Yet there might be a bright spot after all, he told himself, leaning back as the dragon’s powerful legs reached for the ground. Given how completely Harshu had fucked up, his own relief was inevitable, probably sooner rather than later. And that arse-kisser Toralk would be tarred with the same brush. He’d have to go, too, and he was junior to Carthos, anyway. Which meant all Carthos had to do was bide his time, watch his back, keep his own skirts clean, and the command would almost certainly devolve upon him in the end. For that matter, as much as he resented-and feared-mul Gurthak’s power over him, that very relationship might act in his favor. Carthos still hadn’t figured out what mul Gurthak’s real motives might be, but he rather suspected the Mythalan would prefer to have someone he could…strongly and directly influence in Harshu’s place.
I can wait, arsehole, he thought, glaring in the direction of the encampment where Harshu awaited him. I’ve waited this long, and I can wait a little longer. Because in the end, mul Gurthak’s going to put the blocks to you and I’ll be standing on the edge of the pit while you slide straight down to the dragon.
* * *
Commander of Five Thousand Pardinar Rukkar wasn’t exactly looking forward to this meeting.
His old friend Thankhar Olderhan had been stalking Portalis, white-lipped and vibrating with fury for days, but Rukkar had to acknowledge his longtime comrade had kept up with every one of his duties despite his inchoate rage. The work of governing an entire planet didn’t stop just because the Union was at war. Or because his heir was on trial. None of which had made Olderhan’s task one bit easier, of course.
As he followed the liveried footman in Garth Showma’s colors down the hallway, the five thousand made a mental note to treat the duke gently.
The footman reached the door to the duke’s private study and rapped once, sharply, on the frame. Then he opened the door.
“Your Grace, Five Thousand Rukkar,” he announced.
“Show him in, by all means, Larsu!” Olderhan’s deep voice replied
The duke rose to greet his guest, reaching out to clasp forearms as Rukkar entered the study, and despite his own mood, the five thousand smiled in familiar amusement at the contrast between them. Thankhar Olderhan looked every inch the Andaran duke he was, and Rukkar…didn’t. A small ruddy-featured man, the five thousand looked as if his first ancestor had been decanted by Mythlan magisters expressly as the first rider of the first dragon-which was fitting. Rukkars had been flying Andaran dragons almost as long as Olderhans had been commanding Andaran armies.
And that was why Sir Pardinar Rukkar had been chosen to run the investigation into the shit storm with the yellow. He’d sent updates over the last several days, but he’d come to deliver a summary of the final report in person.
Now he lowered himself heavily into a well-worn leather chair at the duke’s gesture and drew a deep breath as he prepared to do that delivering.
“Thankhar, it’s a mess,” he said frankly, skipping any honey coating preamble. “I know it’s to be expected, given what it takes for this kind of cluster-fuck to happen, but-” He grimaced. “There’re going to be people who’ll never believe my report, and I don’t know as I’ll blame them. For about the first twenty-four hours, I thought it was a clear-cut case. Stupidity all ’round-but simple. And I still think it is, really. But then things got a lot less clear-cut.”
Olderhan leaned back in his own chair, listening but certain he wasn’t going to like what came next.
“A hundred with Mythal Air Expeditionaries took full credit for sending one of my boys still in flight training out to scare off the crowd in front of your offices. Someone’d told them you’d asked for assistance with a riot. The boy needed saddle time, so this Hundred mul Belftus gave him the mission.
“So far so good, I thought at that point. But when my investigator asked mul Belftus where the hummer was who’d brought that request message from you, the Hundred died.”
“He what?” Olderhan jerked upright in his own chair, and Rukkar winced. There was no easy way to explain the oddities of the report.
“His heart, the Healers said.” He threw up his hands. “And it gets worse. My boy flying that yellow-I know he was a fool to take the mission, but before that he was shaping into an excellent flier. He was a third-generation Andaran pilot, and he’d been flying retired transports at home since his arms were long enough to reach the controls. I had to write his parents a letter. He never woke up.”
“From a crowd control spell?” Olderhan wasn’t taking this nearly as calmly as Rukkar could have wished.
“Two blasts from peacekeeper staffs at focused max power.” He corrected. “Unusual, but not unheard of for that to be fatal.”
“Even at that range with him at least partially shielded by a dragon’s body?” Thankhar shook his head disbelievingly.
“I know,” Rukkar said. “If I hadn’t been running this investigation, I’d be a skeptic myself. But for any other explanation, I’d have to believe someone walked into the hospital and shot the boy with a daggerstone at exactly the same angle as he’d been hit by your retainers. Angles,” he corrected himself. “It’d need to be two shots to the same spots. It’s ridiculous.”
Thankhar Olderhan looked at him, his expression absolutely blank, and Rukkar raised an admonishing index finger.
“Don’t be thinking that, Thankhar. People’re stupid far more often than they’re wicked. Mythlans do things like gassing their field hands if they try to riot. We’d never do it, but to someone like mul Belftus, it wouldn’t have seemed so outrageous under the circumstances.”
“Slaves, Rukkar.” Olderhan spoke through gritted teeth. “They gas their garthan slaves and do it for revolts, not riots.”
“You know what I mean.” Rukkar regretted mentioning the Mythlan practices.
“And I never sent a hummer,” Thankhar said. “None of my Portalis staff sent a hummer. None of the Garth Showma Househummers left their coops within four hours of that dragon’s arrival.”
“Maybe someone on your staff forgot to log it, or-”
“No, I’m telling you a message was never sent!”
“Old friend, I understand,” Rukkar said, “but there’s no proof of that. You weren’t at home yourself until afterwards, so you can’t swear to it of your own knowledge. And no one’s staff would have the clearest recollection of what happened after that kind of surprise.”
“You don’t believe me.” The look in Olderhan’s eyes was not friendly.
“That’s not what I said.” Rukkar tried to calm him. “I only said there’s no proof, and I have a sworn statement from Hundred mul Belftus that someone sent him a hummer. And there’s a note in his office log that he did receive one. You say you didn’t send it, and I know you too well to think you’d say that if it wasn’t true. But think about it. Mul Belftus’ senior commo clerk-an Andaran, not a Mythalan-noted a message from someone at exactly the time mul Belftus said he’d received one, and why would anyone fake a message like that?”
Sir Thankhar Olderhan looked very old. “If that horror had happened, I’d look like someone who’d kill my officers’ wives and sisters on a whim. I’d be a pariah, a man no one could trust, much less believe.”
Rukkar shook his head. “It didn’t happen.”
“Only because the chief sword who manages my duty roster decided he needed to stand a ceremonial door watch himself that morning. I usually have two lances in that position, Rukkar! Lances!”