Debra Doyle & James MacDonald - Mageworlds 04 - The Gathering Flame

VIP免费

2024-12-24 0 0 615.7KB 199 页 5.9玖币

侵权投诉

Cautionary Prologue

"What you have to realize, son, is that almost all of the people who were there at the time are dead. And

everybody who's still alive is lying to you about something."

-General Jos Metadi to an unknown interviewer, some time after the end of the First Mage war.

I. Galcenian Dating 974 A.F.

Entiboran Regnal Year 38 Veratina

Errec Ransome-late of Ilarna, now copilot and navigator of Jos Metadi's Warhammer-ran up

the broad staircase of the Double Moon two steps at a time. In the public rooms behind him, the sounds

and smells of raucous celebration filled the air like thick smoke. Metadi's privateers had come back again

to Waycross, and the party had just begun.

They'd had a good run this time. Nobody had gotten blown up-except for Celeyn, and that was

his own damned fault-and the Mageships had dropped out of hyperspace right where Errec had told Jos

that they would: cargo ships, big and arrogant, full of the treasures of half a hundred worlds. The Mages

hadn't expected serious trouble at a neutral planet so close to their home territory, and they'd counted on

the warships escorting them to take care of any trouble that did occur.

They'd been wrong. The Ophelan system was a long way from the main privateering lanes. That

was why the cargo ships had chosen it for their fuel and repair stop before heading back across the gap

between the Mageworlds and the civilized galaxy. But Ophel wasn't so far away from civilization that Jos

Metadi couldn't persuade other privateer captains to follow him there. When the cargo ships and their

escorts made the translation from hyperspace, it wasn't just Warhammer that waited at the drop points

for them: it was a whole fleet.

Now that the voyage was over and the share-out done, most of the privateers seemed intent on

spending their cut of the proceedings as fast as possible, with the eager help of every bartender and

brothel keeper in Waycross.

Jos Metadi had already banked most of his portion-he hadn't made it out of the Gyfferan slums,

and into command of his own ship, by being careless about finances- but even he hadn't banked it all.

The captain liked money, and with good reason, but he also liked the undoubted pleasures that money

could buy.

The Double Moon sold most of them. Ransome was aware, as he hurried up the carpeted

staircase, of the seething, sweating presence of the establishment's other patrons. He ignored the pressure

of their unspoken desires, and made his way down the narrow, red-carpeted upstairs hall.

Translucent glowcubes in filigree holders marked each door, but Errec didn't have to read the

brass plate outside number seven to know that he'd found the right room. He pounded on the polished

wood with his fist-pounded hard, because the Double Moon had extensive soundproofing underneath its

old-style facade-and shouted, "Jos! Are you in there?"

The answer came back, muffled by a treble thickness of wood and insulation: "Go away, Errec.

I'm busy."

"Jos, there's a girl downstairs!"

"There's a girl right here. Go'away."

Errec tried again. "The one downstairs wants to talk to you!"

"One minute!"

Errec laughed under his breath and started back down the hall to the stairs. Jos was likely to take

more than a minute to disentangle himself, and somebody ought to keep the lady amused while she was

waiting. The private room downstairs was furnished with carved wooden furniture upholstered in crimson

velvet. The lady herself-fair and petite in a full-skirted gown of frosty blue-sat bolt upright in one of the

high-backed chairs, knees together and hands on knees. A formal mask of black velvet covered her face

from well above the eyebrows to halfway down her cheeks. Her mouth looked young, though;

surprisingly young, for the aura that surrounded her.

Iron, thought Errec. This one is iron.

He wondered if the two gentlemen standing with her realized it. They were both older than she

was, but seemed to have little else in common beyond a firm conviction that being here at all was a very

bad mistake. One of them-a large man, dark and heavily muscled, with strength and training apparent

even beneath his fashionable clothing- stood on the far side of the room, his back against the wall, in a

position that afforded a clear view of both doors. Whatever this one's title might be, Errec decided, his

work was the selective application of violence in the lady's interest.

The other man was slight and grey-haired, dressed in plain dark clothing cut out of good cloth.

He stood at the lady's left shoulder and gazed about with a quizzical air, as if he'd never been in a place

like the Double Moon until this evening. An old family retainer, was Errec's conjecture, keeper of the

young noblewoman's reputation ... or at least, considering where they all currently were, of her virtue.

In spite of Waycross's bad name for violence, the three carried no obvious weapons. That meant

they assumed power-and people with so much unconscious surety of their own power, often had it.

Errec stepped across the threshold. The heavy door swung shut behind him. "Captain Metadi will

be with you soon."

The woman nodded. Ice-blond hair in an elaborate set of curled braids swayed with the motion.

Her eyes behind the mask were a bright, startling blue. She said nothing.

Errec was aware of the younger man's assessing gaze: was this one potential trouble, the

bodyguard was wondering, or was he a person of neither threat nor consequence? A spacehand's

coverall didn't argue for much by way of wealth or position, and-like the woman and her escorts- Errec

Ransome didn't carry any obvious weapons.

He ignored the two men and spoke to the woman directly. "What is the nature of your request

for Captain Metadi?"

The bodyguard's dark face grew even darker. "That is a matter for Her Dignity to discuss with

the captain himself."

"I'm Metadi's copilot," Errec said. "I'll learn about the whole business soon enough."

The bodyguard folded his arms across his chest and set his jaw. "Her Dignity wishes it this way."

The door to the private.room opened again as they spoke.

"You can tell Errec anything you can tell me," said a familiar voice. As always, Jos Metadi's

words had a strong down-home Gyfferan twang, even when he was speaking careful Galcenian. "He'll

need to know anyway, if the 'Hammer's going to be part of it."

The lady spoke for the first time.

"Leave us," she said. Her voice was clear and well bred, with an accent that Errec didn't

recognize. Her blue eyes swept from the bodyguard to Errec and back. "What I have to discuss with

Captain Metadi, I will discuss with him alone."

Her other escort, the older man who stood at her shoulder, looked distressed. "My lady-"

"You too, Ser Hafrey," she said, over his protest. Then, turning again to Metadi, she went on. "I

have hired a room, Captain, for three hours' time. I'm told that's the usual span you linger with a woman

here." Metadi shrugged. If he was surprised-and to Errec, who was as familiar with his moods and

expressions as anybody living, he didn't seem to be-it didn't show on his face. "Sometimes more,

sometimes less," he said. "It depends. Lead the way."

The woman stood, her long skirt rustling with the movement, and crossed the room to the inner

door. With her hand on the lockplate, she paused.

"Wait for me outside," she told her escorts. "I'll join you afterward. Now, Captain-"

Jos moved to follow her, catching Errec's eye as he did so. "Same thing," he said; and added, in

the thick portside Gyfferan that served as the 'Hammer's business language, "See if anybody on the

street knows what's going on here, would you?"

Errec nodded. "There's a cafe"," he replied in the same tongue. "The Blue Sun. I'll start there and

meet you afterward."

The Blue Sun wasn't far-a short walk along the noisy, garish Strip. When he got there, the main

dining room was crowded with newly paid free-spacers. Some of them had come to get a cheap meal

and a stiff drink before embarking on their evening's carousal. Others-the ones that Errec was interested

in-were there to buy or sell things of value, information included.

He slid into the first open booth he came to, inspected the menu pad, and signaled for plain bread

and cheese and a mug of the local beer. He was in the mood for something quite a bit stronger, but it

looked like he'd be holding down this booth for quite a while.

Three hours, he thought, and laughed again, softly, to himself. If the lady was pretty and skillful,

Jos sometimes took all night.

Jos Metadi, more amused than not by developments so far, nodded at Ser Hafrey and the

bodyguard and followed the young woman into the private room. The door-an automatic one this time,

unlike the old-style wooden panels that adorned the more public areas of the Double Moon- slid closed

behind him.

The room contained a small table and two chairs, in the same curved and ornamented style as the

furniture of the outer chamber. Heavy brocade curtains obscured the dim alcove in one corner. His

interest, already piqued by the lady's mask and her brace of escorts, quickened even further.

Whatever she's got in mind, he thought, it's not the usual.

The lady sat down in one of the chairs, and waved a hand at the other. "Captain Metadi," she

said. "Pray be seated, and let us talk."

For a fraction of a second, Jos thought about accepting her invitation at face value. Then he

decided to push things a little instead. The lady wanted something from him; he might as well let her know

that the price wouldn't be low. He moved over to the table and stood behind the empty chair, resting his

hands on the carved arch of its high wooden back.

"First things first. The mask has to come off. I don't make deals with anyone I can't see."

Her mouth curved in a faint smile under the black velvet. "Fair enough, I suppose."

She reached up and undid the tabs holding the mask in place. The black velvet slid away; she

caught the mask as it fell, and placed it on the table in front of her.

'There," she said. "Shall we proceed?"

Jos looked at her. She was younger than he'd expected, considering the weight of authority in her

voice, with fair, unblemished skin. The contours of her face were clean and pure, saved from arrogance

only by the warmth of her mouth and the vivid blue of her eyes. Her brows and lashes were darker than

her hair, ash blond rather than ice. His glance continued appraisingly downward. She was pleasingly

buxom, and he found himself imagining-he wrenched himself back to the present, hoping that the track of

his eyes had gone unremarked.

"I'm afraid that you have the advantage of me," he said, pulling out the chair and seating himself as

he spoke. "You know me-by name and reputation, at least. But I don't know you."

The lady regarded him for a moment before seeming to come to a decision. "Very well. I am

Perada Rosselin, Do-mina of Entibor, of the Far Colonies, and of the Space Between."

Entibor? thought Jos, keeping his expression unchanged by an effort of will. Since becoming a

privateer, he had needed to learn who ruled which planets, and something of their alliances. The whole

tangled nest of them made his head ache sometimes. Who's ... yes, Veratina. Whoever this is, though,

she sure as hell isn't Veratina. But if the old woman's dead . . . I thought that Veratina's heir was a

schoolgirl on Galcen.

He looked again at the lady across from him, and revised his estimate of her age downward by

several years. At her majority, clearly, or she wouldn't be claiming the title ... but closer to girl than

woman. Not yet twenty, Galcenian, that much was sure.

Don't let her age fool you, hotshot. This girl's been training to sign death warrants since the first

day her pudgy little fist could hold a stylus.

He leaned back in his chair. "Well, then, Domina," he said. "What is it that you need me to do?"

"They told me you were quite the direct man," said Perada. She sounded amused. "I see that they

were right."

"Deal with me honestly, and I deal honestly in return. But until I know what you want from me,

there's nothing else I can say."

"What I want," she said, and for the first time hesitated, as if marshaling her arguments. "You've

made a name for yourself, Captain Metadi, and not merely on Gyffer and Innish-Kyl-the newsreaders on

Galcen talk about you as well. They say you are something more than a successful pirate-"

"Privateer," he corrected. "I bear letters of marque and reprisal."

A whole sheaf of them, in fact, from the Citizen-Assembly on Gyffer and a host of other sources,

including the Galcenian Council and the Highest of Khesat-and Veratina Rosselin herself, by way of

House Rosselin's ambassador on Perpayne. But if the young woman across from him didn't know that,

Jos Metadi wasn't going to tell her. Knowledge was power, and it was never a good idea to give away

power to somebody with whom you were trying to strike a deal.

"My apologies, Captain," Perada said, her expression unruffled. "Privateer. And something more.

If the newsreaders don't lie-and I have excellent sources who say that they do not-you have proven

yourself able to meld independent raiders into a fleet and carry the war to the enemy."

"Enemy?" Jos shook his head. "No. Enemies are personal. None of this is personal with me. I

take prizes-rich ones-and I take them for the goods and merchandise they carry. If your sources are any

good, they should have mentioned that I don't fight warships if I can help it."

"You fight when you must, and you win when you fight." Her voice remained composed. "I have

decided. You are the man who will return with me to Entibor and, once there, make a warfleet for me." •

The certainty of it nettled him. "You've decided, have you?"

"You will be amply rewarded."

"I have enough money," he said. "And if I want more, I know how to get it. I don't need to cramp

my style by putting myself under anybody else's command." He stood up. "I'm sorry, but there's no

advantage for me in taking your offer. Now, if you'll excuse me-"

"No," said the Domina. "I have not given you leave."

"I didn't ask," he said. "I'm a free citizen of Gyffer, and nobody's subject. Which means I come

and go as I please, and right now it pleases me to go."

"Wait!"

He paused, one hand on the door. "I told you, I don't want money."

"Money isn't the only reward." Her blue eyes were very bright. She reminded him of a gambler

just before the last card went down. "Name your price, Captain. I can meet it."

"Sorry," he said. "But I don't play cards with somebody else's deck."

He pressed the lockplate to open the door. Nothing happened. He turned back to the Domina.

"I hope you're the one who set the door to lock behind us," he said. "Because otherwise, I think

we've got a problem."

Ser Hafrey gave the Domina and the merchant-captain plenty of time to begin their discussion

before he made any move to leave. He checked the lockplate on the private room first, to make certain

mat all was in order, then moved toward the outer door.

As he did so, he ignored the other man in the room. As Minister of Internal Security for Entibor,

Nivome do'Evaan of Rolny shouldn't have come on this journey in the first place. He should have stayed

behind on Entibor to make ready for the Domina's accession. But the Rolnian had insisted; had, in fact,

exerted the considerable political power of his office to force himself onto the mission.

Perhaps it was better to keep Nivome busy close at hand, where his schemes for advancement

could be watched and countered, rather than leaving him to work his machinations in the palace

undisturbed. Nevertheless, Hafrey found the minister's self-interest distasteful-and felt, therefore, no

obligation to tender his associate any more than the minimum of deference.

Stepping past Nivome, the armsmaster opened the door and glanced out into the hall. As he had

expected, Warham-mer's second-in-command was nowhere in sight. Hafrey stepped back into the

room and closed the door before addressing the Minister of Internal Security directly for the first time.

"The copilot's away. We should be going as well."

The minister's expression of disapproval didn't change. "You, maybe. I'm staying right here."

"The word Her Dignity used was 'leave.' "

Nivome didn't move from his position against the wall. "The Domina of Entibor should not be

wandering the streets of Waycross unprotected."

Ser Hafrey allowed himself a faint smile. "I doubt that she will be."

He bowed-the slight inclination of formal politeness, nothing more-and added, "Nevertheless, we

must all comport ourselves according to our inclinations. I'll wait for you at the ship."

The armsmaster departed from the Double Moon without looking back, and made a slow and

introspective passage through Waycross to the docks. All along the dockside thoroughfares, the ranks of

grounded starships waited in their bays, each enclosure separated from the next by privacy walls looming

even taller than the ships themselves.

The gates of Warhammer's bay stood open. From the look of things, the Innish-Kyllan

dockworkers had begun to off-load cargo while the captain and his copilot worked off their nerves and

excess energy along the Strip.

Ser Hafrey lingered in the shadows for a while, watching as the skipsleds ran in empty and

departed stacked high with shrouded loads-the pick of the loot from Metadi's Optician run. The

worklights mounted on top of the privacy walls were harsh and blue-white, mimicking in their spectra the

suns of another world.

Warhammer was an ugly vessel, at least to the armsmas-ter's exacting eye-a huge, flattened disk

that stood on heavy metal landing legs. Its cargo doors gaped open, with ramps leading down to the floor

of the bay. A shower of blue-white sparks rained from the underside of the freighter, where somebody

was making repairs to the skin of the ship.

After a few minutes Hafrey moved away again, continuing toward his own ship: an Entiboran

Crown courier, small and fast and discreetly armed against the day when speed alone would not answer.

He showed his identification to the scanner at the entry force field and walked through the main

passageway to the bridge. Once there, he settled back in the command chair, laced his fingers in his lap,

and closed his eyes, calming himself and bringing his thoughts into a better order.

If all went well, he told himself, matters would proceed as he intended. If not, then he would deal

with reality as it developed. Ser Hafrey was old-far older than he gave others to understand, or than he

ever admitted even in his most private thoughts-and he had schooled himself long ago to accommodate

the universe when it decided to change itself around him.

"Whoever locked the door," Perada said, "it wasn't me."

She regarded the captain uncertainly as she spoke. She'd been expecting an older man; not as

old as Ser Hafrey, perhaps, but at least someone well into the middle of life. Jos Metadi, however,

looked barely a decade older than she was herself.

Tall and tawny-haired, he wore dark trousers and a spidersilk shirt underneath a crimson velvet

coat fastened with massive gold buttons. An odd combination, she would have thought-but thanks to Ser

Hafrey's preliminary report, she knew that rich, almost gaudy, clothing was the traditional mark of a

prominent captain, an advertisement of his success in the same way that the heavy blaster, its holster tied

down to his thigh, was a mark of his violent profession.

Metadi had come a long way in a short time, then, and he wanted to go even farther. A good

sign, she hoped. Just the same, he was an untried quality. Veratina's court on Entibor hadn't contained

anyone like him; neither had the finishing school on Galcen. She drew a breath and tried for a note of

careful detachment.

"You say we might have a problem?"

He glanced at her again and nodded. "I'm not sure if you're the target, or if I am, or if it's the two

of us together-but I'm feeling more like someone has me locked and tracking with fire control than makes

me comfy."

"Oh." At least, she reflected, Captain Metadi had spoken of "we" and "us." Maybe there was a

chance she could bring him around after all.

Great-Aunt 'Tina would be furious-the Head of House Rosselin taking a Gyfferan nobody

for Consort!

She was willing to go that far if she had to. Ser Hafrey hadn't approved of the idea when she'd

broached it to him on the hyperspace run to Innish-Kyl, but he knew better than to gainsay the Domina

on a dynastic matter.

Captain Jos Metadi was not, after all, simply a Gyfferan nobody. His family and his early history

might be untrace-able-if Ser Hafrey said that a man's lineage was obscure, no conventional records

check was going to provide the information-but his current fame and his known accomplishments were

matters of established fact. Jos Metadi was, by anybody's reckoning, the foremost captain among the

privateers of Innish-Kyl, and the .only one who had proved consistently able to bring other ships under

his command.

If he can do it for a rabble of pirates, she told herself, he can do it for me.

Meanwhile, the captain was rummaging under the tapestries that covered the walls of the private

room. "Damned thing's back here somewhere," she heard him mutter under his breath. He let the

tapestry drop back against the wall. "I wasn't counting on a room with only one way out."

"My fault, I'm afraid. Ser Hafrey insisted-the better to control the circumstances of our

discussion, he said."

"I hope he hasn't controlled us right into a bloody ambush," Metadi commented. His Gyfferan

accent was stronger than it had been, and there was an edge to his voice that hadn't been there when he

came in. "I suppose he insisted on scanning the room for spy-eyes and snoop-buttons?"

"Of course," she said. "But there weren't any."

"No electronics." Metadi was prowling about the perimeter of the room, looking for she didn't

know what. "Then how would they ... hah!"

He'd come to the alcove with the bed, where heavy curtains swagged across the entrance partly

hid and partly revealed the cushioned interior. He seized the fabric of the curtains with one hand and

jerked it aside. Light came into the alcove from the glowcubes that illuminated the room itself, and Perada

saw with a faint sense of shock that the entire back wall of the alcove was a single large mirror.

She blinked, and swallowed. "What? Surely you don't- not now?"

Metadi wasn't listening. He picked up one of the high-backed wooden chairs, lifted it over his

head, and threw it full-force into the alcove. The chair hit the mirror with a tremendous splintering crash.

Shards of silver-backed glass fell down like spangles onto the bed below. Where the mirror had been,

Perada saw an empty hole-and beyond that, a small room with walls of dead black, and a pale,

clerkish-looking man with an expression of intense surprise on his otherwise unremarkable face.

"One-way glass," said Metadi. He'd drawn that heavy blaster she'd noticed earlier, and was

pointing it at the clerk-which explained, Perada thought, why the man hadn't made any attempt to run

away. "I expect that news of our chat is all over Innish-Kyl by now. In a week most of the civilized

galaxy will know about it. In two, even the Magelords will know."

"You expected something like this, didn't you?"

"Let's say it doesn't surprise me very much."

By now, Metadi was inside the black-walled cubicle, presenting the frightened clerk with a

close-range view of his blaster. "Maybe our friend here is nothing but a random pervert who bought

himself an evening at the peep show-but it's a lot more likely that he's a paid spy."

The clerk turned even paler than before. "No, no ..."

"A pervert, then," said Metadi. "In that case, gentlesir, it will only increase your enjoyment if I tie

you securely before we go."

He glanced about the little room, frowning slightly. Perada thought that he seemed to be looking

for something.

"The curtain ropes," she said. "Will those do?"

"Good thinking. Pull 'em down."

The ropes were thick and sturdy underneath their velvet casings. Perada worked quickly, and

soon had an armful of them ready to pass across the glass-strewn bed to Captain Metadi, who holstered

his blaster and set about binding the unfortunate clerk.

"There," he said when he was done. He looked down at the clerk, now trussed and tied like a

fowl for the roasting.

"I wouldn't straggle, by the way, if I were you. You'll only strangle yourself."

"He isn't straggling," Perada felt obliged to point out. "He's too scared."

"Smart man," Metadi said. He extended a hand to help her scramble over the couch. "There you

are, Domina. Let's go."

Perada Rosselin: Entibor

(Galcenian Dating 962 A.F.

Entiboran Regnal Year 26 Veratina)

Perada Rosselin-five years old, her pale yellow hair barely long enough to make into

braids--shivered as she made her way carefully along the second-floor ledge of her mother's manor

house. She wished she'd remembered to wear a jacket. The late-spring sun of Felshang Province looked

bright and warm, but outside, and this high above the ground, the wind was cold.

She'd reached the ledge, quite easily, by climbing over the sill of the casement window in the

upstairs guest bedroom next to the nursery. Because it was the smallest and most inconvenient of the

empty rooms, nobody had ever noticed that the force field over the window opening didn't work

anymore. The ledge itself was over a foot wide, and the big bluestone statues that stood along it at

intervals were tall enough to hide a small person from anyone looking up from below.

Just the same, she'd taken care not to be seen. She knew that she wasn't going to fall off the

ledge, but she also knew that none of the adults in the house would ever agree. If anybody suspected that

the ledge, with its high, windy solitude and its view of the fields and vineyards of Felshang, was her secret

haven, then the window in the empty room would be locked and the force field repaired-and Perada

would be taking all her meals in the nursery until Mamma decided she'd grown up enough to know

better. So Perada was always very quiet, and very cautious, when she went out onto the ledge.

Especially today. She made her way on hands and knees past the nursery windows, and eased herself an

inch at a time across the carved stone lap of the statue on the southwest corner. At last she came to a

spot outside the open windows of her mother's study.

She squeezed herself into place beyond the outflung pane of the open casement, in a nook

sheltered from the wind by the hunched shoulder of a bluestone gargoyle. She didn't normally risk coming

so far, but today she had a special reason. She wanted to listen to what Mamma and Dadda were talking

about when she wasn't there.

Dadda had come down from the capital by aircar that morning-in the middle of the week during

school season, which wasn't usual for him-and all through lunch he and Mamma had spoken to each

other in worried-sounding half-sentences. Perada had understood without asking that they didn't want to

talk about it in front of her-whatever "it" was that could make Mamma look frightened and solemn and

excited all at once-but they were talking about it now, in Mamma's study.

"She won't do it," Mamma was saying, and Perada knew that they were talking about

Great-Aunt Veratina. Not just at the Felshang manor house, but everywhere, "she" in that tone of voice

always meant the Domina of Entibor: a tall, hatchet-faced woman with iron-grey hair and pale, cold eyes,

loved and feared and hated and worshiped in almost equal proportions by everyone in Perada's life.

"It's not a matter of 'won't,' " Dadda said. Dadda was Owen Lokkelar, a professor of galactic

history at Felshang University and Mamma's husband by commoners'-rite. "She can't do it."

"Can't do what?" Mamma sounded angry-and afraid, too, which made Perada, crouched out of

sight on the ledge, hug her knees and shiver. "Can't come out and say what everybody from here to the

Far Colonies knows perfectly well already-that she's as barren as a parched field and has been for the

last thirty-seven years?"

Barren ... Perada had heard that word before, when the nursery maid and the majordomo were

talking in the hallway while they thought she was napping. "A bad thing," the majordomo had said; "no

vigor left in that line, anyone can see it. Not like our own lady."

"She can't afford to make it official," Dadda said. "As soon as she does, the factions will start

pressing on her twice as hard."

"I don't blame them," said Mamma. "You know how people are about things like that, even in

this day and age. If she doesn't either step down or name somebody capable, they'll start blaming the

House for every disaster that comes along."

"After word of this gets out, she won't dare name anyone," Dadda said. He'd started using what

Perada thought of as his teacher-voice, the one that her mother always listened to. "She's broken

tradition-which most people could forgive her for; this isn't five hundred years ago-and she's failed at it,

which nobody is ever going to forgive."

Nobody said anything for a while. Perada wished she dared look in through the open window

and see their faces-she could almost always tell from the faces what people were thinking. At last her

mother said, "If she doesn't name anyone, it all comes down to the closest heir left. Now that the

Chereeves are out of the picture, with that oldest girl of theirs cutting her braids so disgracefully, exactly

who might be closest is a matter for discussion."

"It won't be for long." Dadda sounded worried, which wasn't like him.."It's going to be the Blood

Tontine all over again."

"Not for me," Mamma said. "I'm out of all that."

There was another long pause, and then Dadda said, very quietly, "But should you be?"

Mamma sighed. "Damn you, Owen. I was afraid you were going to come around to that. You

know what it'll mean, though."

"I know," Dadda said. "One of the Urnvards would be a good choice, I think; or Gersten Kiel, if

you prefer. He's produced nothing but girls so far, and he did well enough for 'Rada."

"Mmm. I'd hoped that maybe you-"

"Not when the stakes are so high. If you want to play at all, you can't make any sentimental

choices."

"No." Mamma's voice sounded tight and brittle, like sugar candy drawn out fine and ready to

break. "The question is, do I want to play?"

There was another long pause. "For the sake of your House, Shaja ... I think you have to."

II. Galcenian Dating 974 A.F.

Entiboran Regnal Year 38 Veratina

the secret room had a hinged door with an old-style mechanical latch, leading into a narrow

service hallway dimly lit by a flickering low-power light panel. Metadi latched the door behind them from

the outside.

"That should buy us a minute or two," he said. "Now, let's see ... if I'm not lost, the rear exit to

this dump should be down that way."

"I don't believe it," Perada said, after an unsuccessful struggle against her baser impulses. "You

really do know the back door of every bordello in Waycross."

The captain threw a quick glance in her direction. "People say that about me, do they?"

She didn't know what to say in reply-most of Nivome and Ser Hafrey's comments on the subject

of Jos Metadi had been even more uncomplimentary than that. But the captain had already found what

she supposed was the way out, another hinged door set flush with the grimy plast-block wall of the

service corridor. He set his hand against it, pushed, and the door swung open.

"This way, Domina."

She followed him out into what looked-and smelled- like a back alley, full of slimy puddles and

malodorous garbage bins, illuminated only by the occasional blue safety glow. She wrinkled her nose.

"It's not as clean as the front lobby," Metadi said, as if he'd seen her change of expression. "But

it's probably safer at the moment."

Something hot and bright red zinged past them before he finished speaking, and the plast-block

next to Perada's head bubbled up and blistered from the sudden intense heat. She drew breath to exclaim

something-she wasn't sure what- only to have most of the wind knocked out of her when the captain

pushed her full-length onto the reeking pavement of the alley.

Another instant, and he was on top of her, a warm and solid weight, with the gold buttons of his

fine velvet coat digging into the flesh along her spine. Any urge she might have felt to protest died as soon

as she realized that his entire body was between her and the source of the unexpected attack. For attack

it was; Metadi had his blaster out and in hand, and she heard footsteps approaching, sounding rapid but

at the same time cautious. She felt the captain's free hand on her shoulder, pressing her down ... Stay

quiet. She had no trouble in interpreting the wordless command. Don't move.

Perada endeavored not to breathe.

The footsteps drew closer-coming to check on the kill, she supposed. Then the weight on her

back lifted as Metadi rolled away. A loud, high-pitched buzz sounded from close overhead, followed by

the pop-and-flash of an exploding glow. She turned her head sideways as much as she could without

raising it above the pavement, and saw Metadi, now in deep shadow, fire the heavy blaster twice more

down the alley.

The whole exchange, from the first shot to Metadi's last, had taken only a few seconds. The

owner of the footsteps was nowhere in evidence. Metadi rose out of the half-crouch from which he had

fired, and held out a hand- presumably, Perada thought, it was safe for her to get up. She took the

offered hand, and stood.

Her mask was gone, forgotten and left back in the Double Moon. The blue dress-carefully

chosen for the interview just past-had lost several of the tiny, hand-sewn buttons that gave the bodice its

exquisite fit, and she didn't want to think about what nameless substances might have been ground into

the delicate fabric. On the other hand, she was alive, when she might well have been otherwise; and the

understanding of it filled her with a peculiar sense of exhilaration.

"Time to leave this place behind," the captain said. "Even in Waycross, if you fire a blaster

somebody eventually shows up to investigate."

"How soon is 'eventually'?" Perada inquired. Getting arrested was something that Nivome and

Ser Hafrey could extricate her from, but they'd exact a high price for their complicity in such an

escapade. Legal entanglements, then, were best avoided.

"Soon enough that camping out at this address isn't a good idea," said Metadi. "Where were you

supposed to be meeting your two buddies after our chat was over?"

She gestured at the building behind them. "In there-the front lobby."

"No good, I'm afraid. You came here from off-planet; is your ship waiting for you dirtside, or up

in orbit?"

" 'Dirtside'? Oh. Down here, yes." She paused. "I'm sorry I can't give you any better directions-I

never expected the need."

She heard him laugh quietly in the dark.

"Domina, if I can't find a ship when it's in port, I'll eat my pilot's license. I'll get you home safe-it's

the least I can do." Blaster in hand, he started down the alley in the direction from which the shots and

footsteps had come.

"That way?" she asked, hesitating. "I thought ..."

"So did they, probably." He paused, then reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a second,

smaller blaster. "But in case they didn't-did that finishing school you were at teach you how to work one

of these things?"

She shook her head. "I'm afraid the curriculum didn't include a course in heavy artillery. Sorry."

Metadi pressed the weapon into her hand anyway. "It's easy," he said. His hand was warm over

hers. "You hold it here, and when you want to shoot it, you press on this stud here with your thumb.

Whatever's standing in front of the bell goes away."

"How about aiming it?"

"No time to practice that-just don't point it at me."

She hefted the blaster. It had an oddly heavy feel to it for its small size, and she felt inclined to

treat it with considerable respect. "Is there a-what do you call it? A safety mechanism?"

"I've already armed it."

"You seem to have thought of everything," she said-and at that moment the back entrance to the

Double Moon flew open and a voice shouted, "It's them! Stop them!"

"Come on," Metadi said, and sprinted for the mouth of the alley. Perada gathered up her skirts

with her free hand and followed after him. Somewhat to her surprise, nobody shot at them from either

direction.

When they reached the juncture of the alley and the street beyond, she understood why. The man

who'd carried her message upstairs to Captain Metadi was standing there-waiting for them, leaning on

what she thought at first was an Adept's staff.

Surely not, she thought, and then saw that the staff was a bar of plain metal, such as anybody

might pick up and wield. Three men lay motionless on the pavement nearby, their weapons fallen from

their hands.

"I thought you'd given up that sort of thing," Metadi said. There was a note in the captain's voice

that Perada couldn't quite identify, as if he'd touched on something that was an old issue between him and

his copilot.

The other man-Errec Ransome, that was his name- glanced sideways at the bar of metal, and

shrugged. "One uses the tools that come to hand. I'll deep-space it once we leave orbit, if it makes you

happier."

"Up to you," Metadi said. "But we'd better go."

He started down the street at a brisk pace, threading his way through the press of vehicles and

pedestrians. Nobody seemed to notice his blaster, still at the ready in his hand, or perhaps nobody cared.

Nor, to Perada's relief, did anybody seem to notice her: the blue spidersilk gown was a good deal more

formal than what passed for the usual female garb in this part of Waycross, but the mud-stained fabric

and ripped bodice-and the blaster Metadi had given her- apparently sufficed to camouflage the fact.

"So what happened?" Ransome said to Metadi. "Get into trouble again?"

Again? wondered Perada, but Metadi didn't break stride.

"Some kind of misunderstanding," he said, hurrying through the noisy crowd. Ransome matched

his pace easily, but Perada-shorter than both of them and hampered by the long skirt of her gown-had to

half-run to keep up. "What about you? Find out anything?"

"Quite a bit," Ransome said, followed by something in the unfamiliar language he and the captain

had spoken together earlier. Perada wondered if it was the copilot's birth-tongue that he and Metadi

used for privacy's sake, or the captain's.

Another cry of "There they are! Over that way!" made itself heard above the noise of the crowd.

Metadi looked in the direction of the shout.

"Uh-oh," he said, picking up his pace. "Security goons. Time to get scarce."

"But you said-" Perada began, at the same time as Ransome said, "What about her?"

"She comes with us," said Metadi. "We had an interesting conversation after you left."

"And that made people madder at you than wrecking fifty Mage warships did?"

Fifty? Perada wondered breathlessly-she was running in earnest now, gripping the blaster in one

hand and her skirt in the other. Her soft blue slippers would never recover from this expedition through

the trash and slime of Way-cross's port quarter.

Boots, she thought. I'm going to need boots.

She heard the whining, zinging sound of blaster-fire again a second later; the bolts of ugly red light

came near to hitting more than one of the people thronging the busy street. The crowd thinned out almost

instantly, in what she supposed must be a local survival skill, and Metadi paused long enough to turn and

文档加载中……请稍候！
如果长时间未打开，您也可以点击刷新试试。

下载文档到电脑，查找使用更方便

5.9 玖币 0人已下载

立即下载 VIP免费下载

摘要：

CautionaryPrologue"Whatyouhavetorealize,son,isthatalmostallofthepeoplewhowerethereatthetimearedead.Andeverybodywho'sstillaliveislyingtoyouaboutsomething."-GeneralJosMetaditoanunknowninterviewer,sometimeaftertheendoftheFirstMagewar.I.GalcenianDating974A.F.EntiboranRegnalYear38VeratinaErrecRansome-lat...

展开>> 收起<<

Debra Doyle & James MacDonald - Mageworlds 04 - The Gathering Flame.pdf

共199页,预览40页

还剩页未读，继续阅读

声明：本站为文档C2C交易模式，即用户上传的文档直接被用户下载，本站只是中间服务平台，本站所有文档下载所得的收益归上传人(含作者)所有。玖贝云文库仅提供信息存储空间，仅对用户上传内容的表现方式做保护处理，对上载内容本身不做任何修改或编辑。若文档所含内容侵犯了您的版权或隐私，请立即通知玖贝云文库，我们立即给予删除！

Debra Doyle & James MacDonald - Mageworlds 04 - The Gathering Flame

相关推荐

开通VIP享超值会员特权

作者详情

相关内容

热门标签

举报选择: