Angel of Destruction (5 page)

She was a piece of work, was Noycannir.

But he wasn’t interested in playing her game and declined her invitation to join her in review at his own desk. “I intend to do just that, but all in good time, Dame Noycannir.”

If she was a senior Clerk of Court, she could still claim the courtesy title she had demanded as hers by right when she had held the Writ to Inquire. Garol wondered what the formal status of that Writ was. It was probably more than Verlaine’s pride would allow actually to return the credentials to Fleet with an apology, or return them at all, though they could only be executed by Noycannir. No, he’d probably simply dispensed with Noycannir’s services, started to send his witness interrogations to a qualified Fleet practitioner, and given her something else to do.

Noycannir didn’t respond, standing at his desk with her back to him, leafing through the sections of the report he’d called for. “Taken together with the movement of goods through Sillume, I think you’ll agree that a very interesting pattern emerges. I’ve been looking forward to sharing this with you.”

But she wasn’t sharing anything with him, when she had brought the report he’d requested.

She was running an errand.

Verlaine had apparently put her off to one side in Intelligence Analysis, a secure job, a comfortable placement, where he could keep an eye on her. Intelligence Analysis was strictly support. They had no authority, made no recommendations, controlled no data.

He’d never liked Noycannir.

He had reasons, too.

And now — though he could fully sympathize with the keen sense of lost status that had to be behind her pathetically desperate pretense — he was getting annoyed.

He didn’t believe in gratuitous rudeness, but if she was going to ignore polite hints —

Garol opened his mouth to say something pointed, but a voice from the still-open doorway did the trick for him.

“Thank you, Mergau. Would you excuse us now, please.”

That was the voice of the First Secretary, deep and powerful and utterly implacable. Noycannir stiffened when she heard it, and closed up the documents case with almost fearful care.

“Of course, First Secretary. I’ll be at my post should you wish to call for a tertiary analysis, good-greeting.”

Bench Intelligence specialists did their own tertiary analyses, and they all knew it.

Noycannir left the room with her head meekly lowered, her eyes carefully fixed on the floor. Verlaine stood aside to let her pass, watching her as she went with an expression that spoke volumes to Garol of the First Secretary’s disappointment, disgust, and a guilty sort of forbearance. Well, the First Secretary had a reason to blame himself if Noycannir had failed. It had been his wish that she make the trial in the first place, and as much his failure as hers.

It couldn’t be pleasant for Verlaine to be reminded of his responsibility for the unfortunate experience Noycannir had had with her Writ, rendering it almost admirable on Verlaine’s part that he kept her close — protected her from the enemies she had made in plenty — and paid her salary, even if it was only that of a Clerk of Court.

Verlaine closed the door. “Excuse the intrusion, Bench specialist,” Verlaine said. “Can I have a few moments?”

If Verlaine had called Garol to his office, Garol would have gone; it was a concession on Verlaine’s part to come down to Garol instead — a concession, or a mark of the importance Verlaine put on the current health of the Langsarik settlement. Garol could respect that.

“Not at all, First Secretary. I’ve only just gotten in, though; I haven’t had a chance to review the intelligence reports. Have a seat?”

Verlaine was staring at the documents case that Noycannir had left on Garol’s desk; Garol didn’t think Verlaine was really listening. “But you’ve just come from Nisherre, talking to that survivor. The eyewitness. How bad is it? Can you tell me?”

Garol didn’t have to. In point of law a Bench intelligence specialist was answerable to the Bench, not to any administrative officer. But Garol respected the working relationships Verlaine maintained with the Second Judge, and he wanted to keep Verlaine on his side, if possible. For protection against Mergau Noycannir’s intrusions, among other things.

“Declines to state that Langsariks shot the crew. Declines to deny that they were Langsariks. My reasoned evaluation? They could have been Langsariks. Or at least Feraltz, that’s the survivor, believes they could have been. There is circumstantial evidence as well.”

Not what Verlaine wanted to hear, but that was all right — it wasn’t what Garol wanted to tell him. Verlaine folded his arms across his chest and nodded, rolling his lower lip against his teeth. It gave him the appearance of an animal who was still deciding whether or not a physical attack would be required to assure his safety.

“I’m surprised at your acceptance, Specialist. The amnesty agreement was in large part a personal accomplishment on your part. A very significant one, at that.”

Garol sat down at his desk and tilted his chair back a bit. “I don’t like it, but I’m not going to ignore the trends. There could be mitigating factors. I don’t know. I came here to tell you that there appears to be a problem. You may wish to brief the Judge.”

A real problem, that was to say, and not the product of idle rumor or frivolous gossip. Verlaine nodded again. “Your approach then, Bench specialist?”

“I’m going back to Port Charid. If Langsariks are up to something, I’d like to see how it’s done, and the Flag Captain has a right to be given an opportunity to explain her perspective on things. I’ll take it from there.” He didn’t know what his approach was going to be. He wouldn’t know that until he got there. “Maybe it’s still salvageable. I don’t know.”

Verlaine unfolded his arms, turning to go. “Well. I don’t need to tell you how badly the Second Judge needs the Langsarik settlement to work. We’re under fire on all sides, it seems. But we can’t afford to shield any scofflaws either. The mercantile interests are very vocal. Anything else?”

Well, yes, as a matter of fact there was. “So long as you mention it. I heard about the assignment you arranged for Koscuisko. Can’t say I understand your motivations there particularly well, First Secretary.”

Jils had told him all about it. There was something about Koscuisko that interested her, the subtle tension between sanity and psychosis, perhaps. Verlaine blushed angrily, the red blossoming across his cheekbones visible even in the low light in Garol’s office. But Verlaine was exceptionally fair-skinned, like many red-haired people in his class of hominid.

“Resource management is not in your brief, Bench specialist.” But that was rude, as well as untrue, and Verlaine backed down fractionally from the claim as soon as he’d made it. “We filled the vacancy with the highest priority, no more, no less. The
Ragnarok
had been without a Ship’s Surgeon for longer than any other ship in its own, or any equivalent, class.”

The
Ragnarok
had no equivalent class. It was an experimental ship, black-hull technology, and commanded by a man who had become incapable of exercising battle command, by reason of a critical failure in the command relationship. “Because Captain Lowden goes through Ship’s Surgeons at a pretty good clip. Uses them up, and not in trauma surgery; the
Ragnarok
is still in test status. Proving cruise. No live fire, no active engagements. It’s a waste of medical resources to post Koscuisko to the
Ragnarok
.”

Garol heard himself getting disgusted as he spoke. He hadn’t realized he’d cared one way or the other, not really.

“Yes,” Verlaine said; and his tone of voice was flat, unemotional, and completely implacable. “But we must look at the larger environment. The
Ragnarok
is on a proving cruise, so it tours, and the Judicial resources it carries are more frequently tapped than any other active-duty ship. What is the single most efficient use for a man like Koscuisko, Bench specialist?”

There were too many ways to answer that question, so Garol didn’t try; and Verlaine had clearly not exhausted his thought.

“Ship’s Surgeon, you impact the welfare of a ship’s complement, a single ship’s complement. Ship’s Inquisitor, you materially reinforce the executive power of the Bench by expertly demonstrating the negative consequences of violating the rule of Law. You saw Koscuisko at Rudistal, Bench specialist, you were there — before and after. You tell me. Where does Koscuisko best serve the Judicial order?”

And Verlaine had a point. Koscuisko was a perfectly adequate surgeon, but a brilliant torturer; and after his highly publicized execution of the once-administrator of the Domitt Prison, Koscuisko was well known as someone to fear. Garol wasn’t impressed, even so. It was all just rationalization on Verlaine’s part. Andrej Koscuisko had embarrassed Chilleau Judiciary; Andrej Koscuisko was to be punished.

“You could serve the Judicial order even better by putting Lowden on ice.” Because the
Ragnarok
’s notorious commander did no good at all for the public trust and confidence in the fairness and objectivity of the Bench and its officers. “And maybe Koscuisko would live to see forty, if you did. Not like the last Ship’s Surgeon we sent to the
Ragnarok
.”

Suicide was wasteful, and waste was offensive in principle. Ship’s Surgeons were expensive, Ship’s Inquisitors even more so.

“You have more urgent concerns than any Fleet officer’s health and welfare, Bench specialist. If you don’t mind my saying so.” Verlaine had apparently decided to end a conversation whose subject was distasteful. “I’ll hold the mercantile interests off Port Charid for as long as possible. Let me know how it goes and if I can help out in any way.”

Garol took a deep breath, centering himself.

Verlaine had committed an act of petty revenge in Koscuisko’s case, revenge that would be executed at the expense of whoever was unlucky enough to be in Bench custody when Captain Griers Verigson Lowden of the Jurisdiction Fleet Ship
Ragnarok
came looking for diversion and material with which to create an object lesson.

But it was Verlaine’s call, and Verlaine’s responsibility. Nobody had asked Garol’s opinion. He’d said his bit, Verlaine had tolerated the impertinence; it was time to move on.

Garol stood up.

“Thank you for your support, First Secretary.” He could say it without hypocrisy. First Secretary Verlaine had always been an honest player; it was just some of his game that Garol didn’t like. Nothing personal. “I’ll be leaving once I have a chance to review the intelligence reports. Specialist Ivers has agreed to accompany me. We’ll keep you informed.”

Verlaine closed the door behind him, firmly but quietly. Garol latched the door and settled in to work.

The sooner he got out of there the happier he’d be.

He had real problems waiting for him at Port Charid.

###

Walton Agenis sat bolt upright in her bed, her fingers tingling with adrenaline.

Something was wrong.

Stilling her breath with the self-discipline that had yet to desert her even in times of enforced placidity, she listened to the small sounds that the settlement house made in the night. The settlement housing had been built quickly and not over-carefully, and talked to itself as the outside temperature rose and fell and the wind shifted; she had learned to sleep through the creaks and moans and cracks and chirps of the structure that sheltered her family.

Why was she awake?

It was dead black outside; no light shone into the room through the chinks in the shutters. The local utility plant was obviously off-line for the night, and the predawn deliveries had apparently not started rounds; by that token, it was two to four hours before the little yellow sun of Rikavie rose to warm and wake the settlement.

The pounding of her own heart in her ears faded quickly as the energy surge that had jolted her awake subsided.

Walton began to hear things.

There was something clattering at the outside of the house, not loudly, but with too much deliberation for it to be the normal cooling of the plain metal-weave shutters, and it came with a scratching sound so faint she almost doubted she heard it at all.

Turning the bedclothes back, layer upon layer upon themselves, Walton stood up. The floor was cold beneath her bare and bony feet, rug or no rug.

But she knew she heard something.

There were sounds of movement from inside the house as well, the small noise muffled behind the closed door of one of the bedrooms. Walton slept with her door open. She could not bear not to hear what was happening in her own house.

She was beginning to think she might know what was going on. She picked up the truncheon she kept on the floor beside her bed for self-defense; she didn’t like weapons that could be deployed at distance, not for protection of her own hearth. Accidents happened. Anyone close enough to hit with a truncheon was too close to be mistaken for an enemy rather than simply some imprudent young person who had made a mistake.

The shrill squeak of a shutter being raised on its track sounded clearly in the dark stillness: Walton grinned to herself.

Modice’s room.

And there was conversation. The hissing sounds of whispered sibilants was clear enough; there was the pattern of language, but the sounds themselves could not be parsed into meaning.

Silent on bare feet, Walton crept down the hall to where her older sister’s only daughter had her narrow bed. She heard no alarm in the drift of whispered words, no threat — no particular passion of any kind.

This sort of thing had happened more than once before. Was it Modice’s fault? She was an utterly unspoiled beauty, and so sweet-spirited that she seemed to arouse as much fraternal as any other passion in the hearts of her admirers.

Here.

If Walton paused and listened very carefully, she could almost locate the source of the whispering as at the window; so maybe Modice hadn’t let him in, whoever he was. Yet. This time.

The door was not quite latched. None of the doors hung true on their cheap hinges. Walton eased down on the lever carefully and pushed, wondering whether those very hinges would betray her before she could make a really dramatic entrance.