Ryswyck

By L.D. Inman

In a world still scarred two centuries after a nuclear holocaust, a military academy in an embattled nation has been turning out brilliant officers whose skill in fighting is exceeded only by their devotion to the law of courtesy. Then two of its elite students uncover a secret that has haunted its founder for twenty years. As the building scandal threatens Ryswyck Academy, their friendship becomes an indispensable grace for their community and the linchpin of a perilous solution to their country’s desperate struggle.

Lieutenant Stephanie Speir has just won a place in Ryswyck’s junior officer cadre. Her buoyant, balanced joy in combat is shadowed by the illness of her father, a retired intelligence officer and former prisoner of war. In the single-combat arena she faces Lieutenant Walter Douglas, the youngest son of a rural family, and they kindle an unshakable friendship.

That friendship becomes their anchor when a security breach reveals to them the dark secret behind General Barklay’s drive to found Ryswyck Academy. Already troubled by Ryswyck’s isolated culture and the problems of translating the ideal of courtesy to modern warfare, Douglas becomes profoundly disturbed by the revelations of Barklay’s past participation in a heinous act. His only confidant is Speir, who up till this moment had been shielded from the details of her father’s experiences as a prisoner in Berenian hands. Barklay’s secret sets Ryswyck’s loving ethos against the context of a brutal war with Ilona’s enemy across the strait, a contrast that only grows starker as the two friends take commissions at an inhospitable island base. Soon Speir and Douglas find themselves drawn not only into the looming threat of scandal, but into the overwhelming prospect of battle, which will put their skill, their courtesy, and their friendship to the ultimate test.

• Language: English
• Publisher: L.D. Inman
• Release date: May 27, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463775554

L.D. Inman

L.D. Inman is an essayist, lay preacher, habitual lurker on fannish social media, and sometime poet, who once stole V.S. Naipaul’s hat (she gave it back, though in retrospect perhaps she shouldn’t have) and answered a stunning variety of reference questions in a long and checkered library career, before going into nonprofit communications and marketing. She lives, works, fences, and serves as cat staff in Kansas City.

Book preview

Prologue

Speir knuckled sweat and blood out of her eye and took advantage of the moment’s space to breathe deeply. Across the arena Stevens was brushing sawdust off his flanks and regaining his habitual grin. She grinned back, half to herself.

Behind and around, above the mirrored panels of the recessed combat pit, the air was full of shouts of encouragement. Go on, Speir, someone’s voice crowed topmost, probably Andera, sounded like him— get him again! People liked to see Stevens get knocked down in open-hand once or twice at least before he walked away with the victory in his meaty fist. Nobody actually ever won a match with Stevens, but Speir was determined to take a good crack at it.

He looked ready, and she had her breath back. She circled in close, looking for the right moment to go in, but he moved first, heavy and quick. Barely dodging a savage blow, Speir grabbed for a hold and twisted to drive her knee into the back of his; he eeled out of reach and slung her reeling out of the center square. The momentum sent her right to the polished steel panels, and she used their spring-backed resilience to propel herself back to him, savoring the open joy of combat. She got in one quick blow to his chin before having to duck again; unfortunately, what should have rolled him sidewise only gave him a momentary jerk, and he caught her as she tried to flank him. In the act of tossing her, his hand caught in her headguard and pulled it free; her hair spilled out of its knot, and momentarily blinded her as she fell.

She struggled to her feet, aware of the buffoonery of her position, and as she frantically wiped the strands from her face to meet his following stroke, she heard the shrill cut of the judge’s whistle.

They both turned at once to the platform chair, where Captain Marag sat observing. The tumult of voices in the arena damped down.

Fault to Stevens, he said. Round to Speir.

Stevens said: What’s the judgment?

If you deny taking pleasure in Speir’s embarrassment, then the fault is arbitrary, Marag said.

An arbitrary fault was a hazard of the arena, but instead of accepting it as such, Stevens bowed to her briefly, closed hand over heart. All’s well, Speir answered him. Stevens’s battle-grin returned, and he saluted her for the round, his hand flicking sharply to his forehead, away and down. He waited for her to re-secure her hair under her headguard, and then the whistle cut the air again and battle was rejoined.

In which Speir took an immediate slug to the chest that bowled her over almost twice. She scrambled, winded and dizzy, to her feet, avoided another blow, found and lost a hold, landed an elbow to Stevens’s flank, got clear of him, lurched into speed again and placed another good punch, received one in return that would have knocked her over if she hadn’t spun at the exquisite point of gravity, ducked under his arm again, drove for his midriff and was stymied by his greater reach, took another blow and rolled in the sawdust, got up weaving, and was unsurprised when the whistle blew and the round was called for Stevens.

She snapped him a sharp salute.

What kind of exit do you want? he asked her, solicitously.

Horizontal, she said.

You sure?

I’ll make you work for it, too, she said, and he grinned a real grin this time.

So be it, Stevens said, and the whistle blew.

It wasn’t good form at the Academy to pull punches, but Stevens had developed a distaste for producing regular carnage, and as long as he gave people a decent challenge, most people were willing in courtesy to let him break form. But as far as Speir was concerned, the third round was no place for that.

One good blow was all she wanted; just one would do. She avoided closing with him for the first minutes, reading him quickly, ducking his full-strength swings, hearing the cacophony of her fellows from the benches. At last he landed one that sent her sprawling, a reel of broken light behind her eyes, and waited politely for her to rock slowly, half-blind, to her feet. Speir shook off the pain and came back to center. One good blow. She masked her intent as she approached, and was gratified to see him caught off guard by her sudden left—he actually sat down for a split second before rolling again to his feet and returning to her. Her duck wasn’t quite fast enough.

Speir was a little slower getting up this time; again he waited. She got knocked down twice more without getting in a second blow, and the noise in the arena rose to a roar to match the roar of pain in her senses.

Once more. She launched herself toward him.

The next thing she knew, she was on her back, the scent of sawdust tickling her nostrils, and a meaty hand was holding her head steady. Don’t move, Stevens warned her, till the scan’s done.

After two tries she was able to form words. How long was I out?

Full count.

Ah. They call it yet?

If you concede.

From her supine position, Speir dragged up her hand and gave him a salute as snappy as she could make it, which wasn’t very, because she was groggy and the medics were in the way. Stevens stood up, the watery sun from the dome overhead making an aureole around his large head and shoulders, and saluted her back as victor of the match.

Thank you, Speir breathed, too weary to make the gesture, and the medics hoisted her on the backboard and carried her out to a storm of cheers.

~*~

That…, said Lord Thornhill, was rather brutal.

They were sitting on the observation platform of the arena reserved for the headmaster and his guests, watching the cadets and junior and senior officers make their way from the benches to go about their duties. General Barklay’s eyes were on Stevens, who had just made his salute to Barklay and exited the combat pit after Speir’s horizontal recession, and he almost missed what Thornhill had said. Almost; he’d been expecting something of the sort.

Worse happens in war, Barklay pointed out.

Indeed, sighed Lord Frasera. She was in the sub-Council rotation directing the armed forces of Ilona: Barklay thought her too young to have seen the war when it was on their home soil, but it didn’t mean she had seen nothing at all; she was only a little younger than he.

Well, Barklay said, now that the match is concluded, shall I show you the grounds?

Please, Thornhill said, and they got up to make their own way out of the arena and the honeycomb complex that surrounded it, busy with the work of his students, training, tidying, passing them with cheerful and respectful greetings in the corridors en route to duties elsewhere.

Frasera waited till Barklay had finished one such exchange with a young cadet before asking a question. General, she said when they were on their way again, I heard the judge give a call which I am not familiar with; it must be particular to Ryswyck. What is an arbitrary fault?

Just what it sounds like, Barklay said with a sidelong half-grin, and Lord Frasera gave a delicate snort. The judges of a match, he elaborated, are free to award an arbitrary fault if they feel things are going too much one way, or if they wish to test the balance of one of the combatants. Its usual effect is to galvanize both combatants in the next round. Sometimes it’s a sharp reminder of courtesy, as you saw today.

But to arbitrarily influence the outcome of a match? Thornhill said. Surely it’s better for the combatants to earn their victory cleanly.

Barklay shook his head, and they emerged from the arena into the broad portico that surrounded the building. From here they had a view across the wide quadrangle of the low barracks and grey-quarried offices and classroom blocks of Ryswyck Academy, scaffolded in at the edges by the covered walkways that shielded them from the rains.

In Ryswyckian combat, as in life, Barklay said, one must learn to accept unfair reversals without complaint. The sooner one can detach one’s pride from one’s unquestioned success, the better. Thornhill looked appalled, and Barklay added: I will say that most judges consider it unsporting to decide the end result with an arbitrary fault. It’s usually used to stir things up a bit.

As we saw, Frasera said.

Quite. Allow me to show you to the classroom block. This way. Had he been alone, Barklay would have cut across the green-wet quad without regard for the light rain that was falling, but it would be uncharitable to ask the discomfort of his guests. Not to mention impolitic. Barklay led them round to the stone-paved walkway that led down to the edge of the cadet barracks.

How are the matches made up? Frasera asked him. The comment on the mismatch between Speir and Stevens was left unspoken, but Barklay heard it clearly anyway.

Mainly by scheduling considerations, Barklay said. Matches are held three times a week, and ideally everyone will arrive in the arena well-rested and recovered from their last bout, so they are spaced as expeditiously as possible. The combatants agree beforehand on the format; Speir and Stevens, as you saw, both favor open-hand combat, but some prefer the baton. Foils are out of favor in this generation, I notice; my students seem to think they can get more direct contact with the other formats. I haven’t removed it from the training modules, though. First- and second-year cadets are scheduled together; junior officers are scheduled together; and sometimes a senior officer will step down from the judge’s platform and fill in a place in their schedule.

I heard, Thornhill said, that the students challenge each other to duels. Is that not so?

And where did you hear that, I wonder? Barklay thought. He had a shrewd idea who had been causing Thornhill to worry about this school, and if he was right, there was no point losing his serenity. No combat outside the arena, he said. No individual sparring appointments except with permission. Students are allowed to request a match, which is granted on the merits of the request.

And a personal conflict is not a proper merit? said Frasera.

Oh, no, Barklay said, personal conflicts are acceptable merits. Saves me some time in arbitration. That was going to make Thornhill bridle.

Thornhill bridled. But how can you possibly reconcile two people by having one of them beat the other senseless?

A question we could just as well ask about war itself, Frasera murmured, saving Barklay the trouble.

I’m talking about the rule of law. Thornhill glared at her, and then at Barklay, as if he had made her say it.

Ah, the rule of law, Barklay said calmly, pausing at the recessed doors of the cadet barracks. This is where the cadets are quartered, two to a room. Junior officers are the next building over; they have the privilege of their own rooms and showers. Senior officers and guests are quartered on the other side, as you saw when you arrived. The rule of law is very simple here, Lord Thornhill. There is only one law: the law of courtesy. Everything that happens at Ryswyck flows from that one law. A student learns that maintaining discipline, working at his course of study, fulfilling her duties, facing another in the arena—all of these are done to honor the humanity of the people with whom we are living. A student here may sooner put his opponent in hospital than speak to him in contempt. I’ve expelled a student for a single insult uttered in my hearing. Barklay turned and cast his gaze from the dome of the arena to the tower beyond the classroom plant; his companions followed the invitation of his glance. I started this Academy because I wished to see a place where courtesy is not just surface commerce but a way of life. The brutal realities of war must not take away from us our souls.

He had said such things many times before, to many such visitors, and had ceased to expect their eyes to light as his students’ did. Thornhill’s eyes did not light, but he looked troubled, which was a better sign than complacent agreement, as if Barklay were speaking platitudes.

They weren’t platitudes, to Barklay. They were lifelines.

Frasera had had enough of Thornhill’s inquisition. Your students certainly seem to take on that ethos with alacrity. How are their studies laid out, General Barklay?

They resumed their walk up the barracks side of the quad. Cadets take up study either for the army or the navy. Besides the principles of direct combat, they learn practical cartography, supply management, tactics and strategy, and weapons systems—the latter in its unclassified form, of course. If they win a place in the junior officer corps for their third year, they are expected to help teach the foregoing, and specialize in a course of their own choosing, which my rotation of senior officers teaches them.

Yes, I’m aware of the rotation arrangement from our end, Frasera said. I suppose it’s alumni of Ryswyck that you’d want judging matches, however.

Well, yes, Barklay said. Let’s go inside here; this will take us into the school proper.

They entered, along with a few cadets hurrying to the last class meeting of the day before the tower bell. As they reached the crossing, they met Speir coming back from the junior officers’ block, now showered and neatly dressed in her informal greys, the insignia on her epaulets bright and new. Despite a certain paleness and a bruised contusion over her eyebrow (neatly mended with a small sticking bandage), she looked balanced and cheerful, as well she should.

Well, Lieutenant, Barklay hailed her, may I congratulate you on a good match.

Thank you, sir, Speir said, standing straight and saluting him smartly, as she’d not been able to do in the arena. He nodded back.

On your way to supper? he asked.

No, sir. Junior officers’ meeting.

Oh, yes, I’d forgotten that was today. Your first?

Yes, sir. Speir grinned suddenly.

My lords, Barklay said to his companions, allow me to make known to you Lieutenant Stephanie Leam Speir, our newest addition to the junior officer corps and a formidable force in the arena—and wherever else she happens to be. Lieutenant Speir, may I present Lords Thornhill and Frasera, from the sub-Council, here on a short visit.

Speir spread her hand on her breast and inclined her head: she had grown up in the capital, Barklay recalled, and knew the niceties.

Any relation to the submarine commander of beloved memory? Thornhill said, jovially. Barklay wanted to kick him.

Yes, my lord, Speir said. She was my mother.

Ah! I bet he wasn’t expecting that, Barklay thought. But Thornhill recovered almost at once. And you’re following her footsteps into the navy? he pursued.

No, my lord. It’s the army for me. Speir smiled at him, her own firm kindness and Ryswyckian courtesy blended, impossible to patronize. Yes, she was going to justify her promotion very quickly indeed, Barklay thought.

In which she will do very well, Barklay said. Well, we won’t keep you, Lieutenant.

Speir’s glance flicked to him, amused. Thank you, sir. A pleasure to meet you, my lords.

The visitors nodded back, and Barklay led them on their way as Speir disappeared.

She looks almost none the worse, Thornhill said, glancing in wonder over his shoulder.

I suppose if you’re going to face Lieutenant Stevens you’d better be resilient, Frasera said dryly.

Quite. Barklay allowed himself a brief grin. We are about to pass the administrative wing. This is where my offices and quarters are, as well as the briefing rooms which are used whenever post commanders hold council here. The data centers are down that corridor, and updates are coordinated through the tower several times a day—ah, Lieutenant Douglas, Barklay said, speaking to a dark-haired junior officer who had just emerged from an office. I was just speaking of communications. When you’ve finished with the meeting and had your supper, will you take a dispatch to General Inslee?

Yes, sir, Douglas said. Shall I wait for his answer, or should I get an open line to your com-deck?

Wait for his answer and bring it back to me, Barklay said. Thank you, Douglas.

Douglas saluted him, nodded respectfully to the lords, and moved quietly past them.

Douglas, Barklay mentioned, once threw Stevens with the baton, and almost won the match. He’s one of my best officers. If we take this left, we’ll arrive at the mess hall. If you are so inclined, I could give you supper before you go. And in fact, it is very little trouble to arrange for you to stay in the guest house for the night; allow me to offer it to you. The offer was sincere, but he would be just as happy if they refused it.

Thornhill and Frasera glanced at one another. I think we’ll keep to our original plan, Frasera said, but I wouldn’t mind getting a bite to eat.

Then let us go in to supper, Barklay said.

He ushered them forward with a gracious gesture, and they continued on, their well-heeled footsteps echoing down the stone-girt hall.

~*~

And I need one more person to fill the crew that’s cleaning out the stables at the end of this week, said Lieutenant Cameron.

I’ll do it.

Thank you, Stevens, that is much appreciated. Cameron made a small mark with her stylus on the tablet. There, that covers the unattached duties. Now, for the rotations—I got the word yesterday, we have officially got permission to form another duty rota, and Stevens has come on as a new captain. There was a murmur of pleased comment. It means more work for individuals, of course, but it should make scheduling easier. Ellis is projecting up the proposed schedule. Ellis obligingly fiddled with the controls, and the projection popped up. People began shuffling, preparing to write down their own schedule. Douglas, who was captain of A Rota and had already seen the proposed schedule, remained still, feet braced comfortably flat with his scrip tucked behind on the floor.

Now, I’ve spoken with all the rota captains and they have checked on people’s personal duty schedules, so there should be a minimum of problems. Cameron gave a resigned little sigh; a minimum of problems didn’t necessarily translate to a minimum of questions and requests for changes, Douglas knew. "Please consult with me after the meeting if there is something you absolutely have to have changed. Now—"

Cameron, said Ahrens, you’ve got me on both A Rota and E Rota. Are you trying to keep me out of trouble?

It was true. The room broke into snickers, and Cameron smiled ruefully. My fault, Ahrens, she said, briefly touching her closed hand to her breast. Thank you for catching that.

I think the other rota captains should bear some of that fault, Douglas said dryly. I didn’t catch it either. The other rota captains murmured agreement.

All’s well, Ahrens said. But may I just have one set of duties?

Yes, Cameron said. Pick which.

E Rota is better for me.

E Rota it is. By the way, this is the master schedule, not this week’s schedule. So E Rota, you’re on communications this week, not training, A Rota is on classroom, B is on training, C is on kitchen, D is on—what was it?—supply and waste. Speir, can I put you on A Rota’s roster?

Certainly, Speir said.

Excellent. Douglas will get you your pass-keys for the week. Douglas, you’re presiding over next week’s meeting….

Yes…, Douglas said.

And you promised you would straighten up the minute reports for us.

So I did, he sighed. Yes. Give me the minute-book and I’ll get to work on it before the next meeting.

Ellis, the minute-book goes to Douglas after the meeting. Thank you, and thank you, Douglas. Now—

Cameron always ran a meeting like a shepherd working a skittish flock through a gate, marshalling all her sheepdogs to push them through before they decided to break. Douglas amused himself contentedly with a picture of Cameron in a heavy hooded smock and thigh-boots just like his oldest sister’s, gnawing on a pipe and glaring at the sheep as they passed through.

The meeting concluded with a plan for the month’s recreation activities and an enthusiastic scrutiny of the match schedule. It broke up in a flurry of exchanges between the rota captains and their teams, and the junior officers spilled out of the room to hurry and get supper before the mess hall closed. Douglas wasn’t very hungry, but he knew he wouldn’t have time for a snack later, so he went down and asked the cadet at the line for just a cup of stew and a barley roll, and took it to a corner to eat quickly.

The mess hall had been quiet after the earlier passage of most of the cadets, but the junior officers livened it up a bit. A few benches away he saw Speir looking palely down at her plate of stew as if she’d rather fight it than eat it; Stevens plopped himself down across from her, followed quickly by several others who were clearly interested in the topic of the afternoon’s match. If Douglas hadn’t had his other duties, he would have stirred himself to join them. He scraped up the last few bites of stew, and took his tray to the hatch.

Barklay wasn’t in his office, but in the outer office a sealed packet with Douglas’s name on it lay on the front desk. He opened it: a tablet and a brief note of instruction from Barklay’s hand. Good.

As he was opening the door to the long quad between the school building and the tower, Stevens fell in with him.

Going up the tower, are you? I’ll come with you, if you don’t mind.

I’m running an errand for Barklay, Douglas said, hesitating. But enlightenment broke a second later and he shot Stevens a half-smile. I see. It’s Ansley on duty tonight, isn’t it. I didn’t know you were still cultivating her.

They say patience is a virtue, Stevens said. I’ll probably sleep alone tonight, but it’s worth trying.

I admire your persistent keenness, Douglas said, chuckling. They went out into the long quad between the school building and the tower. Stevens put his hood up against the rain; Douglas, who was from the North, didn’t bother.

Why don’t you ask Speir? Douglas said. I bet she’d be interested.

I did, Stevens said. She just smiled and said no thank you. I gather from the context that she’s too single-minded to give much time to extracurricular stuff. Bit like you, may be.

Douglas snorted at that last. Hard luck for you, he said.

"Don’t I know it. I bet it would have been fun. She put me on my ass twice."

I saw that, my comrade. Very impressive.

It was a good match. Any more cadets like her coming up in your section? I hold out some hope of getting beat before I leave.

It was impossible to pass up a straight line like that. Just like you hold out some hope of getting laid before you leave?

Stevens shoved him playfully, and they both laughed.

The evening gloom darkened the air as they reached the tower and engaged its open lift to carry them to the top. At the summit, Douglas gave Lieutenant Ansley his codes, docked the tablet to transfer its digests to Inslee’s line once it was open, and then wandered to the windows to wait and allow Stevens his opportunity.

The tower was older than the school: it was hard to say exactly how old it was, but it was possible it dated back to the bad times, seven generations past, or even before the nuclear holocaust that had broken the world then; yet it probably wasn’t as old as the cloister foundations on the far side of the school complex, toward the south coast. Its current function was to gather and encode com signals, but in older incarnations it had probably controlled the airfield, which was much smaller now, a green expanse as flat as the quads of the school itself, terraced against the rain.

There was one shuttle parked on the airfield; in the dim evening light Douglas could make out three figures standing near it—the two Council lords, and Barklay. The shuttle was big enough to carry them not just to the tram depot but all the way back to the capital: a true flying visit, then. As Douglas watched, the two got into the shuttle, and Barklay headed back toward the school alone: his pace was steady, but Douglas’s eye detected a plod in his usually-vigorous stride. Barklay sponsored his school as wholeheartedly as he might have sponsored his own child, and he’d been doing it for twenty years, ever since he’d come back from his tour of duty on the other side of the strait. Even now he rarely showed weariness, unless you knew what to look for.

This was the third such impromptu visit in a month. Douglas thought this worrisome, though Barklay had discussed the import of these visits with nobody, passing them off as mere politics and nothing else. Perhaps there was a change coming in the cold stasis of the war; perhaps there was a shake-up brewing in the higher echelons of the military; perhaps Ryswyck’s reputation as a tight-knit enclave with odd customs had unnerved somebody in the Council enough to poke around looking for trouble. It was hard to tell.

Barklay had named his school after the little hamlet in which he’d been born, a fact which every Ryswyckian seemed to learn by osmosis, because Barklay never talked about his home, as if for fear he’d summon its fate to haunt them. Reyswick village was a crater now, and Barklay its only living scion, and though Douglas’s generation had never known Ilona at peace, he did not misunderstand the forlorn defiance of that symbolism. He reminded himself of it sometimes, when he was feeling tired and exasperated.

Up here in the tower, with Ryswyck Academy below him and the coastal hills all around, Douglas caught his mental breath and regained his grasp of the wider world. Below, Barklay had become a shadowy figure moving in the twilight darkness, growing sharper when he reached the light spilling from the ground-floor windows.

Douglas turned to see Stevens getting into the lift. He tipped Douglas a wink as he passed; it was an equal probability whether that meant he’d secured an assignation, or crashed and burned.

The reply was ready. Douglas checked it, locked the tablet with his code, and thanked Ansley properly before calling up the lift himself.

As he’d expected, Barklay had gone straight back to his office: he was at his desk when Douglas knocked on the doorframe.

Ah, Douglas, good. I’ve just finished seeing off our guests.

Yes, sir. After a hesitation Douglas nerved himself to ask: Sir, is there trouble brewing?

Barklay blinked and looked up. Why—oh, because of the Council visitors. No, there’s no trouble. Well, no more than usual, he corrected himself dryly. Oh, don’t look at me like that. As far as I know all is well.

Yes, sir, Douglas said, burying his skepticism.

Barklay wasn’t fooled, but instead of pursuing it he settled for giving Douglas his dry smile. Is that Inslee’s reply you’ve got there?

Yes, sir.

Well, I’ll take it now, then. Bring it in. He closed the folder he was perusing and moved it to the top of a pile at his side. And shut the door, will you, Douglas?

Yes, sir, Douglas said.

~*~

And get this off to General Barklay down at Ryswyck; his com tower’s waiting for my reply. Security code four. And that will be all, Staff-Captain Amis. Get yourself to bed after this.

Yes, sir, Amis said, already on his way out.

The sun was down: Inslee could see his own tired face reflected in the windows of his office, and within that reflection the shadow of the weather tower of Cardumel Base.

Amis leaned back in. Sir, you have an open-line request from Colonel Marshall. Shall I—

No, I’ll talk to him, Inslee said wearily. Bounce him over.

Yes, sir.

Inslee drew up his com-deck and tapped the acceptance code.

Good evening, General. Colonel Marshall saluted him with a quick flash of his outward palm.

Inslee returned the salute. Colonel Marshall. What can I do for you?

It’s more what I can do for you, Marshall said cheerfully. He looked disgustingly hale and rested. You fellows recovered from winter yet?

Very nearly, Inslee said, dry to the point of sarcasm. By the time we’ve set everything to rights, it’ll be near icefall again.

Be glad we’re not on the western side of the Ridge. At least here we can burn through the glaze. Eventually.

This was true enough, but Inslee found it hard to be grateful.

Marshall went on. Your supply requisition has come early, to speak of miracles, and I’d like to send it along. Only Colmhaven flotilla can’t spare ships for the convoy till next week. Have you got any of the Boundary resting at Colm’s Island? You could send ‘em across and get your supplies faster. Give ‘em something to do, too.

Hm, Inslee said. Let me communicate with Admiral Eysgarth and see what I can scare up. I’ll send you a message in the morning with what I find out.

The list of things Inslee had to do always grew a long tail just before he was scheduled to sleep, but this was a welcome task. Perhaps there’d be some fresher food provisions in the convoy. Inslee thanked Marshall sincerely and closed the line.

Inslee had been at this post for ten years, years in which not Berenians but supply requisition forms invaded his dreams; a far cry from the visions of glory he’d entertained in his youth, of sweeping over the strait to crush the threat of attack once and for all. He’d served in the expeditionary forces with distinction, and his gifts for discipline and tactical organization had won him promotion out of the field, even as the field widened across the water. Ilona had lost all that ground since, of course, and fallen back behind the naval lines that guarded the island’s coast.

And that was the way things had stayed for twenty years, barring a few abortive attempts on Berenia’s part at invasion, and occasional Ilonian raids on their shipping. Since Inslee had come to Cardumel, Berenia had pulled back into a menacing quiet under the leadership of its new Lord Executive, Emmerich du Rau, and the war had gone cold. Ilona didn’t have the personnel to launch another invasion; and nobody on either side had the money. Instead of glorious charges, Inslee had devoted his career to careful and quotidian vigilance. Colm’s Island was Ilona’s citadel of the north, and Inslee made it his business to know everything that happened on and around it.

Inslee got a secure audio line to Admiral Eysgarth, who confirmed that he did indeed have ships to spare for a convoy of supplies; it helped, Inslee thought wryly, that a resupply of Cardumel benefited him also. That was another of the virtues for which he’d won this post: a knack for intra-service diplomacy.

He spent another half an hour clearing off his desk, and was just about to head toward the sleep of the just when the com tower buzzed him with an open-line request from General Barklay. Inslee damned intra-service diplomacy and accepted the call.

General Inslee, Barklay greeted him, with a smart salute. His collar and insignia were as crisp as ever, but there were dark creases under his eyes. Good, somebody was as tired as Inslee this evening.

General Barklay, Inslee greeted him in return. I wasn’t expecting a conference so soon after my return message.

No? Barklay said. But you didn’t—ah. I see; I am keeping you from your rest. Forgive me. Now, about those officers—

Yes, Inslee sighed. Of my officers, I’m afraid only Amis would do for your purposes, and I can’t spare him. Holding his irritation in check, he added, The request really ought to go the other way—I need officers from you more than you from me. The morale here could stand some improvement.

Hm. I haven’t got any junior officers who are quite ready for promotion, though I’ll certainly keep my eye on that for you. How many of mine have you got there now?

Lieutenant Barr and Lieutenant Angus. They’re shaping well. And I’ve a few of the rank-and-file who passed through your service course last year; they are all pretty reliable, though not yet officer material.

Yes, Barklay said, thoughtfully. And there was that unfortunate debacle a few years ago with Lieutenant Kerra….

Well, since Barklay mentioned it himself… Yes, Inslee said with another sigh. If only he hadn’t decided that the solution to the distribution problem was to divert resources and alter the documents after. Well, he took his court-martial with characteristic grace. You certainly teach your men and women pretty manners.

He saw the flash of defensive anger in Barklay’s eyes, but sensed that it would only make matters worse to walk his last sentence back. But Barklay only said simply, The court-martial wasn’t cosmetic. If I did my job, his manners weren’t either.

Quite, Inslee said, and let that stand for his apology. To his relief, Barklay’s feathers went down.

Well, he said, I shall have to cast my net a little wider for good teaching officers, it seems. I’ll keep your needs in mind as well.

Please do, Inslee said.

They exchanged salutes, and Inslee closed the line, getting up as he did so. At the door he shut down the lights. His office was high enough to see above the light-shields of the weather tower: through the windows Inslee could see the officer inside going about his duties. It was a rare clear night on Colm's Island; soon the rain would move in again and resume the long process of washing the winter's ice away. For the moment, at least, all was well.

Inslee went to catch his few hours' sleep before any other little items could line up on his desk.

~*~

The sun had gone down over the sea, in a blaze of chaotic color that promised another fair day tomorrow. Emmerich du Rau lightly swirled the last few swallows of wine in his glass and watched the sky darken, revealing by degrees his own reflection in the full-length window.

He was a spare, neat man, not overtall, with graying dark hair and keen black eyes, whose habitual expression was one of gathered intention, like a cat preparing to spring. He took a long time about springing, but when he finally did, the result was terrible to behold.

It was that quality which had propelled him to the top of command in the capital at Bernhelm. His strategic marriage to the daughter of one of the old lords had made him a natural choice for a delicate compromise between the military party and the receding aristocracy of Berenia. Du Rau now looked down upon the capital as Lord Bernhelm: its glittering lights, reflected in the estuary in its midst, were his possession and his responsibility. As he watched, the lights of the city winked out, first one at a time and then in clumps. Blackout hour had arrived. On the other side of the palace from this room, the Lantern Tower should have cast its magisterial radiance to the far edges of the plaza below. The Lantern Tower had been dark for twenty-four years of war. But not too much longer, if his plans were in accordance with reality.

Over the ten years since his ascendance, he had consolidated the resources and infrastructures of the country, saving it from financial ruin, and put any budget surplus into quiet military redevelopment. The trickiest part had been teaching his patience to the rest of the war party, but that too had fallen into place. He had even begun to think, cautiously, that Berenia would get through a full generation without a coup, despite having lost the steadying alliance with the island country across the strait. Chance had favored their cousins the Verlakers with plenteous water and natural borders in the first wretched scrabble of the post-nuclear age. But greed and betrayal had turned them into the most despicable of enemies. If he failed to subdue Verlac now, du Rau knew he would not be able to keep his government from falling apart. But he was not going to fail.

Behind him, a light knock sounded on the door and Captain Alsburg entered, reflected in the glass. My lord, he said, the intelligence report is in.

Very good, Alsburg, du Rau said quietly. I’ll receive it in my office, in half an hour.

Yes, my lord, Alsburg said. The door clicked shut behind his departure.

He had looked forward to these reports ever since they had broken enemy codes for their communication frequencies. The highest-security levels were still blocked to them, but quiet listening to unguarded conversations had revealed fault lines that he could exploit. There was a new Lord Commander for the military on the Verlaker High Council. This was not good news in itself; Alban Selkirk was a dangerous man. But he had a weakness. Du Rau had monitored with satisfaction his growing rift with Thaddeys Barklay, who had capped a career of infamy with the ludicrous project of founding a school for courtesy on the south coast. Let Selkirk stalk his rightful prey: it would save du Rau the trouble, and distract Selkirk into the bargain.

His patience was finally paying off. Though full darkness had now descended over the horizon, he cast his gaze westward, toward his enemy. By now the sunset light would have gone also from the sky over the island of Verlac, its strongholds and coasts; they were all in the darkness together. A darkness in which he would soon extract his revenge.

Behind him, the door opened again, more quietly. The ghost of his wife’s reflection joined his in the window glass, tall and stately. His reflection saluted her with its wineglass, and du Rau drained the last swallow.

The intelligence report is in, he told her.

Ah. Lady Ingrid smiled. I won’t wait up, then.

I’ll brief you in the morning.

Assuming there was something substantial in the brief. You think it’s promising, then?

I expect it will be. Du Rau sighed briefly. If I had my preference, I’d starve them out a little longer.

You’ll find the opening you need. Ingrid spoke with quiet certainty.

Yes. It wasn’t just the war party’s impatience driving du Rau’s timetable. But only Ingrid knew that. He sighed again, a noise somewhere between frustration and prayer. Just give me five good years and an heir with a decent head on his shoulders, he muttered.

Dr. Berthau can buy you the years. Ingrid’s dryness provoked him to a smile before she even finished the thought: I don’t know who can buy you the heir.

Quite. He turned briefly to glance at her: the red-gold gloss her hair still held under the lights, her expression of half-lidded serenity that concealed years of patient thought. Unless it were you.

She made a tiny sound, an amused scoff. I like my job. I don’t wish to exchange it.

Keep an eye on them for me, then, he said, comfortably.

Certainly, my lord.

He set down the empty wineglass on the sideboard, and Ingrid turned with him to leave. They parted, with the wordless grace of Ingrid’s goodnight, in the gallery; for a moment he watched her go, a flow of fine tunic and quiet carpeted steps in the shadows surrounding the central atrium. The fan windows at the top, jewel blue when he went into the vista room, were now black with the night outside, and the strongest light was the small flood picking out the golden details of the frieze below: Lady Wisdom with her inscrutable eyes, holding up her lantern from the folds of her gold-edged cloak. The lantern was real; the palace employed someone whose sole job was to make sure it never went out.

Flickers from the lantern’s flame glinted on the surfaces of the stained-glass panels of du Rau’s executive office as he passed them to the door. He brought up the lights as he came in, and seated himself at his desk.

Prompt to his duty, Alsburg soon appeared with a large file tucked under his arm, briefly silhouetted by Lady Wisdom’s light in the doorway. Du Rau looked up.

Very good. Put it on my desk, Alsburg.

Yes, my lord.

And notify the general staff that I want to meet with them first thing in the morning. Du Rau reached for the file.

Yes, my lord.

And that will be all, Captain. Goodnight. Alsburg bowed and went away, closing the door behind him.

Alone in the quiet of his office, Emmerich du Rau settled down to read.

One: Ryswyck

1

Speir pulled out her battered school tablet and laid it on the table next to her breakfast tray. There was not much chance of being able to study in this din for the meteorology exam Captain Dury had set her, but it was worth the attempt to review her notes one last time.

Breakfast at Ryswyck was not a quiet affair. It was the one time of day in which everyone was present in the same place at the same time—breakfast, that is, and when the whistle blew to start a match in the arena. The first- and second-year cadets, a larger class by far than the junior officer class, were the noisiest, mobbing one another from bench to bench, working off their youthful high spirits. The majority of students entering Ryswyck were twenty or twenty-one, having just come off their national service and completed basic training at their local base. Speir, at the ripe old age of twenty-three, observed their antics with a benevolence she suspected to be mostly borrowed against the dignity of her promotion.

Someone rang the small bell at the door, and everyone rose swiftly to their feet. A sudden disorienting silence fell as General Barklay entered with two of the teaching officers; he waved them all down, and very quickly the din resumed. Some of the students went to greet Barklay as he got his breakfast tray and sat down at a bench; how Barklay managed to get any meal eaten was a mystery to Speir, but somehow he did it.

Speir bent over her notes and spooned up a bite of farina, the voices of her classmates rising in a cacophonous canopy over her head. She had taken to Ryswyck from her first week as a cadet like a fish released into water, and though familiarity had weathered the edges of her delight, she still took a simple pleasure in the humming busy activity that kept the Academy going like a turbine.

Presently Barklay rose, and Speir looked up when people around her started taking their trays to the hatch. She made to put away her tablet so that she could do the same, but her neighbor said to her, Shall I take yours too? and she thanked him and remained where she was. Her bench already faced the dais at the far end of the hall; the one across the trestle from her was refilling with students facing the other direction. Silence gradually settled once more, and everyone rose to their feet when Barklay nodded from the dais at Ellis, who began to lead the morning orison.

Voices that had ground against each other in chaotic turmoil like rocks in a jar, now smoothed together like the striations of a cool and powerful muscle, rising and then falling to a pregnant hum for Ellis’s next versicle. It was said that every Ilonian had a good voice, but the truth was that every Ilonian learned at an early age how to use what voice she or he had. Most everyone could sing the chants of the tradition, and many could lead them.

Barklay drew up to the lectern after the chant was finished, and the students all found their seats.

Good morning, he said, and there was a murmur of returned greeting. I’ve a few announcements before I turn over the assembly to Captain Marag. First, the rota captains have asked me to remind you that the duty rotation turns over today. Junior officers, please find your captains after the assembly to get your briefing. Second. We’ve received requests for another service course to be conducted here, both from Amity Base and two of the naval commanders at Central Command. As you know, it is a great deal of work to conduct a service course, and a second one, I think, too much for the number of junior and senior officers we have. Therefore, I am taking volunteers from among the second-year cadets— there was a frisson of delight from the second-years— to supply the necessary teaching assistance. If you are interested in volunteering, please speak to one of the officers in charge of your section. I am at this point particularly interested in those studying for the navy, but will not turn away army volunteers.

Barklay waited for the whisper of excited comment to die down before continuing. Third, he said, "the guest quarters are currently being occupied by a crew who are working on the turbines over at Benel River Station. Please extend to them your hospitality and help them with anything they may need, such as letting them use the drying cupboards in your wing when the others are full, and so on. And fourth and last: I request that those who enjoy the privilege of audiovisual calls out of Ryswyck not abuse that privilege. It is better courtesy to allow the com tower crew to pursue their priorities, and not have to juggle secure transmissions with multiple requests for open lines. When you use the com-deck station, please ask the tower crew if it is an optimal time to request an open line for a personal call. Let me also remind you to observe military security in your conversations, and if you must transmit sensitive information, record your communication and send it by a secure line.

And now I will turn over the lectern to Captain Marag. Barklay laid his closed hand over his breast, in the Ryswyckian gesture that here meant thanks, and stepped back.

Captain Marag greeted the student body with a brief smile, and made a list of detailed announcements about the week’s coursework (to which everyone listened with conscious patience), and a few announcements on the week’s matches (to which everyone listened with unfeigned interest). Barklay dismissed the assembly, and the hall exploded afresh as the students clattered up, cadets hurrying to classes, junior officers dodging about to find their rotas. Speir put her tablet back in her scrip, hitched the long strap cross-shoulder, and got up to do the same.

A Rota had begun to collect to the side of the dais, next to the Ilonian banner and out of the way of traffic. Speir reached them to hear Douglas saying, We’ll need to meet with E Rota to give our briefing on the classroom duties, so I agreed with Cameron we’d compare notes in the north wing in about— he glanced at the clock— a quarter of an hour from now. Meanwhile Ellis has promised me he’d be present to brief us when we take our sections for sparring practice this afternoon, so that should be covered.

A quarter of an hour would be just enough for Speir to get to her quarters and back with all that she would need for the morning’s classes. With luck, the briefing wouldn’t make her late for her exam with Dury. When A Rota’s consultation broke up, she left the hall quickly.

All the same, she was caught up by Cadet Baxter on her way to the north wing for a long query about the cadet match schedule; Speir extricated herself as graciously as she could and sped her pace, but she was still the last one to arrive in the teachers’ workroom.

Ah, Speir, there you are, Cameron said, looking up from where she hung over a table reviewing a scorebook. You’re assisting Marag in supply management, aren’t you? Come here and consult with me and Neely.

Cameron had taken Speir under her wing in the first weeks after her promotion; her kindness was beginning to feel a little officious, but Speir had decided it did no harm to let Cameron do her the favor. It seemed to be Cameron’s style, rather than an indication that Speir still had to prove her competence.

It helped, though, that Cameron was navy. Speir went forward with a comfortable smile to brief Cameron and Neely on the week’s lessons in supply management.

There were no surprises for E Rota to absorb for their week’s duties: the students’ classwork scores had continued on their expected trendlines, none of the senior officers had altered the lesson planning, and the general exam was still a few weeks away. The last few minutes of the briefing found most of the two rotas chatting about inconsequential things.

Behind her, Turnbull was regaling several others with a very old and complicated joke involving a Northern farmer, a Southern businessman, and a Berenian, all of whom for various reasons were failing to win sexual favors from a woman in a bar. The Berenian came off worst, of course, and Speir shifted uncomfortably, thinking to herself that if Barklay were present, Turnbull would be in a great deal of trouble for repeating this joke. Barklay’s low tolerance for caricature was legendary, which was probably why Turnbull had lowered his voice.

But even in a low voice he could tell the joke with animation, and he managed to make the tired punch line amusing enough that several people broke into illicit snickers.

Yes, well, Ahrens said, laughing, I hear that up north they have a hard time telling the women from farm animals anyway.

A sudden silence descended. The room was heavy with conviction that Ahrens had gone too far: Speir followed the others’ gazes to see Douglas, twisted round in his chair and regarding Ahrens with ominous detachment.

Would you care to repeat that, Ahrens? he said, in an uninflected voice that made Speir suspend her breath.

With an attempt at ease, Ahrens said, Oh, I’m sorry, Douglas. I forgot you were from the North. I meant no offense.

Douglas got up, and everyone drew out of his way. He came toward Ahrens without an ounce of threat; threat, Speir thought, was wholly unnecessary.

That’s not good enough, Douglas said quietly. I may be present, but you were discourteous to a whole population who aren’t here to defend themselves.

Douglas, I didn’t—

Have you ever been to a Northern farm? Douglas pressed him.

No, Ahrens admitted.

Have you ever been north of Killness Pass, yourself? Speir could hear clearly now the musical accent of the North country under Douglas’s educated tones. Next to her, Cameron sucked in her lips and held her breath.

No—

Does your mother have any relatives up there?

No.

Do you know what you’re talking about at all, Ahrens?

Ahrens gave a sigh, lips pursed. No, Douglas. I don’t.

Then may I suggest you think twice in the future before you make sport from your own ignorance, Douglas said.

The two men’s gazes were locked. The force of Douglas’s attention was palpable, and made no room for Ahrens at all. The others could therefore see clearly the act of courage it took for Ahrens to drop his defensive challenge and bring his closed hand to his breast.

I own the fault, Ahrens said hardily. I’m sorry. Forgive me.

All eyes went to Douglas. For a moment he showed no response: then slowly he drew in a breath and straightened up and away, and Speir could breathe again.

All’s well, Douglas said, and then in a softer voice to the room at large, Excuse me. He made his way quietly out from among them and was gone.

Ahrens puffed a heavy breath and plowed a hand through his hair. Merciful hell. I thought sure we were headed to the arena for that.

I think Turnbull bears some of that fault, Cameron said sharply, rounding on him. What possessed you to repeat that stupid joke?

The sex part was funny, Turnbull said, defensively.

Well, maybe you could devote your considerable wit to inventing a funny sex joke that doesn’t denigrate anyone’s heritage.

Well, there’s an idea, Turnbull said. A hint of his usual mischievous smile returned to his face. But I didn’t mean to insult anyone’s heritage, honestly—and it’s not as if anyone came out unscathed—

You know that’s not the point, Cameron retorted, and echoing Speir’s earlier thought, added, What would Barklay say if he heard that?

What would I say if I heard what?

They all turned to see Barklay leaning casually through the doorway. He raised an eyebrow at Cameron, who directed his gaze at Turnbull. Turnbull changed color twice, but answered readily enough.

I told an offensive joke, sir, he said.

Oh? Which one?

Turnbull, not squirming by visible effort, said: Well, sir, it involves a Northern farmer, a Southern businessman, and a Berenian…. Do you want me to tell it? He didn’t look like he fancied the prospect.

No, never mind, Barklay said calmly, I think I’ve heard it. Or one like it. How would you characterize the result?

Sir?

Of telling the joke.

Unexpected conflict, sir, Turnbull said with a sigh.

Unexpected by you, Barklay clarified.

Turnbull looked increasingly chagrined. Yes, sir.

And what do you conclude from that result? Barklay said.

That I should have expected it? Turnbull said, dryly.

Well, that will do for a beginning. But Barklay clearly was waiting for Turnbull to improve his answer.

Finally Turnbull sighed. Cameron suggests I come up with a sex joke that is funny without insulting anyone’s heritage, he said, by way of confession.

A very creative solution, Barklay said. You’ll have to tell it to me when you’ve worked it out. And, he added as Turnbull looked at him in faint horror, I’m sure it will make a nice diverting little item in next month’s junior officer meeting agenda.

Oh, yes, sir, Cameron said, with a very straight face. I’m sure the rota captains can make room for a good clean sex joke.

Would that all meetings boasted such pleasant agendas, Barklay said. With a brief grin he saluted them lightly and continued on his way.

Thank you, Cameron, Turnbull said sweetly, as soon as he was out of earshot.

My pleasure, Turnbull, Cameron replied in the same tone.

The carillon in the tower began to chime its call to classes, and the heavy passage of student feet echoed in the corridor outside. My exam, Speir said, and then to Cameron, Have we finished with the briefing?

Yes, yes, everyone’s dismissed, Cameron said. You’re going to Dury, aren’t you? I’ll walk with you, if you don’t mind. I need to ask him a question about this week’s lessons.

Everyone gathered up their tablets and scrips and scorebooks and exited, chatting with one another, on their way to their various duties. Several chaffed Turnbull and Ahrens on their way out, which they took with good grace. Speir and Cameron made their way against the current of human traffic and came out into the cloister corridor to the next wing where they could walk abreast.

"So have you got all the troublemakers in your rota?" Speir said, teasing her gently.

Just about, Cameron sighed. "Stevens took over C Rota when we divided duties into five, so at least I don’t have him. But at least Stevens never gets into fights with people. I can’t believe Turnbull told that joke. I’d have called him out myself if Barklay hadn’t happened by."

It wasn’t in very good taste, Speir agreed. Luckily for him Ahrens drew off Douglas’s fire.

Cameron shrugged. "I’m sure Douglas has heard that joke a hundred times; no doubt he’s used to it. But comparing his mother to a farm animal is probably just a bit beyond the pale."

Speir snorted at the understatement. Well, I look forward to hearing what Turnbull comes up with for the meeting.

So do I, said Cameron, with a wicked grin. Let’s see what use he can make of his experience.

Speir said slyly: So is he any good in bed, then?

Surprisingly, yes, Cameron said. But not better than I am.

She glanced sidelong at Speir, with the faintest hint of a wink, and they both grinned.

~*~

Since you ask me, Douglas said— I think it’s a bad idea, sir.

They were in Barklay’s office with the door shut, ostensibly going over cadet training scoresheets. Barklay had suspected by Douglas’s absence from the scene that Turnbull’s unexpected conflict had involved him; he had found him helping Beathas to administer a tactics-and-strategy exam to a class of second-years, and carried him off. It had not been difficult to get the full story from Douglas; his anger had already subsided into a morose dispassion, and since Ahrens had owned his fault, Douglas spoke of the incident as closed.

Barklay liked to keep his finger on the pulse of student conflicts and intrigues; even when Douglas wasn’t involved, Barklay sometimes asked him for information on a matter, which Douglas gave him without cavil. Douglas had a good evaluative sense of a situation as a whole, and an equally valuable sense of reticence and discretion. It was therefore natural for Barklay to lay before him the situation that would be the subject of today’s lunch meeting of the senior officer teaching staff. Douglas’s reactions were bound to be a good barometer.

Well, I have to get my staff from somewhere, Barklay pointed out. Dury goes back to Amity Base at the summer recess, and Forba isn’t available to replace him in the rotation this year. I’m not ready to make waves with Lord Selkirk so soon after his installation. Better to accept his candidate now and find someone else later.

Douglas frowned. But if what you say is true, sir, it creates an excellent opportunity for the Council to stab you in the back.

I’m not going to be exposing my back, Barklay said, looking up at Douglas mildly. Douglas looked back, perfectly impassive. It was impossible to rattle Douglas, but Barklay tried it every once in a while, for the data points.

Back or front, Douglas replied dryly, it matters little. Wherever you’ve let down your defenses is where the strike will come.

There are worse things than being undefended, Barklay said, reaching for the printed lists of cadets and dividing them into sections.

I understand that very well, sir— Barklay looked up again, but Douglas’s expression remained serene and closed. But it’s best to be undefended to some good purpose.

Barklay sat back in his chair and regarded Douglas thoughtfully. You think undefendedness should have a purpose? he said,