The Gathering Flame (39 page)
Read The Gathering Flame Online
Authors: Debra Doyle,James D. Macdonald
ENTIBORAN REGNAL YEAR 3 PERADA
G
AREN TARVEET’s quarters at the Summer Palace were considerably better than those he’d occupied in An-Jemayne—the result, he supposed, of his newly enhanced status. As the disinherited son of an offworld mercantile family, he might have been tucked away somewhere among the upper servants, but as Lord Meteun, who’d been with Perada when she escaped the abortive coup, he rated as a personal friend of the Ruling House.
AREN TARVEET’s quarters at the Summer Palace were considerably better than those he’d occupied in An-Jemayne—the result, he supposed, of his newly enhanced status. As the disinherited son of an offworld mercantile family, he might have been tucked away somewhere among the upper servants, but as Lord Meteun, who’d been with Perada when she escaped the abortive coup, he rated as a personal friend of the Ruling House.
The suite of rooms he occupied had excellent comp and communications links, and the quiet elegance of the furnishings made his family’s estate on Pleyver look overdone. Just the same, bedrooms positioned to catch morning and evening breezes in the summertime proved clammy and hard to heat in the autumn. Today, as on most days, Garen awakened early, as soon as the morning chill penetrated into his bedchamber.
He lay for a while beneath the down comforter, taking stock of his surroundings and going over his plans. This was going to be a day for keeping alert. Last night, neither the Domina nor the Consort had come to dinner, and he and Gentlesir Festen Aringher—whose presence Garen had yet to account for—had been reduced to making stilted conversation about Galcenian folk music for the benefit of the hushed and edgy servants.
Something is changing,
Garen thought.
A balance is shifting … but which way?
Garen thought.
A balance is shifting … but which way?
He got out of bed and put on a loose purple dressing gown. The lacquered wood secretary in the opposite corner of the room concealed a desk comp. He sent the comp’s morning routines out to grab fresh news and the latest agricultural reports, then sat down to run the sims. His own personalized simulations, these were—he’d been the best, at the Delaven Academy, at making and running them.
The desk comp spat out a sheet of flimsy. Garen looked it over and adjusted the sim parameters slightly:
assume crop failures are first move in Mage biochem attack, then replay.
assume crop failures are first move in Mage biochem attack, then replay.
The sim took longer to run this time. Somewhere in the distance he heard the rumbling of jets, and frowned at the disturbance. Another sheet of flimsy curled out onto the desk. He checked the results and nodded. As he’d expected, the predictions came out much worse under the new conditions.
It was possible, perhaps, to import from off-world the food required to support Entibor, on a short-term basis at least—but the money would have to come from House Rosselin’s private fortune if it came from anywhere at all. The public treasury was already pledged to more ships for the Fleet, and the cash that he and Perada had “diverted” from Tarveet Holdings was currently bankrolling half the privateers in Innish-Kyl.
Turning a nice profit, too … but the hidden account on Suivi Point was sacred, a key part of his long-term plan. If anything could induce his family to reinstate him, it would be coming home from the war with more money than he’d left with.
He drew a line or two on the printout and considered the result. An alliance with Galcen or Artha might keep Entibor going long enough for the Fleet’s new ships to make a difference. Then to return to Pleyver, and take it, with a fleet at his back to enforce his claim …
A sudden clamor outside his room—shouts, running feet, a babble of voices—broke into his concentration. The noise sounded like it was coming from the end of the corridor, where the nursery wing connected to the rest of the private apartments. Garen abandoned his sims and stepped into the hallway far enough to grab the arm of a hurrying maidservant in palace livery.
“What’s going on?” he demanded.
“Oh, my lord Meteun!” The maidservant looked grateful for his appearance. “You’ll tell the Domina, won’t you, please?”
“Tell her what?”
“That the Consort has gone—and he’s taken the baby with him!”
Now that it was too late to change her mind, Tillijen wondered if she’d done the right thing. She’d spent the night in a furnished room on the outskirts of An-Jemayne, watching news reports on the holoset—nothing so far about
Warhammer
’s return, which probably meant that Internal Security was sitting oh the story, and not much about the presence of Mage warships in-system, either. Crop failures in the grain-producing provinces of Cazdel and Elicond did make the news, although the reports blamed the problem on unseasonable weather rather than on what Tillijen suspected was a Mageworlds attack.
Warhammer
’s return, which probably meant that Internal Security was sitting oh the story, and not much about the presence of Mage warships in-system, either. Crop failures in the grain-producing provinces of Cazdel and Elicond did make the news, although the reports blamed the problem on unseasonable weather rather than on what Tillijen suspected was a Mageworlds attack.
Not that I blame them
, she thought.
The last thing we need is for somebody to mention Sapne in public.
, she thought.
The last thing we need is for somebody to mention Sapne in public.
She hadn’t found anyone to share her opinions with, unfortunately. The redheaded man who had escorted her out of the Silver Slipper had gone off again on his own business after taking her to the furnished room. He had also locked the door behind him from the outside, which irritated Tillijen but didn’t surprise her very much. She’d strayed into the shadowy world of spies and security agents, that much was clear. Whether she would get out again, and how, was anybody’s guess.
Shortly after dawn the redheaded man came back, looking worried. Tillijen stood up from the couch where she’d dozed off during the late-night financial commentary.
“My lady,” he said. “Please excuse my earlier informality. My name is Meinuxet. I serve a servant of the Domina, with what faith and honor I am able to give.”
“And this servant of the Domina is—?”
“You’ll meet him shortly,” Meinuxet said. “In the meantime, because the Rolny has taken an interest in you, my master has sent me to look to your safety.”
“Just what I needed,” Tillijen said; “to come to the attention of people in high places.”
“Inevitable when you travel in the company of Her Dignity,” Meinuxet said. “But we have to go. Now.”
“Go where?”
The man didn’t answer, except to say “Please hurry” and turn off the holoset. She shrugged and followed him out of the room. A hovercar waited outside—the same one that Meinuxet had driven last night—and Tillijen once more found herself gestured toward the passenger seat.
She obeyed, feeling more curiosity than apprehension. There’d been ample time during the night for Meinuxet or his associates to dispose of her, if such was their intent, but she had remained undisturbed. Moreover, she still had both her blaster and the knife inside her boot. Whatever was going on, she didn’t think that murder was part of it.
The streets of An-Jemayne were crowded with workday-morning traffic. Meinuxet navigated the crush at a speed just slow enough to avoid the attention of Domestic Security—though still faster than Tillijen would have liked—and took the hovercar out through the suburbs to a small airfield.
“If you’re taking me back to the ’
Hammer
,” she said, “I have to tell you that this is the long way around.”
Hammer
,” she said, “I have to tell you that this is the long way around.”
“I’m sorry, my lady,” the man said. “But it isn’t possible at present for me to return you to your ship.”
“Ah. Where
are
we going, then?”
are
we going, then?”
The man didn’t answer. He led the way to one of the aircars, and a few minutes later they were flying north and west of the capital, into the highland forests. Tillijen gave up her attempts at conversation—the man was obviously too worried and abstracted to appreciate idle banter—and waited until the aircar settled to earth again a couple of hours later.
She looked out the passenger-seat window at the grassy field on which they’d landed. “Is this it?”
“For now, yes. Come.”
The morning air outside was crisper than it had been in An-Jemayne, and smelled cleaner. Tillijen sniffed appreciatively. “Nice,” she said—truly fresh air was an impossibility on shipboard, and most spaceports didn’t have anything better. If Meinuxet was planning to stash her out here in the countryside for safekeeping, things could be worse.
“Her Dignity will be glad to know you approve,” the man said—the first nonessential remark he’d made all morning, and something about the tone of his voice made Tillijen pull herself together and look around.
Then she saw it, a long, pale structure that seemed to float against the hillside above the landing field like a low-lying cloud: the Summer Palace of House Rosselin.
“What’s up?” she asked. “Why are we here?”
“I’m putting you in a hiding place where no one can drag you out: under the Domina’s personal protection.”
Jos didn’t like having
Warhammer
full of strangers in uniform, even if they did all salute him and call him “sir,” but he didn’t think he had much choice. Without the Fleet personnel, he’d be too shorthanded to lift. Of the ‘
Hammer
’s regular crew, only Nannla had been aboard when he arrived at the military landing field, and the number-one gunner was near-frantic with worry over Tilly, who seemed to have vanished during the night. Jos considered giving Nannla leave to stay behind and look for her partner, then thought better of it. If he had to shoot his way—and Ari’s—out of the system, he wanted at least one of
Warhammer
’s own gunners on the job.
Warhammer
full of strangers in uniform, even if they did all salute him and call him “sir,” but he didn’t think he had much choice. Without the Fleet personnel, he’d be too shorthanded to lift. Of the ‘
Hammer
’s regular crew, only Nannla had been aboard when he arrived at the military landing field, and the number-one gunner was near-frantic with worry over Tilly, who seemed to have vanished during the night. Jos considered giving Nannla leave to stay behind and look for her partner, then thought better of it. If he had to shoot his way—and Ari’s—out of the system, he wanted at least one of
Warhammer
’s own gunners on the job.
He turned to the young Fleet officer in the copilot’s seat. “You know what orders you’re working under, or at least I hope you do. So tell me—if we leave here without requesting permission, are people going to shoot at us?”
“Yes.” After a few seconds, the officer added, “But they’re supposed to miss.”
“Supposed,” said Jos. He regarded his temporary copilot with a thoughtful expression. “Do you trust your friends?”
“Enough.”
“I suppose that’ll have to do.” Jos keyed on the ship’s internal comms. “Engineering, report.”
A stranger’s voice came on over the cockpit audio. “I can’t make any sense of this blasted power plant. Sir.”
“Not surprising. Don’t worry about it—just watch for redlines, and treat ‘em as they happen. Our plan is a straight run-to-jump, with minimum time maneuvering. Got ’em heated?”
“Heating now.”
“Good. Seal and strap, everyone. We’re leaving.”
“Ready,” came the ragged chorus of unfamiliar voices.
Jos reached out for the controls, then hesitated a moment. “How’s the kid?”
He’d strapped Ari into the bunk in number-two crew berthing, with the young pilot from the Fleet suborbital courier to keep him company. Now the courier pilot replied over the link from the cabin, “The kid’s okay, but I don’t think he’s real happy about all this.”
“Tell him that makes two of us. But he’ll like it on Maraghai … . How are the engines doing?”
“Engines ready,” said the stranger in engineering.
“Ready to launch,” said Jos. “Go.”
The nullgravs tilted them back and they were off. They hadn’t yet escaped the pull of Entibor’s gravity when Jos spotted the first flicker on the sensor readouts.
“Somebody’s locked on and tracking,” he said, as the ’
Hammer
bounced and shook in the stress of launch. “You’re sure they’re going to miss?”
Hammer
bounced and shook in the stress of launch. “You’re sure they’re going to miss?”
“Yes.”
A flare of purple light washed over the armor-glass of the viewscreens. Jos glanced over at the copilot. “By how much?”
“Enough.”
Then the acceleration eased, and a few seconds later they were free of the atmosphere, out in the clean black of space. The copilot leaned forward for a closer look at the sensor readouts.
“What’s that up ahead?”
“Looks like trouble,” said Jos. He glanced over the readouts with an experienced eye. “Entiboran Fleet destroyer, closing fast.”
“We have a signal coming in from the Entiboran ship,” said the copilot. “Voice comms.”
“Put it on audio,” Jos said. “But don’t answer.”
The link crackled briefly, and a tinny voice came over the cockpit audio: “General Metadi, I have received orders from Central HQ to prevent you from leaving the system.”
Jos let the external comm link go untouched, and tapped the screen of the ’
Hammer
’s navicomp with one fingernail. “Numbers, baby,” he muttered. “Give me numbers.”
Hammer
’s navicomp with one fingernail. “Numbers, baby,” he muttered. “Give me numbers.”
“General,” came the audio from the destroyer, “you are ordered not to take a course of five-seven-two from your current location, as that would put you on the arc to Maraghai.”
Jos frowned at the navicomp. The red Working light was still flashing—no numbers yet. But five-seven-two wasn’t impossible. Metadi tweaked the ’
Hammer
over toward that direction. The destroyer turned with him, running parallel to the new course.
Hammer
over toward that direction. The destroyer turned with him, running parallel to the new course.
The link crackled again. “General—I am ordered to take you alongside with tractors and transfer your crew to this ship. If you begin accelerating to jump speed now, I will be unable to lock on. Therefore, you are ordered not to accelerate.”
Jos keyed on the internal comms. “Engineering, watch the redlines. I’m going to feed her power.”
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