Hour of Judgement (9 page)

Nor was there anything explicit in Garol’s statement to make his question too obvious or his suspicion too clear. It was just the kind of thing that anybody could have said, offering further information about a mission that had — of course — been fully explained to Koscuisko already up front. Lowden had done no such thing: Jils knew it from Koscuisko’s face.

“Mister Stildyne.” Koscuisko’s Chief of Security had joined them, posted behind Garol and Jils and waiting for Koscuisko’s word. “I shall have a word for you, Chief, in a moment. Specialist Vogel. Be very careful what you say. Captain Lowden has given me to understand that I am needed for an interrogation, and I can only take your meaning as to the contrary.”

“There may have been a bit of confusion on Lowden’s part, sir. But Wyrlann isn’t denying it, and the Bench doesn’t Inquire into cases like this anyway, since the woman’s just a service bond-involuntary.” Carefully, carefully. Garol put his words simply and succinctly, as respectful of rank as Garol could be when nobody had given him any reason yet why he should not. “His Excellency is needed to perform reconstructive and restorative surgery. Nothing more.”

Koscuisko grimaced suddenly in ferocious pain and turned his head to one side, down and away, the white of his under-blouse gleaming unexpectedly between his neck and the dark of his duty blouse. Garol took a half-step closer with his hands held quiet at his sides. “Are you all right, sir?”

Stildyne stepped forward three paces, as though he would have got between them if he could have managed it. “Give us a few eighths, Specialist,” Stildyne suggested, the deference due Garol’s unspecified rank as evident as Stildyne’s determination to be rid of the two of them. “His Excellency will be along presently.”

Retreating a full step, Garol bowed politely to the silent figure of Andrej Koscuisko. “Take your time,” Garol agreed. “The sooner we leave the sooner we get there, though.” There was nothing more either of them could possibly say. She and Garol returned to the courier ship, leaving Koscuisko to sort things out with Stildyne. Garol was swearing under his breath; she could guess at what he was probably saying to himself, because of long experience of Garol’s moods.

Needs a wire, he does .. Needs a full energy charge, about gut-level. Needs the Sisprayan plague. Yeah. Needs a bullet.

So was he talking about Lowden, or Koscuisko? Lowden for deliberately creating the certainty of an abhorrent duty in Koscuisko’s mind when quite the opposite was in fact intended? Or Koscuisko himself, since Garol’s stated opinion was that there wasn’t anything to choose between the two of them?

“Hey.” She didn’t need him in this mood, especially not at the beginning of a trip. “So it’s all right, now, okay? Come on.”

Safely inside the ship, now, Garol turned toward her suddenly and put his fist to the wall the way he did when he was so unhappy that only inflicting gratuitous physical pain on himself could make him feel any better. It was a problem that Garol had; they’d been living with it for years. “All right nothing, Jils, you’ve got to know better than that. You saw the look on that sorry jack’s face — it’s not all right at all. What a cheap trick, jerking on a man’s chain like that — ”

This was almost funny. “That’s good, coming from you, Garol. Just the day before yesterday, was it, that Koscuisko was a deeply disturbed sicko who wasn’t worth the consideration you’d give the average ass-wipe? Remember?”

Being reminded of his own excesses always drove him wild. Garol rolled his eyes in utter exasperation. “He’s a man, and any man deserves a little basic decency. You saw his face, Jils, come on, you saw it, the same as I did.”

“Yeah, right, sure, and he’s probably kind to children and small animals, too. As if that means squat. I don’t believe you.” He was letting things get a little out of control, if anybody asked her. Which they hadn’t. “Ready to promote him to human being just because Lowden didn’t give him all the facts?”

“There’s more to it than that.” He was calmer now, but stubborn still. “I don’t like the way that Stildyne tiptoes around him. Something’s going on that no one’s telling us, and that could be dangerous, Jils, when it’s somebody like Koscuisko that we’re talking about.”

Whatever it was that had upset him so deeply he wasn’t able to quite put his finger on it. At least not yet, or he’d tell her. “We’ve got company, Garol. Go start the shutdowns. I’ll make nice with our guests for you.”

Garol stomped off ungraciously toward the control room, and Jils sighed to herself, arranging her face even as she did so.

Even Koscuisko — hostile and resentful as he was bound to be — was company to be preferred to Garol, when Garol was in a mood.

###

This was not good. Stildyne knew how much pleasure Captain Lowden took in setting up his little pranks; before Koscuisko’s arrival and subsequent agreement with the Captain had put an end to it, many of Lowden’s best gags had resulted in assessment of two-and-twenty on up for whichever bond-involuntary happened to be closest at time of occurrence.

“Your Excellency, I’m — ”

Sorry,
Stildyne started to say.
Sorry you had to stay. Sorry I'm not going with you to Port Burkhayden, but we both know that Pyotr would be Chief of Security if he weren't under Bond. I'm not sure he doesn't outrank me even with his Bond. You'll be fine with Pyotr.

Unfortunately Koscuisko wasn’t having any of it. Stildyne wondered, just that fraction of a moment too late, what other humorous trap Captain Lowden might have set recently.

“Tell me then that this nonsense of refusing
Sceppan
is also a lie.” Koscuisko challenged him directly, his voice flat and cold and wickedly cutting. “And I will say no more about it. I am waiting to hear, Mister Stildyne.”

Koscuisko wouldn’t hear what he was waiting to hear. Because that much was true. Why hadn’t he said anything to Koscuisko before? Koscuisko had been drunk, that was why. Koscuisko had had problems of his own.

“Very well. If you want to hear more lies.” It wasn’t going to be pleasant any way he looked at it. Maybe it would be just as well to get it done and over with here and now. Koscuisko was leaving for Port Burkhayden; Stildyne wouldn’t see him for more than a week. That could give Koscuisko time to accept the idea and become reconciled to it. One way or the other Stildyne wasn’t about to back down.

“You are offered the post of First Officer. It is the culmination of your career,” Koscuisko noted; quite calmly, really. “And you know as well as I do that such slots are created only by attrition or new commission, and there are precious few new commissions in these troubled times. How long will it be before there is another chance for you?”

So far, so good. “If his Excellency wishes to state that he finds my performance unacceptable, then do so to my face. Because otherwise I’m not going. I have responsibilities here.”

That concept was still as new and alien to him as when he had first realized that he was going to refuse
Sceppan
, and why. Responsibilities. He, himself, Brachi Stildyne, every man for himself and the devil take the hindmost. Koscuisko was at fault. Koscuisko was at fault for so much.

“Stildyne, we have to go, I do not have time to dance with you. You must know how things are. You do not imagine they will change. Why will you not go to
Sceppan
?”

Yes, he knew how things were. On
Sceppan
he would have respect, responsibilities, the safety of a crew and the effectiveness of its fighting troops as his to nurture and protect. On
Ragnarok
he had — what?

“I knew that I was going to decline the promotion when First Officer put it in front of me, your Excellency. And that was before anything changed your plans.” On
Ragnarok
he had nothing but grief, No perks left to being Chief Warrant Officer over bond-involuntary Security when Koscuisko disapproved so strongly of anyone taking advantage of sexual access to them.

No particular degree of rapport with Koscuisko himself, who was not inclined to admire other men and who emphatically resented being openly admired himself. Nothing. “You were going home. There would be nobody to look after Godsalt and the others.”

Nothing but grief and worry. Koscuisko had tricked him over the years, somehow. Lured him into feeling responsible for the Bonds, while he wasn’t looking. Into wanting to do what he could do to protect them from Lowden’s sense of humor for no other reason than that they were not permitted to protect themselves.

“For the gentlemen you have made this decision?” He’d caught Koscuisko off guard, startled him. That was funny. Andrej Koscuisko, caught off guard. “Mister Stildyne. I am astonished at you. I had thought — ”

He knew what Koscuisko had thought.

Am I never to be forgiven for having once desired you
?

Stildyne knew better than to say the words, though.

Koscuisko turned the phrase away, and continued.

“And yet they will not be unshielded here now, because I have the bargain arranged with Captain Lowden. Therefore you need not turn away from the opportunity.”

“Yes, right, and you can do it all yourself. You’ve done it all yourself these years past, haven’t you?” A man could get exasperated. “Sorry, sir, it’s not negotiable. If you want to get rid of me you’ll have to bring a complaint before First Officer. Why don’t you load the courier, sir, and leave me to do my job.”

He wasn’t staying just because he liked short lithe intransigent blonds. If he liked Dolgorukij he knew where he could buy them, at least for a few hours, even if they did run a little high to market — Dolgorukij men in service houses were relatively uncommon, but not impossible to find. Stildyne had hired his share of them over the course of the past four years. It never seemed to make dealing with Koscuisko any easier: so obviously whatever it was about Koscuisko wasn’t just wanting him.

Stildyne wasn’t interested in thinking it through more thoroughly than that. He had enough problems.

“As long as we are clear, you and I,” Koscuisko said thoughtfully. “Because you are quite right, I am not proof against Captain Lowden, and to the extent to which I have implied that you have not protected these gentlemen beyond my ability to do so I apologize to you, Mister Stildyne, from my heart. I am a very great sinner. It was not my intent to attempt to deny respect to you.”

That probably meant something, and he would probably figure it out. Sooner or later. For now he had to get Koscuisko on board the courier and away.

“Don’t think twice about it.”
And whatever you do don't try to explain anything
. Koscuisko’s explanations never seemed to explain. They only made things worse. “You’re wanted on courier, sir.”

For a moment Stildyne thought that Koscuisko was going to open his mouth, say something. For a moment.

Then Koscuisko apparently decided that it would be not only expedient but appropriate to yield the last word, because he only nodded.

Stildyne stepped aside.

Koscuisko crossed the decking toward the courier and climbed the ramp into its waiting belly, and never once looked back.

That's the way to do it, Stildyne me lad
, Stildyne told himself.

Never look back.

You've bought these boots now well and truly, and paid cash money, too.

It's up to you to break them in and wear them.

Chapter Four

So this was Port Burkhayden, in Meghilder space.

Andrej chafed the palms of his hands together irritably in the bleak bare prep room of the loosely-to-be-described-as hospital. It was cold, and the light was thin, when it managed to clear the heavy dark clouds that seemed to be blanketing most of this local geographic. Cold made Andrej uncomfortable. He snapped at the thin young man at the doorway without taking thought for the intruder’s clothing.

“Yes, what is it now? Has the heating system also been repossessed? What?”

Security appeared from the other room as soon as he spoke, and Andrej could hear other people in the corridor outside. The intruder himself looked much more frightened than apologetic; he could hardly be on staff, Andrej realized, not dressed like that. Unfeeling of him to threaten so, when he knew perfectly well that the news of his identity had reached the hospital well before he had.

“His Excellency’s pardon.” So purely parochial an accent Andrej hadn’t heard in a long time. He had a particular weakness for Nurail all the same, because of Robert, because of the mettle of the victims of the Domitt Prison, because of too many miscellaneous instances to be remembered. “It’s a mistake I’ve made, my maistress gave me leave to see a woman, if the officer will excuse.”

Staff Security was outside, behind the young man. His own Security were standing between Andrej and the intruder now, looking very stern indeed. Unfriendly hands reached through the open doorway to pull the young man out into the hall with rough efficiency. Andrej frowned to see it; he could smell a beating in the making.

“We’re very sorry, your Excellency. Some sort of a mistake, we’ll be sure his Excellency isn’t disturbed any further.”

And a raised voice, outside, the same accent. “Disturbed, you with the collar on, what do you mean disturbed, he’s nothing to do with my Megh — ”

It was so easy to lose control of situations like this. Sighing in resignation — not unmixed with amusement — Andrej waved his Security away from him, beckoning to the staff security. “No, there is no problem. Bring to me this person, I will talk to him.”

“Well — ”

Andrej could all but read the scan in the staff security’s mind. First, an embarrassing incursion, unexpected, makes us look bad, we’ll just see about that. Second, strong language, shows disrespect — he’s earned it for himself, now. Third, on the other hand, he hasn’t really done anything so very wrong, and who knows what Uncle Andrej means when he says “talk?”

“And see if you can obtain for me a glass of rhyti, from the kitchen. If you would. My gentlemen and I have not had a chance to take a meal since we made planetfall. Do you think it can be managed?”

Torture seemed incompatible with fast-meal from one end of the Bench to the other. An appeal for physical comforts on his people’s behalf frequently had the positive effect of both reassuring host Security and recruiting their sympathies at the same time. It was a natural impulse of the sentient mind, one that Andrej knew and appreciated.

“Of course, sir, right away.” Once again it worked for him; and the chill in the air was diminishing, so the facilities staff had got some warmth redirected at last. All to the good. “This person does have clearance for a visit, your Excellency, but his Excellency’s best judgment takes precedence, of course.”

The young man reappeared at the doorway, escorted almost benignly by the staff security. Looking confused, as well he might.

“Thank you, shift leader.” He had an hour’s wait, maybe more, while the surgery was prepared. He was scheduled for pre-op, but he had nothing in particular to do until then; the hospital administration had to be given time to round up all the requisite staff.

The patient document was waiting for him in the reader at the window, but Andrej thought that there was time to see what the matter was with this young man. He had already studied all the information that Vogel had been able to provide. He was fairly secure that he knew what was needed in that area.

“Come and tell me, you, what is your name. What woman did you come to see, and why?”

Speaking as gently, as reassuringly as he could, still Andrej wondered why he bothered. A man with a reputation like his could try all he liked and still be incapable of convincing that there was nothing to fear from him.

“Skelern. Hanner. Your Excellency.” Scale-airn. Not an uncommon name, he’d seen it before, if the Standard script spelling of it did not quite describe the sound of it to Andrej’s ear. “It’s just a woman that I came to see, she lies here somewhere. Not to go in where I’m not wanted, your Excellency.”

There was a delicate balance there between the native distrust of all Nurail for authority and the young man’s quite sensible awareness of his vulnerability within the unequal power structure of Port Burkhayden. “Of course not, nor was any such thing suggested. Do you work at the service house?”

Oh, the affront, so quickly hidden away out of embarrassment. “No, if it please the officer.” And be damned before he would; that was the unspoken part. “A gardener — the Tavart is my maistress. Iaccary Textile and Cordage, it is. I only bring Megh the trimmings, when they’re of a sort to remind her. It gives her a little joy to remember the hill country.”

“Is she from the hill country? I hadn’t thought there were Borderers, at Burkhayden.”

Hanner had an honest face, open. Obvious. It showed his thoughts quite clearly: surprise that Andrej connected hill-stations with Borderers; speedy self-reminder that — as everybody knew — what Black Andrej didn’t know about Nurail after the Domitt Prison was not worth knowing.

Andrej had never quite understood why he was “black” Andrej, since he was as blond as any of the fairer run of Nurail — or more so. There was a descriptive element to the word that had nothing to do with hue — black for something that was destructive, something that was powerful.

Nurail had black uncles and other uncles, depending on which had been their mothers’ favorite or oldest brother, the one with the most influence over their lives. Andrej had been Uncle Andrej, and he had been Black Andrej, but to the best of his knowledge he’d never been honored with the title of “black uncle,” and perhaps that was just as well. For his ego.

“Not from Burkhayden, your Excellency. She’s from Marleborne, but she’s all alone in the service house — she’s the only service Bond imprisoned there. And any Nurail could be my sister, his Excellency knows that.”

Or my brother, or my uncle, or my niece. A Nurail proverb of recent coinage, a response to the Bench’s determined dispersion of the Nurail nations and the destruction of so many of them.

So Hanner brought Megh flowers, and tried to be a brother to her. “Come back later, Hanner, you don’t want to see her now. I’ll send a chit to your employer.” Especially if he was fond of the woman, he didn’t want to see her now.

Hanner frowned and pursed his lips. “Please let me see her, your Excellency, such frightful things I’ve heard, I’ll not be able to get leave again with the Danzilar to be coming. And I’m afraid for her.”

Well, it was a reasonable point, and good marks in Hanner’s favor as well. Andrej had known enough other reasonable, sensible Nurail who had not quite found the courage within themselves to challenge a torturer on anything. The weather. The brod-toast. Anything. Still —

“She’s not to be gaped at for a curiosity. If she had next of kin — but I must insist. You may not see her now. Wait until she is somewhat recovered, and can speak to you.”

On the other hand maybe Hanner wasn’t a sensible Nurail at all, merely a stubborn one. The color mounted in his brown face, and his dark eyes flashed with a species of sudden unexpected defiance. “Then I claim her by the Narrow Pass and by the Ice Traverse, your Excellency. By her father’s weave and her mother’s weave I claim her. And you’ll let me see my sister.”

Andrej could hear the choking sound that St. Clare made behind Andrej’s back in shock at this display. He was a little taken aback himself; but not so much as Hanner seemed to be dismayed by his own rash demand, to judge by the way that the color fled his cheeks.

This did change things.

If Hanner knew her family, her father’s weave and her mother’s weave, then he had a right — in Nurail terms — to be considered as her brother, even if only in a limited sense. He could have made them up, true. But under other circumstances he might be in considerable trouble with the Port Authority for so much as stating them.

And there was a significantly powerful prejudice among Nurail against citing both at once. As if it were equivalent to displaying a sexual act in public, more or less. They could be such prudish people, for all the blunt cheerful explicitness of the language.

“Very well.” Vogel’s report had only discussed the worst of her injuries; there was no particular reason for Andrej to suspect that she was badly marked, as well as injured. Except that when bullies like the
Ragnarok
’s First Lieutenant beat a woman they generally made an horrific mess of her face, and Andrej couldn’t help but feel that no brother could easily bear sight of the evidence to what a sister had suffered from such a brute.

It was hard enough when one was not related, and had the benefit of having seen it all before. One never became inured to brutality. If one was lucky. “Robert, you take Hanner here into the next room for a bit; keep him out of staff security’s way. Don’t worry, we’ll give a shout when fast-meal comes, and if there is fried cold-meal mush you shall sort it out between the two of you.”

He would have a look at the patient’s documents, he would have a look at the patient. He would do the best he could for her, poor woman. Poor anonymous woman, poor slave, with only a thin — dirty — and incautious gardener to take her part against the misfortunes and the injustices that had befallen her.

“Come along, then, Hanner, you heard the officer.” St. Clare’s voice was surprisingly harsh from behind him, and Hanner swallowed nervously, but came meekly enough. Good man; Andrej approved. St. Clare had a sister somewhere, Andrej knew. That was why Robert was so painfully sensitive about the abuse that service bond-involuntaries suffered.

Other bond-involuntaries that Andrej had been privileged to know treated service Bonds as members of one family in token of their mutual slavery, calling them all “cousin.” Robert’s pain was a little more personal and immediate than that. Any given service bond-involuntary could very well be somebody’s sister. But somewhere out there was his.

His sister Megh?

No, Andrej told himself, a little embarrassed at his romanticizing. He was imagining things. It was a common name, whether or not he was misremembering something he’d heard from Robert eight years ago and more. But any coincidence of names would only make St. Clare even moodier. Best to get the two of them out of anybody’s way until the gardener could be sent safely home.

And then he would see whether a public-funded hospital in a Nurail port could find decent healing work for a Dolgorukij torturer: and keep himself too busy to think about his future, about Captain Lowden, about the Fleet that had created G’herm Wyrlann and would protect him for as long as he held rank.

###

Center House, Port Burkhayden. The place was swarming with Danzilar’s advance party, even at this late hour of the evening. The grand foyer looked very much like a theatrical stage in mid-shift, to Jils Ivers. Garol had been in a state ever since he’d first heard about the Lieutenant’s little escapade; and for herself Jils had already decided that Wyrlann deserved everything that Garol was likely to say to him.

The
Ragnarok
’s First Lieutenant had sent his own Security to meet the courier — a gesture possibly calculated to ingratiate himself with them. It hadn’t worked, Garol’s ingratiation threshold being as high as it was. Now it was time for Wyrlann — waiting for them amid the ladders and the carpet-layers, the glaziers and the technicians — to face that uncomfortable fact.

“Good greeting. Ivers, isn’t it? Right. And Vogel. Welcome to Port Burkhayden. Had a nice transit?”

One thing was immediately obvious from Wyrlann’s self-satisfied expression, his easy — if somewhat condescending — banter. He didn’t think he had anything to apologize for.

“Yeah, well, not too bad. Lieutenant.” Garol even in his foulest moods did try to stay away from provoking confrontation. It wasn’t out of respect or diffidence, no. He just hated to waste energy. “Have you got the survey forms completed? Let’s go, get it out of the way and all that.”

Wyrlann coughed, as if embarrassed. “There’s been a bit of an unexpected problem. A little local unrest.”

She’d just bet there’d been unrest. Garol wasn’t taking the hint, though, which meant that Garol was ignoring it, just to be difficult. “To be expected, when a port’s in transit. Well, we’ll just sign off on the survey, and we can be out of each other’s way.”

There was a third party involved in the transaction, though he hadn’t said anything one way or the other until now: Fleet Liaison Officer Artigen, a well-respected career man, good to have on site in an unsettled environment. “With the Lieutenant’s permission. I felt it best to advise the Lieutenant not to complete the survey until the arrival of additional Security, Specialist Vogel. We’ve had a predictable upswing in anti-Fleet sentiment these last few days.”

“Predictable when ranking officers make like eight-to-the Standard bruisers? That the kind of ‘predictable’ you mean?”

Garol made no effort to keep his voice down, and there was no mistaking the sentiment among the local workmen. Wyrlann evidently felt the hostility as personally directed, for whatever reason.

“Listen, Vogel, I’ll thank you to stick to your agenda, and keep yourself out of things that don’t concern you. ‘Bench intelligence specialist’ is all very well, but I have to tell you, I don’t like your attitude.”

Jils sighed. If she’d had a marker she could have tossed it. Wyrlann had done it, now.

“And I don’t like your face, Lieutenant. Your face, your voice, your behavior, your Captain. You disgust me, you disgust them, and Artigen was right to keep your sorry ass off the street, because you deserve a wire, and the only reason I hope you don’t get one soon is that nobody deserves to have to pay for it, transmit received?”