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Authors: Susan R. Matthews
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her, too, to give him authorization from his employer to go where he’d no business being otherwise — poor Megh could be dead by then, if she wasn’t already.
But he was Nurail as well as Megh was, and she would not thank him for courting a beating by risking it on his own just to see her corpse. Nurail, and a slave, and if the Port Authority did not have the legal right to use his body at its pleasure as the Ragnarok ’s First Lieutenant had done Megh’s there was no lack of reasonable pretexts to torture a Nurail gardener for stepping outside of his place, for involving himself uninvited in the affairs of his betters. And no one watching to see that the punishment was restricted to the Jurisdiction Standard, either.
He washed his face again, to rinse the tears away. He would have to wait. The Tavart would grant him leave to go, he was sure of that.
And maybe Megh would not be dead before he could come to grieve for her in hospital.
Chapter Three
Lights were dimmed and room was quiet, but Garol woke with immediate certainty that he’d heard something. He kept his breathing slow and regular, his eyes still shut, listening hard. There was only Jils in the room with him, Jils in the bed beside him as companionable as a sister. It wasn’t Jils who’d awakened him, then; not unless it had been her signal.
Garol opened his eyes and sat up in the dim hush, cautiously, and the tone came at the outer door, the door at the end of the room outside the bedroom. Someone in the corridor.
Jils was awake now too, and he could trust Jils’s judgment better than his own. She hadn’t signaled danger: not yet. Very well. They’d see.
Pushing his feet into the slew-socks that Dohan Dolgorukij wore for bed-slippers, Garol belted his heavy blue brocade bed-robe — a present from the Danzilar prince — around his waist as he made for the door. The signal was tuned to its lowest intensity, but it was persistent.
He keyed the admit and opened the door, and found himself face to face with the Danzilar prince Paval I’shenko himself, standing in the corridor with a household technical officer and some Security behind him. Bowing, Garol wondered; the Danzilar prince had never come to him in quarters, and had never interrupted his sleep-shift, either.
Danzilar himself seemed to have just gotten up, if the butter-yellow jacket he had on over his thin white silk bed-suit and the tousled condition of his nondescript brown hair was any indication.
“Do not waken the lady, I beg it of you,” Danzilar said, softly. “No woman should have to hear of such a thing. There is a problem, Garol Aphon, and I believe that I must insist on an immediate response.”
Jils was listening in the other room, Garol knew. She would pretend she was still asleep, then.
“At your disposal, your Excellency, of course. At any time.” The “Excellency” had been a little distracting to Vogel, because the same title that translated for the respectful language due a Dolgorukij aristocrat applied to Fleet superior officers in Standard as well. Andrej Koscuisko was an Excellency twice over, even as the Danzilar prince was. And neither the Danzilar prince nor Jils Ivers knew what Garol held in his keeping for Andrej Koscuisko. “Is there a place where we can go to talk?”
Danzilar nodded grimly. “Come, and we will discuss. We can use a side room, here — ”
Not far from his quarters, and servants already standing by with service tables. As far as Garol had been able to tell, fresh beverage and hot bread was next to godliness for Danzilar’s Dolgorukij. Jils would probably remind him that people whose body temperature ran high usually did need to eat a little more frequently to keep themselves going.
“Here is the master of communications, who has brought me this. You will oblige me by reading it for yourself, Garol Aphon. We have had it done into Standard, and I am unwilling to go into the details.”
The Danzilar prince habitually called him
But he was Nurail as well as Megh was, and she would not thank him for courting a beating by risking it on his own just to see her corpse. Nurail, and a slave, and if the Port Authority did not have the legal right to use his body at its pleasure as the Ragnarok ’s First Lieutenant had done Megh’s there was no lack of reasonable pretexts to torture a Nurail gardener for stepping outside of his place, for involving himself uninvited in the affairs of his betters. And no one watching to see that the punishment was restricted to the Jurisdiction Standard, either.
He washed his face again, to rinse the tears away. He would have to wait. The Tavart would grant him leave to go, he was sure of that.
And maybe Megh would not be dead before he could come to grieve for her in hospital.
Chapter Three
Lights were dimmed and room was quiet, but Garol woke with immediate certainty that he’d heard something. He kept his breathing slow and regular, his eyes still shut, listening hard. There was only Jils in the room with him, Jils in the bed beside him as companionable as a sister. It wasn’t Jils who’d awakened him, then; not unless it had been her signal.
Garol opened his eyes and sat up in the dim hush, cautiously, and the tone came at the outer door, the door at the end of the room outside the bedroom. Someone in the corridor.
Jils was awake now too, and he could trust Jils’s judgment better than his own. She hadn’t signaled danger: not yet. Very well. They’d see.
Pushing his feet into the slew-socks that Dohan Dolgorukij wore for bed-slippers, Garol belted his heavy blue brocade bed-robe — a present from the Danzilar prince — around his waist as he made for the door. The signal was tuned to its lowest intensity, but it was persistent.
He keyed the admit and opened the door, and found himself face to face with the Danzilar prince Paval I’shenko himself, standing in the corridor with a household technical officer and some Security behind him. Bowing, Garol wondered; the Danzilar prince had never come to him in quarters, and had never interrupted his sleep-shift, either.
Danzilar himself seemed to have just gotten up, if the butter-yellow jacket he had on over his thin white silk bed-suit and the tousled condition of his nondescript brown hair was any indication.
“Do not waken the lady, I beg it of you,” Danzilar said, softly. “No woman should have to hear of such a thing. There is a problem, Garol Aphon, and I believe that I must insist on an immediate response.”
Jils was listening in the other room, Garol knew. She would pretend she was still asleep, then.
“At your disposal, your Excellency, of course. At any time.” The “Excellency” had been a little distracting to Vogel, because the same title that translated for the respectful language due a Dolgorukij aristocrat applied to Fleet superior officers in Standard as well. Andrej Koscuisko was an Excellency twice over, even as the Danzilar prince was. And neither the Danzilar prince nor Jils Ivers knew what Garol held in his keeping for Andrej Koscuisko. “Is there a place where we can go to talk?”
Danzilar nodded grimly. “Come, and we will discuss. We can use a side room, here — ”
Not far from his quarters, and servants already standing by with service tables. As far as Garol had been able to tell, fresh beverage and hot bread was next to godliness for Danzilar’s Dolgorukij. Jils would probably remind him that people whose body temperature ran high usually did need to eat a little more frequently to keep themselves going.
“Here is the master of communications, who has brought me this. You will oblige me by reading it for yourself, Garol Aphon. We have had it done into Standard, and I am unwilling to go into the details.”
The Danzilar prince habitually called him
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