Starpilot's Grave: Book Two of Mageworlds Read Online Free PDF Page A

upper-class Khesatan accent; he played cards and handled weapons like a professional; and he’d abandoned a perfectly good career in the Space Force Medical Service to join Beka on Warhammer after her old copilot had died in the fighting on Darvell.
    A man of many talents, is our Jessan, she thought, and smiled in spite of herself. “Now I’m listening. What’s the problem?”
    “You,” he said. “You’ve been working over that checklist since 0400, and Warhammer ’s not going to get any cleaner than she already is. It’s time you got some sleep.”
    “Is that what you had in mind … sleep?”
    “Absolutely,” Jessan assured her, straight-faced.
    She hesitated a moment, watching him, and then shook her head with a faint sigh. “We can’t afford to fail our blockade inspection just because some busybody in a Space Force uniform decides that I haven’t done my paperwork right.”
    “Let me handle it,” he offered. “I’m used to the style.”
    “No. If I’m going to sign for something, I want to make all the mistakes myself.”
    He shrugged and stretched out on the padded acceleration couch on the other side of the common room. “Fine, then. I’ll stay up and keep you company.”
    “Your choice,” she said.
    She turned back to the screen and worked diligently for a few minutes until a faint snore broke the silence behind her. She glanced over at the couch. Jessan’s head had fallen back against the cushions and his eyes were closed.
    “Damned idiot Khesatan,” she muttered, and hit the button to close the comp session.
    The console folded itself back into its bulkhead niche, and Beka stood up. She went over to the couch and touched Jessan lightly on the shoulder.
    “All right, Nyls,” she said. “You win. Let’s go to bed.”
     
    The chronometer in the captain’s quarters aboard Warhammer sounded its usual wake-up signal at 0500 Standard. Beka slid out from beneath Jessan’s arm and swung her feet down onto the deckplates. The alarm button for the chrono had been set into the bulkhead on the far side of the cabin, and she couldn’t turn it off without getting out of her bunk—which had probably been the designer’s intention in the first place.
    Once the alarm had been silenced Beka started getting dressed, but not in the plain shirt and trousers that she’d worn yesterday. Today she wore the lace and ruffles of a well-groomed but somewhat androgynous young man of fashion from Mandeyn’s Embrigan district, with long brown hair braided into a queue and finished off with a black velvet ribbon. This particular Mandeynan, however, carried a double-edged dagger hidden up his sleeve, and had a Gyfferan Ogre Mark VI blaster in a worn leather holster tied down against his thigh.
    She finished arranging the folds of her white spidersilk cravat, tucked a lacy handkerchief into one ruffled cuff, and contemplated the result with satisfaction. Beka Rosselin-Metadi, master of Warhammer and Domina of lost Entibor, had all but vanished, replaced by Captain Tarnekep Portree: starpilot, gunfighter, and killer-for-hire.
    Now for the final touch.
    Beka reached into the storage compartment that held her dirtside gear, took out a red optical-plastic eye patch, and fitted it into place. The patch covered her left eye socket from cheekbone to brow ridge, giving Tarnekep Portree an oddly piebald gaze. Most people found the glittering red plastic disturbing, with its hints of extensive prosthetic work lying hidden underneath; they would flinch and turn away without looking closely at the rest of Tarnekep’s pale and angular face.
    All part of the disguise, she reflected. The Prof knew what he was doing when he thought up this identity. Nobody wants to get close to Tarnekep Portree.
    Well, almost nobody. When she turned back toward the bunk, Nyls Jessan was awake and watching her.
    “How’s the effect?” she asked.
    He smiled. “Excellent as always, Captain. Elegant, but with a distinct aura of indefinable