’s crew as prisoner. They could not afford to stop and drop them off—out in the country of an inhabited world, a few days’ walk from civilisation… or marooned on an uninhabited planet. So they would have to take them all the way to Shuto. And throughout those weeks the prisoners would be trying to escape, seeking to retake control of their ship.

Lotsman briefly wished he had the ruthlessness to kill
Desert Runner
’s crew. He knew of men-at-arms who would not have hesitated to do so. But it was an act beyond redemption. Lotsman had seen the idea flit across the faces of Tovar and Dai, and seen them dismiss it just as quickly.

They would cope. They had been trained to cope.

After his experience the last time he had visited the nomosphere, Ormuz was reluctant to return there. The Admiral urged him to reconsider: they needed to know what to expect when they reached Shuto. Would they have to battle their way to orbit?

“I don’t see that much will have changed,” Ormuz protested. “It’s been less than a week since my last trip to the nomosphere.”

Yet so much had happened: the Battle of Piorun, the Battle of Geneza and the Battle of Swava.

Ormuz outlined his fears to Varä later in the forward wardroom. The chamber had been configured to its between-meals layout, with large comfortable chairs arranged in cliques about small circular tables. To Ormuz, it seemed more like a nobles’ club rather than a refectory aboard a naval warship.

He leaned forward with a squeak of leather. A silver coffee-set occupied a tray in the middle of the table. He poured himself a cup. “How do I know I won’t end up back there?” he said.

“Well…
exactly
,” replied Varä. “You won’t know until you try.” He cocked his head and peered at Ormuz. “I can’t believe you’re afraid—not after your heroic storming of
Empress Glorina
.”

Varä was mocking him—that smile was too knowing—despite his deadpan delivery.

“I didn’t see you cowering much,” Ormuz retorted and gestured at the arm the marquess wore in a sling. He’d sustained a nasty break to his upper arm from a billy-club. Fortunately, as he would point out to all who would listen, it wasn’t his sword-arm.

“Was it really that frightening, when you saw Konran?” Varä asked.

“I don’t know that it was Konran; I don’t know
what
it was.”

He was used to knowing whatever he wanted. Not immediately, of course. But he could find it out. In the nomosphere. That strange creature, however… Nothing had prepared him for such a sight, nothing could explain it. He was not sure he could even describe it with any accuracy. The only language he could use was that of
The Book of the Sun
. Ecclesiastical language—but he was not by inclination religious.

But what, he thought, if it
had
been Konran, Chian’s evil twin? What if the hells were real places, just like the nomosphere and the toposphere?

He said as much, and was angered by Varä’s laughter. “So what was it then?” he snapped.

“Something you dreamt up, obviously.” The marquess gestured airily. “Perhaps from something you ate.”

“No.” Ormuz shook his head. “It was real. I know it was.”

“If you think that, then why aren’t you in the chapel every moment?”

“Because when you’ve seen a god, what use is religion?”

The Admiral’s suite of cabins were sited at the aft end of the Great Hall on the first mezzanine deck. They were more expansive than those aboard
Vengeful
had been. But they were intended for the use of flag officers, not the ship’s captain. A foyer, a reception room, a withdrawing room, a dining room capable of seating two dozen, an office, a secretary’s office, galley, two bedrooms, quarters for five servants… If she had not been brought up in assorted palaces, perhaps she might have considered it palatial. She stood in the doorway to the main bedroom and gazed at the vast bed occupying fully half the chamber. It was not a bed for merely sleeping in. The carved headboard prominently featured the Duke of Courland’s coat of arms, a seal curled in an S inside a triangle with one serrated edge.

Someone moved behind her and she caught the motion out of the corner of her eye. She turned and saw it was her valet, Jener.

“Have the bed stripped and see if you can find some suitable bedding from the stores,” she told him. “I’ll not have Courland’s linen on that monstrosity.”

Courland. She must decide what to do with the man. Having met him, she could understand why Ormuz had thrown him in the brig. He had sneered at her for consorting with a prole and she had been hard-pressed to treat him with the courtesy due his rank. A thought occurred to her:

“Jener,” she said, turning back to the valet. “Make up one of the servant’s cabins in this suite. We’ll put Courland in there.”

Let him stew in that, she thought with satisfaction. A deliberate snub and yet still in the flag officer’s suite. And perhaps she should offer the second bedroom to Ormuz. Let Courland see then how closely they “consorted”.

He had done her beautifully, Casimir Ormuz.
Empress Glorina
was a ship worthy of pride. Too big, perhaps, for the Admiral’s preferred tactics; but powerful and intimidating. She would suit admirably once they had reached Shuto. Ahasz would think twice with
Empress Glorina
looking over him from orbit…

Finesz was no student of history. If anything, she held it in healthy contempt. There were no lessons to be drawn from the past, at least nothing that could not be solved using common sense. History was an excuse, a justification. The weight of tradition lay across the Empire and few could escape its enfolding strictures.

Young Casimir Ormuz had, however. The prole who became a lord.

The Duke of Ahasz too had broken against tradition. He had tried to seize the Imperial Throne. Finesz wondered what had possessed him. Of course, the two were one and the same, although it was often easy to forget. Finesz had never met Ahasz, had no way of comparing the young prole and the duke. She liked Ormuz and suspected she would like Ahasz. She fully intended to meet him—after she had freed Norioko, she was going to beard the duke in his den and ask him to surrender.

She said as much to Mubariz. He lay beside her in the bed. They were both naked. She reached out and stroked his chest as she spoke, running her fingers through the thick mat of hair.

“He will likely refuse to see you,” Mubariz said.

She turned her head to gaze at his profile. He continued to stare up at the cabin’s ceiling.

“You think so?” she asked.

“He is not a stupid man, Sliva. If an inspector of the Office of the Procurator Imperial wishes to see him, what is he to think?”

“He’s not without power, Abad. I don’t believe for one moment he’s scared of the OPI, or wouldn’t disobey them if he wanted to. He can get away with it.”

“You would have it that the rule of law does not apply to those with power.” Mubariz let out a sigh.

She let out a trill of laughter, as much from the familiarity of his opinion as from the well-judged weary sigh. “First,” she said, “ if he were that law-abiding, we’d not be here now, would we? Second, I imagine he knows full well it’s too late to back down now.”

“And yet you go to see him with that very hope in mind,” pointed out Mubariz.

She poked him in the ribs with a sharp finger. “A hit, Abad,” she crowed. “We’ll make a conversationalist of you yet.” She rolled on top of him and, arms pillowed on his chest, looked down into his face. “After all, we’ve got plenty of tim
e…”

Rinharte settled gingerly at her new desk, and spent a moment rearranging the files and pens and tidies which occupied its top. Although not normally compulsive, she adjusted the folders until they lined up exactly with the desk’s edge, until every angle was exactly ninety degrees. She peered at the console-glass on its flexible arm, and carefully manoeuvred that until she was happy it was positioned at the angle best suited for viewing.

She looked up. This was not her office, it did not resemble her office. It was bigger, the door was in a different place. There was a scuttle behind her. This was the lieutenant of intelligence’s office aboard
Empress Glorina
. Rinharte felt like an impostor for two reasons: this was not her office; and she had been captain of a ship. A
captain
.

There had been no promotion, brevet or otherwise. The captain of a ship was a captain, no matter their rank. But she was a captain no longer. She was once again a lieutenant of intelligence and beholden to a captain: the Admiral.

Through the open door, she could see her staff busy cataloguing the files left behind by the office’s previous occupants. She had fewer men and women than before. Bagasz had managed to survive, but others had not. Rinharte now had Maganda—she had asked for her and the Admiral had agreed. And, happily, confirmed her field-promotion to mate. There was no telling how long she would keep her new rank, perhaps only until they arrived at Shuto and defeated the Serpent.

It would be days before they’d figure out the idiosyncracies—if not, deliberate misinformation—of
Empress Glorina
’s intelligence data-pool. Rinharte had always been careful to camouflage her own office’s sensitive information—those items of vital data which Navy officers were not really supposed to have. It seemed only sensible to assume
Empress Glorina
’s lieutenant of intelligence had done the same.

Prompted by the thought, she switched on the console and called up the battleship’s complement: Commander Ozan demar Akta, lieutenant of intelligence. She did not know him, nor did any of the details on his dossier spark any memories. It seemed their paths had never crossed. That was not unusual—in fact, she saw, Akta and herself had never served in the same fleets.

She wondered what had happened to Akta. Had he survived the taking of
Empress Glorina
?

“Romi,” she called.

In the outer office, Mate Maganda looked up startled and then across through the door at Rinharte. “Ma’am?”

“Put me a list together of all the prisoners. Let’s see who we’ve got. Take Bagasz. We’ll get the data-pool sorted later.”

Maganda crossed to the door to Rinharte’s office. “Just the officers?” she asked.

“The POs and rateds too. They’ll be in the brig. The officers…” Rinharte gestured vaguely. “They’ll have given their parole, so good luck finding them. Try the wardrooms.” Where, she did not add, they were most likely drinking away their empty days.

All the days of the six-week journey from Geneza to Shuto.

“H
ow could you? How
dare
you?” Startled, Ahasz twisted round in his chair. Princess Flavia umar Shutan stood framed in the entrance to his study, one hand belligerently gripping the hilt of her sheathed sword. He rose to his feet. She wore Imperial Navy uniform, the thick bands of a captain about the cuffs.

“I don’t understand,” he said. He turned back to his console, flicked a switch and the glass darkened. Returning his attention to the princess, he pushed his chair out of his way and moved towards her.

She was furious. He had experienced her temper before—like all members of the Imperial Family, she was used to getting her way, and unbearable when she failed to do so. “What is it?” he asked, hands held out placatingly.

She snatched her kepi from her head, and threw it down at Ahasz’s feet. “Damn you, Ariman. You knew my wishes. I should call you out.”

He laughed. He couldn’t help it. “Call me out?” She could not beat him with a sword; few could. Even though Flavia was well-trained.

“What have I done?” he asked. “Is this any way to greet me?”

She took a step forwards, looked up at him as he drew near. “I
told
you,” she insisted angrily, slapping him on the chest. “You asked and I told you my answer.”

“Ah.” He understood now. “You’ve spoken to Willim.”

He put his arms out to draw her to him. She was having none of it. She squirmed out of his embrace, took a step back to the doorway. Once again, her hand went to her sword. “I will not marry you, Ariman. No matter what my father says.”

“No one is forcing you to. It’s what I want but I’d never force you.”

Her eyes narrowed. “My father told me you did. He said you gave him little choice in the matter.”

Ahasz frowned. He had said no such thing, of course. What game was the Emperor playing? Anyone who knew Flavia would have realised that she would respond in this way.

“Your father is mistaken.”

Flavia rattled her sword. “Don’t lie to me!”

“I never told Willim he must marry you to me, Flavia.”

“You lie.” Her voice was flat, expressionless.

“You believe
Him
over me?”

“He’s my father, Ariman. Why should I not believe him?”

“Because He’s lying!”

She turned away, dropped her chin. “We will never see each other again. You will make no effort to do so. I will not be blackmailed into marriage. I’ve accepted a posting with the Boundary Fleet. Captain of a battlecruiser.”

He took a step forward, crowding her in the doorway. She pressed back against the jamb, trying to maintain a gap between them. He heard her blade slide an inch from its scabbard.

“Don’t go away, Flavia,” he said quietly. He loved this woman and her fiery ways. He would not lose her.

“I never want to see you again,” she replied mulishly.

Ahasz reach down, grabbed her wrist and pulled her hand from her hilt. She struggled but was not strong enough. He pulled the hand up and held it between them, pressed against his chest.

“Accept my offer. Your father wants it—and not because I forced him to do so.”

“No!” She ripped her wrist from his grasp, placed her palm flat against his chest and pushed.