The Devil and Deep Space (22 page)

If Verlaine had been able to break Koscuisko’s bond–involuntaries free from Fleet and bring them to Chilleau Judiciary years ago Koscuisko would have come with them, almost certainly. Jils kept talking. “Until then the Bench will wish to continue to protect its officer. Your people can return to the
Ragnarok
once your clearances have all been purged, your Excellency, and at your instruction I will leave immediately for Bench offices, if you should wish it.”

Because otherwise she was scheduled to travel to Chelatring Side with Koscuisko seven days from now, to be present when the Autocrat’s Proxy took her formal poll of the Koscuisko familial corporation. She had intended to leave for Bench offices afterward; that was what Cousin Stanoczk had arranged. But if Koscuisko was impatient she would not be surprised, nor was she unwilling to change plans. Koscuisko thought about it.

“It is only a few more days, Bench specialist, and I am at home already. If I am to trust the First Secretary, I will trust that this is a done deed. No, do not change your plans on my account. It would only call attention. I need to think and plan how to reveal this to my family. Give me the document. I will make my mark.”

Koscuisko’s signature, holograph endorsement, and his seal. The thing was done. All that was left was for it to be recorded, and that was the merest technicality.

“Thank you, your Excellency. As you wish, sir.”

Koscuisko was pale. And yet looked so much younger. “Thank you as well, Bench specialist, and now excuse me if you will. My heart is full. I need to be alone here for a while.”

To offer a salute by way of courtesy was not appropriate; he was no longer an officer, except for the formality. Something Jils had heard came to her mind, instead.

“According to his Excellency’s good pleasure,” Jils agreed. A Dolgorukij formula, for a Dolgorukij autocrat. Her mission was accomplished. Andrej Koscuisko had come home at last; and now would stay.

Chapter Eight

The Malcontent

On the morning of the ninth day since Andrej Ulexeievitch had returned to Azanry, Marana pulled open the great curtains that draped the windows of the master’s bedroom and looked down into the gardens below. It was well past breakfast; she had lain sleepless for long hours in the night, struggling with her sense of fairness and duty, and consequently slept later. The light in Andrej’s bedroom was different than in her own and provided few clues as to the time.

As Marana looked out over the garden in the midmorning sun, Andrej Ulexeievitch himself came out of the house below her, rushing into the garden like a man in pursuit of some elusive goal. She frowned.

He had had an appointment with his guest, the Bench specialist, in the morning. He had seen Specialist Ivers for a few words in the garden yesterday as well. He hadn’t said anything to her about the meat and matter of the conversation; he hadn’t seemed disturbed or unhappy — yet who was she to say?

His outland Security were there, spreading themselves well out along the perimeter of the garden. But Andrej was headed for the maze. Security would not be able to track him there, unless he wore a blip; it was an old maze, and very cunning. Nor would she be able to see where he was, because the latticework of living centuries of shrubs had roofed the maze over solidly. In the winter, yes, she was able to see her son Anton running through the maze with his pet mas–hound, if there wasn’t any snow and he wore something brightly colored.

She wanted to know what was on Andrej’s mind. Shrugging into her robe — glad that her woman wasn’t there to insist she dress — Marana hurried down the private stairs and out of the house, into the garden. Nodding at Andrej’s master of Security, Marana went straight for the maze, and in. She knew the maze. She didn’t know which way Andrej had gone, but she could guess. They had once had a favorite place to go and be lost in —

Turning a corner, Marana caught sight of him as he went around the crisply trimmed edge of the shrubbery hedge, trailing his left hand across the green leaves as he went.

“Andrej!”

He had found the bench in the arbor that had been their trysting–place of old, and sat there with his face in his hands, rubbing his eyes. Something was wrong. She flew to his side and took his right hand in her own, and he let her carry his hand away from his face without protest. He would talk to her, then.

“Andrej, what’s the matter?”

His hand worked in her anxious clasp, his fingers fluttering with emotion. “It’s not wrong at all, Marana, but it’s so far from right. I don’t know what to do.”

She waited.

After a moment, Andrej turned to her and took her hands between his. “Marana. When I came home, and so far abused your goodwill as to marry you. It was not because I thought you might still love me, or had pined for me in solitude for years. But to protect our son.”

Someone must have told him about Ferinc. Marana felt a chill in the pit of her stomach: she had thought she could explain — but she had yet to broach the delicate subject, and now it was too late.

Andrej spoke on, without asking or apparently expecting a defense from her. She was under no obligation to defend herself. She knew her rights, and Ferinc was one of them.

“And only then because I have had warnings, Marana, of a powerful enemy who wants me dead and has the means to accomplish this. I was almost assassinated at Port Burkhayden, Marana, and I place my life in your hands to tell you even so much as that.”

He didn’t want to go into details. She could sense it. She agreed. She didn’t want him to go into any details either: she didn’t want any knowledge that could be used against him. “Tell me, Andrej,” she encouraged. “Has something changed?”

“Everything is changed except that.” Releasing her hands with a gesture of hopelessness he pleaded with her, palms up, as if gloomily convinced even before the fact that he could not express the enormity of it. “Chilleau Judiciary offers me freedom. And more than that, in return for my voice in my father’s ear, but freedom without qualification. Marana. I would never have dared bind you to me in such a way if I had thought that it would mean imprisonment for you.”

She was safe to ignore the latter half of his speech; she thought she understood the former. He was being yes–or–no again. It was so very Andrej of him that she felt her heart soften with remembered love. “Relieved of your duties, you come home to be a husband to your wife and a father to your son. How can that not be right, Andrej? Speaking of the portion that regards our son in particular.”

Andrej resettled himself on the cool stone bench, at a little farther remove than that at which Marana herself had sat down to speak to him. “Had I only known that I had time. I might have won your permission beforehand. I might not have flouted my father’s will, again.”

Marana hid her smile of recognition. Yes, he had behaved in a very high–handed manner. Yes, he had been arrogant and self–willed, and focused completely on his own agenda to the absolute exclusion of anything else. That was what an autocrat was expected to do. And Andrej’s aim was the protection of his son; surely he could understand that that fact won him some consideration from his son’s mother.

“Surely to have you home is a good thing,” Marana encouraged him, gently. “You have a child. He will grow to love you. You so often wondered whether you were doomed to inspire only fear and filial duty.” That there were issues between Andrej and his father was a fact of life unchanged in the years Andrej had been way from home. “You will have work to do. To repair relationships with the business interests of the Ichogatra.”

He looked at her almost reluctantly with his head lowered, grasping the edge of the seat of the stone bench in either hand. “But do we have a future to make between us, Marana? If I am to be home. I would like to know if we might try to see if we can remember what it had once been to have loved one another.”

Her heart went out to him, trying so hard to do the thing that was right, trying so hard to determine what that might be. She slid across the bench closer to him, and this time he did not stir. “When Pellarus came back to Osmander, he was changed,” Marana pointed out tenderly, not minding if her own uncertainty sounded in her voice. “And it was time before she knew him for her lord. But she did come to know him.”

Andrej nodded in apparent acceptance of the offer, or at least of the spirit that had inspired it. “Pellarus was changed by ordeal and honorable battle,” Andrej objected regardless, stubborn for all his clear understanding of what she meant to offer to him. “Osmander had not made a life for herself. As another woman very properly might.”

Marana had made up her mind now, and was determined. “I am your wife, Andrej; you my husband. It’s not for you to say whether Ferinc should be an obstacle. I say we should approach it as Pellarus to Osmander, and see if there is truth for us in the story. Else, we will negotiate. But I would like to try, because sometimes when I am not paying attention it seems that I remember loving you.”

Turning to her Andrej raised his hands to take her by the shoulder and caress her face with trembling fingers. “It is so much to think about,” Andrej said, in a voice that was heavy with tears and wonder. “And all at once. It’s been so hard to meet Anton, knowing I was going away, that to think I need not go away is almost too much happiness. I cannot deserve this, Marana.”

What could he mean? “ ‘If happiness were deserved how few would ever be.’ ” It was an old adage, no less true for its antiquity. “Strive only to be worthy of it. Not to deserve it.”

She leaned her forehead against his, and in a breath remembered with so forceful a rush of shared delight that it nearly overwhelmed her. His face had changed, his manner subtly altered, his language edged with harsh experience, his eyes grown weary from looking upon alien visions. But his smell was Andrej.

It was Andrej with some overlay of age and maturity; his personal linen did not take the scent that she remembered, he dressed his hair with different toiletries than those he had once been accustomed to use.

It was still him. Beneath the influence of soap and cloth, the underlying truth of his body was the one that she remembered. It was so easy to put her mouth to his and taste his kiss, drunk in the moment with the certainty of her senses.

There was an alien flavor to his mouth. He was an older man than he had been, his kiss was not as sweet as when they had been children. But she could recognize enough. His smell, the taste of his mouth, the remembered shifting of his body against hers — Andrej.

He would come home, and stay. Anton would learn to love him. With Andrej at her side, there would be nothing to fear from the spite of his family.

With Andrej home it would be different, now.

###

There was someone on the grounds of Koscuisko’s manor house that Chief Stildyne thought he recognized, and Lek was not the man to argue with his Chief. Their officer had gone into the maze in his garden; his lady had gone in after him, and so far as Lek was concerned anything he could find to focus his attention away from what was likely to be happening in the maze was all to the good.

Smish Smath chirruped, her little trill a very creditable imitation of a local warbler. Lek recognized her accent all the same. Leaning away from his post just enough to catch her hand signal, Lek read the signs.
Quarry bearing Taller to Murat. Intercept at twenty–four eighths. On one. Two. Three. Four
.

Taller to Murat
told Lek what direction to seek;
twenty–four eighths
gave him the distance. It would be a stretch at the sprint, but he could do it. There was a relatively clear field between the maze and the outermost perimeter, but once past the gravel track of the promenade there were trees and plantings to muddle the pursuit.

If the quarry gained the garden wall, they would lose it. There were too many directions in which a man could run to hide, and no way to alert the house security in time. Perhaps that was best. Perhaps Stildyne was crying the alert. It was in their best interest as Stildyne’s team on site to ensure that Stildyne not find himself in need of outside help.

Lek ran for the goal as though the Aznir were on his heels with the dogs, and the Devil after. Taller had flushed the game. Lek could hear someone running, and altered his course to intercept, pushing for each extra bit of speed that he could muster. This was for Stildyne’s face. He couldn’t let Stildyne down in front of all of these Aznir. He would not.

Lek could hear the quarry, but still could not quite see it. Whoever it was ran very well and very quickly, but Lek had had the advantage of direction. Lek knew where he was to look for his prey; the quarry didn’t know where to expect Lek. Seeing his chance, Lek, shifted his pursuit track in a wide arc to cut across the fleeing man’s path and terminate his flight.

The target saw his danger and veered off toward a break between two trees, but the shift in direction cost him time. Lek launched himself for the quarry and landed him, crashing to the ground against the base of a tree trunk, with his arms wrapped around the waist of Stildyne’s prey.

The others were with him, now — Smish and Murat and Taller — wrestling with the man Lek had brought down, subduing him by degrees as he struggled. Once he felt sure that the others had a good grip on the man, Lek pushed himself away from the prone body to stand up.

What he saw froze his blood. The man was Malcontent.

He wore his hair long down his back, but worse than that, as Taller and Smish pinned his shoulders to the ground Lek could see the crimson halter around the prone man’s throat, exposed, revealed by the struggle that disarranged his clothing and pulled his collar wide.

Lek leaned into his shoulder and struck Taller as hard as he could to shake him free, pushing at Smish at the same time. He’d startled them. They went down.

Lek reached down to embrace the Malcontent, to help him up, to beg forgiveness for the error they had made and explain that his off–world companions had not known that they were making such a terrible mistake. Murat landed on his back, flattening Lek across the Malcontent’s body.

Lek started to become confused. This was a Malcontent. The person of the Malcontent was sacred. He couldn’t let these off–worlders abuse a Malcontent. He was one of these outlanders, though. He was supposed to do as his Chief ordered, and his Chief wanted this man stopped and secured. But this man was Malcontent. He couldn’t let them impose violence on the person of the Malcontent; it was a sin, and yet —

“That’ll do,” the Malcontent said firmly, but it wasn’t a Malcontent’s voice. It was some warrant officer or another, speaking plain Standard. Maybe not a warrant officer. But it was Standard. And it certainly sounded like a warrant officer to Lek. “Disengage, and terminate your exercise. Very well done indeed, and me with the advantage of knowledge of the terrain. Where is your Chief?”

Lek helped the Malcontent to rise, while Smish and Taller came up on either side, predictably confused. Lek didn’t blame them. He was confused himself.

“He’s Malcontent,” Lek explained, as Chief Stildyne joined them. “No man may touch the sacred person of the Malcontent. Well, not without leave and permission. We almost made a horrible mistake, Chief.”

He was confused and uncertain, and beginning to be afraid. He knew that the person of the Malcontent was not to be approached with violence. But did Stildyne? And more to the point — did his governor know that?

Stildyne shook his head. “He’s not Malcontent, Lek,” Stildyne said, with absolute assurance. “He’s not even Dolgorukij. I know this man, or at least I used to know him. He’s a deserter from Gotrane. Not Malcontent at all.”

“That was then,” the Malcontent said. “This is now. You, troop, Lek? Don’t worry. It’s all right. Do as your Chief tells you. And the peace of the Malcontent be with you. It’s all right.”

The Malcontent wasn’t moving, wasn’t giving anyone any reason to have to hit him. That helped. What the Malcontent said was confusing, but Lek thought he could make sense of it if he tried. Stildyne thought he knew the man. Maybe Stildyne had. An outlander, electing the Malcontent? Because he didn’t look like any kind of Dolgorukij to Lek, let alone Aznir. Stildyne was right about that.