Elizabeth Moon: Change of Command

“It’s not like that. We didn’t rush into it. We’d waited, and waited, and filled out paperwork, and argued with our families—” Esmay knew she was saying too much, but for once she couldn’t stop.

“And then Grandmother came up with something really awful—” Barin added. Esmay shot him a warning look.

“And then the news of the mutiny came in, and everyone was rushing around—”

“Mmm-hmm. And you got married because your personal happiness was more important than anything else.”

“As important as,” Barin said. “Sir, I don’t see how being miserable makes us more efficient, and right then we were miserable not being married, and being apart.”

“So you’ll function better if you’re together?”

“I think so,” Barin said.

“Good. Prove it. I see you’re on second shift, second. We’re certainly crowded enough to make sharing a cabin during your sleep rotation reasonable. But the first time one of you is groggy on duty, I swear I’ll space you both. Clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you will both inform your families immediately, while we’re still within range of the system ansible. We’ll be in jump transit before a reply comes, no doubt, but at least you’ll have told them. You have one hour.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’re letting them bunk together?” the exec asked. He had overheard enough.

“It saves time. They’d get together somehow if we put them on alternating shifts with shifting bunk assignments . . . this way they don’t waste any time or energy hunting each other down. My guess is, from their records, that they’ll be just as efficient as anyone else.”

“The Serrano family won’t be happy.”

“Well . . . as they said, it’s not my fault. I didn’t arrange it, or sanction it; it was done when I got them. Besides, I’m not a Serrano.” His face relaxed for a moment into a reminiscent smile. “Back when I was an ensign on Claremont , and she was commanding, Vida Serrano chewed me out for spending too much time with my girlfriend. Said I’d outgrow the silly chit. Well, I’ve been married twenty-eight years now to that ‘little chit,’ and the day I outgrow Sal, I’ll be dead. It’s only justice that her grandson falls in love with someone she thinks is unsuitable—though how she could object to Lieutenant Suiza is beyond me. Maybe these two will be understanding of one of my kids someday.”

The compartment was predictably cramped, with a second narrow bunk rigged above the first, and they would share it with four other officers. It was their space only during their assigned sleep shift. But they were alone, with a locked door between them and the rest of the universe. For now, that made all the difference.

“Sorry about the hurry,” Barin said, into Esmay’s ear.

“Hmmm?”

“The beautiful dress Brun was having designed for you. And the ring I’d ordered. And a ceremony you would recognize . . .”

“We can do that later, if we have the chance. I’d rather have this.” This engaged both of them more than adequately for some time.

“Still . . .” Barin said, coming up for air at last.

Esmay poked a finger in his ribs. “Don’t . . . distract me.”

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.”