A Conflict of Orders (An Age of Discord Novel Book 2) (58 page)

He tried for another lunge, going high and then dropping his point. Ahasz met it across his body, moved forward and riposted. Ormuz scrambled back.

He was not quick enough.

He felt sharp pain in his side and let out an oath. Ahasz’s blade slipped from his flesh; he felt it withdraw. He put a hand to the wound and felt blood pooling beneath his tunic. Each breath began to burn and a numbness spread above his hip.

As Ormuz’s wound bled, so it slowed him. He struggled to meet the duke’s attacks, jerking awkwardly out of the way when the duke evaded his parries and riposted. He felt blood leaking down his side and onto his thigh.

He stumbled on a ridge of mud and found it hard to recover. Ahasz stepped back as Ormuz tottered to the side for several steps. Ormuz turned back to face the duke. Ahasz had dropped the point of his sword. The duke stood there, blood splattered across his jacket, smeared across his face, leaking from the blade of his sword… He appeared drawn, haggard, dirty.

Ormuz lifted his sword. He needed no favours from Ahasz.

Then he noticed the quiet. The sounds of battle had faded. No crash of weapons, no screams of the dying, no blasts of basilisks. He looked up and about him. Everyone, friend and foe alike, had stopped. Ormuz turned round to look back at Palace Road. He saw lines of troopers looking down into the trenches. In the defile, he saw others being herded. The militia troopers surrounding himself and Ahasz were in turn surrounded. By soldiers in grey jackets.

The Admiral had won.

A wave of sound seemed to roll across the District, a rattling thudding crash, as the enemy threw down their weapons.

Ormuz sheathed his sword. He looked to Alus, who stood some five feet away, and gave the giant marine a grin.

A gap formed in the line of troops on Palace Road and two figures appeared. The Admiral and Major Skaria. They walked down the slope towards Ormuz and Ahasz.

Ormuz turned to the duke, stepped forward until he stood before him and said, “It’s over.”

The duke gave him a narrow-eyed stare. “It’s only just begun,” he replied.

“I would have your parole,” Ormuz asked. He was beginning to feel light-headed from his wound, but was not going to let the duke surrender to anyone else.

“You have it.” Ahasz let out a low laugh. “Whatever good it may do you.”

The Admiral arrived. She ignored Ormuz and her gaze remained fixed on Ahasz. “Ariman. You are beaten,” she said. Her voice was flat, expressionless, and Ormuz thought that curious.

She glanced at him and frowned when she saw the blood. “You are wounded.” That same tone of voice. “Have it seen to, and quickly, Casimir.”

“The duke has given me his parole,” Ormuz said. He’d not have anyone else claim that. This army here, the fleet in orbit Shuto, they had come here to the capital at
his
behest, following
his
destiny. He’d taken it upon himself to defeat the Serpent and that was exactly what he had done.

And let no one say different.

“Yes, yes.” She gave a dismissive gesture. “See to your wound.”

He turned from the Admiral and the duke, and limped down the slope to where surgeon’s mates were checking the many bodies sprawled on the ground. As he passed Skaria, he gave him a tired grin—followed by a wince as the pain of his wound bit deep.

“You did good, my lord,” Skaria said, and turned back to watch the Admiral.

Ormuz had not walked far before he was spotted by a surgeon’s mate. She wore a tan jacket with green cuffs, and over it the short red tabard of a surgeon’s mate. He recognised the colours as one of their regiments, but could not remember its name. She hurried towards him, pulling off the pack on her back as she did so. He stopped and waited for her to reach him. From her expression of concern, she plainly recognised him despite his lack of uniform.

“My lord!” she exclaimed, halting before him and dropping her pack at her feet.

He stood there, gazing back up the slope at the Admiral and Ahasz, as the surgeon’s mate treated his wound. He wondered what the two of them were discussing. Skaria was within earshot, so he had no cause to feel jealous. They had been lovers once, yes; but that had been many years before. Although perhaps they did not quite seem to be enemies as they spoke to each other.

Despite the battle they had just fought.

Despite the battlefield on which they stood.

Despite the moans of the dying, the smell of burnt earth, of blood and death.

A
hasz felt no satisfaction as he was led through the ruined Imperial Palace. He had walked these passages many times before, spent time in these chambers, and it pained him to see what his siege had done to them. The burnt remains of paintings lay on the floor beneath where they had hung. Statues had been reduced to little more than rubble, their original subject indecipherable. Mosaic floors were gapped and cracked. Some rooms they passed were completely gutted, their interiors black, smoky and charred.

The Admiral led the way, the young clone Ormuz at her shoulder. Ahasz himself walked between two rows of Imperial Marines. They had rescued Inspector Finesz from the stockade and she kept him company. He directed a wry smile at her.

“You made a bit of a mess,” she said quietly.

“It couldn’t be helped.”

“Of course it could,” she replied. “There were other ways.”

“I did what I thought was necessary.”

The lifts were not working, which was no surprise. The Admiral pushed open a cracked panel in the passage wall, revealing a service corridor used by proletarian staff and the foot of a flight of stairs. Having grown up in the Palace, the Admiral likely knew all its passages and ways—even those used only by proles.

It was a tight fit on the staircase. They could not climb three abreast, and so Ahasz found himself penned in by pea-green jackets and Finesz pushed back somewhere behind him. He glanced back but could not see her over the marines’ shoulders.

A voice drifted down from ahead—Ormuz: “How many floors must we climb?”

“You need not join us, if your wound prevents it,” replied the Admiral.

“No. I need to be with you.”

“We are heading for the Imperial Apartments—the twelfth floor and above.”

Ahasz heard a groan behind him and, knowing it was Finesz, could not help barking a laugh.

“You will not be so amused shortly, Ahasz,” came the Admiral’s voice.

He put his head down and pretended to be cowed.

They climbed in silence, saving their breath for the ascent. The stairs became a narrow corridor, which stretched some hundred feet, turned a corner, and then once again became stairs. Several times it did this, crossing from one part of the Palace to another on a level, before climbing again. Not every floor they reached gave access to the Palace interior. They passed archways onto corridors which led deeper into proletarian areas. Ahasz himself had never been in this part of the Palace, although he knew of it. He had first visited the Palace as an adult and not—as he imagined Princess Flavia umar Shutan had done—spent childish hours exploring such “forbidden” areas.

At length, they reached the first floor of the Imperial Apartments, and rested for a moment. The Imperial Marines, of course, were not even out of breath. Looking across at Finesz, Ahasz saw that she appeared hot and harried, and he smiled because he too was not as young as once he had been. She smiled back and fanned her face theatrically with a hand.

A pair of marines were first to exit the service corridor. Five minutes after disappearing through the door, they reappeared and declared the route safe. Ahasz followed the others and found himself in a passage that was not too badly damaged. The luxurious carpet underfoot was black with mud and soot, and there were black streaks on the striped wallpaper. Over there, a pilaster had cracked and a knife-sized splinter had fallen from it. To his right, a glass door ringed with shards gave onto a balcony which no longer existed.

He expected them to turn left and head deeper into the mountain, but the Admiral instead crossed to a door on the opposite wall and some ten feet to their right. It was only as he approached the doorway that Ahasz recognised his surroundings.

Of course, the Emperor’s private study. He had met Willim here on several occasions.

Once, the room had been walled with book-shelves, but they had not all survived the siege. One entire wall was gone, leaving the room open to the air. Ahasz glanced that way and shuddered at the view over the District. He was more than one hundred and sixty feet above the ground. Nothing protected him from the drop but a few yards of damaged stone flooring. And his marine guards.

There was a desk opposite the door. It was dusty, the lamp upon its top broken and jagged. Seated in the chair behind the desk was a large man with a spade beard.

Emperor Willim IX.

“Willim,” Ahasz said. He pushed forward between a pair of his guards.

“Ariman,” replied the Emperor, rising to his feet.

Ahasz stopped before the desk. He looked back over his shoulder, saw the Admiral and her protégé standing side by side. He turned back to the Emperor.

His Imperial Majesty Willim IX put his hands on the desk-top, leaned forward… and bellowed: “Look what you’ve done to my Palace, damn you!”

Then, he straightened and swept out an arm, indicating the damage. “How could you do this, Ariman?”

Ahasz shrugged. “You were more prepared than I expected.”

“You’ve destroyed it! Priceless artworks—lost! It’s going to cost me a damn fortune to repair it. We can’t live here anymore. One thousand years of Shutans—of my ancestors!—have lived in this mountain and you’ve forced us out. We’re going to have to move into the Old Palace.”

“Your comfort,” Ahasz replied, “was not something I troubled to think about.”

“Damn it, Ariman. Where am I going to get the funds to sort out this damn mess?”

“The same place you always get them: the Electorate.”

“Some of the artworks you destroyed were priceless. Priceless!”

Ahasz sighed. “To tell you the truth, Willim, I don’t care. I tried to take your Throne for the people’s sake, not so I could live in this damn museum, this monument to your family’s egomania.”

“What about the books?” The Emperor pointed to the bookshelves opposite his desk. “You always admired my collection. Now see what you’ve done to it.”

“I would still put the life of one proletarian above a book, no matter how old that book is.”

“But you wouldn’t put a prole’s life above your principles,” put in Ormuz.

Ahasz turned to him in surprise. “People would die to defend a principle. Is it so much of a stretch to wage war in the service of one?”

“It must have been an important principle,” Ormuz continued. “Look at the damage it caused, look at the number of people it killed.”

“Who is this?” the Emperor demanded, peering at Ormuz with a frown. “Flavia? Who is this person? Why does he look like Ariman?”

Ormuz stepped forward and answered unashamedly, “I am a clone of the duke.”

There was a moment of silence. He should not have said that, thought Ahasz.

“I’m the one who persuaded the Admiral to gather a fleet to battle Ahasz and defeat him.”

And he certainly should not have said that.

“Clone? He’s the prole my knights have told me about? I’ll not have him in here. Tell him to leave.” Willim gestured peremptorily for Ormuz to depart, but no one stepped forward to enact the Emperor’s will.

“He has every right to be here,” the Admiral said. “But for him, Ahasz would be sitting on the Throne.”

“He could never win!” Willim said. “I had my knights. I had the cannons. He was out there for weeks and weeks, and he never once managed to storm the lower levels!”

“Why did you let him get that far?” Ormuz demanded.

A good question, thought Ahasz.

Willim rounded on the Admiral. “You permitted this?” he demanded of her. “This arrogation? Someone arrest him, arrest this… this…
clone
.”

The fear and loathing the Emperor loaded into that word, thought Ahasz. All this time, he had felt that way; and yet Ahasz himself was a clone.

A figure appeared in the doorway, halted a brief moment and then stepped into the room. Ahasz recognised him—not just for what he was: the silver ovoid mask said he was an Involute. But Ahasz also recognised the man’s shape and his way of moving. He was the Involute the duke had met all those weeks ago in the Viscount Mubona’s pavilion.

“You,” the Emperor said, pointing at the Involute. “Arrest him.” He swung his arm to point at Ormuz.

The Involute nodded in the Emperor’s direction, but otherwise ignored him. He crossed to the Admiral, reached up a hand and put the caster he used to communicate up by her ear. Ahasz could not hear what was spoken. Nor, from his expression, could Ormuz.

The Admiral nodded. The Involute left the room and the Admiral followed him.

Ahasz perched his rear on the desk, thinking that the situation was becoming interesting. He glanced back over his shoulder at Willim, who stood there, a puzzled frown on his face as he started to realise his powerlessness. And Ormuz, his young clone, he stood staring after the Admiral, equally nonplussed, perhaps wondering why he had not been invited.

Prince Casimir, that was what they called the young prole. Ahasz had heard him mentioned as such by the Admiral’s troops. The young man was a surprise. Yes, they had met in the nomosphere and battled there too. Only a few hours ago, they had met in personal combat—and he had proven an excellent swordsman. A master. How could a prole become so skilled in such a short time? Something in the genes, perhaps? Something carried in the reflexes?

Unlikely. Ahasz had spent years of practice to become a master swordsman. He was deemed talented, yes; but not so talented he could make master swordsman less than a year after picking up a blade for the first time.

Definitely an interesting young man. There was no trace of his proletarian upbringing. If he had not known, if his clones had not tried to assassinate the young man several times during the past year, Ahasz doubted he would have guessed. Very polished. And assured.