by L D Inman
“He hates Barklay personally, I think,” Speir said.
“I’m getting the same impression myself, though I don’t know what’s behind it. Do you?”
“No clue. But he’s not very subtle, is he?”
Douglas sought the changeable sky for wisdom. “No, he isn’t. I’m wondering if that’s not part of his long-term strategy.”
“That occurred to me too,” Speir said. “What did he bribe you with?”
Douglas said bitterly, “He made an appeal to my interest in career advancement for Ryswyck’s sake.”
They were nearly at the entrance to the chapel, a small meditation room anchored on the other side of the arena complex from the infirmary. Speir stopped and frowned at him. “That kind of bribe doubles as a threat,” she said. Her lips pursed into a grim line.
“Aye,” Douglas sighed.
“What are you going to do?” Their eyes met: she shared his concern, and it occurred to him suddenly that Speir would undoubtedly have taken seriously her promise to do his worrying about Barklay for him. It had certainly improved his mood outside his notice; but this was something else again.
“Firstly,” Douglas said, “avoid Barklay at all costs.”
“You think it’d look suspicious to be near him?”
“That, too. But worse than that is what Barklay’ll say when he hears what happened. It’d be just like him to tell me to take Jarrow’s offer and get in the lifeboat alone.” Or take Jarrow’s offer and pass him misinformation. Douglas didn’t think he had the stomach for that either. “The only question,” he said, “is whether it’d be worse for Ryswyck if I refused.”
Speir didn’t answer; she glanced back across the quad as if to take the measure of her own thoughts. She looked no less weary and troubled than she had when she got back the day before. Douglas didn’t think it was just carrying his worries for him, or concern for Ryswyck. He opened his mouth to ask her how her father was doing; but at that moment she turned, flashed him a small, rueful smile, and ducked under the low lintel of the meditation chamber.
He hesitated for a moment, and then followed her in. The lintel under his fingertips as he touched it was smooth from many hands guiding the stoop of prayer-makers, but not as smooth as in other meditation houses he’d been in: the chapel wasn’t the focus of general Ryswyckian devotion.
Inside, beyond the arch of the front alcove, Speir had already taken her shoes off and was lighting a small candle from the lamp in the center frieze. She anchored the candle in one of the niches on the wall, where a few others already flickered and guttered, then drew up a cushion and took a kneeling seat upon it.
Though he could already feel the awkward restlessness creeping in, Douglas also removed his shoes and found himself a seat on the floor a polite distance away from her. He drew up his knees and put his arms around them, and gave himself over to thinking.
If a man of good faith could be so wretchedly wrong, Douglas thought, could a man of horrifying malignance be right? In the silence and dimness of the chapel, curved and sheltered like a cupped hand, he tried to consider Jarrow’s arguments dispassionately.
It was true that Barklay was too cavalier about Ryswyck’s dependence on him for its morale and integrity. It was also true that Barklay’s own case for his private behavior wouldn’t stand up to the sort of deep scrutiny Jarrow would clearly like to bring to bear.
But Speir was right: Even if Jarrow represented the interests of the Lord High Commander, his personal animus toward Barklay was a compelling reason not to trust him. Douglas wished he knew something of Lord Selkirk, other than the bare facts that he had a fraught history with Barklay (which, even without details, Douglas could well believe) and that he was spoken of as a straightforward and fair commander. Which Jarrow manifestly was not. No, there was more to this than Douglas could understand.
Jarrow wasn’t the only one whose observations were failing him.
He felt himself coming to a decision, and stirred to lower his hands to the smooth wood floor and look over at Speir.
She was deep in meditation with her hands curled open on her knees and her eyes faraway and fixed on the lantern frieze; and there was open misery in her face. Douglas wanted to ask her to give him some of that burden, as she had done for him, but he didn’t know how, and he sensed he would need some kind of invitation from her. Which wasn’t forthcoming. He would have to wait. For this, Douglas could afford to be patient.
But he didn’t know if Speir could.
Quietly, so as not to disturb her, he rose and returned to the entry alcove, where he slipped his shoes back on, and, after one brief glance at her silent back, ducked out again into the dazzling grey light of the quad.
~*~
Barklay was nearly late for the match that afternoon. He had called a meeting of the senior officers over lunch, to hear their briefs on the opening of term. Looking round his conference table at them, he reflected again on the lack of teaching officers Ryswyck was currently suffering. Marag’s absence was a palpable gap; Beathas, lead instructor for tactics, was long overdue for a change in rotation; and Jarrow’s quiet intransigence made everyone at the table either restive or depressed. There were not more than two instructors for any course track in the curriculum. Barklay had started to seriously consider including his junior rota captains in these meetings, since they were already doing the same work. Marag was right; the war was wearing them down. Something had to give.
It didn’t help that Commander Jarrow’s eyes tracked him sharply wherever he moved, without pause or relent.
No—it wasn’t just the war. And it wasn’t just Selkirk and his ridiculous proxy surveillance. It was getting time to think of Ryswyck’s future—a future without his shepherding to keep the tradition alive. What he needed was wider participation, and capable hands to help guide it. Ryswyck’s alumni felt that they shared in its possession; what he needed was a way to invite all of Ilona’s service to make the same gracious and responsible claim.
He’d thought that would be closer to falling into place by now. Instead, he sensed that something decisive needed to be done to bring current reality into line with his vision.
He also suspected that whatever it was, it either should have been done long ago, or couldn’t be done by him.
Barklay adjourned the meeting. As they were all getting up, he turned to Jarrow. “Thank you, Commander, for sitting second marshal for us today.”
“Not at all,” Jarrow said. “It promises to afford me a good view, after all.”
Barklay would have liked to give Jarrow a good view of his ass; but he squelched the sentiment and smiled. “I hope you will find the match instructive,” he said.
“Oh, I expect I will,” Jarrow said. “I am learning a great deal here.”
“I am pleased to hear it.” Even now, even in hostility, it might be possible to win Jarrow—just as it might be possible to establish Ryswyck for the next generation. Courtesy was never wasted. Swallow your own medicine, Barklay told himself.
He would have walked with Jarrow over to the arena in pursuit of that elusive connection, but was stopped at the door by Beathas waiting for him. Jarrow ducked between them gracefully and made his way off down the main corridor.
Beathas was covering Marag’s supply management courses during his absence, and delegating her own tac courses to her second and to Douglas. “Who is Marag relying on most in the junior officer corps, General?” she asked Barklay.
Commodore Beathas wasn’t a Ryswyck alumna, but she had had a long career serving as a tactics liaison at Central Command, and was now—when not on rotation at Ryswyck—spending the twilight of her active-duty service coordinating the Western Coast Guard with the Boundary Fleet. She had served as lead instructor in the past, and Barklay was lucky still to have her.
“I believe Lieutenant Stevens has been assisting him ably in much of the coursework, though Lieutenant Cameron’s course of study makes her one of his resources.” Beathas gave one of her compressed
smiles; Cameron aimed to get into officer training and had chosen coursework that straddled Marag’s and Beathas’s disciplines.
“I’ll consult with them both, then. Thank you, sir.”
“Thank you, Commodore. I was asked by Captain Marag to present his regrets that he couldn’t brief you in person.”
She waved aside the apology gracefully. “Marag will be a valuable addition to the offensive strategy council. I’m pleased to assist him.”
After Beathas took her leave, Barklay was caught by a cadet bearing four messages from the com tower, three of which he needed to answer before he went out to the arena. By the time he escaped his office, the halls of Ryswyck’s main block were nigh deserted, and the student body had already converged across the quad on the arena complex.
Still, he wasn’t entirely alone. Lieutenant Speir appeared just as he pushed open the cloister door, moving at a fast clip and smoothing her epaulets as she went.
“Ah,” Barklay said. “I feared I was going to be the last one to arrive at the match.”
She returned his smile as he let them both out the door. “And on the first day, too. Shame on us both, sir.”
Barklay chuckled. They set off across the quad together, Speir with a long stride to keep the pace Barklay set; neither of them put up hoods against the light rain that was falling. Barklay was still mulling over Marag’s absence; he hoped that Central Command wouldn’t call him off rotation altogether, but it could happen. He had better start making plans.
To Speir he said companionably, “Should be interesting, seeing Douglas take the judge’s chair in Marag’s absence.”
She looked at him startled. “Is he?”
“Didn’t you hear how my meeting with Douglas and Cameron turned out?”
“No,” Speir said, “we were talking of other things.” She frowned to herself, and then looked up at him, still frowning. She was studying him so intensely that despite the fact that they were late, Barklay slowed and then stopped. She stopped with him.
“What are you thinking about, Lieutenant?” he asked her.
She shook her head, as if to deny thinking of anything in particular. But then she asked suddenly: “Does Ryswyck have enemies?”
It appeared to be a serious question; he knew what it meant to him, but could not guess what she meant by asking it. What would have set her thinking about Ryswyck having enemies? What had Douglas been saying to her?
But as a serious question it deserved a serious answer. “It has opponents,” he told her frankly.
Her mouth twisted. “And no proper arena for them.”
Yes. That was it exactly. That was the gap where the problem lay. And it was a problem Barklay couldn’t solve himself.
As if reading his thoughts, Speir asked him, “Do you have enemies, sir?”
He sighed. “I’m afraid so. A years’-long brew of professional decisions and my own folly. I’ll probably have to peg my nose and get it down eventually.”
He spoke lightly, but her expression did not change, and her gaze did not leave his eyes, seeking the depths with total equanimity. She could meet him, may be, Barklay thought. He suddenly craved for someone to see him as he really was and not flinch. Others could absorb his faults: he wanted someone like Speir, who would comprehend them by sheer force of determination.
“What would you advise?” he said, to that serious gaze.
She said nothing for a moment and then shrugged. “If you can manage it, sir,” she said, “I’d try to keep Ryswyck from winding up in the same arena as your enemies.”
“That’s Douglas’s advice, too,” Barklay said with a sigh. “I suspect you are right. I’d better start looking for a successor.” And sooner rather than later. Was that what Selkirk had been after by sending Jarrow? Probably something of the sort. Selkirk was always a patient strategist: doing his best to help dry up Barklay’s teaching pool and then maneuvering him into searching for a successor on top of it—that was the kind of strategy he ought to be leveraging against Bernhelm, dammit. Barklay was half tempted to say so direct.
“Thank you, Lieutenant,” he said to Speir, meaning it.
She gave him a small, grave smile and bowed. They continued into the arena complex, past the sparring court and up into the tunnel leading to the arena proper. At the arch that opened into the first level, they parted to find their separate seats. Barklay glanced after Speir as she went, allowing his eye to linger briefly on the ease and grace of her movements from behind; and then turned to make his way up to the headmaster’s platform, eased in his breath by something that was not quite hope and not quite relief.
A small bell rang when he stepped onto his platform, and Ryswyck rose to its feet. Ellis stood forth as cantor and led the body of cadets and officers in the arena chant. John had written that chant, Barklay reflected sadly. So much of the tradition bore his influence that Barklay had ceased to notice it, and no one else was left to remember.
When the last hum of the chant fell to silence, and the student body had settled back on the benches, the crew of the combat pit stood sharply to attention and saluted Barklay, who saluted them back. (That was one way to force Jarrow to use the Ryswyckian salute, Barklay thought; ha.) The marshals and medics went to their stations; Douglas climbed the ladder to the judge’s perch and took his seat. With a clank and groan the combat pit doors opened, and Gordon and Askill emerged, carrying their batons. In the dome’s light their white singlets were bright spots below the surrounding sea of Ryswyckian gray. They took their bows and saluted Barklay in their turn.
“Is all well?” Douglas asked them.
“Yes, sir.”
Then the whistle broke the silence, and the play began. Barklay took his seat and gave over his attention to the combat pit.
Gordon and Askill closed with one another quickly and aggressively; the crowd’s murmur rose below the sharp clacks of the batons. They were well-matched but very different in their styles: Askill was both dedicated and uncompromising in his discipline; Gordon was strong, graceful, and fine to watch. He knew it, too, which made one hope that he would get a little taste of humility in this match.
But not, perhaps, in this round: Gordon was getting the better of Askill so far. He dodged a blow neatly, found an opening, and—but no, Askill not only covered it but got the point of his baton behind Gordon’s heel, and only by an ungainly twist did Gordon avoid being thrown. All around the combat pit they went, sweating freely and working each other hard; Askill got in another blow, drawing blood on Gordon’s forearm, and actually stripped his baton, forcing Gordon to elude him crabwise to retrieve it from the sawdust and block the following stroke.
The near-loss of the round galvanized Gordon to a burst of energy that drove Askill back across the combat pit. His baton connected first with Askill’s headguard, then scratched the top of his arm before Askill got clear.
But Askill looked disoriented, and Barklay saw that more than one person was glancing at Douglas in the judge’s chair. Douglas was watching the action with his whole body attuned: Barklay couldn’t see his face, but he could see that Douglas’s whistle was still in his hand and not yet at his lips.
There was an unavowed use of the arbitrary fault, and that was to spare one of the combatants from getting seriously injured too early in the match. It was a finer point of judging matches, to know when that was appropriate, and Barklay could see that more than one of the senior and junior officers were looking at Douglas anxiously, as if to speculate what they might do in Douglas’s position.
Douglas didn’t end the round. Gordon took the opening, flipped his baton neatly, and drove for Askill body and baton together.
Just in time Askill put up his guard, but though it spared him the worst of the impact to his solar plexus, the blow still threw him down to skid in the sawdust.
The whistle shrieked, and the tumult in the crowd died down. Gasping, Askill crawled to his feet and came back to the mark, where Gordon waited catching his breath.
�
��Fault to Askill,” Douglas said. “Round to Gordon.”
Askill looked at him, startled. “Judgment?”
“Arbitrary,” Douglas said.
Askill nodded, straightening his shoulders, and bowed to the judge, closed hand to heart. Then he saluted Gordon, who bowed in return. The whistle peeped again amidst the murmurs of the crowd.
Barklay swallowed a smile. That was clever judging on Douglas’s part. He probably couldn’t humble Gordon with an arbitrary fault, but he could by giving the fault to Askill and undercutting Gordon’s advantage; and if the color in Gordon’s face was any indication, Douglas had achieved his object.
The fault also put Askill properly down a round while at the same time buoying his morale. He returned to the attack with a clear determination to match Gordon in quickness and tactical strength. For a while he was successful, so much so that he threw Gordon once and forced him to roll away to retrieve his baton. That move was bound to be discussed on the training floor tomorrow.
But then Gordon threw Askill back with a bar-thrust that cut his wind for the second time, and Askill missed his block of the next stroke. Gordon’s baton slammed hard into his face; he dropped, and didn’t get up.
Douglas had his whistle to his lips but didn’t use it. He waited, and the arena waited with him, to see what Gordon would do.
Gordon had called off the attack and was waiting to see if Askill got to his feet. Askill didn’t, but he was moving, choking insensibly into the sawdust, curled and shuddering. —Like Rose and Corda, Barklay heard someone say. Yes, it was clearly going to be one of those matches. The eyes of all in the arena switched quickly between the judge’s seat and Gordon. Douglas’s back was impassive; Barklay knew his face would be equally so.
Finally, Gordon dropped his baton in the sawdust and approached Askill carefully. He knelt and spoke Askill’s name before touching him; Askill shuddered harder but did not flinch. After a moment he took the hand Gordon offered him, and with its assistance got up as far as his knees before doubling over again to vomit, his face a mask of blood and sawdust. Gordon left him and went to the medic at the side of the combat pit. The medic handed down a paper cup of water. Gordon took it back and knelt at Askill’s side again.