by L D Inman
“The first principle, as always,” Barklay said, “is to know whom you are facing.” He bowed to Douglas, who returned the courtesy. “And the second principle,” he added with the hint of a grin, “is to keep facing them. Lieutenant, I beg you will be merciful to an old man out of practice.”
“Certainly I would, sir,” Douglas said, “if I were fighting one.” He raised the point of his foil, waiting. Barklay gave it a light slap with the blade of his, and the round began.
Douglas at first made no advance, merely kept his foil at guard and shifted his position in mirror to Barklay’s incremental movements. Speir didn’t think Barklay could be drawn into a rash attack: she waited to see how this strategy would play out.
For a moment Barklay was marble still. Then he lashed out in three blows, two high and one low, which Douglas in his concentration parried easily: the sound and velocity together were like thunderclaps. Douglas riposted, and Barklay turned aside his point with a controlled vehemence. And Douglas was drawn finally into attack mode.
The edges of the gathered watchers shifted, elastic to the movements of the combatants, as Douglas and Barklay began circling one another, looking for an opening. Attack was vulnerability, Speir knew; it was in defense that she often had her best successes, and in attack that she had learned to measure risk. She tried to think Douglas’s thoughts for him as she watched him form his strategy.
Barklay was quick, too quick for a brutal assault without masked intent. One could win a point from him by slipping inside his guard during a heated exchange, but that involved standing up to the exchange itself. Barklay was clearly trying to draw Douglas out, probably to display his strengths as well as expose his weaknesses; Speir hadn’t forgotten this was a teaching exercise.
Sure enough, there followed a series of exchanged blows which the onlookers could hardly follow: and then Douglas, whose motions had described the plane of baton work, suddenly shifted to the line of a hard thrust. Barklay eluded the point by an atom’s width, threw Douglas’s following stroke aside, and backed up grinning.
Someone less experienced would have been provoked into rushing Barklay: Douglas fell back to guard position, caught his breath, and waited for another opening. Speir could see his eyes reading Barklay and the air around him; and just as Douglas returned his gaze to Barklay’s face, Barklay attacked.
It was the kind of onslaught one rarely saw even in the arena: blows so controlled and whole-body vigorous they were like open-hand blows with a long knife and not foil-strokes at all. One suddenly remembered that Barklay had seen real combat; that what they were training for involved far more contingency than an arbitrary fault.
Douglas met the attack like a rock lashed by a wave of the sea; only the muscles standing out like cords in his neck betrayed the concentration it took to keep up his defense. Even so, in the next moment a foil went flying, scattering the circle where it landed with a ringing clatter to the floor, and it was Douglas’s.
But before Barklay could win the round with his next stroke, Douglas ducked the point, hit Barklay’s wrist with his hand, and escaped to retrieve his foil. He came up with it in his hand, back at guard, breathing quickly, and offered Barklay a little head tilt as much as to say, You’ll have to be faster than that.
Barklay responded with a narrow feline smile.
When they met again, Barklay attacked with a sedate precision, and drew Douglas into displaying with him all the moves the section had just practiced, as neat and academic as a training diagram. Then he varied them, faster. Then he varied them again, faster still. The variations grew to a speeding pattern; any moment Speir expected Barklay would break it.
He did—and though Douglas could see the strategy, his defense was hasty. With a neat twist Barklay disarmed him again, and in the same motion forestalled Douglas’s escape with the ball-tipped point of the foil thrust against his solar plexus. As his foil rattled to silence, Douglas brought his empty hands palm up in a gesture of triumphant surrender: his chin up, his eyes—his whole being—fixed on Barklay in a concentration that was not fear, but was akin to fear in its total absorption with its object.
The whole room was perfectly still along with them. Then Barklay withdrew his point and both men breathed in; and Speir caught her own breath.
Empty-handed, Douglas saluted Barklay sharply. In return, Barklay shifted his foil to the other hand and bowed with closed hand over heart. On cadets, the gesture looked acquired, on junior and senior officers comfortable: Barklay made it look as natural as breath itself.
“Well,” Barklay said into the silence, “I think that will do. Carry on.”
He put away his foil with an air of quiet satisfaction, slipped back into his shoes, tucked his tunic and cravat over his arm, and walked out of the still-silent crowd. Only the dampness at his temples and the warmth of his passage suggested he had undergone any exertion.
If that was the end of the match, then they had got their salutes exactly backwards. Yet Speir had a feeling that Douglas had had a private point of his own to make. And that he’d succeeded. She looked back at him where he stood; his mouth was closed but he was still visibly catching his breath. As she watched, Douglas took out his watch and noted the time.
“Time enough for three one-round matches per circle,” he said, as if nothing had happened. “Take your places.”
They went, without a feather-breath of protest.
~*~
The impromptu match between Douglas and Barklay was the talk of the Academy for the rest of the day. Some of the cadets found a new appreciation for the foils format, though one said in Speir’s hearing, “Barklay can make bell-ringing look exciting,” and Speir could not but agree.
She went to get her shower with her thoughts half in the future, planning strategy for next week’s match. Douglas’s control was almost wholly impeccable; he would be hard to draw. But maybe she could get the chance to initiate a pattern and break it. It would have to be subtle, or he would guess her strategy and block it. And for defense she would need all the speed of her reflexes: a few turns with a baton and the randomized light-target station wouldn’t go amiss.
“Speir? Speir!”
Speir blinked. She was walking down the junior-officer wing corridor to supper, and Cameron was matching step beside her.
“Lost in the far reaches, were you?” Cameron said, grinning.
“Planning strategy for my match next week,” Speir answered amiably.
“So long as you don’t walk smack into a wall doing it. Put yourself out of commission before you ever saw the arena.” Speir snorted, and Cameron went on, “I’d be planning too, if I were up against Douglas. I heard he and Barklay put on quite the show this afternoon.”
“They did indeed,” Speir said, pushing open the door to take the cloister shortcut and holding open the door for Cameron to follow. “Gave me a great deal of food for thought.”
“I bet,” Cameron said dryly.
“You ever see Barklay fight?” Speir asked her.
“No; I missed that privilege. But they say he used to teach all the training modules himself, till the tradition was established. I bet that was fun.”
“Or painful.”
“Or both.”
“Have you ever faced Douglas in the arena? I can’t remember.”
“He beat me soundly when we were first-year cadets. But then I beat Adair, who beat him, so that’s all right.” Cameron grinned cheerfully.
“How did Adair beat Douglas?” Speir had a vague memory of that match last year; open-hand, she thought it had been.
“Outlasted him,” Cameron said. “Punch-drunk him under the table, as it were.”
“Mm,” Speir said. “Less easy to pull off with a baton, but I’ll keep it in mind.”
“You could ask him to switch to foils,” Cameron said, wickedly.
“Ha. You didn’t see him against Barklay. That was a work of art I wouldn’t attempt to duplicate.” Speir indulged in a little shudder of admiration. �
��It was remarkably compelling, the two of them.”
“Little wonder,” Cameron said. “He’s one of Barklay’s particulars, you know.”
Speir frowned at her. “I didn’t think Barklay had any favorites.”
“He doesn’t,” Cameron said, significantly.
It took several steps nearer to the door at the end of the cloister before Speir figured out what she meant. “Huh,” she said, finally. “I thought that was just one of those rumors put about to impress the cadets.”
“Well, there certainly are a lot of those,” Cameron said. “Just the other day Andera was asking me if it was true that we hold all our junior officer meetings in the nude.”
“And you told him, ‘Of course,’” Speir grinned. “We also grease each other up and hold a wrestling tournament. First prize is the minute-book.”
“Oh, you gave it away with the minute-book. Nobody would believe that.” Cameron pulled open the heavy door, and they went inside laughing.
~*~
Douglas heaved the barn door closed, and it rolled to with a lumbering clack. He dusted off his hands and turned to walk with Stevens back up the hill to the school.
“Thanks for helping me shift the hay,” Stevens said. “I know you’re busy, but I wanted someone who knows what they’re doing.”
“It’s my pleasure,” Douglas said, and added with half a grin, “Feels like home. How’s the farm this week?”
Ryswyck farm was run by a stakeholder family in the usual way, but the farm’s produce largely went to the Academy, in exchange for a little student labor and a government stipend. The students were responsible for upkeep of the stables, and for managing the supply requisitions, practice for military duties in the future.
Stevens shrugged. “Doing well, I think. They’re looking forward to a good summer. Least one decent cutting of hay, they hope.”
Douglas nodded, and glanced up at the sky. A ragged mist was chasing itself across the near depths overhead, lit in places where the sun’s lowering glow stained the western side with bright silver. A week or two more of such evenings, and they’d soon be able to see blue. At home, the ice on the Bay would have broken up and the fishers would be out. His mother was probably hip-deep in lambs and trimming orchards of their ice breakage.
Stevens said: “So what was that I heard in the corridor about you and Barklay dusting it up with foils?”
Douglas answered with a little sigh. “Barklay hates it when people complain about working foils. He decided to give a little demonstration for an example.”
“Did he put you on the floor?” Stevens asked, half sympathetic and half gleeful.
“To speak of miracles,” Douglas said, “no.” He rubbed his solar plexus thoughtfully. “No cost to my dignity, fortunately. It was a very effective demonstration.”
“Evidently.” And what Stevens didn’t know about the incident now, he would know by this time tomorrow. Stevens was a connoisseur of gossip; he could roll a rumor around on his tongue and divine its vintage to very fine distinction. Stevens was, fortunately, also very discriminating in what he passed along. Douglas knew that he and Barklay figured in plenty of the school’s rumors; it was easy enough to resign himself, so long as nobody broke the taboo against asking him about it.
Sure enough, Stevens only added: “In any case, better you than me. I’m no good at all with a foil. Barklay’d have minced me like an onion.”
This was not strictly true; nobody had ever challenged Stevens to foils in a match with a view to actually claiming a victory—but then, most Ryswyckians preferred the highest possible challenge when given their choice.
A light rain began to fall as they reached the outer door to the cloister. Stevens quickened his pace, more out of habit than anxiety over getting wet, and Douglas followed him; but their momentum was stopped in the doorway by Turnbull waiting in their path.
“So there are two fellows in a belltower in the dead of night,” he said without preamble, “and one of them says to the other, ‘It’s your turn to pull the rope,’ so he reaches out and starts hauling away, but the other fellow starts to cry out. ‘What’s wrong?’ the bellringer says, and the other says, ‘You’ve got the wrong end!’”
Turnbull stopped to judge their reaction to this sally, and a crestfallen look took over his face when Stevens and Douglas glanced at one another without laughing. “No good?” he said anxiously.
Douglas searched for something constructive to say.
Stevens said kindly, “It’s better than the last one.”
“Damn it!” Turnbull said, and whirled away.
Douglas and Stevens continued into the cloister, toward the mess hall.
“He’ll get there eventually,” Stevens said, with a very serious face.
“I think he’s yanking on the wrong end, myself,” Douglas said, and they both finally cracked up.
They parted in the corridor to their respective quarters, to wash before supper. Douglas showered quickly and turned up his desk lamp so he could read his messages while he dressed. There were no surprises. Glenna wanted to change his schedule again. Per Marag, the signature ceremony for next week’s matches would be tomorrow at breakfast. He had a parcel in the mail room from his sister Em. Barklay wanted to see him, either before supper or after it, whichever was convenient.
No, no surprises. Douglas buttoned his tunic with care, considered and discarded the idea of skipping supper altogether, and shut down the lamp.
~*~
It was full dark when he arrived at Barklay’s office after supper: the only light in the room was the one at his desk, magnified to a buttery glow by the drapes behind. Barklay was going over score sheets with a stylus in his hand; he looked up, and Douglas noted without surprise a lingering trace of the look of feline intent that had riveted them all that afternoon.
“Undefendedness,” Barklay said, expectantly.
Douglas shut the door behind him without being asked.
“Ryswyckians understand it, sir,” Douglas said, with a patience he did not feel. “But can it be made intelligible to people outside?”
“If it can’t,” Barklay said, “then what are we doing here?”
Douglas shook his head, searching for words to name the problem with sanitizing detachment.
“It’s the next thing to do, you know,” Barklay said. “Making what we do here translatable to the rest of Ilona. And beyond that, too.”
Barklay could be so frustrating. Of course that was not what Douglas was talking about, and Barklay knew it.
“It’s why I agreed years ago to bring in instructors from outside,” Barklay went on. “They seem to pick up the culture well enough.”
“And if they come in hostile, and willfully ready to misunderstand?” Douglas’s voice was calm, but there must have been a note in it that made Barklay look up sharply.
A little silence fell, in which their eyes met. “Are you worried about exposure?” Barklay said finally.
Memory of the afternoon’s exhibition flashed before his mind’s eye. “It’s a little late for that,” he said dryly.
“Quite.” Barklay looked amused. “But—if you’re concerned about the more private traditions—”
“That’s just it, sir,” Douglas said. “There is no privacy here. Only discretion.” Barklay opened his mouth, but Douglas got the argument out in a rush. “All of what we do here is by mutual consent. The use of deadly force in the arena for practice combat—the forms of courtesy—the ways we oblige one another—none of that is a burden because it is something we all share. I’m not saying we shouldn’t risk sharing it with someone who might throw the burden back on us…or on some one of us—I’m saying—”
But the force of Douglas’s passion had outrun his ability to articulate it, and he finally shook his head in frustration.
“You’re saying,” Barklay said gently, “that I should calculate that risk.”
Douglas looked at him silently, and sighed.
“‘Some one of us,
’” Barklay repeated. “It’s not yourself you are worried about, then.”
“It’s not myself that Lord Selkirk doesn’t like, sir.”
“Indeed.” Barklay stirred the papers on his desk for a moment, a somber unreadable look in his face. After a moment he looked up again. “Douglas…in case you are ever presented with the temptation…please don’t lie for me. If you love me.”
“Noted, sir,” Douglas said, stiffly. If, indeed.
“I have taken your counsel under advisement.” Barklay’s voice was even more gentle. “But do keep in mind: to offer courtesy only when there’s a chance of its return is exactly the opposite of courtesy’s intent.”
You’ve got the wrong end. Douglas’s lips twitched into an involuntary half-smile. “Yes, sir. You are quite right, sir.”
Barklay put his papers and stylus aside, and looked up into Douglas’s face. Douglas stood calm and braced.
“Speaking of obliging one another,” he said, after a silence, “it’s been a little while.”
“Yes, sir,” Douglas said, and inwardly relaxed. He always tensed in anticipation of this moment, and always when it came the tension released.
Barklay rose and came around his desk to approach Douglas where he stood with his back to the table. “Whose turn would it be?” he murmured softly. He was close, not yet touching Douglas, but close enough to enfold him in his familiar warmth and scent, an aureole set trembling by the note in his voice. Douglas drew in a long breath and half-closed his eyes.
“I couldn’t say,” he said, in the same tone. The understanding between them held the prerogative in Barklay’s graceful hands, whether giving pleasure or taking it. Douglas never found himself able to object to being obliged: but outside of moments like these, he would have given it over for a true kiss or caress. He knew by now never to expect it. What Barklay wanted from him was something very specific. Because Barklay asked it of him, Douglas unhasped his guard and let him within, but mutual vulnerability was no part of Barklay’s interest, and in that sense it did not really matter which of them spilled.
