A Conflict of Orders (An Age of Discord Novel Book 2) (52 page)

The trooper coughed apologetically and destroyed the illusion.

She gestured for him to lead on.

When the trooper had said “stockade”, Finesz had imagined something similar to an OPI prison—a large fortress-like building, with sheer walls and no windows, and containing small cells accessed from a central atrium. They were designed to securely hold many prisoners, while providing basic shelter, food and hygiene. The military apparently thought differently in regard to its lawbreakers. Finesz was led toward a small walled compound within the garrison. Fierce spikes decorated the top of the fifteen-foot-high wall, and the only entrance was a single narrow gate of strong steel. A militia lieutenant hurried up as Finesz and the trooper approached. She did not question the trooper, nor Finesz’s presence—despite the OPI uniform.

The lieutenant unlocked the gate and Finesz was gestured through. Behind her, the door clanged shut with all the finality of a light going out. Finesz found herself standing in an open yard, around the edges of which were open shelters—some containing beds, some tables and chairs, and one kitted out as a kitchen with stoves and great pots. Milling about the yard were a dozen or so regimental officers.

And they were all looking at Finesz.

She glanced back over her shoulder but the gate was shut. It was not going to open. As she strode forward, her smile felt as useful a defence as her lack of unarmed combat skills. She came to a halt in the centre of the yard, put her hands to her hips, and slowly turned about, regarding carefully her fellow inmates. Emperor’s Own Cuirassiers for the most part, although she saw two or three Imperial Palace Artillery. And even a single brown jacket from the Imperial Baggage Train. She counted three female officers—a Cuirassier and two Artillery.

The two female Imperial Palace Artillery officers were sitting side by side on a cot beneath one shelter. Finesz chose to approach them. They watched her with narrowed eyes, saying nothing. She halted before them.

“Good morning,” she said brightly.

“Is it?” replied one sourly. She was tall and thin, with big hands and a long face. Her chestnut hair hung to her shoulders in two braids. According to the insignia on her epaulets, she was a regimental-captain.

Her companion was a regimental-lieutenant, with a round face, full lips, narrow eyes and hair cut close to her scalp.

“Have you been here long?” Finesz asked. She wondered why her conversational skills had apparently deserted her.

“Long enough,” said the regimental-captain.

A voice behind Finesz said, “I say, you’ll not get pleasantries from those two.”

Finesz turned about. A Cuirassier, and a… regimental-major. He certainly looked the dashing soldier: wide shoulders, narrow waist, open honest features. But for the moustache which spread in two wings across his cheeks, he reminded Finesz a little of Rinharte’s pet marine-captain.

“You
are
an Oppie, I take it?” the regimental-major said.

“Inspector Rizbeka demar Rinharte, yes. And you are?”

He sketched an abbreviated bow. “Zabla. Regimental-Major Odmun mar Zabla, Baron Kopia.” He stepped closer. “And what brings you here?” With an ease born of unshakeable confidence and long practice, he hooked one of his Finesz’s arms in his own, turned her about and began walking her away. Over his shoulder, he told the two Artillery officers, “I hope you won’t mind, my ladies.”

Finesz laughed. She may not have met Zabla at Imperial Court but she was certain he’d spent a great deal of time there.

“We were all taken by Ahasz’s troops during the fighting but how in heavens did you end up here?”

“I came to the talk to the duke,” replied Finesz. She carefully extracted her arm. She was not at Imperial Court now.

“Uhm?”

“To ask him to surrender. He refused.”

“Dear me, inspector.” Zabla seemed quite shocked. “Why did you do that?”

For a moment, she wondered if Zabla had lost his wits. “To stop the war,” she explained slowly.

“Indeed.”

He was, Finesz now noticed, directing her towards a shelter on the other side of the yard. No doubt it was his. She glanced at him sidelong, and it occurred to her that while there was indeed dirt on his dark blue uniform tunic, there was less of it than she had expected. He could not have been a prisoner for long. No, that was wrong. Before being taken, he must have been in the Imperial Palace. Judging by the state of Mount Yama, that could not have been a very clean billet.

In fact, she saw as she looked about the stockade, all of the prisoners seemed surprisingly well-groomed.

“You’ve been a prisoner long, my lord?” she asked with a studied nonchalance.

“A good five weeks, inspector.”

“Then I’m impressed you’ve remained so, ah, civilised in appearance.”

Zabla laughed. “It’s almost impossible to keep clean in here. But we give our parole each weekend and they let us return home.” The major grinned. “Of course, we have to be back for the start of the week.”

“
You go home
?” Finesz asked in disbelief.

“Indeed. We ship out on the railway. Ahasz has control of it, you know.”

“Yes, he said as much.” Finesz was too stunned—and, embarrassingly, amused—by Zabla’s revelation to do more than mumble a reply.

But, if true… she had no reason to doubt it. She could be out of here in a day or two. The thought lifted her spirits and she could not help a small smile appearing.

They had reached Zabla’s shelter. Although only temporary, it was a rude thing: three walls and a sloped roof, a wooden floor raised some three inches above the ground. A canvas curtain had been pulled back to one side. At the rear of the shelter was a bed, made of plain wood but incongruously made up with fine sheet, blankets and an embroidered counterpane. Finez took the latter’s design to be the major’s coat of arms: some sort of six-legged creature with large colourful wings.

There were a pair of upholstered armchairs at the end of the bed. They were plainly second-best furniture and Finesz guessed they would be thrown—or given to some grateful prole family—after Zabla was finally released.

“If you would…?”

She turned about. Zabla had a hand out, inviting her to sit. She did so. He clapped his hands smartly. A batman quickly appeared, and Zabla told him to bring a bottle of wine and two glasses.

This was not, Finesz reflected, what she had expected on being told she had been taken prisoner. There was little privacy and the accommodations left a lot to be desired… But. Wine. Weekends at home. Of course, it was a slum compared to the House of Rectitude. But this
was
a war-zone.

“How is the Emperor?” she asked Zabla.

The batman returned with a tray containing the wine. He quickly poured two glasses, and served Finesz and then his master. She sipped the ruby liquid, and was surprised to find it rich and spicy. She liked it, very much.

“Wouldn’t know,” Zabla replied. “Never saw him. We were moving up floor by floor as each one proved unsafe, but the Family… They shot straight up into the Apartments. Didn’t come out for anything.”

“But you don’t think Ahasz will be able to take the Palace?”

“Not a chance, inspector. Place is thick with knights stalwart and knights militant. What with them and the Cuirassiers, he’d not get ten feet inside.”

“So he’ll just starve them out?”

Zabla scratched his chin, before taking a mouthful of his wine. He swallowed audibly. “I’ll not say we ate well in there.” He held up a hand. “I’m not saying we ate like damn proles, you know, but the nosh was definitely sub-par after a couple of weeks. Was always plenty to go round, though.”

Over the bottle of wine, and another to follow it, Finesz quizzed the regimental-major on conditions inside the Imperial Palace. Zabla’s news was five weeks out of date, although he maintained he’d spoken to more recent prisoners and found little changed. The Imperial Family were, apparently, unharmed. The Palace boasted more than enough defenders to rout a frontal assault. Supplies were good for another half-year, possibly longer if the nobles showed enough intelligence to ration them. (Finesz suspected the proletarian staff were already on rations.)

And so it went. When night fell, small light-panels scattered about the compound, and in every occupied shelter, lit. Finesz was reminded of camping trips as a child, although all the uniforms lent the resemblance an odd character. Zabla’s servant appeared with food—it was not as good as the Palace’s, Zabla explained, but more than adequate given the circumstances. Finesz had eaten worse. All the way from Geneza aboard
Lantern
, in fact. But she did not say so. She suspected her palate had been well and truly ruined since joining the OPI, and this was neither the time nor the place to mourn that loss.

Later, Zabla sent his batman off to find an empty shelter for Finesz and repeatedly assured her she’d be safe.

“Guards’ll make sure of that,” he told her, gesturing somewhat drunkenly at the stockade’s gate.

Later still, he gestured peremptorily for her to leave and stretched out on his bed. His batman led Finesz to the shelter—a cell, of sorts, she supposed—he had chosen for her. The bed had been made, no doubt with some of Zabla’s spare linen and, judging by the batman’s carefully neutral expression, with neither the regimental-major’s knowledge or approval. She thanked him kindly, as she had done after every task he had performed. Before leaving, the batman made to pull the canvas curtain across the shelter and said, “Good night, my lady.”

“Wait.” She held up a hand.

“My lady?”

“Breakfast?” if there was a slightly pleading note to her question, then it was the wine which had put it there. Or so she told herself.

“What time would my lady like?”

“What time does whatsisface—Odmun—take it?”

“No earlier than eleven.”

“Heavens. I can’t lie in bed all that time. Not this bed anyway.” She waved a hand vaguely. “Wake me about seven, if you don’t mind.”

“Certainly, my lady.”

He pulled the curtain shut, sealing Finesz in. She sat on the bed, put her hands to her knees, and gazed slowly and blearily around her new “home”.

At least, it would be her home until the weekend.

T
he search had been a failure. There were too many places to hide aboard
Empress Glorina
, so Rinharte had reluctantly called it off. The death of the ship’s corporal was not mentioned. Ormuz felt responsible, although he knew he was only reacting to the gruesome way in which the man had been killed.

For two days, Rinharte was unapproachable, fuming over their inability to find the missing midshipman. She was so difficult about it, in fact, that Mate Maganda sought out Ormuz and asked if there was anything he could do.

“In what way?” he asked her.

They occupied a pair of armchairs in the Great Hall. He had been seated there with Varä but when Maganda approached, the marquess had made his excuses and left. She’d seemed agitated, so Ormuz had ordered coffee from a steward.

“The nomosphere,” she replied. “Commander Rinharte explained it to me. You can find out anything there.”

Ormuz shook his head. “Not ‘anything’. I don’t think I’ll find any clues to the clone’s hiding-place there.”

Ormuz had never understood how and why information appeared in the nomosphere, but he had a feeling what Maganda wanted was information of an entirely different nature. He had not visited the nomosphere since leaving Geneza. There had seemed little point—they already knew what to expect on arrival at Shuto.

And, of course, there had been that strange incident with Konran…

“What else can we do?” Maganda asked plaintively.

The steward chose that moment to appear with a tray. Ormuz sat back and watched the mate as the steward set the tray on the table and quickly poured coffee from a silver pot into two cups. Maganda perched on the edge of the armchair, her hands on her thighs, long fingers drumming against her kneecaps. Ormuz did not know her well. He’d met her several times during visits to
Tempest
, but had barely exchanged two words with her aboard
Empress Glorina
. Which was, he realised, a surprise; or a failing on his part. Maganda was not the only officer aboard of his age, but she worked closely with Rinharte, who he knew and liked. And, he had to admit, she was pretty, personable, and he was enjoying her company.

The steward withdrew. Ormuz leaned forward and picked up his coffee.

“I don’t think there’s much we can do,” he said. He sipped his coffee. “This ship is enormous. We can only hope someone spots him and tells us.”

“But what if he sabotages something?” Maganda ignored her drink.

“Then we’ll find out about it.”

“But we might not find out until we leave the toposphere. Imagine he sabotaged the navigation mechanism, and we entered the Shuto system and found ourselves locked into a course heading directly for the sun?”

“Is that possible?”

She gave a sheepish smile. “Not really. But he could trigger the torpedoes to all implode together once we’re in formation in real space.”

“Vardr checked the magazine. There was no sign of tampering. And now it’s completely sealed.”

“He must be planning something.”

Ormuz agreed. It was possible the clone was merely hiding, and planned to escape once they reached Shuto. However, he thought it unlikely—there was more to be gained by putting
Empress Glorina
out of action. And he had seen before how little the clones cared for their own survival.

“I don’t see that we can do anything,” he told Maganda. “The crew have been told to keep an eye out for him, and Vardr sends regular patrols of ship’s corporals down to the lower decks. Sooner or later, someone will see him.”

He took a sip of his coffee. “Of course,” he added, “there’s a possibility he’s now in a coma, like the clones you had aboard
Tempest
. Rizbeka suggested that perhaps they can leave their bodies while travelling in the toposphere.”

“So where do they go?” asked Maganda. She hitched further forward in her chair and reached for her cup. Her gaze still on Ormuz, she lifted the coffee to her lips and drank. “I mean,” she continued after lowering the cup, “are there disembodied minds floating about in the nomosphere? Have you seen anything like that there?”