by L D Inman
Marag climbed to the top of the judge’s perch and swung easily into his seat. The doors opened in the combat pit, and Douglas and Speir emerged, armed each with a long foil, a headguard carried under their arm.
They stood to attention facing the dais; their foils sliced the air in a Ryswyckian salute.
“Is all well?” Marag’s voice carried over the subsiding murmurs of the arena crowd. “Captain Douglas.”
“All’s well, Captain.”
“Field-Commander Speir.”
“All’s well, Captain.”
“You may salute and come to guard.”
There was nothing perfunctory in the grace of their salutes to one another, nor divided in their attention as they donned their headguards and poised for the whistle.
Marag’s whistle blew, and there was a bright-quick flash as their blades met; neither gained advantage and they both leaped free. Then returned to engage with greater precision: and the arena began to fill with calls of encouragement from all sides. Barklay never allowed himself to show partiality while watching a match, but now he found himself gripping his knees at each exchange: No, Speir, don’t let him hold contact like—good! Good, you’ve corrected that high-line weakness, thanks be to wisdom for—oh, well done—
Speir turned Douglas’s point twice but missed her riposte both times; Barklay knew well Douglas’s powers of evasion, remembered what it felt like to spar with him, how the lightest of his movements took on a truth and intensity that thrummed with fierce joy. He had said he was off form, but there was nothing rusty about the control of the weapon in his hand, and the sawdust of the combat pit kicked up in eddies around his disciplined feet. He went in for the attack: Speir eluded it, their bodies crashed together, and they spun apart—Douglas was nearly disarmed as he pulled free.
“I’d forgotten,” said Selkirk through the rising din, “how physical your version of foils play is.”
“Even so it depends on correct action,” Barklay said. “Watch this.”
Speir had a good line of attack, and she knew what Douglas was likely to do about it; still he read her even as she closed quickly, and his blade bent against her torso as the whistle shrilled.
“Touch and round to Douglas,” Marag said. He was alert in his chair, but completely relaxed: there was no need to guide Speir and Douglas at all; Marag had only to enjoy their equal skill and courtesy.
Speir and Douglas fell back to their marks, both grinning under their headguards. “Liar,” Barklay heard her say.
Douglas cocked his head. She went on: “You said you hadn’t practiced.”
“I may have run through the exercises a few times in prep for the last lesson. I shouldn’t have spoken for you when I said we were off form, I notice.”
Chuckles spread through the crowd at this—including the Cardumel soldiers, Barklay saw.
“Wisdom rewards a clear eye,” Speir answered, and saluted him sharply with her blade; he returned her a bow with the weapon across his breast.
The whistle peeped for the second round. Having taken the edge off their energy, they approached their attacks now with more care. It was one benefit of regular private sparring, Barklay thought wistfully, that one knew one’s opponent so intimately as to match them feint for feint and parry for parry as if in a dance. What a pity he had not had them out to demonstrate foils before: all the best of the format was being laid out before their eyes like a living frieze.
Speir had learned patience since he last taught her. She matched the natural grace of Douglas’s tempo, drew him in, passed up an opportunity to drive him back (which he was watching for), then slipped neatly inside his advancing point and struck him squarely.
“Oh, lovely, Speir,” Barklay said softly. “Well done.”
“Touch and round to Speir,” Marag said.
They returned to their marks; Douglas’s salute whistled. They waited, intent, for Marag’s signal.
If the first round had been a discharge of high spirits, and the second a display of discipline and skill, the third round had half the arena on their feet within ten seconds, and the rest stood up to regain their view; all were shouting.
Barklay doubted Speir or Douglas heard them. They were utterly absorbed in a clash that carried them from one end of the combat pit to the other: what sawdust had remained undisturbed by the first two rounds was now churned up and sent flying in their wake. Those who had seen their match with batons the year before could recognize the exaltation of their contest—and know that it had been surpassed. Marag gave up even attempting to watch for a touch; Speir and Douglas themselves would signal when the round was won.
Barklay was on his feet, his breath suspended, all else forgotten but the two swords below. Douglas pressed an irresistible attack; yet Speir resisted it, and resisted it again. The clash of their weapons in parry threatened to break the blades; till at last, in a motion so fine and trustful and beatific that it pricked tears to Barklay’s eyes, she lunged and struck home; and the strike was true.
Douglas flung away his weapon with an inarticulate cry, tore off his headguard, and opened his arms to her: she cast away her own foil and headguard and ran to him, and he caught her up laughing. And the arena erupted.
“Round and match to Speir,” Marag was saying, but he could scarcely be heard above the shouts and stamps of Ryswyck from rim to rafters. Speir and Douglas parted with a few playful shoves and fell back to their marks for the last salute. Both weaponless, Speir’s sweeping Ryswyckian salute and Douglas’s bow were all that Barklay had imagined when he devised them. They turned to salute the dais without a breath of irony.
Barklay was filled with both delight and shame. He had not got as far as thinking to give his two best beloved any gift, but it was clear they had both just received one. There was a sort of bitter comfort in the fact that he had no more intended their joy than their hurt in coming here.
If this was Ryswyck’s last match, it was a worthy one. “You have just observed in purest form the ancient principle of courtesy,” he said to Selkirk, as Speir and Douglas exited the arena and the din subsided.
And Selkirk confirmed all his surmise when he simply repeated Speir’s words.
“Wisdom rewards a clear eye,” he said.
~*~
Supper that evening was raucous, in the way it used to be before all the trouble descended. At the high table Stevens raised his water cup in pledge “to Speir and Douglas, who have found a novel way to lose their sparring privileges and yet give a clinic in two formats.” Everyone laughed; Barklay heard Speir say to Stevens: “Funny you hearing about that.”
“I have my sources at Cardumel,” Stevens said.
“Of course you do,” said Douglas with a smile. “But actually, we lost our sparring privileges by fairly conventional means. Just backwards to Rywyck, that’s all.”
“Or Ryswyck backwards to the rest of the world,” Selkirk murmured into his cup, for Barklay’s ear only.
“A bed for a combat pit or a combat pit for a bed—it’s all one arena, isn’t it?” Stevens said, grinning, and Barklay stifled a sigh. He had long agreed with the sentiment, but he knew how it would sound to Selkirk.
“An enemy is just a friend who hurts you, Stevens,” Speir said, to renewed laughter. Speir’s glance caught Barklay’s: And a friend is just an enemy who aids you, she had countered him once. He knew she was remembering that night’s bout between them.
It was Speir’s hour of triumph: Barklay watched her with pleasure and covert relief as she received the congratulations of officers and cadets. He couldn’t bear to think of her as collateral damage in Selkirk’s war against him. Would it save them if he followed John’s course? he thought, but rejected the idea almost at once as being likely ineffective. Perhaps Selkirk would let him resign, let him close Ryswyck and allow Selkirk to reopen it with the help of such as Speir. And Douglas, whom Barklay did not dare ask for support. No, there was so little he could do, and none of it would save the study of courtesy. It was
not a thing he was ever meant to attempt, may be.
The formalities of supper ended, and the officers stood for the last salute before the hall coalesced into casual laughter and conversation.
“Let us take tea in my quarters,” Selkirk suggested to Barklay, as the visiting brass took their leave one by one.
“Of course, my lord,” Barklay said, and as he turned he found himself face-to-face with Speir in the doorway.
“My congratulations, Speir,” he said to her. There was so much more he wanted to say, but he could add only, direct to her eyes: “I’ve never been prouder of you.”
She paled: all the triumph and joy blew out of her expression like powdered ash. It was as if she had read all his thoughts in those few words, and knew their significance; as if by saying them he had dealt her a mortal wound.
Speir leaned in, past Selkirk’s eyeshot behind Barklay’s shoulder, and spoke in a low, trembling hiss. “If you give up now,” she said, “I will never forgive you.”
Before Barklay could respond, she turned away and strode down the corridor and out of sight.
~*~
“It was a very impressive demonstration,” Selkirk admitted amiably, blowing the steam from his tea before his first sip. “Though I dare say Emmerich du Rau would not approve of your…amalgamation of disciplines.”
“He would have choice things to say about it,” Barklay agreed, refusing the bait. But couldn’t resist adding: “You share some opinions in common.”
“You will not dare to set me up as a traitor,” Selkirk said evenly. “I let you act under cover of madness because I thought your project might have some use.”
“It can,” Barklay said. “It does. It will. Even without me.” It had been John’s project too, in the beginning; but the glint in Selkirk’s eye told Barklay that he had better not mention John’s name.
“I’m not so sure about that.”
“If that be so, then do what you will to me, and let Ryswyck fall as it will.”
“I can’t afford that any longer, Barklay. The money and morale that have been spent on this place….” Selkirk took another sip of tea. “It isn’t useful at all. Everything here that could have been turned to Ilona’s account has been twisted into loyalty to you.”
“That’s not true,” Barklay said. “I taught them to be loyal to courtesy, not to me.”
“Ah, yes,” Selkirk said; “I had forgotten your plan to put this war away by challenging du Rau to a game of foils and treating him to a sweet ice after.”
Barklay sipped his tea. “Du Rau doesn’t have a sweet tooth,” he said.
“Of course you would know. You compiled a massive dossier on him when you were across the strait, in war and out. And you haven’t given me the half of it, have you.”
“Well, you cut me out of the mission,” Barklay said, reasonably. “And you said you only wanted what was relevant.”
“I said that because you were taunting me with your resources. Like you are now.”
“It was never my object to taunt you,” said Barklay. “Or treat du Rau to a sweet ice. As you well know.”
“No, your object was to enchant the whole military with your dream of—what was it? the ancient principle of courtesy. You’ve ruined Captain Marag with it. And you ruined Commander Jarrow in the other direction.”
“I haven’t ruined anyone.” A dangerous thing to say, and possibly wildly untrue. “And you shouldn’t have cut Marag out of the mission on my account.”
“Barklay, we had to scrap the mission. My chief cartographer for it committed a level three security breach on this campus—” Barklay sighed in protest— “and we don’t have the personnel or the updated intel.”
“It’s just as well,” Barklay said tartly. “Taking du Rau out would only make Berenia an unstable enemy. I’ve told you this already.”
Selkirk set down his teacup with a click. “Do you know how long it’s been since a trade convoy made it back to the Boundary unscathed?” he said. “Six months. The Council’s had to rejigger the capital budget eleven times since then. We’ve started cutting subsidies to sustainable farms and slashed funding for every industry including channel engineering. We’re past the point where it’s any use to keep Berenia stable. It’ll be brute force from here on in. Unless you have a brilliant idea to whip out of your pocket.”
Barklay ignored the sarcasm of that last and said, “I had a brilliant idea. But you wouldn’t listen to it.”
“So your answer is to steal my soldiers to shout it louder,” Selkirk said bitterly.
“They’re your soldiers still, Alban.” Barklay leaned forward urgently. “They’re not compromised, they’re just morally inoculated.”
“Morally inoculated by you.” The language of Ryswyck was invented by you, Douglas had said. “Jarrow played right into your hands, leaking that file.”
“Oh, Alban. I’m not nearly that shameless,” Barklay sighed.
“No, just shameless enough to sabotage your own work. You traded heavily on Speir’s family history to get her trust, and that’s backfired, hasn’t it. What did you do to Douglas?”
Barklay rubbed his brow. “I can’t begin to list the ways I’ve failed Douglas,” he said.
Selkirk sat back in his chair, his eyes very hard. “I know you, Thaddeys,” he whispered. “Would Douglas tell lies about courtesy to save you?”
Barklay lifted his head. He had one maneuver left. “Ask him and find out.”
“Oh, I’m going to ask him,” Selkirk said. “I’m not leaving anything to chance.”
~*~
The sun had gone down by the time Douglas finished speaking with the last knot of Ryswyckians and made his escape from the mess hall. Beneath the enjoyment of seeing them again, he was disturbed by how long the student body lingered together. It wasn’t just the carnival atmosphere of a state visit, or the ordinary courtesy of hospitality. They wanted to touch him, to test him, Douglas sensed; wanting a sign from him with which they could reassure themselves.
He found Lieutenant Ell and asked if Speir had given their unit any orders for the evening; she hadn’t. In fact, he hadn’t seen her since the last salute, when Barklay and the Lord High Commander had left with the other senior staff. Douglas calmly debriefed and dismissed Ell, then left the hall, now seriously concerned. Methodically, he ran through the likeliest places Speir would be, leaving Barklay’s office for last in hopes he’d find her somewhere else first.
He took the long cloister, planning to swing by the arena complex on his way to the senior officers’ blocks. Speir wasn’t in the cloister, but as he neared the end of it, the far door opened and Stevens came out. Douglas greeted him. “Have you seen Speir?” he asked.
“She was on her way to her quarters last I saw. But that was some time ago.”
Douglas thanked him hand to heart, and would have gone past, but Stevens caught hold of his sleeve. “A word, Douglas,” he said. Heart sinking, Douglas let himself be pulled to the side of the cloister.
“I want to know what’s going on.” Stevens’s voice was pitched low, his face a shadowed crag in the lamplight, eyes glinting under his brows.
“You expect me to know?” Douglas said.
“Don’t give me that.” Still quiet, but fierce. “No one is going to know more than you do.”
Douglas wasn’t going to turn him on Speir. “I hardly think many people here know less,” he said.
“That’s horseshit, Douglas, and you know it.” Stevens’s earlier jovial manner was utterly gone. Douglas had never seen him so intent, not even in the arena. It was impressive, and also very inconvenient.
“As far as I know, what’s going on is the same thing that was before,” he said, but Stevens cut him off with a gesture.
“It isn’t,” he said. “Do you know they cancelled the autumn training camp—cancelled it outright! Said it was due to a conflict in the schedule, but there’s not come any word about rescheduling it. Barklay’s been flitting on and off campus, keeping cou
nsel only with himself. I heard he went up to Colm’s Island to see you.”
“He didn’t see me,” Douglas said, shortly. “He saw Speir.”
“Aye. That bruise on your face must have been lovely when it was fresh.”
Coming from his old friend, that would have been a joke, delivered with a smile. “It was,” Douglas answered, hoping Stevens’s lowering frown would relax. It didn’t.
“She fought you to make you come here, didn’t she.”
Douglas sighed. “More or less.”
“And so you’re here. And so is the Lord High Commander, along with more brass buttons than I’ve ever seen outside the capital. Tell me that’s a coincidence.”
“It probably isn’t.” Douglas resisted the impulse to rub his temples.
“Douglas.” There was steel in Stevens’s voice now.
Douglas was losing patience. “What are you trying to say to me, Stevens?”
Stevens glared silently a moment. Then: “The word is that Selkirk’s turning you up to be a witness against Ryswyck. It’s looking like a right old-fashioned capital council-trial. And Barklay mistreated you, so now you’ve turned against him. And us.”
“That’s not why I’m here,” Douglas said.
“Then why are you?”
Douglas had protested immediately: but something of Stevens’s description was pretty much exactly why he was here. Somehow Barklay and Selkirk between them had turned his intent to bear witness into a sordid political game, just as he’d feared. And more than he’d feared.
