Rift in the Races (25 page)

The burning questions now were: why had they come, and what did they intend to do next? Which is precisely what the Queen asked once the plan for the ground campaign was firmly in place. Everyone looked at once to Cypher Meste, the guildmaster diviner who sat directly opposite Altin at the table across the room.

She looked nervous. She was young and not often in the presence of the Queen and such nobles and notables as were assembled here.

“W-well, Your Majesty,” she began, “as you know, m-most of my people are involved with the recast of the great divining spell from the
Four Tomes of Candaran.
And we … I decided to add another twelve diviners to the concert, hoping to punch through the resistance.”

“And …,” goaded the Queen, twirling her scepter impatiently.

“And so we only have eight of us working on the question of ‘why’ just now. We didn’t expect we’d have to use all our resources on a simple location spell. The countermeasures are, well, sophisticated.”

The War Queen looked irritated by the answer, but she knew better than to frighten the young guildmaster too much. The woman was as new to her title as was Captain Andru to his. The replacement of General Darklot, killed in battle, had created several promotions in a single turn of fate.

The previous guildmaster diviner jumped to the new one’s defense. “Your Majesty, if I may …?”

Queen Karroll again whirled the end of her baton.

“The fact that the orcs took Melane Montclaire’s spellbooks, which, as Master Tytamon has explained, contain the spell descriptions required for summoning demons, seems to give clear enough evidence of what they sought.” The wispy little man turned to face Tytamon and added, “You said yourself they made no attempt at any other book in your library.”

“That is true,” Tytamon acknowledged. “And I don’t have to tell anyone in this room how dangerous what they’ve got is. I doubt I have any other book that could be more dangerous in orcish hands.”

“We cannot let the orcs have demon conjuring,” said the Queen. “That is simply unacceptable. They are too barbaric for that kind of power, as we all know. But that cannot be their only goal. Think bigger. Why do they want demon conjuring at all? They certainly can’t want it just for the sake of saying that they have it. So what is it? Do they want my kingdom? Do they want something else? You people need to tell me what they are looking for.” She’d risen to her feet as she spoke, her voice escalating. She pounded the bottom of her scepter on her throne’s massive armrest so violently one of the emeralds fell out of the carved lion’s eye. This only infuriated her further, and for a moment, everyone braced themselves for one of the famous royal tirades. Fortunately, the Queen somehow bit it back. She sat back down but not before shooting both diviners a look that said, “Get it done, or else.”

Both guildmasters, present and previous, bowed their heads and said nothing more.

“Your Majesty,” said Tytamon. “While I believe your assessment is most likely correct, we cannot so quickly dismiss the possibility that the orcs only sought Miss Montclaire’s books for the sake of parity.”

“Parity? What in the six scents of an agnosaur does a gods-be-damned orc want with parity? Find me an orc that even knows what that means, and I’ll give you a duchy of your own.”

“They may have decided it was simply time to have it,” Tytamon replied, perfectly at his ease despite the Queen’s turbulent mood. “We’ve had it, and the elves have had it, for five hundred years. Perhaps the orcs expect it’s their time.”

“Time?
Time
! They don’t get a time. I don’t think I have to take you to Duador to show you what they will do with their
time
.”

“I’m sure your assessment of outcome is a likely one. But you are asking for input as to why. It may be less a matter of intent to use it as it is a matter of vanity, or, as I said, parity. You did see yourself that the orcs were wearing burnished steel. That’s new too. Who ever heard of an orc taking the time to keep its armor clean? It’s literally unheard of in all of history.”

The Queen slouched back against her throne, throwing a leg over the armrest where the now one-eyed lion stood guard. “Hmmm,” she conceded. “Well, for the sake of hearing all opinions, I will allow that it is a possibility. Although I do not allow it is a likely one. The trappings of modernity do not make for a modern mind, or a moral one.”

A very brief debate ensued from that, with various advisors chiming in with the certainty that there was more to the orc theft of Melane Montclaire’s books than vanity or parity, and most of the military personnel agreed with them. Nobody but Aderbury and Captain Andru were willing to entertain Tytamon’s idea. Not even Altin.

Altin was about to say as much when there came a loud banging on the door. Urgent-sounding voices followed. Altin could hear the Queen’s herald arguing with someone out in the hall.

The doors flew open, and there stood Captain Asad with Captain Jefferies and several members of their respective crews. Two liveried guardsmen stood with halberds ready, poised but unwilling to smite the captains down just yet, and the frazzled-looking herald stood before them, his hands out wide, pleading, “Please, gentlemen, you cannot just barge in.”

His head swung to face the room as the doors hit the inside walls.

“My good captains,” said the Queen, calmly. “To what do we owe the extraordinary nature of your call?”

Altin could tell she was put off by the gross breach of respect, but she was not going to play her hand too aggressively. She waved the herald and the two guards away with a shooing motion of her hand. They reluctantly removed themselves from the room.

“Admiral Crane is dead.” Those were the first words out of Captain Asad’s mouth. The mouths of nearly everyone in the room dropped in response to the blunt and terrible news. “Crane is dead, and so is damn near half the fleet. The Hostiles attacked this morning while you have all been conveniently locked away for yet another day.”

“What can you possibly mean by that, Captain?”

Royal restraint was not going to last long with Captain Asad firing off salvos like that, Altin thought. The wrinkles he saw form at the edges of Tytamon’s eyes and mouth confirmed that his mentor felt the same way.

“They’re all dead. Thirty-six ships. Just like that. The forty-three that survived are coming back, and not even at speed. I doubt some of them will make it.” He was glaring at Altin as if it had been the young mage himself that had ordered the Hostile attack.

“And by your tone, and that dark expression you wear, Captain, can I assume you have some blame to place here with my people and, therefore, me?” The Queen’s tone was imperious and as cold as glacial ice.

Captain Asad was still staring straight at Altin; the look he wore, the anger in those dark eyes, spoke of animosity as was seldom seen in the course of normal human lives. “It is more than coincidence that the permanent off-world assignment of Ensign Pewter, whose skirt he’s been sniffing under since the moment he first infiltrated my ship, is more than perfectly timed with the sudden arrival of the massive Hostile attack. And here you sit in council with him now. A war council, as your man out there told us over an hour ago when we first arrived. The fact that you chose to ignore our presence despite this news throws considerable doubt as to the depth of your devotion to the alliance between our two worlds.” He trembled with rage, and Altin could tell it was something more than effort that kept him from saying what he really wanted to say, though it was apparent enough as it was. Nobody in the room didn’t see it.

The Queen did not laugh at him, as she might have done to a lord or officer of her world had they suggested such a thing. The sheer outrageousness of the charge instead proved to her that Captain Asad was mad.

She turned to Altin instead. “Sir Altin, did you dispatch a squadron of Hostiles to attack the admiral and his fleet?”

Altin didn’t think this was the time for such a remark. But he shook his head. “No.”

“Well, there you have it, Captain. It wasn’t us.” Her tone changed to one of utter seriousness. “I am horrified to hear of your great loss, however, and if you’d care to be reasonable, we are more than willing to help.” She sent a glance toward Captain Jefferies that seemed to suggest he get the livid Captain Asad in hand soon or her patience was going to give way to something more … imperial.

Captain Jefferies clutched his comrade by the arm. The ferocity of his whispers could be heard even if the words could not.

Captain Jefferies stepped forward. “Your Majesty, please forgive us. This is a time of high stress for our people. It’s been a long voyage, and our losses have been great for many years now. Tempers are quick aboard our ships, even in moments where restraint would serve us best.” The emphasis he put on this last was obviously directed at Captain Asad.

“I understand completely,” acknowledged the Queen. She looked across the room and out into the ante-chamber beyond, catching the eye of the herald who stood against the far wall peering in. “Chairs,” she said. The herald turned and ran out of view.

Once the officers were seated, the conversation resumed.

“Captain Jefferies, you mentioned your remaining ships are returning here. Are we to assume that the battle was won, or are they in retreat and possibly leading the Hostiles our way?”

“You don’t have to worry about getting into the fight any time soon,” sneered Captain Asad. “Many of the ships are too badly damaged to start a gravity well. They’re coming on ion drives, the battle group staying together for it. Which means essentially they’ll never get here.”

Captain Jefferies was more discreet. “It would take them a few years at that rate, but the intent is not to get here so much as to put some distance between them and the battle zone. They report that all but a handful of Hostiles were destroyed, and those that remained were sorely wounded and possibly, by now, in retreat.”

“They don’t retreat,” said Altin.

“We know that,” snapped Captain Asad.

“Are your ships being followed?” asked the Queen, returning to her earlier point.

“Not that they can detect. The truth is, unfortunately, so little is understood about the Hostiles, we have no way of knowing for sure.” Captain Jefferies looked around the room, uncomfortable. The short breath that he took and expelled seemed to indicate he’d been about to say something more, but the way his shoulders reset suggested he changed his mind.

He and Captain Asad exchanged glances. A tired-looking lieutenant commander leaned near Captain Jefferies and whispered in his ear.

Jefferies tipped toward Captain Asad and apparently repeated it. Captain Asad shook his head vigorously. “No.”

Captain Jefferies looked resigned.

“Gentlemen,” said the Queen. “Why don’t you just come out with it? Whatever it is. We’re all friends here. Let’s be frank, shall we?”

“We must go to them,” said Captain Jefferies. “They need supplies. We’ve got to get the main engines back online for the critically damaged ships, or they’re all sitting ducks out there.” He ended the sentence in a peculiar way—he was clearly done speaking, but he still had also clearly not said whatever it was that troubled them.

Altin saw that the old diviner across the room was silently casting, his lips moving barely discernibly. He wondered if the old man was trying to read them both, a dangerous play, one that could backfire diplomatically and only prove to Captain Asad that he’d been right about the people of Kurr.

“My offer stands, dear Captain, and we will supply you with whatever you need. Have you need of more metal? More miners? Do you need more people to crew your vessels? I’ve got a whole sea of blank sailors who would love nothing more than to sail upon the stars. They know nothing of your technology, but they are fighters, good men and women, battle-tested, tried, salty and strong.”

“It’s not crew we need,” said Captain Jefferies. He looked almost pleadingly to Captain Asad. But the scowling Asad would not have it, whatever it was.

“We can send
Citadel
to help,” offered Altin.

“It’s not ready,” blurted Aderbury, his words stepping on the heels of Altin’s nearly at the moment they passed his lips.

“It’s close enough,” said Altin. “Think of it. I went out there in my tower with nothing but a simple Polar Piton’s Shield in place, and I was fine.”

“
Fine
? You were six breaths from death.”

“I’ve learned a few tricks since then. We all have.”

Captain Jefferies looked as if he wanted to burst, the line of his jaw tense with the effort to keep it still. The lieutenant commander next to him looked the same.

The old diviner’s eyes popped open. He cleared his throat conspicuously, drawing the attention of the Queen. There was a brief exchange of eyebrow motions after which she called on him to speak.

“Captains,” he began, his hands folded before him on the table and his voice tremulous with age but conveying his utmost respect. “You want us to teleport your ships. I apologize for the intrusion, but your emotions are so strong, a first-year divination student could have detected it.” This last was a huge exaggeration, but the nuance was lost on the men from Earth anyway.