Ryswyck Read online

  Ryswyck

  L.D. Inman

  Ryswyck

  Copyright 2019 by L.D. Inman

  Cover image: Elizabeth Leggett

  Map frontispiece: Tori McDonald

  Author photo: Sam Inman

  Smashwords Edition

  All rights reserved.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  To V.D.B.

  Companion of the Coinherence

  and

  E.H.S.

  Comrade of the word trenches

  What is friendship, when all is said and done, but the giving and taking of wounds?

  Frederick Buechner

  Nothing is precious save what is yourself in others and others in yourself.

  Pierre Teilhard de Chardin

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  One: Ryswyck

  Part 1 Chapter 1

  Part 1 Chapter 2

  Part 1 Chapter 3

  Part 1 Chapter 4

  Part 1 Chapter 5

  Part 1 Chapter 6

  Part 1 Chapter 7

  Part 1 Chapter 8

  Part 1 Chapter 9

  Two: Cardumel

  Part 2 Chapter 1

  Part 2 Chapter 2

  Part 2 Chapter 3

  Part 2 Chapter 4

  Part 2 Chapter 5

  Part 2 Chapter 6

  Part 2 Chapter 7

  Part 2 Chapter 8

  Three: Ilona

  Part 3 Chapter 1

  Part 3 Chapter 2

  Part 3 Chapter 3

  Part 3 Chapter 4

  Part 3 Chapter 5

  Part 3 Chapter 6

  Part 3 Chapter 7

  Part 3 Chapter 8

  Part 3 Chapter 9

  Part 3 Chapter 10

  Part 3 Chapter 11

  Part 3 Chapter 12

  Part 3 Chapter 13

  Part 3 Chapter 14

  Part 3 Chapter 15

  Part 3 Chapter 16

  Part 3 Chapter 17

  Part 3 Chapter 18

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Speir knuckled sweat and blood out of her eye and took advantage of the moment’s space to breathe deeply. Across the arena Stevens was brushing sawdust off his flanks and regaining his habitual grin. She grinned back, half to herself.

  Behind and around, above the mirrored panels of the recessed combat pit, the air was full of shouts of encouragement. “Go on, Speir,” someone’s voice crowed topmost, probably Andera, sounded like him— “get him again!” People liked to see Stevens get knocked down in open-hand once or twice at least before he walked away with the victory in his meaty fist. Nobody actually ever won a match with Stevens, but Speir was determined to take a good crack at it.

  He looked ready, and she had her breath back. She circled in close, looking for the right moment to go in, but he moved first, heavy and quick. Barely dodging a savage blow, Speir grabbed for a hold and twisted to drive her knee into the back of his; he eeled out of reach and slung her reeling out of the center square. The momentum sent her right to the polished steel panels, and she used their spring-backed resilience to propel herself back to him, savoring the open joy of combat. She got in one quick blow to his chin before having to duck again; unfortunately, what should have rolled him sidewise only gave him a momentary jerk, and he caught her as she tried to flank him. In the act of tossing her, his hand caught in her headguard and pulled it free; her hair spilled out of its knot, and momentarily blinded her as she fell.

  She struggled to her feet, aware of the buffoonery of her position, and as she frantically wiped the strands from her face to meet his following stroke, she heard the shrill cut of the judge’s whistle.

  They both turned at once to the platform chair, where Captain Marag sat observing. The tumult of voices in the arena damped down.

  “Fault to Stevens,” he said. “Round to Speir.”

  Stevens said: “What’s the judgment?”

  “If you deny taking pleasure in Speir’s embarrassment, then the fault is arbitrary,” Marag said.

  An arbitrary fault was a hazard of the arena, but instead of accepting it as such, Stevens bowed to her briefly, closed hand over heart. “All’s well,” Speir answered him. Stevens’s battle-grin returned, and he saluted her for the round, his hand flicking sharply to his forehead, away and down. He waited for her to re-secure her hair under her headguard, and then the whistle cut the air again and battle was rejoined.

  In which Speir took an immediate slug to the chest that bowled her over almost twice. She scrambled, winded and dizzy, to her feet, avoided another blow, found and lost a hold, landed an elbow to Stevens’s flank, got clear of him, lurched into speed again and placed another good punch, received one in return that would have knocked her over if she hadn’t spun at the exquisite point of gravity, ducked under his arm again, drove for his midriff and was stymied by his greater reach, took another blow and rolled in the sawdust, got up weaving, and was unsurprised when the whistle blew and the round was called for Stevens.

  She snapped him a sharp salute.

  “What kind of exit do you want?” he asked her, solicitously.

  “Horizontal,” she said.

  “You sure?”

  “I’ll make you work for it, too,” she said, and he grinned a real grin this time.

  “So be it,” Stevens said, and the whistle blew.

  It wasn’t good form at the Academy to pull punches, but Stevens had developed a distaste for producing regular carnage, and as long as he gave people a decent challenge, most people were willing in courtesy to let him break form. But as far as Speir was concerned, the third round was no place for that.

  One good blow was all she wanted; just one would do. She avoided closing with him for the first minutes, reading him quickly, ducking his full-strength swings, hearing the cacophony of her fellows from the benches. At last he landed one that sent her sprawling, a reel of broken light behind her eyes, and waited politely for her to rock slowly, half-blind, to her feet. Speir shook off the pain and came back to center. One good blow. She masked her intent as she approached, and was gratified to see him caught off guard by her sudden left—he actually sat down for a split second before rolling again to his feet and returning to her. Her duck wasn’t quite fast enough.

  Speir was a little slower getting up this time; again he waited. She got knocked down twice more without getting in a second blow, and the noise in the arena rose to a roar to match the roar of pain in her senses.

  Once more. She launched herself toward him.

  The next thing she knew, she was on her back, the scent of sawdust tickling her nostrils, and a meaty hand was holding her head steady. “Don’t move,” Stevens warned her, “till the scan’s done.”

  After two tries she was able to form words. “How long was I out?”

  “Full count.”

  “Ah. They call it yet?”

  “If you concede.”

  From her supine position, Speir dragged up her hand and gave him a salute as snappy as she could make it, which wasn’t very, because she was groggy and the medics were in the way. Stevens stood up, the watery sun from the dome overhead making an aureole around his large head and shoulders, and saluted her back as victor of the match.

  “Thank you,” Speir breathed, too weary to make the gesture, and the medics hoisted her on the ba
ckboard and carried her out to a storm of cheers.

  ~*~

  “That…,” said Lord Thornhill, “was rather brutal.”

  They were sitting on the observation platform of the arena reserved for the headmaster and his guests, watching the cadets and junior and senior officers make their way from the benches to go about their duties. General Barklay’s eyes were on Stevens, who had just made his salute to Barklay and exited the combat pit after Speir’s horizontal recession, and he almost missed what Thornhill had said. Almost; he’d been expecting something of the sort.

  “Worse happens in war,” Barklay pointed out.

  “Indeed,” sighed Lord Frasera. She was in the sub-Council rotation directing the armed forces of Ilona: Barklay thought her too young to have seen the war when it was on their home soil, but it didn’t mean she had seen nothing at all; she was only a little younger than he.

  “Well,” Barklay said, “now that the match is concluded, shall I show you the grounds?”

  “Please,” Thornhill said, and they got up to make their own way out of the arena and the honeycomb complex that surrounded it, busy with the work of his students, training, tidying, passing them with cheerful and respectful greetings in the corridors en route to duties elsewhere.

  Frasera waited till Barklay had finished one such exchange with a young cadet before asking a question. “General,” she said when they were on their way again, “I heard the judge give a call which I am not familiar with; it must be particular to Ryswyck. What is an arbitrary fault?”

  “Just what it sounds like,” Barklay said with a sidelong half-grin, and Lord Frasera gave a delicate snort. “The judges of a match,” he elaborated, “are free to award an arbitrary fault if they feel things are going too much one way, or if they wish to test the balance of one of the combatants. Its usual effect is to galvanize both combatants in the next round. Sometimes it’s a sharp reminder of courtesy, as you saw today.”

  “But to arbitrarily influence the outcome of a match?” Thornhill said. “Surely it’s better for the combatants to earn their victory cleanly.”

  Barklay shook his head, and they emerged from the arena into the broad portico that surrounded the building. From here they had a view across the wide quadrangle of the low barracks and grey-quarried offices and classroom blocks of Ryswyck Academy, scaffolded in at the edges by the covered walkways that shielded them from the rains.

  “In Ryswyckian combat, as in life,” Barklay said, “one must learn to accept unfair reversals without complaint. The sooner one can detach one’s pride from one’s unquestioned success, the better.” Thornhill looked appalled, and Barklay added: “I will say that most judges consider it unsporting to decide the end result with an arbitrary fault. It’s usually used to stir things up a bit.”

  “As we saw,” Frasera said.

  “Quite. Allow me to show you to the classroom block. This way.” Had he been alone, Barklay would have cut across the green-wet quad without regard for the light rain that was falling, but it would be uncharitable to ask the discomfort of his guests. Not to mention impolitic. Barklay led them round to the stone-paved walkway that led down to the edge of the cadet barracks.

  “How are the matches made up?” Frasera asked him. The comment on the mismatch between Speir and Stevens was left unspoken, but Barklay heard it clearly anyway.

  “Mainly by scheduling considerations,” Barklay said. “Matches are held three times a week, and ideally everyone will arrive in the arena well-rested and recovered from their last bout, so they are spaced as expeditiously as possible. The combatants agree beforehand on the format; Speir and Stevens, as you saw, both favor open-hand combat, but some prefer the baton. Foils are out of favor in this generation, I notice; my students seem to think they can get more direct contact with the other formats. I haven’t removed it from the training modules, though. First- and second-year cadets are scheduled together; junior officers are scheduled together; and sometimes a senior officer will step down from the judge’s platform and fill in a place in their schedule.”

  “I heard,” Thornhill said, “that the students challenge each other to duels. Is that not so?”

  And where did you hear that, I wonder? Barklay thought. He had a shrewd idea who had been causing Thornhill to worry about this school, and if he was right, there was no point losing his serenity. “No combat outside the arena,” he said. “No individual sparring appointments except with permission. Students are allowed to request a match, which is granted on the merits of the request.”

  “And a personal conflict is not a proper merit?” said Frasera.

  “Oh, no,” Barklay said, “personal conflicts are acceptable merits. Saves me some time in arbitration.” That was going to make Thornhill bridle.

  Thornhill bridled. “But how can you possibly reconcile two people by having one of them beat the other senseless?”

  “A question we could just as well ask about war itself,” Frasera murmured, saving Barklay the trouble.

  “I’m talking about the rule of law.” Thornhill glared at her, and then at Barklay, as if he had made her say it.

  “Ah, the rule of law,” Barklay said calmly, pausing at the recessed doors of the cadet barracks. “This is where the cadets are quartered, two to a room. Junior officers are the next building over; they have the privilege of their own rooms and showers. Senior officers and guests are quartered on the other side, as you saw when you arrived. The rule of law is very simple here, Lord Thornhill. There is only one law: the law of courtesy. Everything that happens at Ryswyck flows from that one law. A student learns that maintaining discipline, working at his course of study, fulfilling her duties, facing another in the arena—all of these are done to honor the humanity of the people with whom we are living. A student here may sooner put his opponent in hospital than speak to him in contempt. I’ve expelled a student for a single insult uttered in my hearing.” Barklay turned and cast his gaze from the dome of the arena to the tower beyond the classroom plant; his companions followed the invitation of his glance. “I started this Academy because I wished to see a place where courtesy is not just surface commerce but a way of life. The brutal realities of war must not take away from us our souls.”

  He had said such things many times before, to many such visitors, and had ceased to expect their eyes to light as his students’ did. Thornhill’s eyes did not light, but he looked troubled, which was a better sign than complacent agreement, as if Barklay were speaking platitudes.

  They weren’t platitudes, to Barklay. They were lifelines.

  Frasera had had enough of Thornhill’s inquisition. “Your students certainly seem to take on that ethos with alacrity. How are their studies laid out, General Barklay?”

  They resumed their walk up the barracks side of the quad. “Cadets take up study either for the army or the navy. Besides the principles of direct combat, they learn practical cartography, supply management, tactics and strategy, and weapons systems—the latter in its unclassified form, of course. If they win a place in the junior officer corps for their third year, they are expected to help teach the foregoing, and specialize in a course of their own choosing, which my rotation of senior officers teaches them.”

  “Yes, I’m aware of the rotation arrangement from our end,” Frasera said. “I suppose it’s alumni of Ryswyck that you’d want judging matches, however.”

  “Well, yes,” Barklay said. “Let’s go inside here; this will take us into the school proper.”

  They entered, along with a few cadets hurrying to the last class meeting of the day before the tower bell. As they reached the crossing, they met Speir coming back from the junior officers’ block, now showered and neatly dressed in her informal greys, the insignia on her epaulets bright and new. Despite a certain paleness and a bruised contusion over her eyebrow (neatly mended with a small sticking bandage), she looked balanced and cheerful, as well she should.

  “Well, Lieutenant,” Barklay hailed her, “may I congratulate you on a
good match.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Speir said, standing straight and saluting him smartly, as she’d not been able to do in the arena. He nodded back.

  “On your way to supper?” he asked.

  “No, sir. Junior officers’ meeting.”

  “Oh, yes, I’d forgotten that was today. Your first?”

  “Yes, sir.” Speir grinned suddenly.

  “My lords,” Barklay said to his companions, “allow me to make known to you Lieutenant Stephanie Leam Speir, our newest addition to the junior officer corps and a formidable force in the arena—and wherever else she happens to be. Lieutenant Speir, may I present Lords Thornhill and Frasera, from the sub-Council, here on a short visit.”

  Speir spread her hand on her breast and inclined her head: she had grown up in the capital, Barklay recalled, and knew the niceties.

  “Any relation to the submarine commander of beloved memory?” Thornhill said, jovially. Barklay wanted to kick him.

  “Yes, my lord,” Speir said. “She was my mother.”

  “Ah!” I bet he wasn’t expecting that, Barklay thought. But Thornhill recovered almost at once. “And you’re following her footsteps into the navy?” he pursued.

  “No, my lord. It’s the army for me.” Speir smiled at him, her own firm kindness and Ryswyckian courtesy blended, impossible to patronize. Yes, she was going to justify her promotion very quickly indeed, Barklay thought.

  “In which she will do very well,” Barklay said. “Well, we won’t keep you, Lieutenant.”

  Speir’s glance flicked to him, amused. “Thank you, sir. A pleasure to meet you, my lords.”

  The visitors nodded back, and Barklay led them on their way as Speir disappeared.

  “She looks almost none the worse,” Thornhill said, glancing in wonder over his shoulder.