Ryswyck

by L D Inman

“Yes, my lord,” said Wernhier.

  “Thank you.” With a long sigh du Rau put the wine glass on the desk and stretched to his feet. Wernhier rose with him. “I am going to bed. The command post is yours. Rouse me if there are any changes in the situation.”

  “Certainly, my lord.”

  “Good night, Lord Admiral.” Du Rau went out into the gallery. It was just past sunset; the glory of the upper windows had died, leaving Lady Wisdom and her lantern to watch over the palace. Comforted by her gaze, du Rau went down to his rooms.

  ~*~

  That night du Rau dreamed, and knew he was dreaming.

  He was back in that wretched concrete room, crumbling with gray dust, facing his enemy once again. But he looked up, and it was not Barklay he faced, but Speir. And it was not he who had the knife, but she. She lunged, and his solar plexus took the hit, to the hilt. Their eyes met over the knife; she pulled it out of him, and he expected a red flood, but it was fine and clear. Water: a more desperate loss than blood, he thought. He tried to stanch it with his hands, helplessly. Speir had a cup now and not a knife—a wine glass, or a clay cup, or both at once. She pushed the cup past his hands to catch the flow.

  Then she was holding it brimming in both hands, lifting it to his lips. The taste was a shock: sweet golden wine, such as he had never tasted; could never taste. It could not have come from him. It was like drinking sweet light itself, and he felt drowned in shame. His hands covered hers and moved the cup so that she too could drink. She tasted it and the light came into her face, so reviving that he thought she must have been dead before. She smiled at him.

  This is not what I am, he said to her, such bald truth that he could not even weep over it.

  It didn’t seem to matter to Speir. She moved past him to pick up Lady Wisdom’s lantern where it had sat under a drift of unstirred dust. She came back with it and took his hand. Let’s get out of here, she said.

  They went out, and down, not into the barren flats outside the factory, but into a garden in darkness. Above the lantern, the stars sang their silent song: as Speir turned, her light caught shadows wreathing them about, creeping, malevolent. Don’t be afraid of them, she told him.

  He was afraid. He knew the shadows hated them. The shadows would try to destroy their work.

  Yes, Speir agreed, it will be difficult. But you needn’t be afraid of them, you know.

  She held up the lamp, and her eyes sparkled.

  We’ve already won, she said.

  17

  Speir tried to struggle awake. But she could not get through the fire. She glowed with the fever of pain, a downdraft that pressed her toward the earth, her bones turning to spindled black cinders. She was attended by medics in drab who spoke words over her head and pricked her with sedatives that dulled her but scarcely touched the roaring pain that consumed her.

  There was no way to get outside of it, or away from it: it was like malice incarnate, eating at her soul and making her into more of itself. They had to tie her hands down to keep her from flailing, and that was what broke her courage at last. She knew the sound of weeping was coming from herself, begging, abject, helpless, and tried to swallow it back but could not. It was dangerous to cry so; it was bound to attract hatred and contempt, and when it came it would find her tied down and helpless.

  At some point she was given a tethered button to press for more painkilling narcotics, which did little except to knock her to the bottom of consciousness, and she pressed it over and over until she traveled past the dosage limit, leaving the medicine behind like a solid promontory while she kept going, out into the depths of burning air.

  She seemed to fall out of time, out of the solid world altogether. It gave her no surprise then when she opened her eyes and her father was sitting somberly in the chair next to her bed. He must have heard her crying for him. He looked at her silently. His eyes were sad, but they saw and recognized her, and grief tore her open. “I’m sorry.” Her voice was wept down to a hoarse croak for a wail. “I’m sorry.”

  “Oh, Nini,” he said. “I didn’t want you to know this.” He could not touch her. He could not help her, any more than she could help him. Still she struggled, with some notion that she might sit up and talk to him properly. But then she opened her eyes and he was gone, replaced by the solid movements of another medic, drawing another dark curtain of drugs over her.

  Another time she opened her eyes, dizzy and sick; the pain had receded a little, for the moment, and Barklay had come in to keep watch with her. He was wearing the full regalia she and Emmerich du Rau had dressed him in. “You’re not really here,” Speir slurred.

  “No,” he agreed, “I’m fully given over. You see I didn’t waste it.”

  “No—” she tried to smile— “you didn’t.” The pain was coming back, and with it the fever. “Help me, Barklay,” she whispered, “I can’t—”

  “I’m so sorry,” Barklay said. His warm blue eyes welled with tears. “Please…please. Don’t cry. It will be all right. I won’t hurt you anymore.” He reached for her, as if she were the prisoner of war he had tried to save. But there was no saving her, and then he too was gone, before his touch could reach her.

  ~*~

  Commander Cameron arrived at Ryswyck in the early afternoon, leading her team from Amity that would coordinate the air support from the base. Douglas could see Stevens coming back with her across the tower quad from the airfield, her subordinates in tow with their duffels; they were talking intently. But then, “Stand by,” said the operator at Central One, and Douglas had to turn away from the windows back to his desk.

  Selkirk had not remained on the line after Douglas’s call with du Rau ended. His ominous absence stretched into several unnerving hours of silence, but Douglas had not sought to contact him. Either Selkirk would forgive Douglas or he wouldn’t. Nevertheless he was apprehensive when he’d got the message to expect a call from Central shortly; he knew he was about to find out whether he’d ended his own career.

  But when Selkirk appeared on the projection he was calm and hale, as if he had finally gotten some rest. “Admiral,” he said, his voice grave and without irony.

  “So then,” Douglas said, “are you firing me, my lord?”

  Selkirk was unfazed by the question. “I wanted to. But I took time to think it over and decided it would not be wise. I think you have realized now,” he said, “how du Rau obtains his advantages in these situations.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Douglas had been shaky in the joints for a full hour after that call.

  “He’s going to make occupation of Ryswyck a condition of his withdrawal.”

  “Yes, my lord,” Douglas said. “Have you got a countercondition to put forward?”

  “I’ve thought of one or two things.” Douglas was obviously out of Selkirk’s confidence now. He was sorry about that, but he knew it couldn’t be helped.

  “There was nothing else I could do,” he said, softly.

  “No,” Selkirk agreed, “there wasn’t. That was the conclusion I finally came to. Because there’s really nothing du Rau could do either. What was it you said to him, that he has not forgotten?”

  “I said a number of things,” Douglas answered thoughtfully, “but I think he was referring to the answer I gave him when he asked what it would take to make peace.” Selkirk waited for him to elucidate. “I said I doubted it could be done, that he would not be able to withdraw without something to show for it, and we would not be able to let a violation of our sovereignty go without reprisal.”

  “So he proposes a violation of Ryswyck’s sovereignty instead.”

  “Something like that, my lord.”

  “It’s a fragile fiction,” Selkirk said, “to suppose that Ryswyck and Ilona are not the same thing.”

  Douglas was amused. “Is it, my lord?”

  “Well,” Selkirk answered, “answer me this, Douglas. Just how hard do you anticipate it will be to bring your Ryswyckians around to hosting a permanent Berenian delegation?”
r />   Douglas’s mouth twisted. “It’s going to be difficult,” he admitted.

  “There you have it,” Selkirk said.

  “Do you think it will seem like enough of a concession to satisfy du Rau’s people?” Douglas asked.

  Selkirk shrugged. “Don’t know. That’s his problem. Mine is going to be supporting and redeveloping a school I swore to destroy. Before a councilful of witnesses, if you recall.”

  “I haven’t forgotten, my lord,” Douglas said quietly.

  “I am aware that you have given thought to how you would shape Ryswyck’s future as a school for officers. You and I will need to sit down in conference and discuss that in detail.”

  “Yes, my lord,” Douglas said.

  “If I’m going to be responsible for Ryswyck’s future success, I will be taking a more direct hand in its operations and curriculum. And in choosing teaching staff. Do you have a quarrel with that?”

  “Well, my lord, that depends. Are you going to send me people who ignore the big picture and sabotage courtesy?”

  Selkirk huffed a weary sigh. “Sending Jarrow was a strategic error, Douglas. Not my play for sabotage. And in case you weren’t listening, I now have an interest in Ryswyck Academy’s stability and success.”

  “That being the case, my lord, the people you send to teach here must be willing to commit to courtesy as their supreme motivation. You will want them to gather information about the Berenians and maintain our security and keep you informed about our work here, but the instant they decide that courtesy will not serve for those ends,” Douglas said, “is the instant they fail their mission.”

  Selkirk did not argue, only made a pursed hmmm sound. Douglas took a breath and went on.

  “And anyone you send will also have to be embedded within our chain of command. I can’t answer to you through them by proxy. That won’t work.”

  “No, that I agree with,” Selkirk said. “To delegate our contest of wills would simply be to multiply it. And my headaches along with it.”

  “I’m not contrary for the joy of it, my lord.”

  “No; you’re just extremely single-minded. There are,” he conceded with a roll of the eyes, “worse things to work with.”

  Douglas felt his lips twitch. “I do not fail to appreciate your forbearance, my lord.”

  “I hope not. I am using a lot of it. Am I going to regret trusting you?”

  “No, my lord,” Douglas said. As he spoke he saw Cameron look in through the doorway. He gave her a quick nod.

  “You can brief me after you’ve met with your council,” Selkirk said, with another sigh. “I’ll make sure you’re kept abreast.”

  “Yes, my lord. Thank you, my lord.”

  Douglas ended the call and got up from his desk. Seeing he was free, Cameron stepped in and gave him a sharp salute, Ilonian military fashion. “Commander,” he acknowledged. When he got nearer, he saw that she had a shadowed, wizened look akin to Marag’s, complete with the same determined poise. Something had dealt her a great inner blow, and he didn’t think it was simply that Amity had been as beleaguered as Ryswyck. Instinctively he reached for her; her steely look wavered, and they found themselves clasping one another fiercely.

  “Ach, Cameron,” he said against her hair, his eyes closed, “what strong medicine you are.”

  She gave a little, meaning puff of breath in reply. When she spoke, her voice was low and unstrained as always. “When the news came of the attack on Cardumel, I thought you and Speir were dead. I found out otherwise almost immediately—but—it’s good to see you.”

  “It’s good to have you here,” he said, as they pulled apart. “Did Stevens get you settled?”

  “Aye,” Stevens said, looming in the doorway behind Cameron. “I’ve got the whole crew their billets.”

  “Good. Stevens,” Douglas said, “I need you to call a council of all the senior cadre. Everyone, if it can possibly be managed. Don’t forget Wallis. Cameron, you are invited to participate.”

  She nodded, eyes intent on his face. Stevens said, “What’s going on, sir?”

  Douglas shrugged. “It may come to nothing. But I need to talk to them.”

  ~*~

  When Speir bobbed to the surface of consciousness again, it was Jarrow sitting hunched in misery at her bedside. He seemed to be wearing a dark robe, and she saw burn scars on his face. She thought: he must be dead as well. “Commander Jarrow,” she murmured.

  “Not Commander any more,” he said, with a bitter twist at his lips. “I’ve had a medical discharge. I shouldn’t even be here. But they won’t let me go properly. I suppose it doesn’t matter. I’ve no one to sing my dirge anyway.”

  “I would.” She had strength for only a whisper, but her words seemed to pummel him with shock.

  “You wouldn’t,” he accused. “What am I to you?”

  “What would you like to be?” She knew he had come here out of need, and in her state it seemed easy enough to offer help to a ghost of her own making. Everything else was impossible, after all.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “My family is dead, and I have no friend.”

  “You have me,” Speir said.

  “You can’t be my friend.” Jarrow looked as if he were about to cry, though the rictus was masked by his disfigurement. “I wronged you.” He made it sound like another accusation.

  She managed a faint smile. “That doesn’t signify. Friends wrong each other all the time. It’s what you do after that counts.” She watched him, curling around himself as if his misery were a precious pendant on his solar plexus. “Do you want me for your friend?”

  He nodded hesitantly.

  “Well then,” Speir said, and fell asleep.

  ~*~

  “The good news,” Douglas said, “is that we can prolong the ceasefire and may be able to make it possible for Berenia to withdraw.”

  “And what’s the bad news, sir?” Wallis had come, as much to attend Marag as the meeting. Marag was out of bed and in fresh navy fatigues, but was ordered to stay on light duty; Stevens and Douglas were picking up an extra half-shift by turns to cover him. He was at the table looking faintly mutinous, but had not put up a serious argument for being allowed back on full rotation.

  “The bad news,” Douglas said frankly, “is that dying would be a lot easier.”

  He looked round the table, at the senior staff that was now his in truth: the trust and the responsibility lay in the palm of his hand like a ripening plum. There were gaps in his staff that had not been there at the beginning of the invasion: a few killed in the fighting, some now injured and under care in the infirmary. They looked grim and tired, but no longer raveled; the two days of full rations and sleep shifts had done some good.

  “Lord Commander Selkirk has given me leave to lay the position before you,” Douglas went on. “Thanks to the successful launch of Ilona’s missile program, Berenia’s encroachment has been brought to a halt, and more than that, the southern trading nations have taken alarm and made noises about intervention. Berenia was counting on their withheld involvement, so they are now under pressure to come to terms with us on their own.”

  “They’re bound to want more than their rights,” growled Hallett from the other end of the table.

  “They’ve the right to get off our shores,” someone else said. “We could generously offer not to shoot them as they leave.”

  There was a low murmur of agreement. Douglas nodded. “A widely-shared and reasonable sentiment,” he said. “I feel the same myself. There’s a problem, though. If Lord Bernhelm orders an unconditional withdrawal, he’s bound to face resistance at home. If he loses his government, the faction that seizes power will likely restart the fighting; and then it’s just a matter of time before the southern intervention arrives on both sides of the strait, and our homes will no longer be our own.”

  “So then,” Beathas finished gently, “we will be obliged to make some sort of concession to them. Does Lord Commander Selkirk say what that’s likel
y to be?”

  Douglas took a breath and fitted his hands together palm to palm. “There’s a long-shot possibility,” he said. “A variation on the hostage arrangement we made to bring du Rau to Ryswyck.”

  In the pause following Douglas’s words, Marag sat suddenly upright. “They’re proposing Ryswyck itself as the hostage,” he said, in a voice of utter dismay. “Aren’t they?”

  Douglas looked at him silently. Protests broke out up and down the table.

  “If this is Selkirk’s way of burying us—”

  “The whole point of keeping them off this campus is to protect the capital—”

  “It’s as good as no withdrawal at all. They could stuff us full of spies and undermine Central’s position within the year!”

  “And if we’re not to function as a school, what exactly would be the use of us here?”

  This last was heard by everyone, as the angry mutters subsided. “I do have an answer for that,” Douglas said. “If this solution is actually agreed upon and implemented, Lord Commander Selkirk has engaged to reopen Ryswyck Academy and support its development.”

  “So it wouldn’t just be Berenia holding Ryswyck hostage,” Stevens said, grimly.

  Douglas shook his head. “No, that’s not the case. The actual proposal as suggested by Lord Bernhelm is that he send a delegation of senior officers and trainees to Ryswyck. To be educated alongside our own.”

  The silence that followed this was empty of time, like the stillness after the toll of a bell.

  Douglas went on. “All of the dangers you just mentioned still obtain. Berenia would have no trouble collecting information about the disposition of Ilonian assets and changes in our personnel. If hostilities resumed they would be well-placed to usher in another spearhead attack. Our independence as an institution would be at best more closely hedged by Central Command. And, if having Emmerich du Rau here for three hours was costly courtesy, maintaining a house of courtesy with Berenians at close quarters may well cost more than we have to give. I refused to pledge Ryswyck’s commitment to the proposal without your consent—without everyone’s consent. If Ryswyck does not give it,” he said, “I will continue to refuse.”