Hour of Judgement (14 page)

A fishing-book in the old sense of the term, or in the Dolgorukij sense of the term, a book of natural history, of pictures designed to educate. That was the excuse, at least; to educate — and to beguile, interest, arouse
. . .

He was leafing through the fishing-book when the knock came at the door, and the lady of the house came in. Distracted, Andrej did not stand when she crossed the threshold; and gestured toward the book that lay now open in his lap by way of an excuse, apologizing.

“Do you know, I had one of these, or one like it.” Well, not exactly like it, of course. One found in a corner of the library where historical curiosities were kept, an antique. Really. Antiquarian interest. Yes. “There is a gallery at Chelatring Side, where we went in the late part of the summers. My cousin Stanoczk to be bribed consented, to let me in, and Marana with me.”

There had been endless vigils to keep in penance afterward, when it had all come out. The vigils had done no good. They only gave him time, private time, quiet time, to meditate on the pictures he had seen in the Malcontent’s secret gallery at Chelatring Side, and Marana hand in hand with him, exploring. Experimenting.

The lady of the house had poured herself a dainty cup of rhyti, carrying it over to sit down beside him on the bed. She had changed her garments for bed-dress, and her robe was but loosely knotted around her waist.

Well.

He had not quite expected such an honor, and still it could be that he was mistaken to assume that she was to be his partner. She was the house-mistress, and engaged only for her own recreation, or to pay special honor to a patron. It was only that his fish was as beguiled by the pictures as by his passing memories of that afternoon with Marana in the Malcontent’s gallery, so long ago.

His fish would disgrace him, if he was not careful.

With luck she would not want to take the book.

“Let me see, young Anders,” the house-mistress suggested, reaching up her left hand to pull out a pin from the damp cloud of hair that lay loosely gathered against the nape of her neck. “Which is your favorite, here? I’ll show you mine. But you must show me yours, first.”

There was no mistaking the implication of that. She was mistress here; no need for delicate language, surely. “This is an outland fishing-book, not a Dolgorukij fishing-book. Else there would be much more of this sort of recreation to examine.”

He found the place where the couple who shared their transports for the pleasure of the beholders did so with the lady in her lover’s lap. It was not strictly true that there were more like that in a traditional Dolgorukij fishing-book. But absolutely true that a man who was Aznir did well to take a woman into his lap, if she was not herself also Dolgorukij.

“I’ve heard rumors of the sort.” Her exclamation was so calm as to almost be no exclamation at all. “About Dolgorukij men. My girls all wanted to know, but I’m their mother, I take precedence.”

Their figurative mother, needless to say. Or perhaps not. She was not a young woman; perhaps so old as he was, and that meant that it was not impossible that some of the girls — the younger ones especially — actually were children of her body.

Which in turn implied
. . .

“I am honored.” Andrej acknowledged it with all humility. “And can only trust to live up to what rumors you may have heard. If it can be done.”

She supped her rhyti demurely. Her hair was falling out of its damp knot, slowly, slowly tumbling down her back. She was Nurail, to look at her; she might well have borne her children under wretchedly primitive conditions. If no lover’s tuck had been taken after the birth of anyone
. . .
there were those who found a woman more desirable, rather than less, for the evidence of motherhood, but the point was that it might yet be that he could pillow himself upon her bosom as though she had been Dolgorukij after all, without fear of causing her an injury in an excess of enthusiasm.

“Fishing, you say.” Setting her cup aside; leaning over the look, leaning close beside him. Letting him feel the soft round of her shoulders, beneath her robe. “How is this ‘fishing?’ Explain yourself to me.”

Yes, he had called it by a Dolgorukij name, used a Dolgorukij phrase. Andrej blushed without being able to quite decide why. “In the language of my childhood a fish is as to say that part of a man which shows he is not female, and yet is not his beard. If he has a beard. I mean to say a chin-beard.” Because he did have that other kind of beard, though many Dolgorukij did not grow facial hair. He was getting fuddled. Had there been something in the bath-water?

Or was it simply that she smelled of the ocean, subtly so, faintly so, but sweetly and irresistibly so, so that his fish half-raised itself to listen for the glad sound of the surf?

“A fish.” She stared at him very frankly, and made no secret of her amusement. “A codling, then. Or perhaps a brook-trout. Bring you to me a salmon-fish, young Andrej? No, a tunny, yes, perhaps.”

He didn’t know what she was talking about — except in the general sense, of course. Which it was better to ignore, or he would not complete his explanation.

He put the book aside.

“There is in the life of a man a fish, which is rude and inconstant, but which knows one great piece of true wisdom.” Putting an arm around her Andrej helped her hair down, letting the tendrils curl around his fingers. Loving the smell of her. “And that is to seek the ocean, which is where all fish come from, to which therefore it is only natural for fish to wish to return.”

If he stroked the far side of her face very gently there was the chance that she could be persuaded to turn her face toward his, so that he could provide proper punctuation for his explanation as he spoke on. Explaining himself with kisses. She had a pleasant if somewhat cool taste to her mouth, flavored with rhyti. “It is the ocean we were all rocked in as infants yet unborn. Madame, my fish desires thy ocean.”

She wound her arms around his neck and considered his proposal for long moments as he kissed her mouth. It seemed to Andrej that there was the suspicion of a blush beginning to rise into her cheek, but it could just as well have been a shadow from the fireplace. There was no way to be sure.

Sighing — as if she were letting go of some anxiety — she let her hands fall away from his neck and shoulders.

Into his lap.

She slid one cool slim hand beneath the hem of his sleep-shirt and up his thigh with such an air of professional detachment that Andrej almost didn’t notice the gesture until she seized upon his fish, which had caused no trouble yet this evening for which it should be reproached in such a manner, and tugged at him indelicately.

“Is this then the terrible weapon from which all off-world women must flee in fear? Surely it cannot be so.”

That had been her point about codlings and tunny-fishes, then. In point of fact he was neither remarkable for size and girth or lack of either. At home it didn’t matter. A fish was a fish, and a burden no matter its particular rudeness or strength in leaping.

Only when he had left home for the surgical college on Mayon had Andrej discovered that there was an entire world of insult and one-upsmanship that could be draped around the fins of a man’s fish.

He had never had complaints from the ladies.

He would have nothing of the house-mistress’s impertinence now.

“Oh, let us by all means discuss this issue.” Her caress had not been sweet or tender, but it was still arousing in its utterly frank focus on what she could expect to concern her most immediately. Andrej didn’t really mind. “And when morning comes you will do me the kindness of declaring whether it is an honest fish or whether you have been disappointed in its vigor. Let us seal a bargain on it.”

“Well.” She had released her grip, but rested still with her hands laid flat atop his thighs beneath the sleep-shirt. “Far be it from me to deny your fish a chance to show himself a, well, a fish. And perhaps he only needs encouragement, shall I give him a kiss for an apology?”

Andrej’s fish stiffened and raised its head at the suggestion, greedy for affection as it always was. But Andrej would be stern. “We will have no apologies.” His fish was eager for a kiss, but more than one sort of a caress would soothe a fish. Fish had so little true discrimination. Such favors as she proposed were available to him at any time, whether or not he had ever indulged himself. “Favor me with your name, Madame. May I not call thee something other than the lady of the house?”

She had one great mystery to offer him that he could only share at intervals. She was the ocean to his fish. He would make his way to the sea, and lose himself in the salt depths of her, and drown there.

If he slipped one hand beneath the neckline of her robe he could put the robe down from her shoulders, on one side. She had very adequate shoulders, and Andrej sat and admired her nakedness shamelessly, stroking that smooth round curve with his left hand. Foreign women did not know what bared shoulders did to Dolgorukij. And the best of it was that their ignorance did not diminish the impact of their beauty.

“Fallon, then.” She’d put her head back, her eyes half-closed. Suffering herself to be caressed. But not pretending she did not enjoy it. “You may call me Fallon, since I’ve said Anders before this. Just for tonight. Give me your mouth when you do that, you make me as nervous as a cat.”

Yes, willingly.

The sound of the surf was in his ears. He could smell the ocean.

There was nothing in his mind but where he was and what he was to do, no reality beyond the simple truth of the joy of his body and the kindness of her hands.

For this eternity of an evening he could even forget he was Inquisitor.

Chapter Six

So this was what a Dohan Dolgorukij made of a Center House, Captain Lowden mused appreciatively, looking all around him. Normally standing in reception lines was not among his favorite occupations, but this time it was almost worth it — just to get an eyeful of the Danzilar prince’s decor.

“Who did you say?” Captain Lowden prompted, turning the gift-flask in his hands with the expected expression of impressed respect and gratitude. “Bermeled’s distillers? Of course. The pleasure is mine, I assure you.”

Clear-wall doors to the garden full two stories tall and more. Lighting fixtures made of spun glass and fractured crystal hanging in great glittering ice-blooms from long chains in the ceiling. Painted walls papered over with figured silk, and the pattern showing through from behind with jewel-like intensity and unnerving depth. Dance floors, three of them, laid on raised squares of resilient wood, and as many different octets of musicians playing the same tunes in variation in perfect synchronization so that the combined effect — coming at one from several different directions at once — was almost overwhelming.

That was it right there, in summary, Lowden decided.

Almost overwhelming. And just that necessary touch of restraint sufficient to keep it all coherent and splendid at once.

“You’re very kind. Permit me to introduce my First Officer, Mendez. Ralph, these are Sarif Pelar and her partner Chons, local representatives from Bermeled’s distillery.”

Center House was roaring with people, staff, servants, Security. Griers Verigson Lowden stood with the Danzilar prince at the front of the great foyer doing his duty, lending his presence and that of his officers to the reception line as Danzilar greeted his subject people and the hangers-on who hoped to make a profit under the new administration.

Lowden wished them luck of the attempt. Dolgorukij in trade were as ferociously efficient as his favorite little Aznir in torture, as if the thirst for mastery and the habit of dominion were a genetic determinant of the ethnicity. Maybe they were, Lowden mused, watching a senior businesswoman work her way up the long line to Danzilar’s position, a wide-eyed youngster in tow. Maybe if you reached the age of discretion without having demonstrated an instinctive grasp of the profit equation you were sold off as Sarvaw, or some similarly disgraceful fate.

“Dame Ranzil Tavart,” the majordomo whispered near Lowden’s ear, at his back. Just in case Lowden had missed the Danzilar prince’s cue. Lowden bowed, his mind half-distracted by the pleasingly substantial pile of booty that the majordomo was accumulating for him on a table against the wall. “Cordage and Textile” didn’t sound very promising from that angle, though; what little treats could a textile manufactory offer?

“Oh, and I understand you’ve had great success with recovering seed-stocks. Weren’t we told that those beautiful flowers in front of the House came from your greenhouses?” The polite phrases were automatic, and nobody really expected him to mean a bit of what he said. He didn’t have to think, just smile and speak a word, and smile again. Sickening.

“Ralph Mendez — my First Officer, here — is Santone, not much by way of flowers of any sort where he comes from, I’m afraid. What do you say, Ralph?”

Not as if Lowden cared one way or the other; no, of course not. But a man was expected to demonstrate his skill at managing the flow of traffic in a reception line. He certainly wasn’t going to be shown up by Danzilar, of all people.

Glancing around him at the crush, Lowden knew that he was genuinely impressed at what Danzilar had done with a few hours and a very great deal of money. There was no way in which Vogel would have overlooked the beautiful parquetry floor or the fine rich wood wainscoting in his final audit. Paval I’shenko had to have brought them. Bought them, brought them, laid the floor and hung the chandeliers, painted the walls and then papered over them, and all in the few hours between the final signatures on the formalization documents and the opening of the Center House for this reception.

“Well, no, I’m actually not. In fact I haven’t any relatives in that Sector. An orphan, sorry.” Two in a row with no presents. He could hear Chief Medical further down the line, talking with the textile people; and cocked an ear, curious.

“Very expertly done, Dame Tavart,” Koscuisko was saying. “If I may say so, the young lady has done us proud. Perhaps I may be permitted to impose further and dance with the daughter of the house, later on in the evening.”

In all, three of Lowden’s officers stood in the reception line, beside Lowden himself. Mendez, Two, and Andrej, who ranked lowest out of the Ship’s Primes on the scale of things. Lieutenant Wyrlann wasn’t required, since Lowden was here to represent Command Branch. The Engineer was back on
Ragnarok
with the Ship’s Second Lieutenant.

Lieutenant Wyrlann was in trouble, and Lowden meant to be sure that Wyrlann understood that.

This was going to be a spectacular party before it was finished; a real work-out. A reception, dinner, dancing, late supper, until finally the guests were dismissed to their homes over fast-meal. A man wanted for companionship to share such an event. Especially if a man was expected to uphold the Bench presence and be on his best behavior. Especially when a man was expected to make good the poor impression created by his miserable excuse for a First Lieutenant.

And it was going to cost Wyrlann at performance review time; but meanwhile — as a result of Wyrlann’s little lapse — relaxing, truly enjoying himself at the service center was all but out of the question. He’d have to mind his manners. There was little amusement to be found in that.

“What an unusual decoration. Is it an heirloom? No? A personal award? Sir, my very sincere congratulations. It’s also quite elegant, you know. And your respected companion as well, if I may say so.”

Oh, he’d end up at the service house before the evening was over. There was no question about that. But he’d have to restrict himself to a boring menu of basic exchanges. No spice, no heat to speak of.

Lowden turned the next in line over to Mendez, a question fighting its way up into his consciousness through the layer upon layer of polite social inanities in which he was so thoroughly submerged.

Where was Wyrlann?

The Lieutenant had successfully avoided him since they’d arrived, not that Lowden had been the least bit interested in seeking him out. There had been too much to do between making one last review with an eye to concessions, executing the final security transfer, and calling Koscuisko back from amusing himself with Paval I’shenko’s people — and Fleet’s pharmaceuticals, a minor irritation but a real one — at the charity hospital.

“Lowden. Jurisdiction Fleet Ship
Ragnarok
, commanding. No, we’re still on proving-cruise; it’s quite an experimental craft. Black hull technology.”

His joke on Koscuisko had gone flat before Koscuisko had even left the
Ragnarok
. So Wyrlann was going to have to fill the void left by the failure of Lowden’s prank.

“That’s the Intelligence Officer. We just call her Two because that’s her staff section, and no one can pronounce her name. We just insult her, trying. No, really, she’s almost perfectly harmless, it’s Koscuisko you’ve got to watch out for. Oh? No, trying to make a joke, I do apologize if I’ve given any offense.”

There were Security on display here, on loan as a symbol of Fleet’s power. But he was going to leave the bond-involuntaries alone. He had an arrangement with Koscuisko, and as long as Koscuisko continued to conform there was no percentage in violating his agreement; it would only destabilize his relationship with Chief Medical. Who was unstable enough already.

Lowden had called out Koscuisko’s bond-involuntaries particularly for duty at Danzilar’s party, as a gesture of goodwill toward Koscuisko. Bond-involuntaries were exotic and interesting. Much more liable than the run-of-the-mill Security to be beckoned into a dark corner by some curious and experimentally minded young woman, and no violation committed either, the requirements for ceremonial event Security being as liberally defined as they were.

He wouldn’t be surprised — Lowden told himself, cynically, picking out the straight and somber bodies posted around the far walls at precise intervals — if Security didn’t get as much exercise at parties like this as he planned to have at the service house. And free, too.

“Not at all, I would be delighted. You’re very kind.” This was more like it. The best way to meet new masters was with a gift in one’s hand, after all. It was Danzilar who was to be their new master; but Lowden appreciated tokens of respect for the Fleet and Bench every bit as much as the next man. It wasn’t as though any actual advantage would accrue to the donors, after all. “I understand that the best quality cortac brandy isn’t even available for purchase. It’s a distinct privilege to have a bottle.”

He was taller than most of Danzilar’s people; he could see over the heads of most of the crowd. He thought he saw Wyrlann at the drinks table, tossing back a thimbleful of wodac, holding out his glass for a refill. Lowden frowned. It was an impropriety for junior officers to approach food, let alone drink, while their seniors were still on reception line.

On one level, though, Lowden could understand why Wyrlann might wish to be drinking. It could well be that Wyrlann was still trying to decide what excuse he could provide for having done just as he’d been warned not to do, and breaking something while the Bench still had to pay to have it fixed.

“Well, there are always opportunities, and service in Fleet only rarely sets a career back. On balance, though, you might advise the Combine fleet. There is the Free Government problem to be considered. No, of course not, I didn’t mean to imply any such thing.”

The line seemed of people still waiting to be introduced seemed to stretch on forever.

When this was over he was going to want to have a drink. And then he had a word or two to say to his First Lieutenant.

###

Skelern Hanner climbed the shallow white stone stairs from the now-dark garden lawn to the veranda that ran the length of the outside of the Danzilar prince’s great dancing-hall. The lights that they’d placed at the lawn’s perimeter were each of them worth the sum of eight years’ pay, and it wouldn’t do to embarrass the Danzilar prince by failing to use them to their best effect. Soft yellow glimmerers, glowing in the darkness, beautiful and welcoming in the night
. . .
it was full dark, but it wasn’t cold yet. Not too cold. Not yet.

Scanning the arc of golden light with a critical eye Hanner tested the curve against the measure in his mind’s eye and found no fault. It was beautifully done. It was beautiful.

Full clear-wall behind him, and the party going on. White stone veranda extending five, seven paces between the clear-walls and the steps; a series of shallow white steps, like a beach, like the shore of the sea sloping down to the water, an ocean of lawn.

The light at the back of the cove of new grass shimmered like the lights that shone from the far shores of Carrick Sound. The delicate blooms frothed up like spume in waves against the lights, which not only showed their luxurious profusion but drew out the sweet scent of young marbat blossoms in the early dark.

The lamps would keep the garden warm, at least at their level. With luck the frost would not come hard tonight and the blossom would live to set fruit, and bloom again next year.

Three weeks of hard labor, well used, well fed, well housed — and well worked. Three weeks, all leading up to tonight, and all of the money and all of the labor just to show a pleasant vista from inside, looking out.

And they couldn’t even see out, not clearly. Could they? It was light inside, brilliant, white light glittering from faceted hanging-lights and reflected in glassware and mirrors. Surely they would not even know that the garden was there, but by the same token Skelern Hanner could see into the room clearly from outside where he stood on the broad veranda.

He had to get to the back of the house. His tools lay ready, waiting, cleaned and assembled, on the path going back. There was to be a party for them as well tonight, a party for them as had broken their backs for the Danzilar’s garden. Plenty to eat and drink, and a three days’ paid holiday afterward on top of their bonuses. The Danzilar was generous, and labor was cheap, but a party was nice.

Still Skelern stood.

No one would see him from inside, standing there; they would see only their own reflections. It was too dark outside. Nobody would take offense at him watching the privileged folk, not just for a minute.

And then he saw Sylyphe.

Dancing with the torturer, with Black Andrej, a man with so much Nurail blood on his hands — and yet the same man who had helped to make it right for poor Megh, the only man who had been able to make it right with her. And had cried vengeance on behalf of murdered Nurail against the Domitt Prison, but dancing with the little daughter of the Tavart, his Sylyphe —

Mute with misery Skelern stood and stared. It was the black of the officer’s uniform that had caught his eye at first, and now he couldn’t take his eyes off the two of them, following them as the figures of the dance carried them into clear space and then concealed them behind the bodies of the lookers — on once again.

His Sylyphe?

Never his.

A man like Koscuisko could well mate with Sylyphe. Buy her from her mother in the manner of a great prince, pay the bride-price. Take her to his home and into his bed, and breed children of his body within her sweet little belly, sons and daughters with blond hair and pale eyes that had no color to them to suckle at her breast and call her “lady Mother.”

A man like Koscuisko had a natural right to take such as Sylyphe to be his bride. It was the way of things. People should keep to their own place. It made life much simpler and more bearable; so why did his flesh crawl at the sight of Koscuisko’s hand around her narrow waist, why did the sight of Koscuisko’s beautiful smile and Sylyphe’s rapt admiring gaze make his blood boil?

His Sylyphe.