By Honor Betray'd: Mageworlds #3 (12 page)

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Authors: Debra Doyle,James D. Macdonald

BOOK: By Honor Betray'd: Mageworlds #3
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“Leave how?”
“The
Fezzy
carries a fighter detachment on board. So I stole one of the long-range craft and brought it here.” He shrugged, looking unhappy. “Gyffer was the only place in range that looked safe. I didn’t know about the Magefleet then.”
“Nobody did,” she said. She let her hand slide away from his arm; at the last moment, his fingers caught hers, and held them. “We knew there was trouble coming—but we all thought that we’d have more time.”
 
GYFFER: PORT OF TELABRYK
LADY LEROI
: HYPERSPACE TRANSIT TO PLEYVER
 
B
ACK IN the days of the First Magewar, Waycross on Innish-Kyl had been one of the gaudiest and most riotous ports in the civilized galaxy. The privateers who preyed on the Mageworlds supply fleets had made Innish-Kyl their base, returning to Waycross between forays to sell off their stolen cargo and refit their battered ships. Three decades of peace and prosperity, however, had turned the onetime pirates’ haven into an ordinary third-rank trading nexus, a bit rough around the edges but rich in historical associations.
That, at least, was how things had stood a few weeks ago, before the Mageworlders took Galcen. Now Innish-Kyl had a fighting fleet in orbit again—
Karipavo, Shaja
, and
Lachiel
, three capital ships from the former Space Force Net Patrol. The portside Strip was thronged with free-spending spacers, all with money in their pockets and full of the urge to party away the strain of combat. Captain Jervas Gil, commanding officer of the ’
Pavo
and commodore of the three-ship force, wasn’t surprised at how fast Waycross had snapped back into its old shape.
“The changes never did go that deep,” he said to his aide, Lieutenant Bretyn Jhunnei.
The two officers sat in one of the far back tables in the Blue Sun Cantina, nursing tumblers of the bad local brandy and making conversation as best they could over the gabble of voices. Gil and his aide were both in civilian clothing, as were most of the dirtside crews. Since coming to Waycross, the commodore had also resumed styling himself “Baronet D’Rugier”—a title he’d seldom bothered with since leaving his homeworld of Ovredis and going into the service. But now that he’d be associating with and commanding civilians …
“The last time I was in Waycross,” he continued, “I lost count of how many laws I wound up breaking.”
“All in a good cause, sir, I’m sure,” Jhunnei said. “Any leftover legal problems that we need to worry about?”
“There shouldn’t be. We falsified the records and deep-spaced the body.”
She didn’t blink. “Sounds like an interesting evening.”
The lieutenant was a dark-haired woman with a sallow, bony face and an air of unobtrusive competence. In peacetime, she would have been on the fast track for advancement—Gil’s last promotion had come after his successful completion of a similar tour of duty as aide to General Metadi. These days, Gil wasn’t sure that there was a Space Force left for advancing in, outside of his own three ships and the handful of smaller craft that had survived the battle at the Outer Net.
If only hi-comms weren’t still so damned spotty …
The Mageworlders had pulled off their surprise attack by suppressing the hyperspace communications network upon which so much of the Space Force’s strategy and tactics depended. It wasn’t supposed to be possible, not with a multiply-redundant and self-healing system, but the Mages had done it. Even now, with the network slowly coming back on-line; outsector comms were erratic and subject to time lag.
Several minutes passed. The crowd in the Blue Sun grew denser and rowdier. The dim air was streaked with the blue-grey fumes of incense and smoking herbs, and the mingled sweet and bitter smells warred with the odor of sweat and spilled beer. The Blue Sun’s climate-control system, already overburdened, tried to compensate by drawing power from the light panels and the emergency glows. The system’s efforts gave the cantina’s illumination an irregular and unsettling flicker.
“So what do you think, sir?” Jhunnei said at last. “Is this ‘Captain Merro’ person going to show up or not?”
“I hope so,” Gil said. “Having him throw in with us will make it easier to get the rest.” He took another sip of the atrocious brandy. “Unfortunately, the sort of people we need right now are the sort of people who under happier circumstances would be right at the top of our stop-and-search list, and don’t think they don’t know it.”
“Merchant-captains with fast mean ships that are a bit faster and meaner than they ought to be
” was how Gil had phrased it to the Blue Sun’s bartender when he was first putting out the word. The bartender had understood him well enough: “
You’ll want to talk with Cap’n Merro, then. If you can get Merro’s
Luck of the
Draw on your side, most of the others’ll follow.”
Another few minutes passed. Just as Gil was about to give up and call it a night, a tall figure loomed over the table, blocking most of the light.
*I’m Merrolakk. Are you the Baronet D’Rugier they said was looking for me?*
The language wasn’t Standard Galcenian, but a hooting, rumbling speech that most human voices found uncongenial. Gil was not one of the few who could speak it; he wouldn’t have understood it, either, without the crash-tutoring he’d undergone during his stint as General Metadi’s aide. The General had negotiated the first firm alliance between the Republic and the Selvaurs, and was bound to the big saurians by complex ties of sworn-brotherhood and child-fosterage. Learning to “hear” the Forest Speech wasn’t an official requirement for working with Metadi, but Gil sometimes thought it should have been.
Captain Merro wore a vest full of pockets, most of them sealed and bulging, and a holstered blaster on a weapons belt. No knife, though; the Forest Lords regarded edged weapons as fang-and-claw substitutes permissible only for infants or for those made feeble by age. Gil also noted Merro’s bright green scales and uncrested skull, the former marking the captain as belonging to one of the minor Selvauran subraces, and the latter marking him—marking
her
—as a female. The bartender hadn’t mentioned that last detail; perhaps he hadn’t known the difference, or hadn’t cared.
Gil nodded courteously. “I’m D’Rugier, yes. Sit down, please, Captain. Would you care for some brandy?”
The Selvaur took a chair on the other side of the table. *No, thanks. You say you’ve got a business proposal for me?* “Of sorts. Are you interested?”
*It depends. Is it going to be profitable?*
Gil shrugged. “As you said yourself, it depends. But with luck, yes. And the more ships who participate, the better.”
Merrolakk’s yellow eyes dilated with interest. *What kind of job are you thinking about?*
“A simple one, really,” said Gil. “I intend to enter the Magezone, find whatever merchant ships might be there, and transfer their cargos to mine.”
The Selvauran captain hooted under her breath—with amusement, as far as Gil could tell. *Pirate, eh?*
Gil shook his head. “No. Privateer. I’m carrying letters of marque and reprisal.”
*Whose?*
Before Gil could answer, he spotted a new arrival in the Blue Sun. The newcomer, a young Space Force trooper in an awkward mixture of uniform and civilian clothing, looked around the room, wide-eyed, before shouldering a way through the crowd to their table.
“My lord Baronet,” he began—hesitating a bit on the title. “A word with you.”
“Of course,” said Gil. He turned to Merrolakk. “Excuse me for a moment.”
The Selvaur. laughed again with the breathy
hoo-hoo
sounds of her species. *He brings word that more of your fleet has gathered, twenty-seven vessels of various classes, coming in from the Net.*
The messenger clearly didn’t understand the Forest Speech. He gave Merrolakk a curious look, then leaned closer to Gil’s ear and whispered, “We’ve found twenty-seven undamaged units in the Net. They’ll be making orbit later tonight or early tomorrow.”
*Was I right?*
Gil ignored the Selvaur. “When did you get the word?” he asked the messenger in an undertone.
“We picked up lightspeed comms with them a couple of minutes ago. I came right over.”
“Thank you,” said Gil. “Prepare to receive them; refuel, rearm, refit as necessary.”
“Yes, sir.”
Gil nodded the messenger on his way, and turned back to Merro. “I believe we were discussing a business proposition.”
*You could call it that,* said Merro. She still sounded amused. *Assuming it’s successful—what kind of prize fees are you talking about?*
“You take half,” said Gil. He’d done some research on the subject before coming down to the Blue Sun this evening, and the cut he’d proposed had been a standard one in the old days, whenever an eager or ambitious captain brought together more than one ship for a privateering foray. “Divide it with your crew as you see fit. The other half goes to me—for the good of everyone under my flag.”
*What happens if I hit a run of bad luck?* “You’ll be taken care of, don’t worry. I have some long-term investors backing the project.”
Gil paused. The next bit would be tricky, even with the sweetening of that bad-luck guarantee. “I will also direct you as to the general area of your operations, the rules of engagement, and your treatment of prisoners, if any.”
The captain smiled—an almost-human expression, except for the flash of predatory fangs. Gil knew enough Selvauran physiognomy to recognize that she wasn’t entirely pleased by his last statement. *I see. You keep tight control and you take half my profits. What have you got for me that’s worth it?*
“Well,” said Gil. “For one thing … when the Republic is restored, I won’t have to hunt you down myself.”
This time Merro did show her teeth. *Brave words for a man who’s lost his fleet.*
Jhunnei spoke up for the first time. “If you think the Magelords can give you something better, you can go ask them.”
*I might.*
She’s bluffing,
Gil reassured himself.
The Selvaurs were allies of the Republic in the last war; the Mages won’t be eager to make deals with them now.
“When can I expect your answer, Captain?”
*Soon,* Merro said. *After I’ve spoken with my associates. *
Gil nodded. “Call on me when you have something—but I can’t wait on your answer forever. I’ll be taking my fleet out of orbit before very long.”
*I understand. Can you tell me when?*
“It depends. As soon as possible.”
*So.*
Merrolakk regarded him for a moment longer without saying anything, then rose and walked away—but no farther than the bar, where she ordered up a mug of something green. Jhunnei looked after the Selvauran captain with a curious expression.
“Do you think she’s going to go for it?”
“I hope so,” said Gil. “Because it’s the only way we can get enough ships.”
 
“We have a slight problem here,” Lieutenant Vinhalyn said to Ari. The two of them were conferring in what had once been the CO’s office at Telabryk Field. The Space Force evacuation had left the room as bare as the rest of the installation; even the files on the desk comp had been wiped. “I’m the senior line officer on-planet, and you’re technically a deserter—which raises the inconvenient question of what I’m supposed to do with you now that I’ve got you.”
“I know,” Ari said. “If it’s any help, I can plead extenuating circumstances. I didn’t think I ought to stick around on
Fezrisond
and let Admiral Valiant drag me into mutiny.”
Vinhalyn nodded. “True. Your family name alone would make you far too valuable as a potential hostage. But we still have to account for that fighter you appropriated for the journey.”
“I was going to turn it over to the base CO as soon as I reached Gyffer,” Ari said. “So I suppose it’s yours.”
“Thus augmenting our little squadron to three ships; or two and a fraction, anyhow.”
Ari smiled briefly at the mild witticism: Eldan dual-seaters were high on armament, and had considerable hyperspace range, but they weren’t very big.
Vinhalyn continued, looking thoughtful. “Rather than putting you in the medical department with Captain Lury, I’m going to assign you to general duty and keep you as our one-man fighter squadron. As for your alleged desertion … I’ll fill out all the proper forms. Under the circumstances, though, it wouldn’t surprise me if the paperwork never made it all the way to Galcen.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Don’t thank me,” Vinhalyn said. “There’s a fight coming—Gyffer couldn’t get away with rolling over and playing dead even if the locals wanted to—and we’ll be right in the middle of it. I made a point, this morning, of offering our help to the Defense Ministry before anybody in the room could work up the initiative to commandeer us.”
Ari followed his reasoning. Relations between the Space Force and the local defense fleets were a delicate matter, even in peacetime, and it was better to volunteer for trouble than to set a bad precedent. “What about that Deathwing raider you brought in?”

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