"It's not like that. We didn't rush into it. We'd waited, and waited, and filled out paperwork, and argued with our families—" Esmay knew she was saying too much, but for once she couldn't stop.
"And then Grandmother came up with something really awful—" Barin added. Esmay shot him a warning look.
"And then the news of the mutiny came in, and everyone was rushing around—"
"Mmm-hmm. And you got married because your personal happiness was more important than anything else."
"As important as," Barin said. "Sir, I don't see how being miserable makes us more efficient, and right then we were miserable not being married, and being apart."
"So you'll function better if you're together?"
"I think so," Barin said.
"Good. Prove it. I see you're on second shift, second. We're certainly crowded enough to make sharing a cabin during your sleep rotation reasonable. But the first time one of you is groggy on duty, I swear I'll space you both. Clear?"
"Yes, sir."
"And you will both inform your families immediately, while we're still within range of the system ansible. We'll be in jump transit before a reply comes, no doubt, but at least you'll have told them. You have one hour."
"Yes, sir."
"You're letting them bunk together?" the exec asked. He had overheard enough.
"It saves time. They'd get together somehow if we put them on alternating shifts with shifting bunk assignments . . . this way they don't waste any time or energy hunting each other down. My guess is, from their records, that they'll be just as efficient as anyone else."
"The Serrano family won't be happy."
"Well . . . as they said, it's not my fault. I didn't arrange it, or sanction it; it was done when I got them. Besides, I'm not a Serrano." His face relaxed for a moment into a reminiscent smile. "Back when I was an ensign on
Claremont
, and she was commanding, Vida Serrano chewed me out for spending too much time with my girlfriend. Said I'd outgrow the silly chit. Well, I've been married twenty-eight years now to that 'little chit,' and the day I outgrow Sal, I'll be dead. It's only justice that her grandson falls in love with someone she thinks is unsuitable—though how she could object to Lieutenant Suiza is beyond me. Maybe these two will be understanding of one of my kids someday."
The compartment was predictably cramped, with a second narrow bunk rigged above the first, and they would share it with four other officers. It was their space only during their assigned sleep shift. But they were alone, with a locked door between them and the rest of the universe. For now, that made all the difference.
"Sorry about the hurry," Barin said, into Esmay's ear.
"Hmmm?"
"The beautiful dress Brun was having designed for you. And the ring I'd ordered. And a ceremony you would recognize . . ."
"We can do that later, if we have the chance. I'd rather have this."
This
engaged both of them more than adequately for some time.
"Still . . ." Barin said, coming up for air at last.
Esmay poked a finger in his ribs. "Don't . . . distract me."
Hostite Fieddi had always known this day would come. The Chairman sat behind his desk, and on the desk lay the knife, the ancient black-bladed knife, the hilt to the Chairman's left.
"Hostite, you have been a good and faithful servant."
"Sir."
"You have been long in our service."
"Sir."
"You are the blade I trust." The intonation suggested a pause, not a completion, and Hostite waited. "We have an enemy time will not wound for us."
"Sir."
"You are my Blade, Hostite . . ."
"To the heart, Chairman."
"To the heart, Hostite, without prejudice." A kill, a kill beyond the borders, but one only. For that he was glad, that only one kill would burden his soul in eternity.
"Come near, and I will aim my Blade."
He was already dead, though he walked; coming near could not increase his mortality. Hostite waited, and the Chairman said nothing for long moments.
Then: "It is a grave thing to order the death of one who has never been under your authority. I give this order reluctantly, Hostite, not only for what it means to you and to me, but for what it means to the peoples . . . the clients. But there is no other way; the man is swollen with ambition, and would force on us all his ungodly ways."
"They are heathens, sir."
"Not all like this. Hostite, I bid you kill Hobart Conselline. None other of his family; him only."
Hostite bowed.
"The method, sir?"
"Your choice."
His last assignment. His death at the end. And the death of the Chairman, who would no longer have his personal Swordmaster, the Shadow of the Master of Swords, to ward him from that danger.
He felt the honor, and it warmed him. Death had not been a stranger to him for years, and nothing waited for him in age but someone's blade when he faltered. This—this he could do for his people and his faith, and he almost smiled, thinking of it.
"Go now," the Chairman said, and Hostite withdrew, already thinking how he would do it.
Hobart slung his clothes into the hamper angrily. Worse every day, those damned idiots.
He put on his fencing tights, and began his exercises. When the door opened, he glanced up, expecting Iagin Persius. But he had never seen this Swordmaster. An older man, a bit stockier, in sleek black stretch with a funny-looking red cap and red slippers. In his hands he carried a sword unlike those Hobart used.
"It is time," he said, in a voice as soft as rainwater.
"All right," Hobart straightened up, and pushed past him into the salle. "Where's that other Swordmaster? I'm used to him."
"He was indisposed, Lord Conselline, and asked me to take his place, that you might not be inconvenienced awaiting his recovery."
Hobart stared at the man. "You're certainly more formal than he was. What's that blade you've got? Do I have to work out with that? I suppose you want me to learn yet another stupid archaic weapon . . ."
"Not if you don't wish it. What weapon would you prefer?"
"Rapier." Hobart looked around, and realized that his coach wasn't there either; he would have to get his own gear, since he didn't think this old man would oblige him. But to his surprise, the Swordmaster moved quickly to the racks, and brought him a rapier—his favorite, he realized—and a mask.
"You seem angry," the man said.
"I am," Hobart said. He didn't want to talk about it; he came to exercise to forget—or at least ignore—his problems for a time.
"Did someone illtreat you?" asked the Swordmaster.
"Yes—but I'm here to fence."
"Of course. My pardon, Lord Conselline. Swordmaster Iagin told me of your dedication, your seriousness."
"He did?" Hobart had never been sure the Swordmaster approved of him, though the man had always been courteous and respectful.
"Yes . . . he said you were unusual, a man who took everything seriously."
"That's true enough." Hobart adjusted the mask, and bounced a little, loosening his knees. He had skimped on stretching, and if Iagin thought him serious, then he had better be serious. "Not many are—you would not believe—no, never mind . . ."
"But if you need to stretch out, and ease your mind with talk as your sinews with the exercise, then you should, milord."
"Oh—very well." Hobart laid his blade down on the mat, carefully, and leaned over to grasp his ankle. "I hope it doesn't bore you, and you must realize it's confidential—"
"Of course. You need to turn your wrist a little more, milord."
"It's these idiots—these dung-for-brains weaklings that I sponsored to high office. I made them what they are, I led them and taught them and groomed them for office, and now that they're in power . . . they simply will not do what they're told."
"Ah. And now, milord, another centimeter of pull . . . yes. And now the other leg . . . remembering to keep the wrist rotated in . . . yes."
"I don't know what it is, Swordmaster, but no matter how smart they are, or how much initiative they show when I start working with them, no sooner do they get into a position of real responsibility than they turn on me. Insubordinate, arrogant, selfish—"
"If you can tilt the head now—yes, like that—and a little more—"
"And they're supposed to be my supporters, but do they support? No. They go off and do stupid things, like that idiot Orregiemos . . ."
"And to the other side, now, milord . . ."
"It's enough to make a saint spew rocks," Hobart said. Amazing how easy the fellow was to talk to. The combination of the warm, quiet room, and familiar scents of leather, steel, oil, sandalwood, cedar, and the quiet, patient, steady hands of the older man molding him into one shape after another that stretched out knots he hadn't even realized he had . . .
"It is difficult when subordinates are not obedient," the Swordmaster said.
"Exactly. I've tried reasoning, scolding, even threats—"
"And they resist."
"They certainly do. If they only realized, I'm trying to make things better."
Hostite had studied the files; he knew Hobart Conselline as well as anyone could, who had only files to go on. But the man in reality had shocked him. He was so miserable, so full of anger and fear and envy that the whole room stank of it. His body had been stiffened and deformed by it; the very muscles of his face were saturated with his rage and fear.
He was a skin bag of poison.
He was immortal, being a Rejuvenant, as the silver and cobalt rings in his ear boasted to the world.
So old, and yet so full of folly. He had learned nothing, Hostite saw, in all those decades of renewed vigor that rejuvenation had given him.
Pride . . . was his own pitfall, Hostite reminded himself. Yes, this man was proud, and bitter, and angry, but why? He had never yet killed without understanding
why
those he killed were as they were.
He must offer the opportunity for understanding, for contrition, for repentance, though he could not offer—must not offer—any chance of escape. He must give the soul a chance, while giving the body none.
But how to do that with unbelievers, with those who were not aware of the soul, of anything beyond the body? Hostite had studied unbelievers of all kinds, over the years, and found them all to have beliefs of a sort, just wrong ones. They believed in wealth, or security, or the kindness of strangers, or something other than the True Faith. And so what they believed in failed them, eventually, and they were brought low . . .
All that Lord Conselline was saying could be considered a confession, but in a true confession the sinner knew that what he confessed was sinful. Hobart didn't seem to grasp that at all. Everything that went wrong was someone else's fault. Hostite felt a wave of sympathy for these stupid uncooperative men who so angered Lord Conselline. They, too, were heathens, and enemies, and the Chairman might find it necessary to have them killed, but they had certainly suffered from long association with Lord Conselline.
He listened to all of it, eliciting more and more by merely being there, a neutral and unwisely trusted ear. Hobart's envy of his brother, and everyone else whose personality drew others. Envy of everyone, in fact, for he could always find something in which another had received unearned benefit. Pride—a towering pride, certainty of his own rightness, and the moral weakness of others. Anger at everyone, avarice—for nothing was ever enough, even for a day; lust, and a wide streak of cruelty that enjoyed humiliating others. And all of it, every sordid detail, drenched in self-congratulation.
A Swordmaster must know when enough was enough, and Hostite had that moment of revelation: this man would not ever realize his errors, not even in the moment of death. Poor soul, so benighted, so hopeless of a better eternity, so ignorant. But God gave each soul enough time, if it chose to use it, and Lord Conselline's soul had had the same chance—years, in fact—to come to a better understanding.
"Come now, Lord Conselline," he said finally, and stood back. "You are feeling better; it is time for your lesson."
"Yes—I am feeling better." He clambered up, rapier in hand, in body a little straighter than he had been, his mind a little clearer in the aftermath of confessing, even so inadequately, his current crop of sins.
"It is not your associates," Hostite said. "It is you." He was sure Conselline would not understand, but he had to try.