An Exchange of Hostages (45 page)

Whether he understood or not, it was clear enough to Andrej that Joslire was in torment. “Come, Joslire, stand down a bit. Explain. You worry me.” He’d caused Joslire torment more than once during the Term, in his ignorance and clumsiness. And nothing he had tried to do to provide comfort had ever seemed to have its intended effect, either; but he had to keep on trying. “What is this thing that it is too late for me to comprehend?”

Joslire dropped his head, rolling his underlip against his upper teeth. “My Bond belongs to Fleet. But. If the officer please. I may request assignment. To the officer.”

Wait, there had been something, a few lines of text merely — glossed over with the briefest of mentions, and it had seemed so unlikely to him at the time that he had taken no notice.

“That is to say, with the officer’s permission. Active Line duty assignment to Student Koscuisko. To go with his Excellency,” Joslire concluded. And fell silent.

Shaking his head in horrified denial now, Andrej backed away from Joslire where he stood. “This is some test they put you to, Joslire, you cannot mean to come with me to
Scylla
.” And an evil test, to make a man ask to be even more cruelly bound than he had been already, to force Joslire to pretend to want to go. After what Joslire had seen of him. His exercises. His excesses.

But the accusation seemed to strike at Joslire’s pride as if it had been a slap across his face. “Indeed it is not, and I do. His Excellency is respectfully requested to consider my petition as made in earnest. There are so few decisions about my life that I am still permitted to make.”

Joslire’s reproach shamed Andrej to his heart; but he could not accept the idea, even so. Surely the last thing anyone would want — after watching him, throughout his training — would be to seek a dedicated assignment.

“You have been good to me, Joslire, and I have had great comfort from you. If I were to let you come with me, it would be selfishness, your deferment — ”

“If the officer is serious let the officer prove it; let his Excellency respect my request and honor it. We are slaves, except in this one thing. His Excellency should not seek to deny me what piece of freedom even Fleet permits.”

He had asked Joslire to speak directly, and this was blunt speech indeed. Almost, almost Andrej could believe that Joslire meant precisely what he said. Was he tempted to believe Joslire because Joslire was serious — or because he welcomed the prospect of Joslire’s support in the trying days to come? “But I could be other than you may think me to be. And if I held your Bond, you could not appeal if I were to abuse you. You cannot be sure of what you do. No, I won’t let you.”

Joslire seemed to have lost his fear and cleared his mind of conflict. He stood rock-solid on his feet and looked up at Andrej from the bottom of the very pit of hopelessness.

“The first Student to whom I was assigned did not desire to punish my unsatisfactory performance above four times in Term. The Tutor was unable to obtain Student Exception, it was my first such assignment and I was ignorant. Discipline the second time was three-and-thirty. The Student signed my return-to-duty documents on the following day, and was praised by Tutor Mannes for being conservative with expensive medication.”

There was no petition in Joslire’s voice now, only cold recitation, merciless and inexorable.

“The second Student liked to use the driver. His Excellency has examined his handiwork. The third Student took very little notice of my existence and her sexual requirements were not in themselves difficult to fulfill to her satisfaction, so that was not a bad Term all in all. But the fourth Student to whom I was assigned demanded more particular attention to specific personal needs, and found his gratification much enhanced if he was free to inflict pain while he enjoyed pleasure. The most recent Student, prior to his Excellency — ”

“No, Joslire, please, be still.”

“ — preferred to discipline in ways not specifically referenced among the techniques of Inquiry and Confirmation, which methods therefore lay outside of the range of adjudication or exception. The Tutor encouraged his experimentation, and he was held back for the Remedial Levels, so there was adequate time for him to explore areas that interested him.”

Andrej could not listen; he could hardly breathe. He turned away from Joslire, overcome. Oh, he deserved to have such things said to him. It was discipline for his selfishness, just and judicious retribution for the wrong he had done Joslire by challenging his request. It was proper punishment, and it tore at his stomach sharp and keenly.

“None of them would have cared about St. Clare. None of them would have practiced with the driver to protect him rather than torture him. None of them cared to minimize the number of souls at risk as a result of confessions. If his Excellency remains unconvinced, I stand ready to supply as many additional details as would amuse his Excellency to entertain.”

There was no arguing with such cogent proofs. Joslire already knew the full horror of being trapped without recourse, at the mercy of a brutal officer and a system no less brutal. Andrej knew he had no further right to question or deny him. He had wanted to reject Joslire’s request, because Joslire had years yet of deferment that he could spend safely here on Station. Joslire had disillusioned him of that. Joslire was not safe.

“No, no more, Joslire, I will not deny you. It is what you want, that I should hold your Bond?”

He couldn’t face Joslire, not just yet. It was not good for a man’s pride to see how deeply he was pitied.

“For as long as Fleet and his Excellency permit. Yes. Permission to accompany his Excellency on dedicated duty assignment.”

Andrej took a deep breath, trying to clear his mind of the objections that he still wanted to raise — of the doubts he was in honor bound to swallow. Joslire had made his claim. “It shall be so, then. Come with me to
Scylla,
Joslire. I will take you to me, and I will hold you to me while I can.”

He would submit and be humbled before Joslire. It was the least that he could do in the face of Joslire’s courage.

“Thank you, your Excellency.”

Joslire sounded grateful to him, in Joslire’s subdued style — his usually subdued style, that was to say. As if it was Joslire who was to receive benefit, Andrej who was making the sacrifice.

“If you are to be my man, and I your master . . . ”

Joslire meant to make contract with him, and accompany him on dedicated duty assignment. Such an honor could not be accepted lightly. Turning back to the study-set, Andrej sat down and motioned Joslire to come stand in front of him. He didn’t even care anymore about the monitors. Fleet protocols were all very well and good, but this could not be said to be between a new officer and a Security troop merely. This contract could only be made man to man.

“Thou must come to thy knees, Joslire, and cut thy mouth. Give me to drink, of thee.”

Confused and apprehensive, trusting all the same, Joslire sank to his knees gracefully in front of Andrej where he sat. “His Excellency requires?”

“Thy mouth, Joslire. At the inside.” He had been too young to manage; his father had helped him to draw blood. He was the prince inheritor, and his father had marked him publicly as of his blood and substance by incorporating Andrej’s life into his own. His younger brothers and his sisters had never gone through such a ceremony; when Andrej inherited, they would all make their submission to him in the traditional manner, and through him to the Blood of ages.

Joslire had pulled his back-sheath knife, but looked a little puzzled yet. Laying his hand over Joslire’s hand, Andrej guided the sharp point of the blade to cut against Joslire’s cheek from the inside. The mouth bled easily and freely, and healed most quickly. It was better, done so, than the older ways.

He let Joslire take away the knife, and set his left hand against the back of Joslire’s strong stout neck. He’d never thought to make contract in the old fashion, or at least not until his father died — let alone with a man who was no kind of Dolgorukij. But he knew what had to be done.

“Give me to drink of thee,” he repeated — reassuringly, he hoped. He put his mouth to Joslire’s mouth, and closed his eyes, and waited.

After a moment Joslire made submission, opening his mouth and surrendering himself to Andrej’s greedy — if symbolic — thirst. The taste of Joslire’s blood was different from his own, but that was the whole point. The Holy Mother understood of blood. And once Joslire had given of his blood — once he had given up his substance for Andrej’s nourishment — the Holy Mother would look upon him as blood and bone of her own children.

That was the way it had been explained to Andrej, at any rate.

Long moments, and the blood ceased to flow from the shallow cut in Joslire’s cheek. Andrej lifted his head and leaned back, his mind reeling with the unexpected emotional impact of the ritual act. “There, it is done.” Joslire was quiet and calm, with him, but Joslire had only been Aznir for a few short moments now. It was not to be expected that he would understand it all at once. “Now it is bonded, and cannot be broken. Thou art to me, Joslire, and may our Lady’s Grace be satisfied.”

Be of Koscuisko, forever
.

But he did not say it.

There was a limit to how much arcane Aznir superstition he could reasonably expect Joslire to tolerate at any given time. And they would not let him take Joslire with him when he left Fleet.

“According to his Excellency’s good pleasure.”

As pleases my master, most pleases myself.
It seemed so close, it sent a shiver down Andrej’s spine. Surely the Holy Mother had set her seal upon the contract. If he had been a religious man — as Andrej did not feel himself to be — he would be forced to take Joslire’s choice of response as nothing less than a patent sign from the Canopy itself, instead of simply being something that Joslire said from time to time that only happened to echo ancient fealty formulae of the Blood.

“Go and let St. Clare back in, if you would, Joslire. You need to see the Tutor, I expect. And I’m expected in Doctor Chaymalt’s office.”

It was easier in a way to be grateful to a Mother that he only half-believed in than to contemplate by how slim a margin he had gained what he had won from the Administration. The life of Robert St. Clare, although he had traded his honor for the boon. This unexpected grant of companionship from Joslire, so that he might yet find a way to return good for the good Joslire had done him — and continue to learn how to throw those lovely, lovely knives, as well.

It would give him something to think about on his way to
Scylla.
The better to avoid thinking about his apprehensions, facing his first assignment on the Line.

“Even so, your Excellency. St. Clare can take his Excellency there. He knows the way.”

His first assignment had just gotten significantly easier to face.

Chapter Sixteen

There had been a flurry of some sort, St. Clare was almost certain of it. Not that anyone was saying anything to him about it, but what could Curran have in mind to go racing off on his own like that? A flurry, or his name wasn’t Robert St. Clare.

Wait a moment,
he admonished himself.

His name
wasn’t
Robert St. Clare.

All right, perhaps his name was not exactly St. Clare, but he would be expected to answer to it for twenty-six years, so what was the functional difference?

The officer had appointments with the Medical Officer, and the Provost Marshall after. Fortunately he had had plenty of time to study the physical mapping of the place.

“To the officer’s right. And again, at the next turning, if the officer please.” He’d be glad to get to
Scylla,
even so, where he would necessarily be junior man on whichever Security Five-point team he ended up on. It would be up to the senior man in Koscuisko’s escort to walk behind the officer and direct him at the same time. All he’d have to do, then, was to pay attention and follow instructions. That couldn’t be said to be a hard life, now, could it?

“Past the lift-nexus, to the officer’s right once more.” He expected he could even get used to Koscuisko in time. Up in the high windy, people who looked like Koscuisko — short and pale, pale hair, pale eyes — were suspect; it wasn’t honest herding blood, at all, it was farmers who had been sea-raiders beforetime. A long time before, but memory ran long in the high windy, because there was nothing to do for entertainment but sit and tell stories, and argue about the weaves. Koscuisko could be a throwback to the sea-raiders, from his face, but what weave would a man wear who was for Inquisition?

There was a troop waiting for them at the receiving area, someone Robert thought he recognized: Omie Idarec, from the same group he’d come in with, but wearing Station Security. That was right, there’d been gossip. He wondered if Koscuisko knew who Omie was.

“If his Excellency would follow me?”

There was no sign on Omie’s face, so Robert guessed not. The subject made for interesting speculation, as he trotted along after Idarec on Koscuisko’s heels. If Koscuisko had only ever seen Omie as an anonymous body in surgery or as a set of statistics in the medical reports on Line, there was no reason to imagine that Koscuisko had more than a general idea of what he actually looked like. He could ask Omie, of course, once the officer went through to see Chaymalt. But he was still learning the hand-language. There was probably a limit to how much he was going to be able to find out.

Here was the place; no guard posted, but this was a training facility, not like
Scylla
would be. Omie signaled smartly at the door, pivoting into a perfect attention-rest just beyond the threshold as Koscuisko came up to announce himself. Robert tried to match the smoothness of his counterpart’s move, taking his place at the near side of the door. Well, not bad.

But plenty of room for improvement.

“Student Koscuisko to see Doctor Chaymalt, as Tutor Chonis has instructed.”

The door slid open; Koscuisko stepped through, and then he and Omie were alone in the corridor together. Only the two of them, which made conversation rather more difficult, because there was no mirror man to reflect the messages, and greater care was required not to break the discipline of attention-rest. They’d practiced together, though; that was a plus.

St. Clare glanced quickly down and over, to find Omie’s hand; the thumb was already canted at a subtle angle,
wanna talk.
He couldn’t distinguish statement from question at this point, though he knew it could be done, since they’d both seen more experienced bond-involuntaries demonstrate.

He knows you?

There was a pacing issue to keep in mind; if a word was held too long, it wasted precious time; but if it wasn’t held long enough, there was a risk of losing the word. They were expected to be looking straight ahead, after all. Generally speaking.

No. Don’t think so. Leaving?

This time the question was fairly obvious, so Robert answered more directly.
At nine and sixteen. Scylla. Nice ship-mark, I like it.

Omie made an amused knuckle, coupled with a finger twitch denoting a superior admonitory tone.
Not alone, though. Joslire Curran.

Spelling out the name made interpretation more difficult, since St. Clare had to sound it in his mind before he realized who it was that Omie meant. He knew how to spell his new name in Standard script, but he was still getting used to reading it; and for a moment he thought he’d misunderstood.

What, my uncle’s man? Dark broody sort, muscles all over?

Koscuisko’s man, yes, Curran. Just now. Almost sure of it.

Well, that would be interesting. Had that been why he’d been invited to leave, then? Curran, to be coming with them; and Curran had been on Station for years, now, but not eight years, which implied that Curran had given up the balance of his deferment to go with them. That was startling, but it was comforting, too. If a man of Curran’s experience had decided that Koscuisko was a man to take on dedicated duty assignment, St. Clare could consider himself lucky by implication. He hadn’t been offered the choice. But maybe he’d gotten a good one anyway — even if the man did have better hands and worse ones. At least he knew which pair he preferred Koscuisko to wear.

That’ll be nice. Company. You?

No response; St. Clare wondered if he’d gotten it right. There was only the fraction of a cuticle’s difference between “you” and an improbable form of recreation. After a moment, though, he could see the answer taking shape, and realized that Omie had only been trying to figure out how best to phrase himself, within the limited vocabulary the two of them had in common.

Held over. Popular demand. Try again, next Term.

Try again? Face the prisoner-surrogate exercise all over again, next Term? He didn’t like the sound of that.

Choice?

Maybe he shouldn’t ask so personal a question. He put a fingernail’s worth of apology behind the question mark. Omie didn’t seem to have taken offense.

Beats work. Just think, I’ll be ahead of the next bunch. Extra months of deferment, too.

True, Omie would be ahead of the rest of the prisoner-surrogates, he’d already gone through the test. Or started the test, at any rate. He hadn’t answered the question, one way or the other; St. Clare decided that was an answer of its own.

The Day will come.

He didn’t expect Koscuisko’s interview to be a long one; there was no telling when they’d be interrupted. It was best to signal close of conversation now, in good time, rather than leave the exchange unfinished. It was bad luck to leave things unfinished, when there was no way to guess whether he would ever see Omie again.

The Day, after tomorrow.

Omie was apparently content to let it rest there, having passed on his news. Curran was coming? Well, that was good. He thought.

He quieted his mind, and stood in wait for his officer.

###

Andrej bowed to the Provost Marshall politely. “Student Koscuisko presents himself for the Marshall’s Command briefing, at Tutor Chonis’s instruction.” Unlike Doctor Chaymalt, the Marshall had called St. Clare in with him. To guard against an appearance that his fish might misinterpret, so that it need not fall prey to the impertinence that was the common burden of all fish? He didn’t know.

“Thank you, ‘your Excellency.’ Watch out for ‘Student Koscuisko,’ from now on. You’ll report to Parmin as ‘Chief Medical Officer,’ remember.”

So he would. Marshall Journis had risen from her desk as he saluted, and invited him to be seated with a gesture of her hand. She had not put St. Clare at his ease; was it expected of him, that he should? But he had not yet left the Station; she was still a step up from him on his chain of command. Therefore if she hadn’t put St. Clare at his ease, it was because she felt that he should stand at attention, for reasons of her own.

“Yes, Marshall Journis. With your permission, I understand you have information about
Scylla
for me?”

She came around to the front of the desk to take the other chair, facing him. She had a stack of cubes in her hand and dropped them one at a time on the edge of the desk nearest him, counting them off as she went.

“Tactical history of the Jurisdiction Fleet Ship
Scylla,
from shipyard to current mission status. Fleet biographies on the Captain, the Primes, and other assigned Command Branch officers. Latest readiness assessment on Medical, and files on the assigned staff.” She paused for a moment, tapping her fingers against the third cube. “I’ve taken the liberty of including the Bench-specific issues — historical performance of Ship’s Inquisition both on
Scylla
and under Irshah Parmin, incidents per eight, required Levels. Things like that. If you’re interested.”

So that he’d have a better idea of what to expect, or what would be expected of him. Significant information indeed; but she continued her itemization, without waiting to give him a chance to make an appropriate remark.

“Finally, because of the peculiar nature of your Security, the files on the troops assigned to the Security Five-point teams, and the Chief Warrant Officer who is responsible to the First Officer for them. Chief Warrant Caleigh Samons, that is, at present. You’ll find her very professional, but I’d advise you to let her know up front that you don’t want people interfering with your green-sleeves.”

If Samons was a Chief Warrant Officer, she couldn’t possibly be a bond-involuntary. What was the Provost getting at? “I am not sure I understand your point, Marshall Journis.”

“You’ve got delicate sensibilities where bond-involuntaries are concerned. She needs to know if you’re going to take it personally every time someone’s up for two-and-twenty. Or just have her strip St. Clare down, and tell her it was four-and-forty, with a driver. She’s intelligent. She’ll get the point. By the way, do you mind if I have a look? I didn’t get the chance to admire your work close up before.”

It was still a little confusing, but Andrej was beginning to think he grasped her meaning. He was to be sure that Samons knew he did not feel six-and-sixty should be handed out with a liberal hand; and St. Clare — whose back, newly healed, still showed by evident if fading bruises that he had been beaten recently — was to serve as a demonstration model of his personal reluctance to mutilate his assigned Security. Andrej expected that he could probably communicate as much adequately well to his new Chief Warrant in plain language, now that he comprehended the problem. Why did Journis want to “admire” his work, though? To see how St. Clare had mended? To critique his handling of the whip? What?

“With respect, Marshall Journis, I would prefer not. He is a man, not an ornament.” Reluctant as Andrej was to deny the Marshall — especially after having received benefit from her, professionally and personally — he could not see taking St. Clare’s clothes off to gratify her curiosity. There were limits. And he had to set them; because St. Clare was not permitted to.

She looked a little surprised, to have him talk back to her. He was surprised at himself, come to that. Fortunately she did not seem to be offended.

“Very well. As you like.” He was leaving here; it probably didn’t matter one way or the other, if he had offended her. But gratuitous insult was almost always a bad investment. And she had counted the stroke when Robert had been beaten, and she had not made him repeat a single blow.

“Be advised, then, that discipline for bond-involuntaries is usually liberally assessed and applied. It’s only fair that you let her know first thing that you don’t want to see any general-purpose assessments. She’ll take it from there. You might want to talk to your First Officer about it, as well, and tell him I sent you when you see him.”

If that was what it took to hold the hand of Fleet discipline back from meaningless punishment, then he would gladly do as much, and more.

“Thank you, Marshall Journis. Will that be all?”

He thought that he had sensed his dismissal in her last phrase. But apparently he had been mistaken; or, rather, his timing had been off. He was not to be dismissed quite so immediately.

“No, one more thing, Andrej. An important one. You know St. Clare, here. You know Curran.” And she knew that Curran was coming with him, why should he be surprised? “Do what you can to let the others know that they count, too. It means a lot to anybody. More to these, because they have so little else.”

A warning against jealousy, perhaps? What had he ever done to St. Clare that anyone would envy St. Clare for it? What had he ever done to Joslire Curran, other than to make his life miserable?

“A man deserves the respect due any sentient creature, Marshall Journis.” On the other hand he hadn’t beaten Joslire, or tormented his body, or required sexual services of him. Maybe for bond-involuntaries that was enough. “Thank you for the reminder. I will keep your advice carefully in my mind.”

It was a good point, an important point.

But he had been raised to keep peace in his Household.

He was confident that he knew what to do.

“Then take your briefings, and back to quarters with you. Exercise. Sauna. Wherever.” This was unequivocal; the interview was over. Andrej took the four-stack in his hand and stood up.

“Thank you again, Marshall Journis. Your remarks are very much appreciated.” Except the one about wanting to have a look at Robert, perhaps. There didn’t seem to be any sense in quibbling over that, however, especially since she’d not slapped him down for his rather acerbic rejection of what had apparently seemed to her to be an entirely reasonable request.

“That’s as may be, and you’re welcome. Good day, ‘Student’ Koscuisko.”

She’d risen to her feet in a parting gesture. Andrej tried to make his salute as polite and respectful as he knew how.

There was nothing left to do but mark time until tomorrow. The knowledge made him anxious to be away, and on with things.