by L D Inman
He found an empty training room out of the way of the makeshift infirmary, chose a bated baton, and began a set of drills against the pad-bar, his eyes gritty.
The sweat was cooling on his neck when he heard a voice behind him. “There you are. Why aren’t you in bed?”
“Go away, Stevens,” Douglas grunted.
“I don’t think so, sir.” Heavy footsteps coming further in. “You’re doing no one any favors, you know. It’s time you got a sleep shift.”
“I’m aware.” He tried to ignore Stevens, and concentrated on his parry and thrust.
“Three different officers,” Stevens said, “at each point of command. Stop wasting the opportunity. Go and sleep, Douglas.”
Douglas’s patience broke. He turned around. “Do you think I haven’t tried it? Stop taking me for a fool and leave me alone.”
Stevens’s arms were folded in bulk across his chest. His eyes were as shadowed as Wallis’s. “I’ll take whatever I’m offered, Admiral Douglas, sir.”
Even as he thought to himself not to take the bait, Douglas’s hands were raising his baton point-first. “Come over here and say that.”
They faced one another, drawing in breaths like cats before the fray; then Stevens darted forward. Douglas prepared to strike; but Stevens was barreling across the training room, faster than any man his size had a right to be, and even as Douglas aimed his thrust, Stevens batted his baton from his grip. It skimbled away, and before Douglas could get distance to punch him, he had closed: grabbed him up in a pinioning hug and held him mummed up. Douglas struggled futilely for a moment and then wilted. He was too weary to weep, but he laid down his brow against Stevens’s shoulder and let him bear him up.
They stood like that for a long minute. Then Stevens’s voice came again, a warm rumble. “Now then. Let’s start this again. I propose to walk you back to your quarters and put you in your bed. And you’re going to get some proper sleep. Sir.”
“I’ve tried it,” Douglas said, against his shoulder. “Multiple times. I just can’t.”
“Just because it’s impossible doesn’t mean you can’t do it,” Stevens said.
Douglas groaned. “You’re not going to let me live that down, are you.”
Stevens held him away to look down at him. “Live it down? It’s the first Douglasism of your tenure as the headmaster of Ryswyck Academy.” He turned them both toward the exit, a large arm bolstering Douglas’s shoulders. “Live it down,” he snorted.
And possibly the last, Douglas thought but did not say. He let Stevens walk him out of the arena complex, across the quad in the cold, and into the damp cloister, without comment. Stevens was talking to him, chattily, something about sparring court and the mess hall, but Douglas was concentrating mostly on picking up his feet step by step. In through the door of Barklay’s office—his office—into his quarters; and Stevens was pulling off his boots where Douglas already was sitting on his bunk. “My jacket,” he murmured, “and the baton.”
“I’ll get them both put away,” Stevens assured him, tugging the covers back from underneath Douglas’s seat. With a sigh Douglas let himself fall over, let Stevens poke his feet under the blankets and tuck him in. At the last minute he forced his eyes open and pulled his arms free of the covers. “If du Rau renews the attack,” he said, “he’ll start with us.”
Stevens’s shadow brooded over him; there came an exasperated sigh. “You did have classmates in strategy and tactics, you know, Douglas,” he said. “I will wake you if it happens. Now give it over.”
For answer, Douglas laid his closed hand to his heart. He felt Stevens cover it with his warm one; his eyes were already closed, and he was already being drawn out on the tide. He breathed out, and let go.
~*~
When he arrived home du Rau realized with chagrin that he was going to have to add to the number of people he trusted. Ingrid, Reynard, and Alsburg were not going to be enough of a bastion to work from.
He started with Wernhier.
“Lord Admiral,” he said, “do you understand your instructions?”
“Yes, my lord,” Wernhier said. He was standing at relaxed attention, as if reporting to du Rau in his office. It looked incongruous in du Rau’s private parlor, but they were both making the best of it: Wernhier masking his concern in immaculate professionalism, and du Rau in his chair masking exhaustion with relaxed clemency. “We will not seek to negotiate an extension to the ceasefire, and we will also not be the first to break it. We will maintain the same distance with the Verlakers at all times, and take careful note of any of their movements.”
“Very good,” du Rau said. “You will also handle all communications with the Verlakers while I am resting. If we receive any further queries from outside parties, you will refer them to our earlier statement and otherwise put them off until I am back at my desk. Neither of these tasks is to be delegated to anyone else. I am sorry to discommode you.”
“Not at all, my lord.” It was not Wernhier who had spent twelve days without rest in the constant company of the enemy, but he was tactful enough not to say so.
“Who showed himself to be the most level-headed on the general staff while I was gone?” du Rau asked.
Wernhier thought about it. “Guiscard,” he said finally, which tallied with du Rau’s own assessment.
“Put him in charge of the debriefings for our recovered wounded, and have him prepare a report for me on the list of dead provided by Admiral Douglas.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“I am not going to get up to find a worse disaster than we are in already.”
“No, my lord.”
“Thank you, Lord Admiral.”
Wernhier went out as Reynard came in. Reynard bowed briefly and set a small black case down on the table at du Rau’s elbow. Du Rau knew what was in it. He let out a longsuffering sigh.
“Where did you get it?” he said.
“I used several layers of security, my lord. It can’t be traced back to you. Although we are going to have to come up with a better solution than this for the long term.”
“Yes,” du Rau agreed reluctantly. “I’m going to delegate that problem to you, if you don’t mind.”
“I’m already on it, my lord.”
“Good. Who is going to administer it?”
“With your leave, I am,” said Reynard. “I have enough of the basic medical training.”
Which he was more often obliged to use in the detention cells than on occasions like this. “Your efforts on my behalf do not go unappreciated, Reynard,” du Rau said.
Reynard opened the case to reveal the expected sterile-wrapped syringe and the bottle of amber liquid. Du Rau couldn’t stop himself making a face. It was a pity that this treatment made him feel briefly worse before it made him feel better, but it couldn’t be helped. He would miss Dr. Berthau’s careful experiments for that.
“You will rouse me in time for the general staff meeting I have planned for tomorrow.”
“Yes, my lord,” said Reynard patiently.
With a last sigh, du Rau undid his cuff button and began to roll up his linen sleeve.
~*~
It was still dark when Douglas woke up, but for once it was not an urgent summons that woke him. He took stock of himself in the darkness of his quarters. The hot fog behind his eyes was gone, and he could think. He was clearly aware, now, that his soul hurt within him; but the miasma of bewilderment had cleared. He did not have to drive himself blindly forward.
He got up, made his bed, and went into the bath. Completed shower, shave, and toilet without haste or interruption. He emerged from his quarters to find that there were only two cadets at the comm stations and they appeared not to have any traffic to tend; one was quaffing a cup of tea. She saw Douglas and stiffened; he waved her down before either of them could rise to attention.
It was Beathas keeping watch in Douglas’s office, which meant that Stevens must be roving. She had an empty cup at her elbow and was reading a report
peacefully, stylus idle in her hand. She raised her head, and they shared a look for a long moment. No other report was needed: Douglas knew that the ceasefire still held, that no urgent decisions awaited him.
He nodded to Beathas wordlessly and went out, through the cloister to the arena walk and beyond, taking the splashing path to the ash garden house tucked within a fold of rocky ground. It was the southernmost structure of the campus, and never had it looked more in harm’s way than it did now, with its two small lamps burning at the door, pricks of light in the darkness. Dawn was still a few hours away.
Ash gardens had no doors, only posterns beveled for privacy. Ryswyck’s garden was small: few had died here, and because Ryswyck was not a registered birthplace, even fewer were interred here. Still, when Douglas rounded the postern wall into the canopied court, the lamplight inside picked out a few inscriptions on the dark steel slab on the inner wall. Barklay’s name would soon join them, and his ashes would sift through the rocks of the garden and give themselves back to the earth.
But not just yet. Through the back postern Douglas could hear soft voices: a team of his soldiers was piling rocks on the slab beyond, preparing to make a stone oven for the burning. Inside, Barklay still lay on his bier with a torch flickering at head and foot. Someone had thoughtfully placed a small bench next to the bier, for anyone who wished to pay their respects. Judging from the number of fronds and small stones that had been laid alongside him on the bier, many had. Douglas thought that if he were to go into the chapel right now, he would see a corresponding bright tribute of little flames.
Douglas’s hands were empty. He knew it was not wrong that they should be, but still his heart ached as he sank down onto the bench. He ached for gratitude, that wisdom had given them a quiet night’s mourning; that Ryswyck still wanted to mourn its founder. That even with empty hands, Douglas still had an offering.
All offerings are acceptable. He would have to trust that. He would have to trust that he could lay down his living anger before it became bitterness. Though even bitterness could be an offering in the end, Douglas thought. Even ugly things could be offerings, if one could brave the shame of giving them.
Barklay had done that. He had offered himself together with his deeds, knowing it was not a beautiful gift. Du Rau was not fool enough to respect a false offering, and could reasonably have chosen not to respect a real one either. Yet du Rau had come to Ilona and given Barklay back to him, with no sneer or reproach to mar the occasion. Which told Douglas more than he would have divined on his own. Douglas did not yet feel compassion for Barklay. But in wisdom’s arena he could feel the trajectory and knew that he would. All will be well, he had said, before he really believed it.
He was still sitting there, watching the torchlight flicker over Barklay’s still face, when he heard a scraping step at the postern. Another Ryswyckian had come to see Barklay, he thought, but then he heard a very faint cough and knew that he was being summoned. He looked up and turned his head.
It was Lieutenant Corda. Eyes on the floor, he said in a hushed voice: “I’m sorry, sir. I was sent to ask you if you could take a briefing from Central.”
Douglas did not ask why Corda was serving as a comms runner; he suspected that Corda had gone to his office, and finding Douglas gone, volunteered himself for the errand. “Yes,” Douglas said. “I’ll come.”
He rose; paused to reach down and touch Barklay’s banner-shrouded hand with his own warm living one; let his gaze imprint for his memory the glancing brass buttons and the deep black wool of Barklay’s tunic, of one hue in the dim torchlight with the red linings within, and the calm closed eyes. Then he straightened and turned away to go.
Corda spoke as Douglas made to pass him. “Sir,” he said, eyes still on the floor, “if you want me to I could keep watch here for the last hour.”
It was not a thing Douglas needed. But, he thought, it was a thing Corda needed to give him. He took a gentle grasp of his lieutenant’s shoulder, and as Corda looked up, nodded his thanks. Then he slipped past and out of the postern.
Outside, the wind had turned slow and heavy with cold; Douglas felt the chill at the tip of his nose. The main block was now faintly visible, a brooding solidity against the predawn sky. He turned toward it and picked up stride.
~*~
When du Rau woke, it was early morning: his bedroom had no windows, but the door into the parlor was open, and the still gray light defined the edges of chairs and tables. All was silent. Ingrid was curled warmly around him. She was still asleep, her arm slack over his waist. Even in sleep, though, he could feel her poised to protect him. She had taken for herself the necessity of being hard so that he would have one less impossible task on his hands.
If Ingrid were prosecuting this war, he thought in his stillness, what would she do? She would not blanch at raining fire upon the Ryswyckians, he thought: she would see those cheerful soldiers of his escort doomed to destruction, without passion—or with all passion reserved from exposure. He was a soldier; he too would kill them; but something in him rebelled against reserving grief. Some part of him had finally had enough of implacable hatred.
Neither of us wants a cheap peace, Speir had said. She was right. The most desirable outcome would be for one of them to annihilate the other and then stand as chief mourner at their dirge. If it were only himself, or only himself and his forces, du Rau would have welcomed such an inevitability. But not all his people were soldiers; and annihilation was never total: the bad times had proved that. A remnant always survived to suffer. He did not want to leave a remnant of his people to suffer. Nor could he stomach any longer the thought of his people gloating over the suffering of a remnant of Verlac.
And in any case, it would not get so far. The richer, redeveloped nations, indifferent to their war in its cold stages, had now been roused to interest. It would not be a mere remnant of Verlac and Berenia that survived to suffer. And neither would have the dignity and agency to grieve.
Du Rau stirred. Ingrid was awake at once. She drew in a sudden breath and lifted her head. “It’s all right,” he tried to say, and was obliged to clear his throat. “It’s all right.” She subsided reluctantly, murmuring, as he wallowed slowly to the edge of the bed and slipped out.
It was one of the bad mornings, he knew at once; his bones felt heavy as iron and his muscles like thin silk ribbons. Damn Barklay, he thought with each step to the bath. He could have put off another treatment for a month if it hadn’t been for him. He retched for a few minutes over the basin, though he had nothing to bring up, and then washed his face in cold water. A shower and shave warmed his blood and readied his muscles for the task of keeping him upright; but the face in his mirror was, for the moment, unconcealably ill.
Discontentedly, du Rau got dressed and went to sit in his chair in the parlor, where Ingrid was already dressed for the day and arranging his breakfast tray. He took dutiful bites of his omelet, until he couldn’t stand any more, and then sat with his tea in both hands, brooding. Ingrid sat with him for a little while, then got up and busied herself; he did not ask with what.
It wasn’t till midmorning that he began to feel a resurgence, but he had not wasted the time. When Wernhier came in to brief him, he was ready.
“My lord,” he said, and stopped, frowning in concern.
“I am mending according to schedule, Lord Admiral,” du Rau said, waving a hand. “Please do proceed.”
“Yes, my lord. I am ready to make a report on several items ahead of the general staff meeting. First, there has been no change in the position between our forces and the Verlakers’. They seem to be rearranging some resources behind their lines, but the movement so far has been negligible. We did not attack the Boundary’s supply lines when they sent ships out earlier this morning, though it was very difficult to talk Siebert down on that.”
“Did you tell him the Verlakers’ supplies are limited to begin with?” du Rau said, his lips twitching into a brief smile.
“That was m
ore or less the argument that succeeded, my lord,” said Wernhier. He looked amused, but the amusement swiftly dropped away. “Second,” he went on, “I did receive a response to the rebuff you asked me to send to the Southern Consortium. They say, very politely, that they assume we are about to bring the matter to a swift conclusion, and look forward to updating their diplomatic relations with both us and Verlac. And in support of that end, they are offering themselves as negotiating partners for a peace agreement, if one of us should be willing to accept the invitation.”
“In other words,” du Rau said, “if we won’t accept their help, they will offer it to Verlac instead. That is exactly what I would expect. Did they say whether they communicated the same to the Verlakers?”
“It was a clear-copy communique, addressed both to Bernhelm and Ilona Central.”
“Ah. Naturally. Well, unless they are fools across the strait, that won’t get the Consortium very far forward.”
“Let us hope that they are not, my lord,” Wernhier said, grimacing. “Third…we have finally made contact with one of our agents, but the report unfortunately is that the missile program continues to operate on a blind, and however many teams there are, they already have detailed orders. Selkirk makes a regular statement on a broad channel that offensive operations are temporarily suspended. The assumption is that if he ceases to issue that statement, the missiles will be fired, in whatever order they were set to go in.”
“A dead-man’s switch, of sorts,” du Rau mused. “And presumably he can end the voluntary ceasefire any time he wishes.”
“Presumably, my lord.” The creases in Wernhier’s sun-beaten face deepened. “My lord…I must take responsibility for our failure in intelligence. We ought to have known of the missiles before they were used against us. We are in an untenable position now because of it, and I am sorry.”