Hour of Judgement (20 page)

But the governor would punish a violation as well. It had access to pain linkages.

A carefully moderated access, at least when the governor was working properly; but if Robert had managed what Stildyne thought Robert was trying to tell him that he’d done, the governor could hardly be said to be working at all. Except now, when it was too late to prevent a violation. Now it was being very thorough about punishment, from all indications.

“If I’d even tried to think
. . .
it would have stopped. Stopped me.”

Indeed. It should have stopped him anyway. Robert was right to beg for a knife, to kill himself. Stildyne realized that deep down at the innermost core of his constantly compromised moral self he really didn’t care what happened to the man they’d taken for the murder, one way or the other. But if Koscuisko was to be required to execute the Protocols against Robert St. Clare it would destroy him. Completely. Irrevocably. Past any hope of self-forgiveness or recovery.

He was going to have to shut Robert up, because if he could grasp the problem there was the danger that someone else could do the same more quickly. First Officer, for one. He needed to keep Robert safely silent until he had a chance to find out how it was going with Koscuisko’s interrogation. If there was going to be a problem then he would take Robert out before Koscuisko could begin, no matter what the consequences. Koscuisko would understand, Koscuisko would not blame him; not then.

But he couldn’t risk preemptive action, dared not silence Robert forever — yet. It was too soon. There was a chance that it would be all right, if he could just keep Robert under wraps until he had more information.

“He loves you. You know that, don’t you?” That meant that he was going to have to play a dirty trick on Robert, Stildyne regretted the necessity, because all else aside he did respect the man and hadn’t ever actually disliked him.

It was the only way he could think of, on such short notice, to ensure that Robert would be still and not say anything potentially compromising on their way to the hospital. He chose his challenges with care accordingly, confident that at the least he knew what was going to hurt.

Robert folded himself into a compact and defensive huddle, lying on his side now on the carpeted floor. “I did not think. About.” The anguish in his voice was deep and genuine, but Stildyne was jealous for Koscuisko’s interest, and refused to let himself be deterred from his purpose.

“Loves you, and you know he has the dreams, you know how bad they are. Just think. If it hurts him the way we’ve seen it hurt him in a dream. Just think, Robert, imagine how much worse it’s going to be when it’s all real. Tenth Level — ”

The sweat ran down Robert’s colorless cheeks in little rivulets, his eyes gone wide and staring. “I saw my sister. And. I had to, like.” But he could still speak. Stildyne could not afford to let him speak.

“It will kill him. Kill him. But not all at once. You’ve got to know he won’t be able to live, with that in his dreams. Because of you. You’ve murdered him. How could you do that to him, after all these years?”

Brutal, but effective. Robert moved his lips as if he were trying for a word; but no sound came, just a strained wheezing noise of air passing through the constricted passageway of his windpipe. Crouched down beside Robert on the floor, Stildyne waited until he felt that it was safe to bring the others in on this — until he could be sure that Robert could no longer speak, because of pain.

And now he had to hurry, to get Robert to hospital. Where he could get painease for Robert, and as soon as possible.

Because the pain was clearly terrible.

But silence was of paramount importance.

###

Jils Ivers watched the Danzilar prince lift his dance partner down from the dance floor with perfect and chaste gallantry, and suppressed a grimace of rueful jealousy. Yes, she was very much the senior of that very young woman, and she didn’t regret more than half of the years she’d spent attaining that status.

It was still true that a woman’s knees stopped flexing quite so nimbly somewhere between knowledge and wisdom. She hadn’t had the bounce that characterized that young woman’s step since she’d been
. . .
since she’d been how old?

“Oh, fine,” Garol snarled at her under his breath, standing beside her with his arms folded hermetically over his chest. “And it’s little Sylyphe Tavart, none other, wouldn’t you know. It’s her gardener. At least it’s her mother’s gardener, and what do you suppose she’s been talking to our host about? Four guesses, Jils, and the first three are tax due the Bench.”

Garol had been in a filthy mood all evening, ever since prince Paval I’shenko’s party had gotten off to such a hideously disastrous start. A completely contained and controlled disaster, she’d grant them that.

The news had started to trickle out, of course, but only in bits and threads, so that no five people heard it all at once, and no one would be able to quite credit it at all until some magical psychological mass was attained beyond which everyone would know but no one would be able to remember quite how they’d heard. It was delicately done. It was beautifully done. It was impressive.

It made her wonder whether Garol was right about the threat he claimed the Dolgorukij Combine would ultimately pose to the rule of Law.

Their host paused halfway between the dance floor and where she and Garol were posted to kiss the young Tavart’s hand with formal courtesy, and then slip his arm around her waist and kiss her again, very cordially indeed, upon the cheek, with every appearance of having been overcome by a spontaneous impulse.

Jils didn’t believe it.

But she wasn’t about to ruin the girl-child’s dance by even thinking about her skepticism. too loudly. The Danzilar’s people came up around him; laughing and panting, fanning himself with a white-square and stumbling a bit in apparent tipsiness, prince Paval I’shenko made his way across the crowded room to rejoin them and continue the discussion he had interrupted to go dance. Danzilar had been working hard and steadily all evening. Jils was sure he’d danced with half the women there. He knew his business, did the Danzilar prince.

“Yes, now,” Paval I’shenko greeted them, waving his white-square. Someone plucked it out of Danzilar’s hand and replaced it with one delicately scented with jessamine and clovax. The Danzilar prince took no apparent notice, leaning up against two of his house Security and opening his collar; smiling all the while as though being out of breath was an enormous joke. “We were talking. Garol Aphon, you are not drinking, how can this be so? Jils Tarocca, I upon your kind offices fling myself, as for mercy. Garol Aphon is not having a good time.”

“It’s against his religion, your Excellency.” This brisk bantering came as second nature to her. She never felt she was particularly good at it, but she enjoyed it regardless. The genius of the Dolgorukij autocrat-entrepreneur lay in making a person feel as though they were masterful in repartee even as they stumbled. “Or if not, then perhaps our standard operating procedure. I haven’t checked lately.”

Paval I’shenko had gestured to someone over the heads of the house staff that surrounded them. Taking a break from his host duties, he stood alone in the middle of the bustle and to-do of a very brilliant evening; alone, with only herself and Garol for company. “As long as you are not in a mood which I am in danger of violence to gaiety doing, Garol Aphon, I would like to talk. There is a problem.”

Security parted ranks to admit three servers. One with a huge platter of all sorts of sweetmeats and savories; it looked to Jils as though everything Danzilar had laid out for his guests was represented on that great wheel, in miniature, of course. One with a tray and a napkin. One to pour glasses of liquor or rhyti from the flasks on the tray, and sweeten it before it was presented.

“Problem, your Excellency?” Garol prompted, as Paval I’shenko accepted a tumbler full of clear liquid so cold that the glass frosted immediately. Jils fervently hoped it wasn’t alcoholic, whatever it was. She couldn’t imagine working as hard as the Danzilar prince was working tonight, and drinking at the same time.

Danzilar drained half the flask at one draught and handed the tumbler back to the server. “Indeed, and I wonder if, now that Captain Lowden has removed himself. First Officer. You are not drinking. I am offended, deeply, personally. I am a liar. “

What was he saying? Garol wasn’t First Officer of anything; but she was distracted by the sight of all the nibbles on the savory-tray.

The house staff had melted away to either side, opening up an avenue of approach that excluded everyone except for Mendez without seeming to exclude anyone. That was what Danzilar had meant. He’d seen the
Ragnarok
’s First Officer, who was approaching with a Security troop in tow and a very reserved expression on his face.

“Your Excellency.” Mendez glanced from Danzilar to Garol to Jils herself, but whatever it was that he had to say it was either too important or not important enough to object to them sharing in the conversation. “Here we’ve already bled all over your nice white steps once tonight, sir, and I’ve got bad news. We don’t have the murderer.”

The Security troop was as tall as Mendez, with the golden complexion of a Shikender hominid. Her looks were distinctive, but Jils didn’t think she’d seen the woman recently. Which could very well mean that this particular Security troop had left with Captain Lowden — or with Andrej Koscuisko.

“Indeed? Have a drink, First Officer, tell to me your news. I don’t think this is bad. Please.”

Mendez declined the offered refreshment with a reluctant bow. “Your Excellency, if I tried to swallow one. More. Bite. I’d explode, and that would be two of the
Ragnarok
’s officers in one night. Our Ship’s Inquisitor sent word from the Port Authority. The man who was taken for the killing can’t have done it.”

And why did she have such a sharp suspicion that Paval I’shenko was not surprised? “One wondered, First Officer, from the very start. And did not like to challenge the Captain, but was it not odd? The gardener and I, we are of a height. And yet such a blow. It was very level.”

If Paval I’shenko had had reservations why hadn’t he voiced them before now? Jils reconsidered. The circumstances were very delicate. He was only just now come into possession of his Port, and Lowden was a senior Fleet officer — the most senior officer in Burkhayden. The murdered man had been Lowden’s subordinate.

“Crozer-hinge, she says,” Mendez agreed, betraying no sign of entertaining the confusion Jils felt. “Gardener hasn’t got one, and Koscuisko says it can only have been done by a man with a crozer-hinge. Or an engine that mimics one. He’s at the Port Authority clearing the documentation, and sent the gardener to hospital.”

Paval I’shenko frowned, but so briefly that Jils wasn’t sure she’d even seen it right. “They are busy, then. What is it that we can do, First Officer? It has been these hours. Is there hope of good finding, if we mounted a search?”

Shaking his head, Mendez declined the offer of bodies to perform a function that Mendez wasn’t expected to direct any more. It was Danzilar’s Port. “As you think best, sir, absent strong feelings on the Captain’s part. And speaking of whom. I’ll need to be notifying my commanding officer.”

And Captain Lowden was not going to be pleased. That was the unspoken subtext of this conversation, whether or not Paval I’shenko was in on it. She and Garol both knew what was on the First Officer’s mind. And Garol was fidgeting, absentmindedly, drumming the fingers of his left hand against the fabric of his over-blouse, arms still folded across his chest. Left hand, right portion of his over-blouse, and as Garol tapped his fingers in sequence against the fabric Jils thought she heard something.

“Let me suggest this, First Officer,” Garol said, suddenly. Paval I’shenko looked moderately startled to hear Garol’s voice. “You’ve had experience with your Ship’s Surgeon. Maybe you’d better go to the Port Authority and see how he’s doing. Can’t have a senior officer off alone at the Port Authority, and I can tell Lowden just as well as you. If you don’t mind my saying so.”

“Garol Aphon offers himself as the person who bears the bad news,” Paval I’shenko announced, to the ceiling. “In this way he demonstrates his charity and accumulates merit, for will the Captain not vent his frustration on a man he does not know, saving the First Officer the unpleasantness? I am impressed, Garol Aphon. Have a drink.”

What was Garol tapping at there?

Mendez seemed skeptical. “Thanks all the same, Vogel, but I’d better — ”

“Excuse me, First Officer,” Garol interrupted, but so cheerfully that there was no offense in it. “But you’d better go police up Koscuisko. Pardon the blunt language, Paval I’shenko. I know you’re related, but Jils and I came from the Fleet to here with him. It was a small craft. I think someone who knows that there could be a problem should go and make sure things are settled. And I was just about to excuse myself for the service house anyway,” Garol admitted, unfolding his arms finally to give his over-blouse a sharp tug at the hem to straighten the lines. “Hadn’t mentioned it, didn’t want to be obvious about leaving the party. Apologies all around.”

Paval I’shenko shrugged. “It seems efficient, First Officer, what do you say? Bring my cousin back to Center House if he is fatigued, or wishes privacy in which to drink. After all, a guest suite has already been prepared for him, as for the rest of Captain Lowden’s party.”

All of the
Ragnarok
’s officers were to have been the Danzilar prince’s guests for the night. Danzilar had a point. And there was something about the way the fabric pulled at the seams of the inner lining when Garol pulled the hem of his over-blouse level at the bottom . . .

“Better you than me,” Mendez admitted candidly, giving Garol the nod. “I’m beholden to you, Specialist Vogel.”

Garol shook it off. “Not a bit. But I should go soon, if I want to brief Captain Lowden while he’s still available. If you’ll excuse me, your Excellency, First Officer. Night, Jils.”

In his pocket.