Elizabeth Moon - Change of Command

“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.