by L D Inman
“The words are in the archaic form,” Douglas said in a low voice, and repeated them. “We would say today:
Ash and earth bear witness
Sky and stream bear witness
Light and darkness bear witness
Every voice bear—”
But Douglas’s voice broke. In one instant, all that serene reserve, that preternatural self-possession, was torn from him: his hand against his breast spasmed and clutched his sodden black tunic, and his voice hitched on a sob, then burst out in a wail. The wail rose to a high keening cry that rode the dirge’s refrain like a kestrel on an updraft. Then he dragged in a breath and did it again. At the sound, a visible tremor shook the Ryswyckians, and some of the voices faltered. Half the seniors behind them stiffened; the largest of them shuddered and caught back his hand in its reach toward Douglas.
Du Rau had never made such a sound himself, but he recognized it instantly, could taste it in himself like the memory of a bruise: grief at a pitch indistinguishable from rage. His scalp prickled against the rain crawling through his hair. He would never grieve for Barklay, and did not belong in this place where Barklay was being mourned. But he did belong in the presence of that cry. Like all helplessly genuine things, it could easily attract mockery, provoke an equally helpless retaliation; du Rau stood there, with the rain soaking inexorably down to the lining of his overcoat, and kept silent till Douglas had finished.
He did, after a moment—swallowed, and gulped several long breaths. Then he let the last one out in a small, shuddering sigh, and finished hoarsely:
“Every voice bear witness,
Holy Wisdom bear witness,
For this sorrow this day,
As a consecrated gift.”
“Thank you,” du Rau said quietly.
After that, Douglas wept silently, with his head bowed.
The dirge wound on; it sounded less foreign to du Rau now that he knew some of its content. He could even discern the signs that it was coming to its close—not too soon, he thought. He was wet through, and cold to the marrow; his hair was flattened and his moustache heavy. On his other side Alsburg was clenching his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering. Alsburg’s overcoat was not as warm as du Rau’s—army-issue coats in Berenia did not need to be waterproofed, and bore only a brief lining. Du Rau tried not to think about what would remain of a funeral at home: after the dirge, the recession; after the recession, the long slow line to pay respects to the bereaved, the ceremonial kindling of lights.
Sure enough, the dirge came to an end; the drums flourished and battered out a salute with water sputtering in coronas from the drumheads; a drowned, solemn toll floated in from the tower carillon; and the drumming resolved into a single rim-tap. The ranks of the assembled, roused to full parade attention by the drum salute, began an orderly dispersal as the cantor guided Barklay’s bier-bearers where to carry him away. Douglas and the senior staff behind them remained stiff at attention. Du Rau suppressed a sigh, firmed his spine, and prepared himself to endure.
But Douglas again surprised him; as soon as Barklay’s bier had cleared the quad, he turned swiftly to them. “Let me offer you the use of an officer’s suite to take your ease and make use of a drying-cupboard, before you return home,” he said.
Du Rau paused, his thoughts sluggish: it had been so long since he had made use of a drying-cupboard that he had to call back his memory of what a drying-cupboard was. But he didn’t have to look at Alsburg to know that Alsburg was staring at him beseechingly. “Thank you,” du Rau said. “I am much obliged.”
“Not at all,” Douglas said. “We will break our fast directly after. You are welcome to join us at table; the fare is simple but sustaining.” Field-kitchen fare, du Rau interpreted this. Douglas showed no embarrassment at offering it; in fact, he thought he saw a slip of humor in Douglas’s eyes. This was a man who could appreciate a ridiculous situation. But he was not going to out-grace du Rau.
“My field days are not so far behind me as all that,” he said. “I will accept your invitation to dine.” Neither of them was averse to dragging out the cessation of hostilities, and if Douglas didn’t mind exposing more of Ryswyck to du Rau’s strategic observation, du Rau was not going to argue him out of it.
Alsburg was evidently less eager to eat with the Verlakers than to get in out of the rain. He cleared his throat tentatively. “My lord…?”
“The flight back is long, Captain,” du Rau said calmly. “We’ll want something to eat.” Then a thought occurred to him. “Although I would prefer not to linger overmuch. Captain Speir’s endurance is formidable, but I would not test its limits.”
The smile in Admiral Douglas’s eyes flashed to true warmth for a moment. “Thank you for reminding me,” he said, and gestured to a lieutenant who waited nearby. “If you would, Lieutenant,” Douglas said to him, “show Lord Bernhelm and his aide and escort to the quarters we’ve prepared.”
The lieutenant snapped Douglas a sharp Ryswyckian salute. “Yes, sir,” and to du Rau, “If you would follow me, sir.”
“I will meet you at the walkway when you are ready,” Douglas said as they began to follow in the lieutenant’s wake. He stood calmly watching them trundle away through the splashing grass, but after a moment du Rau glanced back to see Douglas in the act of turning away. His shoulders were bowed taut as if under an ox’s yoke, and the large captain in army blacks fell in with him, not touching him but gesturing close in a way that reminded du Rau of Speir’s boy corporal. They stepped through the mist of rain into the doorway of a shaded cloister, and were lost to view.
14
The officer’s quarters they were shown to were small, and made smaller by the continual eddy of soldiers in and out of the front study, attending to various hospitable tasks. Du Rau and Alsburg had been reduced to human flotsam in the bedroom, huddled in clean training knits and robes. Alsburg was still shivering, and there was a pinched, pale look in his face. He had had to part with nearly all of his own clothing, which the Ryswyckians had cheerfully mounted on hangers and stretching trees and larded in the drying-cupboard along with the fatigues of their escort—all of their escort, when the other half returned from bier duty. Du Rau had managed to retain all of his underclothing, as it was only faintly damp. The room’s heat, which appeared to be supplied by the same geothermal line that serviced the drying-cupboard, was turned up full blast.
Amid this bustle, a tray with a pot of tea and two plain cups appeared and was set down rattling on the table between them. Alsburg emerged from his inward huddle to blink at it, then reached gingerly out of the bundle of his robe. He lifted a steaming cup suspiciously to his lips, tasted it, and recoiled.
“My lord,” he muttered urgently, trying not to attract the Verlakers’ notice, “don’t drink this.”
“Relax, Alsburg,” du Rau said. “It’s probably what they call ‘home blend.’” He reached and poured himself a cup. “It’s difficult and expensive to grow real tea here, so Verlakers rely on a blend of various herbs.” A sip proved him correct; du Rau buried his wince. “Yes, that’s the taste I remember. Drink it,” he said, perversely amused at Alsburg’s faintly nauseated look. “It will warm you.” With an air of misery, Alsburg obeyed. He winced at every sip, but he did stop shivering and took on color.
Du Rau took his own herb tea in careful swallows, blowing at the steam that tickled the cold tip of his nose. He watched Alsburg recover and begin to look around him at the shabby dignity of their surroundings: the water-spotted ceiling, the plain-dressed bunk where he sat and the fraying armchair du Rau occupied. The boy was getting an education, to be sure. No army staff his age had had much field experience outside of basic training. Alsburg’s expression had deepened throughout this trip to a troubled contempt, increasingly as much troubled as contemptuous.
In the other room du Rau could hear the soldiers of his escort clattering teacups and murmuring amongst themselves. Presently one of them, clad as they were in Ryswyckian training knits, came ba
ck to check on the progress of their fatigues in the drying-cupboard, and reported through the doorway in a loud baritone that they were nearly ready. A note of cheer warmed the voices in the other room; by the sound of it the soldiers had disported themselves on all the available furniture—chairs, table, and desk, and against the walls. Despite the thick accents, the boisterous sound of enlisted men woke pleasant memories of his field days. Command was easier, more fluent, he thought, when the commander was down among his men sharing the common hardship. At a certain point of ascent—never recognized till it was passed—the common situation became distorted into a sense of distance, a skewed illusion. This place was poor and damp and foreign, but in this one way it was infinitely more comfortable than Bernhelm Palace.
Du Rau put down his empty teacup and went to check their clothing himself. Neither of their overcoats was dry enough, and their shoes still felt cold inside, but everything else was only damp at the seams. He closed the cupboard door firmly and went into the bath.
Verlaker baths were primitive: a sink, mirror, toilet, and cramped shower cube with no seat and no regulation of the flow of water. This one was militarily clean, and when he hit the light, both the overhead light and the bright panel above the shower came on. Artificial sun, du Rau remembered. Light in a box. He finger-combed his drying hair in the mirror, smoothed down his moustache. His eyes were overbright, he observed, and had developed bruise-like hollows at the inner corners. Reynard would have to figure out a way to cover for him, when he got home. But there was no time for collapse, really. Damn Barklay for spending his energy for him.
When he came out, the escort soldiers were handing along fatigue jackets and trousers on hangers to their owners. A little warmth and tea had revived them completely, and du Rau felt a pang of simple envy for their youth and resilience. Alsburg, not much older, was watching them silently, his look unreadable.
He would lose his drive if he did not press onward. Du Rau took out his own clothes and dressed himself. His shoes were unpleasantly cold and damp, but bearably so. He opted to leave his overcoat in the cupboard till they left, as the walkways between buildings were covered and ran for short distances. His leather gloves were a dead loss; he tucked them into the pockets of his overcoat.
Leading his ragged little contingent, du Rau emerged to find Admiral Douglas waiting for him under the canopy of the main walk. He had changed into dark-gray army fatigues, made formal by a collared linen shirt under the jacket. The assembled host had disappeared as if they had never been; this was a working installation, and no doubt they were already dispatched to their business. The rain (of course) had lightened a bit; the sky had lifted from its earlier close oppression, and du Rau was made uneasily aware of the precarious ceasefire at the coastal front not far from here. The air smelled of damp, and cold winter foliage.
“Mess hall is this way.” Douglas gestured him down to the left, and fell into step beside him. His imperturbable self-containment had returned; as if his paroxysm of grief had passed through him leaving no mark.
They passed into the main building and into a large, stone-flagged main court, cold and damp except where they passed the baseboard registers, and from there to a double doorway with its doors pinned back. A lieutenant noticed their entrance and leapt to ring a bell bracketed on the wall; at once all voices stopped and benches scraped back so the soldiers could stand at attention. Douglas gave them a nod and a casual wave, and they settled back down.
This mess hall was large enough, du Rau guessed, for the student body, but with companies of extra soldiers it would require eating in shifts. That would explain why the room was not stuffed to capacity, and why soldiers were already carrying finished trays to the hatch. There was a small dais at one end with a battered lectern and a set of banners depending from a timber above, but no head table, or at least, no table distinguished from the others. He could see a clutch of senior officers at the table nearest the dais.
Admiral Douglas led them through the serving line without ceremony. Du Rau surprised a few covert glances, but most of the diners had returned to their conversations and lost track of their presence. Following Douglas’s example, du Rau collected a tray with a bowl of stew, a spoon, a napkin, an upturned glass for water, and a roll. By this time Alsburg was beyond protest; he followed suit in a numb horror and trailed after them with his tray to where the senior officers sat. Captain Speir’s men found themselves places at the other end of the table; they had become downright cheerful at the prospect of a hot meal, though du Rau noticed that the lieutenant still kept an ear and an eye cocked his direction.
The senior officers had largely finished their meal and were preparing to resume work. Douglas took his seat next to a weary thin-faced man in navy fatigues whom he introduced as Captain Marag, a member of Ryswyck’s teaching staff; then went on to name the others around them. Captain Marag and the officers offered nods and murmured greetings, then one by one glanced at Douglas for dismissal and got up with their trays. Douglas was left alone, across from du Rau and Alsburg. He brought a carafe of water within their reach, offered to fetch some tea (Alsburg declined; du Rau accepted), and began to eat.
For field rations the stew was palatable, if a bit salty. Du Rau ate steadily without complaint, and studied Douglas between bites. The young man was certainly a frustration but not, he thought, very much of a mystery. He ate in quick bites, without savor, as if taking sustenance were the next chore in the list. It was no wonder his brevet rank sat lightly on him: the work itself was burden enough, directing an installation and preserving the remnants of the school Barklay had left behind. Du Rau’s gaze sought Douglas’s left hand where it rested on the table, and found as he expected that it had been marked by sustained labor. More recently, he had torn his knuckles badly; the injuries were healed but the pink lines of new skin remained. Battle wounds, came the thought, only to be discarded at once.
Douglas caught him staring, and lifted his hand to glance at the marks himself. A small puff of breath escaped him, not quite a laugh. “A lifetime ago,” he said. “I was in a fight.” He bent back to his stew but stopped and looked up to meet du Rau’s eye. “With Captain Speir, actually.”
Alsburg stopped in the act of breaking open his roll. Du Rau canted back his head to size Douglas up. “Who won?” he asked.
The lines of Douglas’s eyes gathered up in an incipient smile. “She did.”
Somehow du Rau did not find this surprising. He waited for more.
Douglas’s gaze wandered off thoughtfully to the far distance. “If she hadn’t, I suppose I’d be dead on Cardumel Base right now,” he said, without rancor.
The words were cryptic, but a connection clicked into place: if he took a second look at that list of people Barklay asked to his council, du Rau thought, he would find that Speir was that other officer from Cardumel. “And why was she not there?” he said. A question he already knew the answer to. Because she also came here to Barklay’s council.
Douglas didn’t miss the catch. He gave du Rau a long, appraising look. “She went back,” he said slowly—yes, he was taking the measure of du Rau’s inside intelligence— “to help manage the anti-aircraft works. She’s a cartographer, and knows the ground.”
And was willing to risk her own life alongside her subordinates. Several of the escort had stilled their conversation to listen to this. Du Rau considered the evidence before him; considered Speir’s claim on Barklay as a friend—her presence in this delicate operation, if not by Douglas’s insistence at least with his blessing—her candid recognition of Barklay’s wrongs, like Douglas acknowledging the atrocity at Solham Fray—the marks on Douglas’s knuckles and the cry that had broken from his lips…. If you give it back to me, I will keep it.
You can stop this, sir.
By doing what? du Rau had asked.
Douglas had stopped eating and was studying him, intently, openly.
And you think Ryswyck is the answer, du Rau had said.
Beyond me, echo
ed Ahrens’s voice down the long corridor. Ask Douglas.
Aloud, he said: “I am sure Captain Speir knows the ground very well.”
Douglas sat back to appreciate this on all its levels, and as he did, another officer in army fatigues approached with his tray. It was the large captain who had attended on Douglas after the funeral. He put his tray down next to Douglas, favored the Berenians across the table with a short nod, and settled himself on the creaking bench.
“Lord Bernhelm,” Douglas said mildly, “let me make known to you Captain Stevens, on permanent staff here at Ryswyck.”
“Sir,” Stevens acknowledged. He did not smile. Du Rau sensed his withheld hostility, not as a threat but as a fuel for his own courtesy.
“Stevens and I,” Douglas went on, “served together in the junior leadership here. In fact—” his lips twitched— “you’ve now met four out of five of the junior officer leadership cadre of our year.”
“I wouldn’t introduce him to Cameron, if I were you,” Stevens murmured into his tea. Douglas flicked him a quelling look.
“…The fifth?” du Rau said, expectantly.
Douglas obliged him. “Commander Cameron, First Navy. She is currently serving as a logistics officer at Amity Base.”
And are there more of you where that came from? No wonder Alban Selkirk had been so galled by Barklay’s endeavor—he’d taken the cream of Verlac’s soldiers and shaped them for himself. Let me show you what I’ve done, Barklay had said. Yes, he’d gathered all his country’s best human assets and put them on one indefensible campus, and du Rau had run out of time to destroy them. Maddening.
Douglas was watching him, as if reading du Rau’s thoughts off his face. Then he called off his gaze abruptly. “Well,” he said, “our time is not unlimited. Stevens, what from Wallis?”