A Conflict of Orders (An Age of Discord Novel Book 2) (63 page)

“Why? What did you want to know?” Azeel dragged a piece of bread through one of the dips and put it in her mouth. She chewed.

“About the fighting in the Household District.”

“Oh. That might be on one of the yeoman channels.” She got to her feet and crossed to the glass. “You’re not supposed to do this,” she said, looking back over her shoulder and grinning, “so don’t tell anyone.”

Whatever she did with the controls, it brought up a menu on the glass. She navigated quickly through these, entered a code and then clicked back through the channel selector.

Returning to the settee, she said, “Sometimes working with data-pools comes in useful.”

The presenter of the yeoman news channel was better-dressed than the proletarian one had been. He also spoke like a yeoman. And the news was not just fiefal doings and local sports results.

But still nothing was said about the Imperial Palace.

“Why are you so interested in it?” asked Azeel. She pulled off her boots, sat back and tucked her feet under her. “Do you know someone who was fighting?”

“Yes,” replied Ormuz, frowning in annoyance at the glass. “Several people, in fact.”

“In the Palace?”

“No.” He was not really concentrating on the conversation.

“For the duke?”

Her tone of voice caught his attention, and he turned to look at her. She appeared shocked.

“You really are hiding out? Were you on the duke’s side? You’re a rebel?”

“No, I was fighting against him. With—I mean,
for
the Admiral. We lifted the duke’s siege.”

“You don’t look like a trooper, What were you, a batman or something?”

Ormuz was insulted. “No!” he said. “I was…” He could not explain what he had been. The ridiculousness of it struck him, and he laughed. “Yes,” he said, still chuckling, “I was a valet.”

His valet aboard
Vengeful
and
Empress Glorina
, Komornik, came to mind, and that too Ormuz found amusing.

“What’s so funny?”

He shook his head, still laughing.

“Come on, tell me!” She leaned towards him and put a hand on his knee. “Tell me,” she insisted. “Please.”

He looked at her and saw the hurt expression on his face. Abruptly sobering, he replied, “It’s nothing, just something silly. I was reminded of someone I knew.” He put his hand over hers.

She stared at him. Slowly, she began to lean closer. Her lips settled on his. Her hand moved up his thigh and squeezed tightly. He could feel waxiness on her lips, tastes something sweet and sharp. He brought up his hand to the back of her neck and ran his fingers through the short soft hairs at her nape.

They kissed deeply for several long minutes.

She pulled away first. Her eyes were shining. She took his hand and gripped it with discomforting fierceness. “Who’s the Admiral?” she asked brightly.

He pulled his hand from hers. “No,” he said. “I’m sorry.” He couldn’t do this. Not now. He scrambled from the settee and left the room.

As he passed through the doorway, Azeel asked plaintively, “Cas?”

“Ah. Good morning. I’m looking for Casimir Ormuz. Is he here?”

“Who? Never heard of him.”

“I’m certain he told me this was the place.”

“You must have it wrong, my lady. Nobody by that name here.”

Ormuz was halfway down the stairs, but the overheard conversation made him pause. He waited and listened.

“Are you sure? You’re not hiding him, are you?”

“No one here called that, my lady, so who’s there to hide?”

“I’m his friend, you know. He asked me to come here.”

“Of course you are, my lady. But I can’t help you.”

Ormuz had heard enough. He thundered down the rest of the stairs and burst out into the bar. He had recognised the voice talking with Azeel and there she was:

“Sliva!” he said, hurrying up to her.

She was not in uniform, he saw, but standing just inside the door was Troop-Sergeant Assaun. And he
was
in uniform. That was probably why Azeel had insisted Ormuz was not here. He had assured her he was not wanted by the authorities, but it seemed she had not entirely believed him. Of course, there was also his missing escutchen. Perhaps she had been afraid he’d be arrested for not wearing it.

A figure stepped out from behind Finesz, a tall young woman, with blonde hair and a long face, beautiful in a languid sort of way. She wore a smart jacket, tight trousers and high boots. She also wore a sword. Mate Romi Maganda. Her presence was a surprise.

Reaching Finesz, Ormuz took her hands in both of his. She bent forward and pecked him on the cheek.

“Casimir,” she said. “You’re looking… as well as can be expected.”

“Thank you for coming,” he said. “I didn’t know who else to call.”

Finesz gave a low laugh. “Well,
she
hasn’t mentioned you since you walked out.”

“I didn’t think she would,” he replied bitterly. He shook his head. It was best not to dwell on such matters. Abruptly remembering his manners, he indicated Azeel by the bar and said, “This is Inni Azeel. Her father runs this pub. Innelda, this is Inspector Sliva demar Finesz and Mate Romi mar Maganda.”

Azeel gave a stiff curtsey and an even stiffer smile.

“So tell me,” Finesz said to Ormuz, after directing a sunny but impersonal smile at Azeel.

He led her across to a table, indicating with a gesture that Maganda should join them. As Finesz pulled out a chair and sat, he said, “Back in a minute,” and crossed to Azeel.

She stared past him at the two women at the table. “This woman you’re hiding out from has powerful friends,” she said. She looked at Ormuz, and it was a moment before he recognised her expression as hurt and disappointment. “A plaything, were you, for some high lady?”

“What?” He laughed. “You think I’m a gigolo?”

“How else did you make friends like
them
?”

“It’s complicated.” And, he thought, she wouldn’t believe him if he did tell her.

“I’ll bet.”

“Oh come on, Inni. Do I look like a gigolo?”

“Well, you do a bit.”

“I don’t!” He scowled, not knowing whether to be annoyed or amused. “Look. I’ll explain later. But, right now, could we have a pot of coffee?”

“Just because you have posh friends, don’t think you can order me about,” Azeel snapped.

He took her hand and squeezed it. “That’s not what I meant. Please, Inni, be nice to my friends. Make some coffee and join us.”

“I suppose so.” Azeel adopted a mulish expression. She pulled her hand from his grasp. “But I want to know everything afterwards.
Everything
.”

Ormuz joined Finesz and Maganda at the table.

“I could feel your friend’s eyes boring into the back of my neck,” remarked Finesz. “Not too keen our presence, is she?”

“She’s just a bit worried. I don’t have a coat of arms and you’re an Oppie.” He shrugged. “It’s understandable. She’s actually very nice.”

“She’s clearly taken with you. Although I don’t think I’d ever be seen in public in a dress that short.”

Ormuz gestured dismissively. He leaned forward. “Never mind that. Tell me what’s been happening,” he demanded.

“You’ve only been gone a couple of days,” replied Finesz.

“Come on, Sliva. You know what I mean.”

“Well, the Admiral is definitely on the Throne now—they’re going to issue a proclamation tomorrow. Ahasz was carted off to the House of Rectitude. So at least he’ll be comfortable.”

“Did she say anything about me?”

Finesz shook her head. “Nothing. She’s been closeted with Involutes since you left. Lords know what they’ve been plotting.”

“We were used, Sliva,” said Ormuz, clenching a fist. “There’s more to this than we thought, I’m sure of it. She swore to me she would not put herself on the Throne. But that’s just what she did!”

“I was there, Casimir. I saw it all.”

Ormuz shrugged. The events of that day had preoccupied him, and he was sure something he had seen or heard or experienced would make sense of them, would make sense of the Admiral’s abrupt reversal of her word.

“How’s Rizbeka?” he asked, thinking he should change the subject—if only for his own sake.

Maganda answered, “Lieutenant-Commander Rinharte is fine, Casimir. She sends her regards.”

“What about you? Are they letting you keep your field promotion?”

“Probably not. In fact, there are rumours we’ll all be up for mutiny.”

“The Admiral—I mean, the Empress—will look after you.”

Maganda gave a weak smile and shrugged.

“Did you bring money?” he asked Finesz.

“Yes, of course.” She pulled a tight roll of notes from a pocket of her jacket and passed it across.

“I’ll pay you back,” Ormuz said.

“Ah. No need to worry there.” She dug into another pocket and held out something in the palm of her hand. “And this.”

It was an escutcheon, depicting an ancient sailing ship sitting in harbour, beneath a black cloud. “Who’s is this?” he asked.

“I called in a favour,” Finesz explained. “Your old coat of arms—
Divine Providence
’s—belonged to the Order of the Left Hand. You’d be allowed to use it on Shuto, but I suspect they’d track its use through the data-pools. That—” She pointed to the device Ormuz now held—“That’s trick OPI one. We use ones like that when we need to keep witnesses safe.”

“I can use this anywhere in Chikogu?”

“Anywhere on Shuto, Casimir. And if you need more crowns, any local bank will advance you funds on it.”

“I—” He stopped. “I don’t know what to say. Thank you.”

“I don’t know why you insist on staying here. Come back with us. We can find somewhere for you.”

He shook his head. “No. The masquerade is over. You heard the Admiral.”

“But what about the duchy? They might give you that.”

“No, they won’t.” He looked at Maganda. “I’m right, aren’t I, Romi? I was born a prole, so they’ll never give it to me.

“But you
are
the duke!” Finesz protested. “Or at least, you’re as much the duke as Ahasz is.”

“Ssh.” Azeel had entered the bar. She was carrying a tray on which sat a brightly-polished brass coffee pot and a collection of cups and saucers. She crossed to the table, put down the tray and set about serving everyone.

“Oh,” said Finesz. “You didn’t have to get out your best, ah, silver just for us.”

Ormuz winced.

Azeel looked up from pouring, glared at Finesz, and then looked back down at the cup she was filling.

Once everyone had a steaming cup before them, she straightened and gazed down at a fourth empty cup remaining on the tray. Ormuz reached across, set the cup upright on its saucer, put it down before the chair beside him, then lifted the coffee pot and filled the cup. “Inni,” he said.

“You must be a very kind person,” Finesz said to Azeel as she settled gingerly beside Ormuz.

“Why?”

“You took in Casimir when he had nothing—no money, not even an escutcheon.”

“Anyone else would’ve done the same.” She paused. “My lady.”

“No,” said Ormuz. “No, they wouldn’t have.”

“He’s right,” Finesz added. “And I should know.”

Azeel shrugged. Her eyes settled on the roll of crowns before Ormuz. She reached across and picked it up. “You have all this money?” she asked in wonder.

“Is it too much?” asked Finesz.

Ormuz took the roll of notes from Azeel. “There’s lots I need to get,” he told her. “I’ll need you to help me.”

She nodded eagerly and for a moment he wondered if it were the scrip which had made her eyes shine. No, he decided, it was the prospect of helping him.

“It’s time we went,” said Finesz. She put down her coffee cup. She had drunk most of it. Maganda had quietly finished off her own cup.

The inspector rose to her feet. “I’ve a feeling you’ll be safe here, Casimir,” she said. “But if you need my help, you need only call.” To Azeel, she added, “It was nice to meet you.”

Maganda was also on her feet. She sketched a brief bow. “Casimir,” she acknowledged. She gave Azeel a quick smile.

Ormuz stood. He said his farewells and watched the two women leave the pub. He heard Azeel push back her chair and set about gathering up the crockery. Yes, he thought, he had been lucky to find the Empress Glorina, lucky to find Azeel, lucky to find this safe haven.

He would make sure Azeel was rewarded for it.

A
cross the road from the staff car, an iron staircase descended from an elevated railway station through half a dozen switchbacks. There was an elevator next to the stairs, a shaft of ornate metal filigree; but that was for the use of yeomen and nobles only. Finesz leaned forward, cupped her chin in one hand and stared at the staircase on the other side of the street. She was expecting Ormuz.

She had not visited this area of Toshi before. This was no surprise: the city was huge and she had rarely visited its proletarian precincts. In earlier years, she’d spent most of her time at Imperial Court, at the townhouses of her noble “friends”, and in the fashionable districts where her lovers had kept her. Even after she joined the Office of the Procurator Imperial, she had no reason to enter such areas as this. She did not even know the district’s name.

Not, she reflected ruefully, that she needed to. She wouldn’t be returning here. It was a grim and depressing place. The elevated railway left the street in permanent shadow and the buildings to either side were of a dark stone which seemed to trap the light. The facades were in need of repair, with crumbling lintels and chipped cornices. Many of the stone flags on the surface of the road were cracked. Some had disappeared entirely, leaving gaping holes. She could see one such hole no more than a few feet from the staff car. It appeared as though there were an open space beneath the road—a tunnel, perhaps; or the cellars of the tenements.

The place was a disgrace. Finesz thought idly about finding out who owned it and paying them a visit. She would use her position to ensure they made repairs…

No, she was fooling herself. She had no such authority. No laws were being broken. And most did not care if proles lived in squalour.