The Lady Catherine Montaigne, Countess of the Tor

“Anton Zilwicki, Captain in Her Majesty’s Royal Manticoran Navy,” announced Lady Catherine’s butler, as he came through the door to her study. “And Mr. Robert Tye.” Isaac stepped aside and politely held the door for the visitors coming through behind him.

Isaac finished the introduction: “Lady Catherine Montaigne, Countess of the Tor.”

Cathy rose from her reading chair. For a moment, before she focused her attention on her visitors, she allowed herself an amused glance at Isaac.

My, he does that well! Her butler—Isaac insisted on the title, though it was absurd—seemed every inch the perfect servant. He rattled off the aristocratic titles without a trace in his voice of Isaac’s utter hatred of any and all forms of caste society. He even managed to wear the traditional menial’s costume as if he had been born in it.

Which, of course, he hadn’t. As was the custom of escaped Mesan slaves, except those who joined the Audubon Ballroom, Isaac had taken a surname shortly after obtaining his freedom. Isaac Douglass was now his official name, Isaac having chosen the most popular surname for such people, in memory of Frederick Douglass. But he had been born V-44e-684-3/5, and the name was still marked on his tongue.

Cathy’s amusement was fleeting, however. Almost immediately, she realized that Isaac was tense. The symptoms were extremely subtle, a slight matter of his stance and poise, but she could read them. Isaac’s feet were spread apart a bit farther than normal, his knees were slightly bent, and his hands were clasped in front of his groin. Cathy was no devotee of coup de vitesse herself, but she had no difficulty recognizing the “standing horse.”

Why?

Her eyes went to her visitors, trying to find an answer. The man in front, the naval officer, seemed to pose no threat. Zilwicki was on the short side, and extremely stocky. His shoulders were so wide he almost seemed deformed. Put him in the right costume, grow a thick beard instead of a neat mustache, and he’d be the spitting image of a dwarf warlord out of fantasy novels. But his stance was relaxed, and Cathy could read no expression on his square face.

Then, noticing the intensity lurking in the man’s dark brown eyes, she began to wonder. Her eyes moved to Zilwicki’s companion. Robert Tye, wasn’t it?

Tye solved the mystery for her. The little man’s head was turned, examining Isaac. Suddenly, Tye’s round face broke into a very cheery smile. Because of his pronounced epicanthic fold, the expression almost turned Tye’s eyes into pure slits.

“With your permission, Lady Catherine, I will assume the lotus. I believe your—ah, butler—would find that more relaxing.”

Tye didn’t wait for Cathy’s response. An instant later, folding himself down with astonishing ease and grace, Tye was sitting cross-legged on the lush carpeting. His legs were tightly coiled, each heel resting on the upper thigh of the opposite leg. His hands were placed on his knees, the fingers widespread.

Isaac seemed to straighten a bit. And his hands were now clasped behind his back instead of in front of his groin.

“Do you know this man, Isaac?” she blurted out.

Isaac’s headshake was so slight it was not much more than a tremor. “No, ma’am. But I know of him. He is quite famous among martial artists.”

Cathy stared at Tye. “Coup de vitesse?”

Tye’s cheerful smile returned. “Please, Lady Catherine! Do I look like a barbarian?”

Zilwicki interrupted. “Master Tye is here at my request, Lady Catherine.” His tight mouth twitched in one corner. “It might be better to say, at his insistence.”

Cathy was struck by the man’s voice. His accent, partly—Zilwicki still bore the imprint of his obvious Gryphon highlander upbringing. But, mostly, it was that Zilwicki’s voice was so deep it was almost a rumble.

Her natural impulsiveness broke through the moment’s tension.

“Have you ever considered a singing career, Captain? I’m sure you would make a marvelous Boris Gudonov.”

Again, Zilwicki’s mouth made that little twitch. But his eyes seemed to darken still further.

“My wife used to say that to me,” he murmured. “But I think she was mostly just tired of coming to church choirs, dressed in suitably conservative clothing. She’d have rather swept into the opera house in one of the glamorous gowns I bought for her. Which, sad to say, almost never got worn.”

For all the affectionate humor in the remark, Cathy did not miss the sorrow lurking behind it. That, and the name, finally registered.

“Helen Zilwicki?”

The captain nodded.

“My condolences, Captain.”

“It’s been many years, Lady Catherine,” was Zilwicki’s reply. His deep-set eyes seemed almost black, now. Perhaps that was simply a shading, due to the relatively dim lighting in the study. His mass of black hair—cut short, in the military style, but very thick—added to the impression, of course. But Cathy did not doubt for a moment that, despite the disclaimer, the man before her had never stopped grieving his loss.

“I’m surprised you made the connection so quickly,” he added. “Zilwicki is a common name on Gryphon.” The captain paused; then: “And I wouldn’t have expected someone on your end of the political spectrum to remember such things.”

Cathy shook her head. The gesture was not so much one of irritation as simple impatience. “Oh, please! Captain, I warn you right now that I detest being pigeonholed.”

“So I deduced, studying your file. But I’m still surprised.” Zilwicki spread his hands in a little economical gesture. “My apologies.”

She stared at him. “You studied my file? Whatever for?” Her jaws tightened. “And let me say, Captain, that I also detest being spied upon!”

Zilwicki took a deep breath. “I had no choice, Lady Catherine. Because of the situation, I am forced to operate completely outside of the command chain, and I need your help.”

“My help? With regard to what situation?”

“Before I explain, Lady Catherine, I must tell you that I was not exaggerating when I said I was operating completely outside the command chain. In fact—”

He took another deep breath. “When this is all over, however it ends, I expect to face a court-martial. I won’t be surprised if the charges include treason as well insubordination and gross dereliction of duty.”

His eyes seemed like ebony balls. But it was fury rather than sorrow which filled his voice. “Ambassador Hendricks and Admiral Young were quite explicit in their instructions to me. And I propose to shove those instructions as far up their ass—pardon my language—as possible. With or without lubricant, I don’t much care.”

Cathy hated her own laughter. She had heard it, on recordings, and it sounded just as much like a horse’s bray as she’d always suspected. But she couldn’t suppress the impulse. She wasn’t good at controlling her impulses, and laughter came easily to her.

“Oh, splendid!” she cried. Then, choking: “No lubricant, Captain—not for those two! In fact—” Choke; wheeze. “Let’s see if we can’t splinter those instructions good and proper beforehand. Leave the bastards bloody.”

Captain Zilwicki’s mouth began to twitch again. But the twitch turned into an actual smile, and, for the first time, the humor which filled his voice seemed to creep into his eyes.

He was quite an attractive man, Cathy decided, once you got past that forbidding exterior. “And just how can I help you in this magnificent project, Captain? Whatever it is.”