Quite a long speech, and the bright, blissful gleam had dropped out of Koscuisko’s eyes well before Tutor Chonis had finished. Had he been required to deliver discipline, perhaps? Was he to be required to deliver discipline? What could his slave have done that merited four-and-forty?
“The point is well taken, Tutor Chonis. That I may not cheat the Fleet of discipline, can the Tutor provide some ratio guidance, perhaps?”
Maybe this was the whip that had made Koscuisko so manageable, if Curran had offended. Koscuisko did not seem to be capable of maintaining good order amongst his subordinate Security. She had too often seen him fail to admonish Curran as they left the Tutor’s office together.
“If you wish to be conservative in discipline, the driver is an excellent choice. But one is expected to deliver a taste of real punishment — perhaps every eight. A good hit every eight. Note this information for your use, if you will.”
Whatever it was, Koscuisko didn’t like it. He wasn’t fit for Fleet duty, Mergau realized suddenly. Not if he shrank from discipline.
“Thank you, Tutor Chonis, I am grateful for your guidance.”
But if he wasn’t fit for Fleet duty, where could he be fully utilized? Where could his skill in mixing the drugs for her be effectively exploited — unless he went with her, to support her for the duration of his term of service?
“Yes, Student Koscuisko. I understand.” Then Chonis brought her into the conversation once again, with an inclusive gesture. “Enough of that. Do you have any questions about the Intermediate Levels? Student Noycannir?”
In fact he would serve Chilleau Judiciary well, if First Secretary Verlaine could be made to see how useful such a talent could prove in the long run. Verlaine would find a way to hold Koscuisko back from Fleet, if Verlaine felt Koscuisko could be useful. She was certain that Verlaine could get Koscuisko on his staff, under her direction. If only she could let him know why such an arrangement was to his best interest . . .
“Very well. Your first exercise at the Advanced Levels is scheduled for eight days’ time, and we have a good deal of material to cover before then. Student Koscuisko, you may be excused to your lab. Don’t forget your appointment. Student Noycannir, stay as you are, and we will talk about the report we are to make to Secretary Verlaine.”
They would have to report to Verlaine about the drugs. She would have a natural opportunity to raise the issue then, especially if the Tutor didn’t anticipate her comments ahead of time.
Rising to his feet, Koscuisko bowed to the Tutor and left the room. If he was under her, he would have to yield to her superior position in the rank-structure; she really rather enjoyed that idea. If she could not seriously wish to have him for her prisoner, she could at least have him for her subordinate; that could be considered to be equivalent, in a sense.
“Now, Student Noycannir. Let’s you and I talk about this, shall we?”
Definitely she would have to suggest to Verlaine that Koscuisko be posted to produce more drugs rather than being allowed to go free. Or to Fleet.
And definitely she would not talk to Tutor Chonis about the plan. Let him not find out until Verlaine heard what she suggested.
Let her Tutor understand that she could find a way to rule his preference, howsoever indirectly, as surely as he had found a way to rule Student Koscuisko.
###
He couldn’t help but be a little anxious, but Andrej didn’t want it to show. For one, he was the most junior officer present, and was clearly not expected to call any attention to himself. For another, it might be misinterpreted as a lack of confidence. However he felt about other issues, he knew that he was more than merely adequate in the lab.
“Your name?”
He stood behind the seated evaluators, facing St. Clare and the flanking escort behind him. Released from Infirmary to custody; to be released from custody — when?
“M’name is Rabin, from Marleborne. But my mother’s people hold the Ice-Traverse weave.”
Robert St. Clare, if the officer please. Tutor Chonis had gone over the first response set with Andrej before the evaluation panel had been formally seated. It was a simple set of questions; the first set of responses conformed to the Jurisdiction Standard for a bond-involuntary. Now Tutor Chonis would ask the questions again, and the panel would judge whether the speak-serum did its job.
“You will declare your Bond.”
Sir. For weighty offenses committed without adequate extenuating circumstance I have been justly condemned by the solemn adjudication of the Jurisdiction’s Bench. According to the provisions of Fleet Penal Consideration number eighty-three, subheading twenty, article nine, my life belongs to the Jurisdiction’s Bench, which has deeded it to the Fleet for thirty years.
“I’ll not, it’s none of it true except the prisoning part. You know damned well it was just Simmer treachery, bastard of a Jurisdiction butcher . . . ”
St. Clare looked surprised to hear himself use such language, and cut it off with an evident effort. So far, so good. Ordinarily St. Clare’s clear sense of consequences would have prevented him from using such confrontational language.
There were two points to be made in this trial: one was· that the speak-serum overrode internal edits, thereby gaining access to truths a man would otherwise rather conceal. And the other was that it felt so natural and right for St. Clare to speak his incautious and uncensored truth that his governor saw nothing wrong with what almost amounted to treason.
“State your chain of Command, as here present.”
Sir. The officer of assignment is Student Koscuisko. Student Koscuisko’s immediate superior is Tutor Chonis. The Station Provost is Marshall Journis; Administrator Clellelan represents the Bench authority. Sir.
Doctor Chaymalt was here as well, but it was Marshall Journis that had given Andrej the worst start. Why had he assumed that Joslire’s hunting party had been of Joslire’s general rank? It had been ego, plain and simple, to have assumed that Joslire had somehow come up with recreation for him, instead of realizing the quite obvious fact that he’d been recreation for persons unknown. Granted, he hadn’t been thinking clearly at the time, but why hadn’t he realized that the senior man had worn her authority with significantly more conviction than any five given Warrants taken together? And no, he didn’t need any opinions from his fish.
Still, she’d given no sign of recognition, for which Andrej was deeply grateful.
“There’s the Marshall, don’t know anything about her, but the name. There’s the Tutor, I had a cousin once with a beard like that, died of a surfeit of rolled-meal and drinkable podge. Tutor’s a decent sort from what little a dog like me would know, and Clellelan the like. It’s about yon undertall beauty that I’m not sure, Koscuisko, and what kind of an ignorant accent is it? I mean to ask.”
Any sign of discomfort or reticence had passed away from St. Clare’s easy — flamboyantly disrespectful — speech. Well, perhaps not too disrespectful of the senior people here, the panel members who were to pass his drug or fail it. Andrej was quite certain that for himself he didn’t care to be called an undertall beauty of any sort. And it was St. Clare who had an accent, flat and nasal.
But that only meant that the speak-serum was doing its work a little too well for his personal sense of propriety, and that was all to the good. Under the influence of the speak-serum, St. Clare clearly felt so comfortable making off-the-cuff judgments about his chain of command that his governor found no actionable offense in it. Any speak-serum that could turn a bond-involuntary’s conditioning off as thoroughly as that would do the same or worse to ordinary prisoners, and was a genuine find for the Controlled List — as he had promised.
The panel — the Administrator, the Provost Marshall, Doctor Chaymalt — seemed to come to much the same conclusion, if Andrej read their body-language correctly from behind. Tutor Chonis raised an amused eyebrow in Andrej’s direction, but Andrej could suffer Chonis’s amusement easily — as long as Marshall Journis did not turn a
round.
“Thank you, Robert, if we can confine ourselves to the issues before us — ”
“But I can tell you that I don’t care for your damned cheek, Tutor or no. You’d think a man had no right to his own name, the way you throw it about.”
St. Clare was starting to sound a little drunk, a little belligerent. The internal censors were clearly eroding quickly. If St. Clare didn’t like his name used casually, why had he made such a point of being called by his name when Andrej had first spoken with him in Infirmary? Had St. Clare granted the use of his personal name to him, Andrej? Or had St. Clare merely objected to being called “Mister”?
“That’s fine, St. Clare.” Chonis’s voice was patient and soothing, even though he’d been rather rudely interrupted. “This is the last one, now. Please state your duty assignment.”
Sir. My duty is to serve and to protect according to the requirements of my Bond. My honor is to die in defense of my officer of assignment. It is just and judicious that it should be so, as I hope for the Day. Sir.
Nobody expected bond-involuntaries to like what had happened to them; no one demanded that they lie about the fact that their life was a sentence of penal servitude. Their conditioning — constantly reinforced by the governor — was in place to keep them from compromising themselves, among other things. For the rest, a series of abstract impersonal formulae had been created for them to use for their protection, and those formulae had been duly rehearsed and placed on Record during Robert’s first responses to the questions he’d been asked.
It was a hard test, a brutal conflict between self-preservation and the censorship of the governor on one side; the speak-serum — and deeply held, if unacknowledged, conviction — on the other. St. Clare shook his head as if to clear it of a confusion of some sort, all but physically staggering as he struggled with the question.
“It wouldn’t matter but for my sweet sister, don’t you see?”
The governor was disabled, silent, nonfunctional. Or at least there was no telling from his words that St. Clare even had a governor. St. Clare spoke with passion from his heart, and Andrej remembered what St. Clare had said at the end of the Fifth Level exercise. For Megh. Halfway, halfway, halfway through.
“It’s Fleet murdered my family, and Fleet that’s locked my life away, but a man can understand that, after all. Because we never looked for fair dealing, not from Jurisdiction, and I can’t complain — not for myself — I’ve not been so mistreated, not more than any other.”
Remarkable. St. Clare meant it, every word of it, as if he’d made his mind up not to rage against the bitter fate that had befallen him, taking what he found on its own terms. It was an heroic act to choose to live thus without bitterness. How had St. Clare come to such wisdom, young as he was?
“But what you’ve done to my poor sister, I cannot forgive it. I will not forgive it. You could have killed her just instead of that. It’s as black a crime as was ever done, and the Maker requite you for it.”
How could there not be bitterness in St. Clare? How could he submit himself to curses and abuse, and not grieve for himself, but only for his sister? Perhaps he set his own grief onto hers, and saved himself the extra suffering that way. Perhaps.
After a moment the Administrator spoke. “The drug certainly seems persuasive enough. Doctor Chaymalt, your evaluation?”
Tutor Chonis made a signal with his hand, and the Security escort came up to take St. Clare from the room. To a recovery area, Chonis had assured him, for long enough to be sure that the speak-serum would metabolize before St. Clare had to talk to anybody with rank.
“We’ll take his report once he’s recovered himself a bit, of course. But I think it’s safe to say that Koscuisko’s serum does what Koscuisko said it would.”
Well, of course it did. Andrej thought. Hadn’t he staked St. Clare’s very life on it?
“Marshall Journis, your opinion, please.”
The Marshall rose to her feet, stretching a bit. Andrej decided to look at something else for a moment or two, just to be safe. “Either it’s a valid speak-serum or that governor needs to be returned as defective, Rorin. And his governor was working fine when he got here. I’d say you’ve got a solid candidate, there.”
Controlled List drugs were not released on field trial alone, whether or not they were building an ad hoc list for Noycannir on that basis. The serum would have to go forward to Fleet’s central research facility, where the ultimate decision as to its utility would be made. That was hardly the point.
“Thank you, Marshall, Doctor. In my professional judgment, endorsed by qualified subject area experts, the trial has been a true and successful one. Thank you for your time.”
The point was that he’d promised speak-sera, and they’d given him St. Clare based on that promise — and the follow-on research he had pledged at the same time. And until the medium of exchange had been officially recognized as good coin, the contract was still potentially in question. They would not take St. Clare away from him now.
What had St. Clare called him? “Yon undertall beauty”?
Was he sure that he wanted St. Clare for his own, after that?
Andrej bowed respectfully as the panel members left the room, Doctor Chaymalt, Marshall Journis, Administrator Clellelan. There was no sense in second-guessing. And not as if St. Clare would use such language when not under the influence, whether or not he was thinking it.
“Come along, Student Koscuisko.” Tutor Chonis put an end to his prickly brooding, laying his arm around Andrej’s shoulders genially. “That went very well, don’t you think? Let’s go and have a glass of rhyti. We can talk about Noycannir’s Seventh Level.”
Not a promising start for a relationship, no. But better than the alternative.
And the devil take his vanity, and rejoice in it.
Chapter Twelve
It was dark and quiet in the rack-room, empty but for Robert St. Clare and Joslire himself. Joslire eyed the half-drunk Nurail skeptically, listening to the steady stream of recriminations without paying much attention to his actual words.
“Oh, fine, you empty-headed bottom-dweller, you goat-stuffer, you. That’s just the thing. Yes, call him names, why don’t you. He’s just to be your, maister for the rest of your disgusting life . . . ”
Robert sat slumped on a leveled sleep-rack with his head in his hands, swearing at himself. Tutor Chonis had taken Student Koscuisko off; Joslire was free for a few hours, and Robert needed watching. The Student’s speak-serum had clearly left Robert vulnerable — to himself, if to no one else. Robert was to go with Student Koscuisko when he left. Joslire was curious about what manner of man the Nurail for whom his Student had paid such coin actually was.
“Be easy, man.” Pulling a rack level from the wall facing Robert, Joslire sat down. Robert knew that he was here, of course. But Robert wasn’t paying any attention to him.
“Yes, there’s a good start, there’s a lucky beginning, it’s a wonder if he has aught to do with you after all — and then where will you be, you wool-witted — ”
“Be easy, I said.” Joslire didn’t care for the direction Robert seemed to be headed. There was no reason for him to feel so insecure. Koscuisko couldn’t help but value the man in proportion to what he had paid for him. “You’ll be going with Student Koscuisko when he’s graduated, you don’t need to worry about it. How do you feel?”
“How do I feel, he asks, as if there should be a question. I feel like a total waste of a kiss, is what I feel like, a used handful of scrape bloom, did you hear what I said to those people? And what is the officer going to think of me after the performance I just gave, what do you think?”
He’d successfully distracted Robert, so much was obvious. Less obvious was what he could say next to get out of having to answer for Student Koscuisko, when he couldn’t be as certain as he would be sure to sound.
“It doesn’t matter what Student Koscuisko thinks.” Well, yes, it did. If he had been in Robert’s place, i
t would matter very much to him. “You’ve proved the test, that’s all that matters. You haven’t answered my question, Robert.”
Now it was Robert’s turn to lean back and rest his head against the wall. “I don’t care whether I do or not; I’m not under obligation to you, am I? I feel sick to my stomach. I feel very embarrassed at myself. I feel very worried about Student Koscuisko.”
They had that much in common, then, Joslire thought. Except of course that it didn’t do him any good to be anxious, because Koscuisko would no longer be his business once Koscuisko graduated. “The nausea will pass, they tell me. Do you want something to eat?”
Shaking his head with his eyes closed, Robert reminded Joslire suddenly of a young fly-fetcher, still immature for all its adult size. All bright eyes and enthusiasm. Very little brain. “Na, but to drink would be nice. Except not for the likes of us. Do we ever drink, Curran?”
Joslire thought he heard a subtle alteration in Robert’s words; a lightening of tone, a lessening of urgency, an increasingly careful choice of phrase. Perhaps the serum was truly beginning to wear off.
“Those who want to, yes, when leave is given.” He’d never thought it helped any, himself. When the duty shift came up a man was still a slave, after all. Joslire preferred just to be left alone.
“Tell me something.” An idea occurred to St. Clare now, it seemed, and Joslire didn’t think it had to do with drinking. “They won’t talk to me, Curran, but a man needs to know. How did it happen? Can you tell? I feel ashamed to look at you.”
He hadn’t been mistaken about the speak-serum wearing off; he could hear the self-control in Robert’s voice. And still Robert had asked the painful question. Joslire admired the boy’s courage. “It wasn’t anything you did. Or didn’t do. I’m sure of only so much.”
There was no question in his mind about what the Nurail was asking. After all, it was the same question that Tutor Chonis had been trying to find an answer for since it had happened.
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