The Gathering Flame by Debra Doyle

Author:Debra Doyle
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Tom Doherty Associates
Published: 2011-09-26T04:00:00+00:00

Still feeling a bit bemused by their reception in Selvauran space, Fleet Admiral Lachiel followed General Metadi into the ‘Hammer’s common room. One of the gunners was already there—the Entiboran, Tillijen, whose family name Gala had yet to hear—sipping at a cup of cha’a.

“There’s more fresh in the pot,” she said as they came in. She spoke in Galcenian, but something about the faint underlying accent convinced the fleet admiral that Tillijen’s Entiboran would be as proper as her own, or better. “Might as well grab a mug and get ready for the wait.”

“It’s not as if we’ve got a choice,” Metadi said, heading for the galley. Over his shoulder, he added, “Time to pack a carrybag if you haven’t already. We could be away from here for quite a while.”

Gala nodded, but didn’t leave the common room. She’d been living out of a carrybag since the ‘Hammer lifted from Entibor, and packing up again would be a simple matter of sealing the closure. In the meanwhile, she could drink her cha’a and watch the rest of the crew drifting in from their stations: the dark-haired topside gunner who was Tillijen’s partner, and Errec Ransome, copilot and acting engineer. Ransome had barely spoken to anyone during the voyage—he was not so much taciturn as invisible—but as far as Gala could tell, for him this was normal behavior. At least, the others never mentioned it.

After a while the silent waiting began to pall. Nobody seemed to feel like making idle conversation. The Entiboran gunner was closemouthed whenever Gala was around, and her partner followed her lead, while Errec Ransome was monosyllabic even at the best of times. Eventually Tillijen flipped on the holoviewer, but that didn’t help either—there were no local signals. She turned the set off again.

Metadi drank his cha’a, keeping one eye on the bulkhead panel where local repeaters echoed the sensor readouts from the main console in the cockpit. Finally he set the empty mug aside and disappeared into his cabin. He didn’t come out for some time—not until a steady beeping from the repeater showed a vessel inbound. Gala checked her chronometer, and noted with surprise that most of the apparent delay had been subjective. The Selvaurs hadn’t taken long after all.

The cabin door opened and Metadi reappeared, carrybag in hand. Gala saw that he’d put aside his respectable Gyfferan outfit in favor of the clothes he’d been wearing on the day he first showed up at Central Headquarters—gold buttons and all. She realized that she wasn’t looking now at the Consort, or even at the General of the Armies of Entibor; she was looking at Captain Jos Metadi, the noted—and notorious—privateer.

She raised her eyebrows. “The Selvaurs do know this is a diplomatic mission, don’t they?”

“No, they don’t,” said Metadi. “Not officially. I didn’t want to give them the chance to say no before I got there.”

“So instead, we’re giving them the opportunity to say no from right up close.”

Metadi grinned briefly. “Something like that.”

One of the readouts on the bulkhead panel changed from green to flashing red.

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