Sword Empire (3 page)

Laton looked as though he was ready to argue further, but he was forestalled when Allor rose to his feet and asked pointedly, “Antar, how can you be so sure that we can trust this Gheddan woman?”

Antar looked startled, and then surprised, and then he laughed. “You think Jayna is Gheddan?”

Allor looked confused. “She wears Gheddan clothes. She has blue skin.”

“Jayna is as Alphan as you and I,” Antar reassured him. “Leather clothes can be bought in many of our own more rural markets, and if we give her a few weeks the black hair dye and blue body dye will begin to fade. How do you think I can send Zela and Kananda into Ghedda if I cannot temporarily change the pigmentation of their skin?”

Allor raised his hands in a gesture of defeat and sat down again. “I apologize,” he said graciously, addressing himself to Jayna.

“This whole thing is still madness,” Laton insisted. “What good can fresh intelligence do for us? Ghedda will strike when they are ready. The exact timing is only academic.”

“Good intelligence is never academic,” Antar countered. “We must live in hope, not ignorance.”

Laton appealed to his daughter. “Zela, you do not have to do this.”

“But I do, father,” she answered him gently. “Kananda has come all the way from his home planet to find his sister. I know that he would still accompany Jayna without me, and I cannot let him do that. I must go with them. Besides, Antar has said that they need someone who can pilot a rivercraft.”

“We must have hundreds of pilots who can handle a rivercraft,” Laton said in exasperation. He saw from the set of Zela's jaw that he was getting nowhere and switched his efforts to Jayna. “You said that your husband was killed on your last mission to Ghedda. Surely you can see that it is madness to go back. Do you want to be killed also?”

Jayna stood up slowly. She was taller than the old man by a few inches, and she had the lean, hungry look of someone who knew what it meant to be hunted. In her eyes there was suddenly a dark sadness. She moved out from the row of seats until she faced the full assembly. She spoke to them all.

“I return to Ghedda for one reason only. It is right that you should understand this. I have a child, a small daughter. She is only five years old. I believe our planet does face destruction, but Antar has promised me that in return for my continued service my daughter will have a place on one of the escape ships.”

There was silence. A few feet shuffled uncomfortably. Then Allor reassured her, “You have my word also, and I know I can speak for us all. Whatever happens, Antar's promise will be honoured. Your child will be on the first ship to escape from Dooma.”

The matter seemed settled. Even Laton nodded in support of his colleague's word. Then the old man looked again to Antar.

“You hinted that my daughter must play two roles. What is the other?”

Antar looked at Zela, and then said mysteriously, “Commander, can you dance?”

Zela looked suddenly suspicious. “Yes,” she admitted cautiously. “I can dance.”

At that point Jayna laughed, an unexpectedly merry sound.

“I am sure you have all the usual social skills, Commander—but can you replace a dancing tree bear?”

CHAPTER TWO

Maryam stood by the tall window that looked out onto the vast Space Corps barrack square below, and felt the cold fist of fear twisting more tightly in her stomach. On the far side of the square stood the great steel Sword of the empire. The cross piece of the massive hilt was more than four times the height of the tallest man, and the point of the blade soared half as high again as the mightiest temples of Karakhor. The blade had an evil silver gleam in the cold sunshine, but she was not looking across or up at that merciless symbol of power.

A woman had been walking across the otherwise empty and snow-dappled square, but now she had stopped to stare back at the watching Hindu princess. She was tall with long, wild black hair, and savage, coal-black eyes. She wore a laced-up leather jerkin and leggings, the same clothes that Maryam herself now wore, the common garb of most Gheddan women. On her wrists were metal-studded leather wrist guards, and at her hip a long-bladed knife in its leather sheath. Her lips were painted green, a fashionable colour with the blue-skinned women, and she twisted them into a mocking sneer and deliberately spat toward the high window.

“Who is that woman?” Maryam demanded with a flash of anger.

Her question distracted Raven from his frustrated pacing around the room. In the three days since they had arrived in this soulless and depressing place, he had been like a caged cat, barely able to restrain his fury. She knew it was dangerous to provoke him, but her own feelings badly needed an outlet.

He changed direction and came to stand beside her.

“Her name is Sylve,” he said dispassionately. “She is nothing.”

They were both visible in the window and Sylve glared up at them for another moment before flinging her head back haughtily and marching on. Raven's iron grip on her arm turned Maryam away from the window.

“She hates me,” Maryam said flatly. “Yesterday in the market, she spat at my feet. Just now she spat toward me again. Every time she sees me, she spits.” She glared at Raven as he looked into her accusing eyes. “But she is afraid of you. She was your woman.”

“It is past. It is of no consequence,” Raven shrugged.

“Not to you. But I think she would kill me if she gets the chance.”

“Then do not give her any opportunity,” Raven said bluntly.

Maryam glared at him and then jerked her arm free of his grip. In Karakhor, she would have stamped her foot, thrown something, or run to her mother, but Karakhor and Earth were both far behind her. In addition to learning his language, she had learned much of the rough ways of this planet, and she knew that such behaviour here would only provoke his laughter.

She threw herself onto one of the long couches that, with a scattering of cushions and rugs, and one eating table, made up the room's sparse furniture. Then she sat upright with her elbows propped on her knees and her chin cupped in her hands, feeling miserable. She was no longer sure that it had been such a good idea to follow him to this cold and hostile world. Far from cementing an alliance that would save Karakhor, it now seemed unlikely that she would ever see her homeworld again. As her doubts had multiplied, she had determined not to weep, but sometimes it was hard to keep her tears inside.

There was also the growing uncertainty about Raven's feelings toward her.

He kept her by his side, but there was a coldness within him that had begun to frighten her. Only when they made love did it seem that he really needed her and at first she had matched his fierce passion with her own. Being the King's first daughter had kept her virginal too long, and once unleashed, she had delighted in the rapture he had brought to her own swift-flowering womanhood. If sometimes he handled her too roughly, it still seemed a vast improvement over what she would have expected from her former flower-bearing, poem-writing courtiers.

So she was swept between the dizzy heights of shame and shamelessness. But there were times when all that she really knew was that she could never go back to being the pampered and beloved little girl who had played so happily on Kara-Rashna's royal knee. She had known the fond tolerance of her uncles and the teasing adoration of her brothers and their friends, but that was all left far behind her. She was Raven's woman now, but she could not be certain that he would forever be her man. He was, perhaps, as true to her as any Gheddan could be, but how true was that? The woman, Sylve, had been his partner once, but now she was abandoned. Would Raven eventually abandon her in her turn? What would become of her then in this harsh and cruel place?

Since their arrival in the City of Swords, the questions and the doubts had piled up thick and fast. The first shock had been the cold discomfort of these spartan quarters, so far removed from the lost luxury of her rooms in Kara-Rashna's palace. Second was the slow realization that Raven was perhaps not so high and important as he had first seemed. He was a Sword Lord, and commander of his ship and his crew, but that seemed to count for little here. They had been escorted to these rooms and simply left to their own devices. At first that had been enough, the opportunity to make wild and ferocious love as often as they wished, but then Raven had become frustrated with the delay and had begun his angry pacing.

They were not exactly prisoners. Raven had walked with her around the square, and outside the barrack complex to show her the street markets. But he was awaiting the summons to make his formal mission report to the Council of Twelve, and he was reluctant to be absent for too long from his quarters. Now the lengthening delay was becoming menacing and irksome.

“Why do they keep you waiting?” She finally snapped the question. It was the only one of the many which were troubling her that she dared to ask.

Raven gave her a dark look. For a moment, she thought that he would ignore her, but then he sat down on the couch beside her, half turning to face her. “Call it empire politics,” he answered grimly. “Normally I would be asked to report within a day's cycle on even a routine mission. The voyage to your planet was much more than that, a first exploration with possible future consequences for the empire. Receiving the full details of my report should be a Council priority. This delay means that something is wrong.”

“What could be wrong?”

Raven shrugged. “At the very least it means that I am out of favour. I have been away too long and the power balance shifts very quickly here. The Sword Lord Karn, at least, should have sought to contact me. Perhaps he too is out of favour, or removed from the Council. There are always intrigues in the City of Swords. He may have fallen.”

Maryam nodded understanding. She was familiar with the machinations of palace intrigues, and if her circumstances had not changed, might well have become a mistress of the art. “This man Karn—” She had heard him speak the name before but had not paid enough attention. “He is your patron?”

“Something like that,” Raven acknowledged. “When I first enlisted in the Space Corps, the Sword Lord Karn was its Prime Commander. He saw my potential and gave me opportunities for advancement. He put my name forward to command the first mission to the fourth planet, despite there being more experienced ship commanders. He also pushed for me to lead the expedition to your planet.”

“And you are his champion.”

Raven nodded. “A sword lord, or any swordsman, is expected to meet his own challenges, but only up to a point. After fifty years, it is recognized that even the most proficient swordsman can be defeated by a younger and faster opponent. The empire cannot afford to lose the experience and talents of its sword lords at such a young age, and so a man with twenty or more sword-kills is deemed to have proved himself. It is accepted that then he can appoint a champion to accept his challenges.”

Maryam frowned. “Your friend Karn, would he accept a sword challenge in your absence?”

“He would not have to. He could await my return or appoint another champion. But he could be provoked.”

“So he may be dead?” Maryam felt the claustrophobia of impending danger, as though the rough-hewn, stone-block walls were closing around them.

Raven merely shrugged and declined to answer. He was a man of action who did not waste too much time on useless speculation.

 

 

 

An hour later, a single sharp knock sounded on the heavy wooden door. Maryam looked up from where she still sat on the couch. Raven had resumed his slow pacing but stopped and turned in the centre of the room. He did not approach the door, but faced it with his right hand dropping lightly to the hilt of his sword.

“Show yourself,” he called calmly.

The door opened and Taron slipped inside, closing the door quickly behind him. Like Raven, he wore the familiar white Space Corps uniform with its gold chain mail accoutrements. With the death of Thorn, he had become Raven's deputy commander.

“What news?” Raven demanded. He had waited three days and his tone was edged with the hard note of a reprimand.

“The Sword Lord Karn is still on the Council of Twelve,” Taron reported tersely. “But the word is that he is a sick man, and that he leads a minority of four against eight.”

“That would explain much,” Raven said thoughtfully. “But why are the Council divided?”

“The first Lazer Battle Platform has been launched.” Taron smiled, and his normally ugly face gleamed with blue pride. “Platforms Two and Three are being prepared for launch, and when all three are in orbit, Ghedda will be free to make a first strike against Alpha.” He paused there and his brow furrowed as though the rest was beyond his clear comprehension. “The eight are in favour of such an immediate strike, but Karn leads the small faction who still counsel caution.”

“Karn is against a decisive war with Alpha?” Raven was also surprised and perplexed. “Why?”

Taron sat on the edge of the second couch, selected a peach-like fruit from a wooden bowl on the table, and bit into it deeply as he considered his reply.

“I cannot say,” he admitted at last. “It is the talk of the mess halls and the drink dens. Karn says that an all-out nuclear and lazer attack on Alpha will destroy the whole planet, and he has persuaded three other members of the Council. But we all know that this is an Alphan propaganda lie. The whole Space Corps wants this victory.” He took a calculated risk and finished carefully. “The Sword Lord Karn and his allies run the risk of being branded cowards.”

“Karn is no coward,” Raven said shortly. “He must have his reasons.” He walked to the window and stared out, thinking hard. Then faced Taron again. “Who leads the eight?”

“The Sword Lord Doran.” Taron took a second casual bite from his fruit, but his eyes were watching Raven's responses.