“Ise-I’let.” Padrake’s accent made sense of something Jils’ ear had almost, but not quite, grasped. She’d heard the name before. She’d thought so at the time, and not wanted to make an issue of it; now — unwilling to open herself up to teasing from Padrake about losing her powers of recall — Jils shrugged, and put the information aside.
“Yes, something like that. He and I were talking about ground-cars.”
“Well, if anyone could have gotten you in to Brisinje under these conditions, it would’ve been him. — Work, you said. The murder? My money’s on a jealous subordinate, if you ask me.”
Of course. “I can tell you,” Jils said confidentially. “For your ears only, needless to say. Not to breathe a hint to another living soul, and so forth. The clerk of Court did it.”
The Clerk of Court had always done it. It was rule number one of popular entertainment. Sometimes she was a Free Government agent in deep cover trying to destabilize a struggling community by cruelly murdering a popular and hard-working Judge and blaming it on the devoted and dedicated First Secretary. Sometimes she had been misled by the First Secretary in his youth, and her child was dead, probably through the long-term effects of something the First Secretary had done to worm his way into the Judge’s trust and confidence by making things other than they actually were.
Sometimes she had actually aimed for the position of First Secretary herself, which was widely understood to be a bit unfair since after all the most gifted legal scholar under Jurisdiction couldn’t hope to be First Judge, not ever, if he was the wrong sex. Administrative posts were a masculine reserve by and large almost by way of a consolation prize.
People had been arguing the issue of men and the Law for as long as there had been a Bench. The one thing that could always be relied upon was that in the ultimate analysis nobody could bring themselves to entrust the highest posts to creatures as ruled by passion and the short-term imperatives of a male’s biological role in reproduction as men were. And it was always the clerk of Court who had done murder in Chambers.
It was perfectly true that Undersecretary Tallies — one of Verlaine’s protégées — would have had to wait for years and years to be First Secretary himself under any usual circumstances. And there were unquestionably plenty of places where the sudden vacancy at the top had resulted in windfall promotions for numerous intelligent and ambitious people.
None of whom, unfortunately, had enough of a motive to murder the man who had made their places for them, and all of whom had either good record of where they’d been or other valid and convincing evidence to disqualify them from the list of possible assassins.
There was a clerk of Court who would have been first on Jils’ personal suspect list: psychologically unbalanced, a woman of great cunning but little long-term planning ability, someone who had undergone a fearful ordeal at Verlaine’s direction to further Verlaine’s agenda and had seen it come to nothing. Who had found herself ignored, back-officed, deprived of Verlaine’s confidence and access and finally even any particular regard — it was just too bad that Mergau Noycannir had been dead well before Verlaine was killed.
Jils hadn’t been able to puzzle out how Noycannir might have gotten around Verlaine’s security, but it was an attractive fantasy to entertain because it was satisfying, comprehensible, made a great deal of intuitive sense, and was also strictly hypothetical, so that a woman could dream all she liked about how Noycannir could have done it.
How could Noycannir have done it?
The ground-car traveled; the cabin was pleasantly cool and quiet and dim. She’d had a flask of rhyti, but rhyti contained a range of chemical compounds that could relax the stressed as easily as they could raise the alertness level of the relaxed or fatigued; there were hours between here and Brisinje, and she was so tired. She closed her eyes.
Forensics was still trying to work out exactly how it had been done, how someone had gotten the monitors to watch their own records and take them for live action. Passive sensors, active surveillance, motion detectors, samplers and scanners and sniffers — and all of the resources compromised, gotten around, fooled into looking the other way while convinced that they were keeping an active guard. Someone had known a great deal about the most sophisticated security the Bench had available: it limited the pool of available players. But not enough.
The recliner adjusted itself to the progressive relaxation of her body, offering warmth where its pinpoint sensors detected muscle stress, firm cushiony support beneath her knees and thighs and angles that had started to just lie there. She stretched, sighing, and turned her head away, finding just the right angle for her head against the high back of the recliner. It was a good angle. She decided to stay there for a while.
There were private enterprises whose security systems were as complex — or more — so there were people in private enterprise who knew how to get around them. And the issue of who, exactly, was only part of the interest of the question. Why had Verlaine been murdered? If they knew that, they would know where to look for the who, and until they could determine the answer to that question it was a long slow search for evidence and the identity of the perpetuators.
Something shifted, near her side; she heard Padrake move — to catch something, she thought — and opened her eyes, blinking at the schematic that displayed their route, trying to focus. Had she fallen asleep?
Something had slid over to one side on the luggage-stow overhead, that was what it was. Padrake was just setting things to rights. Her kit. His reader-panel. Whatever else was up there. He could be a bit compulsive about neatness, but there were circumstances in which his personal dedication to symmetry and balance and not leaving things undone or worse half-done could yield very enjoyable results, which she was not going to contemplate because she didn’t need the distraction.
Once upon a time she and Padrake had known how to take advantage of a ground-car and a few stray hours. That was over; but it was a useful reminder — she still knew how to take appropriate advantage of opportunities such as this when they were offered. Why shouldn’t she? This was Padrake. She knew him. She was as safe with Padrake as she would have been alone.
Stretching and settling herself with a clear intent she closed her eyes again. “Wake me when we get there,” she suggested, and quieted her mind to sleep.
###
Chapter Four
News from Far Places
Security Chief Stildyne signaled at Koscuisko’s office door with a fair degree of intrigued anticipation in his heart. It was a very unusual feeling, because for years he’d forgotten what it was like to have any feeling in his heart at all. “Due on dock in sixteen, your Excellency. Shall we go?”
The door slid open without a return signal and Stildyne stepped through with a small and secret grin. Koscuisko had mixed feelings about the Malcontent “Cousin” Stanoczk, a man who in this instance was actually Koscuisko’s blood relation as well as “Cousin” by religious title.
Stildyne had some feelings about Cousin Stanoczk as well, mostly having to do with the fact that he was very like Andrej Koscuisko in some ways and completely unlike Koscuisko in other rather interesting ways. Cousin Stanoczk was coming aboard just before the Ragnarok started the preliminary approach to its vector spin; so he’d be staying for several days, until the Ragnarok came off vector in Emandis space. Stildyne had an issue or two to present to Cousin Stanoczk for reconciliation.
“I am directly going,” Koscuisko said, standing up from behind his work-table. “For a moment I was concerned, Brachi, that you meant to scold me for laps.”
Oh, better and better. “Yes, if you’re going to bring it up. But we can discuss that later.”
Giving Stildyne a disgusted look Koscuisko set the jumble of data-cubes on his desk-surface into array. “Of bullying you will please restrict yourself to a single item at a time. And if I hear any words from Stoshi I will know that you have been telling tales, so comport yourself accordingly.”
So much un
said, and that was better than an hour-long monologue. Stildyne’s smile broadened almost despite himself; Koscuisko shuddered theatrically, and left the room, shielding his eyes with one hand as he passed the clearly horrifying sight. Stildyne didn’t mind.
He knew perfectly well that he was ugly. He’d been born ugly, raised ugly by ugly in the middle of ugly’s eldest brother, and improved on ugly by acquiring appropriate decorations over time — a by-now-permanently deformed nose, the scar tissue that had made it possible for him to raise a single eyebrow because the other wasn’t working any more, and similar beauty marks too numerous to mention.
Until Dierryk Rukota had come on board he’d been the ugliest man assigned to the Jurisdiction Fleet Ship Ragnarok, and even now the question was undecided. They met for regular competitions on the killshot court. Stildyne was confident that in time his native ugly and accumulated enhancements would prove more than even “Sharksmile” Rukota’s charms could match, superior rank or no.
By the time Stildyne and his officer reached the docks in the Ragnarok’s maintenance atmosphere, the courier was already clearing the hull, which had been opened only so far as necessary to let a ship pass into atmosphere. It wasn’t prudent to make a vector transit with an unprotected atmosphere. Even if you could replace it, there was drag on the hull to be considered, and the risk of a rogue particle — even on vector, the emptiest space in known Space.
“He has brought the thula,” Koscuisko said. “I hope this does not mean also his pilot.” There was an unusual tone in Koscuisko’s voice, one of hunger and resentment. Stildyne knew that Koscuisko was still struggling with things he had learned — and people he had found — when he’d gone home to marry his wife and make an heir of his son; he didn’t think that Koscuisko had anything to worry about. The Malcontent Cousin Ferinc was unlikely to have come.
Regardless of what Koscuisko felt about it, Ferinc had impressed Stildyne as being genuinely — and passionately — invested in the welfare of Koscuisko’s child. Also Koscuisko’s wife, but Cousin Stanoczk had explained that men were expected to turn a blind eye to Malcontents in their households, or suffer the displeasure of the Saint.
“Surely not, sir,” Stildyne said soothingly. “Ferinc’s probably too busy.” Or perhaps that wasn’t so very helpful, after all. Fortunately the courier had docked and the ramp had descended, so Koscuisko didn’t have time to consider how deeply he would elect to be offended at the reminder.
“You are as helpful and supportive as ever,” Koscuisko noted sourly. “I should complain to Stoshi about you.” Rather than the other way around, that was to say, clearly enough. “See if I do not. It is not to be enough that a man is to be hounded for his laps. There is no justice in the world, no charitable forbearance, no — ”
Koscuisko’s Cousin Stanoczk came down the ramp, and Koscuisko shut up. There were ways in which Koscuisko might be said to be afraid of his Malcontent cousin; Stildyne had often considered attempting to discover what the trick was, but there were more interesting questions to be asked.
Behind Cousin Stanoczk followed not another Malcontent — certainly not the Cousin Ferinc about whom Koscuisko was so exercised in spirit — but someone Stildyne recognized as being potentially even more controversial.
“Derush!” Cousin Stanoczk called happily, and quickened his pace down the ramp to trot up to Koscuisko where he stood and embrace him with an enthusiasm that was not notably reciprocated. “It is good to see you. And Chief Brachi Stildyne, yes, you are looking well.” Cousin Stanoczk didn’t offer to kiss him, at least not in public. Probably just as well. “You remember the Bench specialist, I expect?”
Following Cousin Stanoczk down the ramp and toward Koscuisko at a much more moderate pace, keeping his distance. A man of middling height — taller than Koscuisko, but that wasn’t difficult — with an iron-gray moustache and clear blue eyes whose weariness was general to all life: Bench intelligence specialist Karol Aphon Vogel. Stildyne recognized him if Koscuisko did not, but Koscuisko apparently did.
“Specialist Vogel, yes.” Koscuisko seemed at least as wary as he was surprised. “To what do we owe the honor? There are people who have been looking for you.”
Vogel nodded very politely, all but bowed. Bench specialists were under no obligation to salute anybody, let alone mere Ship’s Inquisitors. Vogel was a thoughtful man, however, polite, and the less he reminded people that he was a Bench specialist the more likely they might be to forget that he was uniquely dangerous, Stildyne supposed.
“You’re holding evidence that I’d like to have a look at, your Excellency. Cousin Stanoczk was kind enough to offer me a lift.”
Now Cousin Stanoczk took Koscuisko by the arm and turned him toward the airlock that gave access to the interior of the ship. The multi-chambered airlock was open, of course; it was only ever closed when the maintenance atmosphere had to be purged for periodic refresh. Cousin Stanoczk seemed very sure of where he was going, but why not? He was a Malcontent.
In light of the Malcontent’s access to things Stildyne wouldn’t be surprised, he reminded himself, if it turned out that the Saint had a cruiser-killer class warship just like the Ragnarok of his very own. People who could afford a Kospodar thula — so expensive a piece of machinery that even the Bench had been unable or unwilling to afford more than a few of them — were clearly capable of presenting all sorts of similar surprises.
“You would do well to secure your craft before you leave the area,” Koscuisko grumbled. “I will not be held responsible. Wheatfields desires the thula. I hope you have brought war-hounds.”
“Only the crew,” Cousin Stanoczk assured Koscuisko in reply. “Nobody you know. Trust me on this.”
He was lying. Stildyne was sure of it, lying, why didn’t Koscuisko detect the smell of it immediately? Maybe Koscuisko just declined to notice, because Stanoczk was Malcontent and Koscuisko’s socialization would not allow him to challenge the Malcontent on much of anything. Or maybe, just maybe, possibly, Koscuisko didn’t see that. Hard to believe. But Koscuisko hadn’t spent as much time watching people who looked a great deal like Cousin Stanoczk in terms of their size and build and habit of speech as Stildyne had, over the years since Koscuisko had been assigned to the Ragnarok.
He’d have to ask Cousin Stanoczk about it. Unlike Koscuisko, he had no problem challenging Malcontents on things. There were ways in which challenging specific Malcontents could be a lot of fun, in fact, though Stildyne didn’t really think he should be thinking about that with Koscuisko and Cousin Stanoczk alike right in front of him. He waited respectfully until Vogel had followed the two of them before falling into place behind Vogel, instead.
There was only one piece of evidence in Koscuisko’s custody that a Bench specialist was likely to be interested in. There was only one piece of evidence in Koscuisko’s custody at all, just at present, if it came to that. A clerk of Court from Chilleau Judiciary had come to Chelatring Side, the ancestral fortress of Koscuisko’s family, to draw Koscuisko into some sort of a trap; and had used a forged record as bait.
The clerk was dead.
Koscuisko had returned to the Ragnarok — after putting the longed-for freedom that First Secretary Verlaine had offered him on hold — because so long as the forged record existed the false evidence it contained had to be handled carefully, and the lawful custodian of any given record was an officer in possession of a Writ to Inquire.
Cousin Stanoczk would have been interested in how the forgery had been done as a matter of abstract principle. Bench specialist Ivers, who had been present at the exposure of the record’s evidence as false, had been too deeply shocked at the implications of its very existence to have expressed much interest in the mechanics, at the time.
Vogel had gone missing out of Burkhayden months before all of that had happened, however. So what Vogel had to do with the evidence in Secured Medical was beyond Stildyne.
“For that you must to the captain speak,” Koscuisko said over his shoulder to Vog
el, as Cousin Stanoczk drew Koscuisko on.
When Vogel began to produce the appropriate rote response — something along the lines of “naturally nothing will be done without Brevet Captain ap Rhiannon’s knowledge and consent,” Stildyne expected — Koscuisko shook his head and cut him off.
“No, I mean that you must speak to her. The Engineer has crates of disposable vent-solvents stacked five tiers deep in Secured Medical, and I do not have the authority to order them moved.”
True enough. When Koscuisko had returned to the Ragnarok his presence had been accepted only upon understanding of some rules and guidelines — some Koscuisko’s, some ap Rhiannon’s. Among those rules and guidelines had been Koscuisko’s warning that he would execute the Protocols only on a strictly limited footing; and ap Rhiannon’s answering requirement that Koscuisko would do nothing whatever in Secured Medical, which would be made over to the Ship’s Engineer for a closet. There were things in Secured Medical to which Koscuisko alone had access, that went without saying. But to gain access to them he had to get past Wheatfields’ crates.
“We are going to staff meeting, even now,” Cousin Stanoczk assured Vogel. “My cousin would know, but he is not good about staff meetings. No doubt his captain will be speaking to him on a not very distant occasion about that fact — ” perfectly fair, Stildyne knew, Koscuisko was a very unsatisfactory attender of staff meetings, but always had been, it was nothing specific to Jennet ap Rhiannon — “ — but for now he evades censure because he is prompt to the mark, and with company. He is grateful to me for this. Is he not? Look you, Chief Stildyne, have you seen such a sincerely grateful scowl in all of your years?”
He wasn’t seeing any such scowl right now, because Koscuisko had turned around. “Never,” he admitted truthfully, wondering if it had been strictly necessary for Cousin Stanoczk to remark on “all” his years.
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