An Exchange of Hostages

by Susan R. Matthews

  Koscuisko received this information with an enlightened nod of his head, and went silently on for the space of sixteen paces before he spoke again.

  “Do you have experience of the driver, Joslire?”

  From the carefully neutral note in Koscuisko’s voice, Joslire could tell that Koscuisko didn’t mean its active use. Passive experience. Had he ever suffered beneath the driver.

  “Here is the place. To the officer’s left.” He had, in fact. And it had not been used with a fraction of the skill or the restraint that Koscuisko had exhibited — and against a prisoner, at that. Joslire’s Student had known that he was a bond-involuntary and helpless against him when the Student had decided on two-and-twenty, and there hadn’t been any time in which to notify the Tutor and hope for Student Exception to the punishment.

  Koscuisko turned through the door to the changing area and Joslire followed, thinking. In light of the deception that Joslire meant to practice upon Koscuisko, a generous gesture on his part was probably called for. Koscuisko had not repeated his question, apparently determined in Koscuisko’s fashion not to press the issue where he might be said to possess an unfair advantage. Koscuisko found the open shelf where Joslire had laid out his exercise uniform and started to unfasten his duty blouse, instead.

  “If the officer would care to examine,” Joslire said, and took the risk of turning his back, not wanting to meet Koscuisko’s eyes. It had been so difficult to do this just a few days ago, but he had been taken by surprise then. He hadn’t understood. Out of his duty blouse, out of his under-blouse, and he would not need to take off his five-knives sheathing now that he had a better understanding of what Koscuisko had wanted. “The discipline was off Record, but the officer can see, if the officer pleases. Two-and-twenty.”

  In the silence of the changing room, he could sense Koscuisko coming up behind him, putting his hand out to Joslire’s shoulder. He kept his hands quiet at his sides to avoid alarming Koscuisko, who was hypersensitive to his discomfort. The careful stroking of Koscuisko’s hands upon his shoulders and his back was a guilty pleasure to Joslire, now that he was sure that he had nothing to fear from the officer’s sexual appetite. There had not been enough unhurtful contact in his life since he had taken his Bond four years ago. Five years ago. Emandisan were less careful of personal space than the Jurisdiction Standard. He was hungry for a brotherly caress, hungry to starving for it.

  “I do not wish to distress thee, Joslire.”

  He couldn’t afford to let himself be distracted. “The officer will find the trace grouped at the top of the back, at the shoulders. The driver in that instance was not so well handled as the Student might wish.” He couldn’t answer Koscuisko’s implied question directly, not and tell him the truth. The truth of it was that now he knew what Koscuisko was about, and the touch of Koscuisko’s hand was pleasurable to him in a way that Koscuisko might not choose to find acceptable.

  “The snapper did this to thee,” Koscuisko murmured. “And yet I find no scar here from the whip itself, Joslire.” Testing and trying, Koscuisko traced the impact vectors, seeking the track of the whip. Joslire could feel the muscles in his back give up their tension gratefully under Koscuisko’s hand.

  “As the officer may wish to note in particular. Other impacts drew blood, but not deeply enough to make a permanent mark.” Which was the point, of course. And a natural lead-in to the thing that he had planned. “The officer is respectfully requested to examine the bracing on the back-sheath. With the officer’s indulgence, this exercise period will be concentrated on familiarization with throwing knives.”

  The back-brace held the knife snug along his spine, the rounded pommel-end resting just where the first of his neck joints made a little round lump underneath the skin. If he bent his neck a fraction, she seemed to spring up to meet his fingers, sliding easily out and away into his hand no matter which hand he used. With luck, Koscuisko would not know by looking at it that the knife Joslire was wearing was not Joslire’s knife, was Standard armory issue. It was a risk; Koscuisko’s background had included enough of the related art of thin-blade dueling for Koscuisko to be able to guess the balance, if Joslire were to make the mistake of letting Koscuisko handle the knife he was wearing. On the other hand, thin-blades were a different kind of knife, and the other Dolgorukij Joslire had met had worn only boot-knives if they wore knives at all. He would be sure to demonstrate with the knives Koscuisko would be wearing.

  Koscuisko stroked the harness to the metal anchor-ring that centered on Joslire’s back. “I’ve never understood how a person could breathe wearing such a thing. That, or keep it from shifting. How do you manage?”

  What an opening. “If the officer will permit, the officer can test it for himself. The liberty has been taken of selecting an appropriate harness for the officer’s use.” And he’d brought it here during second-shift and secured it here with two of his own knives. The most important of his knives.

  He’d had a good deal of anxiety, leaving his knives alone. But he hadn’t been able to figure out any other way to do what he had in mind. And the opportunity was too tremendous and fleeting to let pass. “Here, if it please the officer?”

  Koscuisko had been half-stripped, bare to the waist. Perfect. Joslire couldn’t have arranged it better had he tried. The harness went around the chest, fastening beneath the right arm since Koscuisko favored his left hand. Two straps over the shoulders held the back-sheath in place. It took Joslire a moment to get it adjusted properly; there was more to Koscuisko’s chest than he had estimated.

  The smoothness of Koscuisko’s skin and the innocuous slope of his shoulders gave a deceptive air of lightness and even fragility to Koscuisko’s compact muscular frame. He of all people should have remembered that, Joslire admonished himself. After all, he’d had his hands on Koscuisko’s naked back every third shift after evening exercise since Koscuisko’d gotten here.

  “The harness is made of parbello skin, the side next to the body left unpolished. It should follow the officer’s breathing; the unpolished side will catch against the officer’s skin so that it does not shift. If the officer would breathe deeply, and say whether it is adequately comfortable?”

  The harness would warm to Koscuisko’s skin, and cling like a part of him. Joslire watched Koscuisko test the fit, taking up the arm-sheath while he waited. Left arm-sheath, to start. Right arm-sheath would come next, and the boot-sheath, and the decision to be made about where Koscuisko would carry the fifth knife. Later. The first step was by far the most important one.

  “It feels a little odd, Joslire, but I suppose one could get used to it. And on my arm, as well? Not five at once, I hope?”

  The innocent joke took Joslire’s breath away. Joslire forced himself to breathe naturally and easily; if Koscuisko were to guess the trick, Koscuisko might not let him play it through. He would never have another chance like this, even if he found a Student or an officer more worthy than Koscuisko. He had to brazen it through somehow.

  “Two to start, if the officer pleases. With respect, if it were to be five-knives, the officer would require significantly more skill and training than the officer possesses at the present time.”

  Skill and training that started here and now with the heart of the steel, the soul of his honor, the blade that watched his back. Joslire held the mother-knife apart in his hand, giving his Little Sister to Koscuisko for examination to distract him. “The officer may wish to note that the knife to be carried against the arm is noticeably different from that carried between the shoulders. This knife must slide down into the officer’s grasp without slicing the officer’s skin open in the process.”

  Koscuisko handled the knife with respect, even if he didn’t know yet what it was. Koscuisko seemed to understand about steel, but didn’t Joslire already know that about Koscuisko? Hadn’t he jumped at this chance knowing that the hunter in the man would know the hunger in the knife, no matter how widely separated their worlds of origin?

  “O
h, this is a lovely thing, Joslire. Where did you find her? She is elegant. I wonder what my father’s jeweler would make of this.”

  “Throwing-knives are Fleet-issue, as it please the officer.” Not that one, of course, though an untrained eye might easily confuse the two. If Koscuisko’s family jeweler recognized it, he would have a thing to say to Koscuisko that might surprise him. Moving around to Koscuisko’s back, Joslire lifted up the mother-knife in both hands. He stood here in the changing room a free man, if only for a few hours, free to elect to recognize a potential knifeman, a respected fellow fighter, a man who would not shame the soul of Emandisan steel.

  Joslire invoked his gods and set the knife into the sheath at Koscuisko’s back with reverence and deep humility, hoping with all his heart that his petition would be accepted. Koscuisko was not Emandisan. But Koscuisko had the soul of a war-leader. A war-leader had a natural right to Emandisan steel, and the Administration had given Joslire this one chance to free his five-knives from the disgrace of his slavery by making them over, in proper if unspoken form, to a man he deemed fit to wear the soul of an Emandisan.

  Koscuisko reached up over his shoulder to find the pommel with his fingertips, first with his left hand, then with his right. “One hardly feels the weight, Joslire. There is no danger of losing the blade, in practice?”

  Joslire had to give himself a moment before he answered. She sat so comfortably at Koscuisko’s back, springing swiftly into Koscuisko’s hand. Surely she had honored his plea and gone willingly to Koscuisko to be his knife.

  “The sheathing itself will hold the knife, as the officer will have an opportunity to test for himself. It will only release when the officer reaches for it. If the officer cares to sheath the other knife and finish changing, the exercise can begin.”

  Perhaps it was true that, as Koscuisko said, the physical weight of the mother-knife was hardly noticeable.

  But in fact it was the weight of Joslire’s self and Joslire’s soul, the honor of his discipline that could not be diminished even by enslavement that Koscuisko carried snug against his skin to watch his back and guard him.

  If Fleet and the officer permitted, perhaps Joslire would follow his knives when Koscuisko went to Scylla. It didn’t matter as much anymore if he lived out his term to see the Day; they had given him what he needed, time on Safe to see his five-knives out of slavery. His five-knives were free.

  As empty and as lost as Joslire felt without them it was worth it, more than worth it, more great a gift than he had ever hoped for to see his five-knives escaped into the hands of a man who knew instinctively how to honor them.

  He could have given the knives to Koscuisko at any time, that was true enough.

  But the knives were proud, and would not have listened to the voice of an enslaved man when he bid them take Koscuisko for their own.

  Now he could die without shame.

  And maybe some day he would be able to explain to Koscuisko exactly what it was that he’d just done to him.

  ###

  She had finished her Fifth Level, she had finished her Sixth Level, and she had survived. With the help of Koscuisko’s drugs, she’d surmounted the obstacles in her path; and Koscuisko was humbled before her, to be servant to her purpose. She almost could forgive Koscuisko for his money, for his rank, for the stink of pride and privilege that he carried with him like a sensor-net. Almost.

  “Tutor Chonis, I am sorry I am late.” Koscuisko’s signal came tardy at the door; he was behind the time, and could be sneered at for it if she chose. He was her subordinate, in a sense. She expected punctuality from subordinates. “It is my fault, I hope I have not delayed our meeting long.”

  Flushed in the face and sharp of eye, Koscuisko had just come from exercise. That was no excuse.

  “Well, not too long.” Their Tutor would not reprimand Koscuisko; their Tutor didn’t need to. Koscuisko had not forgotten that he had been punished to obedience, no matter how bright the serpent-spark in his cold eyes. Mergau knew how to see the fear, regardless of how well it was covered over by the habit of Koscuisko’s mind. “Curran is teaching knives, I understand? Quite a unique opportunity. Do you know, this is the first time he has ever offered?”

  Pausing as he reached for the beverage jug, Koscuisko seemed a little taken aback. Chonis had set rhyti out today, but Mergau could be charitable. As long as Koscuisko continued to make such wonderful drugs, he could drink all the rhyti he could stomach, and be welcome to it.

  “No? I am surprised. It seems so obvious an advantage to have Joslire to instruct. They are beautiful knives, Tutor Chonis. With respect, I think I am in love.”

  It was understandable that one could cherish a weapon. She had cherished weapons, when she had been in a position to be able to use them. But Koscuisko’s enthusiasm seemed a bit intense, for all that Tutor Chonis took it in stride.

  “Well, that’s all to the good, then. Mind you don’t let this new love take you away from the laboratory, however.”

  Chonis’s tone was too mild and affectionate to carry any sting. Mergau was curious about this passion of Koscuisko’s — curious almost without malice.

  “And may one see these objects, Student Koscuisko? I have had knives myself, once of a time.”

  Almost she could feel affection for him because of his good service. He answered her without contempt, as if he were pretending not to notice all of the things that were so different between them.

  “I am sorry, Joslire has confiscated them from me. So to prevent too soon an amorous surfeit, I imagine. Here is a slug he has provided, so that I may become accustomed to the weight.”

  He had a long blunt sliver of metal in his hand, and she couldn’t see where he had drawn it from. The practice came naturally to him, it seemed; but she was surprised he didn’t realize why his slave couldn’t possibly permit Koscuisko to go armed between his exercises. The Administration didn’t like to take chances with Students, not until they were safely out of the Administration’s area of responsibility.

  “Very well.” Tutor Chonis’s raised hand called the conversation back to order. “Let us be done for the moment with Student Koscuisko’s love life. The Intermediate Levels are behind us, and it is time to consider those Advanced Levels required in preparation for the Tenth Level graduation test.”

  She didn’t really care about the Advanced Levels, or the Tenth Level test. She didn’t need to worry about violating the Protocols at the Advanced Levels. The drugs Koscuisko gave were proof against failure. It didn’t matter if she let them die.

  “Student Koscuisko, the Administration is very pleased with your work, both in the theater and in the lab. Incidentally, the additional trial for your original speak-sera has been scheduled for four-and-thirty-two this second-shift.”

  Koscuisko bowed his head. “I haven’t forgotten, no, Tutor Chonis. Where is the test to be held, with the Tutor’s permission?”

  “Curran will show you to your usual exercise theater. Now, Student Noycannir, we must report to Secretary Verlaine. An uplink has been scheduled for tomorrow at four on second. This only gives us a few hours to review the Administrator’s comments.”

  Of course the Advanced Levels would matter when she returned to Chilleau Judiciary. The Advanced Levels would perhaps matter most of all, and she would not have Koscuisko at her disposal then to provide her with the drugs that made it work. A problem, perhaps, because Koscuisko had quite clearly indicated that nothing he had come up with so far could be used safely against all of her Patron’s enemies. Even the speak-sera had limitations. The one she had used in her Sixth Level had done perfectly well for the Sascevon prisoner, but Koscuisko said it was quick poison or any Class One or class-six hominid.

  “Are we to review now, Tutor Chonis?” She was a little uncomfortable asking; she knew she didn’t want to be reviewed in Koscuisko’s presence. But the Tutor hadn’t set the study schedule for the Advanced Levels. Perhaps there would be time.

  “First things first, please, S
tudent Noycannir.” And she’d left herself open to rebuke, having asked without being bidden. The Tutor knew how she felt about having her insufficiencies discussed in public. Or even in front of Koscuisko. “First it is required of me to give formal notice that you have both been passed at the Levels to date. Student Koscuisko, there is an issue with your use of the driver; not an immediate one, but one that needs to be brought before you.”

  And if Chonis would criticize Koscuisko in her presence, she knew he would expose her failings in front of Koscuisko. They both knew she might not have gotten this far without Koscuisko’s help. What would she do when she could no longer demand Koscuisko’s services?

  “Yes, Tutor Chonis?”

  From Koscuisko’s voice there was a hidden message there that was not to be made available to her. She wondered what it might be. Koscuisko sounded a little fearful, to her ear; had it something to do with the belt, perhaps — the one Chonis had used to humble Koscuisko so completely?

  “The Administrator only applauds your desire to learn the driver, and your quite obvious aptitude for it. I have been asked to clarify a minor point.”

  She didn’t like the driver. She’d tried it, but she had been so clumsy that she had hurt herself worse than her prisoner. The driver was an ugly thing. She had known people to die from it.

  Chonis was picking his words out carefully, now, as if he were speaking in some kind of code. “As you know, any of the Intermediate Level instruments may be lawfully employed for two-and-twenty as you see fit. You may wish to keep in mind that at a more advanced disciplinary level — oh, four-and-forty, for example — because of the driver’s unique characteristics, the disciplinary expectation is for the snapper to be allowed to impact as well as the stock. Otherwise the discipline is not considered sufficiently serious to address the Charges.”