? ? ?
The IPV Profitable Venture was the largest ship she had ever sailed on, a Tempest class battleship of eight twelve-inch guns and enormous, sail-sized paddles secured within armoured casements the size of castles. A small army of sailors were busy about the deck as she came aboard to be greeted by the ship’s First Officer, who ordered her trunk carried to her cabin before requesting she accompany him to the ship’s ward-room. “The rest of the delegation is already aboard, miss. We sail within the hour.”
“A moment, please.” Lizanne turned and cast her gaze down the long gang-plank to where they stood on the quayside. Jermayah waved, Aunt Pendilla awkwardly hugged the shoulders of a half-sobbing Tekela whilst her father stood apart, for once not dressed in that dreadful white coat but a reasonably smart if unfashionable business suit that probably hadn’t seen the outside of a wardrobe in decades. There was no sign of Major Arberus. Of them all, his reaction to her news had been by far the least sympathetic.
Lizanne watched her father give a stiff nod of farewell then turned briskly about. No distractions, she told herself, summoning a lesson from her training, though, like much of her education, the words had a somewhat hollow ring these days. An agent must accommodate their character to solitude. Friends, family and lovers are not within the scope of your employment, except as cover.
“Lead on, if you would, Commander.”
“Ah, Miss Lethridge, excellent.” A grey-haired man in civilian clothes came forward to greet her as she entered the voluminous ward-room, the expression on his lean features considerably more welcoming than the carefully bland one he had shown her the day before. “Director Bloskin advised us of your change of heart.”
“Director Thriftmor.” She inclined her head at the Board member responsible for Extra-Corporate Affairs. She knew him by reputation only, a renowned negotiator who had overseen the successful end to the Dalcian Emergency, though his task had been made easier by the near-complete destruction of Sovereignist forces at the hands of the Protectorate.
“I believe you know the Ambassadress.” Thriftmor turned to an elegant young woman in a finely made dress of black-and-white silk, her hair done up in a pleasing arrangement of golden curls.
“Electress Dorice Vol Arramyl,” Lizanne greeted her in Eutherian, employing the full nomenclature as required by Imperial Court etiquette.
“Miss Blood,” the Electress replied in her slightly accented Mandinorian, lowering her head in a shallow bow. Lizanne found her expression difficult to read, alternating between suppressed resentment and reluctant gratitude. Difficult as it might be to admit, this woman had to know she would have perished at Carvenport but for the evacuation.
“Just Lethridge these days,” Lizanne said. “And I find you elevated to ambassadress no less. How our fortunes have changed.”
“The Blood Imperial advised me of my new title only yesterday,” the Electress replied. “The Emperor thought it only fitting.”
“The Electress has been educating me in Imperial history,” Director Thriftmor said. “A fascinating subject. Did you know the Arakelin dynasty has held the throne for over four centuries?”
“Four hundred and seventy-six years,” Lizanne said. “To be precise.”
“Quite a remarkable feat, don’t you think? For one family to hold on to power for so long.”
A family of blood-soaked inbreds and tyrants who barely survived the last bout of revolution, Lizanne restrained herself from saying. Diplomacy required circumspection. “Indeed, very impressive.”
“Come.” Thriftmor turned and gestured at the gaggle of Ironship functionaries standing near by. “Meet the rest of our delegation.”
There were ten of them altogether, a collection of economic advisers and managers with Corvantine expertise. There were also two senior Protectorate officers, one an admiral the other a general. They socialised for an hour or more, drinking wine served by the ship’s immaculately turned-out orderlies, the conversation lively with corporate gossip and amusing anecdotes. Lizanne found their collective joviality somewhat unnerving, as if none of them truly understood the import of this mission. But then, of the entire delegation, only she and the Electress had been in Carvenport.
“Did they really call you ‘Miss Blood’?” one of them asked, a young economist from the Strategy and Analysis Division who had called for his wine-glass to be refilled several times now. “It seems,” he went on, eyes tracking over her with undue scrutiny, “such an inappropriate title.”
“She killed over a hundred Corvantine soldiers in a single day,” Electress Dorice put in, speaking in slurred Eutherian before downing the contents of her own glass and beckoning to an orderly for more. “Plus half a dozen Blood Cadre agents. Her title would in fact seem to be fairly inadequate.” She raised her glass in a mocking toast. “Miss Slaughter would suit you far better.”
“Whereas a willing spectator to a slaughter is, of course, to be admired,” Lizanne returned. “I don’t believe anyone forced you to embark upon your little jaunt, Electress. And I apologise if the reality of war failed to meet your expectations.”
The Electress flushed, composure slipping away as she flourished a hand at Lizanne, displaying several pale Green-healed scars on the palm. “See these. The legacy of slaving in your filthy manufactory. Forced to labour like a slattern in a workhouse, never knowing if each day might be my last.”
“On behalf of those not born into a life of useless indolence, I bid you welcome to adulthood.”
“Adulthood? You imagine all of this horror has somehow improved me?” The Electress reached up to jerk down the collar of her dress, revealing another scar, this one broad and not so well healed “From when a Blue breathed fire over the length of our ship during the evacuation. I shielded a baby in my arms, she died anyway.”
“Ladies!” Director Thriftmor broke in, dismissing the now-acutely-embarrassed economist with a jerk of his head. The Director smiled, spreading his arms in warm placation. “We stand on the verge of an historic peace. Why sully the occasion with needless acrimony?”
Lizanne realised the rest of the party had fallen silent whilst the volume of their argument rose. Too long out of the shadows, she berated herself. I need to do better.
“Quite so, Director,” she said, setting her wine-glass down on an orderly’s tray before offering Electress Dorice a bow. “My apologies. Your actions were very brave and are still well remembered among the Carvenport refugees.” She nodded at Thriftmor. “I believe I’ll take a turn about the deck before retiring.”