“The Bench specialist might want to talk to Hilton, Aunt Walton,” Modice said, her voice a little quavery, but determined. “Hilton will know what his friends are up to, even if we don’t. So the Bench specialist could give this to Hilton to give back to Kazmer. If you wouldn’t mind, Specialist Vogel.”
Thinking on her feet, was Modice. And clearly frightened.
Daigule had come to Port Charid, and probably not just to see her; it was logical to suppose that he had business, and — in the absence of any concrete knowledge of what that business was — not too far-fetched for Modice to wonder if there was something that Daigule had gotten himself tangled up with that he shouldn’t have. Because Daigule was a man of immoderate enthusiasms and uncertain discretion.
Did Hilton know about Daigule’s business?
Had Hilton been part of whatever had called Daigule to Port Charid in the first place?
Sending Daigule’s scarf back through Hilton was as good as a warning to everybody, one way or the other. If Hilton didn’t know that Daigule had been in Charid, sending the scarf to Daigule through Hilton would tip off her nephew and warn him of potential trouble.
If Hilton had called Daigule in on a raid, letting the Bench Specialist return the scarf would put Hilton on notice that the authorities were close to him, and — since Modice had entrusted Vogel with the errand, with Walton’s knowledge to be assumed — that he would not be protected if he endangered his people.
If Daigule was involved with something that Hilton didn’t know about, getting the scarf returned to him by Hilton via Vogel would let Daigule know that the authorities were closing in on him, and that his activities were a danger to Modice as well as to himself.
And giving the scarf to Vogel was as much as telling Vogel that the Langsarik authorities were genuinely ignorant of the fact if it was a fact, with an entire sheaf of corollaries besides.
Walton couldn’t believe that Hilton would be engaged in anything he knew could jeopardize his entire community.
If she thought about it, she couldn’t really believe that Daigule was involved in murder, either.
She was still impressed with Modice for having the moral strength to admit the possibility and take action on the margin of the odds.
Vogel didn’t know who Daigule was; obviously enough Vogel had no knowledge of Daigule’s night visit. Modice had only told Walton herself about it within the past few days, and it had been twice that long since it had occurred. Vogel simply accepted the scarf at its face value and folded it into another pocket of his jacket. “To be returned by Modice Agenis to Kazmer Daigule through Hilton Shires. Glad to oblige. Where do I find the lieutenant these days, Flag Captain?”
Modice left the kitchen again, and Walton knew that she fled in her heart even while she walked with casual care in the flesh. If Modice liked Daigule, it would be torture to her to think that he might be involved.
If Modice liked Daigule, she would have to know whether he was involved or not, so that she could cut him out of her heart as soon as possible — should it be necessary.
There would be much to digest after this breakfast. “Hilton is in Port Charid. Doing orientation in the warehouses there.” Vogel clearly remembered him from the negotiations; there was no need for anxious concern that the name and the relationship might be firm in Vogel’s mind because Hilton was suspect. “He’s gone to work for the Combine Yards. There’s a new warehouse complex under construction.”
Vogel nodded. “Well. I’ll be going. I hope you won’t hesitate to call on me if you think of anything or learn something. Is there anything I can send you from Port Charid?”
There was an unusual softness to his voice, and something in his expression that seemed almost tender. Caught by surprise, Walton felt a blush coming on like steam rising into her face from a cup of freshly boiled water for hot tea.
“Ah. No. Thank you. We’re fine.” Noodles. She wanted noodles. She liked noodles, especially with snap-spice broth, and poultry. They weren’t expensive, but a person had to have a supplier, and the local concession hadn’t stocked any as long as they’d been here. “Send me the news, Garol, when you can. I want to know what develops.”
He stood in the middle of the kitchen with his cap in his hand for a moment, looking around the room as though he had forgotten something.
“And thanks for coming, Bench specialist. I’ll let you know if I find out anything.”
He seemed to give himself a mental shake. “Yes, of course. You’re welcome, only due respect, and so forth. Good-greeting, Flag Captain, I’ll show myself out.”
Her grain soup had gotten cold, but she finished it anyway.
Modice, Daigule, Hilton. Vogel.
Battle cannon.
There could be no connection.
But if there was —
She was Flag Captain Walton Agenis; and it was up to her to protect the Langsariks.
Against her own family. If that was what it took.
###
Kazmer Daigule could hear the voice through the open doorway, clear and resonant and cold, like the penitence bell on the Day of Atonement. During the days he had been held in Fleet custody here at Anglace he had played this coming confrontation over and over and over in his mind, testing each link in the fearful chain, hoping in vain to find a weak spot somewhere. During hour after hour of restless solitude he had written and rewritten the story in his mind, the train of events, the best interpretation he could put on them; and hour after hour of restless solitude had led him ever and again to despair, in the bleak conviction that things could not possibly be worse for him.
And it was worse.
The Holy Mother loved her Sarvaw stepchildren: Kazmer had been catechized with care, during his short childhood. She cared for and nurtured the Sarvaw almost as tenderly as if they had been her own children, and not the offspring of bondservants. But the Holy Mother was a vicious bitch for all that.
This Inquisitor was Dolgorukij.
And of all the Inquisitors who could have been called off a routine cruise to take legal and binding testimony on Record, there was only one that Kazmer had ever heard of who was Dolgorukij; because after the Domitt Prison — and the execution of its master — everyone had heard of Andrej Koscuisko.
Someone came to the door of the interrogation room, someone in Fleet colors. Big. Very ugly. The officer’s doorkeeper, perhaps; his narrow yellow eyes rested briefly on Kazmer’s face without changing expression. Then he tilted his head with a decisive gesture.
“The officer is ready for you,” the man said. His voice was as wrecked as his face was, so unlovely that Kazmer could almost pity him. Almost. “This is the pilot? Let’s go.”
They would question each of the crew members separately, and then check their stories against each other to decide who would go on to further interrogation. Kazmer had thought it all through. Contact with the Langsariks had been through anonymous drops, third-party relay, double-blind exchanges. None of the crew knew any more about who had hired them than the absolute minimum, unless, of course there was a Langsarik plant among them. He couldn’t afford to postulate the presence of a Langsarik plant; it was too uncertain.
He had to proceed under the assumption that he was the only one among them who could point a finger and name a name.
His guards started him forward with a shove; he kept his balance, but not gracefully. He was tired, and he was hungry, and he’d been sleeping in his clothes for days. It demoralized a man. He knew very well that he stank; but was the subtle expression of disdain that crossed the Inquisitor’s face a reflection of his all-too-powerful odor?
Or did Koscuisko recognize him as Sarvaw?
“Thank you, Mister Stildyne.” Yes, it had been Koscuisko’s voice he’d heard from outside the room. Tenor, and strangely feral. “Be seated, pilot, there is nothing to fear. For the moment. My name is Andrej Koscuisko, and I hold the Writ to which you must answer for questions that exist pertaining to the potential involvement of y
our ship and crew in murder and theft in the Shawl of Rikavie.”
He’d heard some of the details by now, before the guards from the local port authority had realized that their gossip might contaminate his evidence. He still couldn’t believe it. Either murder had not been done, or Hilton wasn’t involved in it: but all the Bench would hear from him was the name, not his insistence on Hilton’s innocence.
Kazmer had no confidence in his ability to withhold the name.
One of Koscuisko’s people set a glass of water down on the table in front of Kazmer, where he could reach it with his hands chained at his waist. Kazmer stared at the man’s sleeve as he placed the glass: a uniform blouse with green piping at the cuff.
Green-sleeves.
Bond-involuntary.
That was what they would do to Hilton, to all of his family; plant a governor in his brain and set him to serve a torturer, or suffer torture himself. And Modice? Modice was so beautiful. They would prostitute her less horribly, perhaps, because it was more traditional a fate for a woman in the hands of her enemies; but they would put a meter on her body and vend the private secrets of her flesh to any bully who could come up with the price.
It made him sick just to think of it.
And he would be the cause of it, because he had seen Hilton in the street.
He took a drink of water to steady his resolve; and the Inquisitor — sitting across the table from him, with a tidy little rhyti-set at one elbow and a pair of black leather dress gloves laid casually to one side — nodded at him, as if approvingly. Kazmer could smell the perfume of hot sweet rhyti, and it made his mouth water with longing. He hadn’t had a decent cup of rhyti since —
What did it matter?
He couldn’t afford the quality of leaf that Koscuisko used anyway.
“Let us begin, then,” the Inquisitor said. “State for me your name, pilot. And your cargo, your point of origin, and the identification of the ship on which you traveled here to Anglace.”
Koscuisko knew his name.
The Inquisitor had the information there in front of him, the printed copy of the Port Authority’s report in a neat and damning stack.
But there were rituals to all of one’s interactions with the Bench: and Kazmer could not afford to permit this one to go any further.
“I declare myself Sarvaw, your Excellency, Kazmer Daigule, from Peritrallneya near Sivan. I throw myself upon the mercy of the Malcontent, to answer to him or none. Sir.”
The Inquisitor froze where he sat, staring, his pale eyes blank and unreadable. None of the others would know; it was lucky, in a way, that Koscuisko was here, because otherwise the declaration might not be read into Record until it was reviewed prior to logging at the end of the session. And there might have been unpleasantness, upcoming.
The ugly man spoke, from the post he’d taken at the officer’s right hand. “Sir — ”
Koscuisko silenced the ugly man with an upraised hand. “You will leave us, Mister Stildyne,” Koscuisko said. “Robert may stay, and Lek. I place the Record in suspense, now excuse us please. Immediately.”
The ugly man wasn’t happy.
But the Inquisitor was senior, and rank apparently prevailed. Were they afraid he might assault the Inquisitor?
What physical damage could he do, with his hands chained and his feet shackled?
When the room held only the four of them — Kazmer, and the Inquisitor, and two bond-involuntary troops — the Inquisitor spoke.
“You have placed your election on record, Daigule, no one will defraud you of your choice. But consider. Is the penalty you face truly worth the sacrifice required to avoid it? You have spoken the name of the Malcontent, and your mother will wonder forever after how she failed you in your upbringing.”
As if Koscuisko’s own mother had no such doubts, and him a noble and upright pillar of the Judicial order.
“I have nothing further to say, your Excellency. To you or anybody.” He had already said that he would answer to the Malcontent. But even the Malcontent would refrain from asking one question; that was the foundation of the contract. A man who elected the Malcontent gave over to the Saint his name, his freedom, his body, his mind and heart and soul; his all, in return for one thing: whatever it was that he wanted.
Would the Malcontent accept his contract?
The Malcontent turned no man away.
Koscuisko rose to his feet, with a decisive gesture of disgust. “Then you are guilty. You cannot be otherwise. It is the counsel of a coward, to seek the Saint to evade deserved punishment.”
But Kazmer knew what he had to do. He had fought it out during those long hours of waiting and wondering what would happen. He could implicate Langsariks by name. So far as he knew he was the only one of the freighter’s crew who could do that.
They gave him no option for any other escape; so the Malcontent was his only hope, and Hilton’s only hope as well.
“I neither affirm nor deny your statements, your Excellency, but submit myself to the mercy of the Saint. In reverence. And silence.”
Koscuisko wasn’t looking at him.
Koscuisko was looking at one of the troops he’d kept with him in the room; and Kazmer remembered what the Inquisitor had said to the ugly man, as he sent the ugly man away. Robert and Lek, he’d said. Kazmer hadn’t paid much attention to the bond-involuntaries, he’d been too wrapped up in his own issues to have energy to spare: but Lek was Sarvaw, too. Sarvaw with an Arakcheyek in his mother’s nightmares, by his height; but Sarvaw nonetheless.
“Who am I to say?” Koscuisko asked Lek, with a little shrug that looked almost embarrassed. “It could be that there are worse things, whether guilty of greater or lesser crimes.”
The bond-involuntary Sarvaw bowed his head in response, and Koscuisko nodded. Then shook his head, but apparently at some strictly personal regret or disappointment. Kazmer stared at the glass of water on the table in front of him. There were worse things than to elect the Malcontent. One of them was to be enslaved under Bond.
Let Koscuisko believe that that was what Kazmer feared.
Or let Koscuisko believe whatever he liked, just so long as Kazmer could protect the Langsariks from the fate that had been visited upon Lek, the fate worse even than the election of the Malcontent.
“Open the door, Robert,” the Inquisitor said; then called out to the ugly man, who apparently stood waiting outside. “Mister Stildyne. It will be necessary to go and see the Consul, to obtain the representative of the Malcontent. Present my excuses to the Port Authority, and let us go directly.”
The guards who had brought Kazmer in took Kazmer out, surprised enough by these developments that they forgot to shove, and let him walk at a normal pace. They went back to his cell. When he was alone again Kazmer put his face down between the palms of his chained hands, fighting to quiet his mind.
He had done it.
He had elected the Malcontent. Soon he would be damned as all Malcontents were damned, despised, disenfranchised, disdained, and disregarded.
He would be alive; and if an evil fortune should call Hilton’s name up before that Dolgorukij Inquisitor, at least it would not be from Kazmer’s mouth that it would go on Record. Or maybe not at all.
And Modice Agenis?
He could not even think of little Modice.
He would be Malcontent. He did not have the right.
Knowing that he had had no choice if he was to hope to protect his friend gave him no comfort, in the horrible certainty that even the hope of Modice was lost to him forever.
###
When he got back to Port Charid Garol Vogel stopped at the yards where the courier was berthed, but Jils wasn’t on board; there weren’t any messages. There was news on the reader from Chilleau Judiciary, but Garol wasn’t interested. He sat down at the scheduler instead, keying a line for Shiron Madlev, the Combine Factor at Port Charid.
He needed to pay a courtesy call.
The Bench recognized Factor Madlev as the spo
kesman for the local mercantile council, which made Madlev something close to the civilian authority here. The port’s only secured communications with Chilleau Judiciary were held in Factor Madlev’s office. It was politic to go and make appropriate noises expressive of profound concern on the part of the Bench, pledges of speedy resolution, promises of action — all of those things.
Therefore, Madlev was the obvious place to start, if Jils hadn’t done the honors already. Madlev might well expect a call either way, after Garol’s previous meeting with his foreman — what had the name been? Fisner Feraltz — at the hospital at Nisherre.
There was also an errand to run, for Walton Agenis.
When the access tone cleared, Garol identified himself, his voice a little strange in his own ears in the silence of the courier.
“Bench intelligence specialist Garol Vogel. I’ve been detailed by the Second Judge at Chilleau Judiciary to solve the piracy problem at Port Charid. Requesting an entrance interview with Factor Madlev, at his earliest convenience.”
There were clicks and hushes on the line as the screener on the other end scrambled to take the message line. Garol could appreciate the humor in the situation. He was sitting in a quiet ship with his clothing in moderate disarray and what hair he had left in an emphatically uncombed condition from his journey to the Langsarik settlement and back on a speed machine; but a Bench intelligence specialist was a Bench intelligence specialist — and the line wasn’t video. Just audio.
“Excuse me, Bench specialist.” A live body, at the other end. “If you would care to nominate a time when Factor Madlev could look forward to receiving you.”
The sooner he got his duty calls out of the way the better. Jils had already gone to tie in with local Judicial resources, such as they were in a mercantile port.
“I can be there inside of an hour, if that’s convenient. And say, I heard there’s someone I need to speak to, working in the Combine warehouses — somewhere in Charid. Maybe someone could show me where to find him, after I meet with Factor Madlev. Hilton Shires. Langsarik.”
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