“These soon turned up Wo Lia. She is actually an adventurer among the stars—aye, from Catawrayannis, albeit a return to her birth-world would be inadvisable—mainly a gambler, but not above occasional racketeering.
The ship whereon she arrived had departed again; the interdict on civilian space travel left her stranded; uproar, and preoccupation with public events, gave her scant opportunity in Aurea. Hence she proved quite willing to take the role of intinerant showperson. In Lulach she can establish herself, one way or another, until the Empire calms down, one way or another. Ju Shao helped me disguise myself, and Wo Lia persuaded our good captain that, if he sought you out, he could belike sell a couple of tickets.
“Thus are we bound off. Needs must I remain in confinement till we reach Lulach. There will I slip free, and folk will feel sympathy for Wo Lia, whose performer escaped and may well starve to death in an inedible jungle. As for me, I have … business in Lulach.”
“Can you trust her?” Diana whispered. “She might turn you in for the reward. I s’pose there is one.”
“She, like Ju Shao, expects reward far more substantial, should our cause triumph. Why not? Funds ought to be abundantly available then, together with openings to the stars.”
“But what is our cause? If you’re on the side of Emperor Gerhart—why? To head off a civil war? But you can’t; it’s already begun. Mightn’t Olaf Magnusson be the better man anyway? And what can we possibly do, stuck here on Daedalus, that’d make the slightest difference?”
She had, unthinkingly, used Anglic. “S-s-s-s!” Targovi warned. “Abide your time. Later we will talk.” He settled back into a beast posture, as if falling asleep.
Diana sensed another presence. Turning her head, she saw that a human male had come on deck and was approaching. “Ah, hi,” he called. “I thought I’d find you enjoying the view and the fresh air. But what’s so interesting about the livestock?”
She rose and walked out from beneath the awning. “Oh, it’s a kind new to me,” she answered. “I don’t know what planet it’s from. Do you?”
“No. Wo Lia was evasive when I asked. Maybe export of that kind is illegal.” The man beamed. He was young and rather good-looking. “Uh, care for a stroll around the deck? Such a lovely night. I’m still wide awake.”
“Well, I am too, sort of.” Diana joined him.
They paced. “We should get better acquainted,” he said. “We’ll be on this boat for a fairish while. I can show you around our ports of call, if you want, and Lulach when we get there. My pleasure.”
She smiled. “Why, thank you.” A flirtation should be fun, if she took care to keep it within limits. Besides, she might learn something useful.
Chapter 11
A dozen light-years off, the twin blue giant suns that were Alpha Crucis dominated heaven. Even as images in a viewscreen they left burning after-images, and it would have been dangerous to let an unprotected eye dwell upon them.
The immediate danger, though, was closer at hand, where the Merseian task force clashed with a Terran flotilla that had been unfortunate enough to intercept it. Cyntath Gadrol of the Vach Ynvory, called Cannonshield, commanding from the dreadnaught Ardwyr, had sprung his trap and set to work inflicting maximum destruction before the outnumbered Imperials should break off and flee. Where missiles burst, new stars bloomed in dreadful brief beauty. Where a rosy cloud swelled from one of them, rapidly fading away into blackness, a ship and her crew had died. The battle raged through a volume trillions of kilometers across.
Yet it was principally a holding action, cover for the squadron that slipped free and made for the real destination at utmost pseudovelocity. Qanryf Bryadan Arrowswift, Vach Hallen, watched a yellow light-point swell hour by hour, until at the end of five it outshone Alpha Crucis and magnification revealed its disc. Despite his nickname, well-earned at home, Bryadan could stay quiet like that for a span like that: for he was on a hunt. Faint but marrow-thrilling, the energies driving the cruiser Tryntaf pulsed through him. Air from the ventilators, cold because his home was on an arctic shore of the Wilwidh Ocean, bore a likewise half-sensed exhilaration in reeks of ozone and oil. Telltales flashed, meters quivered, displays danced through his cave of control machines. Their operators poised alert, speaking only when needful but then softly singing the words, as if in dreams of the triumph to come.