The Warlord's Daughter Page 13

  Hadley stopped in front of the two young girls. “Who snorted?”

  They were instantly contrite.

  The taller of the two stepped forward, snapping her heels together and bringing her hand up for a salute. She was slender with a long, Earthling-style hank of hair swinging around her graceful neck that added to the impression of a dancer. “I did, Captain, ma’am. Cadet Holloway.”

  Holloway, as in Ellen Jasper Holloway, Hadley thought. A prebriefing on the girl’s presence had prepared Hadley for having the queen’s consort’s niece assigned to her ship. Admittedly it had made her nervous having the queen’s family on board. Partly for this very reason—what if she felt she was above shipboard rules?

  “Do you see anyone else here showing disrespect to the captain?” Bolivarr asked.

  “No, sir.” Ellen pressed her lips together, staring straight ahead. She’d screwed up and she knew it. Hadley liked that she didn’t try to justify her small breach of decorum. “Sorry, ma’am.”

  Hadley shifted her attention to the rest of them. “It’s going to be a long voyage on a relatively small ship. There will be people aboard who will drive you crazy. Some of you will drive me crazy. What separates military professionals from the rest is that we do not reveal our less than positive personal opinions of fellow crew members.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the six rooks responded.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Ellen said, a little more forcefully than the others.

  Garwin concluded the roll call with the final rook. “Last we have Cadet Meith…Meitheera…”

  “Meitheeratanaphipat, sir.” The correction came from a small girl with lovely dark hair and eyes standing next to Cadet Holloway.

  “Mee…theera,” Hadley tried. “Tana…” She gave up trying to read the name badge.

  “That’s okay, Captain.” The rook accepted her attempts at pronunciation with a shy, wry smile that told Hadley this was nothing new. “My ancestors are from a place on Earth called Laos. We have long last names.”

  One of the twins said, “We call her M-19, Captain.”

  “Is that what you prefer?” Hadley asked the girl.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “M-19, it is.” It would have to be. Hadley shared an amused glance with Bolivarr. Though he’d give anything to know what his last name was. Long or short, any name was better than having no name.

  They ran through the rest of the introductions quickly—the pilots, mechanic, engineer and the ship’s surgeon. “Battle-Lieutenant Bolivarr will now brief us on our mission.” She refused to call it an expedition. He took center stage and ran through the briefing that Zaafran had given to her.

  Through it all, Bolivarr’s eyes were unreadable. So much hinged on this mission. If he couldn’t recover his memory soon then he was likely doomed to live out his life without knowing who he was.

  As she’d suspected, there was quite a bit of excitement at the prospect of exploring an uncharted world at the farthest edge of civilized space. Civilized? Hardly. The planet they’d fancifully dubbed Ara Ana had existed, forgotten, in the mostly lawless Hordish frontier for generations. Who knew what they’d find there? Prime-admiral Zaafran had high hopes for a windfall of religious relics. Hadley was certain anything of value to be found had been plundered long ago. But it was supposed to be a mission of hope, and hope she’d have.

  The cadets chattered excitedly about the uncharted, possibly unstable wormholes they’d have to traverse and pirate attacks, but in truth, they’d be hard pressed to see any real action on this ride. Their parents would probably be relieved. The academy didn’t believe in coddling cadets, still, no one wanted to see teens placed in harm’s way.

  Bolivarr stepped down and the crew reported to their stations to get ready for launch.

  “Captain Keyren—Cadet Holloway requests permission to speak.”

  Hadley turned. Ellen was standing in front of her. Her military bearing was perfect but she was clearly nervous.

  “Go ahead,” Hadley said.

  “I wanted to apologize again. I didn’t mean any disrespect. And I wanted you to know that I don’t want or expect special treatment. I want to succeed on my own terms. I want it more than anything.” She lifted luminous, determined eyes to Hadley, as if willing her to understand.

  Hadley did understand. Very much so. She, too, wanted to succeed outside the bright light of her famous mentor. She nodded. “Then I expect great things of you this trip, Holloway.”

  “Yes, ma’am! You’re my hero, ma’am.”

  Her hero?

  “Admiral Bandar was abducted. You took a shuttle without permission and—”

  Bolivarr cleared his throat to stop Ellen as Hadley thought, Oh, dear. Unfortunately, one of the twins finished for Ellen. “You went around orders in order to save your captain.”

  Yes, and won her promotion for that act. So had Rakkelle, the feisty Drakken pilot-cadet-ex-pirate who’d flown the shuttle in question and who was still serving on the Unity, Hadley’s former ship. But that was bar talk. She didn’t want the cadets worshiping her for a mission that could have easily blown up in her face. The ramming during the checkride notwithstanding, she was determined to be more conservative, to play by the rules. “The lesson not to be learned is that it’s okay to disobey orders and do what you want. The situation was unique.” She frowned at them, her best captain’s scowl. No one laughed, so that was good.

  Back in her office, Bolivarr leaned heavily on his cane, seemingly amused by the cadets’ idolization of the incident she’d most like to bury in her past. After weeks of improvement, physically he appeared to have taken a turn for the worse the past few days—no seizures, just an overall fatigue. He’d not wanted her to say anything, lest he be pulled from the mission.

  Maybe she was asking too much of him. “Bo, are you sure you feel up to this?”

  “Hadley, even if I were on my deathbed I’d go.” He paused. “I have to go. It’s my best chance at remembering who I am. My last resort before surgery,” his mouth thinned, “that I really don’t want to have. In fact, I’ve decided I won’t go under the laser-knife, Hadley. My brain has been damaged enough, and some things even nanomeds can’t fix. If this doesn’t work, if Ara Ana doesn’t release my memory, I’m done trying. I’ll just start fresh. What happened in my past will stay in my past.”

  “You’re still having the dreams, right? You’re still seeing the five marks?”

  “And writing gibberish in runes that I know I once knew how to translate. Why, Hadley? What would I be doing with knowledge of an ancient language that only a few priestesses know? What did I do in my past that gained those secrets?” His jaw tightened. “What did I do?”

  Silent, she moved beside him, slipping her arms around his waist. “Good things. I know you.”

  “But I don’t know me.”

  She held him tighter. The quiet sadness that was always a part of him seemed more pronounced as he turned his dark, narrowed eyes to a view of the Ring they’d soon trade for the unknown.

  She reckoned that Bolivarr’s memory was as ripe for discovery as the uncharted space they’d soon explore. As much as she looked forward to beginning the mission, she couldn’t shake the sense that it would soon change everything she thought she knew about herself—and him.

  BLOWING DUST turned Zorabeta’s sun into a bloated yellow orb bearing an uncanny resemblance to a decaying sun-melon. The wind whistled as Keir pulled out a fresh nanopick and faced down the three Drakken who’d showed up at his ship.

  A fancy weapon glinted in the battlelord’s hand. It looked like it could do some damage, too. Keir reached for his pistol before he remembered it was on his ship. He’d been disarmed upon arrival like everyone else visiting the camps for commerce and otherwise, but both blue-bloods were posing as law enforcement.

  As for Wren, she looked like the girl next door, and here he was, acting as if sending her to the executioner was as routine as ordering a drink in the bar. He was a jerk. She must know by
now that he’d fully intended to use her. The way he saw it, he had nothing to apologize for. It was high time she got to know him the way every other woman knew him. He was in this game for himself.

  “So, it sounds like our deal is still on,” he told her. “Riches beyond my imagination. Right, sweetheart?”

  Mawndarr frowned at the endearment.

  “Don’t worry, battlelord. Nothing happened and nothing will. Ours was a financial relationship.” Nipped in the bud before it had the chance to bloom.

  Bloom, hells. Fifty million queens were still his if he turned Wren in. A life of comfort (and no more chem-toilet running) would be his future. He ought to call Ellie back for reinforcements right now, land Mawndarr’s ass in the brig and turn his wife in. All he needed to do was deliver her to the camp commissar’s office in person and claim the bounty. One bellow and the curtain would come crashing down on the little Drakken right here, right now. Except his potential-profit meter was pegged. This gig reeked of money. The company could be dangerous, yeah, but in his experience, a little extra risk reaped a larger reward.

  As ochre dust swirled, Mawndarr studied him as if trying to get his bearings with an unexpected adversary. He wasn’t the first battlelord Keir had faced. Battlelords were the opposite of a good runner: they were thinkers and planners. Right now he was thinking this through. Finally he said, “I see we have three options, Vantos.”

  “I’ll love them all, I assume.”

  “One—I can take your ship and leave you in Zorabeta, maybe even bribe you to stay quiet.”

  “Bribes are nice. What’s two?”

  “Rather than risk leaving you behind to tell everyone what you know, I can kill you where you stand.”

  “I think that if you’d wanted to kill me, you’d have done it already.”

  “What I want is irrelevant. I’d actually prefer to have you shock-cuffed—or dead—in the hold of your ship. But I can use you. Your so-called unmatched talent as a runner.”

  “So you know a good runner when you see one, eh, Mawndarr? You made the right choice. I’m the best there is. Six years and barely a scratch. Don’t worry about a thing. Keir Vantos is behind the wheel. I’ll get us across the Borderlands so fast, no one will ever know you were there.”

  “You’re not that good, Vantos. I let you pass all those times because it served my purposes.”

  “Bull flarg. We’ve never crossed paths before.”

  “Victory day. You were coming across the backside of the Inelglio dust cloud. You passed close enough to my battle-cruiser to shake hands.”

  Holy hells. “That was you?” The sight of that battle-cruiser bearing down on him was burned into his memory. He’d been sure he was dead meat. He’d actually muttered his goodbyes to this world. It wasn’t something he cared to share with Mawndarr. “Do you have any idea how much repairing that warning shot cost me? What were you doing out there on victory day, eh, Mawndarr? Trying to save your ass?”

  “You could say that.”

  Rumor was that insiders had let the queen’s consort through the perimeter around the warlord’s flotilla. Gods, was Mawndarr involved in that? He could very well be in the company of one of the biggest traitors in Empire history.

  “I watched you cross the blockade more times than I care to count,” Mawndarr said. “You were good, Vantos. Smart. Probably the best I saw out there, but you didn’t live this long without my help.”

  “Yeah. I get the point. No need to rub my nose in it. I got around you a few times, too, you know.”

  “I do. And that’s exactly why you’re hired.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  BORROWED TIME. A better name these days was borrowed money. That’s what it would take Keir to see to all the repairs he had pending. His new gig couldn’t have come at a better time.

  This was what he’d missed: the adrenaline rush. It was like the old days when he’d say to hells with it all and let instinct carry him through to the finish line. Like he planned to do now, because logically he had no damn clue what he was going to do tomorrow or even five minutes from now. He’d just do what he did best—run. Full-bore and without fear, just like always. His goal: only to get to the other side. He’d check out those riches Wren had tantalized him with, and if they didn’t pan out, well, sorry sweetheart, she was getting turned in. Talk about a money-back guarantee.

  Meanwhile they needed him. The battlelord recognized the danger, and didn’t let his ego get in the way. He was used to command, and obviously used to surrounding himself with the right people. Keir liked being the right person in this case. It was going to make him a rich man.

  He climbed up the gangway and pulled on the hatch to let them in. A warning blipped. “Flarg.” He’d put the blasted security hand reader on, thinking he might have to leave the ship unattended for longer than he’d like. He thrust his hand in the slot.

  “Access denied,” said an artificial voice.

  Denied? “Bite me.”

  “Command not understood.”

  Mawndarr’s assistant let out one of her trademark husky chuckles. He opened his mouth to elaborate a few of his inner thoughts, then clamped it closed. A tense hand would only baffle the reader even more. He stuck his fingers back in the slot.

  “Stand by.” An amber light blinked while the unit attempted to read and reconcile the image of his sweaty, tense palm with his usual cool, dry hand.

  “Your ship doesn’t seem to like you,” Kaz said. He didn’t need to see her dark eyes to see the spark of amusement there. He could hear it in her condescending tone. As if it wasn’t bad enough having his reputation as a runner decimated in front of her, now his ship wouldn’t cooperate.

  He could lose this gig unless he got in soon, real soon, and he’d be back to shuttling toilets instead of Drakken renegades. No, he’d be marching little Wren Senderin down to the commandant’s office for collection. And her husband, too. The thought sat like acid in his gut.

  They were the enemy.

  Or were they? Mawndarr had had the chance to kill him plenty of times, but chose not to, and the warlord’s daughter trusted him. No one ever trusted him.

  And for good reason.

  “Saving…saving…”

  He knew he should have gotten the balky thing repaired the last time he was at the depot. It’d been nothing but trouble. The reader had been on sale when he bought it—second hand. He wasn’t a rich man. But he would be.

  “Identification verified.”

  Thank the gods. “Get in, get in.”

  With a hiss, the hatch closed behind them.

  VANTOS’S SHIP WAS a patchwork of rivets, sheets of metal and scattered personal items that defined a man Wren didn’t know but about whom she hoped her trust was warranted. Good instincts had kept her warlord ancestors in power for millennia…until her father made his one, fatal miscalculation. Under the warlords’ rule, countless people had died in the name of war. On the other hand, if she miscalculated, how many more would die in the name of peace?

  Aral caught her by the arm before she got to the bridge. “This is yours.” In the shadows of an alcove half filled with discarded equipment, Aral thrust a heavy pistol at her. Black, cold, deadly, the weapon sat in her hands.

  She shoved it back. Deadly force. The beast inside her slumbered now. What if it was roused by fear or anger? The last thing she needed was a gun within reach. She didn’t want the temptation. “I can’t see.”

  “You see enough.” He took the gun from her and aimed into the ship to demonstrate. “Point and fire.”

  Aral filled the small space. His body heat carried his scent, that unfamiliar spice and the faint tang of sweat. Their bodies brushed together. She pressed back against the wall, to place a sliver of space between them. Aral appeared to be just as aware of her, his throat moving, his gaze diverted to the weapon between them. “In this, I won’t let you fight me. You must be able to defend yourself if something happens to me. You were sheltered long enough. Your unfamiliarity with wea
pons will fade as you learn.”

  “Unfamiliarity?” Fates, if he only knew. “The last time I had a dagger in my hand, I used it to kill the woman who poisoned my guardian. Sabra was like a mother to me.”

  “Bloody hells,” he muttered.

  “Ilkka did it to gain control over me, to hand me over to loyalists. She knew about the treasure, too. Everyone did except me.”

  “I’ve heard nothing of it, and of all the hours I spent with the warlord, even after he gave me your hand, he never mentioned it.”

  “If it wasn’t his, then…perhaps it was my mother’s. It was an unhappy marriage. She may have kept it secret.”

  “If it’s not there, Vantos won’t be happy.”

  “We have to find Ara Ana. She pulled the pendant from her robes. It dangled from the chain, seeming to glow from within. The five tiny dots twinkled like miniature stars. “My guardian gave me this.”

  Aral made a small sound of disbelief. He reached for the pendant, bringing it closer. Thrusters roared to life. Swallowing, she turned her head. “We’d better go sit down.” They were about to launch, and Aral was mesmerized, and in a different way, so was she.

  “I know this pattern,” he said gruffly. “My brother Bolivarr was killed after discovering it.” Grief wasn’t so far in Wren’s past that she’d forgotten what it looked like.

  “He was a wraith,” he said. “He was serving undercover across the border during the war. He transmitted a page from a religious text. This pattern was centered on that page. He told me to hold on to it for safekeeping. I never heard from him again.”

  Suddenly her key to freedom, to atonement, felt like a noose. “Did the page say anything about Ara Ana? Or the treasure itself?”

  Aral shook his head. “It was all in runes. Untranslatable. All he mentioned was that he’d found a key to a secret with the potential to destroy us all.”