by L D Inman
Inslee went to catch his few hours' sleep before any other little items could line up on his desk.
~*~
The sun had gone down over the sea, in a blaze of chaotic color that promised another fair day tomorrow. Emmerich du Rau lightly swirled the last few swallows of wine in his glass and watched the sky darken, revealing by degrees his own reflection in the full-length window.
He was a spare, neat man, not overtall, with graying dark hair and keen black eyes, whose habitual expression was one of gathered intention, like a cat preparing to spring. He took a long time about springing, but when he finally did, the result was terrible to behold.
It was that quality which had propelled him to the top of command in the capital at Bernhelm. His strategic marriage to the daughter of one of the old lords had made him a natural choice for a delicate compromise between the military party and the receding aristocracy of Berenia. Du Rau now looked down upon the capital as Lord Bernhelm: its glittering lights, reflected in the estuary in its midst, were his possession and his responsibility. As he watched, the lights of the city winked out, first one at a time and then in clumps. Blackout hour had arrived. On the other side of the palace from this room, the Lantern Tower should have cast its magisterial radiance to the far edges of the plaza below. The Lantern Tower had been dark for twenty-four years of war. But not too much longer, if his plans were in accordance with reality.
Over the ten years since his ascendance, he had consolidated the resources and infrastructures of the country, saving it from financial ruin, and put any budget surplus into quiet military redevelopment. The trickiest part had been teaching his patience to the rest of the war party, but that too had fallen into place. He had even begun to think, cautiously, that Berenia would get through a full generation without a coup, despite having lost the steadying alliance with the island country across the strait. Chance had favored their cousins the Verlakers with plenteous water and natural borders in the first wretched scrabble of the post-nuclear age. But greed and betrayal had turned them into the most despicable of enemies. If he failed to subdue Verlac now, du Rau knew he would not be able to keep his government from falling apart. But he was not going to fail.
Behind him, a light knock sounded on the door and Captain Alsburg entered, reflected in the glass. “My lord,” he said, “the intelligence report is in.”
“Very good, Alsburg,” du Rau said quietly. “I’ll receive it in my office, in half an hour.”
“Yes, my lord,” Alsburg said. The door clicked shut behind his departure.
He had looked forward to these reports ever since they had broken enemy codes for their communication frequencies. The highest-security levels were still blocked to them, but quiet listening to unguarded conversations had revealed fault lines that he could exploit. There was a new Lord Commander for the military on the Verlaker High Council. This was not good news in itself; Alban Selkirk was a dangerous man. But he had a weakness. Du Rau had monitored with satisfaction his growing rift with Thaddeys Barklay, who had capped a career of infamy with the ludicrous project of founding a school for courtesy on the south coast. Let Selkirk stalk his rightful prey: it would save du Rau the trouble, and distract Selkirk into the bargain.
His patience was finally paying off. Though full darkness had now descended over the horizon, he cast his gaze westward, toward his enemy. By now the sunset light would have gone also from the sky over the island of Verlac, its strongholds and coasts; they were all in the darkness together. A darkness in which he would soon extract his revenge.
Behind him, the door opened again, more quietly. The ghost of his wife’s reflection joined his in the window glass, tall and stately. His reflection saluted her with its wineglass, and du Rau drained the last swallow.
“The intelligence report is in,” he told her.
“Ah.” Lady Ingrid smiled. “I won’t wait up, then.”
“I’ll brief you in the morning.”
Assuming there was something substantial in the brief. “You think it’s promising, then?”
“I expect it will be.” Du Rau sighed briefly. “If I had my preference, I’d starve them out a little longer.”
“You’ll find the opening you need.” Ingrid spoke with quiet certainty.
“Yes.” It wasn’t just the war party’s impatience driving du Rau’s timetable. But only Ingrid knew that. He sighed again, a noise somewhere between frustration and prayer. “Just give me five good years and an heir with a decent head on his shoulders,” he muttered.
“Dr. Berthau can buy you the years.” Ingrid’s dryness provoked him to a smile before she even finished the thought: “I don’t know who can buy you the heir.”
“Quite.” He turned briefly to glance at her: the red-gold gloss her hair still held under the lights, her expression of half-lidded serenity that concealed years of patient thought. “Unless it were you.”
She made a tiny sound, an amused scoff. “I like my job. I don’t wish to exchange it.”
“Keep an eye on them for me, then,” he said, comfortably.
“Certainly, my lord.”
He set down the empty wineglass on the sideboard, and Ingrid turned with him to leave. They parted, with the wordless grace of Ingrid’s goodnight, in the gallery; for a moment he watched her go, a flow of fine tunic and quiet carpeted steps in the shadows surrounding the central atrium. The fan windows at the top, jewel blue when he went into the vista room, were now black with the night outside, and the strongest light was the small flood picking out the golden details of the frieze below: Lady Wisdom with her inscrutable eyes, holding up her lantern from the folds of her gold-edged cloak. The lantern was real; the palace employed someone whose sole job was to make sure it never went out.
Flickers from the lantern’s flame glinted on the surfaces of the stained-glass panels of du Rau’s executive office as he passed them to the door. He brought up the lights as he came in, and seated himself at his desk.
Prompt to his duty, Alsburg soon appeared with a large file tucked under his arm, briefly silhouetted by Lady Wisdom’s light in the doorway. Du Rau looked up.
“Very good. Put it on my desk, Alsburg.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“And notify the general staff that I want to meet with them first thing in the morning.” Du Rau reached for the file.
“Yes, my lord.”
“And that will be all, Captain. Goodnight.” Alsburg bowed and went away, closing the door behind him.
Alone in the quiet of his office, Emmerich du Rau settled down to read.
One: Ryswyck
1
Speir pulled out her battered school tablet and laid it on the table next to her breakfast tray. There was not much chance of being able to study in this din for the meteorology exam Captain Dury had set her, but it was worth the attempt to review her notes one last time.
Breakfast at Ryswyck was not a quiet affair. It was the one time of day in which everyone was present in the same place at the same time—breakfast, that is, and when the whistle blew to start a match in the arena. The first- and second-year cadets, a larger class by far than the junior officer class, were the noisiest, mobbing one another from bench to bench, working off their youthful high spirits. The majority of students entering Ryswyck were twenty or twenty-one, having just come off their national service and completed basic training at their local base. Speir, at the ripe old age of twenty-three, observed their antics with a benevolence she suspected to be mostly borrowed against the dignity of her promotion.
Someone rang the small bell at the door, and everyone rose swiftly to their feet. A sudden disorienting silence fell as General Barklay entered with two of the teaching officers; he waved them all down, and very quickly the din resumed. Some of the students went to greet Barklay as he got his breakfast tray and sat down at a bench; how Barklay managed to get any meal eaten was a mystery to Speir, but somehow he did it.
Speir bent over her notes and spooned up a bite of farina, the v
oices of her classmates rising in a cacophonous canopy over her head. She had taken to Ryswyck from her first week as a cadet like a fish released into water, and though familiarity had weathered the edges of her delight, she still took a simple pleasure in the humming busy activity that kept the Academy going like a turbine.
Presently Barklay rose, and Speir looked up when people around her started taking their trays to the hatch. She made to put away her tablet so that she could do the same, but her neighbor said to her, “Shall I take yours too?” and she thanked him and remained where she was. Her bench already faced the dais at the far end of the hall; the one across the trestle from her was refilling with students facing the other direction. Silence gradually settled once more, and everyone rose to their feet when Barklay nodded from the dais at Ellis, who began to lead the morning orison.
Voices that had ground against each other in chaotic turmoil like rocks in a jar, now smoothed together like the striations of a cool and powerful muscle, rising and then falling to a pregnant hum for Ellis’s next versicle. It was said that every Ilonian had a good voice, but the truth was that every Ilonian learned at an early age how to use what voice she or he had. Most everyone could sing the chants of the tradition, and many could lead them.
Barklay drew up to the lectern after the chant was finished, and the students all found their seats.
“Good morning,” he said, and there was a murmur of returned greeting. “I’ve a few announcements before I turn over the assembly to Captain Marag. First, the rota captains have asked me to remind you that the duty rotation turns over today. Junior officers, please find your captains after the assembly to get your briefing. Second. We’ve received requests for another service course to be conducted here, both from Amity Base and two of the naval commanders at Central Command. As you know, it is a great deal of work to conduct a service course, and a second one, I think, too much for the number of junior and senior officers we have. Therefore, I am taking volunteers from among the second-year cadets—” there was a frisson of delight from the second-years— “to supply the necessary teaching assistance. If you are interested in volunteering, please speak to one of the officers in charge of your section. I am at this point particularly interested in those studying for the navy, but will not turn away army volunteers.”
Barklay waited for the whisper of excited comment to die down before continuing. “Third,” he said, “the guest quarters are currently being occupied by a crew who are working on the turbines over at Benel River Station. Please extend to them your hospitality and help them with anything they may need, such as letting them use the drying cupboards in your wing when the others are full, and so on. And fourth and last: I request that those who enjoy the privilege of audiovisual calls out of Ryswyck not abuse that privilege. It is better courtesy to allow the com tower crew to pursue their priorities, and not have to juggle secure transmissions with multiple requests for open lines. When you use the com-deck station, please ask the tower crew if it is an optimal time to request an open line for a personal call. Let me also remind you to observe military security in your conversations, and if you must transmit sensitive information, record your communication and send it by a secure line.
“And now I will turn over the lectern to Captain Marag.” Barklay laid his closed hand over his breast, in the Ryswyckian gesture that here meant thanks, and stepped back.
Captain Marag greeted the student body with a brief smile, and made a list of detailed announcements about the week’s coursework (to which everyone listened with conscious patience), and a few announcements on the week’s matches (to which everyone listened with unfeigned interest). Barklay dismissed the assembly, and the hall exploded afresh as the students clattered up, cadets hurrying to classes, junior officers dodging about to find their rotas. Speir put her tablet back in her scrip, hitched the long strap cross-shoulder, and got up to do the same.
A Rota had begun to collect to the side of the dais, next to the Ilonian banner and out of the way of traffic. Speir reached them to hear Douglas saying, “We’ll need to meet with E Rota to give our briefing on the classroom duties, so I agreed with Cameron we’d compare notes in the north wing in about—” he glanced at the clock— “a quarter of an hour from now. Meanwhile Ellis has promised me he’d be present to brief us when we take our sections for sparring practice this afternoon, so that should be covered.”
A quarter of an hour would be just enough for Speir to get to her quarters and back with all that she would need for the morning’s classes. With luck, the briefing wouldn’t make her late for her exam with Dury. When A Rota’s consultation broke up, she left the hall quickly.
All the same, she was caught up by Cadet Baxter on her way to the north wing for a long query about the cadet match schedule; Speir extricated herself as graciously as she could and sped her pace, but she was still the last one to arrive in the teachers’ workroom.
“Ah, Speir, there you are,” Cameron said, looking up from where she hung over a table reviewing a scorebook. “You’re assisting Marag in supply management, aren’t you? Come here and consult with me and Neely.”
Cameron had taken Speir under her wing in the first weeks after her promotion; her kindness was beginning to feel a little officious, but Speir had decided it did no harm to let Cameron do her the favor. It seemed to be Cameron’s style, rather than an indication that Speir still had to prove her competence.
It helped, though, that Cameron was navy. Speir went forward with a comfortable smile to brief Cameron and Neely on the week’s lessons in supply management.
There were no surprises for E Rota to absorb for their week’s duties: the students’ classwork scores had continued on their expected trendlines, none of the senior officers had altered the lesson planning, and the general exam was still a few weeks away. The last few minutes of the briefing found most of the two rotas chatting about inconsequential things.
Behind her, Turnbull was regaling several others with a very old and complicated joke involving a Northern farmer, a Southern businessman, and a Berenian, all of whom for various reasons were failing to win sexual favors from a woman in a bar. The Berenian came off worst, of course, and Speir shifted uncomfortably, thinking to herself that if Barklay were present, Turnbull would be in a great deal of trouble for repeating this joke. Barklay’s low tolerance for caricature was legendary, which was probably why Turnbull had lowered his voice.
But even in a low voice he could tell the joke with animation, and he managed to make the tired punch line amusing enough that several people broke into illicit snickers.
“Yes, well,” Ahrens said, laughing, “I hear that up north they have a hard time telling the women from farm animals anyway.”
A sudden silence descended. The room was heavy with conviction that Ahrens had gone too far: Speir followed the others’ gazes to see Douglas, twisted round in his chair and regarding Ahrens with ominous detachment.
“Would you care to repeat that, Ahrens?” he said, in an uninflected voice that made Speir suspend her breath.
With an attempt at ease, Ahrens said, “Oh, I’m sorry, Douglas. I forgot you were from the North. I meant no offense.”
Douglas got up, and everyone drew out of his way. He came toward Ahrens without an ounce of threat; threat, Speir thought, was wholly unnecessary.
“That’s not good enough,” Douglas said quietly. “I may be present, but you were discourteous to a whole population who aren’t here to defend themselves.”
“Douglas, I didn’t—”
“Have you ever been to a Northern farm?” Douglas pressed him.
“No,” Ahrens admitted.
“Have you ever been north of Killness Pass, yourself?” Speir could hear clearly now the musical accent of the North country under Douglas’s educated tones. Next to her, Cameron sucked in her lips and held her breath.
“No—”
“Does your mother have any relatives up there?”
“No.”
“Do y
ou know what you’re talking about at all, Ahrens?”
Ahrens gave a sigh, lips pursed. “No, Douglas. I don’t.”
“Then may I suggest you think twice in the future before you make sport from your own ignorance,” Douglas said.
The two men’s gazes were locked. The force of Douglas’s attention was palpable, and made no room for Ahrens at all. The others could therefore see clearly the act of courage it took for Ahrens to drop his defensive challenge and bring his closed hand to his breast.
“I own the fault,” Ahrens said hardily. “I’m sorry. Forgive me.”
All eyes went to Douglas. For a moment he showed no response: then slowly he drew in a breath and straightened up and away, and Speir could breathe again.
“All’s well,” Douglas said, and then in a softer voice to the room at large, “Excuse me.” He made his way quietly out from among them and was gone.
Ahrens puffed a heavy breath and plowed a hand through his hair. “Merciful hell. I thought sure we were headed to the arena for that.”
“I think Turnbull bears some of that fault,” Cameron said sharply, rounding on him. “What possessed you to repeat that stupid joke?”
“The sex part was funny,” Turnbull said, defensively.
“Well, maybe you could devote your considerable wit to inventing a funny sex joke that doesn’t denigrate anyone’s heritage.”
“Well, there’s an idea,” Turnbull said. A hint of his usual mischievous smile returned to his face. “But I didn’t mean to insult anyone’s heritage, honestly—and it’s not as if anyone came out unscathed—”
“You know that’s not the point,” Cameron retorted, and echoing Speir’s earlier thought, added, “What would Barklay say if he heard that?”