The Devil and Deep Space

by Susan R. Matthews

  Of course. They read finger–code as well. It had been bond–involuntaries who had invented it, after all, as a means of communicating between themselves without compromising their discipline. Ferinc had bullied the knowledge out of bond–involuntaries, knowing how to exploit their vulnerability to their governors; that was how he’d learned it. Lek’s fellows clearly had the knowledge, as well, but Koscuisko would not have permitted his Bonds to be coerced into teaching it.

  It was a telling detail that spoke of the exceptional trust Koscuisko had earned from his Bonds, more evidence to Ferinc of what he’d lost. He couldn’t speak. He let them escort him down the hall to a room near the end of the corridor, where the house–master had placed Koscuisko’s chief of Security. He knew these rooms. There was more familiar here than not.

  Lek poured out a drink for him, fully half a glass of cortac brandy; Ferinc took it with a nod of thanks and had drunk half of it down before he realized that the house–master had given Stildyne the good stuff. The really good stuff.

  The liquor calmed his nerves. He took the balance of it with more respect and consideration, listening to the voices in his mind drop off one by one into a drugged stupor. After a while, Stildyne came into the room, and the Security left.

  Stildyne sat down. Ferinc looked up at him a little stupidly, feeling the liquor. He didn’t usually drink. “What did you tell him?”

  Stildyne looked thoughtful, and much older than Ferinc remembered him. “You and me. Parties. Bond–involuntaries. He would have tortured himself, trying to guess and never just corning out and asking.”

  Ferinc shook his head, regretfully. “You needn’t have, Stildyne. You owe him no explanations. Surely.” Even as he said it, he knew better. He knew things about Stildyne that he had not guessed before Andrej Koscuisko had come into the library. It was only more evidence of the fact that Koscuisko was a terrible and corrosive sort of metamorphic agency. Stildyne. Of all people.

  “You’re right, of course.” Stildyne’s agreement was amused — on multiple levels. “But it doesn’t make any difference. You’d better leave. He doesn’t want to see you.”

  Ever again. “Let me have a word with his lady, Chief,” Ferinc asked humbly. “Just so she knows. In case there’s gossip. I had leave from Cousin Stanoczk to make sure she was all right, not to spy on Koscuisko. I wasn’t to have been caught skulking in the garden.”

  Stildyne nodded. “If you do it now, you should be all right. Himself is in a state; he’ll not be stirring. But I don’t understand, man. Why are you here?”

  “I truly mean no harm, Stildyne. I came looking to make up a lack, years ago. I thought that I was doing well, really. Stanoczk says that he has failed me, but it’s not his fault.”

  Nor was it Koscuisko’s.

  What Koscuisko had done to him had not made him the moral cripple that he was. He had always been a moral cripple. Koscuisko had only put the fact in front of him, where he could not avoid recognizing the truth of it. That was all. For that, Koscuisko deserved his thanks; and yet Ferinc could not imagine trying to explain any such thing to him.

  Maybe to Stanoczk. Maybe. If Stanoczk would speak to him. If the Malcontent did not send him away from Cousin Stanoczk forever, and try some different approach to the reconciliation that was his right — even though he was a slave.

  “Some lacks are never going to be made up,” Stildyne said, in a voice that was almost sad. Almost. But this was Stildyne. On the other hand, Koscuisko had Stildyne, too. “The dogs in this house are cherished more tenderly than I ever was, Haster. Ferinc. Sorry.”

  As if Stildyne was thinking about his past, and not his present.

  “I’ll be away.” Ferinc needed to see Marana, and then he needed to run. He would go to the chapter–house at Brikarvna. Stanoczk would know where to find him there. “I’m sorry for the trouble I’ve caused you, Brachi. I should have known better than to try to steal a glimpse.”

  It was an echo from a long time ago. Warrant to warrant. Stildyne smiled. “Yes,” he agreed. “You should have. But it’s lucky for the troops that they caught you, all the same, or I’d have had them on remedials for months.”

  And he could have been in Stildyne’s place. He could have been Stildyne. Chief Warrant Officer. Trusted and valued, and rejoicing in the care and tutelage of professional Security troops, only one step short of the Ship’s First Officer.

  To be Stildyne, he would have had to have been Stildyne all along, though. Stildyne hadn’t ever minded taking advantage of opportunities. But he’d taken much less advantage than Ferinc. Stildyne had always been a practical man. Ferinc had been a bully — he knew that — and bullies were trying to conceal the fear within themselves, and Koscuisko had opened him up and laid it bare in front of the entire world.

  So he could not have been Stildyne. There was comfort in that realization that Ferinc took with him to go to see Marana, and say good–bye to her.

  ###

  Someone came quietly into the room, closing the great double doors behind them. That was odd. Andrej hadn’t heard anybody ask for permission. Maybe he’d been too caught up in his own misery to have noticed.

  “For one day merely I leave you to your own devices,” someone said, in a deep voice that was both distressed and bantering at once. “And what do I return to find? You have ruined my poor Ferinc, Derush, and I particularly wanted to beg you to forgive him, and grant him peace.”

  Cousin Stanoczk.

  Andrej raised his head from his palms and blinked, trying to focus. What time was it?

  “Have you called for rhyti, Stoshik?” Andrej was thirsty. It was probably past mid–meal. “Sit. Talk to me. I need to speak to you. But what is this of so–called Cousin Ferinc, first of all.”

  He couldn’t keep the disgust out of his voice. The shock had been too great. Stanoczk went back to the doors and let the servants in to lay the table; Andrej watched the process dully.

  Stanoczk poured a flask of rhyti and sweetened it with a liberal hand. The servants left. He brought the flask of rhyti over to where Andrej sat behind the desk and set it down at Andrej’s hand; seating himself on the desk’s surface beside it.

  “He is a deserter, Derush. He came five years ago, no, six years ago, about a year after you had taken his discipline on yourself, and spared him legal sanctions. We intercepted him on his way into Azanry as a tourist. Fleet said that we might keep him or send him back. And we had learned the story from him, or as much as he was capable of telling us.”

  It was good rhyti. Andrej took another drink, and his mind began to sharpen. “Why deserter?”

  Stanoczk shrugged. “His life had become intolerable to him, Andrej. You proved him to himself all too effectively. We considered that it was your intervention that had sent him to us, and made the offer, and were accepted.”

  An outlander, taken into the embrace of the Malcontent. It was unheard of. “Nothing that was done to him was worse than he had done, Stoshik. The Saint owes him nothing. He is a corrupt man.”

  Cousin Stanoczk shrugged again. “Yes, but it was you, Derush, and you are so much better at it than he ever was. Your impact was all the more shattering. And the Saint’s proper business is with damaged goods. It is our holy charge, you know that; those who are pure and uncompromised have their choice of Saints, but for Ferinc there is only the Malcontent or to be damned.”

  Andrej couldn’t argue with him on that. Cousin Stanoczk was the expert, after all. So instead Andrej said the thing that troubled him most deeply about finding Girag here at the Matredonat.

  “Knowing what he was, though, Stanoczk, you let him come here, to this house, and endear himself to my son. To my son, Stoshik. How could you put my child at such a risk? Girag should hate me. The Holy Mother only knows what such a man might do to be revenged.”

  Marana had said something about Ferinc earlier, when they had spoken together in the garden. What had it been?

  “You would be happier if he did hate you, I think, Der
ush,” Cousin Stanoczk said gently. “He does not. You terrify him still. He knows that he has been a sinner. He has learned to do the Malcontent’s work here honestly and honorably. He teaches Anton to love you every day, Derush, you will not deny his worth once you have come to know him better.”

  Andrej didn’t like the way this conversation was trending. He stood up to distance himself from what Stanoczk would say, taking the flask of rhyti with him. “Well, I am home, Stoshik,” he said. “And mean to remain here. I have told no one but Marana. So there is to be no need of Malcontents to teach my son to love his father. You can have him back. Take him away. I don’t want to see him here. Ever again.”

  Stanoczk stayed where he was, sitting on the desk with his back to the room. “Perhaps it is so,” Stanoczk said. “But for the goodwill he has nurtured in your child there are thanks owing, Andrej, and the Malcontent has a word to say to you about your household. Will you hear me?”

  Andrej wasn’t interested. Still, Stoshik was a Malcontent, a religious professional of a particularly dangerous sort. Starting his life once more at home here on Azanry by setting himself at odds with the Saint was not good precedent. A man could have all Saints against him and prosper under the protection of the Malcontent; and if a man outraged the Malcontent, all Saints could not protect him from ruin.

  “To you, Stoshik, I listen,” Andrej agreed. “And also to Cousin Stanoczk. Out of my respect for your divine Patron, may he wander in bliss.” Stanoczk was his cousin, and Andrej loved him, Malcontent or no. Stoshi nodded solemnly, as if accepting the terms Andrej laid down — such as they were.

  “You will stay here at home, you said, Andrej?” Stanoczk asked, as if he didn’t know. Perhaps he didn’t. It was always safest to assume that the Malcontent knew everything, except what one was going to do next. “We seek an understanding with you, Derush, you are your father’s son. For the sake of your soul you should forgive Ferinc, and thank him for the good service he has done here these years past.”

  There was no man free from the Malcontent, no soul without some hidden shame in the past that the Malcontent could use against it. Or was there? Was any of his own shame hidden, shameful as it was? He had never sought to deny the horror of his crimes to himself or to anyone.

  Yet he did not want to contemplate the day when his son should start to understand just what he was. Perhaps that was what the Saint held over his head. “You go too far, Stoshik.” It was worth consideration — how a man without shame might be invisible to the Malcontent. “Thank him?”

  “For the good service he has done you, Andrej, in making you a hero to your son. And strengthening the spirit of the lady your wife, to face her daily trials.”

  The flask of rhyti Andrej held dropped to the carpeted floor and bounced, splashing hot sweet liquid all over the rug.

  Marana.

  That was what she had meant when she had said it. It is not for you to say whether Ferinc should be an obstacle. He hadn’t understood. He had been thinking about other things. Not only Anton, but Marana, was there no end to this nightmare?

  But Stanoczk was just telling him. So that he would know. So that he would not be surprised. So that he could rule his household wisely and with benevolence and charity. No man might raise his hand against the Malcontent. Stanoczk was only warning him, for his own good.

  “If a man is to thank the enemy that comes into his home and woos his child and corrupts his wife, then a man is not the master of his household.” This was beyond all imagination. Stanoczk could not be serious. “Suppose instead I hunt this person down and scourge him naked from my boundaries, Stoshik, what penance must I pay for such a crime as that?”

  Stanoczk stirred himself from the desk to come and take a napkin from the table that the servants had laid, crouching down at Andrej’s feet to blot the spilt rhyti up from the rug. “You will do nothing of the sort, Derush,” Stanoczk scolded, but very gently. “If you spoke again to Ferinc, you would know it is not revenge on his part. It has been the ordeal we set him to in order to test the quality of his obedience, to send him here. It is our fault if he loves your child. Promise to consider that you might forgive him, Derush; it is deserved, I attest it to you in the name of the Saint himself.”

  To consider the possibility of forgiving Girag for coming here was distasteful, but at least Andrej could agree to do so much and still be honest. “I have said he is not to show himself to me again, Stoshik. But I will talk to Anton. Perhaps Marana also. And I will consider my debt accordingly. Yes. I promise.”

  Stanoczk was done mopping up rhyti, and fixed himself a flask. “Good, it is well. Thank you. Now also your Stildyne. You have no cause to hold him so far from you, Andrej. You owe so great a debt that you cannot repay.”

  Outrageous. “When was it that I invited you into my bed, Stoshik? You exceed all bounds of propriety.”

  Stanoczk turned to face Andrej, very serious. “Well. We were told that there was an issue, Derush, that required the intervention of my Patron. And it is my only pleasure in life, to meddle in the private lives of other people, having none myself. You cannot blame me.”

  Stanoczk had hardly ever been serious a moment in his entire life. It was how Stanoczk managed the pain that had propelled him into the embrace of the Malcontent. Had Stanoczk not been Dolgorukij, it could have been much simpler; he need not have suffered for desiring men if he had been born to a more liberal culture. Stoshi could have been born Chigan, and been happy.

  “True enough.” Stanoczk looked at him; Andrej could only admit to the plain fact. “Have you been told also what it is, this issue? Or does the ritual require that I lay it at your feet in plain language?”

  “That would be telling,” Stanoczk said. “Speak to me, Andrej, in what way can my divine Patron reconcile you to the life that the Holy Mother has decreed for you beneath the Canopy?”

  Maybe it was just as well to do it now. He was already benumbed by shock and distress. What better time to talk about his own death?

  “You brought to me Specialist Ivers yesterday, Stoshik.” The document was in a secure drawer in the library desk, along with the other things he had for his cousin. He had put them there this morning, when he had come down for his interview with Jils Ivers. “Did you ever know another Bench specialist who worked with her? Garol Vogel.”

  “Garol Aphon Vogel.” Stanoczk nodded. “Yes. A sour and suspicious man, Andrej. I like him.” Like, not liked. That was potentially interesting. Ivers had said that Vogel had not been heard from.

  “I saw him last at Burkhayden, it has been some months. The last time I spoke to him he gave me this, and suggested that I seek the advice of the Malcontent.”

  The Bench warrant. Andrej drew it out of its secure place and passed it to his cousin, whose dark eyes widened at the sight of it. Yes. Stanoczk knew what a Bench warrant looked like.

  “In the shortest possible statement, Stanoczk, someone wants me dead, and has the means to get the Bench endorsement. I must know how to protect myself, if I can. If I cannot, there is no sense in asking me to forgive Haster Girag, as I will not be available to do any such thing. Help me, Stoshik.”

  In silence Stanoczk took the Bench warrant and opened it out in careful hands, looking thoughtfully at what elements Andrej could not guess.

  Andrej could wait for Stanoczk to meditate on the document, and its meaning. He had something else in his desk. While Stanoczk turned the Bench warrant over in his hands and held it up against the light, Andrej took the notebooks out of the secured drawer, stacking them in chronological order.

  He had almost forgotten all about them. But in Burkhayden he had had a dream that had reminded him of what a treasure he possessed, and how little he deserved it, and what his responsibility to posterity was with regard to it.

  Finally Stanoczk sighed, and put the Bench warrant away in his blouse. “We cannot allow it, Derush, we rely on you for the future. I will submit the problem. What else?”

  “I might ask you, Stoshik
,” Andrej, countered. “A man does not seek aid from the Malcontent without paying the price.”

  Cousin Stanoczk shook his head. “My Patron does you no favors, Derush. This is a question of Combine politics. You have the natural right to demand the Saint’s protection, without prejudice. I can’t pretend to extort concessions. Unless you would be kind to my Ferinc. I’ve become fond of him, Derush.”

  Andrej could only shake his head in wearied wonder.

  “You are all surprises today, Stanoczk. I have these documents. I need them to be safe and secured, if I am dead. They will be worth much more than money, in a generation’s time.”

  And the Malcontent would know best how to conserve the information for the Nurail, still forbidden access to their own cultural heritage by the bitter and unreasoning enmity of the Bench. What Andrej had belonged to them, and had to be cherished carefully till it could safely be returned.

  “This is then what, Derush?” Stanoczk asked, curious, picking up one of the notebooks to leaf through it. “Your penmanship has not improved with time, I must say.”

  Andrej had to smile at that. “The circumstances were challenging. It was at the Domitt Prison, Stoshik. The Nurail there had no chance to pass their weaves except to me who was their torturer, but were willing to use even their own murderer as the tool to see the weaves remembered. Written down.”

  Stanoczk let the leaves of the notebook riffle through his fingers. “It explains the hurried hand, I suppose. Does anybody know? They are proscribed under Jurisdiction, Derush, on pain of offense against the Bench itself.”

  Yes and no. “Nurail may not sing their weaves, Stoshik, but there is no law that says a Dolgorukij may not write them down if it suits his fancy. Also I hold the Writ to Inquire, and may do many things with impunity forbidden other men.”

  “Such as to my Ferinc,” Stanoczk agreed, but as if it was by the way. “I should not grudge you that. You did not ruin him. Had you not destroyed him he might never have reclaimed his sweet humility, which I love. Only you are not to tell him that, because I have little enough influence with him as it is, and should he realize that I am fond, he will take advantage, and be misery to deal with. More misery, rather.”