David Weber - How firm a foundation

Manthyr considered him for a moment, then spat. The spittle hit the bishop on the right cheek, and the man’s hand rose slowly to wipe it off. There was something ineffably evil about his self-control, the fact that his expression never even changed. It was a statement that the cruelty he inflicted would be carefully measured, not the result of blind fury that might slip and allow its victim to escape into death too soon.

“That was foolish,” he said flatly. “Do you think you’re the only one who can pay for your stupidity?”

“Go to hell,” Manthyr told him softly.

“Oh, no, not me.” The inquisitor shook his head. “But you will, and by your example, you’re dragging others with you.”

He turned his head and nodded to someone beyond Manthyr’s field of view, and two more Inquisitors dragged someone else down the passage. A third unlocked Manthyr’s cell, and they hurled the barely breathing body into his cell with him. He went to his knees, staring in horror at Lainsair Svairsmahn, and the Schuelerite bishop’s laugh was an icicle.

“That boy is clinging to your example,” he said softly. “Look at what your bravado is costing him and see if it’s still worth it.”

He turned on his heel and stalked off, followed by the other Inquisitors, and Manthyr crouched over the body of his midshipman, staring at the seared and puckered wounds where the boy’s eyes had been. Svairsmahn was a brittle bundle of bones and skin, so broken and scarred it was almost impossible to believe he was still alive. But that thin chest continued to rise and fall, and Manthyr laid a gentle, shaking hand on his cheek.

Svairsmahn flinched, one hand rising weakly in futile self-defense, but Manthyr gripped its wrist.

“It’s me, Master Svairsmahn,” he said.

“Sir Gwylym?” He could hardly hear the thready whisper and he bent closer, his ear inches from the midshipman’s mouth.

“I’m here, Lainsair.”

“I… tried, Sir. I tried.” Svairsmahn’s blind face turned towards him. “I tried, but… they made me. I… I told them. Told them… you worshipped… Shan-wei. I’m sorry… Sir. I tried. I tried.”

“Shush, Lainsair.” Manthyr’s voice broke as he lifted that slight, maimed, broken body in his arms. He held the boy to his chest, cradling him as he might have a far younger child and urging his head down against his shoulder. “Shush. It’s all right.”

“But… but I lied,” Svairsmahn whispered. “I lied… about you. About the Emperor. About… everybody… just so they’d stop.”

“Don’t think about that now,” Manthyr said into his ear, feeling the fresh tears on his own cheeks. “You’re not alone. You think no one else’s told them what they wanted to hear? Look what they’ve done to you, Lainsair. Look what they’ve done. Of course you told them what they wanted you to.”

“Shouldn’t.” Svairsmahn tried to shake his head again against Manthyr’s shoulder. “Officers… don’t lie, Sir.”

“I know. I know, Lainsair, but it’s all right.”

Manthyr settled into a sitting position, Svairsmahn in his lap, and stared through the bars of his cell. The boy couldn’t survive much more, yet Manthyr knew why the bishop had left him here. Because they were going to come back, and they were going to torture this broken, dying boy again in front of him until he told them what they wanted to hear.

But they’ve made a mistake, Lainsair, he thought. This time, they’ve made a mistake.

He cradled the boy’s head between his half-crippled but still strong hands, thanking God with all his heart for their captors’ mistake, and leaned forward until his forehead touched the midshipman’s.

“Listen to me, Lainsair,” he said. “This is important. Are you listening?”

“Yes, Sir Gwylym,” Svairsmahn whispered.

“You’ve never done less than your duty as a king’s officer, Master Svairsmahn,” Manthyr said firmly, his voice strong and calm despite the tears. “Not in all the time I’ve known you. What you may have said to them, what you may have told them because they tortured you, can’t change that. And it can’t change who you are, who you’ve always been, either. I’m proud of you, Lainsair. You’ve done well, and I’m proud of you. It’s been my highest honor to serve with you.”

“Thank you, Sir.” He could scarcely hear the wisp of a voice, but the boy’s cracked lips moved in a ghost of a smile.

“No, Lainsair.” Manthyr raised the midshipman’s head far enough to kiss the boy’s forehead and adjusted his grip with careful, loving firmness.

“No, Lainsair; thank you, ” he said, his voice soft… and his hands twisted sharply. .

The Gulf of Jharas, Desnairian Empire

“My respects to the Admiral, Master Aplyn-Ahrmahk, and inform him that Admiral Shain has hoisted the signal.”

“Aye, aye, Sir. Your respects to Admiral Yairley and Admiral Shain has hoisted the signal.”

Aplyn-Ahrmahk was pleased by how calm his voice sounded, under the circumstances, and as he saluted and headed for the ladder, the old saying about things changing and yet remaining the same ran through his mind. He could remember hundreds of times Midshipman Aplyn-Ahrmahk had been sent below with messages for Captain Yairley, and here he was doing it again, except that this message was rather more important than most of those others. Well that, and the fact that Ensign Aplyn-Ahrmahk was taking the message to Admiral Yairley, and he’d been chosen not because he happened to be conveniently available but because he’d become Admiral Sir Dunkyn Yairley’s flag lieutenant.

On the face of it, he was ridiculously junior for such a post. On the other hand, he’d served under Sir Dunkyn for the better part of four years now, and the Navy was as strapped for experienced officers as it was for seamen, especially in the wake of its current expansion. It was unlikely there was a lieutenant equally familiar with the admiral’s ways running around loose. And he had far more experience than his sixteen years (well, sixteen years in another couple of five-days) might have suggested. And, for that matter, he’d be a lieutenant on that birthday of his. So he supposed it all actually made sense, even though he’d discovered that even after Sir Dunkyn’s intensive tutelage, the social skills that normally went with his position were not precisely his strongest suit. Well, he’d just have to make up for it by working on them still harder.

He reached the paneled door to Admiral Yairley’s day cabin. It was, in fact, the same cabin which had belonged to Captain Yairley, since Destiny was not, unfortunately, one of the later and larger galleons which had been built with separate flag quarters.

Another example of things staying the same, he thought, nodding to the Marine sentry and then rapping sharply. For a moment he thought his knock hadn’t been heard, but then a voice answered.

“Enter!”

Aplyn-Ahrmahk took off his hat, tucked it even more carefully than usual under his left arm, and ran straightening fingers through his tousled hair before he stepped through the door. Not that he was worried about the admiral’s reaction to his appearance. Oh no, not his

…

Sylvyst Raigly, Sir Dunkyn’s valet and steward, had become awesomely aware of his employer’s exalted status the instant the brand-new admiral’s streamer had been broken from Destiny ’s mizzen. Raigly was only about thirty years old, well read, and always well dressed and carefully groomed, but when he decided to feel waspish, he was capable of the most icily polite, formal, biting, exquisitely nasty set downs Aplyn-Ahrmahk had ever encountered. The ensign had never heard him utter a single overtly inappropriate or discourteous word… which didn’t prevent Raigly from vivisecting anyone unfortunate enough to rouse his ire. He was also a crack pistol shot and an excellent swordsman, and one of his shipboard duties had been to instruct the midshipmen in sword work. He’d done a great deal to improve Aplyn-Ahrmahk’s combat skills, and the two of them were friends… which wouldn’t save Aplyn-Ahrmahk’s neck if he came into the admiral’s presence with his tunic unbuttoned or a hat on his head below decks.