An Exchange of Hostages

by Susan R. Matthews

  His brain was still too full of sleep and alcohol. He could make little sense of it; but here he sat, at the study set in his quarters, and Joslire and St. Clare were in fact packing. Most of his uniforms weren’t even coming; there was only his personal linen, his boots, and the few uniforms that were common to both Student and Chief Medical Officer. New travel dress, in token of his new status. Exercise uniforms. The knife-harness for the throwing knives, and the knives themselves sheathed and packed as well. What was the use of sending the knives with him, if he was not to have Joslire to instruct?

  Joslire and St. Clare were busy at the closet with the blouses of his travel dress, setting and checking the Section markers and the ship’s identification he was now authorized to wear. St. Clare was in new uniform already, darker than Andrej had seen on Station; the bright green piping at St. Clare’s sleeves was all the more difficult to ignore set against dull gray. The ship’s identification was the same, but St. Clare wore no other rank than his slavery. Andrej supposed that it lent a certain amount of uniformity to one’s escort if they were all marked alike. He would wear no rank, either, come to that. The color of his uniform signaling his status, the piping on the sleeves sufficient to identify him as a Medical officer. Black was the color of age and ease on Azanry. He was too young to be wearing the raven’s wing, it was unnatural.

  He couldn’t afford to lose himself in meditations on the color of his uniform. The rest of the day would be too full for that. Exit briefing with Doctor Ligrose Chaymalt within the hour. Exit briefing with Provost Marshall Journis somewhat later, and he was a little uneasy about that one, but he did have to clear the Station. She would have material for his review — his itinerary and his Command briefings. He would need to go over the travel plans before he went to bed if he was to know what to expect in the morning. There would not be time to take exercise with Joslire. If he meant to speak to Joslire, he had better get it done and over with before they had to leave for Chaymalt’s office.

  “St. Clare, would you excuse us for a moment.” There was no reason to discuss it in front of Robert, whether or not his quarters were under surveillance. From the very first Joslire had made it clear that he preferred to be humiliated in private. Andrej meant to do what could be done to set the pain at its least personal level.

  The door closed behind St. Clare’s silent exit. Rising from the study-set, Andrej took himself over to where Joslire stood waiting — and confused — beside the open and near-empty closet where his uniforms had been.

  “The Tutor has delivered my Orders and my Writ, Joslire, but he did not demand your Bond. What are we to do?”

  According to the briefings they had been required to study, the Bonds held by Students were to be surrendered to the Administrator at the same time that Orders were accepted and the Writ taken up. He hadn’t given it a thought, earlier today in Tutor Chonis’s office; things had been happening too quickly. But obviously he needed to return the Bond before he left the Station. Going by the manner in which Joslire had chosen to deliver it to him in the first place, Joslire would surely prefer he surrender it in the relative privacy of quarters.

  Joslire looked paled to yellow — and pained, almost angry. To be reminded? Andrej felt at his neck for the chain to pull the pendant out from beneath his blouse; and Joslire startled him by seizing his hand at the wrist as suddenly and fiercely as if it had been a weapon that Andrej had been reaching for.

  “Permission to speak to the officer,” Joslire said. For all the world as if Joslire hadn’t been up all night holding Andrej’s head while he’d vomited up the overdose of wodac he had taken. As if there’d never been any contact heart-to-heart between them.

  “Joslire, please — what is it?” Joslire loosed his grip at Andrej’s wrist the moment Andrej spoke, as if Andrej’s wrist had suddenly burned his hand. “Tell me, directly, I request of you.” There wasn’t much hope of that, though, not really. Joslire didn’t trust him enough to speak to him directly. Nor could Andrej hold that against Joslire in fairness; he was only a departing Student now to Joslire, with a new one coming in as soon as he had left.

  “Tutor Chonis did not require his Excellency to surrender my Bond. Because Tutor Chonis knows . . . ” Joslire seemed under an unusual amount of stress, even for him. He ran out of words abruptly, screwing his narrow slanted eyes into thin black slits of concentration in his dark Emandisan face. “ . . . knows that I meant to ask the officer. His Excellency. To retain my Bond. But have been unable to find a good time . . . in which to do so.”

  Andrej reached slowly out to take Joslire by the shoulder, in wonder. Joslire’s shoulder was as hard as stalloy under Andrej’s hand. What could Joslire be talking about that created so much anxiety?

  “I’m afraid I find myself in the dark, Joslire. I am leaving, I can’t keep your Bond. Unless you were to come with me, and that would mean . . . Don’t you have some years of safety left? Here on this Station?”

  “Hadn’t made up my mind for certain.” It was almost a gasp, from Joslire. “Until the officer’s Ninth Level. Just could not be sure. And now it’s too late to make you understand. Sir.”

  Whether he understood or not, it was clear enough to Andrej that Joslire was in torment. “Come, Joslire, stand down a bit. Explain. You worry me.” He’d caused Joslire torment more than once during the Term, in his ignorance and clumsiness. And nothing he had tried to do to provide comfort had ever seemed to have its intended effect, either; but he had to keep on trying. “What is this thing that it is too late for me to comprehend?”

  Joslire dropped his head, rolling his underlip against his upper teeth. “My Bond belongs to Fleet. But. If the officer please. I may request assignment. To the officer.”

  Wait, there had been something, a few lines of text merely — glossed over with the briefest of mentions, and it had seemed so unlikely to him at the time that he had taken no notice.

  “That is to say, with the officer’s permission. Active Line duty assignment to Student Koscuisko. To go with his Excellency,” Joslire concluded. And fell silent.

  Shaking his head in horrified denial now, Andrej backed away from Joslire where he stood. “This is some test they put you to, Joslire, you cannot mean to come with me to Scylla.” And an evil test, to make a man ask to be even more cruelly bound than he had been already, to force Joslire to pretend to want to go. After what Joslire had seen of him. His exercises. His excesses.

  But the accusation seemed to strike at Joslire’s pride as if it had been a slap across his face. “Indeed it is not, and I do. His Excellency is respectfully requested to consider my petition as made in earnest. There are so few decisions about my life that I am still permitted to make.”

  Joslire’s reproach shamed Andrej to his heart; but he could not accept the idea, even so. Surely the last thing anyone would want — after watching him, throughout his training — would be to seek a dedicated assignment.

  “You have been good to me, Joslire, and I have had great comfort from you. If I were to let you come with me, it would be selfishness, your deferment — ”

  “If the officer is serious let the officer prove it; let his Excellency respect my request and honor it. We are slaves, except in this one thing. His Excellency should not seek to deny me what piece of freedom even Fleet permits.”

  He had asked Joslire to speak directly, and this was blunt speech indeed. Almost, almost Andrej could believe that Joslire meant precisely what he said. Was he tempted to believe Joslire because Joslire was serious — or because he welcomed the prospect of Joslire’s support in the trying days to come? “But I could be other than you may think me to be. And if I held your Bond, you could not appeal if I were to abuse you. You cannot be sure of what you do. No, I won’t let you.”

  Joslire seemed to have lost his fear and cleared his mind of conflict. He stood rock-solid on his feet and looked up at Andrej from the bottom of the very pit of hopelessness.

  “The first Student to whom I was assigned did not de
sire to punish my unsatisfactory performance above four times in Term. The Tutor was unable to obtain Student Exception, it was my first such assignment and I was ignorant. Discipline the second time was three-and-thirty. The Student signed my return-to-duty documents on the following day, and was praised by Tutor Mannes for being conservative with expensive medication.”

  There was no petition in Joslire’s voice now, only cold recitation, merciless and inexorable.

  “The second Student liked to use the driver. His Excellency has examined his handiwork. The third Student took very little notice of my existence and her sexual requirements were not in themselves difficult to fulfill to her satisfaction, so that was not a bad Term all in all. But the fourth Student to whom I was assigned demanded more particular attention to specific personal needs, and found his gratification much enhanced if he was free to inflict pain while he enjoyed pleasure. The most recent Student, prior to his Excellency — ”

  “No, Joslire, please, be still.”

  “ — preferred to discipline in ways not specifically referenced among the techniques of Inquiry and Confirmation, which methods therefore lay outside of the range of adjudication or exception. The Tutor encouraged his experimentation, and he was held back for the Remedial Levels, so there was adequate time for him to explore areas that interested him.”

  Andrej could not listen; he could hardly breathe. He turned away from Joslire, overcome. Oh, he deserved to have such things said to him. It was discipline for his selfishness, just and judicious retribution for the wrong he had done Joslire by challenging his request. It was proper punishment, and it tore at his stomach sharp and keenly.

  “None of them would have cared about St. Clare. None of them would have practiced with the driver to protect him rather than torture him. None of them cared to minimize the number of souls at risk as a result of confessions. If his Excellency remains unconvinced, I stand ready to supply as many additional details as would amuse his Excellency to entertain.”

  There was no arguing with such cogent proofs. Joslire already knew the full horror of being trapped without recourse, at the mercy of a brutal officer and a system no less brutal. Andrej knew he had no further right to question or deny him. He had wanted to reject Joslire’s request, because Joslire had years yet of deferment that he could spend safely here on Station. Joslire had disillusioned him of that. Joslire was not safe.

  “No, no more, Joslire, I will not deny you. It is what you want, that I should hold your Bond?”

  He couldn’t face Joslire, not just yet. It was not good for a man’s pride to see how deeply he was pitied.

  “For as long as Fleet and his Excellency permit. Yes. Permission to accompany his Excellency on dedicated duty assignment.”

  Andrej took a deep breath, trying to clear his mind of the objections that he still wanted to raise — of the doubts he was in honor bound to swallow. Joslire had made his claim. “It shall be so, then. Come with me to Scylla, Joslire. I will take you to me, and I will hold you to me while I can.”

  He would submit and be humbled before Joslire. It was the least that he could do in the face of Joslire’s courage.

  “Thank you, your Excellency.”

  Joslire sounded grateful to him, in Joslire’s subdued style — his usually subdued style, that was to say. As if it was Joslire who was to receive benefit, Andrej who was making the sacrifice.

  “If you are to be my man, and I your master . . . ”

  Joslire meant to make contract with him, and accompany him on dedicated duty assignment. Such an honor could not be accepted lightly. Turning back to the study-set, Andrej sat down and motioned Joslire to come stand in front of him. He didn’t even care anymore about the monitors. Fleet protocols were all very well and good, but this could not be said to be between a new officer and a Security troop merely. This contract could only be made man to man.

  “Thou must come to thy knees, Joslire, and cut thy mouth. Give me to drink, of thee.”

  Confused and apprehensive, trusting all the same, Joslire sank to his knees gracefully in front of Andrej where he sat. “His Excellency requires?”

  “Thy mouth, Joslire. At the inside.” He had been too young to manage; his father had helped him to draw blood. He was the prince inheritor, and his father had marked him publicly as of his blood and substance by incorporating Andrej’s life into his own. His younger brothers and his sisters had never gone through such a ceremony; when Andrej inherited, they would all make their submission to him in the traditional manner, and through him to the Blood of ages.

  Joslire had pulled his back-sheath knife, but looked a little puzzled yet. Laying his hand over Joslire’s hand, Andrej guided the sharp point of the blade to cut against Joslire’s cheek from the inside. The mouth bled easily and freely, and healed most quickly. It was better, done so, than the older ways.

  He let Joslire take away the knife, and set his left hand against the back of Joslire’s strong stout neck. He’d never thought to make contract in the old fashion, or at least not until his father died — let alone with a man who was no kind of Dolgorukij. But he knew what had to be done.

  “Give me to drink of thee,” he repeated — reassuringly, he hoped. He put his mouth to Joslire’s mouth, and closed his eyes, and waited.

  After a moment Joslire made submission, opening his mouth and surrendering himself to Andrej’s greedy — if symbolic — thirst. The taste of Joslire’s blood was different from his own, but that was the whole point. The Holy Mother understood of blood. And once Joslire had given of his blood — once he had given up his substance for Andrej’s nourishment — the Holy Mother would look upon him as blood and bone of her own children.

  That was the way it had been explained to Andrej, at any rate.

  Long moments, and the blood ceased to flow from the shallow cut in Joslire’s cheek. Andrej lifted his head and leaned back, his mind reeling with the unexpected emotional impact of the ritual act. “There, it is done.” Joslire was quiet and calm, with him, but Joslire had only been Aznir for a few short moments now. It was not to be expected that he would understand it all at once. “Now it is bonded, and cannot be broken. Thou art to me, Joslire, and may our Lady’s Grace be satisfied.”

  Be of Koscuisko, forever.

  But he did not say it.

  There was a limit to how much arcane Aznir superstition he could reasonably expect Joslire to tolerate at any given time. And they would not let him take Joslire with him when he left Fleet.

  “According to his Excellency’s good pleasure.”

  As pleases my master, most pleases myself. It seemed so close, it sent a shiver down Andrej’s spine. Surely the Holy Mother had set her seal upon the contract. If he had been a religious man — as Andrej did not feel himself to be — he would be forced to take Joslire’s choice of response as nothing less than a patent sign from the Canopy itself, instead of simply being something that Joslire said from time to time that only happened to echo ancient fealty formulae of the Blood.

  “Go and let St. Clare back in, if you would, Joslire. You need to see the Tutor, I expect. And I’m expected in Doctor Chaymalt’s office.”

  It was easier in a way to be grateful to a Mother that he only half-believed in than to contemplate by how slim a margin he had gained what he had won from the Administration. The life of Robert St. Clare, although he had traded his honor for the boon. This unexpected grant of companionship from Joslire, so that he might yet find a way to return good for the good Joslire had done him — and continue to learn how to throw those lovely, lovely knives, as well.

  It would give him something to think about on his way to Scylla. The better to avoid thinking about his apprehensions, facing his first assignment on the Line.

  “Even so, your Excellency. St. Clare can take his Excellency there. He knows the way.”

  His first assignment had just gotten significantly easier to face.

  Chapter Sixteen

  There had been a flurry of some sort, St. Clar
e was almost certain of it. Not that anyone was saying anything to him about it, but what could Curran have in mind to go racing off on his own like that? A flurry, or his name wasn’t Robert St. Clare.

  Wait a moment, he admonished himself.

  His name wasn’t Robert St. Clare.

  All right, perhaps his name was not exactly St. Clare, but he would be expected to answer to it for twenty-six years, so what was the functional difference?

  The officer had appointments with the Medical Officer, and the Provost Marshall after. Fortunately he had had plenty of time to study the physical mapping of the place.

  “To the officer’s right. And again, at the next turning, if the officer please.” He’d be glad to get to Scylla, even so, where he would necessarily be junior man on whichever Security Five-point team he ended up on. It would be up to the senior man in Koscuisko’s escort to walk behind the officer and direct him at the same time. All he’d have to do, then, was to pay attention and follow instructions. That couldn’t be said to be a hard life, now, could it?

  “Past the lift-nexus, to the officer’s right once more.” He expected he could even get used to Koscuisko in time. Up in the high windy, people who looked like Koscuisko — short and pale, pale hair, pale eyes — were suspect; it wasn’t honest herding blood, at all, it was farmers who had been sea-raiders beforetime. A long time before, but memory ran long in the high windy, because there was nothing to do for entertainment but sit and tell stories, and argue about the weaves. Koscuisko could be a throwback to the sea-raiders, from his face, but what weave would a man wear who was for Inquisition?

  There was a troop waiting for them at the receiving area, someone Robert thought he recognized: Omie Idarec, from the same group he’d come in with, but wearing Station Security. That was right, there’d been gossip. He wondered if Koscuisko knew who Omie was.