The Devil and Deep Space (34 page)

looked like Koscuisko. He had thought that Cousin Stanoczk looked like Koscuisko at the Matredonat. There were closer matches here everywhere he turned.

Cousin Stanoczk frowned, apparently confused; but his face cleared quickly. “Young prince. The youngest of the family, Nikolij Ulexeievitch. Your officer’s youngest brother. Who else?”

The servers were carrying a meat course down the line behind the seated guests. Stildyne caught a glimpse of the Bench specialist’s profile as she turned her head to consider the offer; she looked a little panicked, Stildyne thought. Yes. It had already been several courses.

“Father. Mother. Autocrat’s Proxy.” Stildyne named them off as he knew them, and Cousin Stanoczk filled in the rest.

“Thy officer’s sister, actually, did you know that? Fourth born and second eldest of daughters. Younger than Iosev and Meeka, but older than Lo. There’s another sister. And the oldest sister is not here tonight, because it is too awkward in today’s environment, after all.”

Whatever that meant. Stildyne counted them all up in his mind; Koscuisko had four brothers, then, and three sisters as it seemed. More family than Stildyne had ever had. In Dolgorukij terms, Stildyne had never had family at all, he supposed. “Why do they keep staring?”

That the guests were intrigued by Smish in uniform Stildyne could understand. Koscuisko had warned them to expect that, and the experience of their stay at the Matredonat had only confirmed the exotic appeal Smish had on Azanry. He wasn’t sure he understood what was so interesting about Lek. Lek was tolerably well put together, yes, and Security were expected to maintain an appropriately lean and menacing physique. But so were Taller and Murat, and Murat was quite possibly abstractly the more attractive of the three. Being younger, for one.

Now Cousin Stanoczk shoved him, as, Stildyne had elbowed Cousin Stanoczk earlier. “What do you think?” Well, if he’d known what to think, Stildyne thought a bit resentfully, he wouldn’t have asked. “And do you mean to watch all through the dinner, Chief?”

“No, Cousin, I think he’s safe enough with his own people. These troops look like they mean business to me.” The house security who staffed the room were as fine troops as Stildyne had ever seen; he could smell their edge. It was subtle. They more than just looked impressive. They had the juice.

“Then come with me. I’ve got something to show you.”

Cousin Stanoczk drew him away from the room, walking backward, sidling through a panel door in the wall that Stildyne hadn’t noticed being there. “He’s Sarvaw, Chief,” Cousin Stanoczk said, and after a moment Stildyne remembered having asked the question about Lek. “Imagine that. A Sarvaw security troop. Assigned to the son of the Koscuisko prince. The mind, it absolutely boggles.”

Stildyne couldn’t see what was so particularly boggling about that. “It’s all Combine one way or the other, Cousin, isn’t it so?” All right, so he’d heard that there was bad blood in the history. History was history. And if it wasn’t history, it ought to be, once it was history. “How can they tell, anyway? You all look alike to me.”

Cousin Stanoczk snorted, apparently taken by genuine surprise. “Say such a thing to either Aznir or Sarvaw and insult them equally, friend Stildyne. You will perhaps consent to trust me on this. We can tell.”

The corridors through which Cousin Stanoczk led him were emptier by the moment; the area into which they were descending seemed almost deserted. There were locked doors. Cousin Stanoczk had the keys.

“But
how
can they tell?”

And where were they going? “If you had the history of this family, you might have cause to understand, Chief. I would almost say that Sarvaw children know Aznir for their enemy in their mothers’ wombs. And my cousin and his Lek, they get on together?” The corridors were narrowing, and they kept climbing down stairs. Cousin Stanoczk stopped in front of one particularly large wooden door to work the secures.

Lek was a bond–involuntary. He had no choice. That wasn’t what Cousin Stanoczk was asking. “His Excellency respects and values Lek equally as his other Security. Maybe there’s even a community feeling between them, both Combine — what?”

Stanoczk had rolled his eyes in exaggerated exasperation, leaning into the door to open it. “If you only knew what nonsense you were talking, Chief. But, at any rate, that is why they are staring. Andrej has been playing his Lek up from the moment he arrived, to give him face. I’m not surprised that the family are fascinated.”

That was all to the good. Stildyne found Cousin Stanoczk a little fascinating for his own part. Stanoczk was very like Andrej Koscuisko in some ways that had nothing to do with his physical appearance; and so completely unlike Koscuisko in others. Cousin Stanoczk flirted with him. Andrej Koscuisko had never kissed a man with amorous intent in his entire life, not in any context that counted.

“Where are we going, Cousin?” He didn’t mind taking a stroll with Cousin Stanoczk. But he was beginning to wonder what was going on.

“Going, we go nowhere, we are arrived,” Cousin Stanoczk said, somewhat confusingly. “You and my Ferinc had history, I understand. I thought that you might be intrigued by some of what it can mean, to be Malcontent.”

Cousin Stanoczk turned and closed the door behind him, and secured it. Stildyne stood and stared.

It was just a corridor, but it seemed to be a long corridor, and there were pictures on the walls the likes of which would have been startling enough in almost any other context but which were truly amazing in a Dolgorukij one.

“What’s this?”

Cousin Stanoczk took Stildyne’s arm encouragingly, and started down the corridor. “It is the Gallery — technically, the Great Gallery at Chelatring Side. Or more technically, it does not even exist. This part of the house belongs to my holy Patron, Chief. Some mysteries cannot be written, but they can be shown.”

Visual documentation. Pictures. Ways in which a man might discover that he was Malcontent. “Reconciliation,” Stildyne guessed, trying hard to look without seeing. It was hard. They were persuasive pictures.

“In one form or another.” Cousin Stanoczk’s voice was cheerful in agreement, seeming unmoved by the explicit and arousing images on the walls.
Why not
? Stildyne asked himself, in despair of ruling his own flesh. Cousin Stanoczk probably saw them all the time.

“I’m not Dolgorukij, Cousin.” And nobody would know that better than an Aznir Dolgorukij, because that was as Dolgorukij as they got. “Why have you brought me here?”

“I wish to take advantage,” Cousin Stanoczk said, enthusiastically. “In an attempt to seduce you. Say that I may succeed, and I will be a happy man. One of these in particular I think you will especially like, Stildyne, if you would put your eyes back in your head and follow me.”

This was not a dialect of Dolgorukij that Stildyne could grasp. Cousin Stanoczk was speaking plain Standard. But Dolgorukij —
didn’t
. That was why they were so expensive in service houses, after all. Dolgorukij didn’t, not with other men. Were those expensive Dolgorukij all Malcontents?

He couldn’t think. The lovingly detailed sexual images in the paintings that lined the walls had stacked themselves firmly between his cerebrum and his brain stem, so that the only processing that was going on in his brain any longer was direct and visceral. Eye to brain to spine, and down.

His entire body was following Cousin Stanoczk with avid interest, eagerly curious about wherever it was that Stanoczk was going and whatever it was that Stanoczk might have in mind. His entire body, less his brain, which was still only slowly processing the things that he was seeing on the walls.

He had to hurry to catch up. When he did, he put his hand to Stanoczk’s shoulder, and left it there; turning his head Cousin Stanoczk grinned back at Stildyne over his shoulder, and led him deeper into the Gallery.

Chapter Twelve

The Great Gate

Jils Ivers had known torture, hardship, and privation in her life, and no ordeal that she could think of at this moment could be compared to a Dolgorukij formal banquet. Not because she wasn’t comfortably seated; she was. Not because there were after–dinner speakers; there weren’t, though the toasts had been difficult to get through on account of the amount of drinking that they involved.

There was simply too much food. And she hated to not eat every bite of it, because she never knew for sure when exactly she’d have a chance to eat again. It was torture. It was all so good. Agony.

And when the Koscuisko princess — Andrej Koscuisko’s mother — rose from the table at last, with everybody else in turn rising in order of precedence to progress out into the great hall of Chelatring Side, Jils Ivers heard an orchestra tuning, and groaned inwardly. It was too much. She had to go lie down. Nobody took exercise after such a meal as this.

But Dolgorukij went dancing, and she was on the arm of the son of the Koscuisko prince, Andrej Koscuisko himself. He looked so different in civilian dress. Dolgorukij aristocrats wore fancy clothing, brightly colored, frothing at the cuffs with lace. Exotic animals, as unlike a man in the black of a Ship’s Chief Medical Officer as could be imagined.

“It is only a darshan to start,” Koscuisko explained, encouragingly, clearly sensitive to her distress. “My brother is shy. But would very much like the honor. If you would permit, Bench specialist.”

Figures of eight, many of them already in motion. Koscuisko’s youngest sister was waiting for them, with a young man; the boy Nikolij Ulexeievitch bowed to her very prettily, with almost no trace of anxiety on his face, and Jils had to smile and give in.

She had never thought of Koscuisko as a man with brothers and sisters. As odd as it had been to see him at his ease at the Matredonat with his wife and his young son, it was stranger still to see him here in a darshan–eight, dancing with his young sister, and his youngest brother serving as her squire.

Inquisitors were without family; they existed only in the thoroughly adult context of the Law, the prison, and the torture room. Andrej Koscuisko was the single most notorious pain–master in the entire inventory, and here he was the older brother in the middle of his cousins and his brothers and his sisters and his parents as well.

By the end of the figure she was beginning to feel much less uncomfortably full, but she was still grateful to be ushered to a chair behind that of the Koscuisko princess to sit down. Nikolij was an attentive host, bringing her a glass of punch and a fan with which to cool herself. He yielded up his duties to his brother with good grace when Andrej Koscuisko appeared from out of the press of people to sit down beside her.

Koscuisko’s mother looked back at her son over her shoulder and raised an eyebrow. Koscuisko rose swiftly to bow over his mother’s hand, but sat back down almost as quickly, smiling.

In the lull in the music between the conclusion of the darshan and the beginning of whatever other dance it would be next an elderly woman came through the mingling guests, and the crowd made way before her. Very straight she stood, very short, almost as small as young Nikolij, who was still growing; her hair was thin and yellow, but her face was youthful in its appearance for all the wrinkles at her eyes and forehead.

When she was five paces or so in front of where Koscuisko’s parents sat, she stopped and planted her walking stick firmly on the ground in front of her, and waited. The room got quiet.

“The son of the Koscuisko prince has returned home,” she said, her voice clearly meant to carry. “It grieves me to be the one to say, my prince. But he brings neither plunder nor slaves. And therefore, according to the ancient rules of your House, must pay a forfeit.”

“Saints,” Koscuisko swore under his breath, beside Jils. But he seemed to be smiling. It was some form of hazing, perhaps?

“True enough,” Koscuisko’s father agreed, with a rumbling undertone of amusement in his voice. “Be merciful, I beg you. He is my son. What shall his forfeit be?”

The elderly woman took another step forward. The great hall was so quiet that Jils could hear the scrape of a chair across the wooden stage as one of the musicians adjusted his place. “Family jeweler,” Koscuisko whispered to her, not moving his lips. “Savage woman. I am terrified.”

“He brings neither plunder nor pelf,” the elderly woman repeated. “And yet has at least one thing to show for his long absence, my prince, something above price. As forfeit we think that we should be allowed to examine his items of adornment. Perhaps to contest with him at target.”

“It is worse than I had thought,” Koscuisko said quietly. “Do they know that Lek is my knife teacher? I am sure of it.”

Lek? What was it about — then she remembered. Yes. That was right. Koscuisko’s Sarvaw bond–involuntary. People had been whispering about him all night, and as far as Jils could tell he was enjoying his notoriety thoroughly. It made Jils a little uncomfortable, but she supposed that if it amused the man himself she was not the one to find fault with it.

Koscuisko stood up, moving around to stand in front of his mother and bow to his father. “In truth I am improvident and thriftless,” Koscuisko said. “And yet possess treasure. If my father’s jeweler will name her time and her champion, I will maintain my honor; or call her ‘Younger Sister’ for a year.”

People seemed to be having a hard time keeping their faces straight. It was a hint to Jils that none of this challenge and rebuke was serious.

“Tomorrow, after breakfast. At such time as your head will have had a chance to clear from your night’s debauch, young master.”

Now people had started to laugh. The jeweler continued. “We will meet you here, upon the field of honor. And your father and your mother will bear witness, young master. May we hope to see all five?”

A different note, suddenly, some kind of hunger — genuine, and sincere. Five–knives. Koscuisko’s Emandisan steel. That elderly woman wasn’t the family’s jeweler; she was the house armorer. Maybe for Dolgorukij it was the same thing.
Items of adornment
, the old woman had said, and she was talking about Koscuisko’s knives.

“Dame Isola, you have rebuked my poverty before my mother and my father, and I will be avenged. You will have to fight to see all five. I put you on your guard.”

Now everybody in the entire fortress who did not have to be somewhere else would come and watch, and cheer for one side or the other. This was a family, a familial corporation, not a military installation. But in some ways, its gestalt was not unlike that of an elite ground–combat troop unit.

The music had started to pick up again; the show was apparently over for now. Koscuisko came back for her, holding out his hand with transparent expectation that she would want to dance. “Bench specialist. This is the procession–step, very sedate. Perhaps you would consent to honor me.”

Procession step. That sounded safe enough. Giving him her hand Jils rose and went with him to dance, making a note to be sure to come to the great hall in the morning and watch Koscuisko contend with his house troops for face and credibility.

###

The knife flew clean and true to target, and the crowd cheered. Andrej turned to face them — his parents and his sister Zsuzsa, seated at her father’s right in token of her proxy rank — and bowed, smiling. Yes. He was a good shot. Joslire had always praised his natural eye, and said that the blood of the hunter was in his veins. Joslire.

“I think my son shows his worth, Dame Isola,” Andrej’s father called. The chairs had been moved back to a safe distance, along with the carpet that defined the privileged space. “Do you dispute it?”

Dame Isola, for her part, had stood to one side to watch the progress of the contest. Now she bowed her head. “The son of the Koscuisko prince does his blood honor. I admit it.” She seemed to take it in good part, even though she had to know that the coach with whom Andrej trained — now that Joslire was dead — was Sarvaw. “The challenge is well met, my prince. And still.”

Lek stood well apart, with Andrej’s other Security; they were in uniform, as he was not — they still belonged to Fleet. They had been kept late, last night, and no one had come to take him to train this morning, which was just as well. Supplemental atmosphere or no, the altitude was debilitating; they all felt it, Andrej was sure. Even Stildyne. Andrej had almost never seen Stildyne walk with such hesitation, except when he had been injured in one leg on an assignment — to Ropimel, Andrej thought it was.

“Still?” Andrej’s father prompted. “You have further tests to propose? Take care, Dame, this is the man who is to be your master. Do not press him over–hard.”

It was an affectionate and insincere rebuke. Dame Isola bowed. “Yes, my prince, and still. The son of the Koscuisko prince has demonstrated his ability.” She turned to Andrej, and her bow was respectful, but not nearly so deep as that she had made his father. “It is Emandisan steel, your Excellency, and I would very much like permission to handle it.”

Of course. It hadn’t been just to see whether Lek was to be granted their respect, and him Sarvaw. It was the knives they wanted. This whole thing had been a setup. She wanted to get her hands on Joslire’s soul.

She was the family jeweler; she had maintained steel and adjusted side–arms for Koscuiskos for an octave, almost, almost eighty years. She had served his father and his father’s father before that. Joslire might have recognized such a soul; Andrej was curious to see what she might make of Joslire’s knives.

“For that you must sue to my son Andrej,” Andrej’s father said. Andrej could hear the possessive affection in his father’s voice as he had never before in his life.
My son Andrej
. Had it been there all along? Did he only recognize it now because he had learned what it was to say
my son Anton
? “He shall decide. Thank you, my son, you vindicate your honor, and you make us proud.”

Andrej bowed to his parents with his heart full of gratitude and love.

There would be discussions still when it came time to start to adjust the business considerations consequent to his having forced his father’s hand and married Marana. He could never explain about the Bench warrant, not to his parents, because of the relation between it and the question of who had killed Captain Lowden if it had not been Specialist Vogel.

But he had not been more than moderately rebuked for it. He had been afraid that he would be decisively rejected, having only then won forgiveness of a sort for past misdeeds; instead, it seemed that his father understood better than Andrej had imagined that he might.

Maybe Cousin Stanoczk had told him something about the Bench warrant, Andrej decided, waiting for the houseman to carry the tray back to him with his knife. He hadn’t seen Cousin Stanoczk since last night.

The houseman brought the knife he’d just thrown back to him on a fabric-lined tray; Andrej loosed its mate from the forearm sheath on his right arm and laid it beside its twin to be shared out, passed around, admired.

Dame Isola was watching him, waiting, and the look on her face was an almost hungry one. He knew what she wanted.

Reaching up over his shoulder, Andrej pulled the mother–knife from its sheath at his back, and passed it to her direct. She held it up to the bright morning light that streamed through the windows at the far wall, fingers delicate to the blade to avoid smudging, her wrist flexing subtly as she tested its weight and its balance.

“He was taller than you are,” she said. “And very quick in his movements. But less restless. And also his shoulders, they were more square than yours.” Joslire, whom Andrej had known as Curran. Joslire’s people had come for the knives when Andrej had gone back to Rudistal to execute the sentence of the Bench against Administrator Geltoi, who had been found to blame for the Domitt Prison.

Andrej had refused to give them up. They were his knives. Joslire had said so. Dame Isola frowned. “But the balance is wrong for such a man,” she said. “There is no inner core to these other knives, young master, what is it?”

Thy knives
, Joslire had said, pushing the knife that Dame Isola held through the back of Andrej’s hand and his own hand to sew their lives together.
Thy knives and my knives, from the first that I came to understand your nature. To the end with thee, my master. And beyond.

Andrej held out his hand; Dame Isola passed the knife back with evident reluctance. “It was not always so.” The knife slid back into its place between Andrej’s shoulder–blades as easily as ever it did, and it always gave him anchor there. Security. A feeling of protection.

Chief Samons had had to pull the knife from Andrej’s hand. Because he’d needed it. Joslire had claimed the Day. It had been Joslire’s right to die. If anyone could understand, it should be a jeweler, a woman whose whole life had been in steel. “It became heavier. After Joslire died.”

The soul of a man was an intangible. It had no weight. Andrej could not explain it; he had no theological grounds for making any such claim. But he knew. The knife was heavier now. There was some part of Joslire in the knife that had never gone away from him, nor ever would.

Dame Isola waited in respectful silence as Andrej set the knife back in its place. Then she leaned forward, just a bit, with an inquiring and beguiling expression on her face. “And the other two, young master?”

Andrej smiled. It was, to an extent, a trick question. Because there were two more knives that he wore. One of them he usually wore in his boot. But the fifth of five knives was a secret, one to which Andrej himself was not privy. He could not show all five knives. He didn’t know which one was the sacred one. Joslire had never told him.

Joslire hadn’t told him till Joslire had been at the point of death that Andrej was wearing Emandisan steel, and had been all along. Andrej suspected that the sacred blade was the mother–knife, because that one was the one that held Joslire’s soul; it was the holiest of Joslire’s knives to Andrej. But he didn’t know. And he had no one to ask.