The Gathering Flame Read online

  In addition to the acceleration seating, the common room held a circular table with chairs bolted to the deck around it. From the table, she could see that the nook beside the forward exit held a cramped galley. Somebody aboard Warhammer took an interest in cooking, she decided; the light panels were brighter inside the galley, and all the surfaces were clean.

  The smell of cha’a reminded Perada that she hadn’t had anything to eat or drink since Hafrey’s courier had touched down on Innish-Kyl. In the excitement of the past few hours she’d forgotten about such mundane matters, but now that she had the leisure to notice them, she became aware that she was both hungry and thirsty. Thanks to the mysterious assailants at the Double Moon, she was also grimy, ragged, and slightly bruised. Not at all the picture of a proper Domina after Great-Aunt Veratina’s manner—but that was all right. She wasn’t planning to be another Veratina anyway.

  In the meantime … cha’a.

  She went into the galley. The cha’a pot was easy enough to locate—its red On light was glowing. That left finding a cup or a mug of some kind. She tried one of the cabinet doors. It was unlocked, but instead of cups the shelves inside held square flat boxes of commercial space rations and smaller, oddly shaped jars and bottles of condiments, some of them labeled in Standard Galcenian, others in languages she didn’t recognize. She knelt down to open one of the lower cabinets.

  Maybe in here—

  A deep, wordless roaring interrupted her search. She tried to stand up and back away at the same time—a pointless exercise, given the dimensions of the galley, but considering the huge, scaly creature that stood blocking the entrance, she felt compelled to try. The creature advanced a step toward her and she took another step away, hoping without much optimism that she didn’t look as scared as she felt.

  Then a pleasant soprano voice spoke up from farther back in the common room. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Ferrda, let her find her own cup.”

  The scaly one rumbled something in reply and backed out into the shadowy common room. He—or she; Perada couldn’t tell—was replaced by a thin, birdlike woman wearing a black velvet vest over a loose white shirt, and dark trousers tucked into high leather boots. The woman also wore a matched pair of medium-weight blasters, rigged with the butts turned forward.

  Perada reminded herself forcibly that these people were, after all, privateers. What was it Ser Hafrey said? “Only one step up from pirates, and that a short one.”

  She inclined her head politely. “Well met, gentlelady.”

  “I suppose you’re the passenger the captain mentioned,” the woman said. There was a faint accent to her Galcenian, as though she’d been speaking the common language of the spaceways long enough to lose all the identifying marks of her native tongue, but not the last lingering traces of it. “I’m Tillijen, number-two gunner. That was Ferrdacorr, ship’s engineer. Come on out, and I’ll introduce you.”

  “I’d be honored,” Perada said—this was no time, she suspected, to stand on precedence and insist that any honor from the encounter was likely to flow the other way. She made a vague gesture at the cha’a pot. “But—”

  Understanding lit up the woman’s features. “That’s right—you were looking for cha’a. Cups are in that cabinet over there. Take one of the ones with blue rims. They don’t belong to anyone.”

  “Thank you.”

  The woman faded out of the compartment as silently as Ferrdacorr had done. Perada found a cup and poured some cha’a. She didn’t want to bumble around hunting for fixings—she looked undignified enough already—so she took it brown. With the mug in her right hand, she headed back into the main compartment, trailing her left hand against the bulkhead as she went. Ferrdacorr and the woman were sitting at the mess table, watching her.

  “I see you’ve been under way before,” Tillijen said.

  “I’ve been in space, yes,” Perada said. She took one of the empty seats at the mess table. “To and from school on Galcen, mostly.”

  “Well then. Welcome to our merry crew. Like I said, this is Ferrdacorr, son of Rillikkikk. Ferrda, for short.”

  The green scaly one made a rumbling bass noise.

  “He says he’s pleased to meet you,” Tillijen said.

  Ferrda said something else, this time directed to the gunner.

  “It was a loose translation,” she replied. “She’s new here.”

  Again a deep noise.

  “Oh, all right.” Tillijen turned back to Perada. “He says, ‘Another damned thin-skin. I hope she doesn’t get in the way.’”

  Perada gave the scaly crew member a polite smile and pretended she hadn’t heard the translation. “Well met, Gentlesir Ferrdacorr.”

  “Just a hint,” Tillijen said under her breath. “If you’re going to smile at him, for heaven’s sake don’t let him see your teeth. Ferrda’s used to us, but some of his people are a bit touchy about things like that.”

  Ferrdacorr leaned back, smiled, and showed his teeth.

  Perada sipped her cha’a and said nothing. School life on Galcen had taught her a number of lessons—among them, that deliberate provocations were best ignored. Maybe Warhammer’s engineer had a real problem dealing with anyone who wasn’t big and green, or maybe he had a warped sense of humor. Either way, she didn’t gain anything by rising to the bait.

  Moments later, the sound of boots on the ladder rungs in the vertical passageway heralded a new arrival, a slender woman with ivory skin and a great deal of curly dark hair. She swung out of the passage and leaned up against the bulkhead beside it, hands thrust in trouser pockets, and sang in a clear alto voice:

  “Come all ye remittance men, listen to me

  I’ll give you advice of such use as I may,

  That you will be guided and not go astray

  When you enter the life of a spacer.”

  The singer’s accent was different from Tillijen’s, as well as being a good deal broader. Like the number-two gunner, though, the dark woman had on what Perada guessed were port-liberty clothes—emerald spidersilk and black moire satin, this time—and another matched pair of blasters. She nodded to the three sitting at the mess table, and kept on singing.

  “First mind you don’t stay down in Waycross too long; The water is bad and the liquor is strong;

  As you have to drink something, you’re sure to go wrong,

  And ruin your-life as a spacer.”

  She pushed herself off of the wall with her shoulders and walked over to the table. “I’m Nannla,” she said, putting out her hand. “You?”

  Bemused, Perada took it “Perada Rosselin,” she said; and added, prompted by what impulse she wasn’t sure, “My friends call me ’Rada.”

  Tillijen gave the other woman a curious look. “So what was the concert in honor of?”

  “Our sudden departure,” Nannla said. “And our new guest.”

  “I didn’t have time to ask, before,” Perada said. “Where are we supposed to be going?”

  I hope I haven’t miscalculated everything, she thought. If it turns out I’m being kidnapped instead of rescued, Ser Hafrey is never going to let me forget about it.

  Ferrda rumbled something short. Tillijen shrugged.

  “We’ll find out soon enough,” Nannla said. “When the captain tells us.”

  The door leading from the common room to the forward areas opened with a snick and a thud. Perada turned toward the sound, and saw the door sliding closed again behind Jos Metadi and Errec Ransome. Errec headed into the galley and emerged with two cups of cha’a. Metadi took one of them and slid into a seat at the mess table. Ransome remained standing, cup in hand—nobody at the table looked surprised or offended, so Perada guessed that the practice was customary with him.

  “So, Captain,” said Nannla, after the two men had settled themselves. “What’s the good word?”

  Jos took a long swallow of his cha’a. “The good word is, we’re on our way to Ophel.”

  She stared at him. “Ophel? Are you crazy? We were just a
t Ophel. We stole a bunch of stuff from there, and we blew up everything that we couldn’t steal—do you think we’re going to be welcome?”

  “I thought you and Tilly might be wanting to go back,” Jos said. “Because we’ll be going to Entibor soon, and, you know …”

  He made a vague gesture with one hand that Perada didn’t have any trouble interpreting: Let’s not talk about it in front of the passenger.

  Nannla shrugged, and the discussion might have ended on that ambiguous note—if Tillijen hadn’t half-risen in her seat, her pale eyes bright with indignation.

  “Is that how it is, Captain?” she demanded. “When things get interesting, you want to jettison us?”

  Metadi shook his head. “That’s not it,” he said. “I didn’t want to make the two of you uncomfortable, is all, or get you in some kind of trouble.”

  “Who’s going to notice me in this rig, after all these years?” Tillijen asked.

  The woman’s faint accent had gotten stronger and more familiar as she spoke—in response to stress, maybe, or to the subject matter. Strong enough to recognize, in fact. With an effort, Perada kept her reaction from showing on her face; privateers came from everywhere, after all, and what did it matter that the ’Hammer’s number-two gunner was Entiboran?

  “Depends on what you mean by ‘notice,’” Metadi said. “You may not be able to get out of … social obligations.”

  Tillijen laughed. “You know me, Captain. I can get out of anything.”

  “It’s your call,” said Metadi. “But if you honestly don’t have a problem, I’d rather keep you and Nannla both. I’ve never seen a better pair of gunners, and that’s a fact.”

  Nannla gave the captain a half-bow; hard to do from a seated position, with one hand wrapped around a cup of cha’a, but she managed. “And we’ve never seen a better captain.”

  “That’s right,” said Tillijen. “So what’s the new plan—straight on to Entibor?”

  “We might as well. I’m sure the Domina wants to get there as soon as possible.”

  Perada looked down for a moment at her cup of cha’a. This is it, she thought. Now’s when I find out whether I’m a passenger, a prisoner, or a—a business partner. She looked up again, and took a deep breath.

  “I’m not certain that I do want to go to Entibor,” she said. “There’s another place I need to stop at first.”

  The glance Metadi gave her was sharp and alert. “Where?”

  “Have you heard of a world called Pleyver?”

  “Yes. Tricky place to get in and out of. There’s a field around it that blocks hyperspace engines, and realspace navigation through the local system is obscured by gases and such. I don’t go there unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

  “Ah,” she said. “Does knowing that there’s money involved have anything to do with making it absolutely necessary?”

  He gave a short laugh. “Almost everything.”

  “Good. Because there’s money on Pleyver.”

  “Yours or somebody else’s?”

  “Somebody else’s,” she said. “An old school friend of mine lives on Pleyver. The money belongs to him—or at least, to his family.”

  Ferrda hooted softly and growled something under his breath. Jos glared at the big saurian. Tillijen and Nannla both laughed, though, and even Ransome smiled. Perada raised her eyebrows at Tillijen.

  “He wants to know if you’re planning to borrow the money or steal it,” the gunner explained.

  “Well … what I really need to get on Pleyver is advice.”

  “Don’t sit with your back to the door,” Nannla said promptly. “Never volunteer. When in doubt, wear your good clothes.”

  Perada stifled a giggle. Ser Hafrey had warned her that showing amusement at the wrong moment could be dangerous—and Great-Aunt Veratina had never smiled once in all the times Perada had seen her.

  Or maybe Aunt ’Tina never thought anything was funny. I hope I don’t get like that.

  “Political advice,” she said. “The situation with the Mageworlds isn’t getting any better, you know.”

  “We’d noticed,” Metadi said.

  “You already know what I want to do about it,” she said. “The offer stands.”

  Ferrda made a rumbling noise that Perada didn’t have any trouble interpreting as one of curiosity. The captain reddened.

  “I’ll explain later,” he said hastily. “Meanwhile—anybody have an objection to Pleyver?”

  Nannla and Tillijen shook their heads, and Ferrda gave an almost human shrug. Metadi looked at his copilot.

  “Errec?”

  “Will it help us kill Mages?”

  “I was hoping you could tell me about that.”

  The copilot shook his head. “It’s up to you this time—I can’t see anything one way or the other.”

  “Fine.” Metadi set down his empty mug and stood up. “Then we’re going to Pleyver. All of you get to your places and strap in. I’m going to drop out and change course.”

  Perada glanced over at the acceleration couch she’d left only a short while before, and started to rise. Metadi put out a hand to stop her.

  “I thought I’d let you use my cabin,” he said. “The transit to Pleyver’s long enough that you’ll need someplace better to sleep than in here.”

  “What about you?”

  He shrugged. “There’s a spare bunk in number-two crew berthing. Errec snores, but I can live with it.”

  “If you’re sure—”

  “I’m sure.” He strode over to the door beside the galley nook and hit the control button on the lockplate. “I’m clearing the lock for you—as soon as the door gets your palm-scan you’ll be the only one who can open it. My cabin, and everything in it, is at your disposal. Places, everyone!”

  With that he turned on his heel—rather too quickly, Perada thought—and strode off toward the bridge.

  “You heard the captain,” said Errec. Ferrdacorr headed aft, and the two gunners looked at each other, stood, and made for the vertical passageway. Nannla began climbing the ladder upward, and Tillijen swung into the shaft leading down.

  So Captain Metadi makes all his jumps and dropouts fully armed, Perada thought. She understood a little bit about the way such things worked—enough to know that the extra power drain would call for expert shiphandling on the captain’s part, and to appreciate what the choice said about Metadi himself. He trusts a lot in his own skill … and he counts on the universe to give him nothing but unpleasant surprises.

  Of the ’Hammer’s crew, now only Errec Ransome remained in the common room. “Will you require help getting strapped in, my lady?” he asked. Like everyone else in the privateer’s crew, he spoke Standard Galcenian with a strong planetary accent.

  And all of them different, thought Perada. I have to get Jos Metadi—anyone who can make a crew out of four foreigners and a scaly green whatever-he-calls-himself can make a unified fleet for the civilized galaxy.

  “I think I can get myself ready this time,” Perada said. She paused. “If it isn’t too personal a question—may I ask where you come from?”

  “Ilarna, my lady.”

  Ilarna, Perada thought. The Mages captured Ilarna four years back. The rumors were very bad.

  She looked over at the copilot. Errec had gathered up the empty cups from the mess table and carried them to the galley. His expression told her nothing.

  “Can I help you with those?” she said.

  “No, thank you.”

  He began stowing the cups in the washer. A moment later, Jos Metadi’s voice came over the common-room audio link: “Everyone strap in and strap down. Errec, get on up here.”

  “I have to go,” Errec said, coming out of the galley. “And you’d better do what Jos says. Transitions can be rough.”

  Perada palmed the lockplate of the captain’s cabin. The black plastic pad clicked and flashed, and the door slid open briefly before sighing closed again behind her. She didn’t put a lot of faith in Metadi’
s assurance that from now on it would only open for her. The captain could probably get in with an emergency override any time he wanted to. But the gesture had been a kind one all the same.

  The cabin held an acceleration couch—the fastenings were simple, almost rudimentary, and she strapped in quickly. She doubted that Captain Metadi had ever used it; she couldn’t imagine him staying locked up in his cabin while the ship was maneuvering. Once she was strapped down, she glanced about the cabin, looking for more indications of Metadi’s character.

  There wasn’t much. The forward bulkhead of the compartment was lined with locking drawers from deck to overhead. To the right, the outer bulkhead held closet doors. And that was it. Other than a holocube and a reading light in a niche by the bed, the cabin was a simple, unadorned bit of cubic.

  The only extravagance, if you could call it that, was the bed itself—neatly made, and wide enough for two. The wall nearest the bed held a set of monitor screens. As far as Perada could tell from the numbers and letters scrolling up them, they echoed the bridge and engineering readouts.

  So Jos Metadi doesn’t like to do without information, Perada thought, even when he isn’t on watch. Ser Hafrey says that the captain has a reputation for being lucky; if he does, it’s because he makes his own luck.

  As she watched, the lines of type on the monitors slowed down, and one of the screens began to blink. A wave of nausea swept over her. The whole ship vibrated, and somewhere outside in the common room something fell over with a whump. Another line of monitors lit up with what looked like status lights. Most of the lights glowed a reassuring green, but one red light kept blinking on and off and sounding a persistent bell-tone with each blink.

  She didn’t know what that meant—other than nothing good—but she did know all the standard starship general-alarm signals, and this one wasn’t any of those, which meant it was probably safe to get out of the webbing. She unstrapped and stood up—in time for a sudden thrust to knock her staggering. She grabbed the back of the couch for support, biting back a less-than-ladylike remark as she did so. The red light changed to green and the bell-note stopped.