Raider Page 11

  “I meant,” Paledan said when Ordam’s whine finally ebbed, “the taproom keeper, not his father.”

  “Drake?” The man sounded genuinely startled. “There is nothing to say. He’s a pitiful, cowardly wreck.”

  There was so much satisfaction in Ordam’s tone, it spiked Paledan’s curiosity. “Ziem histories show he was not always.”

  “Oh, yes,” Ordam said, dismissing his world’s history with a fluttering wave of his hand. “He was as stubborn as his father in the beginning, fighting the inevitable, unable to see the benefit of the coming of the Coalition. And even after his father was removed, he continued, giving those same ridiculous speeches about freedom and self-determination.” Ordam gave an inelegant snort that reminded Paledan of nothing less than a Carelian blowpig. “But what a surprise to his loyal followers when it turned out he was just a mother’s pet. When she threw herself from Halfhead to her death, she might as well have taken him with her. Overnight, he became who you see today, broken, meek, and docile.”

  Again the satisfaction, Paledan thought, although that part of the tale did surprise him. While shocking, it didn’t seem enough to dampen the fire of the man he’d read about. “You must have known him before we arrived.”

  “Of course. One could hardly help but know of the vaunted Drake Davorin.” The satisfaction shifted to remembered disgust. His lip actually curled with it. “It was nauseating, the accolades poured upon him. Beloved by all, especially foolish females, best climber and hunter on Ziem, leader at the institute in both academics and athletics, being groomed to fill his father’s shoes at the Council.” And then the satisfaction snapped back. “But he is not his father, could not be further from him in fact.”

  “And yet it seems to me there is more to him than what appears on the surface now.”

  “You’re wrong,” the man said sharply. Then, as if remembering whom he was speaking to, he hastily added in a conciliatory tone, “You just haven’t been here long enough, Major. You will soon see Drake Davorin is nothing more than a coward. He will cause you no trouble.”

  “I think you and I might have very different ideas of what constitutes trouble,” he murmured to himself after the man had gone.

  He turned his gaze to his viewscreen, where an image of Torstan Davorin glowed. Once he had weeded out the Coalition rhetoric, he thought he had the bones of the man’s story. He had indeed been the flashpoint for what resistance there had been, and it had been unexpectedly strong. Which was to the man’s credit, despite the Coalition spin that it was merely the logistics of this rugged planet and its perpetual mist that had made this conquering take two full years. Paledan was adept at both reading between the lines and combining official reports with battle reports and arriving at something near the truth, which was that Torstan Davorin had inspired his woefully unprepared people to hold on for much longer than the Coalition had ever anticipated.

  And his son had seemed well suited to continue that battle, indeed, had picked up his father’s ceremonial saber while it was still wet with blood, and had rallied the stunned fighters into nearly taking the Coalition gun that had arrived to quell the disturbance. And the younger Davorin had fought on, even after the main resistance had ended.

  And then he had stopped. Abruptly. Had given up, retreated, become the cowed, beaten taproom keeper who was whispered about and called coward in all quarters. Paledan was somewhat surprised Sorkost had let him live, until he realized the daily presence of the defeated warrior, the sight of him as a lowly tapper submissively serving the Coalition, was worth much more than a death that might have turned him into the same kind of martyr as his father had become.

  He knew this had not sprung from any wisdom of Sorkost, but rather simply a perverse enjoyment the man took in grinding people beneath his boots.

  But nowhere in all the voluminous Coalition records and reports could he find any clue that told him why. Why Davorin had suddenly given up, why he had turned his back on his father’s legacy, laid down his sword, and changed into a very different sort of man practically overnight. It had to be more than the mother’s suicide. Wouldn’t that have inspired him to even further resistance? That the Coalition had taken both his parents from him?

  It had been Paledan’s experience that there was always a reason when a man changed so radically. And when it was the man who had once so rallied opposition to the Coalition, it was not in his nature to give up until he had an answer he was satisfied with.

  And so his questions about the quiet, inhibited taproom keeper remained.

  THE LINGERING intoxication of the successful air rover raid, plus a bit of brew the Raider had okayed, was still carrying them. When Kye arrived at the ruin, she was greeted cheerfully with grins and back slaps. And one slap on her backside from Maxon, because he was slightly inebriated. She smiled at him, but not before she’d put him on the ground on his own backside. She also accrued several approving comments on her stenciled artwork, still scattered about the city, and the beautiful irony that the Coalition was having trouble wiping it out because they were short of paint.

  “We’re not,” she said blithely, earning another round of raucous, cheering laughter, and calls that the Spirit had surely been with her. She might have to broach the possibility of another round, she thought. Perhaps with a new design.

  But first, she had something else to do. Something it had taken her far too long to work up to. But now that she had, she would let nothing divert her.

  When she entered the Raider’s quarters, Brander was with him, and they were laughing. It took her aback; she did not think she had ever heard him laugh in the six months she had been with him.

  But when he saw her, he went still, and half turned away, settling that blessed helmet. It would sting, if she let it, but she could not. She had worked up her courage on the trek up the mountain in the darkness, and she would not let it fail now.

  “And we could all be dead tomorrow, if the Coalition decided it.”

  Eirlys’s words had rung in her head and the image of that huge cannon, looming over the city, had haunted her every step of the way. And by the time she got here, she was convinced the worst fate of all would be to die without ever having told him how she felt. And she would never have a better time than now, when all had gone so well. She had to know if she was alone in this, because if she was, she needed to start building some kind of wall around her heart.

  Maybe Brander could teach her about that. He seemed to do it well enough.

  “Could you give us a moment, please?” she asked her cousin.

  Brander’s gaze shot to the Raider, who, after a moment’s hesitation as unlike him as the laugh, nodded. Only then did Brander leave them. It was another moment before he turned to face her, one brow lifted in query, barely visible below the rim of the helmet.

  And then she did not know how to start.

  “Do you never remove it?” she asked, eying the ever-present silver covering.

  “You would not like it if I did.”

  “Wrong. I would not care.”

  His mouth twisted. Bitterly? She couldn’t tell, given how little she could see of his face.

  “Oh,” he said, “you would.”

  “I would be saddened at your injury, and the pain you must have endured. Angry that it happened. And even regretful that I did not know you before. But nothing could change how I feel now.”

  There. It was out. She met his gaze, held it, daring him to deny he understood what she meant.

  “Kye,” he began, and stopped.

  “We could all die tomorrow,” she said, “and I must know. Even if it is to learn how big a fool I am.”

  “It does not matter. It can’t matter.”

  “It matters to me.”

  For the first time, the Raider lowered his eyes. “We cannot.”

  Kye lifted her chi
n. “Nor can we pretend this does not exist.”

  “I know.”

  Kye sighed. “Then what would you have me do?”

  “What would I have? What you will not do. Stay safe.”

  “And leave you to fight this war for me?”

  He looked up then. She stared at him for a long, silent moment. She had only his eyes, dark-rimmed blue ice, to judge by. But she saw a knowledge there, understanding.

  “You know what I feel,” she whispered.

  “I know,” he repeated. Then, as if it were against his will, he added, “I know it exactly.”

  Because he felt the same way? Her heart gave a tiny leap in her chest.

  “It cannot be. For so many reasons.”

  “Name them,” she demanded.

  “Kye—”

  “Name them,” she repeated, “for that is the only way I can abide it, if I have it in my head, in your voice.”

  He closed his eyes for a moment, leaving her only the scars, the helmet, for her to focus on. When they snapped open again, it only emphasized the power of them, of his steady, unwavering gaze. And when he spoke, it was sharp, rapid-fire, like bursts from a blaster.

  “In this kind of war, you can’t care. I’ve told your cousin I consider myself already dead. It is not a death wish,” he said even as she began to object, “because I think of each day I am still here to fight as a gift. But caring means you can no longer do what’s necessary. Especially if it means using one you care about as a tool or a weapon. And caring gives your enemy the most powerful weapon that exists.”

  She was wincing inwardly as if each word were a blow. Not because they were harsh, uncompromising, but because they were true.

  “What most powerful weapon?” It was all she could manage.

  “A lever.”

  A lever they could use against him. And she had no illusions that the Coalition wouldn’t do exactly that, were they to discover the Raider had a vulnerability. No, she could deny none of it. And yet she clung desperately. “And if this battle ended tomorrow?”

  “It will not.”

  “But if it did,” she insisted.

  “Ifs, and wishes,” he said softly, “are for children in a sane world. You are not a child, nor is our world sane.”

  So he would not give her even that much.

  She turned on her heel and left without a word. And set about walling off her heart.

  Chapter 16

  DRAKE WATCHED AS the new post commander stood in the doorway of the taproom. The man scanned the crowd, and he saw his gaze snag on each Coalition member in the busy room. Not long enough to be noticed, unless you were looking for it as Drake was, just enough to register their presence.

  His assessment of Paledan was by needs swift; it wouldn’t do to draw attention by staring at the new Coalition boss. But he felt he’d learned much in that quick look; with some men, you knew instinctively what they were made of. And this man, tall with close-cropped hair, lean but muscled, and with an unreadable expression, was made of stern stuff. He was alert, watchful, and even though he appeared relaxed, Drake sensed he was ready for anything.

  “Hurry it up with that brew,” one of those called out from the table where Brander was holding his game.

  Tonight was a night he could use some help in here. Every seat was taken, the bar was shoulder to shoulder, and he’d been running full bore for two hours now. But this was exactly the kind of night he did not want Eirlys in here, even without Jakel, so he was on his own. And he once more acknowledged the irony of his position, that anyone who would be willing to work for sympathizer Drake Davorin wasn’t somebody he wanted to hire.

  He pumped out the brew, having to do it by hand since under Coalition rationing they were running on the minimum tier of power for another few minutes yet. Then he hastened over to the back table with two foaming mugs, dodging the occasionally reeling drunk, a tricky task in the dim light. He set the full strength one in front of the man who’d yelled, who now scooped it up and took a huge gulp. The other mug—indistinguishable and yet intentionally less potent—he put in front of Brander. For an instant, as he set the mug down, his back was to the rest of the room, and he saw Brander’s eyes flick toward the doorway. He gave the barest nod to indicate he’d seen the major come in.

  “Busy night,” Brander said, lifting the mug. Then, casually, he added, “I wonder why?”

  His answer was a huge burp from the man guzzling the brew, followed by a crude laugh.

  “Answer, or opinion?” Brander asked dryly.

  Don’t antagonize him.

  But so well established was Brander’s reputation as a careless wastrel that the man only laughed again.

  “Haven’t you heard? We’re celebrating the departure of our not so beloved commandant.”

  Since the man wasn’t looking at him, Drake risked a glance toward the doorway. The new man had stepped inside, slowly, clearly in no hurry. And, Drake guessed, taking in every corner of the room, and every occupant in it, Coalition or not.

  “What if the new one is worse?” Brander asked, in a tone that said it meant nothing to him.

  The man downed another gulp of brew. Then he leaned in and said in a low voice, “Haven’t you heard? We’re getting Paledan. The man’s a bedamned hero.”

  “Well, that would be a change,” Brander said.

  The Coalition man snorted with laughter. Slapped down his mug, slopping brew over the rim. Drake pulled the bar rag from his apron pocket and set about dutifully wiping up the mess. The man ignored him. He was only the tapper, after all.

  “Frall was a fool. Thought awards for being a desk minder were worth the same as those won in battle.”

  Brander laughed, and the half-drunk trooper grinned. He played them very, very well, Drake thought as Brander picked up the dice scattered across the table and seemed intent merely on getting them back into the toss cup as he asked, “I gather your new leader is different?”

  “Paledan’s got more medals then any major in the Coalition. And honestly earned ones at that. Turned down the honorary garbage. And promotions as well. No desk chain for him.”

  “Did that make them angry?” Drake dared to ask. “Is that why such a hero ended up posted here?”

  He saw the man’s brow furrow as if he were trying to figure out the question. Or as if some part of his brew-numbed mind realized that there was a subtle insult to himself in there; after all, he was posted here. Drake busied himself with the last of the spillover, as if whether the man answered or not mattered little.

  Finally, the trooper shrugged. “Rumor has it he was wounded on Darvis, and will only be here until he’s fully operational again.”

  Drake considered that silently. The man certainly didn’t move as if he were injured. However it was, with effort, possible to hide such things.

  And then the man leaned forward again, to whisper, “But some of us think he’s here to take out that damned raider.”

  Brander never missed a beat but rattled the cup with the dice thoroughly, as if all that mattered was getting them thoroughly mixed.

  “Your toss, I believe?” he said, holding out the cup.

  “And let me top off that brew for you,” Drake said, “after that spill. No charge, of course.”

  That was one good thing about a full room tonight, he thought as he followed through on the words. He could afford the little extras that kept the men like that trooper coming back.

  When Drake at last settled behind the bar again, the major had yet to take a seat, although more than one Coalition member offered their own to their new commander. The man was now standing near, but not at the bar. Even as he looked, he saw the man notice the mirror behind the bottles, and turn to face it. Drake had the feeling it was the only reason the man would ever turn his back on a crowded room;
he was using it just as Drake did. It was ostensibly there to highlight the reds, ambers, clear sparkle, and rich browns of the various brews, but for Drake, it served the purpose of allowing him to observe the entire room surreptitiously.

  The lights came on as the Coalition allowed them the three hours of normal power. There was the typical moment of silence as everyone reacted, then the low drone of taproom chatter resumed. Drake was never sure the lights were an improvement on nights like this, but it made his job easier.

  He switched out the wet rag for a dry one, then reached to turn on the pumpers on the brewtaps. As he did, he noticed the new man’s focus had shifted.

  He was staring at the painting, now lit by the spotlight above it.

  Most men did stare, when they first saw it. It was, after all, a beautiful portrait of a beautiful woman. They were taken by her slender, almost delicate figure, the gleam of the white silk as it flowed over her body, the pure Ziem blue of her eyes, and perhaps most of all, the vivid red of the mane of hair that tumbled down her back in a fiery fall. There was an otherworldly feel to the image, and to those who knew who she was, it added another layer of sadness to her story.

  But most who came into the taproom these days had no idea they were looking at the wife of Ziem’s greatest hero, the woman who had inspired the orator, who in turn had stirred a world to rebellion. They saw only the beautiful woman she had been, and assumed that was the reason for the portrait’s presence.

  “Who?”

  Drake froze. He wasn’t certain the word had been directed at him, it had been spoken so quietly. And the man had never even glanced at him. But this was the new commander of the Coalition forces on Ziem, and it would not do to anger him so soon.

  “Sir?” he asked, politely.

  Paledan glanced at him. “The woman.”

  He shrugged, but underneath he was very aware this could be treacherous. “She is long dead, forgotten. But it is a lovely painting, is it not?”