Hour of Judgement

by Susan R. Matthews

  “What does it matter?” Koscuisko asked. Hanner knew it mattered. Hanner knew it mattered critically — but Koscuisko was still speaking. “If he’s guilty he will confess. If he is not guilty there will be no confession.”

  Only . . .

  “As you say, sir.” Even to Hanner Vogel sounded dubious enough to strike a spark from Koscuisko, who exploded in challenge quick and sharp almost before Vogel had finished.

  “Do you suggest otherwise, Specialist?”

  For a moment it seemed to Hanner that Vogel might do just that. But the moment passed. Was that a good thing? Vogel bowed. “Of course not, your Excellency. You’ll excuse me, sir, getting back to the party, and all.”

  Koscuisko glared after the retreating man until Vogel reached the steps; then abruptly transferred his attention back to the grotesque gory scene in the garden.

  “Very well.” Koscuisko glanced at him now; met his eyes, and let his gaze travel down the length of Hanner’s body, soiled from kneeling in the blood that pooled at the foot of the stairs. “Young Hanner. I am heartily sorry to see you here. The Bench makes no provision for family feeling where its officers are concerned.”

  There hadn’t been an alarm, and there would be no alarm. Because they thought that they had found the murderer. That he was the murderer.

  “I’ve done no murder!” Skelern protested, so horrified by his realization of what he was accused of that he nearly stuttered in his frantic need to speak out. “Only watching Sylyphe, for a little moment, there’s no harm in watching Sylyphe dance, is there?”

  But Koscuisko only snapped his fingers. Rough hands began to drag him away, across the lawn toward the maintenance-track beyond the screening trees. Maybe it was a killing offense to have desired the consort of an Inquisitor. But Uncle Andrej dealt honestly with a man, and Skelern had not realized until he’d seen them dance that Sylyphe was to be soul and flesh of Anders Koscuisko. Surely he could not be put to death for having offended in error.

  “What does his Excellency think, a crozer-lance?”

  He could hear the words behind him as Koscuisko followed after. Koscuisko. But it was all right then, after all. Wasn’t it?

  “No, it seems to have been a trowel-blade, Robert. Perhaps a hoe. We’ll have the details soon enough.”

  “It — must have been — the crozer-hinge, the force, the height — ”

  He knew the voice. St. Clare. Robert St. Clare, a Nurail, but not one like himself. The reproach Koscuisko made grew fainter, in its volume, as Koscuisko stopped while Hanner was hurried off.

  “Yes, of course, Robert. What is your point, exactly? You are to go back to your duty post. Captain Lowden will be watching for you. You are to go now. I do not want to be angry with you.”

  Anybody else, and he would only have been able to despair. But this was Andrej Koscuisko, the bloody butcher, Koscuisko, Black Andrej. And everybody knew that if you were guilty there was no hope, no chance to escape punishment.

  But every Nurail also knew that Andrej Koscuisko had the truth-sense on him, the curse of the blood was upon him, and he knew when a man was telling the truth.

  It didn’t mean a great deal, since Koscuisko was required to test, and the test itself was terrible; but it meant enough. Koscuisko did not condemn the innocent for crimes that they had had no action in.

  And Hanner was innocent in word or deed of the murder of the man who had tortured his poor friend. Koscuisko would know.

  He would have to bear the testing of it, yes.

  But Koscuisko would know.

  ###

  Robert St. Clare stood in his place. He was safe and secure as long as he was in his place, and at attention-rest as he was expected to be.

  Safe and secure, but far from serene. What had he done? And why hadn’t he stopped to think that someone would be taken for it? He should have known. Someone had to be taken for it, and there were Nurail allover Port Burkhayden; it was a Nurail port. They had taken that gardener away, and he knew that Hanner hadn’t done it. He knew that Hanner couldn’t have done it, but did Koscuisko know?

  He’d tried to tell Koscuisko, once he’d realized. He’d tried to tell him, and he hadn’t been able to. Why had his governor let him do the deed and then prohibited him from speaking of it? He’d known that he was right to do it when he’d done it, and he could even guess that that was why he’d been able to do it at all. But he was wrong to keep silent and let Hanner go to torture. Why wouldn’t his governor let him confess himself now?

  Because — even though she was his sister, his beloved sister, his sweet sister that he hadn’t seen for so many years — even though she was his sister, his sister, not that Skelern Hanner’s sister, he would not have done the thing if he had been thinking and had realized that someone would have to be taken for it.

  He knew what a Tenth Level Command Termination meant, and at his maister’s hands particularly.

  And if the gardener had not done the murder, as Robert knew quite well that he had not, still Hanner might well prove guilty of enough besides; and Captain Lowden forced such compromises on a man. Trades. If Captain Lowden were to tell Koscuisko to either execute the Tenth Level or keep after other prisoners from Danzilar’s people until someone confessed, would not his maister be forced to bend his neck and do the horrible and unjust thing?

  It had never been so blatant, so horrible, ever yet, but had Koscuisko not agreed before to execute at a more advanced Level in order to keep as many still-unaccused souls from the torture as he could?

  Why had his governor let him do the thing, the thing which until it had been well done he had not known for certain that he could do, and then not let him do the smaller task, confess himself to keep an innocent man from coming beneath his maister’s hand?

  If only, if only Koscuisko could have heard him, if only Koscuisko could remember. But Robert was too confused now in his mind between his private torment and the stress on his governor to be sure of whether he’d even really managed to say, about the crozer-hinge. If Koscuisko had heard him, Koscuisko would remember, but would his poor maister be too deeply sunk into his passion to call the point to mind before it was too late for Skelern Hanner?

  Closing his eyes as tightly as he knew how, Robert tried to set a governor on his mind, since the one the Fleet had given him was not helping. He could do nothing now for Skelern Hanner. He had not stopped to realize what would have to happen, if he did it right, if he could do it at all. Perhaps in another little while he would be able to speak to Chief Stildyne, and Hanner not more than a few hours the worse for it. Not that he cared about Hanner, he didn’t know Hanner; although the man seemed to be fond of his sister.

  Oh, his sister, after so many years, and then to see her so unkindly served, knowing exactly what the Lieutenant had done . . .

  He blinked his eyes open hastily, feeling his balance beginning to erode.

  He could not move from his place. He did not have permission. His governor was that much more strict with him now, it seemed, now that the damage was already done, now that he only wanted to surrender himself to punishment — because he could get away with it, he had gotten away with it, but an innocent man was to suffer if he could not confess.

  He could not move from his place. His governor protected him from punishment, would not permit him to speak the word that would put himself in jeopardy. It was intended to help him censor his incautious tongue, to ensure that he would not challenge an officer or speak an actionable violation of some sort,

  It protected him too well.

  He trembled with the fearful frustration of it all, and stood at attention-rest in his place.

  ###

  It wasn’t far enough to the local Bench offices by half, and transport got there entirely too soon. Captain Lowden’s Security handled the gardener with the exaggerated roughness typical of people who were not accustomed to the task, and overdoing things accordingly; but what difference could it make?

  Andrej said nothing, absorbe
d in his own gloomy meditations. He knew Skelern Hanner, at least in a manner of speaking. He almost thought that if he knew Hanner any better he’d like the man. But Lowden had said the word. There was to be no help for it.

  There was a night watchman. Andrej sent two Security with him to bring the auxiliary power on line. It was true that he didn’t need the Record to obtain a lawful confession; he held the Writ, which was necessary and sufficient of itself for that function.

  But he had to be able to see to do it.

  He went through to the courtroom while he waited. It was empty, of course, but Miss Janisib — the senior Security on this team — had already found a chair for him from somewhere; and as Andrej was trying to decide whether she’d had rhyti leaf on her — or had simply borrowed some in a hurry from Center House — she came back into the room with one of her fellows, carrying a table sturdy enough to be used for his purpose if he elected it.

  Janisib knew.

  She wasn’t bond-involuntary, but there weren’t enough bond-involuntaries to go around, and she’d been on one of his Security teams when he’d got to Ragnarok. She’d transferred soon after, but the fact remained that she knew enough of what went on around an Inquiry to direct the other members of her team.

  By the time the power came on to reveal the depressing extent to which the courtroom was stripped, Miss Janisib had things arranged quite creditably, all things considered.

  A heavy armchair for him to sit down in when he got tired of standing or wanted to catch his breath.

  A table, long enough to stretch a prisoner at length upon, sturdy enough to take the various stresses of weight and blows and the tensions to which it might be subjected. Rhyti in an open pan with a cracked flask to sup it from, but it was good rhyti. It was not to be imagined that Jan simply carried rhyti about on her person, for such an eventuality. “Thank you, Miss Janisib. If I could see my prisoner, now.”

  Hanner himself they had left under guard in a closet outside while Security did what could be done to make a workspace out of an abandoned courtroom. Andrej stared at his interrogations kit while he waited, brooding about things.

  Confession for breakfast, the Captain had said. Lowden was sure to seek recreation at the service house; it was an unfailing habit. Andrej could only hope that his Captain wouldn’t be so insensitive as to beat up another Service bond-involuntary.

  Now Security was marching Hanner in through the double doors at the foot of the room; and it occurred to Andrej that there wasn’t any place in particular he wanted them to put Hanner. Looking around for a secure chain from the ceiling or a post or hook in the wall Andrej thought hard and fast, aware all the while of how ridiculous this was.

  If he took up his trefold shackles and used the interconnecting chain he could pass it beneath the surface of the table they’d brought him, and shackle Hanner’s wrists one to a side. Hanner couldn’t possibly work the chain down to one end of the table and under the table-legs to free himself; or if he could he wasn’t going to be able to manage the trick without Andrej noticing. So that would do.

  But there was something that Andrej needed before Hanner was chained. He could have Hanner stripped just as easily after as before; but the gardener was probably not well paid. His clothing was probably all he possessed that was worth handing on to someone who might want it to remember him by: his sister, perhaps, and how could Andrej hope to check on her recovery after this, knowing what he was about to do to her brother?

  “You’ll want to undress, Hanner,” Andrej suggested, holding his hand up in a sudden sharp gesture of warning to Security to let Hanner alone. “Or your clothing will be damaged, as well as soiled. We’ll see to it that Megh gets your things, at least.”

  It was hard for the gardener to strip himself naked with so many unfriendly eyes watching him. Yet Andrej knew better than to even think of dismissing Security to leave him alone with an unbound prisoner: inquisitors died that way. It was a form of suicide, one that masqueraded as a lapse in judgment. Andrej Koscuisko had not come this far to die of an accident, however deliberately courted. Security would stay.

  Had he survived so long for this to come to him, then?

  Was it not better to die if to live meant to ruin a decent young man who had avenged his sister, and draw Hanner’s death out for seven to ten days in vengeance for a man who tortured helpless women?

  But he was a man who tortured helpless women.

  And something inside of him was focused on a quite different issue. Eight to eleven, the voice of his appetite whispered to him, encouragingly. Eight to eleven. You can do better than you did at the Domitt. This man is fit and strong, and inured to hard labor and to privation. He'll last much better. You could get twelve.

  Andrej shut the seductive meditation off with an effort. It was not time. All too soon he would yield to his own thirst for Hanner’s pain because he would not be able to do his work without consenting to take pleasure in it. But he didn’t have to start that this early. Captain Lowden wanted a clean confession. He could do it without succumbing to his own beast; there would be need enough — pain enough — grim red atrocity sufficient to slake Andrej’s fiendish appetite, later. Tenth Level. Command Termination.

  Eight to eleven, you could go twelve . . .

  No, Andrej told himself firmly. He’d have none of it. Hanner unclothed himself to the skin and folded his garments into a stack; Miss Janisib carried the clothing away to wrap up in a bundle and stood by the door as the rest of Captain Lowden’s Security followed instruction and chained Hanner over the table.

  “Thank you, gentles. Now you are excused.” Andrej lifted his field interrogations kit onto the table and opened it in front of Hanner, so that Hanner could see what he was doing. “I will call, if I want you. Yes? Go away.”

  They seemed a little startled at his blunt language, but Andrej didn’t care. He was accustomed to being blunt in torture room.

  The door at the far end of the room closed behind them; Andrej and Hanner remained alone in the center of the room. One of them clothed. One of them chained. Andrej found what he wanted, and loaded the osmo-stylus with the dose.

  “This is the way of it, Skelern.” No need at this point for the formal introduction, My name is Andrej Koscuisko, and I hold the Writ to which you must answer. So much was understood. “You are taken under accusation for the murder of Fleet First Lieutenant G’herm Wyrlann, Jurisdiction Fleet Ship Ragnarok. It is the Captain who cries you guilty, and has also laid it on me that you confess before sunrise tomorrow.”

  Hanner’s face was dirty, stained with mud and dried blood. Dried filth: the blood of the man who had savaged his sister. And very pale, underneath it all, but resolute of spirit for all that. “Or else what, your Excellency?”

  Which was a good sign; or a bad sign. And Andrej wasn’t going to indulge himself even so far as to try to guess which. “Or else I will be hard pressed to protect my Security, but that’s not your problem. Now. This is commonly called extract of allock, class five speak-serum, from the Controlled List.”

  Setting the loaded stylus down on the table where Hanner could watch it for him, Andrej started to unpack his kit. Showing the instruments of torture was one of the oldest traditions of the craft. It was also one of the most useful and least hurtful of the persuasions Andrej had at his hand; if Hanner could be persuaded to speak freely, they would both be the better for it. For the time being.

  “There is circumstantial evidence that places you at the murder site when it happened. The Captain’s cry against you is very serious, because of his rank, but it is still hearsay of a sort and not direct evidence. Your confession is absolutely required to find you subject to the penalty for this shocking crime.”

  Why was he telling Hanner this? Why should he waste his time being honest or candid? Wouldn’t it be the same in the end if he forced a confession and lied about how he’d obtained it? The Bench didn’t care, not when it came down to it. As long as what could be made to pass for justice was do
ne the Bench overlooked any number of merely procedural irregularities,

  “You have two choices before you now. You can confess to me the murder, I will confirm it with an appropriate speak-serum, and we will be done until the time arrives for the penalty to be assessed.” Eight to eleven days, the voice whispered, eagerly. You could go twelve. Andrej frowned, concentrating.

  “Or I will administer this dose, which encourages but will not compel truthful utterance. It is still only circumstantial evidence. My authority is to test you with this drug and a degree of coercive persuasion until you say truth.”

  Hanner looked relieved. He had no cause to be, but Andrej knew what was on his mind even before Hanner spoke. “Then there’s no need, your Excellency, and I’ll get dressed, it’s cold in here. Give me the speak-serum, your Excellency, I’ll tell you the truth here and now, drug or no drug. It was only watching you dance with the little maistress. I had neither word nor deed in the murder of the Fleet Lieutenant, though I can’t deny that I’m not sorry for it.”

  Watching him dance? Oh, watching Sylyphe Tavart, rather. If only it was so easy as that. “I appreciate your willingness to cooperate. But I cannot take your word at face value, not with the charges that my Captain has cried. If you confessed to the murder — but since you do not you must be ready to ask yourself, very urgently indeed, whether you had better not do so.”

  Andrej picked up the dose and pressed it through the browned skin at Hanner’s shoulder as he spoke. Hanner was right. It was cold in here. Hanner had goose-bumps; but the dose went through all the same.

  “I can’t say I’ve killed the Fleet Lieutenant.” Hanner was frightened, and rightly so. But Hanner was firm. “Because I’d no hand in it. And you’ll know it, soon enough I hope. I’m innocent. Even if you’re to beat me for being so rude as to contradict such a man as the Fleet Captain, Lowden.”