by L D Inman
Douglas wished he shared her confidence. He was visited with an unexpected urge to tear his hair and howl. As if it hadn’t been wrack to his nerves enough, worrying about the scandal lurking in Barklay’s interest in him. Now Barklay had kindled an interest in Speir as well?
He couldn’t pretend that this turn hadn’t upset him, so instead of prevaricating he said shortly: “I’ll see about it. Thank you for telling me.”
“She won’t thank you for protecting her,” Cameron warned him. “Let Speir take care of herself. She’s perfectly capable.”
Douglas shook his head, beleaguered. “No,” he said. “It’s not—” Not Speir I want to protect. He held the words in, and swallowed the sense of betrayal that crept in with them. He had no rightful possession in Barklay, no reason—Cameron was right—to meddle, on the strength of a mere casual observation.
But he must have shown something of that hurt on his face, because Cameron’s head canted back in sudden understanding. “It’s not just duty,” she breathed. “That keeps you close to him. Is it.”
There was a deadly silence, and then Douglas said evenly: “I don’t know that that’s any of your business.” He turned and walked on.
“It isn’t.” She jumped to catch up with his heavy stride. “Douglas, it isn’t. I’m sorry.”
He didn’t respond.
“Douglas!”
He stopped again, rounding on her. “What.”
She gulped. “I should not have treaded so heavily in your affairs,” she said, looking him in the eye. “I am sorry.”
Douglas considered. Cameron was not less of an ally for being the bearer of bad news. He spoke to her with conscious gentleness. “You haven’t done me any wrong. Let it be.”
“So all’s well, then.” She raised one pretty eyebrow in a skeptical arch.
“Between you and me? Yes,” Douglas said, and turned to go on again.
“So then, there is something going on.” She followed him doggedly. “I thought there probably was. Does this have anything to do with Commander Jarrow?”
Douglas stopped again. “What makes you say that?”
“Oh, come,” she said, with a careless gesture. “The rumor turbine’s been going on nothing else but that shouting match he had with Barklay last week.”
Indeed; Douglas had been quietly gritting his teeth for days.
“They say that now Jarrow’s looking for any excuse to make a bad report about Ryswyck to the Council.”
Douglas looked away, back down the length of the cloister, at the raindrops winking from the eaves, and sighed. There were so few actual secrets at Ryswyck, he thought. His anxiety suddenly seemed strangely misaligned.
When he looked back at Cameron, she lowered her voice and asked: “So does Jarrow know about…?” She pointed to Douglas with her gaze, and to the direction of Barklay’s office with a faint tilt of the head.
“I’m sure he does by now,” Douglas said, with another resigned sigh.
She grew bolder. “And what are you doing about it?”
“Avoiding him,” Douglas said. “And Barklay too.”
“That…is no long-term strategy, Douglas.”
“I’m aware,” he said levelly.
She regarded him for a long moment, and then said: “Well, I won’t butt in—”
“Because you mark your own advice?” Douglas said. They exchanged a fraternal smirk.
“—but if you happen to come up with a slightly less abysmal plan for dealing with the problem, and want volunteers for the execution, I would be happy to oblige you,” she finished, with gentle sarcasm.
He answered her in kind. “And if you decide you want to get laid without setting the whole school by the ears, I would be pleased to assist you.”
Her lips twitched into an amused smile. “You sure you wouldn’t be too preoccupied?”
He bowed to her, with his hand open on his heart. “Believe me, Lieutenant Cameron, I would find it no difficulty to summon a keen intent, so to oblige you.”
“Thank you, Douglas.” Her smile was still very dry, but he suspected that his gentle courtesy had touched her, as he’d meant it to.
In the silence, they could hear the carillon chiming the change of watch. In another few moments this cloister would no longer be a place for private words.
“Wisdom speed you,” he said, as the door clacked open at the far end behind them.
“And you,” she answered.
They parted at the end of the cloister, where the covered walk diverted toward the arena complex, and Douglas continued up the path to the farm alone.
~*~
Though publicity hadn’t been discussed, none of those who had been at the junior rota captains’ meeting let on to the school at large that the combat appointment made between Cameron and Ahrens was going to be anything but a normal match. As Barklay observed, even Stevens cocked a silent eyebrow when invited to speculate on the likely outcome in the arena.
Ryswyck’s spirits therefore ran high on the day of the match. The pitch and volume of the chatter as the student body gathered in the arena was double its usual strength, and when Barklay stepped onto the dais, they rose to attention for the briefest of silences before the tide of murmurs returned. Ellis led the chant, and then climbed to his place as second marshal, facing Stevens where he perched in the first marshal’s chair. The murmurs spread.
Barklay looked to where Douglas sat among the junior officers, but Douglas did not make himself aware of Barklay’s gaze today. His eyes were on the combat pit, a faint frown between his brows. Beside him Speir was taking thoughtful measure of Stevens’s and Ellis’s profiles; unlike Douglas, she seemed more fully present to the moment, not occupied with inward thoughts as she had too much been lately.
Barklay was not the only one whose gaze lingered on the two friends. On the opposite side Barklay noted Jarrow among the senior officers, staring at Douglas with narrowed eyes as if the combat pit were a gulf across which he longed to reach him. And good luck to you, Barklay thought. Douglas had a way of not being there to take even the surest foil thrust.
The doors clacked open, and the students hushed as Cameron and Ahrens came forth. The observant among the crowd saw that although they were dressed for combat and their wrists taped for baton work, neither of them was wearing a headguard. There was a voluble murmur as they came to their marks and faced one another; with a fine sense of theatre Marag let the silence gather before he said: “Lieutenant Cameron. Lieutenant Ahrens. Is all well?”
Cameron acknowledged Marag with a cool nod, and then, with a swift and shocking motion, broke her baton against the floor with her foot. Then she laid the pieces at Ahrens’s feet and stepped back with her head bowed and her closed hand upon her heart.
In reply to Cameron’s gesture, Ahrens broke his baton, laid the pieces at her feet, and retired also with closed hand to heart. A smile tugged at Barklay’s lips as he heard the effect reverberate through the arena: disappointment mingled with wonder and soon gave way to understanding.
“Lieutenant Cameron, you are the challenger,” Marag said, in a clear, carrying voice. “By this do you signify satisfaction?”
Her head was high and her gaze unwavering from Ahrens’s face. “Yes, sir. And I lay claim to whatever fault Lieutenant Ahrens will allow me, by his grace.”
Barklay saw the flicker of a great emotion cross Ahrens’s face at her words. Good: this was not merely a form of ritual to them.
Marag turned to him. “Lieutenant Ahrens?”
“I declare myself fully satisfied, sir,” he said shakily. “And I beg the same grace of Lieutenant Cameron for my discourtesy.”
They could all see Cameron bite her lip until the glitter subsided in her eyes. When she spoke her voice was husked. “All’s well.”
“Then with your consent—” Marag’s glance took in them both— “I call this match ended without issue.”
They both bowed to him, and then faced Barklay as he rose and saluted him crisply.
He returned their salute. “Dismissed,” he said, and the utter stillness that had possessed the arena broke in a collective chastened sigh. Students began to move, though some kept still to watch the combatants gather the pieces of their batons and leave the combat pit together. Cameron said something with a wry face, and Ahrens’s grin flashed. Barklay could feel the frisson of chaos that had run through the school for three days resolve into its native coherence.
He looked at Jarrow to see how he had received this: after all, here was an instance in which a quarrel had been resolved without resort to grisly violence, in which courtesy surely showed to its best advantage. But Jarrow’s expression was still austere and grim. It seemed Jarrow had not been dissuaded from thinking Ryswyck’s traditions a frivolous waste. Or—what was it he’d said? A perversion. Some people join the service for the excuses it affords them, he had sneered. There was little doubt in Barklay’s mind what Jarrow meant by that. He wondered if Jarrow’s security clearance went up that high, or whether someone had been pouring unauthorized tales in his ears. Whichever it was, Jarrow had arrived at Ryswyck already jaundiced, and personal experience had only made it worse. His references to sickness were instructive. Yet he wasn’t simply imitating Selkirk, who for all his suspicion had demonstrated a grim understanding of the events that had driven Barklay to found his school. Selkirk, at least in part, trusted him still. Jarrow’s revolted reaction was all his own.
People couldn’t always help their compulsions, Barklay thought. But some, like Ahrens and Cameron, made a good-faith effort to work with and around them. Come on, Jarrow, mark their example. Give me something to work with.
Jarrow was looking at Douglas again, who had risen and was chatting with Speir as he slung his scrip over his shoulder. As Barklay watched, Speir bid Douglas a cheerful goodbye and edged quickly toward the nearest exit aisle.
Unerringly, Douglas’s glance went straight to Barklay, just as Barklay drew his gaze back from watching her go. Their eyes met for a brief, troubled instant before Douglas broke the contact. The frown was back between his brows, and he cut his glance to Jarrow, who pretended to be looking another direction. Douglas’s face became utterly unreadable, which Barklay knew to be a very bad sign. Without a backward glance Douglas turned from them both to follow Speir out of the arena.
It hadn’t occurred to Barklay to worry about losing Douglas’s fundamental good will. He wondered suddenly why not. He had no fear that Douglas would let his mind be poisoned against Barklay by someone like Jarrow with an obvious agenda. But that didn’t mean Douglas didn’t have limits that could be breached in other ways. Barklay suspected he had not been treading carefully enough. And he had better find out quickly where he stood.
Oh, my dear, he thought, as Douglas disappeared into the exit. Don’t let me wound you.
~*~
After supper that evening Barklay left a message for Douglas to come to his office, and then tracked Marag to his study. “Yes, come in,” Marag said at his knock, and half-rose in chagrin from his desk when Barklay entered. He was in his shirtsleeves and looked very tired…and hunted, Barklay thought. Barklay waved him down comfortably.
“I won’t trouble you long,” he reassured him. “I merely wanted to be sure you had been fully briefed for the week’s work.”
“Yes, sir,” Marag said, looking relieved. “I am quite reacclimated. Thank you.”
“We’ve all been very busy this week, but sometime when you have time, soon we must sit down for tea and you can tell me about the strategy summit.”
Marag’s relief fled. He opened his mouth, and then shut it again without answering, looking strained.
Barklay sighed. “The upper brass asked you not to discuss it with me,” he said.
It was so obviously the truth that Marag didn’t even speak to acknowledge it. He looked away.
“That was very unkind of them,” Barklay said.
At this Marag did look back at him. “I was told, sir,” he said, “that you would be receiving your own briefing on the matter.”
“I meant, unkind to you,” Barklay said gently.
Marag winced. He turned his gaze away again, and his fingers tapped abstractedly on the surface of his desk. He looked as though he were trying to bring forth something unpleasant. Barklay waited.
At last Marag’s fingers went still. “I was offered a permanent position,” he said. “At Naval HQ. Liaison to Amity for requisitions.”
There was a small silence as Barklay took the hit. “I must congratulate you,” he said finally. “You deserve no less, Marag.”
“I refused it,” Marag said, miserably.
A longer silence. “Why?” Barklay said.
“I should say, I asked to defer it,” Marag went on. “Though it amounts to the same thing. I told them I am too much needed here.”
“It shouldn’t matter how much you are needed here.” Barklay was angry. “You can’t risk throwing away your whole career for a rotational teaching post—”
“It was a calculated risk, sir,” Marag said. He was pale and upright in his chair, and though it had cost him something to answer Barklay back, he didn’t back down.
That, and his words, together told Barklay all he wanted to know. “You’ve figured out the strategy, then,” he said quietly. “The one to pare Ryswyck of its best teaching resources, before Selkirk moves to force me out.”
Marag’s level expression did not change.
Barklay let out a long, painful sigh. “You can’t protect me, Marag.”
“Though I respect you, sir,” Marag said, “it wasn’t you I was thinking to protect.”
“You can’t protect Ryswyck either.”
“May be,” Marag said, quietly. “But I’m going to be here.”
There seemed nothing to say to that. After a silence Marag went on. “I hear Commander Jarrow took offense at the arena.”
“He did. Spectacularly. Did Stevens also tell you how well Douglas judged?”
“I didn’t hear about it from Stevens,” Marag said. He left it at that, and Barklay understood.
“For what it’s worth, Marag,” Barklay said, “I am sorry.”
“I know, sir,” Marag said. A mordant smile played at his lips. “If it’s not costly, it’s not courtesy—eh?”
“Quite.” With a wry smile, Barklay withdrew.
~*~
He had forgotten his appointment with Douglas. Going to his office to make a cup of tea and lick his wounds, he pulled up short when he found Douglas standing by his desk, waiting quietly.
“Douglas.” After the initial check, Barklay continued to the tea station by the wall. He didn’t shut the door behind him, and a covert glance at Douglas found him looking relieved. The echo was oppressive.
“You wanted to see me, sir.”
“Yes.” Barklay considered him over his shoulder. “Would you join me in a cup of tea?”
“Certainly, sir.”
Barklay made them both cups of tea and carried them to the table. Douglas sat down at the place where Barklay had put his tea, but unlike Marag he did not relax collegially in his chair; he picked up the cup and sipped abstractedly at it, and was silent.
The thought of soliciting Douglas for truth was now unutterably wearying to Barklay. But if he did not do it now, it would only be worse later. He fortified himself with a sip of tea, both hands guiding the cup, and spoke.
“So has Jarrow yet offered you a lifeboat out of here?”
It was late evening now, and Douglas’s brown eyes looked black in the dim light of the office. He kept them fixed on Barklay as he sipped. “I suppose he would have,” he answered—his teacup made a gentle click as he set it in the saucer— “if I hadn’t managed to avoid him all this time.”
“That’s not going to work forever,” Barklay grunted.
“I’m working out how I’m going to tell him no,” Douglas said. “And you’re the second person who’s said that to me.”
Barklay looked up curious
ly. “Who was the first?”
“Cameron.” Douglas’s hand paused briefly lifting his cup.
“She’s very observant,” Barklay said, after a moment’s surprise.
“Yes,” Douglas said into his tea, “she is.”
Barklay drew a long breath. “Douglas…if Jarrow is willing by his favor to smooth your way to a good commission…why not—?”
“I don’t want Jarrow’s favor,” Douglas said steadily. And then as Barklay was trying to form an answer, he looked up. “Has it really gotten that bad, sir?”
Barklay held his gaze. “Well, I didn’t think it had. But I’m starting to wonder.”
It was Douglas who broke eye contact. He stared down into his tea, and as Barklay waited, he took a breath as if he were about to speak. But then he gave the faintest shake of the head, and lifted his cup for another sip. If it’s not costly, it’s not courtesy, Barklay thought. Marag had let Ryswyck become the gravitational weight of his career: he wanted Douglas’s gravity to be stronger than that, and maybe it was better that he could neither fathom nor predict Douglas’s thoughts. He circled back to a question he had asked Speir.
“Douglas, what is it you want to do in the war?”
Douglas cocked his head and stared probingly at him for a long moment, as if trying to work out why Barklay was asking before he made answer. There was a protracted silence. Come on, boy, my motives aren’t that twisted. As if he read Barklay’s thought, Douglas’s expression settled somewhere between engaged intent and quizzical amusement.
“Win it,” Douglas said.
For the first time in…a long time, Barklay broke into unrestrained laughter. Douglas blinked, and looked down, abashed.