A Conflict of Orders (An Age of Discord Novel Book 2) (53 page)

The only people Ormuz had seen in the nomosphere had been the Serpent and the blue figure, his “sister”, Lady Mayna. He explained this and added, “When I go there, they manifest as sort of featureless figures—as, I suppose, I do myself. If the clone assassins, the—what did Rizbeka call them? Urbat?—if the Urbat are in the nomosphere I imagine they would have the same appearance. But I’ve never seen any.”

“Would they be able to stay there, for days and weeks? I mean, we had
Tempest
for several weeks and they only came alive after we left Linna.”

“I don’t know.” Every time he had visited the nomosphere, he had done so in private. He had no idea what happened to the body he left behind. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

She frowned in thought. “Well, it’s not like they’d need food or water if they’re disembodied,” she mused, “so perhaps they could live there indefinitely. They’d only need to come back to their bodies when they had to.”

“But their bodies
would
need food and water,” pointed out Ormuz.

“Hence the sarcophagi.”

Ormuz sat back and looked at the mate. She gazed back at him, and he knew she had reached the same conclusion. If, as they surmised, the Urbat used the nomosphere—or perhaps some other level of reality—to travel between bodies, then there must be a sarcophagus somewhere aboard
Empress Glorina
.

“But how would we find it?” Maganda asked breathlessly.

“We don’t know there is one. The clone might just be hiding in a store-room somewhere.”

“But there
are
plenty of places aboard to hide a sarcophagus.”

It occurred to Ormuz there were two levels to the conspiracy against which he fought. He was a little surprised he hadn’t noticed this before. There were those who had been suborned by Ahasz—the regiments they had fought on Geneza, the ships they had battled in orbit about that world. Much as he disliked the man, Ormuz suspected Courland fell into this category. But there were also the Urbat, the clone assassins. The fact of their existence was unusual enough, and the sarcophagi they had used aboard
Tempest
were odd, not something for which the Empire was known. Imperial life and death sciences had reached a sophisticated level—they could clone people, after all!—but for all their hoses and pipes and dependence upon a computational engine, there had been something a little “alien” about the sarcophagi…

It had seemed quite simple: the Serpent, the Duke of Ahasz, intended to seize the Imperial Throne. Ormuz, his clone, would stop him. But who were these Urbat? And Konran… Ormuz was not a religious man, did not in fact believe in Chian and Konran. Or rather, he hadn’t until he’d met the latter.

Were there gods now involved in this fight? Were the Urbat the minions of Konran? If so, where was Chian? Why had He not made an appearance?

Did Ormuz have a heavenly mandate? Who
exactly
was using him?

He leaned forward and returned his cup to its saucer with a clatter. He looked up at Maganda and she recoiled from his expression. He tried for a reassuring smile but it felt incomplete. “You’re right,” he said, “we must look for the missing clone. I have… questions I need answering.”

Ormuz tried to organise further search parties, with Maganda’s help, but he had no real authority over
Empress Glorina
’s crew. The Admiral seemed content to let the clone hide in the depths of the battleship, as if he were no more than vermin, capable only of filching supplies or chewing data-hoses. Instead, Ormuz and Maganda, when Rinharte would allow her, accompanied Pulisz and his ship’s corporals on their patrols through the lower decks.

It was three days before they found their man, and even then Ormuz and Pulisz might as well have spent those days at their ease in officer country. It was a petty officer who made the discovery. In the course of her duties, she passed a storeroom and noticed the door had been forced. She called for the ship’s corporals.

A runner found Ormuz in the Intelligence Office, perched on a desk and chatting idly to Maganda. They were due to go on patrol in half an hour, and he had come to see if she had permission to accompany Pulisz and himself. Ormuz had found himself enjoying the mate’s company more and more, and had barely exchanged five words with the Admiral in the last week. The nearer the fleet drew to the Imperial capital, the more she seemed to distance herself from him. It was, he felt, as if she did not intend for their relationship to survive the battle on Shuto. Perhaps that was being uncharitable, but Ormuz could think of no other explanation for her recent aloofness.

“My lord! My lord!” the runner called from the entrance.

Ormuz slid from the desk. “Yes?”

“Compliments of the Provost-Aboard, my lord. They think they’ve found the clone.”

“Where?”

“I’m to instruct you, my lord, he’ll meet you in the Great Hall.”

The runner turned on his heel and ran away.

“Well, you heard the lad,” said a voice.

Ormuz looked across and saw Rinharte in the doorway to her office. She had her scabbarded sword in her hand. “Let’s get to it,” she said.

“Ma’am, I’d like to come too,” Maganda said, glancing quickly at Ormuz.

“I need you here to coordinate,” Rinharte replied. She set about attaching her sword to her belt.

“We’ll be one party,” Ormuz pointed out. “Besides, I’m sure one of your petty officers is more than capable.”

Rinharte straightened. She glanced at Maganda, then at Ormuz, then back again to the mate. “Very well,” she said.

She marched across the office and out of the door. Ormuz and Maganda followed her.

Pulisz was waiting for them at the foot of the conning-tower. He had with him a dozen ship’s corporals. Ormuz saw Rendo among them. Together, they jogged aft, into the starboard passage, down the ramps and into the Upper Supply Passage.

The party descended to the lower decks, where the gangways were narrow, ill-lit and steel-walled, with steel gratings for decking. Everywhere smelled of people in close-quarters, of oil and grease and hot metal, of damp and chill.

When they arrived at the storeroom, the petty officer there admitted she had already investigated. And the chamber was empty.

“Stores missing, though, ma’am,” she told them. “Sir.”

“So he’s hiding somewhere around here,” Pulisz said.

The gangway was deserted but for the group of them packed tight about the storeroom’s hatch. Ormuz stepped away and walked aft a short distance. He heard footsteps on the decking behind him and glanced back. Pulisz had detailed a ship’s corporal to safeguard him. He turned back and came to a halt. There was little to see. The gangway was some six feet wide, its walls streaked with rust. The light-panels high on each wall, staggered at distances of some six feet apart, seemed to shed waves of light along its length. He continued on until he reached a hatch.

“My lord,” said the ship’s corporal and stepped past him.

The rated unlatched the battens and pulled the hatch open. The chamber beyond was dark. In the rectangle of dim light shed by the entrance, Ormuz saw the end of a bench. The rated blocked his view as he stepped over the coaming. Moments later, something began to buzz and cool light gently washed throughout the room. It was a workshop. Everything was neat and tidy: the deck swept clean, the bench-tops clear, the tools put away.

“Nothing here,” Ormuz said.

He turned away from the workshop’s hatch. Something further down the gangway caught his attention. Movement. It was difficult to be sure. He needed to get closer. He gestured urgently at the ship’s corporal and trotted along the gangway.

Yes! A hatchway just swinging shut. As he watched, the battens latched. He increased his pace. The rated lumbered after him.

They reached the hatch. The ship’s corporal put a hand to the lever which unlatched the battens. He jerked it down. And pulled.

The hatch swung open.

A lit room. Rows of shelving. A flash of movement. The ship’s corporal cried out and stumbled back. Blood fountained from his neck. He slapped a hand to the wound, then toppled backwards. Ormuz leapt aside. A lithe figure in blue hurdled the fallen rated.

“Hoy!” yelled Ormuz. He scrabbled for his sword. He had his hand to the hilt —

The clone lunged. Ormuz danced aside. He managed to withdraw his sword. Another lunge and Ormuz had his blade up in time for a parry. Behind him, he heard the thud of feet on the steel deck.

A wild swing from the clone. Ormuz ducked. The clone turned about and sprinted along the gangway.

Ormuz gave chase.

There was a ramp leading to the deck above. The clone ran up it and disappeared from view. Ormuz did not lessen his pace. As he cleared the hatch at the top of the ramp, he saw something from the corner of his eye. It moved fast. He dived to the deck. Rolling onto his side, he saw the clone had been lying in wait. Ormuz scrambled to his feet.

The clone advanced on him, blade held high. This was a wider corridor. There was room to circle. Ormuz saw Rinharte, Pulisz and Maganda, and behind them the ship’s corporals, running up the ramp.

Ormuz attacked.

He turned to his left, flicked the clone’s blade aside and stepped forward. His opponent managed to pull back his sword. Ormuz blocked the riposte. He punched out with his free hand, catching the clone on the cheek.

Their blades clashed again. The clone was good, very good. But Ormuz knew he was better. He feinted high and wide, the midshipman moved to parry. Ormuz flicked his blade down and in. The point slid into the flesh of the clone’s upper arm. His face did change expression.

Was the man not human?

The clone pressed an attack, forcing Ormuz to retreat. Thuds and clatter behind told him the others had scattered out of his way. And there was an audience beyond the clone: a handful of rateds, watching the fight and blocking his escape.

Ormuz recovered. He lunged low, used his palm to beat aside the parry. His point took the clone in the thigh. Blood immediately pooled beneath the cloth. He wanted this man alive. Even if he had fill each of his limbs with holes.

He felt the weight of the sword, its length an extension of his arm, the tip responsive to the merest flex of his wrist. The smallest of movements of his elbow, and he took the clone’s lunge on the tang of his blade. He stepped close. Brought up his sword in a sudden motion. The pommel hit the clone on the bridge of the nose.

The midshipman stumbled back. Ormuz brought his sword down, his elbow out. He straightened his arm.

The clone jerked sideways. Ormuz’s point, aimed for the shoulder, took him in the throat. The clone took a single step back. He fell to the deck. His sword rolled from his hand with a metallic clang.

“No!” Ormuz shouted.

He stepped forward, his empty hand out as if attempting to catch the clone as he fell. But he already lay dead on the decking. Ormuz looked down at him.

“Damn!” he said.

Ormuz dropped the point of his sword. He bent over and drew in a shuddering breath. He had wanted the clone alive, had wanted to question him. There was so much Ormuz wanted to know. He gazed down at the body. The clone still wore his midshipman’s uniform, his blue coat with its white facings, but it was smeared with dirt. Ormuz dropped to a squat and put a hand to the clone’s cheek. He felt it cool beneath his palm and he was angry that he’d killed him. Or had he? Had that last stumble by the clone been deliberate? Had he taken Ormuz’s point in his throat on purpose?

Certainly, these young men—and they had all been male and of a similar age to Ormuz himself—were not ordinary; which in turn suggested their conspiracy was also extraordinary. Ormuz would never know now. This dead midshipman had been his only clue, and unless they stumbled across another aboard
Empress Glorina
he would never find out the truth of the Urbat.

So, for now, Ormuz would keep his suppositions to himself, and focus only on fighting those battles needed to safeguard the Imperial Throne.

At that moment, someone touched him on the shoulder. He turned his head and looked up. It was Mate Maganda.

“My lord!” she said breathlessly.

He barked a laugh. He was no lord—he was no different to the young man he had just killed.

F
inesz looked up as the entrance to the stockade rattled and opened. A pair of Vonshuan house troopers entered; more were visible outside. The prisoners, briefly stilled by her entrance, lapsed back into the languid unconcern of the incarcerated. The troopers marched towards Finesz. She stepped down from her shelter and awaited them, her arms crossed tightly across her bosom.

Good, she thought. About damn time.

Two days ago, she had demanded a meeting with her gaolers. How dare they permit the other prisoners to leave for the weekend, but not herself? At the agreed time, the gates had opened and the officers had filed out. But not Inspector Finesz. One of Ahasz’s masked militia had been there, an officer, and he had put out a hand to prevent her departure.

“You stay. On the orders of his grace.”

There was no arguing with the man. Regimental-Major Zabla had given a puzzled shrug and continued out with the others. Leaving Finesz alone in the deserted stockade. They’d not let her go hungry, however. More of the duke’s militia had delivered her meals at the appropriate hour.

The troopers reached her. The lead one spoke: “If you would come with us, ma’am.”

It could still be a trick. Finesz had never felt so suspicious of her fellows before; she had never been imprisoned before. The irony was not lost on her.

She followed the two of them out of the stockade and along a road between two barracks-blocks. Near the entrance of one, the Duke of Ahasz sat on a flimsy chair before an equally flimsy table. A bottle of wine and a pair of glasses sat on the table. There was another chair across from the duke. He gestured arrogantly for Finesz to seat herself in it.

This was a surprise: she had not expected Ahasz himself.

“So,” she said, looking down at him, “why the special treatment?”