Ryswyck

by L D Inman

  He wanted Douglas. Speir didn’t have to ask. In a sudden burst of speed, she drove him back to the edge of the circle, read correctly which way he would turn, and landed her point before he could close the line. He barked out a laugh, and she returned, grinning sedately, to her mark.

  “What’s insurmountable about it, sir?” she said.

  He gave her a level look. “I haven’t yet figured out how to take myself out of his way,” he said.

  Speir wasn’t able to duplicate her successful attack, or succeed in landing a riposte, for the rest of the bout. But she felt she was making progress.

  ~*~

  Weeks passed. Speir’s attempts to collect Barklay to a true sense of himself were as hit-and-miss as her attacks with a foil, but she persisted, and in the process learned much. She learned that Barklay was difficult to tire, but that once tired he folded quickly and resigned before he lost any guard. She learned how to guard her vulnerable lines, though she still found it difficult to execute a defense against him. Barklay couldn’t help instructing her, and she couldn’t help absorbing the lessons: “When you get tired, you lose patience, and when you lose patience, you forget to retreat. Don’t let me wear you out too early,” he said one night. “You’re putting your impressive stamina to waste.” Speir took note of all that he said, and used it to refine her approach for the next time.

  One day, helping to collect washing for the infirmary with Stevens, he said: “I hear you’ve been sparring foils with Barklay.”

  “Where did you hear that?” Speir said.

  “Oh, everyone’s aware; the cadets on night watch at the training-room desk have taken note. So when are you going to put on a demonstration?”

  His usual teasing manner seemed flatter than usual. Speir scrutinized him: he was concealing a concern, just as Cameron had done, she realized. Stevens evaded her gaze and sent two heavy baskets rolling down the corridor.

  “You should ask him,” she said. “And see what he says.”

  Stevens dropped the jocularity. “I’m not going to do anything you don’t want me to do, Speir.”

  She sighed and gave in. “I’m trying to make a point, with him. I’m getting there, but it’s taking a while.”

  “He does seem to like arguing with a foil in his hand,” Stevens observed. “But even with Douglas he did that in public.”

  “His argument with Douglas was different,” Speir told him. Getting him to argue at all had been a victory for Douglas, she suspected.

  Stevens seemed to accept her answer. “All right. But I hope this training you’re doing shows some results. It’s no fair keeping good foils work to yourselves.” He cocked her a brief smile, and that was the end of it.

  When she repeated this conversation to Barklay at their next bout, he looked chagrined, even angry, for a moment before he mastered himself.

  “There are no secrets at Ryswyck,” he sighed. “I suppose we should give a demonstration at some point.”

  “I am at your service, sir,” Speir said.

  “Sometimes I wish you weren’t,” he said, and then looked unhappy at the sound of the words in the air.

  Another point for Speir. She said nothing, and raised her foil to guard.

  ~*~

  There were no secrets at Ryswyck. It was his own doing, this transparency, this mutual vulnerability; it wasn’t Ryswyck’s fault that he carried a secret he desperately needed to keep. Barklay had begun to regret asking Speir to spar with him; she had no intention of cooperating with Barklay’s secrets, and he could not get her to build him a channel for the all-forgiving warmth he needed. He had thought he wanted her to drive him outside his usual defenses: but when it came to the point, the discomfort was too much.

  Then two messages arrived that increased Barklay’s discomfort to alarm.

  The first was another unsecured vid message from John. “You really don’t want me to go to my brother,” he said. “You think you do. But when he hears what I have to tell him, he won’t be forgiving.”

  Barklay had little patience left for this kind of threat. “Just tell him and be damned to it!” he said to the vid image—but he did not record it in an answer and send it. Instead, he erased the message and tried to go on with his work.

  The second message appeared innocuous at first. It came in the afternoon dispatches: a notice that shuttle-flight protocols needed to be reinforced, as a recent supply shuttle might have avoided a crash if the pilot had not been flying solo against regulations. Idly, Barklay hit the tab for the attached story, wondering how a shuttle came to be flying with a single pilot. It didn’t give much: the pilot had crashed east of Killness sector, sustained heavy burns and other serious injuries, and was now under intensive treatment at Central Med. And it gave the pilot’s name.

  Jarrow.

  Abruptly Barklay got up and went out to take the tower for a call to Central One. For a wonder, Alban answered his open-line request.

  “I have done what you asked me,” Barklay said. “But John continues to send me unsecured vid messages. He says you’ve washed your hands of him. Alban—”

  “I merely told him,” Selkirk answered calmly, “that I was tired of hearing about you from him, and that if he wanted material assistance he could come home and I would care for him.”

  Oh really? Barklay narrowed his eyes.

  “I’m sorry, Barklay, but I can’t stop him sending you vid messages. You’ll just have to endure the inconvenience.”

  “Even if they breach security? I thought you cared about that.”

  Selkirk sighed. “My brother does not have very much left in the way of public credibility.”

  “Does he have credibility with you?” Barklay had told Douglas that nothing new could offend Selkirk. He’d thought it was true, at the time.

  “Just what is causing you concern?” Selkirk was suspicious now.

  “Jarrow,” Barklay said bluntly.

  Selkirk exhaled a deeper sigh and rubbed his brow. “I let him do what he wanted. It wasn’t a perfect solution. But I couldn’t see a better one.”

  “Alban, this is untenable. How many lives does this have to ruin before it stops?”

  “I am not the one who—”

  “That is not what I meant,” Barklay said. “And you know it.”

  “If you’re looking for justification, Thaddeys,” he answered simply, “you’re not going to find any here.” And the connection went blank.

  Barklay sat still for a moment, his pulses fizzing. Then— “Damn it!” he cried, and struck the console.

  There was nothing in the tower that could be satisfyingly thrown, so Barklay got up and paced the small room instead. Lights blinked serenely; messages awaited answer on the main projection. Barklay threw his head back and stared up into the domed ceiling, slatted to insulate the tower crew from the carillon’s reverberations and painted dark brown. The silence was nearly as damning as the silence of a meditation hall.

  There was no refuge. Barklay trailed to the lift and gave the button a despairing punch.

  ~*~

  That night he dressed out for his sparring appointment with Speir, but he no longer had any heart for it. When she arrived in the training room she saw him sitting disconsolately on a bench against the wall, and her quick steps trailed to a stop.

  “General Barklay, sir?”

  “Speir,” he said, unable to keep the thread of pleading out of his voice.

  She came nearer and set down her bag of gear. “What’s wrong, sir?”

  He let out a sigh. “Nothing new.”

  “Let’s get to work sparring, then, sir. You’ll feel better.”

  “I don’t want to spar,” Barklay said, fretfully. “I want to talk. Sit down with me.”

  Reluctantly, Speir sat down next to him. Poised as always; unhampered; untrammeled. “Sir,” she said gently, “if it’s not anything new, then you already know what I would say.”

  He knew. “Say something different, then,” he said. “Tell me all will be
well.”

  She smiled painfully. “All will be well, sir,” she said.

  “That doesn’t sound very convincing.”

  Her smile tilted, as if he were pouting. He wasn’t pouting; he was miserable.

  “It’s getting to you,” she said.

  He looked at her. They were alone; the sounds of nighttime activity in the arena complex were distant and faint; under the half-dimmed yellow lights of the training room Speir’s eyes and hair glinted as she stared back at him. She looked both impossibly young and maternally implacable.

  “What’s getting to me?” he said.

  “The truth,” said Speir.

  He bridled. “What is the truth?”

  “You know what the truth is, Barklay.” Her voice was gentle, inexorable; any moment it was going to hale out of him a cry of anguish. He reached out and grasped her hand hard, instead. “But you don’t want to give it over.”

  “I can’t give it over,” he said. “I can’t. I’m hemmed in. I have no leave to tell any secrets. I have nothing in my hands to give.”

  “Except your trespasses,” she said.

  He turned to her fiercely, tightening his grip on her hand; she did not react. “You told me you would tell me if I was trespassing, Speir—”

  “You wanted me to stop you from hurting me. Don’t you want to stop you?”

  “Yes!” he cried. “But—”

  “But nothing. You have no leave not to try, Barklay. Tether or no tether.”

  He shut his eyes. Tried to breathe. “This…is not what I need to hear just now. This is not….”

  He was waiting for her rejoinder; but it did not come. She was not saying it because she knew he knew she was right. “Speir…,” he groaned, eyes still shut. He had both her hands in both of his now. “Please.” There was no refuge, not even with Speir. His desperation had built to full-scale ringing alarm: he leaned toward her, aching in every fiber of body and soul.

  Her hands and arms were quiescent in his tight grip; and then suddenly she was not quiescent at all. She snaked out of his grasp and shoved him back hard—he fell back against the wall, panting, and his eyes popped open.

  Speir was on her feet and out of reach. “This has got beyond me now.” Her words were calm but her voice was shaking. “What you need, Barklay, I can’t give you. If you call me to conference, unless it’s to tell me you’ve undertaken medical counsel, I won’t come.”

  He sat stunned without answering, appalled at himself. At what he’d just done.

  She bent and swept up her bag, her hands visibly trembling. Barklay forced his voice to work. “Speir,” he said, “I’m sorry.”

  Speir turned only briefly. “Yes, sir,” she said. “I know. Now do something about it.”

  She strode out, leaving a congealed silence in her wake.

  ~*~

  Except for a quiet half hour, lying still dressed in her training knits on her bunk with silent tears pouring down her temples, Speir did not suffer too great a reaction to what Barklay had done. She had failed, of course, in what she’d tried to do; but perhaps that was inevitable. Barklay’s habits of soul were deeply entrenched: one person couldn’t do it all. Especially—her fists clenched briefly—if he didn’t want it done.

  Ach, Barklay. The familiar ache of thwarted compassion took hold of her throat.

  She rested; she got up and washed and dressed for duty; and everything was more or less all right.

  But even as she went about her work, and smiled, and took pleasure in the everyday rhythms of courtesy, she knew that the decision was upon her. She was going to have to choose a post and leave Ryswyck. Her study was all but done, and if she chose now, she could take leave, go home, and see her father before he passed.

  She spent another few days thinking about it, poring over the sheaf of post descriptions Barklay had given her in the light of her desk lamp; but there was really only one post among them that bore a living interest for her. After the rota captains’ meeting the next day, she hung back quietly and caught Barklay’s eye. “General Barklay, sir. Could I have a word?”

  She didn’t shut the door; he didn’t sit down at his desk. “Yes, Lieutenant,” he said. “What can I do for you?” He had been subdued all week; now, he met her eyes, but it looked like it pained him to do so.

  She said, “That post at Cardumel Base. I’m interested in it, if it’s still open.”

  For a moment his only reaction was a swift little blink and a controlled breath. Then he said: “Of course, Lieutenant. I’ll speak to General Inslee right away and ask if the commission is still available. Do you know when you would like to start?”

  Speir drew a breath. “I’m not sure. I have one paper left to finish, and I want to take some home leave. Five weeks, perhaps?”

  “Yes, of course. I’ll mention that to Inslee. Thank you, Speir.”

  She wasn’t sure what he was thanking her for, but she gave him a tight little smile and put her closed hand to her heart.

  ~*~

  The next few days required Barklay and Speir to confer together several times, as they filled out paperwork for her new commission; unable to avoid the contact, Barklay went about it as delicately as possible, ignoring the speculative looks he got from Marag and Stevens. Speir’s reaction was the only one he cared about; fortunately, she was equable and calm. He couldn’t bear to think too hard about what he had done, so it was well that the damage was contained.

  I know you’re sorry. Now do something about it. Speir didn’t know how impossible that was. She didn’t know the full terror of the truth. Had he said he didn’t need to hide from her? Oh, Speir. If only I could start over.

  But she was right; it was not in her power to do that for him. And he’d had no right to ask.

  A date was set for her to leave Ryswyck; the rota captains enthusiastically took up the planning for Speir’s leaving feast. They teased her about moving far away to an ice-bound island, but sensing an awkwardness, they refrained from comment on the fact that Speir was following where Douglas had gone.

  On the day of the feast, Barklay was at his desk reading score reports when he heard a shuttle put in to the airfield. He twisted briefly to glance through the sheer drapes in the direction of the tower; it was early for a dispatch shuttle, but perhaps they were on a circuit from Amity. He turned around again.

  But his work was soon interrupted by a tentative knock on his doorframe. He looked up to see a cadet runner leaning in. “There’s a courier-captain here to see you, General Barklay, sir.”

  “Thank you, Cadet. Show them in.”

  The courier-captain was tall and impeccably dressed in half-dress army greens, every button gleaming and shoes shined to a gloss. His hair was cropped short and his cheek was shaved so close it glowed. Barklay knew, in sudden intuition, why he was here, even before he saw the black-edged envelope tucked in the courier-captain’s hand.

  A few sentences exchanged with the man proved Barklay right. He went out into the outer office and found a cadet to take a message. “Go and tell Lieutenant Speir to come to my office as soon as she may, please.”

  Speir appeared some minutes later, stepping through the doorway with the light of determination in her eye, prepared, Barklay supposed, for battle. A frown appeared between her brows when she saw his somber stance; then she noticed the courier-captain, and her frown deepened.

  “Lieutenant Stephanie Leam Speir?” said the courier-captain, formally.

  “Yes, Courier-Captain,” Speir said. Her gaze slid down his front and found the black-edged envelope. She went very still.

  “I must regretfully inform you,” said the courier-captain, “of the passing of Commodore Leam. He was given over late yesterday evening at Dal Veterans’ Med House. I am here to bear witness for your loss and to do what you need.” He held out the envelope.

  With a slow, numb hand, Speir took it. Her image suddenly blurred and slid sideways in Barklay’s vision. He wiped at the tears; when his vision recovered, Speir had op
ened the envelope and was reading the formal letter inside. Then she looked up. “Thank you, Courier-Captain. Are you returning to the capital?”

  “Yes, Lieutenant.”

  “May I ride back with you?”

  “Of course, Lieutenant. I will be your escort today for as long as you ask.”

  Speir nodded calmly. Then she turned. “General Barklay, sir.”

  “Yes, Speir,” Barklay said, throatily. “What can I do?”

  “Can you give my regrets to Ryswyck? I won’t be able to stay for the feast tonight.”

  “My dear, of course.” He reached out a hand to lay on her shoulder; as she turned back to the courier-captain, Speir stepped away from under it. Barklay doubted she was even fully aware she had done it: but the little stab hit him with all the original force of his guilt, and more. He took back his hand and lowered his head, blinded again.

  “It will take me about ten minutes to finish packing my duffel. Can you wait?”

  “Yes, Lieutenant,” said the courier-captain. “I’ll meet you at the door.” He bowed to them both and stepped out.

  Barklay fully expected Speir to follow him without looking back, but instead she turned back to him, and her eyes met his.

  “Speir,” Barklay whispered, “I am so sorry. If I can do anything….”

  That same pursed, kind smile. But this time Speir reached out to touch him, lightly, on the front of his tunic above the solar plexus. “Thank you, sir. Let wisdom be witness between us.”

  For good and ill, Barklay thought. “To your eternal credit,” he said aloud. “My dear friend.”

  She nodded. Then she turned and left Barklay alone in the soft morning light of his office.

  Two: Cardumel

  1

  Speir sat on her bunk in her new quarters, with her elbows on her knees and a letter in her hands. She knew the words of it by heart now, knew the curling strokes of her father’s good fountain pen, could map the crossing of words at the paper’s crease; but she let her eyes travel the lines again, here in her new home.