“What an unusual decoration. Is it an heirloom? No? A personal award? Sir, my very sincere congratulations. It’s also quite elegant, you know. And your respected companion as well, if I may say so.”
Oh, he’d end up at the service house before the evening was over. There was no question about that. But he’d have to restrict himself to a boring menu of basic exchanges. No spice, no heat to speak of.
Lowden turned the next in line over to Mendez, a question fighting its way up into his consciousness through the layer upon layer of polite social inanities in which he was so thoroughly submerged.
Where was Wyrlann?
The Lieutenant had successfully avoided him since they’d arrived, not that Lowden had been the least bit interested in seeking him out. There had been too much to do between making one last review with an eye to concessions, executing the final security transfer, and calling Koscuisko back from amusing himself with Paval I’shenko’s people — and Fleet’s pharmaceuticals, a minor irritation but a real one — at the charity hospital.
“Lowden. Jurisdiction Fleet Ship Ragnarok, commanding. No, we’re still on proving-cruise; it’s quite an experimental craft. Black hull technology.”
His joke on Koscuisko had gone flat before Koscuisko had even left the Ragnarok. So Wyrlann was going to have to fill the void left by the failure of Lowden’s prank.
“That’s the Intelligence Officer. We just call her Two because that’s her staff section, and no one can pronounce her name. We just insult her, trying. No, really, she’s almost perfectly harmless, it’s Koscuisko you’ve got to watch out for. Oh? No, trying to make a joke, I do apologize if I’ve given any offense.”
There were Security on display here, on loan as a symbol of Fleet’s power. But he was going to leave the bond-involuntaries alone. He had an arrangement with Koscuisko, and as long as Koscuisko continued to conform there was no percentage in violating his agreement; it would only destabilize his relationship with Chief Medical. Who was unstable enough already.
Lowden had called out Koscuisko’s bond-involuntaries particularly for duty at Danzilar’s party, as a gesture of goodwill toward Koscuisko. Bond-involuntaries were exotic and interesting. Much more liable than the run-of-the-mill Security to be beckoned into a dark corner by some curious and experimentally minded young woman, and no violation committed either, the requirements for ceremonial event Security being as liberally defined as they were.
He wouldn’t be surprised — Lowden told himself, cynically, picking out the straight and somber bodies posted around the far walls at precise intervals — if Security didn’t get as much exercise at parties like this as he planned to have at the service house. And free, too.
“Not at all, I would be delighted. You’re very kind.” This was more like it. The best way to meet new masters was with a gift in one’s hand, after all. It was Danzilar who was to be their new master; but Lowden appreciated tokens of respect for the Fleet and Bench every bit as much as the next man. It wasn’t as though any actual advantage would accrue to the donors, after all. “I understand that the best quality cortac brandy isn’t even available for purchase. It’s a distinct privilege to have a bottle.”
He was taller than most of Danzilar’s people; he could see over the heads of most of the crowd. He thought he saw Wyrlann at the drinks table, tossing back a thimbleful of wodac, holding out his glass for a refill. Lowden frowned. It was an impropriety for junior officers to approach food, let alone drink, while their seniors were still on reception line.
On one level, though, Lowden could understand why Wyrlann might wish to be drinking. It could well be that Wyrlann was still trying to decide what excuse he could provide for having done just as he’d been warned not to do, and breaking something while the Bench still had to pay to have it fixed.
“Well, there are always opportunities, and service in Fleet only rarely sets a career back. On balance, though, you might advise the Combine fleet. There is the Free Government problem to be considered. No, of course not, I didn’t mean to imply any such thing.”
The line seemed of people still waiting to be introduced seemed to stretch on forever.
When this was over he was going to want to have a drink. And then he had a word or two to say to his First Lieutenant.
###
Skelern Hanner climbed the shallow white stone stairs from the now-dark garden lawn to the veranda that ran the length of the outside of the Danzilar prince’s great dancing-hall. The lights that they’d placed at the lawn’s perimeter were each of them worth the sum of eight years’ pay, and it wouldn’t do to embarrass the Danzilar prince by failing to use them to their best effect. Soft yellow glimmerers, glowing in the darkness, beautiful and welcoming in the night . . . it was full dark, but it wasn’t cold yet. Not too cold. Not yet.
Scanning the arc of golden light with a critical eye Hanner tested the curve against the measure in his mind’s eye and found no fault. It was beautifully done. It was beautiful.
Full clear-wall behind him, and the party going on. White stone veranda extending five, seven paces between the clear-walls and the steps; a series of shallow white steps, like a beach, like the shore of the sea sloping down to the water, an ocean of lawn.
The light at the back of the cove of new grass shimmered like the lights that shone from the far shores of Carrick Sound. The delicate blooms frothed up like spume in waves against the lights, which not only showed their luxurious profusion but drew out the sweet scent of young marbat blossoms in the early dark.
The lamps would keep the garden warm, at least at their level. With luck the frost would not come hard tonight and the blossom would live to set fruit, and bloom again next year.
Three weeks of hard labor, well used, well fed, well housed — and well worked. Three weeks, all leading up to tonight, and all of the money and all of the labor just to show a pleasant vista from inside, looking out.
And they couldn’t even see out, not clearly. Could they? It was light inside, brilliant, white light glittering from faceted hanging-lights and reflected in glassware and mirrors. Surely they would not even know that the garden was there, but by the same token Skelern Hanner could see into the room clearly from outside where he stood on the broad veranda.
He had to get to the back of the house. His tools lay ready, waiting, cleaned and assembled, on the path going back. There was to be a party for them as well tonight, a party for them as had broken their backs for the Danzilar’s garden. Plenty to eat and drink, and a three days’ paid holiday afterward on top of their bonuses. The Danzilar was generous, and labor was cheap, but a party was nice.
Still Skelern stood.
No one would see him from inside, standing there; they would see only their own reflections. It was too dark outside. Nobody would take offense at him watching the privileged folk, not just for a minute.
And then he saw Sylyphe.
Dancing with the torturer, with Black Andrej, a man with so much Nurail blood on his hands — and yet the same man who had helped to make it right for poor Megh, the only man who had been able to make it right with her. And had cried vengeance on behalf of murdered Nurail against the Domitt Prison, but dancing with the little daughter of the Tavart, his Sylyphe —
Mute with misery Skelern stood and stared. It was the black of the officer’s uniform that had caught his eye at first, and now he couldn’t take his eyes off the two of them, following them as the figures of the dance carried them into clear space and then concealed them behind the bodies of the lookers — on once again.
His Sylyphe?
Never his.
A man like Koscuisko could well mate with Sylyphe. Buy her from her mother in the manner of a great prince, pay the bride-price. Take her to his home and into his bed, and breed children of his body within her sweet little belly, sons and daughters with blond hair and pale eyes that had no color to them to suckle at her breast and call her “lady Mother.”
A man like Koscuisko had a natural right to tak
e such as Sylyphe to be his bride. It was the way of things. People should keep to their own place. It made life much simpler and more bearable; so why did his flesh crawl at the sight of Koscuisko’s hand around her narrow waist, why did the sight of Koscuisko’s beautiful smile and Sylyphe’s rapt admiring gaze make his blood boil?
His Sylyphe.
His.
Perhaps it was true after all, and he’d done what he ought not to have done, and lost his head over a woman that could never share in his life. But she was a gardener her own self. She could not consort with Anders Koscuisko. The mere sight of the torturer would turn milk in the breast of the nursing mother, and if he even spoke to a woman who carried a child in womb the babe yet unborn would wither and die, blasted, destroyed, derelict in the mere presence of a Ship’s Inquisitor.
Andrej Koscuisko was not a proper man for Sylyphe.
He was a blight, a smut, a rust, a mold, a canker of worms, a creeping plague of parasites boring into the honey-heartwood in Sylyphe’s breast to destroy her from the inside out. Andrej Koscuisko would kill Sylyphe Tavart — not in body, but how could he but kill her in her heart?
She would be honored, she would be transported to be taken by the hand as his consort, but within weeks the life would start to ebb within her, she would fade, she would fail, her pretty little fingers would crumble into dust and the dimple in her sweet ruddy cheek would dry up and crack into a gaping gray-fleshed wound.
And he couldn’t stop watching his Sylyphe dance.
###
Fleet First Lieutenant G’herm Wyrlann was drunk, but for once liquor wasn’t helping, didn’t make him feel better. He obtained none of the sense of effortless power from Danzilar’s wodac that he usually found in wine: for once he had too much on his mind. That was unfair. He was a Fleet First Lieutenant. That anything external should have attained so much weight and importance as to interfere with his enjoyment of life was an offense — but there he was.
Captain was going to want to talk to him.
Captain was not going to be cordial and friendly.
He’d put the problem aside for as long as possible; but it was not going to be possible to put it aside any longer.
Captain had told him after the last time that he was to exercise more restraint.
Go to an unlicensed house if you have to, Captain had told him. You don't have the rank to do as you please in a service house without Bench Audit noticing. You have to wait. You have to wait your turn. There are claims against Fleet to reimburse the Bench for damages. Sooner or later it's going to start counting against your career potential unless you're careful.
Wyrlann remembered every word; all too clearly, really.
What was he going to do?
What was he going to say?
There was no problem with the Port Authority, of course.
They didn’t dare look crosswise at a Command Branch officer. It wasn’t that.
His mind was fuddled with alcohol. He had to think. He couldn’t face the Captain in this condition.
Stumbling a little, Fleet Lieutenant G’herm Wyrlann made his way unsteadily across the crowded room toward the great clear-walls that let out to the side garden. It would be quieter outside. It would be cold, but the coolness would help him to clear his head. He could see the white steps, gleaming in the nightlights, falling away from the terrace in shallow tiers toward the dark lawn, and the necklace of warming-lights that seemed to float at the outermost edge of the lawn, illuminating the ghostly gaiety of flower-blossom in the night.
One of the doors was cracked halfway open, and the fragrance of the cool garden night was calming. Fumbling with the catch, almost tripping over the threshold, Fleet First Lieutenant G’herm Wyrlann stumbled out into the cold dark night air.
And then he saw that he was not alone.
###
From where he stood on post Robert St. Clare, keeping his eye out for officers, saw the dark mass of the Fleet Lieutenant’s Command Branch uniform moving through the crowd. The intensity and hue of Command Branch uniform black could not be mistaken for anything else: That was precisely why the color had been chosen, with its peculiar intensity and particular hue. Regardless of how one’s class of hominid perceived color or tone Command Branch black could be consistently identified for what it was.
Robert watched the Fleet Lieutenant go with mixed feelings, personal and conditioned instincts warring in his heart and mind.
This was the beast who had brutalized his sister. His poor sister, his sweet sister, his darling Megh. She’d been like a mother to him . . . and to see her like that. After all of these years of not even knowing. His sister.
But this was also a superior commissioned officer, and Wyrlann was going out into the garden. Command Branch officers were not expected to go anywhere without a Security escort.
No one else seemed to have noticed, and it was in Robert’s area of responsibility, after all.
His sister. . . .
But Wyrlann was Command Branch. Robert St. Clare was a bond-involuntary. He was expected to behave like one. His governor knew what he was supposed to do. His governor wouldn’t let him stand and permit the Fleet Lieutenant to go out into the garden alone, not when he knew quite well what was expected, not when he knew that to stand would comprise a violation.
It was a profound violation, an extreme violation, a violation of all that was right and decent and moral to let such a man walk free to enjoy a party, after what Wyrlann had done to his sister —
Robert could sense the conflict building within himself. Conflict was dangerous for bond-involuntaries. Conflict confused the governor. He had to control his own internal state, or fall prey to the punishment his governor would assess; not for doing something wrong — his governor didn’t know what was right and what was wrong — but for doing something that Robert had been carefully taught Fleet meant him to take to be a violation.
And it was a violation to permit a senior Command Branch officer go out without an escort. The governor didn’t have to know right from wrong. It only had to pay attention to the conflict created in Robert’s heart that arose when he did something he’d been conditioned not to do, or failed in some task that he’d been taught he must always complete.
Robert stepped back from his post, back into the shadows, back into the service corridor that surrounded the great hall. There was a door out to the side of the house. They’d had their briefing. They were expected to know all of the ways to get into and out of the special event location.
Out through the service corridors to the side of the great hall. Down the leafy avenue of trees. They were still losing their foliage, but the turf had been swept free of debris not two eights gone and there were no dead leaves to make a sound as he passed over. Nothing to betray his foot.
There was a work-bundle sitting in the pathway, and Robert reached down for the nearest object without thinking. A trowel, that was what it was, but one with a good edge to it. Robert tried the edge against the side of his thumb, absentmindedly, as he went deeper into the garden, down the long avenue of trees that bordered the lawn. It was careless to leave tools unattended.
Where was the Fleet Lieutenant?
Robert came around the side of the steps to the wide stone veranda, and saw the damned bastard. Standing as smug as anyone could please, free and easy and secure in his rank. If there was any justice — if there was any right — Wyrlann would die. He deserved to die.
His body knew what had to be done, if his mind dared not think of it. Almost not noticing, Robert loosened the trowel-blade from its handle, staring at the Fleet Lieutenant from the shadows at the foot of the stairs.
She could have been anyone’s sister, even that cheeky young Skelern Hanner’s sister. She wasn’t just anybody’s sister. She was his sister. It was his to punish the man who had hurt her. It was his right. It was his duty. It was more right that he avenge his sister’s near-murder than anything Robert had ever known.
He raised the blade.
He knew.
One step, two steps, and he stood on a level with the Fleet Lieutenant, who turned toward him even as he came.
Was there someone else there, with his back to the decorative support-pillar?
What did it matter if there was someone there?
He had no doubt; he was secure, serene, utterly certain at his task. He had to do this. It was right. He didn’t have to think, and if he thought —
But no. He knew what he had to do.
Fleet Lieutenant Wyrlann raised his arm and pointed, started to shout, angrily. Robert didn’t hear him shout. He saw that hateful face convulsed with angry spite and threw the trowel, absolutely sure of what he was to do. He threw the trowel, he engaged the crozer-hinge in his shoulder to add enough force to the flight of the weapon to separate a man’s head from his shoulders.
He was out of practice.
He threw, and the weapon found its target, and it was finished. He’d done what he had been supposed to do.
That was all.
Now he should get back to his duty post.
Someone would see the movement of the Lieutenant’s body as it fell, if nothing else. There would be an alarm. He had to be back before he was missed.
He went as quickly as he had come, as quietly, his mind utterly empty of triumph or concern. It had been necessary, and he had done it. He hadn’t really thought about it; he was a little surprised at himself. Should he have been able to?
His governor had never been quite right. They’d told him.
Even so, should he have been able to —
To what?
He couldn’t afford to think about it. He wasn’t even going to think about why he couldn’t think about it. That was a trap.
Hour of Judgement Page 14
