Change of Command

Chapter Twenty-Two

Hostite Fieddi had always known this day would come. The Chairman sat behind his desk, and on the desk lay the knife, the ancient black-bladed knife, the hilt to the Chairman’s left.

“Hostite, you have been a good and faithful servant.”

“Sir.”

“You have been long in our service.”

“Sir.”

“You are the blade I trust.” The intonation suggested a pause, not a completion, and Hostite waited. “We have an enemy time will not wound for us.”

“Sir.”

“You are my Blade, Hostite . . .”

“To the heart, Chairman.”

“To the heart, Hostite, without prejudice.” A kill, a kill beyond the borders, but one only. For that he was glad, that only one kill would burden his soul in eternity.

“Come near, and I will aim my Blade.”

He was already dead, though he walked; coming near could not increase his mortality. Hostite waited, and the Chairman said nothing for long moments.

Then: “It is a grave thing to order the death of one who has never been under your authority. I give this order reluctantly, Hostite, not only for what it means to you and to me, but for what it means to the peoples . . . the clients. But there is no other way; the man is swollen with ambition, and would force on us all his ungodly ways.”

“They are heathens, sir.”

“Not all like this. Hostite, I bid you kill Hobart Conselline. None other of his family; him only.”

Hostite bowed.

“The method, sir?”

“Your choice.”

His last assignment. His death at the end. And the death of the Chairman, who would no longer have his personal Swordmaster, the Shadow of the Master of Swords, to ward him from that danger.

He felt the honor, and it warmed him. Death had not been a stranger to him for years, and nothing waited for him in age but someone’s blade when he faltered. This—this he could do for his people and his faith, and he almost smiled, thinking of it.

“Go now,” the Chairman said, and Hostite withdrew, already thinking how he would do it.

Hobart slung his clothes into the hamper angrily. Worse every day, those damned idiots.

He put on his fencing tights, and began his exercises. When the door opened, he glanced up, expecting Iagin Persius. But he had never seen this Swordmaster. An older man, a bit stockier, in sleek black stretch with a funny-looking red cap and red slippers. In his hands he carried a sword unlike those Hobart used.

“It is time,” he said, in a voice as soft as rainwater.

“All right,” Hobart straightened up, and pushed past him into the salle. “Where’s that other Swordmaster? I’m used to him.”

“He was indisposed, Lord Conselline, and asked me to take his place, that you might not be inconvenienced awaiting his recovery.”

Hobart stared at the man. “You’re certainly more formal than he was. What’s that blade you’ve got? Do I have to work out with that? I suppose you want me to learn yet another stupid archaic weapon . . .”

“Not if you don’t wish it. What weapon would you prefer?”

“Rapier.” Hobart looked around, and realized that his coach wasn’t there either; he would have to get his own gear, since he didn’t think this old man would oblige him. But to his surprise, the Swordmaster moved quickly to the racks, and brought him a rapier—his favorite, he realized—and a mask.

“You seem angry,” the man said.

“I am,” Hobart said. He didn’t want to talk about it; he came to exercise to forget—or at least ignore—his problems for a time.

“Did someone illtreat you?” asked the Swordmaster.

“Yes—but I’m here to fence.”

“Of course. My pardon, Lord Conselline. Swordmaster Iagin told me of your dedication, your seriousness.”

“He did?” Hobart had never been sure the Swordmaster approved of him, though the man had always been courteous and respectful.

“Yes . . . he said you were unusual, a man who took everything seriously.”

“That’s true enough.” Hobart adjusted the mask, and bounced a little, loosening his knees. He had skimped on stretching, and if Iagin thought him serious, then he had better be serious. “Not many are—you would not believe—no, never mind . . .”

“But if you need to stretch out, and ease your mind with talk as your sinews with the exercise, then you should, milord.”

“Oh—very well.” Hobart laid his blade down on the mat, carefully, and leaned over to grasp his ankle. “I hope it doesn’t bore you, and you must realize it’s confidential—”

“Of course. You need to turn your wrist a little more, milord.”

“It’s these idiots—these dung-for-brains weaklings that I sponsored to high office. I made them what they are, I led them and taught them and groomed them for office, and now that they’re in power . . . they simply will not do what they’re told.”

“Ah. And now, milord, another centimeter of pull . . . yes. And now the other leg . . . remembering to keep the wrist rotated in . . . yes.”

“I don’t know what it is, Swordmaster, but no matter how smart they are, or how much initiative they show when I start working with them, no sooner do they get into a position of real responsibility than they turn on me. Insubordinate, arrogant, selfish—”

“If you can tilt the head now—yes, like that—and a little more—”

“And they’re supposed to be my supporters, but do they support? No. They go off and do stupid things, like that idiot Orregiemos . . .”

“And to the other side, now, milord . . .”

“It’s enough to make a saint spew rocks,” Hobart said. Amazing how easy the fellow was to talk to. The combination of the warm, quiet room, and familiar scents of leather, steel, oil, sandalwood, cedar, and the quiet, patient, steady hands of the older man molding him into one shape after another that stretched out knots he hadn’t even realized he had . . .

“It is difficult when subordinates are not obedient,” the Swordmaster said.

“Exactly. I’ve tried reasoning, scolding, even threats—”

“And they resist.”

“They certainly do. If they only realized, I’m trying to make things better.”

Hostite had studied the files; he knew Hobart Conselline as well as anyone could, who had only files to go on. But the man in reality had shocked him. He was so miserable, so full of anger and fear and envy that the whole room stank of it. His body had been stiffened and deformed by it; the very muscles of his face were saturated with his rage and fear.

He was a skin bag of poison.

He was immortal, being a Rejuvenant, as the silver and cobalt rings in his ear boasted to the world.

So old, and yet so full of folly. He had learned nothing, Hostite saw, in all those decades of renewed vigor that rejuvenation had given him.

Pride . . . was his own pitfall, Hostite reminded himself. Yes, this man was proud, and bitter, and angry, but why? He had never yet killed without understanding why those he killed were as they were.

He must offer the opportunity for understanding, for contrition, for repentance, though he could not offer—must not offer—any chance of escape. He must give the soul a chance, while giving the body none.

But how to do that with unbelievers, with those who were not aware of the soul, of anything beyond the body? Hostite had studied unbelievers of all kinds, over the years, and found them all to have beliefs of a sort, just wrong ones. They believed in wealth, or security, or the kindness of strangers, or something other than the True Faith. And so what they believed in failed them, eventually, and they were brought low . . .

All that Lord Conselline was saying could be considered a confession, but in a true confession the sinner knew that what he confessed was sinful. Hobart didn’t seem to grasp that at all. Everything that went wrong was someone else’s fault. Hostite felt a wave of sympathy for these stupid uncooperative men who so angered Lord Conselline. They, too, were heathens, and enemies, and the Chairman might find it necessary to have them killed, but they had certainly suffered from long association with Lord Conselline.

He listened to all of it, eliciting more and more by merely being there, a neutral and unwisely trusted ear. Hobart’s envy of his brother, and everyone else whose personality drew others. Envy of everyone, in fact, for he could always find something in which another had received unearned benefit. Pride—a towering pride, certainty of his own rightness, and the moral weakness of others. Anger at everyone, avarice—for nothing was ever enough, even for a day; lust, and a wide streak of cruelty that enjoyed humiliating others. And all of it, every sordid detail, drenched in self-congratulation.

A Swordmaster must know when enough was enough, and Hostite had that moment of revelation: this man would not ever realize his errors, not even in the moment of death. Poor soul, so benighted, so hopeless of a better eternity, so ignorant. But God gave each soul enough time, if it chose to use it, and Lord Conselline’s soul had had the same chance—years, in fact—to come to a better understanding.

“Come now, Lord Conselline,” he said finally, and stood back. “You are feeling better; it is time for your lesson.”

“Yes—I am feeling better.” He clambered up, rapier in hand, in body a little straighter than he had been, his mind a little clearer in the aftermath of confessing, even so inadequately, his current crop of sins.

“It is not your associates,” Hostite said. “It is you.” He was sure Conselline would not understand, but he had to try.

“What?” Lord Conselline’s eyes widened as he saw the movement of the great dark blade, the backswing which promised such power.

“Your failure.” The blade swung forward; Lord Conselline tried to parry with the rapier, and the blade sliced it short, sweeping on; Conselline jumped back, mouth open to yell, and Hostite pursued, choosing to dance the figure rather than step it. He could hear the music in his head, his favorite music, Lambert’s “All On a Spring Morning, the Bright Trumpets Sing.” His pursuit, and Conselline’s fear, used up the man’s breath, and what should have been a shout came out a series of breathless squeaks.

“No—what are . . . you doing? Help—stop—security!” Lord Conselline glanced from side to side, clearly frightened, and grabbed at another weapon off the rack.

“I am your Death, your life is over.” Another swipe that parted a practice foil as if it had been a blade of dry grass. “Ask forgiveness from your God.” The man had none, but again, he must offer the chance.

“I didn’t do anything,” Lord Conselline gasped. “It wasn’t me. Don’t—”

Hostite had never been one to play with a victim, past giving him a chance to repent; the great blade took Lord Conselline’s head off with one stroke, and the harsh stench of death overtook the sweet spicy scent of cedar and sandalwood.

The Chairman of the Board of the Benignity of the Compassionate Hand faced away from his desk, looking out the tall windows at the formal garden. A boisterous spring breeze whipped the tops of the cypresses, and even swirled stray petals from the early roses along the pebbled walks. From here he could not see the fountains, but he could imagine the spray blowing out behind, a long damp veil that would slick the marble rim of the cascade, the seats behind it where the old ladies sat in their black dresses on fine days, watching the sea and the children playing. He lifted his gaze to the horizon, to the blue sea, its glittering tessellations flinging the sun back in his eyes.

He had had, on the whole, a successful life, and since he had just made his final confession, he was conscious of it as a whole, a story nearly complete, the defining moments as clear as if they had been painted by a fine artist. This and this he had done well, and that and that he had done less well. On occasion, the grace of the Almighty had protected him from the consequences of his own errors, and on other occasions he had taken the blame for what was not his fault. Not in God’s eyes, of course, but in the eyes of the Benignity. All this was to be expected, and he regretted none of it, for regrets were useless. It had been a life of human shape and human content, and he was glad of it.

If regret had been part of his mental furniture, he might have regretted—he almost regretted—this last necessity. It was not his fault that the Familias Regnant had fallen into the hands of Hobart Conselline, and that he had been forced—he had seen no alternative—to order the man’s execution. It would have taken supernatural ability to foresee all that had happened to bring Conselline to power, and to shape him into someone who could be so dangerous, and offer so little maneuvering room to the Benignity. And no one expected supernatural ability of a Chairman.

Only that if he failed, he must pay the price.

Those in the Benignity were in his power, absolutely: if the Chairman ordered that a potato farmer must die for the good of the whole, then the potato farmer would die, in the manner and time prescribed, and this was as it should be. He might pity the potato farmer, and the potato farmer’s wife and squalling brats, but he would order that death without a qualm, and without a qualm it would occur. This was not even cruelty. Death ended every life; death healed the sick and the badly injured; death opened the gates to endless life.

But outside the Benignity . . . the rules changed. To compete, to convert, even to invade—that was allowable. To corrupt, and to have secret agents providing information and forwarding the interests of the Benignity—that was inevitable. But to call for the assassination of a foreign king—whatever the foreigners called their heads of state, and they called them many foolish things—that was proof that a Chairman had failed. Had not seen trouble coming, had not managed affairs in another way, had not done—by means of stealth or influence or intimidation—what needed to be done.

Still, no tool, no method, was forbidden. God in His wisdom knew that emergencies happened. If, to protect the Benignity, a foreign king must die, then the Chairman could so order, and so it would occur.

So also would occur the death of that Chairman, who had shown himself to lack the qualities of a Chairman. Whether he was stupid, or old and tired, or misled by advisors, did not matter: he had failed his people, and he must pay the price. Not unexpectedly, not cruelly, but surely and certainly and with all due ceremony.

Some Chairmen never had to make that decision, and it was the accumulation of errors which brought them to their final confession. He had expected it would be so with him, as his years advanced, until he’d realized, too late, what Hobart Conselline’s leadership of the Familias Regnant would lead to. In the instant he’d seen it, he’d also seen his own folly, his own blindness: he could have recognized it years before. Whether that would have changed events or not, he could not know, nor did it matter. He had blundered; he had done what he could to fix it, but it was not enough.

No guards were in the room today. He had made his last confession, and his heart was as light and sunny as the spring breeze.

When he heard the door, he turned. Some had chosen not to look, but he had never been afraid of the man who would kill him, only of the man who would let him fail his people.

The Master of Swords stood by his desk, formally dressed, and carrying the dark blade they did not use for fencing.

“You know my reasons,” the Chairman said, without meeting his eyes. It was impolite to look into the eyes; it could be intepreted as pleading.

“Yes.”

“I have made my confession,” the Chairman said.

“Yes.” The Master of Swords stepped to one side, and raised his blade.

“Fiat—”

“Nox.” The Master of Swords swung, and the blade that had taken the life of sixteen Chairmen sliced through skin and sinew and bone as easily as a hot knife through butter. Blood spurted as the head thumped onto the desk and rolled, but blood was nothing new in this place, and the servants knew how to clean it up.

“In nomine Patrem,” the Master said, saluting his Master. He wiped the blade with a square of scarlet silk, and laid that silk over the Chairman’s head. “Requiescat in pacem.”

Then, as he was, naked blade in hand, with flecks of Pietro Alberto Rossa-Votari’s blood on his cloak, he strode out of the office, through the anteroom—where the secretary was now already calling for servants, and would soon be notifying the family—down the hall, and into the Boardroom, where the Board had been waiting for the Chairman to appear and open the meeting.

“The Chairman has made his last confession,” he said, without preamble. Faces paled, but no one spoke. “The Board will elect a new Chairman,” he said. Anxious looks back and forth, and at him. Some of these men had never been through the election of a Chairman; Rossa-Votari had held that office for eighteen years. The Swordmaster stood by the door, with nothing more to say, as the low murmurs started, as they looked at him and away and back and away . . . it was nothing to him what they did, and nothing they said would he ever repeat, but they would not leave this room alive until one of them had been elected Chairman by acclamation.

The ship had been in downtransit only a couple of hours when the captain called Barin and Esmay into his office.

“I have messages from your families,” the captain said. He didn’t wait for their response. “They say they have more important things to worry about than you two. They’re not happy with you, and they don’t approve, but in the present emergency, they’re not doing anything except talking about it. To each other.”

“To each other?”

“Yes. Admiral Serrano and General Suiza both signed this—” he handed over the hardcopy. “Actually, all the Admirals Serrano and Generals Suiza—I don’t know what you thought you’d accomplish by running off together, but you seem to have unified a substantial number of high-ranking officers in at least one thing—you’re in trouble.”

“But we’re married,” Barin said.

“It’s worth it,” Esmay said.

“It better be,” the captain said. “Because when everything settles down and there are no wars, mutinies, invasions, terrorist attacks, pirates, or other distractions, your families are going to come down on you like one planet hitting another.”

This was, Esmay thought, a fairly accurate description of the probable interaction of Serranos and Suizas anyway, with the exception of themselves.

“Now get out of here, and go back to being the frustratingly competent officers you both are.”

They did not scamper away in glee, because officers did not scamper.

“When everything settles down, eh?” Barin said, grinning. “That’ll be the day.”

“If they wait that long,” Esmay said, thinking of her father and uncle talking to Barin’s grandmother and great-uncle. If they didn’t kill each other right off—and the combined message suggested they hadn’t—what a dangerous combination that was, to have running around the universe!

“They’ll get used to it,” Barin said. “We aren’t half as bad as we could have been—suppose I’d married Casea?”

Esmay gave him a look, and almost burst into laughter. A trail of suppressed giggles followed them down the passage to their tiny—but adequate for the immediate purpose—cabin.