by L D Inman
But Alsburg was only young, not a fool. “Then…,” he said, “is there no honor in this war, my lord?”
Du Rau sighed. “Honor is not to be found in war. Only in the men who happen to be waging it.”
“The Ryswyckians seem to think differently,” Alsburg remarked.
“That is a legacy of their founder.” Du Rau felt as if his eyes were retreating back into his skull; the whole socket felt bruised. His very blood seemed to resent his still being perpendicular. “Their blind side is only less blind because there are enough of them to hold up mirrors to one another.”
As he spoke, du Rau became aware that at some point he had crossed over in his way of thinking. The way forward seemed no more possible than it had before, but he was no longer committed to assimilating Verlac by force. He was not going to hold up a mirror of cruelty and savagery for the next generation to emulate. So much work still undone, he thought. And no time to do it. Not enough time, certainly, to unbuild his plan of vengeance at the same rate he had built it. Yet too sudden a change of momentum would destroy them all. He needed to think. Du Rau rubbed his temple wearily.
“Does that make them less dangerous than General Barklay, or more?” Alsburg mused.
Du Rau did not want to answer that. “It is difficult to move whole armies without first convincing them that the enemy are vermin to be exterminated,” he said instead.
“But they must be directed by someone above propaganda.” Alsburg was being inconveniently acute. On du Rau’s other side, the lieutenant sat quiet, his gaze docile and empty: listening to all of this, du Rau was sure.
“Who also has a clear aim in view,” du Rau said. But it was never really that simple. Barklay had had a clear aim in view, jejune though it was. Vision is not enough, Douglas had said. Well, that was certainly true. He, too, had a vision. And no way to get to it.
He was so tired.
At last they returned to the rendezvous. The light in the overcast sky was dying, but the rain and wind had steadied. Again they descended to the lower decks of the Verlaker ship and passed across to his destroyer. Some of the Estuary Guard had been dismissed, and the remainder now lined the walls of the bay, snapping to attention as du Rau descended the short ramp to the deck.
Captain Speir was much less snappy in her response. She had to be helped to her feet by the corporal, her face now a gray that no painkiller tab would ease. His men had given her a folding chair and a box to prop her braced leg; even so, her foot had swollen badly and she had had to remove her shoe. The corporal held the shoe in one hand and steadied Speir by the arm with the other; he glared stolidly at du Rau as he reached the bottom. Du Rau stared coldly back. Blame your own countrymen who make all decisions by committee, he refrained from saying.
He strode across the deck with a vigor he did not feel, giving Speir’s escort room to descend. “Captain,” he said shortly, “you will be pleased to hear that we have reached an arrangement for the Berenian wounded to be transported from Ryswyck to this rendezvous. I am told by the latest relay that they are two hours behind us in the air.”
“That is very good news, Lord Bernhelm.” Speir’s firm, quiet voice and her deadly pallor mocked each other.
“Yes. Thank you for serving in this operation. You may now, if you please, be dismissed.” He half-turned away, but her answer stopped him.
“Thank you, sir. I will wait until your wounded arrive.”
“That is not necessary,” du Rau said. “I say that you may return to your ship.”
“With respect, sir.” Her lips were a short, thin line. “I will not allow you to remain here alone without someone to stand as security.”
Du Rau’s patience came to a sudden end. “Captain Speir,” he said, in an arid voice that made every Berenian in the room freeze, “you are not mine to command. But if you were, I would tell you to stop being an idiot and order you to stand down at once for medical treatment.” Speir glared feverishly at him; her men’s reactions flickered variously between relief and umbrage. “As it is, however, I can only give you my advice. I am sure that your escort would be only too happy to leave half of their number here as sufficient security for the remaining two hours of this rendezvous.”
There was a small silence. And evidently Speir’s sense of humor had not entirely deserted her, because she answered temperately, “I am much obliged to you for your advice, Lord Bernhelm. In fact I would happily take it, if I had the authority to leave my post early.”
“This is a Ryswyckian operation, is it not? I was under the impression that most of this rendezvous depended upon your word. You are half dead as it is. You can hardly continue to serve your country as a whole corpse.”
“It’s true I could only aspire to General Barklay’s service in such a state,” she returned.
Du Rau suppressed a twitch of the lips. “I feel certain General Barklay would have agreed that it is the other way around.”
Speir received this irascible compliment in a level silence. Then she said: “Lieutenant Ell. Go across and confirm that I am cleared for transfer, and get an update on the ETA of the transportees.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The lieutenant departed swiftly. He was back before Speir and du Rau broke their mutual gaze.
“You’re cleared to come across, Captain. And the transport is expected to reach the rendezvous in 92 minutes, ma’am.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant. Please choose enough of our number to help you stand security and oversee the transfer on this side of the rendezvous.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The men rearranged themselves for this adjustment—expeditiously, du Rau noticed. With her escort now behind her, Speir offered him a plain military salute, followed by a nod. “Lord Bernhelm.”
“Captain Speir.” But as she prepared herself to move, he stopped her. “Captain—”
“Yes?”
Multiple vantages, he thought. “What, to your view,” he said slowly, “would it take to make peace?”
Everyone in the room except for Alsburg—and Speir herself—submerged a movement of surprise. She thought about it for a long moment, studying his face.
“I don’t know, sir,” she said. “Hard enough to give up one’s rights. But to give up one’s wrongs as well—that’s a steep road on both sides to meet in the middle. It would be asking a lot at this hour. But I’m a soldier, not a diplomat, sir. I don’t know the answer.”
“I’m a soldier and a diplomat,” du Rau sighed, “and I don’t know either. Thank you for your perspective, Captain.” He turned away.
He had only got a few steps when she said impulsively: “Lord Bernhelm.” He stopped and turned his head, waiting.
“I would ask for a personal favor from you.”
Du Rau shut his eyes briefly. What he ought to do, he thought, is pretend he hadn’t heard her and continue out of the room. He didn’t. “A personal favor,” he repeated. “As opposed to, I take it, a political one?”
He turned further, to look at her. She quirked her head in a gesture of latitude.
“Captain,” he said wearily, “do you think there is a difference between the two?”
“Not really, I suppose,” she admitted. “But it does help that we don’t rank equally. You could stoop to do a favor for me. I could hardly stoop to do one for you.”
And not four hours ago Admiral Douglas had just argued the opposite. They could hardly have planned to box him in like this. Du Rau drew in a breath. Let it out. “What would you ask of me?” he said.
She said hardily: “My commanding officer, General Inslee, lies with his staff where he fell on the airstrip at Cardumel Base. If I have any favor with you, would you direct that their bodies be taken up and retired in some manner that fits a soldier’s dignity?”
Was Speir aware of just how much du Rau would have to spend out of his own dignity to fulfill that request? Yet he was awaiting his own wounded to be delivered to him, without having had to drive a bargain for them. There was no graceful way to re
fuse her. And if this started a cascade of protest at home, there would be very little he could do about that, either.
He stared at Speir intently for a long moment, thinking. She stared back gravely, and then said again: “If I have any favor with you, sir.”
She had a great deal more favor with him than he was going to admit. “What makes you think I would grant such a favor?” he demanded.
Speir shrugged. “It is what you would do yourself if you killed me. I can die very comfortably at the hand of someone with honor.”
Half the Estuary Guard had broken countenance and were staring frankly at her. And well they might. Why would you think that? I hung your friend from the Lantern Tower. And I’m not exactly sorry.
“And how if you came to kill me?” du Rau asked, with an edge.
“I would sing you a proper dirge,” she said. “And return honor for honor.”
“This is what you would propose as an alternative to peace?” He gave her a half-lidded look.
“Neither of us wants a cheap peace, sir,” Speir said.
Du Rau sighed deeply. Every cell in his body hurt. “Quite. Captain Alsburg. Go and present my commendation to the garrison occupying Cardumel Base. And my orders to retire the remains of General Inslee and his soldiers in some seemly fashion.”
“My lord,” said Alsburg with a dip of his head. But he didn’t move immediately.
“Now, please, Alsburg.”
“Yes, my lord.” He saluted and strode for the door.
“Thank you, sir,” Speir said, dropping formality to speak sincerely. “I am much obliged.”
“I really would prefer that you were not, Captain.”
Her lips quirked. “I will not claim so much equality with you then, sir, if you don’t wish it.”
“It is much, much too late for that, Captain Speir,” du Rau said. “Good day to you.”
He watched in silence as Speir’s escort gathered to help her move to the ramp. But even at the first step, she blanched and wavered; her aide had to hold her hard under the arm to stop her good knee from buckling. “Nothing for it, ma’am,” he murmured, “but to make you a basket like we did for the stairs.”
The struggle in her face lasted only a second. “Yes.”
Two of her soldiers came close, grasped each other’s wrists behind her, and ducked to take her arms over their shoulders. A third came to support her braced leg as they bore her up. She did not look at du Rau as they carried her over to the ramp; her bloodless face was bunched tight with the effort of not crying out. Then they were up the ramp and out of sight. In their wake the lieutenant was left with his chosen men, staring at du Rau from a relaxed attention.
Du Rau nodded at him. “Lieutenant.” He turned and left the bay at last.
Alsburg found him back in the room that had been given him as an office and berth, working at a portable console. “My lord,” he said hesitantly, glancing askance at the dispatch du Rau was reading from the projection, “shouldn’t I be doing that?”
“Under normal circumstances, yes,” du Rau answered. “But instead I will have you oversee the transfer of the wounded onto this ship and the evacuation from the rendezvous. You can come and get me if there are any problems, but I don’t anticipate there will be.”
Alsburg straightened. “Yes, my lord.”
“I will answer these communications from Wernhier and send ahead my next orders.”
Alsburg was trying to maintain an impassive mien, but it was clear to du Rau that he wished there were someone in a position to tell du Rau to stop being an idiot and stand down for rest and care. “Anticipating the strictures of Lady Ingrid and my closest staff,” he said dryly, “I intend to take some time to rest and assimilate what I have observed, when we reach Bernhelm.” That got a flush from Alsburg; du Rau went on. “Likewise, you will also have some leave to rest.”
“Whatever pleases you, my lord,” Alsburg said firmly.
“Your work pleases me,” said du Rau, and added before Alsburg could recover his balance, “Now go away.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Du Rau waited till Alsburg was out of the room and the door shut behind him. Then he rested an elbow on the console and his brow on the heel of his hand.
He shut his eyes and breathed with the swell of the sea.
16
Captain Marag collapsed upon his return from escorting the wounded enemy: faltered forward a few strides from the shuttle stair, stumbled, and splashed face-down in the barren grass of Ryswyck airfield, before his comrades could catch him. They dragged him up silent, sodden with mud and rain, and escorted him on their shoulders direct to Captain Wallis, who cleared a curtained bed in the infirmary for him and administered fluids and sedatives. Even with the burden of Berenian patients gone, there was still want for beds; but no one breathed a word of grudge for Marag.
Douglas was brought the news almost as soon as Marag was settled. He turned his steps toward the arena complex, but was waylaid by a report from his outposts on the state of the field; then interrupted in that by a fresh dispatch from Central Command, followed by a relay communication from Amity that a naval air unit was being sent to guard Ryswyck’s northern flank now that the ceasefire had expired. It took some time to consult with Stevens about the billeting and Beathas about the maps, and still longer to work his way back up the chain of interruptions, with the result that he did not go to see Marag till after dark.
The infirmary was by clinical protocol the brightest-lit suite on campus; still, one rank of lights had been put out over Marag’s bed, and a small clip-lamp beamed from the frame, shaded away until wanted. Marag looked asleep; Douglas drew up a stool without noise and settled on it, the first he’d sat down in hours.
Wallis had explained to him, in brief laconic terms, that Captain Marag was heartsick and exhausted, and needed rest away from his quarters and from the improvised sickbay on the sparring court where their own soldiers still groaned and cried. Wallis’s tone never changed, but Douglas took note of the black marks under his eyes. “Are you getting spelled for a sleep shift?” Douglas had asked.
“Are you?” said Wallis; and Douglas grunted and left it alone.
Douglas sat, breathing slowly, and watched Marag sleep. One hand lay near, over the blankets; the other arm, hooked up to a drip, was tucked under another blanket to keep it warm. His face looked grey, not like the face of a man in his thirties. From one moment to the next, he blinked his eyes open, dark weary pricks of light, and focused on Douglas.
“Sir,” he murmured.
“I meant to come sooner,” Douglas said softly. “I’m sorry.”
A faint shake of the head. “I shouldn’t be here. There’s work to do. I need to get up.”
Marag wasn’t actually stirring, but Douglas said anyway, “You’re not going anywhere, Captain. I need you well first.”
“A few hours I’ll rest, then.”
“You’ll rest till Wallis says you’re done resting. I can make that an order, if you like.”
Marag closed his eyes. The tiniest smile flickered across his lips, and was gone. “I’m sorry, sir.”
“You’ve nothing to be sorry about, Marag. You’ve done everything a commander could ask, and more.”
Marag’s eyes opened again. “It was harder,” he said. “Harder than I thought it’d be.” He turned his head to look into the distance; Douglas was reminded suddenly of Speir, spent with weeping on her bunk, seeking neutral space with her grieving gaze. “He showed me no contempt. Yet it was all I could do to show the smallest courtesy.” His voice sank to a whisper. “More costly than I thought.”
Yes. Douglas could not answer; there was no answer to make.
“But you.” Marag closed his eyes again, relaxing into the creases of his face. “You were magnificent. I knew you would be.”
I’m not, Douglas thought. Du Rau was right. I’m the youngest son of a North-country farmer, and I’ve been given charge of a whole division by mistake! He forced his hands
open in his lap and breathed down the spear of panic. Pushed aside the sudden mad urge to beg Marag to stand upright and direct him, comfort him, take away this miserable weight.
Marag’s eyes were open again, brighter now. “I’m sorry, Douglas. I failed you.”
Douglas shook his head. No.
“I failed you,” Marag said again, whispering.
He was not just talking about today’s collapse, Douglas knew: he was talking about all the steps he’d taken between Selkirk’s direct accusation and the moment he finally fell. And before that.
“No,” he said; but Marag wasn’t listening. His eyes were shut again, lids trembling; the faint lines at his temples were damp.
“I’m sorry.”
Douglas covered Marag’s hand with his own. “All’s well,” he said firmly. “As it has been.”
Marag shook his head. “No….” But he did not have the strength to articulate another accusation against himself.
In the silence Douglas moved his hand to Marag’s brow, smoothing his rumpled hair and coming to rest: another absolution. “Put it away now, Marag,” he said. “Don’t think of it any more. It’s well.”
Marag drew a small, shaking breath and let it out again. Douglas left his hand where it was; the touch grew warm. When he was sure Marag was asleep again, he lifted it away and got to his feet, muscle by aching muscle.
Out in the bright corridor, Douglas found that no new disasters had asserted themselves; it brought him only faint relief. He went back to his office and caught up on his messages; signed off on two new sets of orders; picked at a cup of soup a cadet bore in on a tray and then let it get cold while he read in a report to Selkirk under his securest code. After a while he went into not-Barklay’s quarters, in which he had not successfully slept in days, and lay down fully clothed on the bunk. It was still no use. Frustrated, he got up again, changed into training knits and shrugged on his fatigue overjacket, and went out to the arena complex.
