A Conflict of Orders (An Age of Discord Novel Book 2) (3 page)

With his sword, he gestured for them to cross to the ladder. “Down below, Varä,” he quietly ordered the marquess, and once Varä had descended Ormuz sent the boat crew after him. He looked about the control cupola one more time, but could not determine what else needed to be done. He shrugged, bent forward and peered out of the scuttle beside the signalman’s chair at
Vengeful
’s launch, and shrugged again on seeing that nothing had changed.

Down below, Varä had made the prisoners take seats, their backs against the hull, facing towards the centre, while the marquess stood at the end of the aisle. As Ormuz stepped off the ladder, a sharp rap sounded against the hull near the prow. There was a scuttle nearby, so he crossed and gazed out. A figure in blue moved into view and waved. Ormuz recognised him: the boatswain from the launch.

The controls for the bow-doors were near the scuttle. Ormuz set them to open, and the ramp to extend down to the ground, and waited. A blade of cold light cut into the shadowed interior of the pinnace, grew wider as the sunlight seemed to force apart the doors. The boatswain was at first just a silhouette; he put a foot to the ramp and strode up to Ormuz. As Ormuz’s eyes adjusted, the man took on form and features.

“My lord? I’ve come to take your prisoners in hand,” he said.

“Ah, good.”

“
Vengeful
is to shortly send down a jolly boat.”

Which was unexpected news, but not unwelcome. Ormuz gestured for Varä to join him. They exited the boat and, standing once more outside, Ormuz looked about him at the apron and its surrounding steppes beneath the sere sky, and it struck him that there had been no way of undoing the choices he had made for many weeks.

He was set on this path now. And he must get used to having a bloody sword in his hand.

The jolly boat swept the length of the runway, descending as it did so. The thunder of its gas-rockets echoed across the apron. After some two thousand feet, the boat abruptly decelerated, and its prow swung about until it pointed towards where Ormuz, Varä and Finesz waited by
Arnabyad
’s pinnace.

“Is this wise?” asked Finesz. “What if more clones are hidden somewhere near, waiting for the Admiral’s arrival?”

The Serpent had made an attempt on the Admiral’s life here on Linna before. Mate Leka demar Kowo,
Vengeful
’s coxswain, had died in her place. Ormuz remembered it well—to his great shame, he had unknowingly brought the assassin, disguised as a young woman called Aszabella, before the Admiral.

“Then we shall protect her,” replied Ormuz.

The gas-rockets of the jolly boat died away to a sibilant hiss, and then stopped. The sudden silence seemed like a hole in the air, and it was a moment before the sigh of the wind rushed in to fill it. The boat floated some two feet above the apron, solid and immobile as if supported upon invisible legs. A black line appeared at the prow, widened to a crack and then further, and the bow-doors slowly swung apart. A ramp slid from the craft’s interior to the ground.

Ormuz moved forward to greet the arrivals. By the time he reached the jolly boat, the Admiral and Major Mattus demar Skaria,
Vengeful
’s major of marines, had descended the ramp and now stood upon the dressed stone of the apron. Ormuz heard booted feet from within the maw of the craft and, moments later, a boat-squad of marines marched down the ramp. A second boat-squad followed, then a third; and finally a young officer. Ormuz recognised her, but they had never spoken: Marine-Lieutenant Thrima demar Kiserö.

“What trouble have you found now, Casimir?” asked the Admiral.

“It found me,” he replied. “Well,
they
did.” He gestured at the pinnace behind him. “Four clone assassins.”

“In the boat?”

“No, in the terminal.”

The Admiral turned to gaze at the pinnace. “Who does it belong to?”

“
Arnabyad
. A frigate,” said Ormuz.

“I know her.” The Admiral looked back at Ormuz and frowned. “She joined us a day ago. I know of her captain—a good man, I’d believed. You are certain these assassins are the Serpent’s?”

“Definitely. Who else would try to kill me?” Ormuz glanced back over his shoulder at the terminal building. “I’ll show you,” he said.

He turned about and started across the apron. Kiserö hurried to join him. “My lord,” she said, and with a jerk of the head indicated the others. “We must stay together.”

They stopped, so the rest of the party could catch up. Varä and Finesz, then the Admiral and Major Skaria within a cordon of marines. Once at the terminal, Kiserö took a boat-squad inside with her to secure the area. Ormuz waited impatiently, and strode within the moment the marine-lieutenant signalled it was safe. He had not expected any danger: the assassins were dead.

Their bodies lay where they had fallen. Blood had pooled and spread about them, black against the polished white stone of the floor. The corpses’ coveralls blended into it, as if black drapes had been thrown carelessly across them. Ormuz approached the nearest assassin, carefully avoiding the blood, bent over and pulled the mask from the body’s head. He winced as the skull bounced against the floor with a wet thud. But now they could all see the clone’s face…

“The ones on
Tempest
…,” said Finesz.

Yes, Ormuz too had seen the identical clones in the sarcophagi aboard Captain Rinharte’s troop-transport. “The Serpent sent them,” he said. There could no uncertainty now.

The Admiral sighed. “Something must be done about
Arnabyad
.”

She turned and walked to the end of the corridor, where a short flight of steps led down into the examination hall. Crossing her arms across her bosom, she gazed out at the apron. Ormuz joined her.

“I would sooner not be reminded,” she said quietly, “how little value some place upon their word. I expect every captain in my fleet to stand by the promise he made to me. To think that some would behave so dishonourably…”

Ormuz could not determine if she was saddened or disgusted. Perhaps both.

“What are you going to do?” he asked.

“Remove her, remove the canker in our fleet.”

“You mean, shoot
Arnabyad
with
Vengeful
’s main gun?” He was horrified. A frigate’s crew numbered in the hundreds—surely not all of those aboard deserved to die?

“Of course not, Casimir.” The Admiral directed a sharp glance at him. “We cannot know how many other ships would come to her defence. We must do this with care.” She descended into the examination hall and turned to look out at the three boats on the apron: a pinnace, a launch and a jolly boat.

“There,” said the Admiral, “there is our ruse. Do you know the tale of Lord Uma?”

The Admiral had a habit of illustrating points by referencing the lives of Chianist avatars.

She continued, “He was one of the chief architects of the spread of Chianism across Shuto, but not everyone welcomed the message he brought. A city, Wilusa, was one such. She would not open her gates to Lord Uma, and he could not breach her walls. So he devised a stratagem. He built a giant effigy of the god worshipped by the Wilusi, and he and a dozen warriors hid within it —”

Ormuz interrupted, “And the rest of the army pretended to retreat. Then the Wilusi went and fetched the statue and took it inside their city. It’s a famous story. I’d forgotten it was from
The Book of the Sun
.”

“Perhaps you are more familiar with Maro’s
Of Praise
? No? It is a classic literary work of the Old Empire. I shall lend you my copy.” She gestured at the three boats floating patiently outside. “But the point I wish to make is: I have there my means of breaching
Arnabyad
’s wall.”

“The pinnace,” said Ormuz.

“I shall send it packed to the gunwales with my marines. They shall seize her for me, and then we shall see how her captain explains this.”

“I’d like to go too.” He hadn’t thought about it, the urge suddenly came to him, and so he spoke.

“It is too dangerous, Casimir. I forbid it.”

“I need to
do
something,” he complained. “I’ve dragged you into this, and now I just sit about and do nothing. All those captains up there—
everyone
up there in orbit—they all wonder who I am and what I’m doing here. They call me ‘my lord’ and ‘Prince Casimir’ but they don’t know who I am.
I
don’t really know who I am.” He wanted to take the Admiral’s hands in his own, but dare not. “I’m not the proletarian cabin-boy I was a year ago aboard
Divine Providence
. If I’m to fight the Serpent, then I need to
lead
. Let me take
Arnabyad
, let me take the marines aboard her. When others hear of it, it will strenthen our position, our leadership.”

The Admiral was silent a moment. She continued to stare out at the apron, her hands clasped behind her back. “You make an excellent point,” she said at length. “I would not have you thought of no consequence. But neither could I afford to lose you.” She turned to him, unclasped her hands and put them on his shoulders. She squeezed familiarly. “Be careful, Casimir. Show yourself the leader I know you to be, but do it with caution.”

She smiled. “And take your popinjay friend with you. If he fails to protect you, I’ll have his head.”

Vengeful
’s marines had gathered in the bow of the pinnace. They stood to either side, one hand gripping a hand-hold on the inner hull, a boarding-axe in the other. The boat abruptly decelerated, and everyone jerked forwards. A line of light appeared at the prow. In the dimness of the boat’s interior, it shone brightly like a crack into a world of legend. Ormuz smelled oil and the melange of odours characteristic of air recycled too many times; it overpowered the hot metal reek of the pinnace. He glanced across at Varä, and wondered if it had been wise of him to accompany this boarding-party. Yes, he believed the arguments he’d used on the Admiral—and perhaps he still craved action after the sword-fight with the four assassins. But he was no Imperial Marine, he had no experience of boarding enemy vessels. Truth to tell, he might prove a hindrance.

It was too late now to back out.

The crack of light had widened, was now a foot or so in width. The bow-doors split further apart. A marine-corporal gave some muttered command. Time seemed to slow, the air turned gelid, and sound drained from the boat through the bow-doors.

Abruptly, all senses returned. The marines charged forwards, through a gap now four feet or more in width. Ormuz heard them land loudly on the wooden dock outside the pinnace. He reached the lip of the ramp, saw that the boat floated some three feet above the dock, and leapt down to land upon it. Varä jumped down beside him.

The marines had moved out, and set about subduing the rateds present. Ormuz counted five figures in blue. They appeared more confused than belligerent. One or two tried defending themselves, but were quickly beaten down. Ormuz glanced back at the pinnace. There was nothing to see there but the boat and, beyond it, the slot, fifteen wide and ten feet high, through which the pinnace had been winched. Within that slot, Ormuz saw a glowing black curve, speckled with lights—
Arnabyad
was over Linna’s night-side. Where the world’s atmosphere petered out into vacuum, a luminous nimbus delineating the flank of the world, tiny shapes seemed to float like optical illusions. Those, Ormuz knew, were ships of the fleet.

“My lord?”

He turned back to find himself confronted by Marine-Lieutenant Kiserö. She saluted smartly, and then said what he could already see: “Boat-bay secured, my lord.”

“Good work, Ms Kiserö. Are you familiar with this class of vessel?”

Arnabyad
was a frigate, that was all Ormuz knew.

“No, my lord. They carry no marine detachment. But I checked the data-pool for deckplans, so I know the way.”

“Then lead on.”

Surrounded by Kiserö’s three boat-squads, Ormuz and Varä left the boat-bay and entered a narrow steel-walled passage which opened into a circular chamber some ten yards in diameter. Two passages led from the room, one each to Ormuz’s left and right. A ramp curved round the walls and disappeared through a hatch in the ceiling. During the five-yard stretch of passage from the boat-bay, they had encountered no other members of
Arnabyad
’s crew. But there were some here in the circular chamber. A pair had entered through the hatch at two o’clock; one had abruptly halted halfway up the ramp to the deck above; another stood frozen in the centre of the room. All stared at the marines, and once again Ormuz was struck by their puzzlement. They did not look to be crew-members of a ship which must maintain a careful guard against discovery. Had he got it wrong? Was
Arnabyad
innocent?

Impossible. The clone assassins had come from the frigate’s pinnace.
Arnabyad
must be the Serpent’s.

Kiserö led the way to the foot of the ramp, and the group of them started up it. They circled the chamber once—the gradient was gentle—and then through the hatch in the ceiling. They found themselves in an identical chamber, although this one boasted a line of scuttles on the port and starboard arcs. This conning-tower was constructed like a stack of coins, a spiral ramp connecting each deck. They continued upwards, soon reaching the Pilothouse. They could go no higher—at least not on the ramp. Above the Pilothouse, and visible through its glass ceiling, sat the Spotting Top on the mast.

“Who in the hells are you?” demanded a voice.

It was an officer—the captain, in fact.

Kiserö stepped forward smartly and saluted. “Captain Loisz?”

He ignored her. With three long strides, he crossed to the communications-console, flicked a set of switches, and barked, “Yamanë, get me a squad of ship’s corporals up to the Pilothouse on the double. We have intruders aboard.” He turned back to Ormuz and the marines and pulled his sword from its scabbard. “I don’t know who you take orders from, but I’ll damn well fight you tooth and nail for my ship.”

Ormuz stepped forward, leaving the safety of his marine escort. “Captain,” he said, “ you know me. We met aboard
Tempest
when you joined the fleet.”