Poul Anderson - A Knight of Ghosts and Shadows

Flandry sighed again. “Come, now. We don’t deep-condition our agents against giving information to their own people, except occasional supersecrets. After all, a ’probe can bring forth useful items the conscious mind has forgotten. Don’t fear if you’re honest, son. The lightest treatment will clear you, and the team will go no further.”

“But—oh, no-o-o—”

Abruptly Hazeltine cast himself on his knees before Flandry. Words burst from his mouth like the sweat from his skin. “Yes, then, yes, I’ve been working for Merseia. Not bought, nothing like that, I thought the future was theirs, should be theirs, not this walking corpse of an Empire—Merciful angels, can’t you see their way’s the hope of humankind too?—” Flandry blew smoke to counteract the reek of terror. “I’ll cooperate. I will, I will. I wasn’t evil, Dad. I had my orders about you, yes, but I hated what I did, and Aycharaych doubted you’d really be killed, and I knew I was supposed to let that girl be bought first by somebody else before I told you but when we happened to arrive in time I couldn’t make myself wait—” He caught Flandry by the knees. “Dad, in Mother’s name, let my mind live!”

Flandry shoved the clasp aside, rose, stepped a couple of meters off, and answered, “Sorry. I could never trust you not to leave stuff buried in your confession that could rise to kill or enslave too many more young girls.” For a few seconds he watched the crouched, spastic shape. “I’m under stim and heavy trank,” he said. “A piece of machinery. I’ve a far-off sense of how this will feel later on, but mostly that’s abstract. However … you have till morning, son. What would you like while you wait? Ill do my best to provide it.”

Hazeltine uncoiled. On his feet, he howled, “You cold devil, at least I’ll kill you first! And then myself!”

He charged. The rage which doubled his youthful strength was not amok; he came as a karate man, ready to smash a ribcage and pluck out a heart.

Flandry swayed aside. He passed a hand near the other.

Razor-edged, the lid of the cigarette case left a shallow red gash in the right cheek. Hazeltine whirled for a renewed assault. Flandry gave ground. Hazeltine followed, boxing him into a corner. Then the knockout potion took hold. Hazeltine stumbled, reeled, flailed his arms, mouthed, and caved in.

Flandry sought the intercom. “Come remove the prisoner,” he directed.

Day broke windless and freezing cold. The sun stood in a rainbow ring and ice crackled along the shores of Lake Stoyan. Zorkagrad lay silent under bitter blue, as if killed. From time to time thunders drifted across its roofs, arrivals and departures of spacecraft. They gleamed meteoric. Sometimes, too, airships whistled by, armored vehicles rumbled, boots slammed on pavement. About noon, one such vessel and one such march brought Bodin Miyatovich home.

He was as glad to return unheralded. Too much work awaited him for ceremonies—him and Dominic Flandry. But the news did go out on the ’casts; and that was like proclaiming Solstice Feast. Folk ran from their houses, poured in from the land, left their patrols to shout, dance, weep, laugh, sing, embrace perfect strangers; and every church bell pealed.

From a balcony of the Zamok he watched lights burn and bob through twilit streets, bonfires in squares, tumult and clamor. His breath smoked spectral under the early stars. Frost tinged his beard. “This can’t last,” he muttered, and stepped back into the office.

When the viewdoor closed behind him, stillness fell except for chimes now muffled. The chill he had let in remained a while. Flandry, hunched in a chair, didn’t seem to notice.

Miyatovich gave the Terran a close regard. “You can’t go on either,” he said. “If you don’t stop dosing yourself and let your glands and nerves function normally, they’ll quit on you.”

Flandry nodded. “I’ll stop soon.” From caverns his eyes observed a phonescreen.

The big gray-blond man hung up his cloak. “I’ll admit I couldn’t have done what got done today, maybe not for weeks, maybe never, without you,” he said. “You knew the right words, the right channels; you had the ideas. But we are done. I can handle the rest.”

He went to stand behind his companion, laying ringers on shoulders, gently kneading. “I’d like to hide from her death myself,” he said. “Aye, it’s easier for me. I’d thought her lost to horror, and learned she was lost in honor. While if you and she—Dominic, listen. I made a chance to call my wife. She’s at our house, not our town house, a place in the country, peace, woods, cleanness, healing. We want you there.” He paused. “You’re a very private man, aren’t you? Well, nobody will poke into your grief.”

“I’m not hiding,” Flandry replied in monotone. “I’m waiting. I expect a message shortly. Then I’ll take your advice.”

“What message?”

“Interrogation results from a certain Mers—Roidhunate agent we captured. I’ve reason to think he has some critical information.”

“Hoy?” Miyatovich’s features, tired in their own right, kindled. He cast himself into an armchair confronting Flandry. It creaked beneath his weight.

“I’m in a position to evaluate it better than anyone else,” the Terran persisted. “How long does da Costa insist on keeping his ships here ‘in case we need further help’?—Ah, yes, five standard days, I remember. Well, I’ll doubtless need about that long at your house; I’ll be numb, and afterward—

“I’ll take a printout in my luggage, to study when I’m able. Your job meanwhile will be to … not suppress the report. You probably couldn’t; besides, the Empire needs every drop of data we can wring out of what enemy operatives we catch. But don’t let da Costa’s command scent any special significance in the findings of this particular ’probe job.”

The Gospodar fumbled for pipe and tobacco pouch. “Why?”

“I can’t guarantee what we’ll learn, but I have a logical suspicion—Are you sure you can keep the Dennitzan fleet mobilized, inactive, another couple of weeks?”

“Yes.” Miyatovich grew patient. “Maybe you don’t quite follow the psychology, Dominic. Da Costa wants to be certain we won’t rebel. The fact that we aren’t dispersing immediately makes him leery. He hasn’t the power to prevent us from whatever we decide to do, but he thinks his presence as a tripwire will deter secessionism. All right, in five Terran days his Intelligence teams can establish it’s a bogeyman, and he can accept my explanation that we’re staying on alert for a spell yet in case Merseia does attack. He’ll deem us a touch paranoid, but he’ll return to base with a clear conscience.”

“You have to give your men the same reason, don’t you?”

“Right. And they’ll accept it. In fact, they’d protest if I didn’t issue such an order, Dennitza’s lived too many centuries by the abyss; this time we nearly went over.”

Miyatovich tamped his pipe bowl needlessly hard. “I’ve gotten to know you well enough, I believe, in this short while, that I can tell you the whole truth,” he added. “You thought you were helping me smooth things out with respect to the Empire. And you were, you were. But my main reason for quick reconciliation is … to get the Imperials out of the Zorian System while we still have our own full strength.”

“And you’ll strike back at Merseia,” Flandry said.

The Gospodar showed astonishment. “How did you guess?”

“I didn’t guess. I knew—Kossara. She told me a lot.”

Miyatovich gathered wind and wits. “Don’t think I’m crazy,” he urged. “Rather, I’ll have to jump around like sodium in the rain, trying to keep people and Skupshtina from demanding action too loudly before the Terrans leave. But when the Terrans do—” His eyes, the color of hers, grew leopard-intent. “We want more than revenge. In fact, only a few of us like myself have suffered what would have brought on a blood feud in the old days. But I told you we live on the edge. We have got to show we aren’t safe for unfriends to touch. Otherwise, what’s next?”