An Exchange of Hostages

by Susan R. Matthews

  “Your Student — you already know this — is Andrej Koscuisko. He’s Dolgorukij, and he drinks.”

  It was a funny way to pronounce the name. “Aandrai.” Why didn’t he just say Anders and be done with it? St. Clare wondered. Of course Anders was a Nurail name, and Koscuisko wasn’t likely Nurail. That would explain it, right enough.

  “What should I expect from him, friend Curran?” St. Clare felt a little awkward using the term of familiarity; it sounded almost unnatural to him in Standard. Fortunately Curran did not seem to have taken it amiss.

  “Oh, there’s no predicting. It’s too early in Term for that.” Leaning his head back up against the wall, Curran stared up at the lights. St. Clare didn’t think that Curran looked particularly comfortable. “There is a consistent trend, and it may be helpful to you, I don’t know. He’s pretty good at putting the procedure on. The thing to remember is that no matter how much it hurts, he’s only going to hurt you enough. No more than that.”

  What could “enough” signify? Enough to get the answers, when they both knew that wasn’t at issue? “I don’t understand you, friend, what are you saying?” He only had a year and a half of Standard. Well, a year and a half of intensive Standard, apart from the language he had learned for trade when he’d been much younger. There was a good chance that Curran was making very sound sense, and that he was simply too thickheaded to grasp it.

  But Curran sighed, with a squinting of his eyes and a dropping of his head. “I think what I mean is that it’s to be a fair test. He doesn’t try to get around the Levels. You may find it useful to hang on to that while you’re with him. I think that he’s an honest man. Fair-minded.”

  Maybe he did understand what was going on in Curran’s head after all. Curran had been here before. “What was of help to you, when it was your turn? Or it could be that you don’t care to speak of it.” Curran was uncomfortable, St. Clare was sure of that much. For all he knew, it was in as bad taste to ask about Curran’s duty as prisoner-surrogate as it was to press your fellows for the details of their Bonds.

  Shifting his weight a little, Curran leaned up against the wall once more. “My Student wasn’t very good. It was a hard exercise, because he kept on making mistakes and had to do things over again to satisfy his need for a good demonstration.”

  Still, it didn’t seem to be thinking about his own experience that was making Curran itchy. Something else, maybe. Maybe Curran was just an itchy sort of a man in general.

  Itchy or not, Curran was still talking. “With Koscuisko you aren’t going to have that problem. He pays attention to getting things right once through. That’s an advantage. Just . . . try to remember . . . you can’t afford to let down your guard. Not for an instant.”

  St. Clare thought he understood now. Curran was worried. And Curran didn’t want for it to show, since he’d know that St. Clare was worried enough already, and it was bad luck.

  “We’ve had a bit of training,” he reminded the Emandisan by way of reassurance. “They try to teach us concentration. It may help out, did it you?” As long as Curran was willing to talk St. Clare was eager to enrich his flock as aggressively as possible.

  “Was all I had to go on, in the end. There’s a lot of emphasis on . . . focused concentration, among my homefolk.” Well, and what little St. Clare had heard about Emandisan focused on fanatic devotion to martial arts. Religious veneration of their five-knives, with litanies and rites and oracles. Maybe Curran had just snagged himself on the fact that Nurail were characterized by weaves and drinkable, instead of strength of will.

  Drinkable could create a state of intense concentration, that was true.

  But concentration on getting more drinkable — or knocking one’s neighbor’s head in, or crawling into a corner to die of the body wrack — was probably not what Curran had in mind.

  The room had begun to clear out a bit; it was getting to be time for Curran to leave, then. St. Clare stood up, to allow for a graceful departure. “Thanks for your help,” he said, as Curran rose in turn. “I’m sure to be grateful to you for it in the morning.” Such as it was. What did he know now about Andrej Koscuisko that he hadn’t known before? He didn’t see where honesty and fair-mindedness came into it at all.

  “It’ll be rough.” Curran acknowledged St. Clare’s thanks with a nod of acceptance. “But you’ll make it through just fine. I’m confident of that.”

  Possibly the rumors about Emandisan self-discipline were true, and Curran was a stalloy-strong rock of unshakable will. Unfortunately he was not a very good liar.

  “Until the Day, Joslire Curran.”

  Giving St. Clare’s shoulder a reassuring shake, Curran completed the formula.

  “The Day will come. Good luck.” He smiled, once — it was rather alarming — and went out of the room, leaving St Clare to sit back down and digest the whole thing.

  A fair test, Curran had said. By clear inference, Curran’s had not been, and that was why Curran was a little anxious. Doing a little projecting, it could be, reliving his own exercise in his mind as St. Clare prepared himself to meet the challenge.

  But what if Curran was right, to be concerned?

  Did Curran think there was a chance that he might fail in his duty?

  Out of the question. Curran himself clearly had not wanted to make any such suggestion. And they’d know soon enough how it was going to go, either way.

  He could not afford to begin to think about his sister.

  ###

  Andrej Koscuisko had been up all night, and was beginning to feel the effects of the liquor that had kept him company. The easy availability of seemingly endless quantities of alcohol still surprised him, though he was grateful for the apparently limitless access to his drug of choice that was provided. As long as he was capable of asking questions and hitting people who couldn’t hit back, it seemed the Administration didn’t really care if he did so staggering drunk.

  Staggering he was, if no longer quite incapacitated. The fragrance of the rhyti in the jug was not acceptable to his stomach just at the moment. The Security troop handed him his glass with a respectful bow, so Andrej accepted it to be polite; but he found he could only manage a deep inhalation of the steam before handing it back un-sipped. No, it simply was not a good time for rhyti.

  Out of an all-night drunk came clarity of a sort. He was here; there was nothing he hadn’t tried to avoid it — with the exception of a pretense at suicidal depression, and he was not inclined to be such a coward as that. As long as he was here, there was little profit in agonizing over it, because agonizing wouldn’t get him out any more quickly than making up his mind to get it over with.

  The instruments appropriate to the Fourth Level had been laid out for his use and consideration, and he let his eyes rest on the instrument table while he beckoned for his rhyti to come back. Surely instruments were simply instruments, and not evil in and of themselves? A thin supple stick covered with leather, something rather like the riding crops he’d carried while riding out to hunt — more for tradition’s sake than anything else, the hunters in his father’s stable being notoriously bloodthirsty themselves and needing no urging to the chase. A coiled whip with a weighted butt; a handful of screws and clamps; some knives as thin as needles; and a stouter stick almost like a cudgel: These were instruments of Inquiry and Confirmation, and whether or not he could imagine himself actually picking one of them up and using it, the fact remained that he would not be permitted to leave the theater until he had at least made a beginning.

  The rhyti settled rather more successfully in his stomach this time. His prisoner was ready for him, he heard the signal; with a casual gesture that he expected would fool no one, Andrej waved the Security to their posts.

  Very well; let it begin.

  “Step through.”

  Tall, again, the prisoner was rather tall. That wasn’t unusual from Andrej’s point of view, since he himself was to the short side of the Jurisdiction Standard. Tall and younger than the o
ther prisoners had been — Andrej had expected as much from the Prisoner’s Brief Joslire brought him last night. Joslire had seemed distracted. Andrej hadn’t paid much attention at the time — he’d been concentrating on getting drunk — but now he wondered what had been on Joslire’s mind.

  “State your name. Your identification.” He sounded decidedly cross to himself; it startled him to realize how drunk he still was. Just as well. The last thing he wanted to be right now was fully aware of his surroundings.

  He did have to pay some attention to what he was doing, that went without saying. Just now, for example, he was almost certain that he’d asked a question, but as far as he could remember, he’d heard no response.

  He frowned.

  “State your identification, and the crime of which you have been accused. For which you have been arrested,” he amended hastily. At the Preliminary Levels it was the crime of which one had been accused. At the Intermediate Levels it was the crime for which one had been arrested, and never without good and convincing reason, which was why the confession was so important. To validate the Judicial order. Because they never would have arrested this sullen young Nurail hominid if they hadn’t had excellent reason — eyewitness testimony or a preponderance of circumstantial evidence.

  No answer?

  Andrej focused his attention on the prisoner’s face. He had to look up to do it, and the lights in the ceiling seemed bright for whatever reason; so he gestured with his hand, and the Security behind his prisoner brought the man down to a more reasonable kneeling level. Where Andrej didn’t have to squint at him. Where the mixture of amusement, contempt, and defiance on his clean-shaven face could be analyzed in detail. Clean-shaven: so he wasn’t married. For what that was worth.

  “Do you know how to speak Standard, or are you just being coy with me?” Andrej asked, watching the man’s eyes for his answer. Yes, the prisoner understood well enough. “Then we have a tiresome problem to resolve, here, just as we are getting started.”

  If he turned his head, he could examine his instruments once again. He didn’t like to brood on them; but he’d learned the use of other tools on Mayon, and there was no sense in blaming the tumor on the knife, surely. He knew precisely what each one was for. Their use and application had been demonstrated during the preparatory briefings. He just couldn’t imagine himself touching any of them of his own free will.

  “You know why you are here, and I know why you are here. We both know that the Bench requires a confession.” Because the Bench prohibited itself from adjudging deterrent punishment unless guilt had been freely admitted, and would concede only so far as to accept a confession that had been somewhat assisted — but no further. “I could sit here and talk to myself, but that would only waste your time and make me look ridiculous in front of these amiable gentlemen. And nobody likes to be made a fool of. Be so kind as to state your identification and the crime for which you have been arrested.”

  To which you must confess. That was the first requirement; Tutor Chonis had been very clear. We don’t mind hearing what else the prisoner may wish to tell us, Student Koscuisko. But we never lose sight of our objective, and that is the confession as accused.

  But the prisoner only stared at him, smirking. Andrej wondered where he found the nerve; on the other hand — he reminded himself — being confronted by a half-drunk Student Inquisitor still only learning his craft was perhaps not the most intimidating experience to be imagined.

  Andrej stood up.

  “Have it your own way, then.” He knew perfectly well what the prisoner’s name was. That wasn’t the point. The point was that it was in poor taste to take information as granted before the prisoner had confessed to it. And also that included among other pertinent details in the Prisoner’s Brief was the identification of gene pool and subspecies ethnicity, and there was something about Nurail he’d been curious about in school. “Gentlemen, will you undress this mute for me, please? To the waist will be sufficient. For now.”

  The walleyed alarm on the man’s face was almost funny in light of how Andrej felt about what he was expected to do. There was no sense in getting alarmed just yet, although the prisoner could not know it. For all his resolve, Andrej still did not have the first idea how he was going manage to apply one of those ugly implements forcefully enough to draw blood, and not just nervous giggles.

  There was some scuffling involved in the stripping process, it seemed. But it was brief enough; and when it was done, the Security had returned his subject to the kneeling position, the only discernible differences being anger and frustration as well as contempt on the prisoner’s face and rather less clothing on the prisoner’s body. Andrej stood up and beckoned for more rhyti. He was beginning to get hungry. That was bad news; it meant he was sobering up.

  “Let’s talk about the crozer-hinge.” If the prisoner didn’t want to make conversation he’d have to try and interest the Security. “Peculiar to the Nurail, usually confined to the male of the race; vital to the deployment of the famous crozer-lances. Specifically, a sort of a biological fulcrum, and a little more wicked than most.” Or, rather, an odd arrangement in the shoulder joint, beneath the shoulder cap. Andrej had found it a fascinating study in anatomy, but he’d not been able to convince the lone Nurail in his class at Mayon to let him do any hands-on exploration. Not surprising, really, because the crozer-hinge was vulnerable to dislocation from one specific angle, and joints when out of joint were almost always intensely painful — no matter what the class of hominid, no matter what the species of animal.

  He was expected to hurt the Nurail. He was required to. lf he made a test of the crozer-hinge it would hurt the Nurail badly, and still not harm him to any permanent degree. If he could persuade the prisoner to cooperate in that way, it might smooth the course of the exercise for him. Andrej took half a glass of rhyti and handed the remainder back. It was handy having the extra Security present. It was supposed to be intimidating. Andrej stepped closer to the Nurail, choosing a shoulder.

  “It’s one of those structural oddities that complicate our lives. You can put eight and eighty units of pressure against the joint from this angle, and it has no effect whatever.” At least the prisoner had the basic decency to begin to look worried. It was about time. Andrej didn’t care how drunk he seemed to be, he knew his anatomy.

  “And on the other hand the wrong degree of torque from the back angle can tear the whole thing out of alignment.”

  It needed two fingers at the inside joint, a little help from Security to rotate the elbow in the right direction. Or the wrong direction: The crozer-hinge popped out of the protective hollow of the shoulder, a large white lump of cartilage and bone deforming the skin of the upper arm like a very large and exquisitely unpleasant bird’s-egg bruise on one’s head.

  The Nurail’s body jerked with the shock of the pain, his face gone white with it. Andrej stared at the Nurail, frowning. There was something peculiar about the unwilling contortion of the prisoner’s body, his muscles tensed in pain; what was going on? “Abstract knowledge is never wasted, my friend. One has so few opportunities to examine such a complex jointure. Feel free to speak up if you should find yourself with anything to say.”

  No answer; only a stifled sort of gasping as the Nurail’s body convulsed with pain. Skeletal pain in itself was usually a referred phenomenon, but there was no brighter or more brilliant sort of pain than that associated with the joints, especially the smaller ones. Watching his prisoner writhe against the constraining hands of the Security, Andrej found himself keenly apprehensive of the pain the Nurail suffered from his shoulder. Suffering was noxious stimulus. He had spent long years in school on Mayon learning how best suffering could be relieved. But the prisoner did have to talk to him. Any of the instruments that the Administration expected he employ would cause more gross physical damage, so this was a conservative approach — although the prisoner could not be expected to appreciate that. And he could put it right in a moment, once the prisoner had
surrendered up his name.

  The prisoner wasn’t talking.

  Andrej backed up to the chair that stood ready for him. Motioning for the Security to bring his prisoner forward to kneel close in front of him, Andrej sat down, fascinated by the struggle on the Nurail’s face. The choking sound of the Nurail’s breathing and the clear cold sweat of pain running down his cheeks was giving Andrej a very peculiar feeling in his stomach.

  “Your name.”

  He was supposed to be after information, not so interested in his prisoner’s evident agony. Andrej took the Nurail by the jaw to angle his face up to the bright lights in the ceiling. The Nurail’s lips had gone white, and there was a stuttering sound as though his teeth were chattering; but the jaw was clenched so tightly Andrej could not imagine any teeth chattering. Intense. Yes. That was what it was. Intense.

  “Tell to me your name.”

  No answer.

  Andrej couldn’t have that.

  What could this miserable Nurail mean by defying him in this manner?

  He was tempted to make the prisoner suffer for his stubbornness.

  Loosening his grip on the Nurail’s jaw, Andrej struggled with an unnamed temptation for a bitter eternity during the time it took to draw a breath and let it out once more. He felt his irritation as a physical sensation, a flush of humiliation and resentment that reddened his face and prickled his skin from head to toe.

  “You, there, be so good as to take his head. How are you called, Mister . . . ?”

  He wanted to be able to watch the Nurail’s face carefully for his reactions, and for that he would need help. The troop at the Nurail’s right bowed as best he could while holding to the shivering body of the prisoner.

  “Curran, if the officer please — Sorlie Curran,” the Security troop added quickly, in evident response to the confusion Andrej felt. Curran? But yes. The Curran Detention Facility was where Joslire had been condemned to the Bond. Any bond-involuntary similarly processed through the Curran Detention Facility would bear the name.