by L D Inman
Speir shook her head. “Still a Lightfall dinner to prepare. You probably won’t see any of B Rota today.”
“Right. See you at dinner, then.”
Speir continued into the main block and swung by Barklay’s office on her way to the kitchen. Barklay wasn’t there: his door was open wide and the only light was the dim afternoon light pouring in through the white drapes. Tentatively, Speir went in; if he returned right away she’d be able to ask him her question about the dinner menu—and incidentally check up on his mood. She drifted closer to his desk, which had not been tidied, and saw an image-book lying open on its surface. Even as she submerged a flinch of memory from that terrible file, she stepped nearer and bent her head to look.
She saw right away the reason for the subliminal flinch. There were three men in the snap, and one of them was Barklay, familiarly young and vigorous. The other two, who bore an obvious family resemblance, were on either side of him, leaning close in his embrace for the picture. Speir recognized the location: it was the main HQ building, and they were on one of the landings of its planed-stone steps. Then Speir realized that she knew one of the other men, though it had been years since their paths crossed in her father’s office at HQ. It was Alban Selkirk. Lord Commander Selkirk, now. And the younger man must be a brother or cousin; his figure was more agile, but he had the same dark eyes and hair. And a sidelong, mischievous smile that reminded Speir of Douglas in his roguish moments.
They all looked happy, and innocent. This was probably taken, she thought, before the war.
“Were you looking for Barklay?” someone said. Startled, Speir looked up to see one of Cameron’s lieutenants from E Rota.
“He’s up the tower,” said the lieutenant. “I’m still waiting for him to call me back up.”
Speir nodded. “Thank you. I’ll catch up with him later, then.”
Pensively, she followed the lieutenant out and resumed her course for the kitchen.
~*~
“It is not wise,” Barklay said, “to call me on an open line.”
“Would you have preferred I leave a message with your lieutenant?” The resentment in John’s eyes was as intense as Jarrow’s had been. How forcefully love turns to hate, Barklay thought, grieving.
“I would have preferred that you took me at my word when I wrote you to stop contact.”
“You don’t want to talk to family at Lightfall?” Sarcasm skidding along the edge of desperation. Barklay ignored the desperation and spaced his words clearly in answer.
“I am not your family.”
“To be sure, now that it’s not convenient. We have only each other, you used to say.”
“It wasn’t true,” Barklay said. “You have a brother. Who has forbidden me to speak to you. I’m going to catch hell for this.”
“Oh, my sympathies. Alban’s washed his hands of me, his mother’s son. But he might crimp your prerogatives a little bit, so let’s be concerned about that.”
“I doubt very much Alban’s washed his hands of you. You could ask him for proper help—”
“Because I’m the problem, of course. I’m more than just an inconvenience, Thaddeys—”
“No one thinks that—”
“But you shuffled me off easily enough, so you can continue to play at courtesy. You—”
“That is not—”
“—gave up on me. Because I couldn’t play the role you pricked out for me—”
It was past time to end this conversation. Barklay drew a harsh breath. “That’s your idea of an excuse, is it, John? I won’t listen to any m—”
“And what’s your excuse, Thaddeys? You haven’t one that would stand up to any scrutiny.”
“You’re not getting any more money from me. I don’t care what excuse you think I’m making. You can apply to Alban for help if you—”
John’s clenched teeth flashed in a snarl. “You owe me, Thaddeys.”
“We’re done here,” Barklay said curtly. He reached for the com-pad.
“Who have you got now?” The desperation had outcurved the sneer now. “Is he a handsome lad? Does he look at you with worship in his eyes? Or has he seen past your lies yet?” Barklay’s anger choked him silent for a taut moment, leaving John to go on. “Or maybe I’m wrong. Maybe you’ve put your soul in a pair of young maternal hands. I’ll bet you know just how to make her feel sorry for you.”
“Don’t,” Barklay said, “call me. Again.”
“No one’s going to grieve for me when I hang myself,” John snarled back. “But when the day comes I hope you’ll know who’s to blame.”
He cut the connection before Barklay could reply.
The projection dropped, and Barklay put his elbows on the console and his head in his hands.
What he ought to do, he knew, was to call Alban, tell him about John’s call, and enlist his help in getting his brother some proper medical assistance. Which was almost certainly bound to antagonize both of them. John had mouthed petulant threats before, usually just before he changed situations as the pressure mounted. Well, Alban didn’t want Barklay relieving the pressure, so Barklay would give him what he wanted. He shouldn’t have let John anger him—though of course John knew what would hurt him most. I was responsible for him, and I failed him. For John to cling to that bitterness was understandable, even though it was wrong.
There was nothing Barklay could do about it now—any of it. He felt small, tired, and corroded in spirit. Instead of attempting to compose a communication to Alban, he heaved in a breath and got to his feet.
There was no going back. He would just have to go on.
~*~
“I’ve had a glance at the new list of position openings,” said Commodore Beathas. “I didn’t see anything in operations, Lieutenant.”
Douglas sighed. “That’s all right, ma’am. It was worth asking.”
He had caught Beathas after the morning class session, waiting till she had dealt with the questions of a few cadets before approaching her alone. Douglas had hoped that with the turn of the season a new crop of likely commissions would give him some options, but it seemed not. He sighed again.
Beathas paused a moment, the crow’s feet round her eyes gathering up in shrewd scrutiny. In the next moment, Douglas thought, she was going to ask him why he wasn’t having this conversation with Barklay. But she didn’t. “Are you sure you are interested in operations, Douglas?” she said. “I would have thought officer training more in your line. Something with more oversight.”
“With more oversight comes more visibility,” Douglas said.
“I understand why that would be unappealing to you.” Was that irony, or just her usual wry tone? It was hard to tell, with Beathas. “Still and all, Douglas, it’s poor service to yourself if you don’t stand forth eventually. Not to mention the army.”
“I don’t—want—” Don’t want to draw Selkirk’s fire. Don’t want to help Barklay get himself in more trouble. Don’t want to play whatever game of diplomacy Jarrow thought he was playing. “It seems too easy to put a foot wrong, right now,” was all he could come up with.
“It’s a valid consideration.” Beathas never pretended not to know what he was talking about. “But only up to a point. After that point you simply have to do what presents itself as necessary. If it turns out to be a role more visible than you like, then so be it.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Douglas said reluctantly.
“I will keep an eye on the list for you, and let you know if anything suitable comes up.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Douglas said.
Douglas had to be content with that. But as days and weeks passed, he found himself looking around at his surroundings and wondering: What would a true ambassador for this place look like? What did Barklay really have in mind for Ryswyck? Did he think it would continue exactly like this till the war ended? After the war ended? Was courtesy meant to be cultivated like a greenhouse fruit tree, or could it even survive in the elements? He thought of his moth
er’s open orchards, the trees that survived gnarled and fascinatingly twisted. What would courtesy look like, in the field?
Was it a true medicine for Solham Fray, or only a logical extension of it?
He felt his soul peeling away from Ryswyck, and perhaps because of that he threw himself into his work: not just his course of study, which was close to finished, but the work of his cadre, the work of maintaining all the little details that kept the rule of courtesy smooth and strong.
He was conscientious with Barklay, too. Douglas could see in Barklay’s eyes a running undercurrent of perplexity, even distress. He was afraid to ask for Barklay’s confidence; but he could give him occasional relief, which Barklay asked for, first with reluctance, then with a growing confident comfort.
Which was easier, as Douglas had anticipated. For some reason Barklay could not afford, could not bear, to love him. Once Douglas had absorbed the shock of that wounding truth, he had felt relief. Relief from the burden of pretense, from the discomfort of uncertainty. With the terms of their understanding thus simplified, Douglas could treat his obligations to Barklay as acts of courtesy, and in return Barklay offered him the courtesy of detachment. It was not what Douglas really wanted, but neither was it a tormented imitation of it, and that would be enough to see him through to when he left.
Barklay held private conferences with Speir, too, now and again; Douglas did not comment on it again, either to Speir or to Barklay, but he watched her carefully to see if her eyes took on any shadow of discomfort. But she seemed fine. Well, Barklay wasn’t her beloved, he thought; giving him counsel and kindness would be less of a snare to her than to Douglas. Or, he thought, a different kind of snare. And perhaps it was better for them to divide the labor of looking after Barklay’s soul, an easier burden for them both.
So Douglas told himself.
~*~
The betrayal happened so casually that Barklay later wondered whether it had really been an accident.
Who do you have now? John’s words had scorched him and left painful scars on his memory. Is he a handsome lad? Barklay wanted to argue the point: Douglas had never blindly worshiped him, was nearly impossible to lie to—successfully—but he loved Barklay anyway, faithfully, almost relentlessly. Which raised a question Barklay could not brush off, in quiet moments: why put Douglas to the test? So it was harder to break Douglas; why even risk it? What would it prove?
Would it really show that Barklay could be loved even at his worst?
But Douglas hadn’t really seen Barklay at his worst. Douglas had never committed cruelties under Barklay’s direct orders. He had not been dragged into complicity as those cruelties were covered up; he had not had to listen to Barklay’s anguish in favor of venting his own; he had not given in to Barklay’s ravenous, questing kisses and taken him to bed in secret; he had not found himself borrowing Barklay’s enthusiasm for an affair in which he bore no power or influence; he had not bled off the pressure by acting out elsewhere; he had not wept, abjectly and repeatedly, in Barklay’s office, either for what he’d done or what he’d suffered.
No, since then Barklay had learned how to restrain himself, how to halter and break his own need. He had learned to pay attention to what people could bear and to lay no heavier burdens on them. He had rejoiced in the times when his need had ebbed and tethered himself tightly when it was in full spate. He had found a way to stabilize himself; it wasn’t perfect but at least it wasn’t doing anyone active harm.
Still, putting Douglas’s love to the test was an unworthy thing to do. And there was nothing casual about Barklay’s own feelings; he had left casual behind long ago. He would gladly have given himself to Douglas, if he had had a different self to give. The best he could do was honor Douglas’s wish not to be given pleasure without love.
What he should have done was cease to ask Douglas for private favors at all. But instead, he foolishly opened the door and let his betrayal slip out.
It was an early morning, toward the sobbing lukewarm-dark end of winter, and he had had a bad night. The old hateful dreams had invaded his sleep, mixed with new ones: John’s accusations, multiplied and bloated; Speir’s equanimity shaken at last by boots stamping through Ryswyck’s corridors, beating down walls and students with equal callousness. Douglas’s voice raised in cold reproach. He had woken distressed by an unbearable grief, which propelled him to get up and dressed and go out to his desk to work.
Douglas came down from his duty at the tower and, seeing the lights in Barklay’s office, came in to make his report to him. He took one look at Barklay’s face and shut the door without being asked. Abandoning the report, he approached Barklay at his desk.
“What’s wrong, sir?” he asked softly.
He had never been closer to collapsing and throwing his whole weight upon Douglas’s immovable strength. With an effort, he fought the urge down, pressed his lips hard together and shook his head.
After a moment without an answer, Douglas said: “You don’t want to tell me.” The farthest thing from petulant, Douglas’s voice was an infusion of ruth into his welter of ruthlessness. Only because he was listening for it could Barklay hear the tiny note of bewildered pain, buried in the gentle words. Water takes the lowest place. Oh, Douglas.
“There’s nothing to tell,” Barklay said. His voice sounded brittle in his own ears. “Or nothing to be done, anyway. But thank you.”
He dared to look up, and caught Douglas in the act of looking away, his eyes dark and troubled. Feeling Barklay’s glance, he looked back again, his impassive calm restored as if it had never been interrupted. Barklay longed to know what Douglas was thinking, but he’d forfeited the privilege.
“The obligation is mine, sir,” Douglas said.
“No, it isn’t,” Barklay said unsmiling, and let that stand as his request.
Douglas nodded simply. It was easier, Barklay thought, to accept compassion on these terms than to let his soul disintegrate before Douglas’s level gaze. Barklay closed his eyes as Douglas bent close and reached down. Then Douglas settled gracefully on one knee, and Barklay gave himself over to solace with a shaky sigh.
It was good, oh, it was so good, for just one moment not to act, not to seek restlessly for some escape from his predicament, but to fall slack in his chair, wholly patient to Douglas’s gifted fingertips and tongue. A temporary relief, but intensely needed while it lasted: the flood tide of his pleasure carried away even thought, and when at last it reached its ebb, and he lifted his head from where it had fallen back, he drew in his first breath of peace in hours. Days; years, it felt like.
He opened his eyes. Douglas had released him, but was still close, still within Barklay’s warmth, still within reach, his brow smooth, his eyes downcast. Douglas never gave churlishly. His every motion a grace, his every act a benediction, his very steadiness of soul a breathing shock of reality, of every good thing that was made. Without thinking, Barklay reached out his hand and laid a tender caress over Douglas’s cheek.
And Douglas flinched.
He jerked, in a hard motion, a recoil impossible to conceal, and in the wake of that flinch there was a terrible stillness.
Barklay had frozen in the act of snatching his hand away; after a moment, he tried an experimental breath. Nothing happened, so he breathed again. Douglas’s eyes were still cast down; he too seemed to be testing his breath. The silence attenuated, and they seemed to reach a moment where they could keep up a pretense that nothing had happened. Douglas took out his handkerchief and tidied them both. Barklay sat up in his chair.
And then Douglas was on his feet and Barklay’s clothes were fastened, and Douglas looked up at last: his eyes were calm as ever and completely opaque of expression, his face free of any sign of trouble. “Was there anything else, sir?”
“No, Douglas. Thank you,” Barklay said, colorlessly.
Unhurried, unanxious, Douglas went away.
~*~
The day passed. By the end of it, Barklay had almost convinced h
imself that nothing bad would come of that moment. Such a small moment, considered in proportion; it was bound to be lost in the day’s work, blinked and slept away. He wouldn’t do it again, and they would go on.
He saw Douglas at a distance at dinner; he was laughing with his fellow junior officers at something Stevens was saying. He didn’t look drowned in misery; he didn’t look like Barklay felt; perhaps it really would be all right after all.
By the next morning, the incident had subsided in Barklay’s mind to an uneasy forgetting. It would pass; they would go on. He addressed himself firmly to his work. He signed off on two adjustments to the arena schedule; reviewed the latest scores for the second years’ general-exam prep; heard a report from Oisel about his development of the cartography curriculum; and by midmorning was well into his rhythm when Douglas came in with the morning’s dispatches. His expression was still serene; but he did not shut the door or even look at it.
He stood quietly at attention before Barklay’s desk while Barklay opened the pouch and paged carefully through the dispatches.
“Anything to go back, sir?”
“It doesn’t look like it…no. No, nothing to go back. Thank you, Douglas.”
After a moment he realized that Douglas had not moved; he looked up. “Was there something else?” Even as the words left his lips, Barklay’s breath died.
Douglas was actually shaking. As Barklay watched, he held himself straight and took in a hardy breath. “Yes, sir. There was something else. I have a request.” Douglas’s eyes were fixed over Barklay’s head, gazing through the sheer white of the drapes behind him to the wet quad outside. A mottled flush crept up his neck.
Barklay knew it must be a great anguish to escape Douglas’s control. “What is it, Douglas?” he asked, in a small voice.
