By Honor Betray'd: Mageworlds #3 Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  PROLOGUE - GALCEN NEARSPACE: SWORD-OF-THE-DAWN

  PART ONE

  I. GYFFERAN FARSPACE: NIGHT’S-BEAUTIFUL-DAUGHTER

  II. GALCEN NEARSPACE: SWORD-OF-THE-DAWN

  III. INFABEDE SECTOR: RSF SELSYN-BILAI; UDC VERATINA

  IV. INFABEDE SECTOR: UDC VERATINA

  V. SUIVI POINT: MAIN DETENTION GYFFER: PORT OF TELABRYK

  VI. INNISH-KYL: WAYCROSS

  VII. INNISH-KYL: WAYCROSS

  PART TWO

  I. REPUBLIC SPACE: ERAASIAN BASE

  II. GYFFER: TELABRYK LOCAL DEFENSE BASE; SPACE FORCE HQ BUILDING

  III. RSF KARIPAVO: MAGEWORLDS SPACE

  IV. WARHAMMER: SUIVI NEARSPACE; SUIVI MAIN

  V. SUIVI POINT: PORTSIDE WARRENS

  VI. WARHAMMER: SUIVI POINT

  VII. GIFFER: LOCAL DEFENSE BASE, TELABRYK FIELD

  PART THREE

  I. INNISH-KYL: WARHAMMER; RSF KARIPAVO GYFFERAN SECTOR: LDF CRUISER #97; SWORD-OF-THE-DAWN; RSF VERATINA

  II. INNISH-KYL: RSF KARIPAVO; WARHAMMER GYFFER: LOCAL DEFENSE FORCE HEADQUARTERS

  III. INNISH-KYL: COUNTRY HOUSE OF ADELFE ANEVERIAN

  IV. INNISH-KYL: COUNTRY HOUSE OF ADELFE

  V. INNISH-KYL: COUNTRY ESTATE OF ADELFE ANEVERIAN

  VI. GYFFERAN FARSPACE: LDF #97

  VII. WARHAMMER: HYPERSPACE TRANSIT ASTEROID BASE

  VIII. ASTEROID BASE

  PART FOUR

  I. GYFFERAN SYSTEM SPACE: RFS VERATINA; UDC FEZRISOND; RSF KARIPAVO

  II. DEEP SPACE: WARHAMMER; SWORD-OF-THE-DAWN

  III. GYFFERAN SYSTEM SPACE: RSF KARIPAVO DEEP SPACE: SWORD-OF-THE-DAWN

  IV. WARHAMMER: CAPTURED

  V. GYFFERAN SPACE: SWORD-OF-THE-DAWN; RSF KARIPAVO

  VI. GYFFERAN SYSTEM SPACE: RSF KARIPAVO; SWORD-OF-THE-DAWN

  VII. THE VOID

  Epilogue - TELABRYK: THE SEVEN ORBS

  Tor Books by Debra Doyle and James D. Macdonald

  EMERGENCY LIFTOFF!

  Copyright Page

  For Margaret Esterl Macdonald “Art in the blood, Watson.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thanks, as usual, are owed to a lot of people: to Katie and Sherwood, for constant encouragement; to Nancy and Elric, for friendship and hospitality above and beyond the call of duty; to Andrew, for commentary and helpful suggestions. We would also like to thank our agent, Valerie Smith, and our editor, Patrick Nielsen Hayden, for their enthusiasm, patience, and support.

  PROLOGUE

  GALCEN NEARSPACE: SWORD-OF-THE-DAWN

  THE HEARTWORLD of the Republic hung against the darkness of space like an enormous, glittering opal, swirled with bright green and deep blue and white streaks of cloud. Looking out from the observation deck of his flagship, Grand Admiral Theio syn-Ricte sus-Airaalin knew that he had accomplished the impossible. He had brought a warfleet through hyperspace to strike without warning, and all the enemy’s inmost citadels lay under his hand. He called the roll of them in his mind: Galcen Prime Base; Galcen South Polar; the Grand Council of the Republic; the Adepts’ Retreat.

  Knowledge of his victory brought sus-Airaalin no special pleasure. Now, and not the long years of preparations or the desperate battle just past, was the period of greatest danger. Having done the impossible, he would have to do more—hold what he had gained, and bring the outlying sectors of the Republic securely under control.

  We can do it, he thought. With luck, and with the aid of the Circles. If we don’t lose too much of the fleet in any one action, or if we can augment our forces somehow … we’ve spent too much already, in ships and in lives, when we had little enough to begin with.

  The commander of the Resurgency’s warfleet was a realist, or as much a realist as any man could be and hope to bring back the old ways and the old knowledge. sus-Airaalin had understood from the beginning that his only chance for success lay in throwing massive strength into a single unexpected blow, crushing the head of the serpent while it slept. But the broken pieces of this particular serpent could still fight; and if they should rejoin, like the braidworm of legend that made one beast out of many, then what the Adept-worlds had done to the Circles thirty years before would pale beside their vengeance now.

  He would stop that, if he could, for the sake of a generation not yet born when the Old War ended in crushing defeat and systematic, relentless destruction. The young men and women who crewed the ships of sus-Airaalin’s fleet and worked in his new-formed Mage-Circles were children of poverty and repression. They had never known the former days of power and vainglory, when Eraasian warfleets raided the Adept-worlds at will and broke whole planets for daring to resist. For them—and not for the Resurgency—sus-Airaalin would do whatever must be done.

  Even now, he thought. Even to this.

  Straightening his shoulders, he turned from the viewport and left the Sword’s observation deck, making his way through the narrow passageways to the detention area at the heart of the ship. Outside the door of the deepest cell, he paused for a moment to gather his resolve, then laid his hand on the lockplate. The door opened. He stepped inside, and the door closed again behind him.

  There was no light in the cell. sus-Airaalin touched a control near the door, and the ceiling panels began to emit a pale, dingy glow. The man who lay on the narrow metal bunk stirred briefly and opened his eyes; then, with an effort, he sat up, although his hands were manacled and chained to the wall behind him.

  The prisoner was not a fearsome man to look at. He was scarcely taller than sus-Airaalin, without the Grand Admiral’s compact sturdiness; his black hair hung lank around features made haggard by captivity. Not, one might think, a particularly threatening figure, but sus-Airaalin knew better. This was Errec Ransome, Master of the Adepts’ Guild: the Breaker of Circles.

  He regarded his visitor without surprise.

  “My lord sus-Airaalin,” he said.

  The Grand Admiral inclined his head in the barest shadow of a formal bow. “Master Ransome.”

  “Your personal attention … honors me.”

  Although dried blood stained the pale skin around Ransome’s mouth, still the Adept Master seemed amused. sus-Airaalin let the faint mockery go past unremarked. He had his own reasons for not giving Errec Ransome into the hands of the Resurgency’s intelligence wing, reasons that had nothing to do with either Ransome’s honor or sus-Airaalin’s pleasure.

  I ought to kill him now, sus-Airaalin thought. The longer he’s a prisoner, the greater the danger to all of us.

  “I know too much for you to kill me,” said Ransome, as if he had read the unspoken thought—as perhaps he had. He was the Adept Master, and powerful enough that not even manacles wrought for that purpose could render him entirely harmless. “What you want, Magelord, you’ll have to gain through your own strength. There’s no Circle standing behind you here.”

  “No,” agreed sus-Airaalin. The Mages of his Circle had given themselves into his control and his protection; he would not repay their faith by using them so. He unclipped the silver-and-ebony rod that hung from his belt and, stooping, laid it on the dull metal floor. “Nor will I forget myself and make this into a contest for lordship.”

  “You spoke differently at Prime Base.”

  “I offered you challenge then according to our way,” sus-Airaalin told him. “And you refused. There is never a second challenge. That, also, is according to our way.”

  Irony flickered in the Adept Master’s dark eyes. “And is this?”

  sus-Airaalin didn’t answer. Instead he drew in all his strength—like a man preparing for some physical exertion, t
hough no part of his body moved—and struck at the gates of Errec Ransome’s mind.

  It was like battering his fists against the barred and metal-bound doors of some massive citadel—like trying to break down the portal of the great Retreat itself. Wall upon wall it rose above him, tower upon tower, secret upon secret.

  A cold wind tore the air about him, keening among the mountain crags. Black clouds spread out like ragged banners across the sky overhead. sus-Airaalin was alone. He longed to call upon the strength of his Circle, but he did not dare. He had laid his staff aside to keep that temptation from him.

  Whatever happens, I will not give over those who have trusted me into the hands of the enemy.

  He struck again at the ironwood gates. His knuckles split and bled with the force of the blow. He struck a third time, and the great gate splintered and fell open. sus-Airaalin stepped through the gap and entered into the citadel of the Breaker of Circles.

  Within was desolation: courtyards empty of everything but blowing dust; rooms that held only sticks of broken furniture; dark halls leading nowhere except to doors locked strongly against further passage. One by one, sus-Airaalin smashed the doorways open, forcing his way into deserted chambers where nothing lived besides an echo of voices.

  Is this all there is? He fought against a surge of bitter, irrational anger. The Master of the Guild should have more to guard than dirt and rubble.

  He suppressed the thought and went on, searching always further down and inward. At last he came to a door that swung open easily when he put his hand against it. Inside, he found another barren space, this one empty except for the man who knelt there in meditation, with his back to a solid wooden door.

  The man lifted his head. sus-Airaalin realized that he was facing Errec Ransome, as the Master of the Adepts’ Guild might look if he lived another three decades or more. The sleek black hair was dulled with grey; the dark eyes were deep-set and shadowed in a worn and furrowed face. He followed sus-Airaalin’s gaze past him to the locked door.

  “Yes,” he said. “What you look for is there.”

  “How do you know?”

  The old man laughed. There was an edge of madness in the sound. “How could I not, my lord sus-Airaalin? You told me yourself with every lock and barrier you broke.”

  “Master Ransome,” sus-Airaalin said. “Open the door. Or I will break it and you together.”

  The old man looked at him. sus-Airaalin heard the ghost of laughter in his breath. “Very well, my lord. It isn’t locked. Open it yourself, if you want.”

  “I will,” sus-Airaalin told the old man. He strode forward and swung open the door. There was nothing behind it but a blank wall of grey stone. Again sus-Airaalin heard the faint sound of Errec Ransome’s voiceless laughter.

  “You have your answer,” Ransome said. “What you look for, you will not find. This place will crumble before it yields up anything more to you. Now go.” sus-Airaalin shook his head. “No. I will have it.”

  He put his hands against the blank wall and pushed with all the strength in his shoulders.

  Wood and stone cried out under the strain, but nothing moved. The ground shifted underneath his feet in a queasy sideways slide, and an upward glance showed him that the plaster ceiling had broken into a thousand tiny cracks. White dust fell onto his hair and shoulders in a powdery rain, and the walls began sliding and tilting against one another at odd angles like paper cards. sus-Airaalin abandoned his efforts and ran. Behind him in the swaying, ransacked fortress, the old man kept on laughing.

  With a desperate surge of effort, the Grand Admiral pulled himself away from the treacherous architecture of Ransome’s mind. When his vision cleared, he was back in the physical reality of the flagship’s detention level, still standing where he had planted his feet at the beginning of the struggle. His staff lay untouched on the floor.

  Across from him, Errec Ransome slumped against the wall of the cell. Fresh blood trickled from the Adept Master’s nostrils, and from the corners of his eyes. But when he straightened and met sus-Airaalin’s gaze, there was a dark triumph on his face.

  “Not yet, my lord sus-Airaalin,” he said. “Not yet.”

  PART ONE

  I. GYFFERAN FARSPACE: NIGHT’S-BEAUTIFUL-DAUGHTER

  SUIVI POINT: ENTIBORAN RESISTANCE

  HEADQUARTERS; WARHAMMER

  NAMMERIN: NAMPORT

  OUT ON the farthest edge of Gyfferan-controlled space, the texture of the universe stretched and altered. Like a shadow against the stars, the flattened black teardrop shape of a Deathwing raider emerged from hyperspace. Minutes later a second ship appeared. This one displayed the bright colors and needle-sharp outline of a Space Force surface-to-hyperspace courier. Together, the mismatched pair began their realspace run toward the heart of the Gyfferan system.

  On board Night’s-Beautiful-Daughter—for so the Deathwing’s log recordings had named the Magebuilt vessel—Mistress Llannat Hyfid wandered about the empty corridors, trying in vain to escape her own increasing inner tension.

  Llannat was a small woman, dark-haired and brown-skinned, and her appearance these days implied enough contradictions to make anyone tense. She wore the black broadcloth tunic and trousers that were an Adept’s formal garb; but her boots were Space Force standard issue, and instead of an Adept’s plain wooden staff she carried the short, silver-bound ebony rod that was a Magelord’s weapon and badge of rank. The crew members on board the Deathwing avoided her as much as possible, out of a respect that verged on superstitious awe.

  The clothes and the staff don’t help even a little with the main problem, she thought glumly. Her wanderings had taken her to the ship’s galley, where the smell of fresh cha’a emanated from a bulky, squarish urn. We’ve got to make it to Gyffer without getting blown up by system defenses programmed to fire on “nervous.”

  Llannat had given the order for the hyperspace transit herself. At least, everybody else on board the Deathwing said that she had given it. She didn’t recall doing any such thing; she’d been deep in a trance at the time, observing the structure of the universe through a Magelord’s eyes.

  And now I’ve got the whole damned crew looking at me’ like they expect me to go crazy or work a miracle, or maybe both at once … .

  She abandoned her search for a mug and pressed the heels of her hands against her temples.

  “I have a headache,” she said aloud.

  Her words sounded flat and dull against the echo-absorbent walls of the Deathwing’s galley. She saw a movement in the doorway: Lieutenant Vinhalyn, Space Force reservist and scholar of Mageworlds language and culture, the acting captain of Night’s-Beautiful-Daughter.

  “We brought the emergency medikit over from Naversey,” Vinhalyn said. “There may be something in there that can help you out.”

  “I don’t think so. It’s not that kind of an ache.”

  “If you’re sure …”

  “I’m sure,” she told him. “I’m a medic, remember?”

  The expression on his face made it plain that he hadn’t, in fact, remembered. Llannat shook her head, resigned.

  “Never mind,” she said. “I have trouble remembering it myself sometimes. Believe me, life was a whole lot easier when I was just Ensign Hyfid of the Space Force Medical Service.”

  Of course, that was before I started hearing voices that weren’t there and seeing things that hadn’t happened yet and coming loose from my body while I was drifting off to sleep at night. Nobody asked me if I wanted all of that, but I got it anyway … and the next thing I knew, there I was on a mountaintop on Galcen, with Master Ransome himself asking me if I wanted to join the Guild and be an Adept.

  Llannat sighed. And like a fool, I said yes.

  Vinhalyn looked at her. The scholar-reservist was an older man whose active service dated back to the end of the First Magewar, and he deferred to Llannat as he had to the Adepts of those earlier days. “If there’s anything I can do to help …”

  “Not really,” sh
e said. “But thanks. Let me know when we make contact with Gyfferan Inspace Control.”

  Vinhalyn nodded and left.

  Llannat watched him go, then went back to looking for a cup. When she found one, on a shelf where a half-dozen of the standard-issue plastic mugs from Naversey stood among the Deathwing’s shorter, rounder ones, she poured herself some cha’a from the galley urn. What sort of hot drink the Mageworlders had brewed in the big metal pot she didn’t know—maybe Vinhalyn did; she’d have to ask him about it sometime—but the Daughter’s current crew had managed to adapt the filtration setup to produce cha’a of hair-curling strength.

  She sipped at the steaming liquid. The Professor would have known what they used to brew on board the old Deathwings, she thought. He probably drank enough of it in his day.

  “What’s this ‘probably’ nonsense?” she muttered to herself. “The Prof owned this ship, galley and all.”

  He hadn’t just owned it; that was the problem. The Professor—whose true name she had never learned, and doubted that anyone living had ever heard—had been a Magelord himself before he abandoned sorcery and gave his oath to the ruling House of Entibor. What kept Llannat Hyfid awake during the night and made her pace the ship’s corridors during the day was knowing that the Professor had intended Night’s-Beautiful-Daughter for her.

  First his staff, she thought. Then his ship. What other little bequests does he have for me that I haven’t found yet?

  The original legacy had come to Llannat blamelessly enough. She’d lost her own staff in the fighting on Darvell, the same day the Professor had died, and Beka Rosselin-Metadi—in an impatient, almost unthinking gesture—had given her the dead man’s staff as a replacement. Master Ransome, who hated the Magelords as he hated nothing else in the civilized galaxy, wasn’t likely to be pleased with Llannat if he ever found out. In the end, however, an Adept’s choice of staff was a personal decision. Not even the Master of the Guild could force her to alter it.