David Weber - The Road to Hell

Again, she merely looked at him, not liking what he was doing, but unsure where he was going with it.

“I would say-as would most people-that you’ve earned a little joy, a little personal happiness.”

“What is your point, Sir?” she asked coolly.

“My point is merely this. Your name has been linked with Sir Jasak Olderhan’s in more than a professional capacity. There are rumors, Magister Gadrial, that a romantic liaison is part of your relationship. A woman who aspires to becoming Duchess of Garth Showma is likely to say a great many things in defense of the man destined to be the Duke of Garth Showma.”

Gadrial narrowed her eyes. His ploy was contemptible, but not entirely unanticipated. If he’d hoped to break her, he’d be waiting a long, long time.

“Whatever the status of my relationship with Hundred Olderhan may be, Accusator Vreel, these are the facts. I wasn’t in love with Sir Jasak Olderhan the day Shevan Garlath shot an unarmed Sharonian engineering professor through the throat and started a war. I didn’t ‘aspire’ to anything, that day, except survival. As to my testimony today, might I inquire whether or not the lie-detection alarm has gone off even once during my testimony?”

“That is beside the point, young woman-”

“I am a senior Magister of the Hood, Sir. I’ll thank you to remember that when you address me.”

“You’re an aspiring gold-digger angling for the Olderhan billions, an aristocratic title, and a secure social position for life, which throws suspicion on every syllable you’ve uttered! And as a Magister of the Hood, you’re more than skilled enough to short-circuit a simple lie-detection spell!”

Gadrial stared at him for several silent seconds while the officers of the court held their collective breaths, waiting for the explosion.

They weren’t prepared for what they got instead.

“ A secure social position for life? ” She laughed out loud and shook her head, her expression incredulous. “Rahil’s toenails, d’you think I want to be saddled, snared, and roped into a lifetime of impossible duties and obligations to a social code I find suffocating, medieval, and positively insane ? You think I want to be trapped in a marriage where every move I make, every word I say, every garment I wear is dictated by a thousand years of protocol? Where any children I might bear would be treated like little automatons to be programmed like-like ants in a hill? My God, if Jasak Olderhan wanted to marry me, he’d have to go down on his knees and swear to me that my life would remain mine. That I’d live by Ransaran precepts unless I chose to honor that crazy hodge-podge of rules you Andarans call a society.

“And he’d have to put down in writing that my career and my family would be under my control, not some cabal of aristocrats with nothing better to do than sit around trying to figure out how to control one another’s lives every waking moment!”

She leaned back in her chair. “Sorry, Accusator, but the only people who think being part of the Andaran aristocracy is the most fabulous lifestyle in the world are other Andarans. And I am not, thank Rahil, an Andaran.”

The accusator stared down at her, eyes wide in his cadaverous face. Then he started to laugh.

“My dear,” he said, “you’re thoroughly and delightfully Ransaran. If Hundred Olderhan does ask you to marry him, do us all a favor and hold him to that set of demands. I believe you just might be a breath of fresh air.”

He smiled at her a moment longer, then glanced at the officers of the court.

“No further questions, gentlemen.”

“You may step down, Magister Gadrial.”

She blinked in surprise. “That’s it?”

“For now, Magister.” Count Sogbourne smiled. “If we need to recall you, we’ll be in touch. Please be assured that your testimony’s been most helpful. And, ah, rather educational, as well. It’s always enlightening to see one’s self through the eyes of others.”

Her cheeks scalded. “I didn’t mean any disrespect, Sir.”

“Of course not. You’re Ransaran.”

She blinked. Then she realized that, in his stodgy Andaran way, he was teasing her, and she grinned.

“I could almost come to like an Andaran or two, now that you mention it,” she told him.

“That’s very flattering, Magister Gadrial. But now, much as it pains me, we must return to our very serious duties and you, I fear, must return to yours.”

She bit her lip; then drew a swift breath and nodded. “Yes, you do. And so do I. You know where and how to reach me. I’m not planning to go anywhere,” she added grimly.

She retrieved her business case, nodded to the officers of the court, the attorneys, and even the long-suffering clerk in the corner, whose eyes widened when she included him in her silent farewell. She dropped a solemn wink on the flustered young soldier, then squared her shoulders, marched out of the courtroom…

…and promptly dissolved into tears. She was desperately afraid for Jasak, for his future, and the life she hoped to somehow build with him, if these mad Andaran officers didn’t destroy him over their mad, medieval rules and if his mad Andaran pride didn’t stand in the way of asking her, if things went against him.

She scrubbed her eyes with a savage gesture, furious with herself for falling apart like this. She respected the men on that court-martial board. Under other circumstances, she might even have liked one or two of them. As it was…

She sucked down a deep, shaky breath. As it was, she had a job to do and a society to save from another group of people she respected, two members of whom she’d come to care for as very dear friends. For the first time in her life, the knee-jerk, automatic Ransaran dislike of war had a profoundly personal basis.

War was hell.

Particularly when it was your job to win it.

* * *

It had been hours.

More than a dozen hours.

Gadrial had paced the floor. Chewed her nails ragged. She’d destroyed her carefully arranged hair, redone the styling spell to rearrange it into a neat coif, then destroyed that, as well. At least twenty times, now. If word didn’t come soon, she was going to start tearing the draperies down from the walls and hurling breakables across the room.

Would they find Jasak guilty?

Or innocent?

She couldn’t bear the suspense much longer. The calm, very nearly serene poise of the duchess, seated beside her, drove Gadrial nearly mad. How could Sathmin just sit there, gazing down into the street?

Because , Gadrial’s conscience whispered, s he’s a great deal stronger than you are . She bit her lip. Then made another frantic circuit around the room, nearly ready to climb the walls with a sticky-spell that would let her crawl out across the ceiling like a fly and scream from the center of the chandelier.

I can’t bear this! Not another moment !

The door opened.

Gadrial jerked around, heart beating so hard, she couldn’t breathe. For one long, stupefied moment, she simply stood there, staring at the figure in the doorway. It wasn’t the duke, with word about his son. It was Shaylar .

Gadrial hadn’t even seen the other woman since the terrible night Thankhar Olderhan had unflinchingly told all of them what he’d learned. The Voice had withdrawn to the apartment she shared with Jathmar to weep for her dead, to cope with the horrible knowledge she’d never wanted yet had needed to know. One or two of the Garth Showma staff had seemed irked by her refusal to leave her chambers, but they’d followed their employers’ example and left her to the privacy she so desperately needed.