by L D Inman
“Stop,” he said, and at the same moment reached for the damp-darkened hair of the bound man, lifting his head so his face could be seen. Their eyes met in an intimacy that swallowed up all his past and all his future, the pinnacle of his sick enjoyment and in the same instant the depth of his self-horror.
The other voices clamored, knocking at the door.
“General Barklay, sir!”
Barklay’s eyes snapped open, and he half choked on a sob. He had to swallow a few times before he could get words out. “Yes, who is it?”
“Lieutenant Ahrens, sir. I’m asked to give you a message.”
Barklay breathed deep twice and then said: “Thank you. I’ll be with you in a moment.”
He struggled up to sit on the edge of his bunk, and held his head in his hands for a moment before levering to his feet and pacing heavily to his bathroom to splash his face with cold water.
It had been a long while since the last time he’d had that dream; he was still intensely aroused, which he would not be if the dream had been allowed to run its course. Damn Jarrow and his spying; this was what came of repression. Barklay hated that dream, with an almost friendly hatred that grew more blackly cheerful with its every return.
He wanted Douglas, but he shook off the thought and ran more cold water. Mustn’t keep Ahrens waiting.
Barklay emerged from his quarters a few minutes later, dressed, to find not only Ahrens but Marag and Jarrow waiting for him. The dream dropped away from his attention. “What’s happening?”
Jarrow smirked. Marag gave him a rueful smile. “It seems I’m going after all,” he said.
~*~
Speir woke an hour too early. The sun was not yet above the horizon, but the light had risen enough to encompass the shadows, so that everything she saw in her quiet quarters was one blank blue-gray hue. She ought to have felt comforted by the homely silence: this was as much home to her now as any place she would ever be, but the chill was in her heart, not in the air.
So then, you’ve funked it. It’s a fact. Get used to it.
It was a new experience for her, to be prepared for a thing and yet to be taken down by it all the same. But of course the remedy was the same for this as for when one was knocked down by the unexpected.
Get up again.
Abruptly Speir threw off the covers and swung her feet to the chill tile. She’d find something that needed doing in the arena complex. That would keep her busy till breakfast.
In the vestibule of the cloister she found Ahrens, Fia, and Stevens loitering and talking.
“Morning, Speir,” Stevens said. “You’re up betimes.”
“So are you,” she returned. There was something in the waiting air of her comrades that made her pause. “What’s going on?”
“Barklay’s commandeered the tower,” Ahrens told her. “I’m waiting for him to come down so I can brief Fia to take over.”
“Seems Marag’s been called to consult with the tac department at Amity,” Stevens said.
Speir blinked. “What, now?”
“This very morning,” Fia said. “The word is that all the tactics officers at Amity have been called to council at Central Command.”
“For how long?” Speir said.
Ahrens shrugged. “Couple days. Maybe a week.”
“Seems odd,” Speir said with a frown, “that they’d call them all the way to the capital when it’s much less traveling for Amity to hold the council here.”
“That’s what I thought,” Stevens said, “but apparently they don’t want Ryswyck’s hospitality this time.”
“Barklay wasn’t happy,” Ahrens said. “And Jarrow wasn’t helping.”
Speir would have been more surprised to hear that Jarrow was helping, but she kept this to herself. “What did he say?”
“Oh, he offered his assistance with teaching in such a way as to imply that the junior officer class would be very unsuitable substitutes.” Ahrens shook his head impatiently. “As if we haven’t been making up the deficits in the rotation all year. But I think he was just trying to get a rise out of Barklay. And he almost succeeded, too.”
“Wish I’d been there,” Stevens said.
“Oh, no you don’t,” Ahrens retorted. “I certainly didn’t want to be in the same room with the look Barklay was giving him. But he kept his temper and told Marag to pull together his briefings and assign Jarrow wherever he saw fit. Then he went up the tower and sent Fia down to wait with me.”
“I suppose he’s giving Central Command an earful on an open line,” Stevens said, idly. “With impeccable courtesy, of course.”
“Aye, well,” Ahrens said, a sly smile touching the corners of his mouth, “if it’s not costly, it’s not courtesy.”
It was one of Barklay’s favorite sayings, and everyone chuckled quietly. Fia said with eyebrow raised: “So then you’re going to be telling him that when he comes down?”
“Hell no,” Ahrens said, and Stevens laughed.
“Don’t think anyone’s tried out one of Barklay’s own lines on Barklay himself. I can just see it. ‘Just remember, sir, your enemy is nothing more than a friend who hurts you.’”
“That’s a good one,” Fia said as Ahrens snorted a laugh. “But my personal favorite is the one that goes, ‘The business of war—’”
“‘—is to put war out of business,’” everyone finished with her. Speir grinned affectionately with the rest.
At that moment the door clacked open and Barklay was in their midst. Fia blushed; Ahrens coughed into his hand; and Stevens straightened to his full height. Speir’s grin dimmed to a faint smile as she took in the lowering frown between Barklay’s brows and his unshaven cheek.
“Thank you for waiting, Ahrens, Fia,” he said. “The tower’s all yours; go and relieve Cadet Mason of his temporary charge.”
“Yes, sir,” Ahrens said with alacrity, and they both slipped past Barklay and made good their escape.
“Stevens,” Barklay said (and Speir didn’t think she was imagining the dry tone of his voice), “I think Marag would like a word with you about the teaching schedule.”
“Yes, sir.” Stevens saluted cheerfully and departed in the other direction.
That left Speir, looking up at Barklay thoughtfully as he regarded her. She’d been expecting something fearsome from Ahrens’s description, but now Barklay only looked tired in the wake of whatever anger had passed through him.
“You’re up early this morning, Lieutenant Speir,” he said.
“Yes, sir.” She shrugged at his tacit inquiry. “Couldn’t sleep. I was going out to the arena complex to look for a task that needed doing.” Speir paused and screwed up her mouth in consideration. “Unless there’s something I can do for you, sir.”
He looked for a brief moment as though he were going to brush away her offer, but changed it to: “Actually, Lieutenant, there is something you can do for me. Go and pull the arena master schedule for the next ten days, cross-reference it with Douglas’s and Cameron’s rosters, and leave it in my office so that when I meet with Douglas and Cameron to cover Marag’s duties, I’ll be prepared.”
“Yes, sir, certainly,” Speir said, glad of a task at last.
Barklay saluted her, dismissing her to her work, but then added, “Oh—and….”
“Yes, sir?”
“You might help me think of some new slogans to amuse my students with,” Barklay said, with a wry sideways smile.
She grinned back, her heart eased. “I’ll see what I can do, sir.”
~*~
The first thing Douglas found out when he rose in the morning was the big news buzzing in the halls: that Marag had been called to consult at the capital with his colleagues in the Amity tactics department, and would be leaving later in the morning, not to return till the end of the week.
The second thing he found out was that Marag had asked Jarrow to serve as second marshal in Douglas’s place, since Douglas would be filling in for Marag in the judge’s chair.
> They caught up with him after breakfast, where he was helping two of his cadets change and rake the sawdust in the arena. He looked up to see Marag and Jarrow coming up to the rail, and at their expectant glances he leaned his brush-rake against a panel and climbed up through the entry well of the combat pit. “Good morning, sirs.”
Marag returned his Ryswyckian salute; Jarrow offered him a small bow. Douglas hadn’t seen him yet use the Academy salute; it was a polite resistance, at least.
“I thought you might join me in briefing Commander Jarrow on the duties of the marshals ahead of the match this afternoon,” Marag said.
“My pleasure, sir.” Douglas gave a bow in Jarrow’s direction.
“Well, as you can see, the marshals sit in these perches at the top of the entry wells,” Marag explained to Jarrow, “and they join with the judge in observing blows and physical placement. They assist the medics when necessary, and handle spare weapons and other equipment.”
Jarrow leaned over to inspect the entry well, and the curved shield for the door below into the combat pit. “And they are useful, I suppose, in separating the combatants when they are incensed.”
That had never been necessary in Douglas’s experience. He opened his mouth to say so, but Marag got ahead of him with a prim instruction: “No one enters the combat pit unless the headmaster, the judge, or one of the combatants gives the word.”
Jarrow did not respond but for a flicker of his eyebrows as he studied the combat pit.
Marag said to Douglas, “I haven’t given you much time to work out a judging strategy, I’m afraid. I had it in mind to reserve an arbitrary for Gordon, if necessary.”
“Aye,” Douglas said thoughtfully, “that showy flourish of his with the baton. Might not need it though, if Askill schools him for it.”
“And he well might,” Marag said.
“Should be a good match,” Douglas agreed.
Jarrow had straightened up and was listening. “How often is the arbitrary fault used?” he asked.
“Depends,” Douglas said, with a facial shrug. “On how well the combatants are matched, largely, though it’s also used to rebuke things that aren’t strictly faults. Mostly it’s used to ensure a match goes three rounds.” He grinned briefly. “Nobody likes a match to end early.”
“Then I take it that arbitrary faults aren’t given in the deciding round?” Jarrow said. He squinted at Douglas, as if trying to read a fine print in his expression.
Douglas had never seen that done, but— “On very rare occasions, the judge tests the courtesy of the combatants thus,” Marag said. His laconic tone made Douglas look at him sharply, and as if in answer Marag added, “I was once victor of a match that way.”
Really? That was interesting. Douglas wanted to ask him more—who had been his opponent, how he had taken his loss, what the general reaction had been—but he sensed Marag didn’t want to discuss the matter in front of Jarrow, or at least, didn’t have the time to describe the constellation of Ryswyckian ethics it would surely involve. Douglas contented himself with one question. “Did all end well?”
“Yes,” Marag said, “thanks to General Barklay’s advice. He suggested I look for an opportunity to ask my opponent for a genuine favor. I had better take my leave now; the shuttle will be arriving soon. Thank you, Commander; thank you, Douglas.”
“Thank you, sir,” Douglas said as Jarrow nodded. “Safe journey.”
Marag left them with a wave, and the arena doors clacked shut behind him.
Douglas was still thinking about the arbitrary third-round fault, and was a belated moment responding to the fact that he was now left alone with Jarrow, something he had to this point managed to avoid. He turned blandly away from the arena doors and said: “How else may I help you with the preparation, sir?”
“It doesn’t sound like an onerous task,” Jarrow said. “The marshal’s function seems mainly to be one of observation.”
A function at which Jarrow manifestly excelled. Douglas didn’t say it, but his silent nod conveyed enough that Jarrow was pricked to a faint shrewd smile.
“And yet observation only gets one so far,” Jarrow said. “One does not always understand all that one sees.”
This was true. Douglas waited for the rest, wishing he had thought of an excuse to leave when Marag did.
“You’re close to General Barklay, Lieutenant Douglas. Are you not.”
So then here it was. “I would not like to claim so and be proved a fool,” Douglas said slowly.
“You fear he would betray you?” That was not at all what Douglas meant, but to correct Jarrow would be to step into the trap of revelation, and Jarrow clearly knew it. He smiled thinly at Douglas’s silence. “Perhaps not,” Jarrow answered for him gently. “Even so, you have an informed perspective on how General Barklay has built his school. Perhaps even a unique one.”
“Not unique, sir,” Douglas said, calmly. “Not by any means. Unless you count the uniqueness of every perspective.”
“Yes,” Jarrow mused, glancing out over the combat pit before returning his caliper gaze to Douglas’s face. “And little wonder. So many of your traditions aren’t explained until an individual is initiated into them.”
And sometimes not even then, Douglas thought.
“I wonder,” Jarrow said, “if you’d be willing to explain for me some of the things I see.”
“Of course, sir,” Douglas said, in a colorless voice. “I would be happy to oblige you in any way I can.”
“Mm.” Jarrow’s gaze narrowed. “Yes, everyone is very pleased to oblige me. They are pleased to give me information by the bucketful. My batman is practically drowning in rumors. What I need,” he said with emphasis, “is someone who can sort for me what is true and what is not.”
“Sorting water?” Douglas raised an eyebrow, in an amusement he did not feel.
“Testing it,” Jarrow said.
“For what?”
“You tell me.” Their eyes met and locked.
Damn Barklay, Douglas thought. Don’t lie for me, he says. “There is not much mystery here, in truth, sir,” he said, with careful diction. “But I have—” told Barklay over and over— “often thought that what is strange in our ways must seem malignant to those who are not at home here.”
“And you are,” Jarrow completed the thought. “And you are,” he repeated, as if confirming it for them both. “Yet…you won’t always call Ryswyck your home. Soon you will be out in the wider world again, taking up a commission…starting your career….”
This was true enough. But what was Jarrow getting at?
“And there,” Jarrow said lightly, “there, I could oblige you.”
The ramifications unfolded themselves so quickly in Douglas’s mind that he almost didn’t register the shock of the initial impact. He said nothing.
“No doubt you’ll want the best possible opportunity to translate, as it were, the language of courtesy to the rest of Ilona’s armed services. I would be very pleased to help you with that task, and incidentally to help you acclimate yourself—it goes both ways, you know. I have just the people in mind to whom I’d want to introduce you.”
“That is very kind of you, sir,” Douglas said. He did not have to feign the expressionless tenor of his voice: the shock was reverberating back through his system to its epicenter.
“Not at all. The pleasure would be mine.” Jarrow smiled, and though the smile reached his eyes, it reached them only to make their malice sharper. “And small recompense for any assistance you could give me.”
That’s not how courtesy works. But to say so would be tantamount to offering his assistance for free. Douglas stood mute, mentally kicking himself for not seeing this coming, for failing to elude the inevitable.
Jarrow let the silence extend, and then said, “Well, you’ll think on it, I’m sure. Now I must go proctor an examination—I’ll see you here this afternoon. Looking forward to the match. Very much.”
Douglas shook himself into movem
ent, to offer Jarrow a sharp but abstracted salute; Jarrow nodded indulgently and sailed off for the doors through which Marag had passed only ten minutes before.
He was alone in the arena: the cadets had finished spreading the sawdust and taken the rakes to put away. Overhead, the clouds beyond the dome eddied clear; the sunlight grew strong and bright, and cut sharp shadows down the side of the combat pit before fresh clouds moved in and gentled the light again.
He stood there alone for a long moment, watching the shadows rise and fade, before shaking his head clear and moving on.
~*~
After the first shock, Douglas was able to govern himself so far as to make an appearance at lunch with his usual calm. Nevertheless, when he put his tray down next to Speir’s on the bench and took his seat, she said immediately: “What’s wrong?” —in a low pitch meant for his ears alone.
“Tell you later,” he muttered, letting the usual din mask his words as he dug determinedly into his bean soup. “Where are you going after this?”
“Chapel,” Speir said.
“I’ll walk you there.”
“You could go in with me, too,” she said pointedly.
He made a face. “You know that’s not my thing.”
“I know.”
But he reflected, as he dodged through the cloister alongside Speir in the general exodus after lunch, that a few minutes in the chapel would buy him a brief respite. Speir had refrained from making that argument, but that didn’t mean it hadn’t occurred to her.
“So then?” she said, when they were crossing the quad alone.
He said quietly, “I’ve just been offered a bribe.” The words tasted like bile in his mouth.
“Jarrow?”
He looked at her. “Did he try to bribe you, then?”
She shrugged without breaking stride. “Not exactly. He made an appeal to my heritage as the daughter of a spy. I passed. He seemed to accept it.”
Douglas grunted in distaste.