Ryswyck

by L D Inman

  The door opened, and Selkirk’s aide entered, followed by Douglas. Douglas’s expression was neutral, but he was pale and even hesitant. He looked briefly at Barklay and then away, before their gazes could make contact. Barklay fastened his own gaze on the tabletop before him.

  Selkirk sat up in his chair. “Captain Douglas,” he said gravely. “Please join us.” He indicated the empty seat with an open hand.

  “Thank you, my lord,” Douglas answered. Quietly, he took the chair and folded his hands together on the table. Was there a tremble in Douglas’s fine, work-shaped fingers? Barklay did not dare to look directly.

  “Now, Captain,” Selkirk said, “I am aware that General Barklay invited you to participate in a council he was convening to oversee his…retirement from Ryswyck Academy. I am sure his confidence in your insight is well justified. There are decisions that I, too, must make regarding this transition. So I have decided to combine my own council inquiry with his. Since General Barklay holds your opinion in such high regard—” in his peripheral vision Barklay saw the minutest twitch on Douglas’s lips— “I am inviting you to participate in this inquiry.” Selkirk waited pleasantly for Douglas’s reply.

  Douglas answer was quiet and deliberate. “Thank you for the invitation to participate, my lord. I will accept it.”

  “Thank you, Captain. My first task, as I intimated to you yesterday, is to obtain sworn depositions from those who know the most about Ryswyck Academy. I’ve had a few cursory interviews with members of the staff and the junior cadre. Are you willing to give a deposition for this council?”

  “I am of course very pleased to repeat under oath all that I told you yesterday,” Douglas said evenly.

  Barklay could feel Selkirk’s eyes narrowing. “And no more than that?” he said.

  There was a sound of several people shifting in their chairs, bracing for danger. Then Douglas said: “I must reserve to myself the judgment whether anything I say will darken council. My lord.”

  Oh, Douglas. It was neatly done: Selkirk had formally invited Douglas to the council table; Douglas was claiming no more than his right to keep silent. Selkirk had forgotten, or perhaps never realized, that Douglas was a historian before he’d ever joined the army—and before that, Douglas would have been to regional councils in Arisail district as a matter of course. But Douglas’s answer did not appear to disturb Selkirk. In fact, Selkirk seemed to be expecting it.

  “I would in no way propose you suspend your rights,” Selkirk said. His words were calm, but the air in the room grew taut, a feeling that only increased when Selkirk pushed back his chair. “Fortunately I know where to get the answers I need and still spare you your judgment.” He gestured to his aide. “I will take the western conference room,” he said. “And I will have a recorder and an open line to this projection. Councilors, please be at your ease.” He strode around the table and left the room.

  There was a faint murmur around the table; several people relaxed. Douglas did not. He sat upright in his chair, his gaze abstracted and fixed on the drapes ahead. Barklay was reminded suddenly of the night he had given him that file to read; they had sat in the same places, alone in the small hours, and Speir had sat in the chair Selkirk had now left empty.

  Speir. Speir had not been invited to council; she had no rights to claim, no recourse against direct orders from her highest commander, no way to refuse without grave consequences. Barklay trusted her with his life, what was left of it, and his honor, such as it was. But he had just done to her what he had so damned Jarrow for doing: he had put her in harm’s way to carry his point. And Douglas knew it. Barklay looked up at him, in dismay.

  “Grief for fear,” Douglas murmured, gaze lost in the white glow of the drapes. And then: “Yes.”

  He refolded his hands and waited. Never once did he look at Barklay, or seem even to need to. Barklay felt suddenly and cruelly bereft. He had come to the very end of his actions; all that was left to be done would be done by Douglas, by Speir, by Selkirk and his councilors, by Ryswyck and its orphaned nestlings. He could influence nothing, nor did he deserve to: but the loss bit deep.

  Twenty years ago he had stared into the eyes of a young man he had broken and could not save. Today, he could not even save himself. And he had only pretended to be reconciled.

  It’s time to give yourself over, Barklay thought to himself. It’s time.

  Speir, I’m sorry.

  ~*~

  No summons had come for Speir by the time the mess hall had cleared, so she wished Stevens well in his teaching duties, accepted his invitation to attend sparring court in the afternoon, and left the hall herself. It was tempting to sit in on the Cardumel unit’s morning course, but she decided instead to visit the chapel.

  The weather at Ryswyck was strangely mild, after her summer on Colm’s Island: Speir barely got damp crossing the arena quad to the chapel entrance. She stooped under the lintel, removed her boots, and crossed the dim room to make a light. She was alone here, but there were more lights than usual burning in the niches, she noticed: and a greater abundance of spent wax crusted on the stone facings. More Ryswyckians had felt the need to pray recently; and why would they not?

  Speir took her taper and lit it from the lamp; the hot wax stung her fingers as she dripped it onto a niche and anchored the light there. She drew up a cushion near the glimmering frieze and settled herself upon it. Outside the doorway, the rain pattered lightly.

  It was not easier to pray now that she had wept. Her mother, who had held her hand to light tapers, was long gone; her father, who had shed tears before their household shrine, was gone too. It was the way of things; they had given themselves over, and they had done it well. She knew all this, but still she felt that sense of granite confusion blocking her from any kind of meditative state.

  It was not easier to pray; but it was now easier to weep. Speir laid her hand over her breast and bent her head, and the tears came, slow but fluent. She wept for her failure and her loss, for her wounds and her loneliness. Her eyes closed, and her hands opened, and her grief ran clear, and it was her own.

  Only a few minutes had passed. But when Speir got up she felt for the first time in a long time, perhaps ever, that she was in possession of herself and not merely the vestibule for others’ thoughts and feelings. She could bear Douglas’s grief now without being swamped in it; she could look at her own without flinching away.

  She bowed to the flickering, burning prayers of her comrades, slipped back into her boots, and ducked out of the chapel.

  A soldier at distance, crossing to the senior officers’ blocks, caught sight of her emerging, and swerved toward her. Speir stood where she was and waited for him to approach; soon he grew near enough to recognize. She felt redolently calm: as if this had all already happened.

  “Field-Commander Speir,” said Lord Selkirk’s aide. “The Lord High Commander would like you to come with me.”

  “Lead on, sir,” Speir said.

  ~*~

  The aide brought her to one of the small meeting rooms down the hall from Barklay’s office, opened the door, and ushered her in.

  The door clicked shut behind her. Lord Selkirk was there waiting for her, at a table which was the only furniture in the room other than the chair he was sitting in, and the chair across from him, pulled out expectantly. The table, too, was empty, save for a recorder control pad.

  “Field-Commander Speir,” Selkirk greeted her. “Please sit down.”

  Speir felt no fear. Therefore Douglas must know this was happening, she thought. He was somewhere else, bearing the burden of fear for them both. Speir imagined him, sitting in a chair, stony-faced, being afraid with his inimitable intense competence. The thought was a tiny grace-note of cheer in this bleak room.

  “Thank you, my lord,” she said, and obeyed. Selkirk reached for the recorder pad and touched it on.

  “Now, Field-Commander,” Selkirk said, “do you know why I am here?”

  Speir looked up at him across t
he table. Selkirk was an older man, her father’s age and a little more—Barklay’s age, too, but his smooth black hair had only a little grey at the temples, and his face had fewer lines. He looked implacable; he always had. Speir remembered when he was the army-navy liaison for the High Council office, remembered his coming into Naval HQ on days when she sat in her father’s outer office in the afternoons, finishing her schoolwork. He hadn’t been one of those jovial officers who offered her sweets from his pockets; but he’d given her an unsmiling nod now and again. He probably didn’t remember or connect the child swinging her feet in the Intelligence office, her braided hair twisted back in a knot, with the woman now sitting before him; and if he did it wouldn’t matter.

  “You’re here, my lord,” Speir said steadily, “because General Barklay called a council to mediate his separation from Ryswyck Academy.”

  Selkirk smiled grimly. “Well, that has the benefit of being succinct. I, too, have called a council for a similar purpose; and I decided to bring my council here so that we may all share necessary information.”

  “Yes, my lord,” Speir said.

  “And this,” he gestured at the table between them, “is a deposition for that purpose. Will you swear oath to answer with complete and undiluted truth in this interview?”

  At his prompting, Speir swore. “I, Stephanie Leam Speir, give oath for the sake of my mother’s name and my duty as a soldier, to speak truth in this deposition, complete and undiluted.” She didn’t ask why there was not a second witness in the room, but Selkirk saw her glance check the recorder.

  “No,” he agreed, “we are not private. But I do not wish you to be distracted.” Speir could only imagine the distractions of a roomful of brass, plus Barklay, plus Douglas, and she nodded. “Let us start with some basic facts,” he went on. “First, tell me your rank and current position.”

  “I am serving at the level of field-commander in the weather corps at Cardumel Base, my lord.”

  “And how long have you been there?”

  “Just shy of six months, my lord.”

  “And have you found it a position worth your pursuit?”

  Was he asking whether she had thirsted to work at Cardumel Base, or about the quality of the work itself? Speir said carefully, “It is a very good commission, my lord. I’m grateful to have it.”

  “To be sure,” Selkirk said. “And I understand from my base commanders up north that Cardumel is very grateful to have you.”

  That would be Inslee, Speir thought, still doing his best to protect her. “I hope I may give them cause to be glad I serve there, my lord.”

  Selkirk moved on. “You finished a third year of study at Ryswyck Academy this spring, did you not?”

  “Yes, my lord. I did.”

  “What course of study did you take?”

  “Cartography and meteorology, my lord, with a smaller track in supply management and tactics and strategy.”

  “And who taught your coursework in cartography and meteorology?”

  Now they were getting to it. “I had Captain Dury for my first two years, and part of the third. Then for about eight weeks I had Commander Jarrow, then I finished with an independent study set up by Captain Marag and Commodore Beathas.”

  “So you worked closely with Commander Jarrow in your third year.”

  Selkirk knew what he was asking her, and knew she knew. But Speir did not shy away from his gaze. “Commander Jarrow was very conscientious in his instruction of me. And I assisted him with his work teaching the cadets.”

  “Did he at any time make you an offer of patronage?”

  “He might have done, my lord,” Speir said, “if I had not made it clear from the start that I have no interest whatsoever in politics.”

  For a wonder, she’d provoked an amused twitch at the corner of Selkirk’s dour mouth. “So he did not seek to confide in you.”

  “No, my lord.”

  “Or get you to confide in him.”

  “No, my lord.”

  “Yet,” Selkirk said, “he chose you as an instrument to leak classified documents on Ryswyck campus.”

  “Yes, my lord,” Speir said. “He did.”

  “Why?”

  Speir hesitated. “I—could only speculate, my lord.”

  “Do so.”

  The humor had disappeared from Selkirk’s gaze. Speir said: “I imagine that, since I was friends with Douglas, my fellow officer and rota captain, he fancied he could gain leverage over Douglas by…influencing his opinions.”

  “His opinions?”

  Speir gave in. “I believe he wanted to jaundice Douglas’s view of General Barklay, my lord.”

  “Why Douglas? Why not you, daughter of a war hero—two war heroes?”

  Speir released a frustrated sigh. “My lord, I still have trouble understanding why he did it at all.”

  “Did you know that his cousin, who stood in mother’s place to him, had been court-martialed in closed session over the affair recorded in those documents?”

  “I did know that, my lord,” Speir said. “It still doesn’t make sense.”

  “Did you, now?” Selkirk sat up and regarded her with fresh interest. “Who told you that?”

  “General Barklay did, my lord.”

  “You were close to General Barklay, then,” Selkirk said.

  Speir was still not afraid. But she felt sweat beginning to gather at the edges of her hair and under her singlet. “Yes, my lord,” she said simply.

  “In what manner were you close to him?” Selkirk’s dark eyes narrowed.

  “My lord?” Speir bit her lip.

  “How did he behave to you that he did not to others?” he clarified.

  Well, at least that was marginally answerable. “He confided in me, my lord.”

  Selkirk seemed to understand the import of this. Perhaps he was already aware that Barklay had told her about his brother. Meeting his eyes, Speir had a sudden clear sense of what it must have been like for Selkirk, unable to help his brother as he slid down to dissolution, the failure and the grief and the need to blame. Speir didn’t have the key to all the political ramifications, but thwarted responsibility—that she understood very well. Her spine straightened.

  “That was an extravagant confidence,” Selkirk said softly. “Don’t you think?”

  “That’s one way of putting it,” Speir answered, more dryly than she meant, and Selkirk’s mouth twitched again.

  “But you welcomed General Barklay’s extravagant confidences?”

  He had a point. “I wanted to be helpful to General Barklay,” Speir said. “He was kind, and I liked him.”

  “Did he confide in you before the security breach, or after?”

  “Mostly after, my lord,” Speir said. She saw Selkirk’s lips thin, saw him draw and hold a long breath before letting it out.

  “Did his confidences trouble you?”

  “Yes, my lord,” Speir said. “They troubled me very much.”

  “By their nature? Or by the fact he confided them to you?”

  “Both, my lord.”

  The questions rained on. “General Barklay has a reputation for taking certain students into his confidence, does he not?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “But up until the security breach, it was only Captain Douglas who had that privilege.”

  “So went the rumor, my lord.”

  “Captain Douglas did not confide in you about his relationship to General Barklay?”

  “Captain Douglas likes to keep his own counsel, my lord,” Speir said.

  Selkirk lowered his eyelids in a comment so manifest he did not even need to use a dry tone: “So I have observed,” he said. “So then, did Barklay begin to confide in the two of you together, after the security breach? Conferences with his office door closed?”

  “Not really, my lord.”

  “He kept his dealings with Captain Douglas separate from his dealings with you.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Did h
e deal with Douglas in the same way he did to you?”

  “I wouldn’t know, my lord. I wasn’t present.”

  “And Douglas didn’t speak of it to you. Did Barklay speak of it to you?”

  “No, my lord, he did not,” Speir said. If Barklay were there she would have glared at him; she settled instead for glaring at Lord Selkirk, who bore it with the patience of a hawk on a treetop, watching her.

  “Let me sum up what we’ve discussed so far. Then-Lieutenant Douglas was known to be in the confidence of General Barklay. Commander Jarrow, knowing this, sought to knock down Douglas’s opinion of General Barklay by committing a security breach through one of his subordinates, which was you. Did you show the documents to Douglas?”

  “No, my lord. I asked him to escort me to General Barklay, and General Barklay asked him to read the documents.”

  “Did he say why?”

  “He…,” Speir took a breath— “he said he didn’t want me to be alone.”

  “I see,” Selkirk said. “And then, General Barklay explained to you later why Commander Jarrow hated him.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Strangely, he didn’t seem to have explained it to Captain Douglas. General Barklay must have had a different agenda with him.”

  Speir could feel the warmth rising to her cheeks. “I wouldn’t know about that, my lord.”

  “No, you’ve made that clear. It’s strange, isn’t it, that Captain Douglas and Commander Jarrow and General Barklay should have revealed to you some very important things—and yet left out other things equally important?”