by David Weber
Before the news had come, night before last, she’d vowed to build the spells necessary to replicate it in her own closet, at home. She still intended to do that. She really did. Just as soon as her life settled down enough to make going home again, possible. That threatened to start the faucet flowing again, and she drew a deep breath to calm herself, pulled out a suit to replace the burgundy silk, and dressed quickly.
She’d already planned a whirlwind of a week, meeting with her Academy staff, with the duke and several of his political supporters, and with Halathyn’s widow. When the summons for the Board of Inquiry came immediately, she’d canceled or delayed everything she possibly could—except for Mahritha vos Dulainah. Halathyn’s widow would actually have understood if she hadn’t come. The woman’s generosity of spirit overflowed even now, and she’d done her very best to comfort Gadrial. If Halathyn had been her second father, Mahritha had been her second mother, and she’d watched that second mother’s eyes fill with tears at last when Gadrial told her Halathyn had named the very last universe he would ever explore in her name. That was what had finally broken her composure, and Gadrial wished desperately that she’d had some miraculous piece of magic to wash away the pain of Halathyn’s death.
But today promised to be worse. So she dressed quickly, then spent a great deal of care over her face and hair, using cosmetic spells to tint eyelids and cheeks, to smooth over the dark smudges under her eyes, put there by sleeplessness and strain, and to repair her dry, bitten lips so they were moist and expertly shaded in her best, most flattering colors. For her hair, she wanted a simple, businesslike look and she murmured spells from the latest fashion crystals, grateful she could do the job, herself, rather than having to pay a Gifted hair and makeup artist to do it for her.
Of course, she could always borrow the Duchess’ in-house artist…
Gadrial sighed while her hair lifted itself into the upswept style from the crystal, tucking itself into the proper configuration. Once she had it smoothed to her satisfaction, she set the spell with a simple holding incantation and clipped her favorite bracelet around her wrist. She checked the results carefully in the mirror, then nodded, satisfied.
Sleek, simple, professional.
All signs of stress carefully obscured.
Except her hands, which shook. She dragged down another deep, desperate breath and told her eyes to stay dry. I will not cry, I will not cry, I will not…Word had come at dinner, last night. Without waiting for the Board of Inquiry’s report, Parliament had announced War Hearings and the Commandery had declared sufficient grounds to begin court-martial proceedings.
Jasak was being court-martialed.
She snarled a curse under her breath, snatched up her crystal case, and strode out of her beautifully appointed suite. The actual court-martial—the trial, itself—would run concurrently with a hellish schedule of Parliamentary hearings, both set to begin today.
Every single one of the “witnesses” who’d returned from the frontier had already given their preliminary testimony to the Board of Inquiry, which had been used as the basis for the decision to proceed with a formal court-martial. Now all the witnesses, including that snake of a Mythlan, Bok vos Hoven, would be questioned again—and again—minutely, as the officers of the court attempted to determine Jasak’s guilt or innocence on a number of charges.
That nightmare was scheduled to begin this morning, at North Hathak Army Base. This afternoon, it would be Parliament’s turn to poke and prod and drain them dry. They would undergo interrogation on that schedule for as long as it took to find Jasak guilty or innocent of the military charges and for the members of the War Operations and Intelligence Committee to obtain what they termed “sufficient information to pursue national defense,” keeping their personal lives on hold while they wobbled back and forth like marionettes on strings.
Rahil’s mercy, but she dreaded the next several days. Or weeks. Surely it wouldn’t last for months?
She drew another breath and focused on what was on her plate for today. She’d never testified at a court-martial. She’d never been called before a parliamentary committee for official hearings, before, either. Halathyn had, in his capacity as a theoretical magister, several times, and she was trying to recall everything he’d said about the process, but her nerves were so jangled, it was difficult.
Her role today would be similar to his, with the emphasis being on what she’d seen and heard from the moment that first rifle shot had split the air on the morning Yurak Osmuna and Falsan chan Salgmun had shot one another. She had her notes, in the slim case she used to carry her PC, and held more of her research data on additional data crystals. She wasn’t sure she’d need it, but she wanted to be prepared if Parliament’s newest standing committee asked for particulars on what she and Halathyn had been working on.
What maddened her more than anything was that neither Jasak nor his father would comment on anything that was happening. They were perfectly prepared to discuss the general news, to share her fury at the obvious distortions in the journals and public crystals. And they made no bones about their wrath at the way Jasak’s shardonai were caricatured and demonized in those accounts. But she couldn’t get a word—no one single, solitary word—out of either of them where the implications for Jasak were concerned!
She’d thought she’d come to some acceptance of the way she felt about Jasak Olderhan. The way she felt about living in his world. But during the past five days, the Jasak she’d known during their long journey had utterly vanished. She didn’t even know the cool, remote stranger who pretended to be the same man she’d ended up kissing so passionately during their final run into Portalis. The tears prickled again, and she swore savagely under her breath and told them to go right back where they’d come from.
It didn’t work.
She was busily engaged in the mortifying business of scrubbing her cheeks fiercely dry with the backs of both hands as she stepped into the magical drop-field that wafted her from the fourth-floor bedroom suites to the ground-floor area where meals were taken, visitors were met, and life was generally lived. Even with a direction finding spell, she could barely find her way around beyond the immediate environs between her assigned suite and the dining room.
They’d been gathered in that dining room for a late supper when word had arrived. Jasak’s only comment had been that the court’s investigators had promised to be impartial, thorough, and scrupulously honest. He’d actually told her to trust the court’s officers! Oh, yes, certainly, she’d fumed through a haze of anger and horror. Trust them. They’re impartial. Honest. They’ll reach the right verdict. Right. And if Jasak or his father or those officers expect me to believe that, they’re either arrogant or fools! Or both.…
She didn’t trust any of them. Not as far as she could throw them, which was about as far as she could pick up and throw this sprawling townhouse. Trust them? Hah! She didn’t even understand them. They were Andaran. She’d spent the entire night alternating between sobbing into her pillow and throwing the pillow—and everything else within reach—at the walls.
Court-martial!
He hadn’t done anything wrong!
Didn’t anyone besides her see that?
It had taken Gadrial a shame-faced hour, this morning, to repair the damage she’d wrought with spells that put the broken pieces of the Duchess’ lovely knick-knacks back together.
Now the drop-field set her gently on the ground floor and she set her teeth and stepped out into the corridor, heading grimly toward the dining room for yet another meal she didn’t feel like eating. When she’d tried to talk to Jasak after dinner last night, he’d taken both her hands in his, said, “I really can’t talk to you right now, Gadrial. Not until the court’s finished questioning you as a witness.” And then he’d kissed her—on the cheek!—and vanished through a side door.
She’d wanted to scream at him.
She still did.
When she reached the dining room, a waiting maid redirected
her to “the breakfast room.” Gadrial hadn’t even heard of that room, since breakfast had invariably been served in the same chamber in which they’d eaten dinner and luncheon, but she followed the maid through a maze of corridors, expecting to find the entire family, comprising the duke and duchess, Jasak, his youngest sister, and Jathmar and Shaylar. Instead, she found the duchess, by herself.
Jasak’s mother glanced up when she halted in the doorway.
“Come in, Gadrial, dear,” she murmured, beckoning her over.
Uncertain what to expect, Gadrial crossed the sunny, cheerful little room—little by the townhouse’s standards, anyway—and set her PC case down on an upholstered chair no one would be using.
“Sit down, Gadrial,” the duchess said, patting the chair beside her own.
She took her seat with great hesitation and the duchess gazed at her, then nodded.
“Mmm-hmm, as I suspected. You’ve spent a night as miserable as mine. More miserable, I should expect, since you’re so unused to Andaran ways.”
“How could you tell?” Gadrial asked in a hoarse voice. “I was so careful, this morning, to erase the signs.”
“Yes, my dear. I know.” The duchess’ smile was surprisingly sweet. “But you’ve been a leading light at the Institute for years. All those breakthroughs in magic theory have had you in the crystals countless times. And this is the first time I’ve ever seen you—in person or in the news—when your makeup and coiffure have been perfect.”
“Oh.” Gadrial bit her spell-tinted lip. “In my defense, things in the lab can be messy, and I never quite knew when reporters might be stopping by.”
“But we know there are plenty of reporters watching now.” The duchess nodded again, gently. “And you care a great deal about what happens to my son.”
She nodded. And then, to her horror, the faucet started running again. She waved her hands in helpless apology, then gave up and simply accepted the linen napkin the duchess had rescued from the table’s place setting and handed to her. A moment later, Gadrial found herself in Sathmin’s arms, sobbing miserably. The Duchess of Garth Showma didn’t complain about the tears soaking her five-figure silk suit. Instead, she kissed Gadrial’s hair, rocked her, even crooned a soft little tune that reminded Gadrial—achingly—of home.
“Wh-where did you learn that song?” she quavered.
“Mmm? Oh, in Ransar, my dear.”
Gadrial sat up, astonished. “Ransar? You’ve been to Ransar?”
“Oh, yes.” She gave Gadrial a conspiratorial wink. “It was a perfect scandal in the family. I insisted—forcefully—on applying to the Ransaran Academy of Fine Arts and Magic. When I was accepted, I turned our household into a living hell until Papa finally agreed to allow me to attend. Poor Papa. He never did understand why it was so important to me.”
She tilted her head and peered down at Gadrial.
“I’m profoundly glad I spent those four wonderful, illuminating years in Ransar. Particularly now.”
“I don’t understand. Why particularly now?”
“Because, my dear, when my son finally recovers from his bull-headed, stubborn insistence on doing this his own way, without the slightest assistance or advice from anyone, he’s going to find himself in need of a new career and someone to help him put the pieces back together in a totally new configuration.”
“You think he’ll be found guilty?” Gadrial asked softly, and pain ran through the duchess’ eyes.
“I don’t know,” she said. “But in a very real sense, it makes very little difference, since Jasak’s military career is likely over, whatever the final verdict.” She bit her own carefully spell-tinted lip, allowing Gadrial to see her distress. “Even as an Andaran, myself, I’m sometimes appalled by the way our menfolk embrace the absurd code that regulates the way officers are allowed to function.”
“You’re appalled?” Gadrial gasped, and the duchess’ eyes flashed.
“You think it’s easy to watch a husband or a son pay fealty to a set of rules that chew them up and spit them out through no fault of their own? I understand why they do it—why it’s important to them—better than you probably ever will. But Gadrial, child, it hurts to watch them do it, knowing they’re innocent of any wrong-doing and knowing it’s tearing them apart, inside, too.”
Gadrial felt quite abruptly small and selfish and mean.
“No, dear, don’t feel that way,” the duchess said, deciphering her stricken expression. “You’ve no idea how comforting it is, knowing Jasak has someone as wonderful as you waiting to help him when he finally lets you back in.”
“Why has he locked me out?” she wailed. “I don’t understand it. Not at all! It can’t be this folderol about being a witness. We spent months together getting back home. If ‘witness contamination’ was going to happen, it already would have!” Then she lifted her hands to her cheeks, which scalded hot. “Oh, Rahil…” she whispered. She met the duchess’ gaze, eyes wide with horror. “It did. I fell in love with him.”
She covered her eyes, moaning, and Jasak’s mother gathered her in again and kissed her hair once more.
“I know. Which is precisely why you and I are having our breakfast alone this morning. I told Thankhar to take himself off with his son and fend for themselves, and Jathmar and Shaylar are enjoying breakfast in bed. And I’ve already promised both of them that I will personally be present during their questioning, whether by military or civil authorities.”
“I don’t understand,” Gadrial murmured into the duchess’ silk-clad shoulder, which was obviously spell-protected, since the material was not only unspotted, it wasn’t even wet. “How can you do that?” She sat up again, peering curiously into the duchess’ face. “You’re not a soldier or a witness, so how can you attend the court-martial? And the Duke said the parliamentary hearings will be closed sessions, too.”
The duchess chuckled. “My dear, you’re not Andaran. Trust me. I’ll be granted admission, whether they like it or not.”
Gadrial frowned in confusion.
“I think I’d better find out what you mean. I’m in love with the heir to a dukedom,” she said, feeling more than a little dazed at the notion, “and I have no idea what that entails, politically. Or even socially.” She bit her lip. “How can you possibly keep all those crazy rules straight? And why would you want to be present when Jathmar and Shaylar are questioned? I mean, they’re the reason your son’s being court-martialed. Why would you want to protect them? You haven’t known them long enough to consider them friends, the way I do.”
The duchess sighed and gave Gadrial an odd little smile.
“You do have a way of getting to the heart of things, don’t you?” she said. “Very well, let me start with your last point. Why do I want to protect them? Because they’re helpless. And because it’s my duty to protect the helpless. That would be the case even if they hadn’t become part of my family, my household.”
When Gadrial just stared at her, totally mystified, the duchess settled back with the unmistakable air of someone about to launch into a lengthy lesson.
“An Andaran noblewoman has a lifelong duty to help anyone who’s helpless, whether they ask for assistance or not. I know very well what you Ransarans think of the notions we Andarans hold dear, the concept of service before self. But it’s very real for us, very serious. We aristocrats enjoy great privileges, but they come with great price tags. Sometimes those price tags can bring terrible pain, even rip your world apart.”
Gadrial’s eyes widened.
“Oh, yes,” the duchess nodded. “You may laugh at our militant notions all you like,” she said, arching one brow in a delicate challenge Gadrial had no intention of taking up, “but many a case of serious injustice has been set right by an Andaran noblewoman who’s taken up the cause of the person being wronged.
“We may not serve in combat, but we do fight.” The duchess leaned in as if bestowing a secret. “At school in Ransar, I learned that Ransarans and Mythlans think Andaran wom
en are oppressed. Yet they somehow never noticed that Andaran men are every bit as controlled as the women are. They fight the wars, and we ensure the home front is worth their sacrifice. Sometimes that involves a bit more force than some of the administrators who think they run things quite expect.
“Andaran women aren’t in uniform, but we might as well be. If the Union of Arcana expects otherwise, they’re in for quite a surprise. The Andarans at the Commandery are fully cognizant of our power…and more than a little wary of our wrath. And before I’m done with this business, the rest of the gentlemen who think they run our worlds will be more than a little wary, too. I promise you that!”
Her eyes flashed in a way that delighted Gadrial.
The duchess was a fighter!
“Having said that,” the duchess continued smoothly, “let’s turn to Jathmar and Shaylar. They’re utterly helpless and at grave risk of enduring serious further injustice on several levels. That makes them my business. My official, Andaran-duty business. But it doesn’t end there, my dear. Since they’re Jasak’s shardonai—a decision on his part which I whole-heartedly support—they’re not simply in the custody of my family; they are my family, and that makes those duties even heavier and more vital for me to uphold.”
Gadrial’s brow furrowed.
“You’re serious about that. It isn’t just some abstract concept for you, is it?”
“No, indeed, it is not. Jathmar and Shaylar are legally a part of my family, part of my household.”
“Your household?” Gadrial echoed. “I thought Andaran men were in charge of Andaran households.”
She could hear the outrage in her own voice. So did the duchess, whose lips quirked again.
“That’s the general perception. But as with many other things about Andarans, it’s, ah, somewhat less than accurate. Thankhar is the lawful head of the family, but by long tradition, an Andaran wife is expected to run everything—and I do mean everything—about the home front when the men leave for war. It’s been so long since the Portal War that some people have forgotten about times when nearly every Andaran governorship was being managed by the Governess, but that is and remains the Andaran tradition.