The doctor opened the wardrobe door, bringing out a voluminous invalid’s gown. “For the first few days, we should have you dress the part. However, if you would permit, it would be a good idea to have an examination. For one, the Baron would like to know your true condition. We also need to know where the past injuries are to build the fantasy injuries for the rumor mill.”
~=*=~
Nistor led Dalibor out of the medical section the same way they came in, through the maintenance corridors. Once the door was shut and sealed behind them, Nistor did a dangerous thing - he asked a personal question. “So, this knight... she just a job?”
Dalibor considered not answering, or dismissing her as unimportant, but with so many eyes on her, Dafi was going to need allies. He had known Nistor since the boy had signed on as a page with one of the noble students, and was one of the few people outside the Jägerkin he trusted. “Nah, she’s ha goot vun. Hy like her. Hy help.”
The young man seemed surprised by the admission, though that could be an act. After all, Dal taught the boy to play cards because Nistor was able to bluff at a young age. His words made the surprise seem genuine, though. “Think you can take a rotation on guarding her, when she’s out of the infirmary, without letting her know?”
“She hain’t schtupid, hyu know.”
Nistor raised an eyebrow at him, “I didn’t say she was. Just need to make sure she doesn’t have to deal with the wrong people harassing her.”
Dal considered a few moments, “Hy vould neet to be dishguizet.”
It took the quester a few moments to puzzle out the word, as it was one Jägers rarely used. “You’d be willing to do that?” The Jägermonsters were well-known for being proud of who and what they were, loudly, and with great fanfare. Being sneaky and pretending they were not the scariest monsters in the valley was unknown of them.
Yet there was no hesitation in Dalibor’s response, “Ja. Hy kin do dot.” He did not add “for her” as it was something the Baron did not need to know, and so Nistor did not get that information, either.
~=*=~
The examination completed, Dr Shriram gave her a few last minute instructions on the rules for water usage and emergency procedures, but also the special details of her stay in the hospital section. “Day shift should be coming on duty in an hour. I have not prescribed any medication for you, so if someone comes in to administer any, refuse them. Pitch a fit and fight them if anyone comes at you with a syringe. Your official diagnosis in the records on the floor is ‘exhaustion with grief reaction’, which allows you to sleep most of the day.”
“Is there any possibility that I can get books from the library?” Dafi knew she was going to need more information on the Movilas, even if asking for those books to be brought to her would be risky. Perhaps she could ask for a few of the Third Son groschenroman to make her tastes seem silly.
“Since I am your doctor on record, I will ‘release’ you for light exercise in a day or two. Today, I think you might need to sleep, if you can. It will help your cover story of exhaustion, and you really do need it. Eat lightly, if you do at all, but I will have a meal brought next time I am on shift,” she checked her pocket watch, “ten hours from now. By then your uniform will have been properly cleaned. Unfortunately, they will likely be searched by someone in the laundry as well, so if there’s anything in the pockets you want to keep to yourself, hide them before you sleep.” Dr. Shriram smiled, and bowed slightly as she left the room.
Dafi did not think she left anything incriminating in her pockets, but she went through them just the same. The note from the conductor with the archival report file numbers had gone with the letters to the quester, and she had no other items that could tip off the conspirators that she had done anything but come to the Baron for assistance in regaining the fortress.
However, as she searched her pockets, she found a spare button. It did not match her uniform. It did not match any uniform currently in use by any of the Baron’s forces, except one.
The Jägercorps had a uniform, of course, but most of them preferred to alter them to match their own personal tastes. The Baron had wisely made it a mark of seniority, for those who behaved long enough to be promoted. Some even liked the uniforms well enough as designed to keep them within regulation wear, but most would add touches that were noted in the logs as “trophy pieces”. The short jacket that Dalibor favored had once been an English naval engineer’s jacket, collected nearly a century ago. The button had come off at Bârsănescu’s shop. She had been meaning to sew it back on, or let him replace it himself. Without thinking about why she did so, Dafi tucked it under her pillow before sleeping.
Nervous as she was about airships, Dafi did manage to sleep nearly eight hours. She awoke briefly any time someone came to the door, but remained unresponsive as they left a tray for her, drifting off again as the door was shut. The warning that her uniform would be taken for cleaning meant she did not have to wake up enough to fight for it. This almost-ruse of exhaustion grated on her watchfulness to let people come into the room unchallenged, though. She looked forward to sleeping in a secure spot again, or even having someone she trusted stand watch for her.
At the fortress, one took their own uniforms to the laundry. Her father had been known to do so himself every week or so, as a good example to his officers. His batman would have to be quick to get to the chore before Papa did it, unless as Colonel he was busy with quarterly reports or other duties. When she had come back from the academy, it had been something she would do for him when both of them were busy. They were military, but there were things she and her father did for each other as family, whether it be picking up small chores for him when a patrol had taken longer than usual, or him checking with the local chemist to order liniment for her that smelled like rosemary instead of pine sap.
Now that she was here, and had delivered her charge, there was nothing to do but wait until she was released to restore her people to their right places. Nothing to do but sleep, and dream, and remember.
Her mother had come from a similar sort of county, though she was not trained to fight. She was trained in the management of a manor and farms, and though the tales told of her mother had been few, they were respectful, and spoke of her determination to make a proper contribution. She was a woman grown when she arrived at the fortress, and while she was a decent shot, hand-to-hand fighting was not something she picked up easily. Learning to care for the injured from the fortress medic was another matter. Her compassion for others made healing tasks natural for her, and extended to her other duties. When it came time for the chaplain assigned to the fortress to retire, he had no family to go to. She had arranged for him to stay, as an emeritus to assist the new chaplain. She had been the one to confer with the engineers to see which caves under the fortress were suitable for long term siege supply storage, freeing up space for officers to have their families with them. So many things that she had done quietly, without a fuss, that when she had died, those tasks had to be divided amongst many to share the load.
Dafi let the memories come back, of her mother’s voice as she sang, of the sound of both parents laughing together, of them reading to each other by the fire before bed, of the times when Mama scolded Papa for giving the baby sweets before dinner - the good and the bad. Then came the clearer memories, of just the two of them, after Papa had become Colonel outside the family suite - learning to manage the fortress, learning the tactics that required their presence in the pass, but also singing at the village bonfire festivals, or just talking with him. In this quiet space between actions, she finally allowed the loss to touch her, and let the tears fall.
Her pillow was soaked by the time Dr Shriram knocked on her door. One look at Dafi, and the doctor turned to the orderly that was pushing the meal cart, ordering him to bring more drinking water. She brought in the tray herself, before opening the drawer on the bedside table, and drawing out a handkerchief from the stack there. Handing it to Dafi, she apologized, “I should have reminded you these were here for you, Dama.” The handkerchief was soft cotton, lightly scented with mint and a touch of lavender, soothing to the senses.
Pouring a glass of water from the pitcher, the doctor made sure Dafi had a good grip on it before releasing. She waited quietly for Dafi to finish the glass, pulling up a chair beside the bed before asking, “Do you feel up to eating, yet?”
“Not really, though I know I should have something.” Dafi was worn down by her emotional expenditure, and was mildly surprised at the rasp in her voice. Her throat was raw, though she had not been screaming or shouting. She had actually been taking pains to not make a sound while crying. Something about the whole situation here made her feel as if she was still on a covert patrol. Quester Hasdeu’s attitude about the conspiracy may have had much to do with her subconscious desire to seek cover with good firing angles.
Dr Shriram nodded, “I brought soup and bread with a pot of tea. Tonight, we’ll be checking in on you from time to time, and we’ll see what the conditions are like tomorrow evening, to see if you can manage a trip to the library, with an escort. Officially, you’re off duty. That means when they bring your uniform back from the laundry, it stays in the closet until you are released.” She shrugged, and added, “We’ll figure out when that will be after the Baron has his say. What sort of civilian wear are you used to?”
The question caused Dafi to stop in the midst of another sip of water to consider. “Not much in the way of civvies, really. What is not a uniform or heavy work gear in my closet is festival rig-out.”
“Somehow, I thought that might be the case.” Dr Shriram smiled. “I can get a plain boilersuit for you to wear when out. That’s actually easier to manage than skirts, though we should have the seamstress in to get another uniform set for you.” She tilted her head, “The battle wear on your uniform would be appropriate for some gatherings, but unless you want to be surrounded by the gossips asking about it, not for general errands on board.”
Dafi closed her eyes, “The one thing I did not miss from the academy, was the court gossip. There are some that can gather intelligence from it, but I have little patience for it.”
Dr Shriram patted her hand sympathetically, “We’ll be hip deep in it soon, though three nights from now, most of them will be at the informal reception for the Movila delegation.” The doctor smiled, “The Baron does not organize these, because they cut into his lab time, so he will not be in attendance. Officially, you can be in treatment, and therefore excused from being seen there as well.”
“This is happening rather quickly,” Dafi said doubtfully. “Though, if most of the court butterflies are going to be occupied... how late is the library open to guests?”
“Technically, the main section is always open. Some of the reference stacks are monitored. I’ll ask around to make sure the night librarian will be there. Every time I think he’s sure to miss an event, he’s there.” She shrugged with a smile. “Feel up to some supper?”
~=*=~
For Dalibor, getting back to his squad had not been a big production. All they had been concerned with is he missed a grand finale of a fantastic fight that had ended with two airships in flames, but nobody had lost their hat. After a welcome-back tussle that had the Jägers’ orderlies cowering for the next day, Dalibor was sitting with a tankard of ale in the ward-room. He was joined by his captain, who had a tankard and a pitcher. For the captain, this was the height of subtlety, though all of the platoon knew to steer clear of him when he brought a pitcher.
“Hyu vere dere for de fight, az far as hanybody else knows, ja?” The rumbling growl of the older Jäger did not carry beyond their table as they drank their beer. “De gorl vaz nut on de list ov official pezzengerz, ne? Hy saw hyu pull two py-ratz out ov de schip vit hyu before hyu drop dem und float on down.”
“Chure, hokay.” Dalibor shrugged, nonchalantly sipping his beer. “Sombuddy sniffin vere dey ought nut?”
Captain Fejes rolled his head from side to side, “Alluz zomt’ing op. Dot haf-hoctopusch guy zez ve hokay vit de Baron, bot de odderz,” he shook his head and took a long pull from his beer. “Hy dun like de questionz dey azkin, und dey schmell wrong.”
“Ho? Vat kindt ov wrong?”
“Money tryink ta be merc. Dey gotz de bloodt schmell, but nut de schweat, ne?”
Dal considered the description, and figured that was as good as he would get from the captain, who was trained in battlefields, but not in assassination tactics. “So, vere ve goin next?”
“Ve iz drinkin ontil de fleet getz to de next fight.” This was the standard response that meant they had no orders in hand. Captain Fejes cut his eyes over to Dalibor, “Hyu nut goin ta go zee dot gurl?”
Dalibor gave his best casual shrug, “She vill get by mitout me.”
His captain chuckled into his tankard, “Zo hyu goin ta be all mopey and schtuff. Hyu needt ta git hyu ha gorl vot kin haprechiate ha bookay ov headz or zomezink.”
“Or somet’ink,” Dalibor agreed, imagining the best aesthetic arrangement for the presentation of the conspirators’ heads to Dafi.
~=*=~
A little after midnight, Dr Shriram knocked on the door before entering. “Dama? Quester Hasdeu is here to see you. Are you feeling up to another interview?”
Dafi sat up in bed, nodding. “I need to get out of my head for a bit.” She made quick work of drying her face again. Quester Hasdeu took the chair beside the bed when Dafi waved him into it. “Is there news from Adreev?”
“No more than we knew before.” He was serious in his manner, but also pleasant. “I came by to check on you, and see if there was anything you needed?”
Her first thought was ‘my sergeant’, but he really was not hers, not by assignment, and he was likely relieved to be out of range of what may look to him like a schoolgirl with a pash. “I truly need information. I know I have been given everything I have been cleared to receive on the current events, but there is something about the treaty that I have a half-memory about. The problem is I do not know what is tickling my recollection.”
This made the quester raise his eyebrows in thought. “Late as it is, I don’t think we will have anyone in the library but Herr Ples. That makes it a good time to go for serious research, since he’s been trained with the Deep Thinker’s labs. He’s had lots of experience with random searches. Give me an hour or so to get some clothes for you, if Doctor Shriram thinks it’s okay.”
Within the hour, Dafi was in a shapeless coverall, with her hair covered by a kerchief, and instructed on how to slouch as the two of them headed for the main public library on the ship. This time, Dafi got to see the beauty of the public halls, or as much as she could see while staying in character as a mechanic’s apprentice. If it had been on the ground, it would have been a palace. The central passageway was spacious, and seemed even more so when they were the only people in the hall. They passed several public gathering areas with huge windows. Dafi tried to not be obvious as she looked away from them.
The library had less of an issue for her, as the windows were high above the shelves, where they would give indirect light during the day. At night, the task lighting over the tables was bright and steady, though some of the stacks were in shadow.
The pale, thin man in a sober suit behind the reference desk rose to meet them. Dafi noted his waistcoat and cravat were actually a cheerful blue, which made him seem less menacing. His quiet smile on introduction also helped.
“Dama, may I present Herr Octavian Ples? He is our night librarian, and the one the students come to when they are under a deadline. Herr Ples, this is Dama Hynter. She has clearance for anything up to level six.” Quester Hasdeu handed over a copy of the clearance, a twin to the card she carried in her pocket.
The librarian’s tone was soft, but also musical, “Ah, and to what do I owe the pleasure, Dama?”
“There is a treaty that is being used to ‘convince’ me to be betrothed without proper research, and there is something about it that teases my memory, but I cannot quite catch it.”
His eyes lit at the description of the problem, “A vexing state, not being able to remember where you read something, yes, I have dealt with such myself. If the rumors running through the grapevine are any guide, we should start in the mid-seventeenth century for the original.” Gathering a sheaf of foolscap and some pencils, he bowed to Dafi, “This way, if you would, Dama. We may not find the quarry immediately, but we should have a solid grounding, soon.”
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