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 Koscuisk
o 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.
Chapter Four
Family Matters
Great Ragnarok had been built according to the plan of a cruiser killer warship — carapace hull above, docking facilities below — opening onto the maintenance atmosphere that clung to the belly of the ship, contained by a plasma field. General Rukota braced himself as his courier approached the boundaries. There was a peculiar sensory effect associated with passing the plasma containment membrane from space into atmosphere; it made his skin crawl. He had never gotten used to it.
“Eleven eights to docking, General.” The navigator was one of Admiral Brecinn’s people, but carried more rank on her shoulders than a navigator usually bore. All of the team were relatively senior for their roles; it increased his suspicion that these people were committed to some ulterior purpose. Rukota didn’t like it. “Thank you, Navigator. Send the request and stand by.”
Yes, it was gratifying to a man’s ego to be giving orders to people more accustomed to giving their own than taking anybody’s. Still, ego gratification only went so far with Dierryk Rukota. No man as ugly as he had been all of his life could afford to nurture too much ego. Every time he caught sight of himself in a mirror, it reminded him. But so long as his wife didn’t care, it made no difference if his mouth was as thin as the edge of a dull knife and his eyes nearly as narrow, to speak of only two of the most obviously unfortunate aspects of his face.
The Devil and Deep Space Page 8