A Matter of Oaths

by Helen S. Wright

  Rallya looked at him sharply; she had not realized he had seen the body. It explained why he was so pale. “Difficult to put up a fight when you’ve been stabbed in the back,” she commented.

  Fadir flushed. “Yes, ma’am, but…”

  “Go on. I’ve nothing better to do with my ears than listen to you.”

  “Wouldn’t she have known better than to let somebody come up behind her like that?”

  Rallya shrugged. “Yes. If she had been sober. If she hadn’t been distracted by somebody else. If she hadn’t been with somebody she thought she could trust.” She finished her drink, gestured at Fadir’s untouched beer. “If you want that, drink up before we round everybody up and get them out of here.”

  She watched him drink, realizing that for Fadir, Jalset’s World would be memorable, the place he had seen his first dead body. It was faintly annoying that she could not remember where she had had the same experience, and that she suspected she would forget about Jalset’s World as easily.

  “You’ve done all right today, Fadir,” she told him roughly. “Don’t spoil it by growing roots in that seat.”

  Conversation at Peace-force Headquarters, Jalset’s World

  “You know it has to be another webber, and I know it has to be another webber, but we’ll never get the Convoy Commander to agree. According to him, there isn’t a single member of the Guild who’d give another webber a bloody nose, let alone stab one in the back. Their precious Oath doesn’t allow it.”

  “Why are we wasting our time worrying about it? If the murderer is aboard one of the ships, that’s the Guild’s problem, not ours.”

  “We have to arrest somebody, to keep the Guild happy. Especially now, with this damned Outsider trouble. If they decide to stop the convoys…”

  “They can’t. Half the Imperial Court uses blissdream.”

  “They’d find something to replace it quickly enough, and if they didn’t, the Guild wouldn’t care. Listen, we didn’t arrest Chalir until the day after the webber was killed, did we?”

  “No.”

  “Talk to him. Persuade him to confess to killing the webber as well as his partner, and concoct a believable story to pass on to the Convoy Commander.”

  “What do I offer Chalir?”

  “Whatever it takes.”

  254/5043

  ARAMAS ZONE, OLD EMPIRE

  Joshim hid a smile as Churi ran out of words and resorted to enthusiastic but imprecise gestures to complete his answer.

  “You’ve worked hard at that since your last assessment,” he said instead.

  “Yes, sir. Although I didn’t really understand it until Rafe explained about compound feedback. Once I understood that, the rest was simple. Well, easier,” Churi corrected himself. “It wasn’t that Rafe’s explanation was better than yours,” he added, belatedly remembering the two hours that Joshim had spent explaining the same subject to him. “It just made more sense to me.”

  Joshim did smile at that. “Have you explored the mathematics of it yet?” he asked.

  “No, sir. Rafe said I should concentrate on getting the ideas right first.”

  “When you’re ready to try the maths, tell me and I’ll start you off. Or ask Rafe, if you want.”

  “I’ll do that, sir.”

  Churi had moved forward to the edge of his seat in nervous anticipation of Joshim’s verdict. A Webmaster’s assessment was always an ordeal for a junior in training, and particularly so when they had done badly in their last assessment, as Churi had. A consistently poor performance could cost a junior their berth aboard Bhattya, or in an extreme case their web. A webber had to have an instinctive understanding of the way the web worked, of its possibilities and limitations, of the consequences of their actions within it. Without that instinct, they might think when there was no time to think, or act when action was the worst choice they could make. Few webbers were born with the instinct, but all of them had to acquire it or lose their place in the web, and Joshim was the final judge aboard Bhattya of who had it and who did not.

  “You’ve made good progress this quarter year,” Joshim said encouragingly. “Especially since you’ve learned that there are no shortcuts.”

  Churi relaxed visibly. “Yes, sir. I think it’s because Rafe has helped me a lot, particularly when we’re in the web.”

  Rafe had plenty of time to spare in the web, Joshim thought unhappily as Churi left, time he would not have if he were allowed to take the key-position again. That decision would have to be reviewed soon, before Rafe’s brevet promotion was made substantive; no ship could have a First—or any senior—barred from the key-position. And without any new evidence, Joshim did not know how he could reverse his decision.

  It did not help that Rafe would not discuss the matter. He had referred to it once—obliquely—since Joshim had imposed the restriction, when he asked for permission to fit some training sessions into their shared web-shift, the training sessions which had helped Churi so much. The irony was that it took a high degree of web-skill to combine the number two position in the web with a teaching role without disturbing the work of the active team. By giving permission, Joshim was showing a rare level of confidence in Rafe, and deflecting questions from the rest of the web-room about the restriction placed upon him. Which was probably one reason why Rafe had suggested it.

  Salu’i’kamai would never have had this problem, Joshim thought ruefully. She would have followed her gut feeling, certain that it was the voice of her Goddess prompting her; no conflicts for her between duty and desire. A direct link to a deity was an advantage best appreciated when it had been lost; prayers, to which the answers were unclear or unrecognized, were a poor substitute which so far had produced no solution to Joshim’s dilemma. Or if they had, it was not the solution that Joshim hoped for and so he had not seen it. That was another problem with prayers: it was permissible to pray for what you wanted, but what you got was what the gods wanted, and there was no guarantee that the two would coincide. And if the gods had no interest in your problem, you got nothing, not even an indication that it was yours alone to deal with.

  The door alert sounded, reminding Joshim of another problem, one which had been wished on him by the assignment clerks and—as far as he knew—not by any higher authority. Elanis was punctual to the second, not out of simple good manners but from his policy of investing the exact minimum of effort necessary to escape criticism from his seniors. He had been given ample time to realize that it was not an approach that would be tolerated aboard Bhattya; he had failed to change it, so now he was due for a warning. Unless he produced an acceptable explanation, Joshim reminded himself scrupulously.

  “You wanted to see me, sir.” Elanis bowed as he stepped through the door.

  “Yes. Sit down, please.” Formality was the right note for this interview; Elanis would respect nothing else.

  “Thank you.” Elanis sat back in the chair, either not nervous or hiding it well.

  “I talk to every new member of the web-room after they’ve had some time to settle in, about their work and their adjustment to a new ship. Most Webmasters do, so you’ll have been through similar interviews before.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Are you satisfied with your work in the web?” Elanis’s chance to make his excuses, if he had any.

  “Yes, sir, quite satisfied.”

  “You’re not aware that there have been complaints about it?”

  “No, sir. May I ask who has complained, and on what grounds?”

  “Several members of the web-room have expressed doubts about your commitment, both in the web and out of it. I believe that they discussed the problem with you before coming to me because they were unhappy with your response.”

  Elanis shrugged. “I’m not accustomed to being criticized by juniors with less experience than me.”

  “They may have less experience, but they’re entitled to an opinion about your performance, and to more respect from you than they received,” Joshim said
sharply. “Their opinion is shared by the two seniors who web with you regularly, and confirmed by my own observations. Your work is not satisfactory.”

  “In what respect?”

  “You’re lazy, you’re inconsiderate, and you overestimate yourself,” Joshim told him bluntly. “You expose the rest of your web-shift to needless risk.”

  “My previous Webmasters had no complaints,” Elanis said stiffly.

  “I can see that from your record.” See it, but not understand it, Joshim added silently. “Bhattya’s requirements are more stringent than the requirements of a surveyship or a passenger carrier. If you feel unable to meet them, you should consider a transfer to a less demanding berth.”

  “Is this a formal warning?”

  “Yes.” Joshim had not intended to make it formal, but it was plain that an informal warning would have no effect. “You have the right to enter a defence into your record, if you wish.”

  “If a formal warning goes into my record, I shall certainly enter a defence,” Elanis said calmly. “Although it would be better for both of us if neither entry were made. And for Rafe.”

  “In the face of statements from every member of Bhattya’s web-room who has complained about you, an accusation of undue influence is not going to be much of a defence for you, or a problem for Rafe and me,” Joshim said softly. “You have the right to know that I will be entering an account of this conversation in your record, in support of my existing request for your transfer out of my web-room. I am also giving you formal warning that, if there is no lasting improvement in your work starting with your next web-shift, you will be barred from my web for wilful negligence.”

  “You would certainly regret that,” Elanis said smoothly. “I have friends who would make sure that you did.”

  “You could be pillow-friend to the entire Guild Council without gaining enough influence to get a Webmaster removed from their ship,” Joshim said scornfully.

  “Enter that warning in my record, or bar me from the web, and you’ll never be anything but the Webmaster of a passed-over patrolship,” Elanis sneered. “No Guildhall berth when your web starts to fail you. No future at all.”

  “The warning stands,” Joshim told him icily. “You may enter your defence when you wish. I suggest you also submit a request for a voluntary move, if you do not want your record sullied with a compulsory transfer. And if your work does not improve immediately, the charge of wilful negligence will also be entered and you will be barred from the web.”

  “You will regret this,” Elanis promised.

  “You may go now.”

  So that was the explanation for Elanis’s blameless record, Joshim thought angrily as the door closed. Influence, or the threat of it. Rafe had suggested as much when he commented on Avannya’s failure to get rid of the lazy aristo. How close to retirement from the web had Avannya’s Webmaster been, and how intent on getting a Guildhall berth? Close enough to worry about Elanis’s threats, probably, and close enough to dread a future outside the Guild.

  Joshim called Elanis’s record onto his screen and started to word the new entry. The record of their conversation had to be made at once, while his memory of it was still fresh, and to defer the warning, even for a few hours, would be seen by Elanis as a sign of weakness. He was determined that the arrogant junior would not have the pleasure of even a few seconds mistaken triumph.

  One thing influence could not achieve was the alteration of a webber’s record; once made, Joshim’s entry would haunt Elanis until he retired. It would not stop him getting a berth as a junior; only a judgement that he was totally unfit to web could do that. However, it would make it difficult for him to get a prime berth and impossible to gain promotion to senior. Unless, of course, he set his friends to work on the problem, but if he had enough influence to get himself a senior’s berth, he would already have done so. It was doubtful that there was enough influence anywhere in the Twin Empires to get Elanis promoted to senior, Joshim decided cynically.

  The door alert sounded again, quickly followed by Vidar’s head around the door, his red hair still damp from his shift in the web.

  “Busy?”

  Joshim shook his head. “Just let me finish this.” He added his identity-code and stored the record, remembering to grant temporary access to Elanis so that he could enter his defence.

  “A good morning, from the way Churi is grinning from ear to ear,” Vidar commented, dropping into the empty chair and putting his feet up on Joshim’s desk.

  “He did well, and so did Magred.”

  “But not Elanis?”

  “Have a look at his record.”

  “I’ve been watching you update it.”

  Joshim was not surprised. An observer from outside Bhattya’s web-room might be fooled by Vidar’s pretense to be interested only in sex and ship systems, but there was nothing that went on in the web-room that he did not make his business. And nothing that he and Rallya would not bet on.

  “Who won?” he asked.

  Vidar laughed. “I did. Rallya said you’d think you had to be gentle with him because Rafe doesn’t like him. I’m looking forward to collecting when she comes back from the escort Commanders’ conference.”

  Joshim grunted irritably. “She deserves to lose if she doesn’t know me better than that.”

  “True.” Vidar dropped his feet off the desk. “It’s a pity you didn’t make a reck of the interview.”

  “You think I’ll need one?” Joshim asked in surprise.

  “I’d be happier if you had one.”

  “Elanis probably thinks bedding one member of the Guild Council once counts as influence,” Joshim said drily.

  “You aren’t worried?”

  “However much influence he’s got, I’m safe until I retire from the web. Or until the other members of Bhattya’s Three throw me out,” Joshim teased.

  “Which I won’t do, and Rallya won’t do, and Rallya’s successor won’t do,” Vidar prophesied slyly.

  “Rallya will be with us for years yet.”

  “How many years? I may be Captain and not Webmaster, but I can tell when somebody’s reflexes are slowing. She isn’t the webber she was ten years ago, Joshim.”

  “None of us are.”

  “But you’re thinking ahead to Rallya’s replacement,” Vidar guessed. “Why else were you so choosy about our new First? You’d never been so difficult to please before.”

  “Pure lust?” Joshim suggested.

  Vidar made a rude noise. “That came later.”

  Joshim knew that Vidar would press until he got the answer he was certain was there. “The thought of Rallya’s retirement did cross my mind. I haven’t discussed it with her though,” he warned.

  “So how long?”

  “Five years,” Joshim said reluctantly. Vidar had the information and the experience to work it out for himself. “That’s my best guess. I can’t be more accurate without doing a full recalibration.”

  “And you can’t do that without telling her why, and the resultant explosion would breach the hull,” Vidar said sympathetically. “Have you heard the rumours that she won’t get a station post?”

  “Yes, before I joined Bhattya. Rumours that she won’t get a station post, that Bhattya is down on somebody’s hate-list, that nobody from Bhattya’s Three has ever risen higher.” Joshim shrugged. “If it’s true, she must have made some powerful enemies. Forty years is a long time to keep a vendetta going.”

  “Would Rallya make any other kind of enemy?” Vidar said in amusement.

  “Well, if I’m damned already, it’s one more reason not to be scared of Elanis.” Joshim frowned, remembering something the junior had said. “He’s certainly heard the rumours. Called Bhattya a passed-over patrolship.”

  Vidar stroked his moustache with one finger thoughtfully. “We could be,” he remarked. “Only one assignment to the Disputed Zone in forty years? Never assigned to the Imperial Zone? With our reputation, we could expect a few of the prestige assignme
nts to come our way.”

  Joshim raised his eyebrows. “Do you want to fight in the Disputed Zone?” he challenged. “Or to do ceremonial escort duty for the Old Emperor’s favourite aristos?”

  “No more than you do. Which is why I approve of your choice of Rallya’s replacement.” Vidar smiled widely. “Nobody is going to give an Oath-breaker any prestige assignments. Just the hard and necessary jobs, the ones we get now.”

  “You’re making a lot of assumptions,” Joshim warned.

  “Justified assumptions,” Vidar said smugly. “You can’t convince me that you don’t want Rafe as our next Commander. I’ve no objections, and he’ll never get a better offer. The only question is whether Elanis can stop the Council from ratifying his promotion to Commander.”

  Joshim scowled. “He didn’t threaten Rafe, not after the initial accusation of undue influence.”

  “Doesn’t know how vulnerable Rafe is,” Vidar suggested. “If he finds out…”

  “The Council has never refused to ratify a promotion into a Three,” Joshim pointed out. “Blue hell would break out if they did. The autonomy of each Three is one of the foundations of the Guild. Nobody is going to jeopardize that for the sake of Elanis’s spite. And if Elanis has any influence worth having, what’s he doing aboard a passed-over patrolship anyway?”

  “I wonder if Rallya made the same sort of misjudgement when she made her enemies,” Vidar commented.

  “Knowing Rallya, she knew exactly what she was doing and went ahead out of sheer stubbornness.”

  Vidar put his head back and laughed. “Maybe. Going to ask her advice about protecting your back, and Rafe’s?”

  “Without mentioning that I’m worried about Rafe’s promotion to Commander?”

  “Difficult,” Vidar conceded. “Does Rafe know you’ve got his career planned for him?”

  “We haven’t discussed it.”

  “He’s no fool. He’ll have guessed,” Vidar predicted.

  “His brevet rank has to be made substantive before anything else can happen,” Joshim said heavily.