by David Weber
Her fingers had tightened into fists in her lap.
“But it got worse. As Rahil is my witness, I will never, ever forget those terrible minutes. All I could do was lie there and listen while men I’d come to know and respect died just a few yards away.” She unclenched her fingers to wipe her face, which was wet. Her fingers shook. “They died because of one man. One screw-up of a man, an insubordinate, insolent idiot who disobeyed his commander’s direct orders. Disobeyed and shot down an unarmed man.
“I couldn’t believe he’d done it. Even having watched him for two weeks, I couldn’t believe he’d done it. That he’d disobeyed orders like that, orders that important. That critical. It was almost like he’d done it on purpose, to be deliberately defiant. As though he wanted to make Hundred Olderhan look incompetent or maybe to hog some kind of glory for himself. To be the man who caught Osmuna’s killers, so Hundred Olderhan wouldn’t get the credit.”
The officers ranged along the bench studied her with thoughtful frowns tugging at the corners of thinned lips, and Gadrial shook her head.
“I don’t know why he did it. But I do know he had to’ve heard that order. I was fifty yards away, down in a gully, and I heard every single word of it. I’ve called Garlath an idiot, but he wasn’t actually stupid. He had a brain, a decently agile one; he just didn’t use it very often.
“You could tell he was smart, but he was sly, playing mind games to get out of doing his job, instead of just doing it. To defy his superiors and find ways to make them look bad, to cover up the fact that he’d never done an honest day’s work in his life and had no intention of ever doing one.”
She bit her lip and wiped fresh tears.
“Even Magister Halathyn detested him.” She drew a ragged breath. “I will never, ever forgive Shevan Garlath for starting this war. For setting in motion the events that killed Halathyn vos Dulainah.” Her voice shook as she said that, shook with pain and grief. “He started a chain of events that destroyed Hundred Olderhan’s whole company. He caused the slaughter of innocent Sharonian civilians in that clearing. And thanks to what he did there, hundreds of more Sharonian civilians have died, needlessly, in an invasion we started.”
Absolute silence gripped the courtroom.
After a moment, Count Tisbane spoke quietly again, in his beautiful, cultured voice.
“Magister Gadrial, there’s not a man in this room who doesn’t bitterly regret the pain and suffering you’ve endured because of this war, because of this man you’ve testified started it.”
“He did start it,” she snarled, eyes flashing.
Tisbane lifted both hands in a conciliatory gesture. “Peace, Magister,” he murmured. “Believe me, Magister Gadrial, I understand your reasons for feeling the way you do. But at the moment, we’re speaking in legal terms, for the sake of this court-martial. Bearing that in mind, what more can you tell us about the events that transpired and Hundred Olderhan’s role in them, after Shevan Garlath shot down the Sharonian crew leader?”
Gadrial nodded and drew a long, steadying breath.
“All right, I’ll do that. Everything was really crazy for a couple of minutes, with people shouting and screaming and the crack and thunder of the Sharonian weapons sounding like a thunderstorm without rain. A lot of the shouts were from the Sharonians. They sounded…astonished. Furious. Terrified.
“And right in the middle of all that confusion, I heard Hundred Olderhan shouting orders to his men. Very clear orders. He shouted at them to encircle the clearing, to contain the enemy. To prevent their escape and stop anyone who tried to run for the portal with a message. He also ordered his best arbalest shots to try creeping forward under cover, to take out as many of the enemy shooters as possible, but their rifle fire was relentless. There was never a lull in the shooting, not once, not until every last Sharonian had been shot down.
“I heard Hundred Olderhan shouting to bring the field dragons up, which was the only thing that saved the platoon. I heard him order three separate firing lines. The artillery crews kept screaming in agony and Hundred Olderhan kept shouting for replacements, ordering specific men forward by name to man the dragons. I was cowering in terror on the ground, listening as he directed that fight. I couldn’t believe my ears, he was shouting orders with such clear-headed deliberation. I’d never heard anything like it.
“My bodyguards were swearing a blue streak. Not because they were angry. They were frustrated, mostly, because they were stuck babysitting me. But even that wasn’t the whole reason. I was curled up on the ground, shaking in my robes, while they stood over me with cocked and locked arbalests, and the most amazing thing was how they were swearing. They sounded the way my brothers did when their jarrca team made some great play. The kind of play that netted the point that propelled them into a championship game. It sounds crazy, probably, but that’s what it sounded like.”
“Thank you, Magister, for your testimony,” Tisbane said formally. “If there are no direct questions from the bench, I’ll turn the witness over to the prosecution.”
Gadrial steeled herself for the moment she had dreaded for weeks.
She watched Commander of Five Hundred Ghulshan Vreel, Jasak’s Accusator, closely as he rose and left the table where he’d sat since entering the chamber. Five Hundred Vreel wasn’t a typical Andaran. He was tall, certainly, but his uniform clothed a frame just shy of skeletal. His eyes were banked down coals, eyes that pierced to the quick, probing for the secrets one hid from the entire world, and Gadrial controlled a shiver by dint of sheer willpower as those eyes focused upon her.
“Magister Gadrial,” he said slowly, his voice as cadaverous as the rest of him, “your testimony’s been extremely complimentary to Sir Jasak Olderhan.”
Gadrial didn’t rise to the bait, whatever he was fishing for; she merely looked at him, waiting for him to make his next point.
“Your status as a theoretical magister is beyond reproach. And despite your relative youth, you’ve suffered great adversity, great emotional pain. Your professional and personal lives have been a source of both satisfaction and upheaval, none of it your fault.”
Again, she merely looked at him, not liking what he was doing, but unsure where he was going with it.
“I would say—as would most people—that you’ve earned a little joy, a little personal happiness.”
“What is your point, Sir?” she asked coolly.
“My point is merely this. Your name has been linked with Sir Jasak Olderhan’s in more than a professional capacity. There are rumors, Magister Gadrial, that a romantic liaison is part of your relationship. A woman who aspires to becoming Duchess of Garth Showma is likely to say a great many things in defense of the man destined to be the Duke of Garth Showma.”
Gadrial narrowed her eyes. His ploy was contemptible, but not entirely unanticipated. If he’d hoped to break her, he’d be waiting a long, long time.
“Whatever the status of my relationship with Hundred Olderhan may be, Accusator Vreel, these are the facts. I wasn’t in love with Sir Jasak Olderhan the day Shevan Garlath shot an unarmed Sharonian engineering professor through the throat and started a war. I didn’t ‘aspire’ to anything, that day, except survival. As to my testimony today, might I inquire whether or not the lie-detection alarm has gone off even once during my testimony?”
“That is beside the point, young woman—”
“I am a senior Magister of the Hood, Sir. I’ll thank you to remember that when you address me.”
“You’re an aspiring gold-digger angling for the Olderhan billions, an aristocratic title, and a secure social position for life, which throws suspicion on every syllable you’ve uttered! And as a Magister of the Hood, you’re more than skilled enough to short-circuit a simple lie-detection spell!”
Gadrial stared at him for several silent seconds while the officers of the court held their collective breaths, waiting for the explosion.
They weren’t prepared for what they got instead.
“
A secure social position for life?” She laughed out loud and shook her head, her expression incredulous. “Rahil’s toenails, d’you think I want to be saddled, snared, and roped into a lifetime of impossible duties and obligations to a social code I find suffocating, medieval, and positively insane? You think I want to be trapped in a marriage where every move I make, every word I say, every garment I wear is dictated by a thousand years of protocol? Where any children I might bear would be treated like little automatons to be programmed like—like ants in a hill? My God, if Jasak Olderhan wanted to marry me, he’d have to go down on his knees and swear to me that my life would remain mine. That I’d live by Ransaran precepts unless I chose to honor that crazy hodge-podge of rules you Andarans call a society.
“And he’d have to put down in writing that my career and my family would be under my control, not some cabal of aristocrats with nothing better to do than sit around trying to figure out how to control one another’s lives every waking moment!”
She leaned back in her chair. “Sorry, Accusator, but the only people who think being part of the Andaran aristocracy is the most fabulous lifestyle in the world are other Andarans. And I am not, thank Rahil, an Andaran.”
The accusator stared down at her, eyes wide in his cadaverous face. Then he started to laugh.
“My dear,” he said, “you’re thoroughly and delightfully Ransaran. If Hundred Olderhan does ask you to marry him, do us all a favor and hold him to that set of demands. I believe you just might be a breath of fresh air.”
He smiled at her a moment longer, then glanced at the officers of the court.
“No further questions, gentlemen.”
“You may step down, Magister Gadrial.”
She blinked in surprise. “That’s it?”
“For now, Magister.” Count Sogbourne smiled. “If we need to recall you, we’ll be in touch. Please be assured that your testimony’s been most helpful. And, ah, rather educational, as well. It’s always enlightening to see one’s self through the eyes of others.”
Her cheeks scalded. “I didn’t mean any disrespect, Sir.”
“Of course not. You’re Ransaran.”
She blinked. Then she realized that, in his stodgy Andaran way, he was teasing her, and she grinned.
“I could almost come to like an Andaran or two, now that you mention it,” she told him.
“That’s very flattering, Magister Gadrial. But now, much as it pains me, we must return to our very serious duties and you, I fear, must return to yours.”
She bit her lip; then drew a swift breath and nodded. “Yes, you do. And so do I. You know where and how to reach me. I’m not planning to go anywhere,” she added grimly.
She retrieved her business case, nodded to the officers of the court, the attorneys, and even the long-suffering clerk in the corner, whose eyes widened when she included him in her silent farewell. She dropped a solemn wink on the flustered young soldier, then squared her shoulders, marched out of the courtroom…
…and promptly dissolved into tears. She was desperately afraid for Jasak, for his future, and the life she hoped to somehow build with him, if these mad Andaran officers didn’t destroy him over their mad, medieval rules and if his mad Andaran pride didn’t stand in the way of asking her, if things went against him.
She scrubbed her eyes with a savage gesture, furious with herself for falling apart like this. She respected the men on that court-martial board. Under other circumstances, she might even have liked one or two of them. As it was…
She sucked down a deep, shaky breath. As it was, she had a job to do and a society to save from another group of people she respected, two members of whom she’d come to care for as very dear friends. For the first time in her life, the knee-jerk, automatic Ransaran dislike of war had a profoundly personal basis.
War was hell.
Particularly when it was your job to win it.
* * *
It had been hours.
More than a dozen hours.
Gadrial had paced the floor. Chewed her nails ragged. She’d destroyed her carefully arranged hair, redone the styling spell to rearrange it into a neat coif, then destroyed that, as well. At least twenty times, now. If word didn’t come soon, she was going to start tearing the draperies down from the walls and hurling breakables across the room.
Would they find Jasak guilty?
Or innocent?
She couldn’t bear the suspense much longer. The calm, very nearly serene poise of the duchess, seated beside her, drove Gadrial nearly mad. How could Sathmin just sit there, gazing down into the street?
Because, Gadrial’s conscience whispered, she’s a great deal stronger than you are. She bit her lip. Then made another frantic circuit around the room, nearly ready to climb the walls with a sticky-spell that would let her crawl out across the ceiling like a fly and scream from the center of the chandelier.
I can’t bear this! Not another moment!
The door opened.
Gadrial jerked around, heart beating so hard, she couldn’t breathe. For one long, stupefied moment, she simply stood there, staring at the figure in the doorway. It wasn’t the duke, with word about his son. It was Shaylar.
Gadrial hadn’t even seen the other woman since the terrible night Thankhar Olderhan had unflinchingly told all of them what he’d learned. The Voice had withdrawn to the apartment she shared with Jathmar to weep for her dead, to cope with the horrible knowledge she’d never wanted yet had needed to know. One or two of the Garth Showma staff had seemed irked by her refusal to leave her chambers, but they’d followed their employers’ example and left her to the privacy she so desperately needed.
And so had Gadrial. She’d longed to try to comfort Shaylar, but when she’d quietly suggested that to Jathmar, he’d shaken his head sadly.
“Not now, Gadrial,” he’d told her. “She…she just needs to be alone for now. It’s hard, especially for a Voice, to cope with all of this—” he’d waved vaguely at the townhouse around them in a gesture which took in everything beyond it, as well “—without knowing what’s happening in our own universes. And just now…just now she’s too raw and wounded to want to see anyone. Even you.”
His words had cut her like knives, but she’d understood. And now, as the door opened and she looked up, she froze. She wanted to run to her. Wanted to throw her arms around the other woman and beg her to forgive Gadrial for being on the wrong side in this awful war. She wanted—
She didn’t have to do anything.
Shaylar, tears streaming, crossed the room and embraced Gadrial. “I couldn’t bear it any longer,” Shaylar said softly. “Knowing how much this wait was hurting you.”
“But…”
Shaylar’s arms tightened down; then she stepped back.
“But you’re my friend, Gadrial. My only friend here. I need you, Gadrial,” she whispered. “And I think you need me?”
Gadrial hugged her again. “Gods, yes,” she said equally softly. “But I wouldn’t blame you if you never wanted to speak to an Arcanan again!” She felt her own eyes prickle. “After what the Duke’s found out so far, knowing there could be even worse to come, I—”
Shaylar drew a deep, ragged breath. “No, Gadrial. I never felt that. I needed to be…alone for a while. It’s been terribly hard for me. For Jathmar and me, both of us. But I never felt like I didn’t want to see you, ever again.”
Gadrial’s eyes filled with tears. “Shaylar, there’s nothing I can say that can tell you how horrified I was by that news. How horrified I still am. Nothing justifies that. Nothing.”
“Thank you, Gadrial. That…helps.”
Gadrial touched Shaylar’s hair, tucked a lock of it behind her ear. “Thank you, Shaylar. For still being my friend.”
Shaylar nodded.
“Jathmar?” Gadrial asked after a moment
“He’s…thinking it over,” Shaylar said softly, and Gadrial nodded. Of course he was.
“I hope he decides to join us, too,” the
duchess said, rising to put her own arm around Shaylar and hug her tightly. “But in the meantime, my dears, why don’t we all have some tea and send for something to eat?”
“I think that sounds like a very good idea, Your Grace,” Shaylar replied, and if her smile was wan and just a bit watery, it was also real.
* * *
Three hours and seventeen minutes later, the drawing room door opened again. Everyone jerked around, and Gadrial’s heart shuddered to a halt when she saw Jasak standing in the doorway. For long moments, she was frozen to the chair in which she’d been sitting for the past two hours, too exhausted to continue her pacing. Her eyes met his and the blaze of fire in them left her pulse shuddering, wondering if that fire was the look of a man filling his eyes with the sight of her for the last time or the fire of a man out from under the cloud that had dogged his heels all the way from that pile of wind-wrecked trees. Not to mention the man and woman sitting beside her, whose capture had wrenched Gadrial’s life—and everyone else’s in this room—inside out and upside down.
Then Jasak spoke. He whispered hoarsely, “The verdict was not guilty, on all charges.”
Gadrial sobbed aloud once; tears filled her eyes. Someone else was weeping, as well, close by. But then Jasak spoke again, and she stared at him in shock.
“I…can’t stay in the army,” he said.
“I don’t understand!” she cried. “You’re innocent! They cleared you! Cleared your name, your reputation, completely! Why can’t you stay in the army? We’ll need good officers!” Even as she said it, a flutter of terror—and raw, selfish gratitude—tore through her. He won’t be going to war! Even though he needed to…and wanted to, being a mad Andaran. “I don’t understand,” she finished, miserable for failing to understand even this about the man she loved, and a strange little smile touched his lips.
“Yes, I was cleared, completely. But the Army needs someone to take the blame, even so. Someone besides Garlath, who’s been officially found responsible for starting the war, but who’s inconveniently dead and therefore not an ideal candidate. Much of the verdict hinged on his failure to obey my order to hold his fire, as we suspected it would. But that was a two-way sword. They determined that I was in command and that Garlath’s refusal to obey that order started the war. They also determined that my decision to leave him in place was reasonable and correct, given the circumstances surrounding his…attitudes and behavior. Your testimony tipped those particular scales very firmly in the direction of the final verdict, Gadrial.
