by L D Inman
A moving shape occluded the light from the tent doorway, passed along the canvas dividers, and after a pause among a knot of medics, made for her cot. When he took a stool and sat down at her bedside, the lamplight fell on his face and Speir recognized him.
“Field-Commander Dearborn,” she murmured. “I am glad to see you well.”
Dearborn held a dispatch pouch on his knee. He looked tired and anxious. “I wish I could say the same about you, Captain.”
Speir made a negating gesture. “Still, it’s kind of you to visit me before I am shipped down south.”
Dearborn took a breath. “This isn’t a visit, Captain. Admiral Douglas sent a message to Colonel Marshall asking for someone to come and speak to you.”
She was about to ask who Admiral Douglas was when Dearborn continued. “He relayed a dispatch from Ryswyck hoping you would be up to being read in on an operation. We tried to tell him it wasn’t going to be possible, but he insisted that you at least be told about it.”
Admiral Douglas? Speir was ready to think she was dreaming until the logic of it broke through to her. Selkirk had obviously taken Douglas out of his chain of command, out of the army altogether, to keep Douglas under his sole control. With a lingering feeling of unreality, she said: “What is his message?”
Dearborn haled in another breath. “He has negotiated with Lord Bernhelm to return General Barklay’s body to Ryswyck for interment.” He paused to see whether Speir was soaking that in, and went on when he saw the quirk she felt tug at the corner of her lips. “Lord Bernhelm has agreed, on condition that he be given safe passage to escort the body personally to Ryswyck and attend the funeral.”
“And Lord Commander Selkirk is allowing this?” she asked. And then thought, forget Selkirk, what about the High Council?
“It seems so,” Dearborn said. “But at any rate it’s being staged as an operation of Ryswyck Division, with assistance from other services for the rendezvous.”
“Where is the rendezvous?” Speir asked.
“A mid-strait docking. Bernhelm and Central are going back and forth over the proposal logistics right now, but the basic orders have already gone out. The rendezvous will be in the early hours next morning. As soon as we identify a hostage to exchange for Lord Bernhelm’s safe return, we’ll have everything more or less in place.”
“That sounds good.” Speir shifted painfully, wishing she had the leverage to elevate her head even more. “Who are they talking about for the hostage?”
Dearborn looked down into his lap. After a moment he raised his head and said very reluctantly: “Admiral Douglas thinks that the Hero of Colmhaven would make a suitable representative.”
Speir let her head fall back on its cushion. “Does he,” she breathed.
Dearborn didn’t answer. As the silence lengthened, Speir stared up at the canvas ceiling, which had bowed deeply with the weight of the ice forming outside, and contemplated her mind’s image beyond its blank curved surface. Douglas had gone up against Selkirk and Central Command and the High Council and Lord Bernhelm himself to get Barklay down from his gibbet and back to Ryswyck. And he’d succeeded. Speir closed her eyes and savored the warmth that rose before the smile. That was Douglas.
She heard the creak of the stool and opened her eyes to see Dearborn creeping quietly away. “Field-Commander, where are you going?”
He stopped and looked back at her. “I need to get back to the comms desk so we can tell Admiral Douglas he’ll have to find another hostage.”
“You’ll do no such thing,” Speir said, in a stronger voice. “Sit back down here.”
Unhappily, Dearborn drifted back to her bedside, in time to be an unwilling recruit as she grasped his arm for leverage to drag herself into a sitting position. Boules of vertigo billowed in her vision, and she was sweating and shot through with unexpected pains. But she was upright.
“Captain, are you even aware of the extent of your injuries? There’s no possible way you can even get out of this bed, let alone go out to the middle of the strait to stand hostage for half a day cycle.”
“It seems to be a day for impossible things,” said Speir. “Give me that dispatch.”
“It could kill you,” was Dearborn’s last protest, even as he handed the pouch over.
She was listing to one side as she reached for it, and was forced to open it half-hunched to stop herself falling over. “How fortunate that that’s a condition of my service,” she said, panting a little. “I was just about to think of looking for something to do.”
“You are insane,” Dearborn muttered, sinking back onto the stool and shifting his grip to keep Speir propped up. “You are all insane.”
One of the medics passing by saw Speir sitting up in her cot and swerved to approach them. “Field-Commander, what are you doing? Captain Speir, you should not be moving yourself like that. You could disturb another pocket of toxin—”
Speir looked beyond the dispatch on her lap to her blanketed legs. “Yes, we’d probably better find a way to immobilize it. A cold wrap and a brace might do. And I’ll need a good supply of painkillers, I expect.” The nerve-block was definitely wearing off now; her left leg felt as though it were on its way to normal, but her right knee seemed to be held in an iron bite that would soon announce itself as pain.
“This is not going to work,” Dearborn said, shutting his eyes briefly.
“What—what are you talking about?” spluttered the medic.
Speir looked up briskly. “My next commission,” she said. “I’ll need a set of half-dress greens and a chair, to start. And when you go back to the command post, Dearborn, could you tell Company 6A I want to speak with them? I’m going to need an escort of volunteers.”
“Captain,” said the medic, squaring himself straight, “you have not been cleared for duty of any kind, light or otherwise.”
Speir held up the last page of the dispatch, her chin up, her gaze expectant and commanding.
“Would an admiral’s signature do?” she said.
~*~
Du Rau sat quietly in his chair while the Executive Committee and the general staff argued with themselves and one another. This meeting was taking place in his office, partly because there was more room than in the general staff conference room, and partly because du Rau wanted it clear whose authority was ascendant. And if any of them had a question about that, Barklay’s knife stood driven into his desk to remind them.
Ingrid sat in one of the wing chairs, upright and composed; Reynard observed silently from a stance beside the door, arms folded. Du Rau knew he had both of them at his back, whatever misgivings they might still bear; and that silent support was even more persuasive than the knife.
The general staff was arguing about the proposed twelve-hour ceasefire agreement. Some were urging to cut it to eight hours, and some were resisting signing on at all, contending that the Verlakers would never honor any agreement anyway. Wernhier was listening to them with a thoughtful scowl. Meanwhile, Commander Falkras was insisting that the Estuary Guard be allowed to send its own escort with du Rau to Ryswyck, the newly arrived members of the Executive Committee were attempting to establish their importance by uselessly denouncing the Verlaker missile program, and Lord Morin kept catching sight of Reynard in the doorway and moderating his complaints.
Finally du Rau sat up and lifted his chin, and the tumult died away.
“Commander Falkras,” he said, “you make a very good point. The honor of the Estuary Guard should be employed to its best advantage in this operation. That is why I am assigning them to guard the representative the Verlakers send in exchange. I am sure they will guard her with the same integrity with which they are committed to guard me.”
Falkras pursed his lips. “And that’s another thing, my lord. It’s all very well the Verlakers sending a valorous army captain and a possible rallying point to stand as hostage. But she has no status at all compared with you. How is this not an insult?”
“Does any Verlaker have
status to compare with mine?” du Rau said dryly, and half the room snorted. “If this were a diplomatic operation I would certainly agree that an exchange should be of equal weight. But we have not yet arrived at diplomacy. The Verlakers are being obliged to show that they have the military honor to let me pass their borders and return unharmed. If we do them the same turn it is merely a courtesy.”
“But do we get anything out of this exchange at all?” said Lord General Guiscard.
“I intend to get a great deal out of this exchange,” du Rau said quietly. “I will have acknowledgment; and I will have leverage. And I will use them both.”
He did not look at the knife, in such a way that several people glanced at it.
“It’d be easier if we could just kill them all and be done,” someone growled.
“If we could without sacrificing ourselves into the bargain,” someone else said, and the room drew breath to speak at once, but du Rau got ahead of them.
“It would be easier, perhaps, than looking at what is really there and doing what must be done. But not nearly as rewarding, in either the short or the long term. That is, after all, what you have me for.”
“Yes, my lord,” said Wernhier, before anyone else could speak. Ingrid smiled; and the meeting was over.
~*~
“She’s going to do it, then?” Marag said.
“Aye,” said Douglas, scanning down the dispatch. “She got a whole phalanx of protesting doctors to engineer her a way to get to the rendezvous on her feet. She’s briefing her escort on the operation now.”
Marag shook his head. “I should tell Wallis. He’d find that amusing.”
“If anyone could remind us who we are, it’s Speir,” Douglas said softly.
Marag touched his shoulder briefly, and went away to prepare for the assembly. Douglas needed to do the same; he put down the dispatch from Colmhaven and started to organize a list of communiques and orders that needed to be sent out, moving back and forth along the table. When a knock came at his doorframe, he was a belated moment looking up.
“Lieutenant Orla,” he said, and she took his gestured invitation to venture inside the office. “What can I do for you?”
“Sir. I want to report that the tower is on standby to receive confirmation of the ceasefire.”
“Good. If it comes through during the assembly, have them log it for my review. If they want to speak to me, ask them if they will wait till I get to my com-deck.”
“Yes, sir.” That seemed to be all; but instead of saluting and going out, Orla hesitated. “Admiral—”
Douglas looked up. “Yes?”
She opened her mouth; shut it. Douglas waited. Encouraged by his equanimity, she finally spoke. “Sir…did you really throw Lieutenant Corda out of the infirmary?”
Douglas let out a small sigh. “Did you hear about this from Corda, or from someone else?”
“I heard it from someone else first. Then I went and asked Corda about it.”
“And what did Corda say, exactly?” Douglas asked calmly.
She responded with a small wry tilt of the head. “He says you threw him out of the infirmary.”
“Mm.” Corda had thrown himself out of the infirmary, to be truly accurate, but Douglas knew that was not what he had meant.
Orla shifted uncomfortably. “Sir…did you know—were you aware that—”
“He would have paralyzed himself if he’d stayed there longer,” Douglas said, holding Orla’s gaze. “It’s demoralizing to watch someone you love suffer that much. And Corda can’t be spared.” He could see the understanding come into her face. Good. “I ordered him back to his post, and I wasn’t gentle when he pushed back. He’s going to be angry with me for a while. But he seems to be turning that over into solid work, so I’m satisfied, myself.”
“Yes, sir.”
She seemed to be satisfied with that answer, yet she still stood where she was, looking worried. “Was there something else, Lieutenant?” he asked her gently.
It took her several seconds to bring it out, and she could barely say it above a whisper. “We’re losing, aren’t we. Sir.”
Douglas studied her uneasily. What was the correct answer to this? Yes? No? He thought of Speir and her unquenchable fortitude. What would Speir say to her?
“Are you afraid?” he asked Orla.
The calm question seemed to ease her a little. “I’m not usually,” she said. “Not in the arena. And this is a kind of arena, isn’t it, sir.”
“But?”
“The Berenians….” Her lips compressed. “I heard they degrade people they capture. How can there be courtesy if one side thinks they are the only humans?”
She did not mention Barklay, or his oblique confession to his school, but Douglas knew that what Barklay said had troubled them. That they had been made wretchedly aware how delicate and evanescent courtesy truly was.
“We’ve reached a point in the war,” Douglas said, “where it will either end, or go on to finish in total mutual destruction. If it does go on, it will be very, very ugly.” She drew a shuddering breath at his words, and then relaxed, as if hearing the truth had strengthened her. “And there will be no winners. We will all lose, all the people on both sides of the strait. It won’t console them to think of us as less than human. It won’t console us either, and it’s not true. We might as well die in the presence of the truth.”
“Yes, sir,” Orla said. She didn’t look much comforted, but she was breathing easier at least.
Douglas smiled suddenly. “Wasn’t that cheerful?”
She was shaken into smiling back. “I’ve never heard a battle cry to match it, sir,” she said.
That got a chuckle out of him. Then he caught sight of the clock over her shoulder. “Ach, I’ve got two messages to send before the assembly begins. I must excuse myself, Lieutenant.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, and went to the door, where she paused again. “Sir…should I tell Corda what you said?”
“I doubt it is going to make him feel any better,” Douglas said frankly. “But use your judgment.” Orla nodded. Struck by a thought, Douglas added: “Orla…do you know if Corda has been back to the infirmary since?”
“I think…he thinks you forbade him to, sir.”
“Well, I didn’t,” Douglas said, “but it’s as well he stayed away till now. Rose has stabilized enough now that a visit might do them both good. You can tell him that.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant.”
Meditatively, Douglas put together his messages and logged them to be sent under his code. He could hear people gathering out in the main hall to enter the mess for the assembly. By the time he got up the sounds of traffic had slowed. A few stragglers ducked through the mess hall doors ahead of him, one of them ringing the bell as he went. Ryswyck rose to attention; Douglas acknowledged it closed hand to heart, more fluent in the exchange after twelve days of command, and mounted the dais where the senior cadre were already in their places. He waved a hand as he approached the lectern, and everyone sat.
“Will the cantor please call us to witness?” He spoke knowing that Lieutenant Rose had been serving as cantor: the rota captains would have appointed another, but he didn’t know whom they had chosen.
Inevitably, it was Corda who stood up. He was pale but steady. “Sir,” he said, and opened the chant.
When the four versicles had been sung, the room fell silent. Douglas did not break the silence at once. He stood looking out at his school: the cadets and junior officers of Ryswyck, along with the army soldiers currently cycled in from the field; all had been invited. All of them were his.
“You are no doubt aware,” he said at last, “of the results of the mission General Barklay undertook after he returned to Central Command. General Barklay and his comrades went on an expedition across the strait. Their mission was to cause a domestic disruption in Bernhelm that would affect the course of the invasion. Without their work, our current sit
uation here would have been much worse.
“For that success, they gave over their lives. I will now speak the names of the soldiers who were killed in this mission.” With deliberation, Douglas read out the formal names and ranks of each of Barklay’s team. When he got to the Ryswyckians at the end of the list—Neris, Boyd, Ahrens, and Barklay—he heard the small intakes of breath, the hitched noises of stifled grief. After Barklay’s name, he bowed his head for the ritual silence.
Then he lifted his eyes once more. “This morning I asked for, and received, permission to contact Lord Bernhelm and request that General Barklay’s remains be returned to us under military code.” There was a frisson of surprise at this; Stevens’s new authority must be hampering his skills with the rumor turbine, Douglas reflected. “I spoke with Lord Bernhelm a couple of times during the course of the morning, and he agreed to give us General Barklay’s body, if in return he might escort the bier to Ryswyck and attend his funeral.” The frisson swelled to a fury of whispering, hurriedly quelled.
“After some deliberation, Central Command has approved the request. A rendezvous has been set up and a twelve-hour ceasefire will go into effect at first watch, shortly before the rendezvous meets.”
Stunned silence now.
“The rendezvous will take place mid-strait. Captain Speir will lead an escort to take delivery of General Barklay’s body, and then will remain on board the Berenian ship as security while Lord Bernhelm and Speir’s escort bring the bier to Ryswyck. I expect they will arrive here some time after dawn. We will meet them on the airfield and process to the arena quad for the dirge.”
The silence still reigned: Douglas saw cadets looking at one another in amazement and consternation; the junior officers mostly sat blinking.
