The Devil and Deep Space (9 page)

There was an island of gray rock in the middle of the lake, and administrative buildings glittering in the sun. Old–fashioned architecture. The Autocrat’s summer residence was in the middle of lovely Lake Belanthe, which lay in the embrace of the goddess Perunna — after whom the right–most range of mountains had been named.

Then all of your sons will have eight sons/And you will have a daughter of such beauty and ability that she will come into the house, into the Autocrat’s house/And there the Autocrat may see, and then the Autocrat may chance to smile.

It was an old song, by its syntax; Jils wasn’t sure she caught more than half of it. Garol might have been able to translate for her. Garol was good at languages, and had an apparently solid grasp of High Aznir by report; which was a little humorous, because Garol didn’t even like Dolgorukij. Garol’s nature was not at base suspicious, but he had learned to be wary, and among the things to which Garol had elected to take general all–purpose undifferentiated exception was the Dolgorukij Combine and all of its works and adjuncts.

Your daughter will have sons of noble blood to grow in power and prosper in wealth/The breeding–grounds of Geral will be yours, the seven looms of Dyraine of the weavers/You will have the holy grain to feed your house/And be welcomed as a guest in all Koscuisko’s strongholds.

The crossing–craft drew near to the island and slowed.

There was a man at the docks waiting for her. Jils tried not to be glad to see him; at this distance he could well be some other Dolgorukij than the one she was looking for, and even if he was the right man he might not have any information. Or elect to share it.

People in uniform clustered around the crossing–craft as it tied up. Someone pushed a roll of fabric down the stone steps — a rug. An expensive rug, and though the waters of Lake Belanthe weren’t salt using a hand–knotted rug of such elaborate pattern for a traction–mat was surely not the way to preserve a work of art. That was the whole point, Jils supposed. Conspicuous consumption. The Combine was rich.

The Combine was filthy rich, and had always had an agricultural surplus with which to support labor–intensive handicrafts, and as long as people could earn a decent living replacing rugs used as traction–mats who was she to think twice about it?

“Specialist Ivers,” the waiting man said. It was the Malcontent Cousin Stanoczk, yes. “Good to see you. Did you have a pleasant crossing?”

The crew held the craft so still it was almost as though she was already on solid ground as she stepped out. The angle of the steps was a little awkward; she found herself glad of the extra purchase that the rug provided. The stairs were worn to a slope. They were old. On other worlds they might have been replaced, or the lake bridged; but Dolgorukij treasured old things as they were.

“Smooth as anyone could wish.” There wasn’t much of a breeze up across the lake, but thanks were owed to the crew as well. A rowing crew could make the smoothest passage rough if they were minded to. “These men are impressive, Cousin.”

She didn’t feel up to choosing the correct Dolgorukij form of the word; there were entirely too many ways to call someone cousin in Dolgorukij, each one with its own meaning and message about relative status, the degree of intensity with which one desired a favor, and the depth of obligation that one was willing to accept in return. Jils stuck to plain Standard. It was much safer that way.

“Indeed, Specialist. Combine–wide champions for speed as well as endurance, three years running now. Someone will take your box up to quarters. If you’d care to come with me, and have a glass of rhyti?”

If she had to. “Very kind.” She didn’t like rhyti. She’d learned a lot about it over the years, though. Verlaine had set her on Andrej Koscuisko to keep an eye on him, and Koscuisko drank rhyti. She’d gotten interested almost despite herself. “Thank you for meeting me, Cousin. I wonder if I could have a quick word or two with you on a personal matter.”

Cousin Stanoczk reminded her of Koscuisko, if rather vaguely. The two men were related, if she remembered correctly; but Cousin Stanoczk had a very deep voice and Koscuisko was tenor, Cousin Stanoczk had dark brown eyes and Andrej Koscuisko’s eyes were so pale that they almost had no color at all, Cousin Stanoczk had hair the color of wet wood and Andrej Koscuisko was blonder by several emphatic degrees.

Still, it was the same general form — not tall, deceptively slight, with shoulders whose slope belied their power and hands whose surpassing elegance belonged by right to an artist or a surgeon. What a Malcontent was doing with such hands Jils didn’t know. Perhaps Stanoczk painted; it was unlikely that he practiced medicine, because medicine could be hired nearly anywhere, and Malcontents specialized in services that could not be hired or purchased at all.

Cousin Stanoczk grinned. He had very much the same surprising and open smile as Koscuisko had from time to time — one that showed a lot of small white teeth. “Be careful what you do, Specialist, the Malcontent is always at your service but will almost always find some favor to solicit in return. Sooner or later. That said, speak, I listen.”

The worn stone walkway from the dock led them up a long shore of shallow steps into a green plaza where water birds were browsing in the grass like flowers on feet. Webbed feet.
How did they keep the walkways clean
? Jils wondered.

“Garol Vogel, Cousin. I don’t mind telling you in confidence, as one professional to another. He’s disappeared.”

At the far end of the plaza there was an old wall with a high–arched gate that stood wide open. There were more lawns beyond. The guards were all in fancy dress; it was easy to overlook the fact that they were apparently also heavily armed. Once they passed through the pedestrian gate she saw yet more guards, as well as a great curving walkway paved with crushed stone, an immense stone facade with who knew what behind it, and a pretty little pavilion to one side toward which Cousin Stanoczk began to guide her.

“I’ve heard words spoken about it here and there, Specialist. Burkhayden, wasn’t it?”

There was nothing unusual about Stanoczk already knowing. The intelligence community exploited its contacts with the Malcontent and others of its ilk, fully aware that it was being exploited right back. “Yes, that’s right.”

As they drew nearer Jils could see that the pavilion stood at the side of an ornamental stream, and that there were people in it. Three people not in uniform; the other three people there would be guards or servants, then. On the far side of the little stream there were musicians sitting in the shade of a large willowy tree, playing stringed instruments. The Dolgorukij plucked–lute, Jils suspected.

“Is it that you are concerned about him, Specialist? It seemed to me that Garol Aphon was more likely than even the average Bench intelligence specialist to be fully capable of taking care of himself. If I may say so to you, without giving offense.”

No. She knew what he meant. Garol was professional. Some Bench specialists lost their edge over time. Garol’s was one of those edges which might look dull, but if you made the mistake of presuming upon it you’d never even feel the slice as your head rolled one way and your body fell the other.

The people in the pavilion were waiting for them. One of them was seated — a young woman. The two other non–servants there were older than the young woman; that meant she had rank, whoever she was, to be sitting while her elders stood.

The Autocrat’s Proxy. The Combine certainly meant to extend every courtesy to Chilleau Judiciary.

“He may have been working on something, Cousin.” Jils slowed her steps, both to collect her thoughts and to finish this one. She hadn’t anticipated being brought before the Autocrat’s Proxy, not so soon. Did she know who those other people were? Had she seen them somewhere before? “Nobody knows.”

Some Bench specialist was always supposed to know what another was doing. Not all of what the other was doing; not always the same Bench specialist. But somebody was always supposed to know. It was just common sense. And nobody knew about Garol. Or else nobody was willing to say.

“So Vogel is in more deeply to his investigation than imaginable, or is perhaps simply either dead or disappeared?”

She’d thought about that. Dead she couldn’t really believe. Accidents happened to everybody. But Vogel took a lot of killing; it wasn’t as though it hadn’t been tried before, on more than one occasion, and sometimes with a very great deal of enthusiasm indeed. “Call me sentimental. But I think he’d find a way to let me know if he decided to disappear.”

They weren’t going to be able to keep the pavilion party waiting. Stanoczk quickened his pace, but it was subtly done, not in the least bit obvious. “Let me put it to my Patron, Specialist, may he wander in bliss forever. Because for now it is my duty, as well as my pleasure, to bring you into the presence of the Autocrat’s Proxy, who will receive your credentials in a while.”

He had Jils worried for a moment, the quick moment between “receive your credentials” and “in a while.” Her credentials were in her box, along with her dress uniform. The young woman who sat waiting for her was not in court dress, however, but in a pretty if rather plain long dress with loosely pleated sleeves and a wide skirt.

Jils climbed the few stone steps into the shade of the pavilion. There was a charcoal warmer sunk into the floor on one side, Jils noticed; welcome, because it was cool in the shadows. The others were a man and a woman, similarly not in court dress, but more formally attired than the young woman; Jils hadn’t quite placed them yet.

She bowed politely, saluting the Dolgorukij Combine in the presence of this Autocrat’s Proxy. There were eight Proxies in all, young people of the very best families who would spend twenty years in diplomatic service. This one looked younger than most, but very self–assured regardless.

“On behalf of the First Secretary at Chilleau Judiciary,” Jils said. “I present the greetings of the Second Judge. I am Bench intelligence specialist Jils Ivers, Proxima. Thank you for receiving me like this.”

She wasn’t exactly here on behalf of the Second Judge, but it was a signal honor to be thus presented informally. The least Jils could do was give the gesture as much weight as possible, in return.

The young woman smiled, and waved for a chair. “Very welcome, Specialist Ivers. We will have the ritual later to repeat, I’m afraid. But we have been advised of your desire to make to my brother presentations, and I wondered, have you our mutual parents met?”

Jils stared, genuinely startled. Her brother?

How could she not have realized that this was Zsuzsa Ulexeievna Koscuisko?

She’d never met Koscuisko’s parents. She’d only seen the records, stills and clips, and those were always formal presentations. She sat down.

“Haven’t had the pleasure.” Now that she’d sat down the others did too, Koscuisko’s mother and Koscuisko’s father, the Koscuisko prince himself. Cousin Stanoczk was nowhere to be seen. Malcontents were like that, Jils supposed.

“My lord father is Alexie Slijanevitch, and my lady mother is Ossipia Carvataja. We are all wondering. Andrej comes home, it is the first time in years, you have seen him in Burkhayden where all the officers were being murdered. How does he? My brother.”

Nothing like his father, that was how Andrej Koscuisko was, because his father was a tall man with black eyes and a magnificent beard. Koscuisko had no beard. He appeared to take after his mother’s side of the family, because she was slim though she was tall as well. Oh, there was no telling. What good did it do to look for people in their parents’ faces?

“I’m not sure what to say, Proxima,” Jils began cautiously. “Senior officer, well respected, popular with bond–involuntaries. That’s a little unusual, by the way. What can I tell you?”

The Autocrat’s Proxy gave a little impatient bounce in her chair where she sat. “Oh, but he has not in all this time come home, and now. And does he speak of his family. And has he been happy in Fleet.”

“My daughter does not say one thing, because she is a devout and filial daughter,” Koscuisko’s mother said, before Jils could formulate a response. Koscuisko’s mother had a beautiful voice, rich and deep and calming to listen to. “But my son does not often write. And with his parents quarreled, when he last left, so that we find ourselves anxious. If he will not ask to be forgiven, what shall we do? So of his state of mind and temperament we seek such information as you may be able to give to us, trusting in your discretion. Even though you are a stranger. It is not worthwhile to be too proud, when it has been this long.”

Her son Andrej was not filial.

Her son Andrej had quarreled with his father bitterly, and yet had been unable to convince or to prevail; had gone to Fleet Orientation Station Medical in obedience to his father’s will after all, and had learned there that he was not merely exceptional in the art of torture, but enjoyed it.

The damage had already been done before Koscuisko had left Azanry. Now his family sought a strategy for reintegrating the oldest male child into his family, not knowing what Koscuisko’s own attitude was going to be.

Jils didn’t think Koscuisko was going to beg to be forgiven for not having wanted to go to Fleet Orientation Station Medical. Was there a way for her to get across to these three essentially sheltered people the enormity of the burden that the Bench laid across the shoulders of a thinking, feeling creature when it issued the Writ to Inquire?

It had been her errand that had caused Koscuisko to resubmit to Fleet, when he had been planning to go home. She was under obligation, in a sense. “The Bench owes more deep a debt to your son than it can readily repay, your Excellency. Excusing your presence, Proxima, I would ask that you make allowances for how much the Bench has asked from him.”

Koscuisko was unlikely to ask forgiveness for anything. Koscuisko had a stubborn streak, from all Jils had studied of him, and eight–plus years in Secured Medical had only strengthened the native autocracy of his character. “There is no harder task than that to which the Bench has put your brother and your son, and he has done his Judicial duty thoroughly and well — ”