Chapter Three
Reasonable People
Admiral Brecinn stepped down into the observer’s pit at her headquarters at Pesadie Training Command with some inventory reports in hand. It had been a day since the anomalous incident had occurred; it was time to put the Ragnarok on notice. The inventories had put her on notice as well. She was going to need a strong bargaining position to hold her own against the reasonable people, when they demanded their merchandise. She didn’t know where she was going to find the leverage.
“Contact the Ragnarok, if you please,” she said, nodding to the technician at the comm station. The full complement of observers were here, just for the sake of the formalities. The inventory had had to be done twice, which had complicated things. Once for the official record, and once for the other record, the real record, the one that showed her where she stood in the profit and loss registers in her dealings with undocumented trade.
All right, illegal trade, but it was only illegal because people elected a too–narrow interpretation of the laws. Reasonable people knew how to conduct business without undue administrative procedure getting in the way.
The signal cleared from the Ragnarok, its position in the training area highlighted by a pinpoint halo on the star map even as the interface screen opened across much of the forward display area. Projected in this way Jennet ap Rhiannon was about twice life–size, seated at the desk in the Captain’s office, her First Officer standing behind her, looking bored.
Admiral Brecinn didn’t know much about the Ragnarok’s junior lieutenant and she didn’t really care. Reasonable people had hinted that ap Rhiannon was not the sort of intelligent and responsive officer Fleet needed, which was a shame. Fleet needed good officers, especially in the lower ranks.
As the links all fell into place along authenticated lines of communication, ap Rhiannon stood up. Not a moment too soon, Brecinn thought, with contemptuous amusement. Junior officers rose to their feet in the presence of superior officers. Ap Rhiannon was being close to insubordinate.
“Pesadie Training Command presents its heartfelt sympathies to the Ragnarok on the loss of its Captain.” Brecinn opened the engagement on the offensive, without waiting for whatever ap Rhiannon might have wanted to say by way of ingratiating herself. From what Brecinn had seen and heard of ap Rhiannon, she didn’t have the sense to know when she ought to be doing her best to curry favor . . . like now, for example. “And expresses its concerns over the cause of this distressing incident.”
Brecinn chose the word carefully, and employed it for full effect. Incident, not accident. Whether or not ap Rhiannon had the political sense of the average bulkhead was none of Brecinn’s concern. The word would put ap Rhiannon’s people on notice that Pesadie thought there was quite possibly sabotage afoot: ap Rhiannon’s people, and Brecinn’s observers, as well.
“Thank you, Admiral Brecinn.” On–screen, ap Rhiannon had seated herself once more. She was clearly intent on pushing the rank privileges associated with her status as acting Captain of the Ragnarok to their fullest. “We are also deeply distressed by the unfortunate accident that has deprived Fleet of not only one Captain, but several other valuable resources as well.”
Ap Rhiannon’s choice of words in turn was lost on no one in the room. Brecinn had said incident. Ap Rhiannon said accident. It was just short of calling the Admiral a fool in public.
Ap Rhiannon only dug herself deeper into her own trap as she continued. “In my capacity as the senior Command Branch officer on board of the Jurisdiction Fleet Ship Ragnarok I respectfully request the immediate assignment of a duly detailed Fleet Incident Investigation team to determine the exact cause of the accident.”
A what?
Brecinn was all too fully aware of the attention of the observers in the room fixed on her, wondering how she would react to this. She couldn’t allow it.
“You are doubtless aware that there are no such teams assigned to this Command,” Brecinn noted, coldly. This was an intolerable imposition on ap Rhiannon’s part. “In the absence of a duly selected First Judge Presiding, no such teams can even be chartered.”
Ap Rhiannon was counting on just that, though, Brecinn realized suddenly. Ap Rhiannon was technically well within her rights as acting Captain to demand a Fleet Incident Investigation team. In fact, now that she had made her claim in official transmission — and in front of all of these witnesses — Brecinn was left with no choice but to accede.
“Understood, Admiral Brecinn.” Ap Rhiannon was clearly trying hard to keep the note of gloating out of her voice. Brecinn was sure of it. The ghost of a jeer crept into her language, nonetheless. “With all due respect, I cannot insult the memory of my former commanding officer by accepting anything less than the most careful investigation of the accident that took his life.”
It would take weeks, at minimum, to locate a Fleet Incident Investigation team that could be assigned. Then it would take weeks more to wait for the new First Judge to be seated so that an administrative investigation order could be issued. Fleet Incident Investigation teams were not ordinary, everyday affairs. The Bench liked to keep an eye on them.
“As you wish, ap Rhiannon. I will forward your stipulation to Chilleau Judiciary on priority transmit.” She’d confused the people who were watching her. She could tell. Even that Clerk of Court from Chilleau Judiciary was staring at her, while the expressions on the faces of her staff smoothed quickly from surprise into undisguised admiration. They’d guessed her strategy. She’d just reminded them all of why she was Admiral.
“In the interim period, however, evidence must be carefully placed on record by a neutral observation party. I will send a preliminary assessment team as soon as possible to begin this important preparatory work.”
She didn’t have a strategy, not yet, but nobody else needed to know that. She’d think of something. Ap Rhiannon couldn’t bar a properly constituted preliminary assessment team, not with her request for a Fleet Incident Investigation team going forward.
Ap Rhiannon apparently realized that she was outmaneuvered; she was churlish about it. That was all right with Admiral Brecinn. The Lieutenant shouldn’t have tried to get clever with her. “As you say, Admiral Brecinn. We will await your preliminary assessment team. Will that be all, Admiral?”
Ap Rhiannon underestimated her opponent if she thought she could seal off her boundaries so easily. “We’ll let you know when the team is on its way. Pesadie away, here.” She terminated the communication link with a forceful nod of her head to the technician on the board, and smiled. Take that, you pathetic amateur.
It was half for show and half pure honest spite, and Brecinn could see by the expressions exchanged among the reasonable people on her staff that it served the purpose. They believed she had a master plan. So she would, in time.
Brecinn rose to her feet to signal that the morning’s work was winding down. “Thank you, gentles; and good–greeting to you all.”
She had one day before she’d have to talk to anyone about it. There was no time like the present to be started. Forcing a confident stride, carefully keeping a serene smile on her face, Brecinn fled with all deliberate speed to go to ground in her office, and make plans.
###
Mergau Noycannir had not been idle since the snoop she’d planted on the Admiral yesterday had shown her a possible line of approach.
Despised and discarded at Chilleau Judiciary she might be, but she had contacts that had yet to fail her, developed over the years with favors and information and the general exchange of mutually profitable courtesies that characterized the conduct of business from one end of Jurisdiction to the other. She hadn’t needed more than a few quiet inquiries to get her all the information she could wish with which to build a strategy.
Following Admiral Brecinn out of the observation hall Mergau kept close enough behind her to make it clear to the others that she meant to talk to their superior officer, in order to forestall any such actions on their own part. She waited to speak until the Admiral had passed through her administrative complex and stood in front of her office door, however, because what she had to say was to be between the two of them alone. “Excuse me, Admiral. I have a concern. May I have a moment?”
Brecinn was a tall woman. Mergau could not see her face, standing as the Admiral was with her back to the administrative area, caught in mid–movement as she set her palm to the secure on her private office. Mergau could see the fabric shift across the back of the Admiral’s shoulders, though, and it was as good as a scan–reading.
“Dame Noycannir. You surprised me.” Yes. Mergau already knew that. She waited. “By all means, then. Come in. What can I do for you?” Her presence was not welcome, Mergau could tell that easily enough. But unless she missed her guess, she was about to make herself Admiral Brecinn’s very close friend and intimate acquaintance.
The door opened. Brecinn stepped through into her private office. Mergau followed. The lights came up as the Admiral crossed the room. Mergau looked around her appreciatively. Large office. Very nicely done, lots of plants — conspicuous consumption of water; at a headquarters located on an asteroid platform that was as good a rank–signal as anything.
The Admiral had a taste for architectural forms in furniture, it seemed, very expensive stuff. The two Perand chairs in front of the desk alone were worth three or four times Mergau’s annual salary on the casual market. “Please,” Brecinn urged. “Sit down.” She was playing it well; Mergau could appreciate that. There was little indication in her tone of voice of the impatience that she had to be feeling.
Mergau settled herself in one of those very severe, very expensive Perands. “Now that I have your attention I’m not quite sure where to start, Admiral. Can I be sure that our conversation can be privileged?”
Meaning, Are your privacies in place? And, by extension, I want to talk business, and it’s not precisely open–air business. Admiral Brecinn toggled the remote, looking past Mergau as her door sealed itself shut.
“Privacy is in effect, Dame, at your request. What is this all about?”
Mergau frowned, to present the appearance of concentrating. “Well. Yesterday’s unplanned and unfortunate event. Very awkward. One anticipates a good deal of interest from Fleet — too much interest for any reasonable person to be asked to tolerate, if you ask me.”
She used the phrase with deliberate intent. She herself had always been careful to minimize her exposure to reasonable people as a class: because benefit bred obligation. But everybody knew about the existence of reasonable people. And Clerks of Court had more opportunity than most to place themselves in a position to be of use, and to gain insight.
Admiral Brecinn did not react to the phrase in itself. She was clearly testing Mergau out, unsure of Mergau’s position. “Well, it is very unfortunate, Dame. Yes. And it will be an annoyance to have a stream of investigators through here. But what can we do? Cowil Brem is dead.”
Very deliberately, Mergau shrugged. “Accidents happen. Why should they be allowed to upset the normal course of operations? Fleet has enough upset on its hands just now. The Bench is not well served by diverting police resources to investigate miscellaneous training accidents when they’re needed to keep the peace during the selection process.”
Civil unrest was a fact of life. It was only to be expected that it would increase during the period of uncertainty between the death of one First Judge and the selection of the next.
“You state the obvious, Dame, but what can be done? And you’ll excuse me, but I have a lot of work to do. So if . . . “
Mergau held up her hand to stop the Admiral, interrupting politely but firmly. “That is my issue exactly, Admiral Brecinn. What is to be done? I think I may be able to offer some assistance.”
On the face of it, it was an impertinent thing to say. Mergau put full weight on the words, enough to give the Admiral pause, and was rewarded with Brecinn’s raised eyebrow, encouragement to continue.
Mergau leaned forward. It put her at an odd angle because of the peculiar slope characteristic of the chair; hominids of Perand’s class were by and large longer in the torso than the Jurisdiction standard.
“Admiral Brecinn. Let me be utterly blunt with you. There’s been an accident. There will be an investigation. It will cost money, and investigations almost always get out of control. Unimportant and unrelated issues are turned up by auditors anxious to justify the expense of their investigation. It’s all so unnecessary.”
She had Brecinn’s full attention now. The Admiral wasn’t giving her many cues; Brecinn was corrupt, but not stupid. Mergau liked dealing with corrupt people. Stupid people were just boring; and frequently endangered one’s own goals.
“All we need is a suitably logged confession set, Admiral, and we can close this unfortunate incident with minimal expense and exposure. I can help. If you are interested.”
Picking up a decorative stone from her desk Brecinn turned the smoothly polished thing over and over in her fingers; thoughtfully. “It’s my fiduciary duty to the Bench to weigh the costs and benefits of all planned approaches, Dame.” Brecinn still revealed nothing — unless her use of the loaded word fiduciary was intended to hint at the underlying rewards that Mergau might expect to share if she came up with a good approach. “But surely it’s premature to speculate about mutiny. Assassination.”
Mergau shook her head. “Not at all, Admiral. I am completely confident of my information. The Second Judge does not like to publish the fact, but I hold the Writ to Inquire for Chilleau Judiciary, Admiral Brecinn. And I say that the crew of that Wolnadi will confess their Free Government connections and treasonable intent for the Record in due form, before they die. All you need to do is provide me with the crew.”
It wasn’t exactly true to say that she held the Writ to Inquire for Chilleau Judiciary. Her Writ had never been revoked or rescinded, to spare the First Secretary the embarrassment of putting the failure of his experiment on record. But he hadn’t used her Writ for years, not since she’d failed to get results from those Langsarik prisoners that the Bench specialist had brought to Chilleau Judiciary. Not since the Domitt Prison. More than four years.
Admiral Brecinn didn’t need to know that.
Mergau had failed to get the information out of Vogel’s Langsarik prisoners, and Vogel had taken the surviving Langsariks and turned them over to another Inquisitor. She’d been operating under a handicap; she’d been on Record, her actions had been recorded for the purposes of Judicial review. She had not dared subvert the Protocols. This would be different. All she needed were confessions on Record. Nobody would be there to observe how she had gotten them.
“You’re very sure, Dame Noycannir,” Brecinn said. She didn’t sound perturbed by Mergau’s suggestion; nor did she sound convinced. “It could all come down to some harmless accident. How will we know?”
Mergau relaxed into the deep curve of the back of the Perand chair. “You’re right, of course, Admiral. It could all be a silly misunderstanding. Nobody’s fault. An accident.”
Exactly as it had been, in a sense. It was just bad luck that the senseless accident had taken several lives, and would expose some awkward, off–the–record financial arrangements and material transactions.
“We should evaluate the situation up front with clear and unbiased minds, that’s all. The incident will take investigation. The crew will be interrogated.” At least, in Preliminaries. So long as charges had not been preferred, that was a fairly innocuous process. But charges would almost certainly be preferred sooner or later against somebody. All Brecinn had to decide was whether she was willing to risk those charges against herself and members of her staff rather than some Security crew from a test–bed ship due to be off–lined soon anyway.
What was it to be? Minimizing the damage, the exposure, the risk at the cost of a few crew from the Ragnarok, or letting delicacy of feeling overwhelm common sense, and the greater good of the majority?
“There will necessarily be a series of collaterals,” Brecinn noted. Mergau knew by the fact that Brecinn was thinking about it that she was halfway there. “We’re not just talking about four people here. And there’s bound to be Judicial review. Command Branch requires it.”
“The Bench has other things to worry about right now, and among them is its sacred duty to maintain public confidence in the rule of Law. If anybody wants to ask any questions when it’s all over it’s only going to raise unnecessary issues, and the Bench is going to have its hands full with political stabilization for the next few years.”
Brecinn wasn’t looking at Mergau any more. She was staring past Mergau’s left shoulder at the far end of the room, her face all but expressionless. “We do need to be here for Chilleau Judiciary when the new First Judge is seated,” Brecinn agreed thoughtfully. “And that means with our credibility intact. If we risked a scandal now it could cost Chilleau support she’ll need. We can only provide it if we’ve put this behind us by the time the Selection is made.”
Just so. Mergau sat quietly, content to let the Admiral do the job of convincing herself to sacrifice lives on the Ragnarok to political expediency. The personal benefits — escape from exposure as a black–market trafficker, negotiating leverage with reasonable people — were strictly subordinate to the greater good of the Judicial order. Of course.
Brecinn took a deep breath and focused her eyes on Mergau’s face. “What’s your interest in all of this, Dame?”
Almost there. Mergau smiled. “You mean apart from my keen awareness of how much the First Secretary values the support of Pesadie Training Command?”
Verlaine cared no more for Pesadie’s political support than for any other such Fleet partisans. Brecinn didn’t need to know that. Brecinn was more than willing to believe herself to be an important key to Verlaine’s long–term strategy.
Mergau let her head sway on her shoulders, ever so slightly, in a gesture of complicity and conspiracy. “And apart from my personal interest in doing the best for the next First Judge, I’d like to do business with you, Admiral. We could consider my assistance in this little matter services on account, for the future. On deposit, if you will. I know there’s interest to be had, if I can demonstrate to you that you can rely on my discretion.”
As far as that went. It didn’t have to go very far. The plan, in fact, didn’t go any further than what Mergau had proposed just now; she was still thinking things through. But if she pulled this off, she could earn invaluable protection . . . and blackmail opportunities, if it came to that.
Admiral Brecinn leaned forward over her desk and offered Mergau her hand, in the quaint, old–fashioned manner that some people had of doing business in good faith. “I begin to see the long–term requirements of the situation,” Brecinn said. “Thank you, Dame. It’s never easy to believe treason of any Fleet resources, but our duty to the Judicial order clearly requires us to investigate. The more quickly we can resolve things the better it will be for everyone.”
This transparent rationalization required a solemn response from her, and not a hearty chuckle. “Quite right, Admiral. I will tell the First Secretary that I have offered my services, and extended my stay. If you could detail an aide to show me what facilities you have available. And I’ll need access to the Record on site.”
No time like the present to be started. The Admiral would have work for her very soon, of that Mergau could be confident. “Of course, Dame Noycannir. I’ll send someone to you in quarters directly.”
She would gain armor here that would protect her even from the chance that Garol Vogel would return from wherever he had gone, and uncover the forgery of the Bench warrant that should have ended Andrej Koscuisko’s life. Somehow, Mergau knew that she would be coming out of this more powerful, more influential, more secure than she had ever dreamed of being.
###
When General Dierryk Rukota reported to Admiral Brecinn’s office he was surprised to find Dame Mergau Noycannir in company, and a clearing signal on the communicator screen at the far end of the office. The signs were not good. But what was Noycannir doing here?
“You sent for me, Admiral.” Rukota had been detailed here to observe as a representative from the Second Fleet; Admiral Brecinn was not in his chain of command. He didn’t worry about observing all the formalities. He’d be polite, but he was an artilleryman, not an administrator.
At least he’d used to be an artilleryman before he’d attracted the wrong sort of attention from the reasonable people that seemed to fill Fleet’s administration these days. His tour of duty with ap Rhiannon had been the last straw, apparently, because he’d been on one detail or another ever since, and there was no hint from anybody about a return to an active line posting yet.
“Yes, thank you, General. I’m just putting a call in to Second Fleet.” Brecinn in turn barely acknowledged his rank, though she could hardly avoid acknowledging his presence. Maybe she wasn’t entirely to blame for that. Second Fleet wasn’t particularly on Brecinn’s side, and exercise observers were frequently called into play as double agents to collect information on mismanagement to be used, if necessary, to offset any criticisms that Pesadie might level at the Fleet resources undergoing evaluation.
Noycannir hadn’t stood when he’d come in; so she felt she was on an equal rank footing with him — a change since yesterday. The implications were intriguing. He’d heard gossip about Noycannir from his wife, during their infrequent rendezvous.
There were disadvantages to being married to one of the great beauties of the age; one of them was not having her all to himself. Another was having to put up with the jokes that people made about children that looked like almost anybody other than their mother’s husband, but Rukota knew better than to care. They were all his children. She was his wife. He was their father, no matter who the sperm donor might have been.
Since nobody was standing on ceremony he guessed he would just seat himself and say the first thing that came into his head. Brecinn was barely paying attention to him anyway. “Why are we waiting to talk to Second Fleet, if I may ask?”
“We’re going to ask Second Fleet to extend your detail, in order to accomplish a very sensitive task for us,” Brecinn said. “I know it’s an imposition on your time, General, but you’re really the very best person we have at hand for this mission.”
It was the preliminary response team. He just knew it. Admiral Brecinn had only two choices for a commander to field such a team: someone from Pesadie; and someone not. If they sent a team comprised entirely of people from Pesadie, there would be protests and accusations of partisanship from the beginning of the investigation. And of all the other people here to observe the Ragnarok’s training exercise — numbering two in total — he was the only person who could credibly be detailed to command an audit team, howsoever ad–hoc and informal.
Second Fleet was on the line — Brecinn’s counterpart, Command General Chehdral herself, Rukota suppressed a sigh. Chehdral was not part of the network of corruption as far as Rukota knew, but she had no particular use for him — not because of any personal animus, but because she was fully staffed for officers in his grade. Chehdral would be just as glad of something that would occupy Rukota’s time for a while longer. It would be the assessment team for him for certain, then.
“Admiral Brecinn. What can we do for you?” It wasn’t really a question, just a polite sort of a greeting. Not much of a greeting, either, come to that.
“General Chehdral, I’ve been privileged to enjoy the support of one of your command in recent weeks. You sent General Rukota to participate in evaluating the training exercises we have been conducting with the JFS Ragnarok. We’d like to keep him on for a few months. We need the line commander’s insight on some issues that have come up.”
Well, it wasn’t as if she was likely to come out and say “The Ragnarok’s Captain has been blown up and we need someone to help us control the damage.” Was that what they wanted him to do? Manage the fallout? Or just pin it on the Ragnarok and get on with life?
“General Rukota is with you?” Chehdral asked. “Yes. General. What do you hear from your family?”
His wife was in retreat, helping the First Secretary at a Judiciary not to be named manage his not–inconsiderable stress. His children were with their mother, with his parents, or in school. Nobody particularly needed Rukota himself. His was a relatively small role in the life of his family.
“They are well, General Chehdral, thank you for asking. There is nothing at home that requires my personal attention.” He couldn’t pretend to be needed at home, though he appreciated the offered escape hatch. It was clearly of no particular interest one way or the other whether Rukota stayed or not, for Command General Chehdral. She shrugged.
“You are seconded at Admiral Brecinn’s request, General Rukota, to serve as needed or until further notice. Orders to follow. Are we done, Brecinn? This is Command General Chehdral, Second Fleet. Away, here.”
She always had been a woman of few words. That Rukota was inconvenienced by the words she had shared with him was not her issue.
It was quiet in Brecinn’s office, so Rukota took the initiative. “What do you expect to accomplish with the fielding of an immediate response team, Admiral?” His question came out sounding perhaps a little more confrontational than it really needed to be. Brecinn did not seem to notice.
“Dame Noycannir has prepared a brief.” A flat–form docket, which Brecinn held out for him to take. He had to stand up and lean forward to take it. He’d never liked Perand chairs; they compressed the spine and gave him muscle cramps. “Due to the extended period of time likely to elapse between now and the arrival of an accredited Fleet audit team, it’s imperative to capture what physical evidence there may be. It would be too easy for vital information to be lost.”
Or discarded. Or destroyed. “Physical evidence of what, Dame, exactly?” Rukota asked, looking at Noycannir. If this was about an honest attempt to protect the truth he was a Chigan’s bed–boy. “It seems a little unusual to send an investigative party to the Ragnarok to seek evidence pertinent to something that occurred on an observation station.”
Noycannir dropped her eyes, almost coyly. “You’ll forgive me if I protect privileged sources.” As though she had some. Perhaps she did. He had no reason to suspect that she was making it all up. Did he? “There are disquieting indications. We need to establish a baseline as soon as possible.”
Either she was truly in a position to know something, or she and the Admiral meant to blame the accident on the Ragnarok somehow. She was a Clerk of Court at Chilleau Judiciary, true; she could be operating on a level much different than that about which Rukota’s wife had told him.
Or she could be dirty, as Brecinn was dirty, as Pesadie Training Command was dirty, as increasing numbers of Fleet administrative staff appeared to be. Reasonable people. So why select him?
He’d worked with ap Rhiannon before, and lived to tell of it. Did they assume that he resented the trouble that ap Rhiannon had caused him, and would turn a blind eye to plots on the part of Pesadie — or even actively forward them? Or did they mistakenly believe that his presence on Brecinn’s hunting party would put ap Rhiannon off her guard, convince her that she had a friend in him who would protect her interests?
“When do we leave, Admiral?” He would read Noycannir’s brief. And he would keep his own counsel. Who knew? Perhaps by the time the accredited team ap Rhiannon had demanded arrived to take charge, he would have some interesting things to say to them. About Admiral Brecinn. And about Mergau Noycannir.
Anything was possible, in this age of wonder.
###
Bench intelligence specialist Jils Ivers sat beneath a canopy on a crossing–craft in the middle of a great blue lake, her eyes resting on the brilliance of the snow–covered mountains that garlanded the horizon.
The men who rowed the crossing–craft were singing. If you row well enough the Autocrat may see/And then the Autocrat may chance to smile/And then good fortune will descend upon your house.
There was an island of gray rock in the middle of the lake, and administrative buildings glittering in the sun. Old–fashioned architecture. The Autocrat’s summer residence was in the middle of lovely Lake Belanthe, which lay in the embrace of the goddess Perunna — after whom the right–most range of mountains had been named.
Then all of your sons will have eight sons/And you will have a daughter of such beauty and ability that she will come into the house, into the Autocrat’s house/And there the Autocrat may see, and then the Autocrat may chance to smile.
It was an old song, by its syntax; Jils wasn’t sure she caught more than half of it. Garol might have been able to translate for her. Garol was good at languages, and had an apparently solid grasp of High Aznir by report; which was a little humorous, because Garol didn’t even like Dolgorukij. Garol’s nature was not at base suspicious, but he had learned to be wary, and among the things to which Garol had elected to take general all–purpose undifferentiated exception was the Dolgorukij Combine and all of its works and adjuncts.
Your daughter will have sons of noble blood to grow in power and prosper in wealth/The breeding–grounds of Geral will be yours, the seven looms of Dyraine of the weavers/You will have the holy grain to feed your house/And be welcomed as a guest in all Koscuisko’s strongholds.
The crossing–craft drew near to the island and slowed.
There was a man at the docks waiting for her. Jils tried not to be glad to see him; at this distance he could well be some other Dolgorukij than the one she was looking for, and even if he was the right man he might not have any information. Or elect to share it.
People in uniform clustered around the crossing–craft as it tied up. Someone pushed a roll of fabric down the stone steps — a rug. An expensive rug, and though the waters of Lake Belanthe weren’t salt using a hand–knotted rug of such elaborate pattern for a traction–mat was surely not the way to preserve a work of art. That was the whole point, Jils supposed. Conspicuous consumption. The Combine was rich.
The Combine was filthy rich, and had always had an agricultural surplus with which to support labor–intensive handicrafts, and as long as people could earn a decent living replacing rugs used as traction–mats who was she to think twice about it?
“Specialist Ivers,” the waiting man said. It was the Malcontent Cousin Stanoczk, yes. “Good to see you. Did you have a pleasant crossing?”
The crew held the craft so still it was almost as though she was already on solid ground as she stepped out. The angle of the steps was a little awkward; she found herself glad of the extra purchase that the rug provided. The stairs were worn to a slope. They were old. On other worlds they might have been replaced, or the lake bridged; but Dolgorukij treasured old things as they were.
“Smooth as anyone could wish.” There wasn’t much of a breeze up across the lake, but thanks were owed to the crew as well. A rowing crew could make the smoothest passage rough if they were minded to. “These men are impressive, Cousin.”
She didn’t feel up to choosing the correct Dolgorukij form of the word; there were entirely too many ways to call someone cousin in Dolgorukij, each one with its own meaning and message about relative status, the degree of intensity with which one desired a favor, and the depth of obligation that one was willing to accept in return. Jils stuck to plain Standard. It was much safer that way.
“Indeed, Specialist. Combine–wide champions for speed as well as endurance, three years running now. Someone will take your box up to quarters. If you’d care to come with me, and have a glass of rhyti?”
If she had to. “Very kind.” She didn’t like rhyti. She’d learned a lot about it over the years, though. Verlaine had set her on Andrej Koscuisko to keep an eye on him, and Koscuisko drank rhyti. She’d gotten interested almost despite herself. “Thank you for meeting me, Cousin. I wonder if I could have a quick word or two with you on a personal matter.”
Cousin Stanoczk reminded her of Koscuisko, if rather vaguely. The two men were related, if she remembered correctly; but Cousin Stanoczk had a very deep voice and Koscuisko was tenor, Cousin Stanoczk had dark brown eyes and Andrej Koscuisko’s eyes were so pale that they almost had no color at all, Cousin Stanoczk had hair the color of wet wood and Andrej Koscuisko was blonder by several emphatic degrees.
Still, it was the same general form — not tall, deceptively slight, with shoulders whose slope belied their power and hands whose surpassing elegance belonged by right to an artist or a surgeon. What a Malcontent was doing with such hands Jils didn’t know. Perhaps Stanoczk painted; it was unlikely that he practiced medicine, because medicine could be hired nearly anywhere, and Malcontents specialized in services that could not be hired or purchased at all.
Cousin Stanoczk grinned. He had very much the same surprising and open smile as Koscuisko had from time to time — one that showed a lot of small white teeth. “Be careful what you do, Specialist, the Malcontent is always at your service but will almost always find some favor to solicit in return. Sooner or later. That said, speak, I listen.”
The worn stone walkway from the dock led them up a long shore of shallow steps into a green plaza where water birds were browsing in the grass like flowers on feet. Webbed feet. How did they keep the walkways clean? Jils wondered.
“Garol Vogel, Cousin. I don’t mind telling you in confidence, as one professional to another. He’s disappeared.”
At the far end of the plaza there was an old wall with a high–arched gate that stood wide open. There were more lawns beyond. The guards were all in fancy dress; it was easy to overlook the fact that they were apparently also heavily armed. Once they passed through the pedestrian gate she saw yet more guards, as well as a great curving walkway paved with crushed stone, an immense stone facade with who knew what behind it, and a pretty little pavilion to one side toward which Cousin Stanoczk began to guide her.
“I’ve heard words spoken about it here and there, Specialist. Burkhayden, wasn’t it?”
There was nothing unusual about Stanoczk already knowing. The intelligence community exploited its contacts with the Malcontent and others of its ilk, fully aware that it was being exploited right back. “Yes, that’s right.”
As they drew nearer Jils could see that the pavilion stood at the side of an ornamental stream, and that there were people in it. Three people not in uniform; the other three people there would be guards or servants, then. On the far side of the little stream there were musicians sitting in the shade of a large willowy tree, playing stringed instruments. The Dolgorukij plucked–lute, Jils suspected.
“Is it that you are concerned about him, Specialist? It seemed to me that Garol Aphon was more likely than even the average Bench intelligence specialist to be fully capable of taking care of himself. If I may say so to you, without giving offense.”
No. She knew what he meant. Garol was professional. Some Bench specialists lost their edge over time. Garol’s was one of those edges which might look dull, but if you made the mistake of presuming upon it you’d never even feel the slice as your head rolled one way and your body fell the other.
The people in the pavilion were waiting for them. One of them was seated — a young woman. The two other non–servants there were older than the young woman; that meant she had rank, whoever she was, to be sitting while her elders stood.
The Autocrat’s Proxy. The Combine certainly meant to extend every courtesy to Chilleau Judiciary.
“He may have been working on something, Cousin.” Jils slowed her steps, both to collect her thoughts and to finish this one. She hadn’t anticipated being brought before the Autocrat’s Proxy, not so soon. Did she know who those other people were? Had she seen them somewhere before? “Nobody knows.”
Some Bench specialist was always supposed to know what another was doing. Not all of what the other was doing; not always the same Bench specialist. But somebody was always supposed to know. It was just common sense. And nobody knew about Garol. Or else nobody was willing to say.
“So Vogel is in more deeply to his investigation than imaginable, or is perhaps simply either dead or disappeared?”
She’d thought about that. Dead she couldn’t really believe. Accidents happened to everybody. But Vogel took a lot of killing; it wasn’t as though it hadn’t been tried before, on more than one occasion, and sometimes with a very great deal of enthusiasm indeed. “Call me sentimental. But I think he’d find a way to let me know if he decided to disappear.”
They weren’t going to be able to keep the pavilion party waiting. Stanoczk quickened his pace, but it was subtly done, not in the least bit obvious. “Let me put it to my Patron, Specialist, may he wander in bliss forever. Because for now it is my duty, as well as my pleasure, to bring you into the presence of the Autocrat’s Proxy, who will receive your credentials in a while.”
He had Jils worried for a moment, the quick moment between “receive your credentials” and “in a while.” Her credentials were in her box, along with her dress uniform. The young woman who sat waiting for her was not in court dress, however, but in a pretty if rather plain long dress with loosely pleated sleeves and a wide skirt.
Jils climbed the few stone steps into the shade of the pavilion. There was a charcoal warmer sunk into the floor on one side, Jils noticed; welcome, because it was cool in the shadows. The others were a man and a woman, similarly not in court dress, but more formally attired than the young woman; Jils hadn’t quite placed them yet.
She bowed politely, saluting the Dolgorukij Combine in the presence of this Autocrat’s Proxy. There were eight Proxies in all, young people of the very best families who would spend twenty years in diplomatic service. This one looked younger than most, but very self–assured regardless.
“On behalf of the First Secretary at Chilleau Judiciary,” Jils said. “I present the greetings of the Second Judge. I am Bench intelligence specialist Jils Ivers, Proxima. Thank you for receiving me like this.”
She wasn’t exactly here on behalf of the Second Judge, but it was a signal honor to be thus presented informally. The least Jils could do was give the gesture as much weight as possible, in return.
The young woman smiled, and waved for a chair. “Very welcome, Specialist Ivers. We will have the ritual later to repeat, I’m afraid. But we have been advised of your desire to make to my brother presentations, and I wondered, have you our mutual parents met?”
Jils stared, genuinely startled. Her brother?
How could she not have realized that this was Zsuzsa Ulexeievna Koscuisko?
She’d never met Koscuisko’s parents. She’d only seen the records, stills and clips, and those were always formal presentations. She sat down.
“Haven’t had the pleasure.” Now that she’d sat down the others did too, Koscuisko’s mother and Koscuisko’s father, the Koscuisko prince himself. Cousin Stanoczk was nowhere to be seen. Malcontents were like that, Jils supposed.
“My lord father is Alexie Slijanevitch, and my lady mother is Ossipia Carvataja. We are all wondering. Andrej comes home, it is the first time in years, you have seen him in Burkhayden where all the officers were being murdered. How does he? My brother.”
Nothing like his father, that was how Andrej Koscuisko was, because his father was a tall man with black eyes and a magnificent beard. Koscuisko had no beard. He appeared to take after his mother’s side of the family, because she was slim though she was tall as well. Oh, there was no telling. What good did it do to look for people in their parents’ faces?
“I’m not sure what to say, Proxima,” Jils began cautiously. “Senior officer, well respected, popular with bond–involuntaries. That’s a little unusual, by the way. What can I tell you?”
The Autocrat’s Proxy gave a little impatient bounce in her chair where she sat. “Oh, but he has not in all this time come home, and now. And does he speak of his family. And has he been happy in Fleet.”
“My daughter does not say one thing, because she is a devout and filial daughter,” Koscuisko’s mother said, before Jils could formulate a response. Koscuisko’s mother had a beautiful voice, rich and deep and calming to listen to. “But my son does not often write. And with his parents quarreled, when he last left, so that we find ourselves anxious. If he will not ask to be forgiven, what shall we do? So of his state of mind and temperament we seek such information as you may be able to give to us, trusting in your discretion. Even though you are a stranger. It is not worthwhile to be too proud, when it has been this long.”
Her son Andrej was not filial.
Her son Andrej had quarreled with his father bitterly, and yet had been unable to convince or to prevail; had gone to Fleet Orientation Station Medical in obedience to his father’s will after all, and had learned there that he was not merely exceptional in the art of torture, but enjoyed it.
The damage had already been done before Koscuisko had left Azanry. Now his family sought a strategy for reintegrating the oldest male child into his family, not knowing what Koscuisko’s own attitude was going to be.
Jils didn’t think Koscuisko was going to beg to be forgiven for not having wanted to go to Fleet Orientation Station Medical. Was there a way for her to get across to these three essentially sheltered people the enormity of the burden that the Bench laid across the shoulders of a thinking, feeling creature when it issued the Writ to Inquire?
It had been her errand that had caused Koscuisko to resubmit to Fleet, when he had been planning to go home. She was under obligation, in a sense. “The Bench owes more deep a debt to your son than it can readily repay, your Excellency. Excusing your presence, Proxima, I would ask that you make allowances for how much the Bench has asked from him.”
Koscuisko was unlikely to ask forgiveness for anything. Koscuisko had a stubborn streak, from all Jils had studied of him, and eight–plus years in Secured Medical had only strengthened the native autocracy of his character. “There is no harder task than that to which the Bench has put your brother and your son, and he has done his Judicial duty thoroughly and well — ”
If she could sweeten Koscuisko’s path back to his home, it was only what was owed the man for what she’d done to him, when she had forced him back to Captain Lowden.
###
The courier ship Magdalenja was halfway between Pesadie time and the Aznir mean standard — toward the end of the day by any measure. It was late in third shift, maybe even shading into fourth by now; and Security Chief Stildyne sat in Koscuisko’s cabin, smoking one of Koscuisko’s lefrols and beating his officer of assignment at cards.
Koscuisko set a “hemless” playing token down across his last remaining single–loom sheet and shook the dice. “ ‘She was bereft and wandered on the sere hillside with none but one last lambling to console her,’ ” Koscuisko quoted, but it did him no good. The dice fell Stildyne’s way, two “kerchiefs” and three “napkins.” It would take at least a “double apron” to match Stildyne’s hand. Koscuisko was doomed. Yet again. Koscuisko slumped against the padded back of the chair and shook his head.
Now it was Stildyne’s turn to quote. “ ‘The sun rose’ . . . ah . . . ‘in beauty like the maiden of the middle way as Dasidar in glory rode home to claim Dyraine.’ Three goslings, your Excellency, that’s the rest of the maintenance atmosphere you owe me, as well as the Engineering bridge.”
Koscuisko scowled, but it wasn’t serious. “I have never in fact spoken to Wheatfields about wagering either, Chief, so I suppose it’s just as well. How is Lek doing?”
Reaching for the tokens, Stildyne started to tidy up the board. Three games was about his limit. He had only started to read the old saga of Dasidar and Dyraine a year or two past, in order to be able to distract Koscuisko by playing cards with him. He didn’t have Koscuisko’s command of the couplets.
“You might want to remind yourself that he’s already thirteen.” Lek’s Bond was that old, that was to say; Lek had survived as a bond–involuntary for that long. Koscuisko called his troops by their first names. He had never called Stildyne anything but Chief or Mister.
Koscuisko knew his name. Stildyne was in no doubt of that, but his officer of assignment had never forgiven him for having once made a mistake, not even after all these years. Stildyne was almost through being bitter about it. “He hasn’t lived this long by borrowing trouble. And he’s been told that the Captain ordered the substitution to keep Fleet from trying to queer the performance scores.”
“So long as Lek believes it, we have no worries. Yes. And the others will look out for him.” Koscuisko sounded uncertain, worried. Koscuisko liked to fret. After what had happened to Robert St. Clare at Port Burkhayden, Stildyne couldn’t blame Koscuisko for worrying; a governor gone terminal meant unimaginable torment and near–certain death for a bond–involuntary. Koscuisko still didn’t know exactly what had pushed Robert’s governor over the edge that night, and Stildyne had no intention of ever telling him.
“No, Andrej, Lek doesn’t have to believe it. He only has to focus on the fact that he’s been instructed to believe it.”
There was a moment’s pause as Koscuisko thought about whether he was going to take exception to Stildyne’s use of his personal name.
It was true that Stildyne permitted himself that degree of intimacy only rarely. But also true that Stildyne and Koscuisko alike were sitting at the table with their collars undone, and Koscuisko in rest–dress was as casual as Koscuisko ever got when he was sober: the full dark pleated skirt like trousers, with the stiffened half–moon of starched fabric at the small of Koscuisko’s back; the very full blouse wrapped closed across Koscuisko’s chest; the wrist–ties left untied; and the white padding–socks on Koscuisko’s feet, with the big toe gloved separately.
When Koscuisko raised his hand to push his blond hair up off his forehead, his blouse shifted to show his collarbones: and Stildyne bit the inside of his cheek to stifle his sigh of resigned and impotent desire, concentrating on packing tokens into the box. Linen–markers. This one for a hemless garment, this one for a seamless garment, this one for a single–loomed sheet of fabric, this one for this manner of embroidery and this one for that manner of embroidery, and so on.
It was a good game to play with Koscuisko. It took concentration. While Stildyne was playing cards with Andrej Koscuisko he could almost forget all about the fact that he could never have the man.
“As you say, Chief,” Koscuisko agreed, finally. ‘Chief’ was more intimate and friendly than “Mister.” Koscuisko didn’t reject Stildyne’s advances; he simply declined to respond to them. “When we get home, I mean to call for a Malcontent. I’d rather not have to rely on just Lek’s discipline to keep him safe.”
It was what Koscuisko’s Security did their best to do — keep Koscuisko safe. Safe from himself; safe from the sick fantasies of his dreaming mind. Before Koscuisko had come to the Ragnarok it had not been so bad for him. Robert had told Stildyne that. Koscuisko’s former Captain had kept Koscuisko clear of Inquiry as much as possible — not from any misguided sense of decency that anyone would own to, but from simple practicality.
Perhaps the distaste commonly shared by military professionals for subjecting prisoners to torture had had something to do with it after all, but Captain Lowden had never had any such misgivings or reservations, and it took more than just Robert St. Clare to handle Koscuisko in the depths of a self–punitive drunk after yet another of Lowden’s all–too–frequent exercises.
Four years of conspiracy between bonded and un–bonded and Chief Warrant Officer Stildyne alike, trying to keep Koscuisko from the abyss of horror. It was no wonder that Koscuisko took such good care of his people. That wasn’t the reason Koscuisko did it, though. It was effect and cause more than cause and effect.
“Malcontents have Safes, your Excellency?” This was an intriguing concept, and called for increased formality. Safes fed a signal to the governor in a bond–involuntary’s brain and silenced it for as long as the Safe was within range. They were very carefully controlled by Fleet and the Bench accordingly, because what would become of the deterrent power of the Bond if it could be gotten around without official sanction?
“If there is any way to obtain one, it is a Malcontent who could accomplish the task,” Koscuisko said; and yawned. “Thank you for your company, Mister Stildyne, I imagine I am ready to nap, now.”
Stildyne closed the board around the box of tokens, and stood up. “My pleasure, sir. We’ll play for the labs next time, maybe.”
Smiling, Koscuisko waved a hand in friendly dismissal.
Stildyne didn’t want to go.
He wanted to stay, to help Koscuisko out of his rest–dress, to help Koscuisko into his sleep shirt, to put Koscuisko chastely to bed — all things that were permitted to him when Koscuisko was drunk enough. When the fact of Koscuisko’s incapacity made the very idea of taking advantage of it intolerable. It was Koscuisko’s fault. Before Koscuisko, he would not have thought twice about taking what he wanted so long as he was strong enough to get away with it.
Koscuisko had ruined him. Life had been so much less complicated before Koscuisko had come into it.
Stildyne let himself out and closed the door behind him, nodding to Murat, whose turn it was to sit the night watch. Murat knew. They all knew. “ ‘Night, Chief,” Murat said.
In their own way they all took care of him as well as of Koscuisko, so that they made a tidy little fraternal community, Koscuisko taking care of Security who took care of Koscuisko.
Was it worth it, to trade the easy and immediate gratification of physical desire as it arose for membership in such a community, when all it cost was the pain of unexpressed and unrequited passion?
“Have a good watch, Murat.”
He had alternatives, Stildyne knew. And no intention of exploring them. He went down the corridor to his berth, thinking about how soon they could expect to make planetfall on Azanry.