by L D Inman
Douglas swallowed noisily, as if parched. “I would like,” he said, “to be excused from my personal duties to you. Sir.” After delivering this hoarse request, his lips clamped shut and his eyes glittered.
Oh, no. No, no. Oh, my dear. Barklay had been wrong; he had wounded Douglas past all concealing; the moment had seemed to dissipate into serenity only because it could never be retrieved. The new awareness raised the prickles on Barklay’s scalp and sympathetic tears to his eyes. He was a moment gathering himself to reply.
“Then of course you may be excused,” he said, softly.
Thank you, sir, said Douglas’s lips; he could not summon the voice to support the words. He knocked at his heart with his closed hand, as if repenting a great wrong against Barklay and not the other way around. And almost in the same motion, he turned and left the room swiftly, before Barklay could speak again, before Barklay could even move.
Barklay wiped the tears off his cheeks, but he kept shedding more of them, and he finally gave up and put his face in his hands. I should not. Should not have done that. Should not have done any of it. Oh, Douglas.
No amount of meretricious reasoning would rescue him now. He could not even spare heart to be disgusted with himself. He could only think that he had hurt the one he loved, that he had done it wilfully, that Douglas had been hurt and it was his fault.
He wanted to go after Douglas and own the fault properly, but a more thorough way of compounding the fault he couldn’t think of right now. He would have to control himself and wait his chance, if there was one. But his knees shook; it would be hard.
Barklay took his hands away and wiped uselessly at his eyes. Then he got up altogether and went into his quarters to wash his face.
~*~
That afternoon, Speir headed to the records room with a fresh set of scorebooks, having spent the morning hard at it helping Captain Marag update them from the latest briefings. When she came out, she ran into Barklay in the main hall. He glanced at her, irresolute and distrait.
“Speir,” he said, “have you seen Douglas at all?” It was a measure of his distraction that he addressed her abruptly, without her rank.
“No, sir,” Speir said. “Not since yesterday afternoon when he got up from his sleep shift. Our schedules are out of phase just now.”
“Beathas hasn’t seen him,” Barklay said. “Nor Stevens. He was expected to join their tutorial before lunch, but he didn’t show up.”
“That’s not like him,” Speir said thoughtfully, “not without leaving a message of some kind. Did he fall asleep in his quarters?”
“I sent someone to knock.”
You didn’t go yourself? Speir didn’t say it. “But they didn’t look in—” She broke off as Marag approached them.
“Marag, have you seen Douglas?”
“No, sir, I was just coming to look for him. I had an appointment to consult with him for a lesson plan for next week.”
“And he didn’t show?” Barklay was looking truly worried now.
“I can go and check his quarters again, sir, if you wish.”
For all he clearly wanted her to do just that, he hesitated over his reply. “If you would, Lieutenant,” he said finally.
Speir turned and went swiftly out into the cloister and down the junior officer block. The door to Douglas’s quarters was closed; she knocked on it briskly. “Douglas?”
There was no answer. Carefully, Speir turned the latch—no one at Ryswyck locked their doors—and put her head in. “Douglas?”
The room was empty, the lights off, everything as normal, the bed neatly made, with Douglas’s Arisail banner standing serene sentinel on the wall over the bunk. She sensed an odd feeling of waiting in the room, as if Douglas’s presence hadn’t entirely deserted it and it was poised for his return; but clearly Douglas wasn’t here. She withdrew, closed the door, and returned to the main hall, where Marag, Beathas, and Barklay were clustered. Stevens came in the door from the tower quad. Barklay looked to her anxiously. Speir shook her head. “He’s not there.”
“Not up the tower either,” Stevens reported.
“Find him.” Barklay turned sharply and strode back into his office.
“Do you know why he’s so upset?” Stevens murmured to Speir.
Speir gave him a nonplussed look and shook her head.
“I mean, it’s just Douglas, isn’t it? He disappears sometimes. Though usually,” he added pensively, “not without making sure his schedule is covered.”
In the end, no one found Douglas before he returned. He wasn’t in any of the training rooms, or any of the classrooms, or even in the chapel. “I’m sure he will turn up, sir,” Marag said, frowning closely at Barklay. “Are you sure you want to put out a bulletin? If he doesn’t come to dinner, perhaps—”
Barklay gave his head an impatient shake, but made no answer.
“I’ll go find Cameron and Ahrens and check with them,” Marag said. “I really shouldn’t worry, sir.”
Left alone with Speir, Barklay turned and searched her face, as if her friendship with Douglas might give him some small thread to guide him to where Douglas was. “He’s right, sir. Don’t worry. I’ll go to my quarters and leave the door open in case he comes by.”
He gave her a cornered look. Clearly he wanted to sound the alarms and turn Ryswyck upside down until Douglas appeared, but he did not want to explain why. “All right,” he croaked after a moment.
He went back into his office, and Speir headed back toward the junior officer block. Passing through the cloister, she could see Douglas himself coming in down the path from the farm at an unhurried pace. She breathed sudden relief; Barklay’s fear had been more contagious than she thought.
She waited until she was sure he was headed toward the cloister door, then went back to Barklay’s office. “General Barklay, sir? He’s back.”
He looked up with a small, stifled cry; then rose up and went out past her without a word.
She followed him out into the main hall, in time to see him accost Douglas on his way to the records room. “Douglas,” Barklay said, “where have you been?” Then, noticing that they had an audience of cadets returning from sparring court to the mess, Barklay forcibly damped his agitation.
Douglas looked at him blankly. Neither of them marked Speir’s presence at all. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said, voice quiet. “I ran an errand down to the farm.”
“Nobody could find you,” Barklay said, matching Douglas’s tone with an effort. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Yes, sir. I’m perfectly all right.”
Which ought to have eased Barklay’s anxiety, but Speir could see that Barklay’s distress had, if anything, increased. “Douglas—”
“I’m sorry, sir. I should have made sure my schedule was covered before I went out. I apologize for putting you all to the trouble.” He put his closed hand to his heart, and Barklay flinched.
“No,” he said, “—no. I mean—it’s easily mended. So long as you’re all right. Are you all right?”
“Yes, sir,” Douglas said gently, “I’m all right.”
“So then all’s well.” It sounded more like Barklay was asking for confirmation than giving it.
“Yes, sir.”
Another distressed silence. Then Barklay turned abruptly and went back into his office. Speir stared after him, then turned to Douglas. “Douglas,” she said, “what just happ—”
Douglas wasn’t there either. The cloister door was just falling shut.
Speir blinked around at the suddenly empty space.
~*~
She half expected Douglas to duck out of their study time that evening, but at the appointed hour, he knocked and sidled in. To look at, he was not in any way upset, but Speir could still feel his inward disturbance, like an aureole of trouble, radiating toward her as he entered the room. She sat back in her chair, her elbow on the desk, and looked at him, waiting.
“I really did just run an errand to the farm,” Dougl
as said.
“I believe you.” She continued to wait.
He didn’t duck her gaze; nor did he offer her any further explanation. Speir sighed and gave in. Well, at least can I carry anything for you? was on her lips to say, but something indefinable in Douglas’s manner held her back. Did he fear she might retail to Barklay what was on his mind? No, surely he knew better than that. But all the same she kept silent as he settled himself on her bench and dug out a set of notes to hand over to her.
Because it was clearly what he wanted to do, she got down with him to work. But she kept half an eye and more than half her thoughts on him as she read. He had been working hard; she could see faint bruise-like marks under his eyes. He’d been driving himself forward—she realized suddenly—because he wanted to finish his course of study as soon as possible. He wanted to leave Ryswyck. The thought gave her a pang, not only because he would be separated from her, but because, more than any other person she knew, he belonged here. Was that what had upset Barklay today? If so, she was more likely to get it out of Barklay than Douglas. You couldn’t outwait Douglas.
But Douglas did confirm at least part of her theory. When she finished with his notes, she sheafed them together and handed them back to him with thanks; he said: “You can keep them. And I’ll give you any other notes you’d like to have when I leave.”
“I’m happy to take whatever you would like to give me,” Speir said.
Douglas didn’t miss the valences of that. “Speir—” he grimaced.
“Don’t worry, I’m not about to push you. But you do realize that you’re not actually alone. Right?”
He looked up then, the marks under his eyes suddenly clear in the lamplight. She had meant her words to reassure him, but he didn’t seem reassured at all.
“Should I be concerned about you?” he said, seriously.
She answered, half-laughing: “Is it that bad, Douglas?”
But he looked away, and her smile dropped. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to mock you.”
He waved this away: I didn’t take it amiss.
“Dear friend,” she said, reaching out her hand to give him a gentle poke in the elbow—the nearest bit of him she could reach. “Don’t waste your resources, is all I’m saying.”
He raised his head and looked her in the eye. His import was clear: he would unburden his secret grief if she would unburden hers. Her smile tilted in chagrin.
He reached out a fingertip and poked her back.
~*~
Barklay watched Douglas surreptitiously for the rest of the week, looking for further signs of malaise. But Douglas had completely submerged any sign of the wound Barklay had dealt him; in rota captain meetings, in training, even in his occasional reports to Barklay, there was no further wrinkle in his equanimity. Barklay knew better than to suppose from this that all was well, but Douglas was making clear that he did not intend for the matter ever to be broached again. It was time, Barklay realized achingly, to look for a good placement for him. Douglas would be better off out of Barklay’s ken.
So he was not surprised when Beathas caught him alone after a senior staff meeting and mentioned that Douglas had been asking her to keep an eye on possible commissions as they became available. “His modesty may have been embarrassed,” she said diplomatically, “to ask for full-fledged institutional assistance with his career.”
“Yes,” Barklay said, frowning down at the papers on his desk. “Did he happen to mention what interested him?”
“It appears he is not quite ready to stand forth for a position with visibility,” she said. And that was all she said; but Barklay caught her drift.
“I observe the same,” he said, dryly. “I will bend my thoughts to finding a placement that will suit him.”
Beathas didn’t know the details of what had happened with Selkirk and Jarrow; but Barklay had no doubt that she had put together Douglas’s heightened diffidence with his contact with the fringes of political intrigue. They all ought to be encouraging Douglas to stand forth, damn it. But Barklay knew it would not be wise.
He took to studying the open-commission lists with greater concentration.
~*~
“Lieutenant Douglas,” Barklay said, “could I have a word?”
Douglas paused his hands gathering up his tablet and books, and looked up. The other rota captains, packing up to leave the meeting in Barklay’s office, pretended not to shoot glances between them; only Speir gave them an openly speculative look before hitching up her scrip and continuing out at her usual brisk pace.
“It’ll only take a moment,” Barklay assured him.
“All right.” Barklay retreated to his desk but did not ask Douglas to shut the door, so Douglas breathed a little easier and approached the desk at a close but circumspect distance.
“You are all but finished with your course of study.” Barklay was fiddling with a lone sheet of paper. “Captain Marag and Commodore Beathas and I have been discussing it and looking at possible placements for you.” He twitched the paper hesitantly and then pushed it across. “This one is the first we’ve seen that looks like it might be suitable.”
Douglas took the sheet and scanned its contents. “Cardumel Base?” he said. “That’s in the northeast sector, isn’t it?”
“Yes. An installation guarding Colmhaven Harbor. You’d report to General Inslee and his senior staff. Inslee’s a good man. Level-headed.” Barklay shut his mouth suddenly, as if to guard against voluble nervousness.
“Training and communications,” Douglas said, reading. “Captain.” He read the description of duties through; it sounded all right. He wondered if Barklay was jumpy merely because they were alone, or for some other reason. He looked up and scrutinized Barklay’s face, but could not read any clues there. “What do you think of it, sir?”
Barklay hesitated a moment longer, then sighed and opened one hand. “It’s a good commission. It would also be reasonable for you to wait for something better.”
“And where would something better be?” Douglas asked.
“Probably in the capital,” Barklay admitted.
“Do I have time to think about it?”
“Yes; I asked Inslee to hold the position for me for a few days. You can keep that description if you want to.”
Douglas nodded, reading it again. “Thank you, sir.”
“Thank you, Douglas. You can be dismissed.”
Douglas tucked the paper among his books, gathered everything up, and left, without looking at Barklay again.
A commission. And at almost the farthest possible distance from Ryswyck. Douglas scarcely looked at the paper again, but the details swam continually in his mind. Now that the door had opened, he felt frightened; he knew that he wanted to—had to—leave Ryswyck, but some perverse part of him had skidded his heels into the dirt in terror, urged him to recoil and cling to the place where his soul had been born.
No. The sooner he got clear, the easier it would be to find the right work and keep his head down at the same time. He could sort this out, but first and foremost he needed distance. He had run out of places to hide and think: every time he thought about it, he burned with a little jolt of anger at how thoroughly he had been searched out at the moment when he needed privacy the most. It was Barklay who had sent Speir, he knew, to check his quarters in case he was bent on harming himself; he had retreated to his bathroom with the lights off and crouched in his shower cube to muffle the sobs he could not bottle up, and at her knock he had frozen unbreathing in his hiding-place. She had gone away, but he had felt no relief, and he’d immediately slipped out for a long walk to the farm to compose himself.
To this day he did not know whether Speir had realized he had been there all along, but every time she looked at him he felt—worse than undefended—defenseless; naked. Her compassion was living and active, and only her courtesy kept it from searching him out and scalding him. It seemed to Douglas that it was unworthy of him to run all the way to the other end of the island to g
et away from his ignominy. But until he got past this bewilderment of grief, what else could he do?
Douglas decided to sleep on it for a night: but the decision was already made, and the sleep was merely to consolidate it.
~*~
It was a measure of how accustomed Speir had become to Douglas’s silence that she was neither surprised nor particularly distressed when the announcement came that he had taken an offer for a captain’s post at Cardumel Base, before Douglas himself mentioned it to her or anyone else.
His fellow rota captains clapped him on the back and congratulated him, and spent half the week’s meeting planning his farewell feast. Douglas received all this with a diffident, indulgent smile.
But the tears stood in Douglas’s eyes on the night of the feast itself, as Stevens and Ahrens got up together on a table and led the whole mess hall in a rollicking ditty to honor him. The cheers and laughter gave way to an earnest, spontaneous versicle from the arena chant, and fully half the room seized any opportunity they could to touch him, thank him for his service to them, and wish him well. Douglas thanked them in as few words as possible, but his gratitude was so nakedly manifest that it hurt Speir to watch.
Later that evening she girded herself up to go and knock on the door of his quarters. “Yes?”
“It’s me.”
“Come in.”
She entered to find Douglas in his desk chair with the Arisail banner spilling over his lap, folding it carefully with the special rolls and twists that would keep out the creases. His duffel waited gaping at his feet to receive the bundle. He looked up and smiled briefly. “Speir.”
She watched him as he finished his task, and then said: “I came to give you my farewell gift.”
He looked up dismayed. “Ach, Speir. You put me to shame. I have no gift for you.”
She shook her head and offered him the small package, still wrapped in the silk handkerchief that cushioned it in her drawer. He took it and unfolded it. The silk fell away to reveal the silver clasp-shut disk.
