Prisoner of Conscience (28 page)

“Listen as the weaver sang it. It was about the clinker-built hull and the high curved prow of the ship that carried the daughter of the house over the chain and across the harbor, up the stream in summer muddy, past the shallows bottom-scraping to bring the wrath of the hill-people to take vengeance on Pyana for the burning of the houses down around her family as they slept.”

The Shallow Draft.

There was something of the weaver to Koscuisko, in a sense. He too was struck down, destroyed, and even in an obscene way exalted in the conduct of his craft. There was no accounting for all of the ways in which men walked in the world. Nor any understanding of what reason there might be for such a thing.

Waking and sleeping, dreaming and dozing, Robis Darmon sang his mother’s weave, hearing from time to time the scratch of a stylus in Koscuisko’s hand, the turning of a leaf of paper.

Now he had discharged his duty to the living, as well as to the dead.

Now he could die at peace with himself.

“Let the Record show twelve units of resinglas in solution for the purposes of confirming evidence received.”

The torturer’s voice was far, far away, and receding further moment by moment. “Three units of vondilong per body weight used for the purposes of wake-keeping for the duration. Adjusted downward in order to take the conservative approach, in allowing for dehydration.”

It was only a whisper, now, drowned beneath the rising sound of the water cascading over Branner’s Falls. And his wife dimly glimpsed just on the threshold of the family meeting-hall, with the child on her hip, his son, his Chonniskot. His daughters chasing around the comer of the building, the voice of the youngest brisk as a meadow-bird.

The sound of the falls was soothing in his ears.

He rested; and the trial of his life ended at last.

Chapter Eleven

“How can you tell me that War-leader Robis Darmon is dead?”

Belan had seen Administrator Geltoi angry, but seldom so angry as this. He cringed in his heart for Koscuisko’s sake: but the officer did not seem to feel the force of Geltoi’s wrath.

Koscuisko stood politely in a relaxed position of attention-wait in front of the Administrator’s desk. Somewhat closer than he had stood the first time he’d come into this office, Belan noted. As though there was more intimacy between them now . . . or less strict a gradient of rank to separate them.

“I am heartily sorry to have to report so distressing a reflection on my ability,”
Koscuisko replied smoothly. Too smoothly. “At the same time, Administrator. And I must point this out, at risk of seeming to excuse myself. It would not have come so soon had the drug not failed me.”

Geltoi had hoped for great things from the testimony of War-leader Robis Darmon. Koscuisko had done such wonders with other, less promising prisoners. And for Koscuisko to come to report that the war-leader had revealed so little actionable information before he died was a blow. Belan didn’t see what the failure of a drug could possibly have to do with it.

Geltoi sat back down, having half-risen from his chair in shock at Koscuisko’s news. “Doctor. You are responsible for knowing your business. If the drug failed isn’t that the same as to say you failed? To exercise professional judgment in the selection of application of specialized tools.”

All in all, Geltoi was more visibly upset than Belan could remember seeing him. It was a bad sign. Evidence from the war-leader was to have been of special value to Geltoi, since it would emphasize how deeply Chilleau Judiciary was obliged to the Domitt Prison for the resource. But it wasn’t as though Geltoi had needed the additional leverage. Surely.

“Precisely so, Administrator Geltoi,”
Koscuisko agreed easily, with no hint of resentment. “The exercise of my professional judgment. The drug should have served as a wake-keeper, critical to that stage of the interrogation. It did not have the requisite effect, not even at a doubled dose. This is a troubling indication of potential adulteration of pharmacy stores, Administrator.”

Geltoi had been so angry when Belan told him of Koscuisko’s words over the Lerriback confusion that Belan had half-expected him to call for an immediate reassignment. Belan was a little sorry for Koscuisko. He was probably accustomed to having his own way in everything — like a Pyana. When in the presence of a Pyana, however, Koscuisko was obviously outclassed.

“How so?”

Those two words were loaded with all the imperfectly suppressed outrage that Geltoi could bring to bear on a man. And yet Koscuisko did not stagger back from the force of Geltoi’s contempt.

“These were stores I brought from the Domitt Prison’s Infirmary, Administrator. When I brought my man Kaydence in. Based on the effect it had on my prisoner — lack of effect, perhaps, I should say rather — I can only conclude that the drug had been adulterated, but who would expect to have to do an assay on restricted stores here in the very heart of your Administration?”

They’d gotten off easy at the time, Belan remembered. Koscuisko hadn’t said anything about stores. Belan had just assumed that the shift supervisor had been on top of things. Now it seemed that Koscuisko had not been as carefully watched in Infirmary as would have been prudent.

“Really, Doctor. Grasping at straws. As though a man of your caliber relies on drugs to effect his persuasion.”

Geltoi was trying to deflect the force of Koscuisko’s point back onto the original problem, that of the war-leader’s death.

It wasn’t working.

“A man should be able to rely upon his tools. And it is my responsibility, after all. Given the circumstances I must either report myself as incompetent or conduct an Infirmary audit immediately. And I am not incompetent. I know my job.”

Well, Belan told himself, Geltoi had walked into that one. He’d as much as told Koscuisko that he was incompetent. That had more or less forced Koscuisko to make the claim of adulterated drugs in order to defend himself against a bad report. Geltoi should rather have left the point alone.

“I hardly think that now is the appropriate time for such an audit, Koscuisko — ”

Geltoi had seen the trap he’d laid for himself, but it was too late. Koscuisko merely insisted, with polite deference, on what it was Koscuisko’s lawful right to demand on whim.

“Forgive me for saying so, Administrator Geltoi, but I cannot agree. I must know whether the stores in Infirmary are reliable. Only in this way can I protect myself from a recurrence of this shocking incident. To have lost so important a prisoner to death by systemic shock, because the wake-keeper was adulterated — it cannot be tolerated.”

Koscuisko had a right to defend himself against accusations of incompetence, too.

Why hadn’t Geltoi seen this coming?

“Very well.” The Administrator had no real choice but to concede. And they all knew it. “You may conduct your audit two days after tomorrow. I’ll send an escort for you.”

Kitchen audit. And now an Infirmary audit. As far as Belan knew, Geltoi hadn’t heard anything back from Koscuisko on the kitchen audit yet. On the other hand, Koscuisko had been busy.

“Thank you, sir. And good-greeting, Administrator Geltoi, Assistant Administrator Belan.”

Day after tomorrow . . . so that Geltoi would have time to ensure that stores were rotated and replaced. A day in which to cover for themselves. If Koscuisko had meant to make trouble, he would surely have insisted on going now, and there would have been a scandal. Why had Koscuisko agreed to the delay?

In order to give Geltoi time to make the shortfalls good?

What sense did that make?

Koscuisko would find no serious irregularity in his Infirmary audit. Geltoi would see to that. Or, rather, Belan would see to that, on Geltoi’s instruction. That meant Koscuisko’s story about losing the prisoner to an adulterated drug would seem the flimsiest of excuses: Geltoi would probably enjoy making that point with him, too.

“As you say, Doctor Koscuisko. Good-greeting.”

Of course Koscuisko could always claim convincingly that the medication he had taken was one bad lot in an otherwise unremarkable stores inventory, and cover up his error that way.

It hadn’t been an error.

They all knew that very well — he, Administrator Geltoi, Koscuisko, all of them.

Koscuisko would come out of this looking incompetent, surely.

Except nobody could take Koscuisko as incompetent on the strength of his previous performance.

Was this some sort of a signal that Koscuisko meant to transmit thus indirectly to Chilleau Judiciary?

And if it was — could he really trust Administrator Geltoi to see what was going on, in light of how easily Koscuisko had maneuvered him into the trap just now?

Administrator Geltoi watched grimly as Koscuisko left the room, glaring at the Inquisitor’s back as though to plunge daggers into it. Large ones. Long blades. Sharp points.

The glare made no perceptible impact on Andrej Koscuisko.

The door closed behind the Inquisitor, and Geltoi turned his cold furious gaze to Belan’s face, as though he were to blame for the scene, having witnessed it.

“You know what must be done,”
Administrator Geltoi snarled. “Get cracking. There isn’t much time. Spare no expense. And be sure the documentation is in order, this time.”

Still smarting over what Koscuisko had had to say about the Lerriback confusion, clearly.

Not to speak of the amount of money it was going to cost to make Infirmary stores whole, after all of these months of harvesting prison stores for the black market. The drugs were there for prisoners, of course. But prisoners couldn’t complain about their treatment.

Belan bowed in respectful silence and left.

He wasn’t happy.

Administrator Geltoi had not come off the better in this interview. Koscuisko had handled the Administrator as easily as — as easily as if Geltoi had been Nurail, and Koscuisko Pyana.

What if he’d been wrong?

What if Koscuisko found out the things the Administrator had assured him would stay buried forever —

No.

Belan shuddered, and had to stop in the corridor, leaning up against the wall to steady himself.

They had been buried alive, he could still hear the screaming, and on late nights as the mist rose from the damp ground it was hard to avoid seeing faces in the night-fog. Nurail faces. Dead and half-rotted. Screaming in disbelief and terror forever, as they had died.

He had put his trust in Administrator Geltoi, and Administrator Geltoi knew what he was doing.

No other possibility could even be entertained.

Infirmary audit.

Yes.

If he went to see the senior staff physician now, right now, he could be well clear of the containment wall before the sun went down, and he would have nothing to fear from the tortured dead.

###

Mergau Noycannir could have shrieked in rage and frustration: but she had more control than that. It was just that the provocation was extreme.

Two of the prisoners were dead.

One of them useless for days to come, having bitten her own tongue clear through to avoid speaking. The First Secretary’s censor might well claim it had been in response to an excess of pain: but if people bit their tongues through every time they were put to the stretcher there would be no evidence obtained from seven out of eight of the wretches.

Three prisoners, and no information.

Mergau slammed her fist down atop the open tray of doses from the Controlled List that were arrayed in the work-room, ready for her use. It wasn’t fair. She was being watched too closely; this wasn’t an offsite. She didn’t dare spike the Levels with the First Secretary so interested in what results she might be getting, day by day. And she had lost three out of seven, two for good, and had got no useful information. Oh, information, yes, that. But nothing the Bench could use against the Langsariks.

She mastered her emotion with an effort. Her fourth prisoner was in the room with her, behind her on the worktable; and she had to maintain her superiority before him. Granted that he was probably not paying attention: there was never any telling when a prisoner might notice what, to the detriment of the exercise.

The whole difficulty lay in the fact that these people were accused on circumstantial evidence alone. The Protocols were clear. People could not be forced to incriminate themselves on the basis of circumstantial evidence; they could only be pressed to do so. If they were determined enough to withstand the maximum lawful degree of pressure, the Bench would grant them not guilty by default; and release them.

She was not allowed the efficient out, the obvious out, the one best technique for obtaining confession. The coercive classes of speak-sera were only authorized at the Advanced Levels, and she wasn’t authorized to invoke the Advanced Levels against these people. Yet.

The Bench required more evidence than circumstantial before it would allow the Advanced Levels prior to receipt of a confession. She was to be expected to obtain the high-quality evidence that only a speak-serum could reliably deliver without the use of the only tools she had to obtain it reliably.

If she’d been offsite she could have cheated, gone off Record and invoked the Eighth Level. Then she could have her confession, and after that whatever speak-sera she wanted. There were ways to invoke the Eighth Level that left no obvious visible physical evidence on Record; it had worked for her before.

She didn’t dare.

There would be too many questions about the chronological gap, if she went off-Record in the middle of one of these interrogations.

Taking a deep breath, forcing herself to be calm and in control, Mergau started to sort the doses back into array on the dose-tray. They had been jarred ajumble when she’d struck it with her fist. The Controlled List, but what good did it do her? Wake-keepers were authorized, yes, but only at a very low level. Pain-maintenance drugs not at all. Nerve agents, so moderate as to be functionally useless to her need, and speak-sera restricted to the guarantee of candid speech, with no coercive aspect to them.

The doses had got mixed up.

It took some thought to get them sorted out again.

And when she had finished sorting the doses, she noticed that she’d inadvertently included an Advanced Level instrument in amongst the Intermediate Level drugs that the psycho-pharmacologist from Gatzie had selected for her use.

Nor was it just any Advanced Level instrument, it was her favorite, Andrej Koscuisko’s finest contribution to the Controlled List, the one she used more than anything else. It worked on almost all classes of hominid, and in much the same way.

And if it frequently hastened the prisoner’s death, what difference did that make, as long as she got the information? It was an Advanced Level instrument. Referral at the Advanced Level meant a death sentence one way or another, either execution for crimes confessed or death under torture to obtain confession in order to put the prisoner to death for crimes confessed.

And here it was, neatly replaced, in with her row of authorized and appropriate medications.

Did she dare pretend?

Advanced Level for most classes of hominid, yes; that was doubtless why it had been held out from her work-set this time. But Intermediate Level for some classes of hominid, and very effective in the Intermediate Levels at obtaining satisfactory results if a person chanced to make a small error and use it on the wrong people. Its inclusion in her work-set would not surprise her. She could easily have overlooked its sudden appearance in her work-set, in her concentration on her task.

She could make it work.

Even if the First Secretary reviewed the Record — and there was no reason to expect he would — no one need ever even notice. She had expected to use one drug. She would announce the drug she intended to use, on Record. It would take a psycho-pharmacologist or an autopsy to surface any small mistake on her part. Mergau anticipated neither; and once she had the information . . .