Hour of Judgement (19 page)

“Please, Uncle, please Uncle
. . .
it was only Sylyphe, I couldn’t stop watching. I can’t bear longer, maybe it’s better — oh, take me to death — ”

Hanner was not thinking. To confess now would be to be relieved of pain, but only temporarily. And for Andrej to permit Hanner to confess at all would be a sin, as well as an error: because Hanner was innocent.

Andrej knew that now.

What had Captain Lowden said to him, about confession?

It had been important.

Crossing the room to the door at an unsteady jog Andrej shouldered it open to hail the Security who stood on watch outside. Or sat on watch, but he wasn’t going to be difficult about it, it had to have been difficult enough to keep watch at all outside the courtroom, empty as it was. Sound would carry.

“His Excellency requires?”

It was Janisib, his Jan. All to the good. “A medical team, and immediately, Jan. Also to the Port Authority call for an escort, but to the hospital first. There is no brief. This prisoner is innocent.”

He didn’t wait for an answer. He wasn’t interested in discussing the issue. Turning back into the wide cold room Andrej closed the door again with a decisive clicking of the latch; and made his way across the floor to where Skelern Hanner lay. Hanner cried out to himself when he saw Andrej coming; Andrej didn’t know how much more of Hanner’s anguished fear he could abide, not now, not now that he knew that Hanner was not for him.

His fish didn’t know.

His fish thirsted for the caress of Hanner’s cries.

And fish had the power to cloud men’s minds with the thought of the ocean. How else was he to understand how he had spent these hours with Hanner, and never once asked himself the obvious question?

There were painkillers in his field interrogations kit, but hardly enough of them. Andrej approached Hanner with a dose, but Hanner was afraid of the dose, and the persuasiveness of Hanner’s terror was almost more than Andrej could stand.

“Sh, there is nothing, not any more.” Could Hanner hear him? Could Hanner understand? “It is an anodyne. We are well past the time of testing, Hanner, the drug has not failed. You will be released, and you will go to hospital, but for now you must try very hard for me. To be quiet.”

The ocean was made of salt water, and to drink in the imagination only made a man more desperate for the draught. His gentlemen understood. But his gentlemen were not here.

“Ex. Len. Sie,” Hanner sobbed aloud, through obediently clenched teeth. “I. Don’t under. Stand.”

Loose the cord around Hanner’s throat. Loose the manacles around Hanner’s wrists. The medical team would take — how long? There were not very many mobile units. And there was a party going on in one form or another across the greater part of Port Burkhayden tonight. He needed a blanket to cover Hanner, to keep him safe from cold and shock until the medical team arrived.

“Hush. Rest yourself. It has been a mistake. You were right all along.” There was no chance of an apology, no. But under the circumstances the fact that the error had been discovered in time would have to do. It had been a close thing. Hanner had been close to confessing a fault that he had not committed, and — Andrej asked himself — would he have understood the difference? As urgent as his fish was for its playground?

Hanner was naked, Hanner would get cold. Andrej fetched his over-blouse from the back of the chair they’d set out for him and draped it carefully over the worst of the whipping. “I am only going to see about a cover for you, Hanner. I’ll be back. Don’t try to move. You will be safe now.”

Once Andrej had but spoken to the Port Authority Hanner would be safe. And not before: but Hanner need not know that.

“I can’t fault you for wanting her, but please.” Hanner’s voice arrested Andrej in mid-flight, halfway across the room. Hanner spoke in a lisping sing-song characteristic of the euphoria that pain-ease could create. “She’ll pine if she’s to go from her garden. Oh, please.”

Whatever that meant.

He would have to carry the news to Captain Lowden —

But first.

There was something that Andrej had to do, first.

If only he could remember what it had been before it was too late.

Chapter Eight

Ordinarily the staff gynecologist was not an emergency services physician, and wouldn’t be found pulling duty past midnight. But the public-funded here at Port Burkhayden was still too grossly understaffed for such considerations to be honored, and Barit Howe had more of a general grounding in trauma than many in his specialty. It came from the years he’d spent assisting Inquisitors in Secured Medical, inflicting trauma at the direction of a superior officer.

Also since he had those years behind him Howe figured himself for the natural choice, if someone was to go speak to Andrej Koscuisko.

“All right,” he said, low-voiced, to his transport team. “Safe to load. I’ll just speak to the officer, carry on.” Or carry out. Out of this room, Koscuisko’s ad-hoc torture chamber, what had once been Judicial chambers. A way from Koscuisko.

The officer himself sat with his back to the wall, well apart, a bottle of overproof wodac in one hand and an unreadable expression on his face. Barit knew it was overproof wodac, which made him a little concerned about the fact that Koscuisko was nearly halfway into it already. Overproof wodac was poisonous. But Koscuisko was Dolgorukij.

“Your Excellency,” Howe called out, firmly, and approached Koscuisko where he sat. “You’re to come to hospital, sir? We’re ready to transport.”

He wasn’t quite sure whether he was asking Koscuisko or telling him. That would be funny in a little while. Right know he didn’t yet know whether he had a problem.

Koscuisko started a bit, as if surprised to be spoken to. Koscuisko was drunk, or Koscuisko should be well on his way, with half a bottle of overproof wodac under his belt. Or waistband. Whatever. Koscuisko didn’t sound particularly tipsy, for all that.

“I must to the Port Authority rather go,” Koscuisko said. No slurring. No halting; no particular lack of control over the pitch or pacing of his speech. “How is Hanner? I fear for his future, if the shoulder has been too badly compromised.”

From another Inquisitor this might have been a plea for reassurance, a petition for kind soothing words about how the prisoner really wasn’t all that badly hurt, or had only gotten exactly what he deserved. Barit couldn’t read anything of the sort, coming from Koscuisko. Koscuisko was talking to him plainly, man to man, without excuse or apology: one professional to another, and no pretense between them.

“Looks as though the officer meant to go for a fracture?” Barit asked, carefully. It would help if they knew how Koscuisko had approached the traumatic event. All in all Koscuisko had been remarkably careful with his prisoner, in light of the charges and the amount of time Koscuisko had been working on the man. Barit was impressed. Koscuisko knew what he was doing.

“No, I thought to put the crozer-hinge out of joint.” Koscuisko’s explanation sounded perfectly rational, but Barit was worried about it regardless. Hanner was Burkhayden Nurail. Hadn’t Koscuisko known? “And splintered the bone rather. I am an idiot, Mister Howe. I should have realized hours ago.”

All right, Koscuisko had made a mistake. Koscuisko was not perfect. The fathomless depths of self-disgust and loathing that seethed beneath the surface of Koscuisko’s calm recitation were frightening to behold. Above all else Barit didn’t want to fall in. And Koscuisko had done less to harm his prisoner, these hours past, than a lesser torturer might have done in half the time; Koscuisko could afford the error. He had ample margin.

“Better late than never, sir.” Wait, that wasn’t a particularly graceful thing to say, was it? Fortunately Koscuisko had lifted the wodac bottle to take a pull at its narrow mouth, and did not seem to have noticed the clumsiness of the attempted reassurance. “The Port Authority, you said, sir.”

“Yes, absolutely.” Koscuisko lowered the bottle, and frowned. “This is a defective flask. See, it is near empty . . . Yes, I must to the Port Authority go, Mister Howe. The Captain has cried the offense against Skelern Hanner, I must be sure the gardener is protected under law before I tell Captain Lowden of the disappointment. He is to be very displeased with me, I’m afraid. I do not look forward to it.”

Unfortunately, Koscuisko’s nonsensical phrasing made sense. Barit Howe had heard rumors about Fleet Captain Lowden that made Andrej Koscuisko look like a paragon of ethical behavior. The officer wanted to go on Record about Hanner’s innocence before Captain Lowden found out, and for that the officer had to go to the Port Authority. Barit wondered what it was that made Koscuisko so certain of Hanner’s innocence.

“We’re away, then, sir. If his Excellency will excuse me.”

“Have I said extract of allock?” Koscuisko asked suddenly. “Nine units per body weight. Based on estimation I went eleven and three, with another ten and six to follow up after the first two eights had elapsed. It is a sizable dose, and you know how stubborn extract of allock is to metabolize. Have you sufficient sansanerie for his pain?”

Because with that much allock in his system the standard anodyne would be close to useless. Barit bowed. “We’ll find enough, sir, I promise. Is there anything else?”

Koscuisko held the bottle up to the light, squinting suspiciously at the fluid in the bottom quarter of the flask. “Tell them to bring wodac.” Barit couldn’t decide whether Koscuisko was actually answering him or not. “I need to go to the Port Authority. And I want a bottle of wodac. This one is not working, someone has adulterated it.”

They were lucky to have gotten the word on the speak-serum. He wouldn’t have guessed allock. Koscuisko had clearly been determined to give his prisoner a fighting chance of standing the test and living through it: he hadn’t cheated with the speak-serum.

It had been well done of Koscuisko, in a sense, even if the pressure Koscuisko had brought to bear had more than made up for the relatively benign action of the speak-serum. Hanner would not be crippled. And Hanner would not be put to death, either, or at least not for the murder of the Fleet Lieutenant.

His emergency team had already cleared the room; Koscuisko’s people were waiting a little uncertainly at the door. None of them were green-sleeves. Barit had wondered what they were doing there.

“He says he wants wodac,” Barit advised the senior man, a tall Shikender woman whose fine clear features were set now in a grimace of concern. Barit could only suppose they knew how to handle Koscuisko on a drunk; they were his people, after all, whether or not they were bond-involuntaries. Weren’t they?

What he didn’t know was how aware they might be of what else seemed to be going on in Koscuisko’s mind. “If you don’t mind my saying so. I’d keep a careful eye out. Not as though I think I need to teach you your job, mind you.”

He didn’t want to insult anybody. He would have been much happier about leaving Koscuisko to get to the Port Authority had these Security been bond-involuntary. But he had a patient. And Koscuisko was not his officer, after all.

“Thanks.” The senior Security troop was frowning through the open doorway at the dark slumped figure of Andrej Koscuisko in his chair, emptying a bottle of overproof wodac. Koscuisko had put his over-blouse back on, but he hadn’t fastened it. And his over-blouse had been soaked with blood from Hanner’s back. Koscuisko hadn’t seemed to notice. “We’ll keep it in mind.”

With a patient waiting, and with a keen appreciation for the fact that these people knew Koscuisko as he could not pretend to, Barit Howe knew he had to be content with that. That was all he could do. The limit of his authority. The extent of his influence.

That, and to get a call in to the Port Authority, and let the people on staff there know that Koscuisko’s people might need some assistance in dealing with their officer.

Assistance: and if it could be managed, a bottle or two of overproof wodac.

###

Stildyne worked his way through the shadows and the service corridors around the periphery of Danzilar’s great glittering dancing-arena collecting people one by one, alerting others. If he was going to have a problem he needed for it to be well contained; and well concealed, of course. Robert would have seen him coming: Robert knew how to watch, and what to watch for.

Mendez had been right about the man. Even from across the room Stildyne had been able to tell that Robert wasn’t in top form immediately, while Robert for his part had reacted to making eye contact with an expression that seemed almost one of fear.

Robert surely had no reason to be afraid of him, no serious reason, not as long as Andrej Koscuisko stood between them both; and in point of fact the only thing Stildyne had against Robert St. Clare was Andrej Koscuisko. There was no reason why the man should be so white in the face on his account.

As Stildyne came up quietly from the safe dim passageway behind Robert he could see that Robert was actually shaking as he stood. Robert’s light gray duty blouse was black between his shoulders, stained with sweat. Worse than he had guessed. Not good at all.

“Robert. Would you come with me for just a moment, please.”

He knew Robert had seen him coming, and had heard him approaching through the corridor behind his back. Yet Robert gave a start, as if surprised; and stamped one foot hard, flat upon the floor, as if he’d been a nervous yearling racer. Turning slowly, without speaking, Robert followed Stildyne’s pointing hand into the small as-yet-unfurnished private room at the opposite side of the service corridor, and waited there — facing the wall — while Stildyne checked to ensure that the others were in place before he followed in his turn, closing the door. He had the corridor sealed as far as necessary. He wanted to be sure that there would be no interruptions.

The door-latch clicked, and Robert started again, his trembling more evident now than before. Robert was bond-involuntary, and his governor had never been quite right. There was a distinct possibility that it chosen this particular time and place to slip out of tolerance; which was a very unpleasant thing to happen to a man, even in return for the years of relative freedom Robert had enjoyed as a result of its diminished function.

“Turn around and talk to me, Robert; you don’t look well. Are you all right?”

He had to be careful, because he didn’t know for certain what was going on. He had to be compassionate, because sometimes Robert could not bear up under disapproval, and there was nothing to be gained from tormenting a man who was at the mercy of imposed constraint. But mostly he had to take good care of Robert because of Koscuisko. He took good care of all of them; Koscuisko did not play favorites. But Koscuisko had favorites. There was nothing anyone could do about that, and nothing in particular wrong with it, either.

Robert had not yet moved, had not yet spoken. Stildyne went up to him, to take his shoulders in what he hoped would be a reassuring gesture. “Can you tell me what is happening to you, Robert?”

But the moment Stildyne touched him, Robert cried out. Not loud, but high-pitched and hoarse and desolate, falling down heavily onto his hands and knees on the floor. Crouching swiftly down beside him Stildyne tried to see how bad it was; he wasn’t going to be able to help unless he could get an idea of what was going on. “Talk to me, please, Robert, what’s hurting you so much?”

Because that was the expression on Robert’s face, his eyes closed tightly against the sight of something terrible, his teeth clenched behind drawn lips that were white with tension. He could not keep his balance even on all fours, apparently. Collapsing slowly, Robert rolled onto his back, half-leaning against the freshly covered wall.

And then he spoke.

“Give me a knife, oh, if you ever loved him. Please. I couldn’t stand, for him — to have to — ”

A knife? Robert went under arms; they all did, all of the Security who had come down here with Koscuisko days ago. What did Robert need a knife for that he couldn’t do as well or better with his sidearm?

“Can you tell me what is happening to you? Do you need a doctor?”

Robert pulled his knees up to his belly, in an apparent spasm of ferocious pain. “It’s not a thing that I’m allowed to say. But it’s my only chance, you’ve got to see.”

Physical pain, yes. But something more than that was going on, because if Robert could speak at all he should — all else being equal — be capable of making much more sense than he was making just at present. Asking for help, at the very least. That was the natural thing to do, the first thing most people did when they started to hurt as badly as Robert seemed to be.

“All right. We’d better get you to hospital, something’s gone wrong with your governor. We’ll get sedation there, hang on, for just a while longer — ”

Speaking as soothingly as he could Stildyne started to move away. They needed to get a dose into Robert, first off. Then they could start to try to understand what he was on about. Robert surprised him, though, clutching at his sleeve in a clearly desperate attempt to call him back.

“No dose, no doctor. He’s going to know. He’s got to. And he’ll realize. And then what comes next, it’s not for myself that I’m asking, but him, what will it do. To him. You can guess — as well as I — ”

“Who? His Excellency?”

Maybe he did need to try harder to understand.

Because what he was beginning to think that he almost imagined Robert might be interpreted as hinting indirectly at was too potentially terrible for him to be able to afford to take any chances.

“I tried to tell him, oh, I tried, I swear it. And the — damned thing — wouldn’t let me. He’ll remember. And after he’s looked after me — for years.”

The phrases were beginning to break up, but not enough. Stildyne began to believe that he knew what Robert was saying.

“You. Are worrying about Koscuisko.”

Why?

What crime could Robert, of all people, possibly have committed, that he should go in fear of Andrej Koscuisko?

What crime had been committed recently —

Robert caught his breath, as if even thinking about it gave him pain. If Stildyne was right about what was on Robert’s mind, then it should cause him pain to even think of it.

No, his governor wouldn’t let him speak unless questioned, because he was supposed to be protected against self-incriminating utterances to a limited extent.