Flight or Fight, Chapter 20

Dalibor spent the days after the intrusion in the arboretum conservatory, when he was not in barracks. As ordered, he was staying clear of the hospital section, but it was difficult. Dafi had not been out of the section, not even leaving her room since the search, by reports. Dal was getting quiet enough that his mood was noticed by everyone in his platoon, even the orderlies assigned to their barracks. That was when his captain took him to the salle again.

“Hyu neet to schtop moping, Dal.” Fejes pitched the fifteen kilo medicine ball at Dalibor’s head. “Ist nut proper schneaky.”

He caught the ball one-handed and returned it underhand. “Hy know, but der rumors are nut goot, und Hy got no goot intel on vot ist really heppenink.”

“Der schrawny keed nut kepin’ hyu opdeted?” Fejes frowned at the the underhand loft of Dalibor’s return, and spun into a skyhook bounce aimed at the other’s midsection. “Hy feex dot.”

Movement out of the corner of his eye caused Dal to catch the ball and spin in the direction of the doorway. The young man there crouched, ducking out of the logical line of fire, but keeping his eyes on the Jägers. Dal quickly reviewed their conversation, and relaxed marginally when he realized they had not mentioned Dafi, or even used a feminine pronoun. Still, he watched the interloper critically.

When there was not an immediate attack, the young man rose slowly. “Begging your pardon, I was misdirected.” His clothes, though sensible for exercise, marked him as nobility, but his accent was what caught Dalibor’s attention. ”I had asked for directions to the public gymnasium.” The more this unknown spoke, the more Dal noted the cadences of someone from Moviloraş... not just the city, but the court.

Dal shrugged casually, bouncing the medicine ball in his hand. “Ve kin schare, iff’n hyu ist hokay mit it.”

Fejes picked up on Dal’s thickening accent, and grinned in a feral-friendly manner. “Ve vos playink king’s court. Hyu vanna choin in?”

The young man warily watched the two Jägers, but did not bow himself out. Dalibor thought his body language was less like a noble out to bluff and bluster at lowly soldiers, and more like the new kid at the village square. “With just two players? I am not sure I know those rules.” The tone was curious, without being condescending.

“Vait, ve gotz rulez?” Dalibor turned to ask Fejes, who shrugged.

“Dun lose hyu het?” Fejes grinned again.

“Hokay, vun rule.” Dal nodded, and lobbed the ball to the noble. Interestingly enough, the young man dodged only far enough to be able to get under the ball, and made a creditable - for an unaugmented human - pass to the captain.

Play continued for a half hour, without the unknown man asking for their names, or even to request a switch to a lighter ball, though the strain was starting to show in the last quarter. No one kept score, but when their guest began to falter, Fejes called a halt, “Ho! Hyu nut so bad et dis game! Ve drink nao!” and gathered the sweating, wheezing player under his arm. “Hy am Fejes! Vot dey call hyu, keed?”

“Haa... haa... hy’m Nicul.” Had to give it to him, the young man was keeping up with the captain without stumbling or running. For all his legs were short, Fejes had a deceptive strolling gait that moved very fast.

Dal figured it was as good a cool-down as any other activity, especially as it looked like the captain was taking them to the messdeck for mixed soldiers on board, as opposed to the closer Jägergesellschaft. “Hy’m Dal.” If he kept quiet, there could be more information forthcoming after the good beer. It would also mean not having to watch his accent as much.

However, it seemed the captain had even sneakier ideas. When they got to the bar, Fejes found them seats with good views out the windows, which coincidentally also gave good lines of sight to all the exits. To get that geometry, they just happened to sit at the station of the pretty girl who would not hesitate to smack anyone who got out of line. “Sofi, mein schatz kriegsaxt, ve needs Radlers, vă rog?” His smile at the bartender was flirtatious.

Dal scanned the room. It seemed as if the duke’s retinue had not found this place yet, and he hoped that would stay that way for the rest of the week, at least. Non-threatening public location, low- to non-alcoholic drinks, and the camaraderie of sportsmanship; the captain may have had a thunderbolt of brilliance for the situation, if they did not lean too hard. The bartender even seemed to be in on the act, because she was mixing the drinks in front of them, and leaning more on the limon than the helles.

When the drinks were set up, Sofi smiled at them, then, when the young man seemed hesitant to drink, she chuckled. “Noroc!”, she saluted him with his drink, and took a sip from Nicul’s glass, wiping the rim with his handkerchief that he had left on the bar.

“OI, why nut hyu do dot for me?” Fejes laughed at her.

She huffed, and did the same to the captain’s glass, only this time, before she could wipe the rim, he got the glass from her, and turned the rim to drink from the same spot. She swatted at him, growling, “Na, und? Where’s the ring?”

Fejes responded, “Mebbe ven hyu mama is nut so skeery!”

Nicul had begun to sip from his drink, but then put it down to keep from choking on it.

Dal’s eyebrows shot up “Hyu done met da mama?” he asked. This was something nobody had even murmured about in the barracks, and Jägerkin were devils for gossip.

Fejes glared at Dalibor, “Hy hev nut, and hyu ken’t prove nutin!”

Dalibor chuckled into his drink, seeming to not notice Nicul’s covert interest in the exchange. So, so, so - there could be some information trading as well.

~=*=~

All things considered, being a lady is bone-numbingly boring. Dafi had continued to read, requesting books from the library about the Duchy of Movila. Herr Ples had taken to sneaking in the occasional groschenroman sandwiched between the drier reference books he brought for her. The sitting area in her room included a small secretary desk, which Dafi was careful to have clear anytime she was not performing research.

While it might make her seem to be a bluestocking to anyone checking what she read, it did provide her with some additional ammunition. The change to cash crops had been tried in the duchy before, with disastrous results. The soil was poor, and without amendments, they had perhaps three more years before the harvests would begin to fail on a yearly basis. Orchards and sheepherding, yes - those would make the land prosper, but not at the rate someone wished.

River trade had made the duchy rich, before the advent of safe air travel. It still was the mainstay of most trade, but recent elevations in the portage and lock fees were beginning to make people find ways to avoid shipping anything through. There was little about it in the few newspapers of the region, save that it had started another round of airship building. The random raids on the rail shipping made more sense in light of the full view.

Even in the circles that the Duke’s court ran, there was more income being generated than the court had seen in years. The scandal rags that made the actions of the Fifty entertainment for the masses hinted that the current pack of nobles hanging about Movila were not in the habit of paying their bills. It left the question of where was the money going?

One thing Dafi knew was the cost of maintaining an armed force, and if that was where the money was draining, it was going to be a very large, very well equipped one growing somewhere. She passed her notes on this to the quester, and began requesting more information on the financial situation.

After two days of this, Dr Shriram brought someone to introduce to Dafi. The small woman did not wear the uniform of a nursing sister, nor the insignia of any of the medical staff. “Dama Hynter, may I present Inger Cocarlea? She is one of the Castle’s finest seamstresses.”

The lady curtsied, and demurred, “I have solid workmanship, even if I was not trained in Paris.” She said this with a slight sniff, as if aggravated.

Dr Shriram patted her arm, “Perhaps not, but you are precisely the sort of designer that can help us get the Dama ready to be seen in public, yes?” Dr Shriram’s nod to the door with a raised eyebrow caught Dafi’s attention. So they might be overheard? Something about the dressmaker’s attitude and accent made Dafi think they could work together.

Dafi kept her voice low, as if she was shy, “I would not know how to act in some of the things I saw in the social sections of the newspapers Papa got from the cities.” She rolled her eyes at how she sounded to herself, and Fraulein Cocarlea covered her mouth to stifle a small chuckle.

“Not to worry, Dama. We can have you presentable by the time you are ready to reenter society.” Fraulein Cocarlea’s eyes danced merrily.

~=*=~

“So, nu,” Fejes began, after the boy had regained some of his equilibrium, “hyu like hour game?” He grinned, this time without guile. Dal got the impression the captain was impressed with Nicul’s performance. Dalibor certainly was - not many nobles would have even attempted a game without rules. True, the Jägers had been playing at an easy pace, but the boy had kept up with them.

“I think it is more taxing than my usual workout, but that may be a good thing.” Nicul smiled, “I had been getting lazy in the past months.”

“Ken’t hev dot, de gorlz dun like lazy.” Fejes winked at Sofi, who threw a bar towel at him as she passed.

“I needed to make sure I still fit in my formal waistcoats.” Nicul’s smile faded, and his voice dropped to a murmur, “not that my love will be able to appreciate it.”

Something in Nicul’s manner gave Dal pause. He dropped his voice to be heard only by the boy and the captain, “Hyu got ha... duty to fam’ly?”

A sigh and a shrug, “Not I, but he does.” Nicul had responded at the same level. While it was accepted in some circles that there were those with different appetites, not all in the empire were at peace with the habits of others. He toyed with his glass, shoulders pulling in slightly, as if bracing for something.

“Pfft. Fam’ly ken be ha pain,” Fejes grumbled. “Hyu boyfrent schould tell them off.” He took another sip of the shandy, grumbling under his breath, “Otta be able to marry who hyu vant.”

“Mmn.” Nicul watched the Jägers out of the corners of his eyes, under his lashes. While he might be in agreement, he also did not encourage further discussion. The increased tension in his shoulders might mean he expected to be shouted out of the bar for his preferences, or could mean he was considering other issues.

Dal noticed he was pretty good at covert observation for court politics purposes. That spoke of years of practice. Now, to Dal, this meant he could have been a plant, someone trained in espionage and put into place recently. The problem with that theory was the boy’s accent, that was hard to disguise, as he well knew. Conversely, it was also hard to fabricate well enough to fool someone from the same area. With the captain stewing over his love-life, Dal let his eyes wander the mess.

Spotting a good diversion, he chuckled, elbowing Nicul to direct his attention to the grease monkeys from the troop ships having a dance fight. They had made enough progress for an opening introduction. The next step would have to wait, for they would have to see if he came back to the gymnasium tomorrow.

~=*=~

Fraulein Cocarlea was a fast worker. Within a day, Dafi had been sent two lovely peignoir sets, with slippers. Though lighter than the hospital issue, they seemed more substantial, if only because they were not meant for invalids.

Dafi welcomed the additional pockets, and in one pocket of the dressing gown, found a crochet chain, made of fine flax threads. One end was a simple loop, but the other end had a chatelaine clasp. It was not long enough to go around her neck, but wrapped twice around her wrist, it just fit. Adding the button to the clasp made it quite comfortable.

Quester Hasdeu made no mention of her change in wardrobe when he made his daily visit for tea in the afternoon, other than an appreciative smile. Ostensibly, he was making sure she was alright. In reality, he was updating her on the progress of the multiple pieces in play. “Your fortress has been quiet, but long-range scouts have been able to confirm eighty percent of your original staff are still in place. The village is secure, and we think they know something is up, because there are fewer people venturing out alone.”

She nodded, keeping her voice low, as did he. For propriety’s sake, the door was open, and they were sitting in full view of the nursing sister on duty. “What movement has there been from Cormac to the south?”

“Still no outward signs that they know Adreev has been compromised, but the commander has sent messages confirming they are ready to work in concert with the Baron’s forces when we arrive.”

Dafi nodded, and her eyes flickered to the door as a porter passed the door. “How soon will we get there?”

“Not long now, hopefully within a fortnight. The Duke and his retinue are now on board. Arrangements for the contract signing will be a few days after your discharge. Dr Shriram indicated she is just waiting for us to give the go-ahead for the timing.”

Dafi frowned, and asked very quietly over the rim of her teacup, “How is he?” She would not risk an eavesdropper knowing who she inquired after by naming him, but his absence was keenly felt.

Hasdeu gave a small smile, before answering, “Doing his best to follow vague orders. Wearing himself out in the salle. Worried about you.”

“He was my responsibility, if only for a short time.” Dafi paused, and swallowed past the knot in her throat. “I would not have him injured for that association.” She would not go further, as it was not her place to ask for more. Keeping her hands busy with the serving of tea, she shook her head and changed the subject. “The ceremony will still occur on schedule, then?” Her tone was more suited to asking about the funeral of a mutual acquaintance, than her betrothal.

With his back to the door, Hasdeu could not be sure of who was there to listen, but he winked at her when he said, “Begin on time, yes.”

Dafi sighed, knowing that there was still a chance she would be ordered to complete the signing, and she dreaded that possibility.

Two days after Fraulein Cocarlea took Dafi’s original measurements, the seamstress arrived to make final adjustments on the first outfits for informal social occasions. The walking suit and the day dress were quite fine, and a touch more elegant than Dafi would have chosen for herself, but Miss Inger had encouraged the designs.

“There, I knew these would suit you. Clean lines, and the ability to move.” Fraulein Cocarlea snipped a thread and checked the drape of the jacket again. “Much better for you than what those fatuous weasels kept after me about.” Though her hands were gentle, her voice gave away her anger.

“What weasels, Miss Inger?” Dafi had some idea what could be about, but surely they were not going to be that obvious?

Inger’s next words proved Dafi wrong. “That lot from Movila. Oh, the duke and his personal retinue are normal enough, but some of the people around them?” She made a rude noise, “They keep insisting that ‘Paris knows best’ when it comes to clothes, and that ‘the Dama will surely want to be in the height of fashion’. Load of balloon juice, that is. Never even met you, and now they think they can dress you? Hah.”

“Hm.” Dafi looked over the deep aubergine walking suit, and noted that the slight change from black to purple was only noticeable in strong light, but was a better choice for her coloring. While she herself did not know fashion, she had come to trust Fraulein Cocarlea’s taste and sense. Inger had suggested, after Dafi had mentioned her father’s passing, which colours would suit the mourning customs of her home district, and still be recognized by those on the Castle, giving Dafi some social insulation. The deep pine green of the day dress was another bit of armor, both a subtle signal signifying she was not ready for gaiety of the social whirl, and a comforting color similar to her undress duty uniform. “What have they suggested?”

“I have been ordered, mind you, to make up designs without showing them to you.” Fraulein Inger was the picture of righteous indignation. “Besides being officious, they are wasteful. The designs they chose are not only restrictive, they are hideously ugly.” She brought out a folio with newspaper clippings, showing the height of fashion from Paris, Vienna and even some scandalous sketches from London-Under-Glass. “I am to find something here that suits you, and I am hard pressed to see if it would suit anyone.”

Dafi noticed there were a large number of gowns that were listed as appropriate for bridal parties, and all of the gowns had narrow skirts, tight sleeves or other trim details that would make even some dances difficult. It was clear that this was just the beginning of the restrictions someone wanted to put on her. “All right, then - they specified formalwear?”

Fraulein Inger huffed, calming down in the face of Dafi’s unruffled inspection of the designs. “Yes, Dama.”

“Something that ‘suited me’, they said?” Dafi began to grin. It was not a proper court simper.

“Oh, yes!” The dressmaker’s eyes lit up as she caught up to Dafi’s scheme. “Something ‘befitting her coloring and station’ were the exact words, Dama.” She opened the other design book, which turned out to be the uniform standard guide, to the pages for the mountain patrol duty uniforms. Then Inger began to busily sketch out a more formal version of the Adreev uniform, “I always thought this one could use a riding skirt. Formal, yet practical, and still not trousers, you see?”

This was something Dafi had not dared hope for since she had been made aware of the mess dress uniforms of some of her classmates at the academy; someone who understood uniforms and design principles enough to give the Adreev uniforms a formal polish. “Oh, yes! Very good! Now, is there a cobbler that can get me riding boots?”

Fraulein Inger chuckled, “Combat riding boots, with steel toes and a very fine polish in oxblood, Dama?”

“I am glad to see we understand each other.” Dafi’s smile faded. “I will also require the formal mourning bands, if you would be so kind.” Not that Fraulein Inger needed the reminder, but Dafi had been struck by the thought that this was another thing she would not be able to share with her father.

“Oh...” the older woman’s face softened into a sympathetic smile. “Yes, of course, Dama.” Then her chin firmed. “You will want to speak to the Jägers in charge of security for the meeting about formal blades, I think.”

“Yes, I will need to speak with a Jäger about the ceremony.” Dafi’s frown had less to do with weapons and more to do with feeling secure.

Flight or Fight, Chapter 19

Dafi separated out the notes referring to the Third Son’s origins from her research on the treaty and the possible allies brought to bear. She had found the documentation she had sought on the treaty, but what to do about it now? Consultation with Hasdeu would have to wait, until he returned.

As it turned out, it would have to wait longer than that. He was severely delayed in returning to the library. Dafi considered returning to the hospital wing on her own, but with the arrival of several airships with multiple groups of passengers, he had asked her to wait until she had back-up to go anywhere on the ship. When he did finally return, he hustled her out with the barest of greetings to Herr Ples.

In hushed tones, he briefed her in the maintenance corridor. “We finally have confirmation that the Duke and his friends have agreed to have the signing aboard the Castle. Your ‘frail mental state’ helped push that, but for now, we need to keep you in the hospital room. The bulk of the Duke’s official retinue will be here tomorrow, but we’re getting too many solicitous inquiries about you for my boss to feel comfortable about you going walkabout.” He motioned for quiet when they got to the hospital area.

Sneaking into her hospital room was complicated by Dr Shriram bustling down the hall, and shoving Dafi into a broom closet. Her terse explanation of, “Unknown faces showed up for work, sit tight” was all Dafi got before a loud disturbance in another section pulled the doctor and the quester away.

Dafi was glad that the military regulations for stowing cleaning implements required that they also be clean when stored were observed in the hospital. The faint odors of vinegar and balsam were soothing, while she waited, and thought. She would need to consult with a legal expert for the next bit. If Hasdeu was not versed in the specialty, perhaps there could be someone else involved. She was still puzzling over it when the door opened.

“You!” Hasdeu growled, then as he leaned in and smudged her face quickly, he muttered, “Apprentice hiding, right?” He hauled her out by her collar, further obscuring her face from the witnesses down the hall.

Dafi squealed, pitching her voice at what she hoped was a piping tenor, “Oi! Oi! Zorry mazt’r! I’z nut hidin’ frum hyu!”

“Na, lazy hup! Jus’ hidin’ frum work!” He hauled her along roughly, but he could see a twinkle in his eye as they headed out.

Dafi made further protestations as she had remembered the complaints from the scullery girls at the school. “I’za gut vorker! I’z hid from Ygan, he in me bunk!”

As he pushed her out of the hospital section into an empty hall, he dove for a maintenance hatch and they both disappeared though it. Then he giggled quietly, “Thank the lightning you understood, Dama.” He nodded down the corridor, away from the hatch, Keeping his voice low, he asked, “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

She chuckled, “Tch, take more than that to hurt me, Quester.” Dafi also kept her voice low, knowing that voices carried in caverns, and this was naught but a huge man-made cave. “What happened?”

“Someone stole an orderly uniform, and was searching for your room. He had just found your uniform when they found him, so we’re going to have to manufacture a reason for you to have gone missing.”

Dafi subconsciously fiddled in her pocket, reassuring herself that the stray button was still there. “Find me a place to wash up and an invalid’s gown, and I can say I was hiding from the one I was not properly introduced to?”

“That might work. Trouble is, where would have you gone if you were a frightened noble lady?”

“Home. But what I would call home, especially here, isn’t what the fragile flower would run to,” Dafi grunted in an unladylike fashion. “Ergh, this much duplicity makes my head hurt. She would probably seek out protectors amongst ‘her own kind’.”

“And without an introduction, that usually means at least gentry. Even the fragile flower might head for officer country, which means it’s time for you to meet my boss.” Hasdeu swung around a ladder and began to climb up.

~=*=~

Dalibor was in the midst of trying to wear himself out enough to sleep when the tone of alarmed voices reached his ears. Before he could disengage from the wrestling match, his captain tapped out his opponent and leapt for a grapple. Once pinned, Fejes muttered in his ear, “Sche’s safe.”

A quick flip out of the hold, and turning the tables on his superior by shifting from Greek to Mongol style, Dal hissed in Fejes’s ear, “Vot heppen?”

“Caught oot ov bet.” The change in style only gained Dalibor a momentary advantage, as Fejes slammed Dal with an uchimata. “Der schrawny keed say sche’s hokay.”

Dal relaxed, and grinned, then flipped again for a piledriver. “Hokay. Ve nut on call?”

“Na,” and the captain pulled the klimakismou as the final move, “Hyu schleep nao?”

Dal twisted, unable to break the anchein his captain held on him, and acquiesced, “Ja, schure. Hy schleep,” Tucking under and rolling, he pinned the captain’s shoulders to the mat, though it did not break the choke hold Fejes had on him. “Chust nut here.”

Fejes gave Dal a good-natured swat across the back of his head as they rolled to opposite sides of the ring. “Time ta go ta bed, hyu!”

“Ja, ja, mamă - Hy go nao.” Dalibor chuckled and headed for his bunk.

~=*=~

Officer country at Adreev was high up enough to see most of the mountain pass, the walls of the fortress, or most of the above ground public areas, depending on which windows you had. Here, it was apparently the center of the ship, from what Dafi could suss out from the maintenance corridor diagrams they passed.

When they got to a certain level, Hasdeu handed Dafi a clipboard and tapped a set of dials. “Wait here, look busy, gotta check for a clear path,” and he ducked out of the hatch, whistling.

She kept her nose pointed at the dials, listening for footsteps, cutting her eyes down the corridors, and briefly wondered what the instruments before her were actually measuring.

Moments later, the quester returned, just sticking his head in the hatch. “Good timing, he’s had his tea already.” Hasdeu motioned for her to stow the clipboard and follow. This hallway was much smaller than the grand promenades, but no less elegant. “Just in case, unless he says different, you two have not met this morning.” Escorting her through the empty outer office, he tapped lightly on the door before opening it. “Sir? Here she is.”

Behind the desk, sat a middling-tall man, whose build was average among the non-military types... save for the extra pair of arms. Dafi snapped to attention when faced with the Executive Secretary and second-in-command to Baron Wulfenbach, Boris Vasily Konstantin Andrei Myshkin Dolokhov. The man was rumored to remember everything.

“Ah, Dama Hynter.” He stood, and gestured to the chair in front of his desk. “My apologies for not meeting with you sooner. You still have a way of generating reports wherever you go.”

Dafi swore to herself internally, realizing that if he did remember everything, at least she was in the clear, as the the attack on the fortress, like the incident when she was going home from the academy, was not her making. “Sometimes it is difficult to leave proper documentation with the correct authorities.”

“In this case, you have managed to kick over a beehive, and lead the swarm astray. It has taken some careful maneuvering, but we have managed to collect the honey without many stings.” He steepled his fingers, peering over his glasses. “You have been busy in the library. Would you care to share your findings at this time?”

Dafi mentally settled herself before withdrawing her notes on the treaties, and handing them over. “I could argue that a single boilerplate treaty, offered over two centuries ago, without any continuing contact would not have the force of some of our more current negotiations. However, that is tugging on the laws until a loophole appears. Their offer of ‘aid’ is... not quite what I would consider helpful.” She paused, and quietly added, “If it is helpful to the Baron’s plans, however, I can follow through.” She did not hide the fact that the idea did not make her happy, though.

Herr Dolokhov nodded, reading through her notes. “Yes, I see the loopholes to which you are referring. It would take less tugging and just a hint of a suggestion, depending on your interpretation.” While one set of hands sorted the notes, his other hands were making up a cup of tea (white, no sugar, just as she took it during the officer’s tea six years ago) and handed it to her. “However, we do need some more time to insert some key personnel. If you are open to further negotiations, I will let the Baron know. However, at this time, we specifically need you to be,” he looked over his glasses at her again, “a wounded bird.”

“I can draw their attention away from my nest, sir.” Dafi nodded. He may not hold a title, but he was the one who had the Baron’s ear, and that was deserving of respect.

Hasdeu coughed lightly, “We may need to lead them part of the way this morning, sir.”

“Yes, the false orderly. The closest place for her to hide would have been the Jägerbarracks, but that is not the direction we wish them to go.” Herr Dolokhov considered the schematic of the hospital section of the ship before pointing to a section not far from the doctors’ offices, but in the opposite direction from the Jägermonster’s digs. “There. Take her to Doamnă Coșlar-Aed. She will be able to help with the feint.” Then speaking to Dafi, “Tell her as little as you can about the past month, but you do have similar backgrounds. I will arrange for you to be ‘found’ in an hour or so.”

~=*=~

In spite of Herr Dolokhov’s reassurances, Dafi found herself dreading meeting this doamnă. There were few of that social strata that were the sort to approve of “girl generals”, in spite of the tradition of the elite troops such as the Devil Dolls, the Šárka Mead Maidens or the Lipizzaner Cancan Corps. She was tentatively relieved when the first person they met at the doamnă’s quarters was a straight-spined elderly woman, dressed plainly, but better than the average maid. The woman had a firm handshake.

“Aye, I be Doamnă Coșlar-Aed when the mood takes me. Call me Amelia, and if we’re quick, we can get you settled before too many of the staff are awake.” She turned to the young woman just entering the sitting room, “Liesel, this young lady needs to be artfully disheveled, but not wild,” handing over the invalid’s gown to Dafi, “Then we’ll need to pretend to be ladies.”

“Yes, Bunică! This way, please Dama?” The woman showed Dafi to the en suite. Liesel certainly was a younger version of the Doamnă, with the same high cheekbones and a fencer’s posture. “I will leave you to change, and then we’ll do something about your hair.” Liesel winked and grinned, as her hair was covered by a kerchief similar to Dafi’s.

Quickly changing into her gown and washing her face and hands, Dafi was at a loss for how to hide her notes on the legendary hero. She settled for folding them into the boiler suit, and was digging out the spare button just as Liesel knocked on the door. “Ready?”

Dafi opened the door for her, “As much as I can be. I am not sure what to do with my hair...” Her voice stalled out as she saw the young woman again, dressed in an elegant morning receiving gown such as they advertised in the newspapers. Liesel’s hair was no longer in the sensible braid down her back, but piled up in a complicated set of ringlets.

Dafi’s stony expression must have conveyed some of her distress, as Liesel began to giggle. “Na, it’s a wig, I’m not that fast. Let’s take your hair down quick, and see if I can make you look distressed, but still ladylike.”

Five minutes later, Dafi’s crown braid was down, brushed out, and loosely plaited in a French style that was wildly impractical - which was the whole point. During the hairdressing, Dafi tucked the button into her sleeve. Presented to the Doamnă, the older woman nodded, “Yes, that will work well. Please, come sit.”

Hasdeu had stood when the younger ladies entered the sitting room, and smiled at the change in Dafi. “I think this will be a good time for you to make your semi-public appearance.” He took the bundle from Dafi, and chuckled. “I’ll make sure they bring robes and a chair for you, and I shall see you once I get properly cleaned up.” He bowed in respect to all three ladies before leaving.

Doamnă Amelia was similarly transformed, though her hairstyle was not greatly changed. A tea service had been added to the table, with a selection of dainty breakfast pastries. “Come, sit. I doubt you’ve had much to eat, and we will need to take care of that before you are... rescued.” Amelia’s chuckle after her dramatic intonation showed her humor.

“I am sorry to impose on you like this...” Dafi allowed Liesel to steer her to the divan, and the young woman tucked a quilted coverlet around her legs.

“Psh, psh - I’m glad for it. Not likely we would have met until much later, and I do enjoy meeting other alumni.” Amelia made sure Dafi had a good grip on the cup and saucer before releasing it. “Though when my family sent me to Mustafa-Svilin, I was supposed to keep my brother out of trouble and get myself a husband, in that order. They didn’t figure on me paying attention to the lectures.”

Dafi chuckled, and turned to Liesel, “Did you attend as well? I would have thought we were in the same classes if you did.”

Liesel shook her head, “I ended up going to Université Diderot. After generations of... fighters, it figures someone had to be a medic.” She grinned, and Dafi did not comment on the small hesitation.

“So!” Amelia passed the plate of poale’n brâu, “Are they still teaching Roman historical tactics exclusively from Trajan's letters?”

In the hour that followed, the three discussed the different lectures each had attended, with the topics changing to those of fashion, art and music when the doamnă’s airship-assigned staff arrived to find a timid visitor in house. Much fluttering fuss was made to send someone to the hospital section, when one of the hospital staff arrived to inquire if they had seen a misplaced patient.

Dafi was not all that sure of her acting ability, so she did not attempt the twittery tones that Amelia and Liesel seemed to pull off without a blush. She instead opted for slightly confused and shy as her major outward displays.

A very precisely pressed and polished gentleman arrived with the hospital staff, making Dafi wary of the group. However, when he got close enough to greet her properly with a short bow, she realized this was Hasdeu in his “regional representative” role. It shocked her that he could change his look so completely without resorting to an elaborate disguise. Gone was the rumpled and slouching mechanic’s mate, replaced with another sort that faded into the background - a mid-level bureaucrat. She hoped her shock might be interpreted as another bit of “frail mental state” evidence, as they wheeled her back to the hospital section.

The grand procession of hospital staff deposited her in her new accommodation, closer to the nurse’s station. The new room was much larger, including a dressing room in the ensuite, and a sitting area near the windows. Dr Shriram carefully introduced the day staff to Dafi, including the two burly porter-attendants that were in obvious guard positions at her door when they arrived.

Once the parade of staff finished, Dr Shriram and Hasdeu were left alone with her. The doctor looked a trifle frayed around the edges, but seemed mostly just tired. “From now on, all staff changes are to be cleared with the director of the sick bay, and you get to meet them before they go on duty. That being said, there’s not going to be any staffing changes if I have anything to say about it.”

“Unfortunately, this change of room to protect you will also mean no further field trips until you are cleared for discharge.” Hasdeu nodded. “I think I might be able to get books to you if you need further research, but for now, it may be best if you stay put until after we sort out who is where on the Castle.”

Dafi looked at them doubtfully. “I hope all of this is worth it. Right now, I am too tired to be sneaky any longer.” She paused, then asked Hasdeu, “Would it be possible for you to bring the notes I had made last night the next time you visit?”

“It will not take even that long.” Hasdeu smiled, and put a heavy cardstock folio in her hands. “Just so you know, researching folk tales is a very ladylike past-time.”

“I shall try to keep up the illusions,” Dafi quietly chuckled, then yawned suddenly. “Oh! I do beg your pardon....”

“Time for you to rest, Dama.” Dr Shriram guided Hasdeu to the door. “I gave orders for your meals to be tea, water, toast and broth for today, but you need sleep more.”

Dafi nodded sadly. “Much as I do not care for the dreams, I do need the rest.”

Hasdeu paused at the door, when the doctor asked, “Would you like something to help you sleep without dreams?”

She thought about it a moment before slowly shaking her head. “No... other than the fact I am wary of being incapacitated with the events progressing this quickly,” Dafi sighed, “even if I dislike the dreams, I need to process them.”

Hasdeu slipped out, and Dafi could hear him murmuring to the orderlies. Dr Shriram nodded. “I will let you sleep, and perhaps we should talk about these dreams you have had, when I return this evening.”

Flight or Fight, Chapter 18

Dalibor got word that his squad would not be on guard duty that evening just before Nistor sent him the note that he would be needed to watch over Dafi in the library. After reading it, he did the sensible thing and ate the note before anyone commented on it. Getting away from the others was not a problem, but how to make sure there was not a Jägermonster where one should not be?

Long before he had been transformed, Dalibor had found that most people see what they believe, rather than believing what they were actually seeing. It had served him well as a young soldier. By being able to slip in with the clerks or servants in his father’s court, he had been able to find out all manner of intrigues, and warn his brothers of problems they could handle when the issues were small and manageable, before they got to be tangles that would distract their father from the management and protection of their lands.

One of the benefits of the Jägerbrau was that it did not create a consistent look to his brothers-in-arms. Dalibor had found that if he did not act like a Jägermonster, he could be mistaken for any number of constructs. His platoon either did not know or did not care what he did when they were not on duty. Everyone had their hobbies, but not all of them were not fit for polite conversation, even among the Jägerkin.

Since his hobby occasionally involved bathing with soap, the few Jägerkin who knew of it generally considered Dalibor’s avocation to be a subject best left alone. It is likely that some few others knew of the out-of-order washroom on deck six that never seemed to be on any maintenance crew’s work orders. The door was always locked, so it was unlikely anyone knew it was stocked with several different uniforms and one working shower.

The library presented a special problem, in that Herr Ples was not one of the Baron’s tame addle-pated researchers. He had been a minion, and one that had been sharp enough to survive. Octavian Ples had been the one to surrender his master’s lab to the Baron, nearly intact, while the Spark in charge had been twitching and frothing in his courtyard after his latest rampage. So sharp a man required a bit more misdirection.

Thus it came to pass that someone in a bright fuchsia footman’s uniform, complete with a matching bow holding back his carefully-pomaded tawny hair in a queue and an intricately-tied cravat at his throat minced past the mechanic’s apprentice slouching along the grand hall that midnight.

~=*=~

Dafi had to concentrate to keep from straightening up when she heard the hurried footsteps behind her in the grand hall. The footfalls seemed familiar, but she realized it was wishful thinking when she saw the uniform, and then the scent of the perfume hit her. With his eyes hidden by corrective goggles, it was obvious why the footman was holding the clipboard so close to his face as he walked.

Her slouch became more dejected as she realized just how much she missed the company of the sergeant, if she was comparing the footman to Dalibor. The build was right, but the carriage and gait was wrong, and that perfume was far too flowery to be something a Jäger would tolerate. For one thing, it would make them scent-blind.

Resolutely turning her mind away from the distraction that Dalibor presented, she thought over the findings she and Herr Ples had turned up the night before, tracking down the wording of the original treaty. She had known it was old, simply because it was not something her father had noted in the current alliances when they had gone over her studies of battle tactics, applying them to the fortress. She was actually reading back through the genealogy of the house of Movila, this time with an eye to political arrangements rather than literary roots.

When she got to the library entrance, she detected a trace of the footman’s perfume at the entrance, but could not track it inside the library. Perhaps it had made her scent-blind as well. Herr Ples had new information for her when she got to the desk. “Normally, I would steer clear of legends and folktales when conducting political research, but I happened to remember one scholar had gotten his teeth into the history of this noble house at one point before he disappeared."

Dafi had a thrill of recognition as Herr Ples pulled out a copy of Eliezer Bârsănescu’s textbook. “I have read that one, but not any of his other works. Are there any of his other papers here?"

The librarian chuckled, “If it is not here, there are only two reasons; the manuscript was destroyed before we heard about it,” then Herr Ples lowered his voice, tapping the side of his nose, “or it contains information too dangerous to be outside the Baron’s personal library.” But then his voice matched his merry smile as he checked the catalogue, “Let us see if any of his thesis planning works are here!”

~=*=~

Sitting in the shadows would have been too obvious a mistake. But Dalibor’s goggles were on temples with large loops at the tips rather than a strap. This allowed him to put the book in the light, and the goggles at an angle aimed at the book, leaving a gap at his face over which he could observe the room. He further obscured his face with a large, very lacy, handkerchief, trying to keep the perfumed pomander that was hanging from his belt from asphyxiating him. Even if having the damned thing meant others would steer clear of him, he would need at least an hour’s workout of sweat to clear the scent of it from his nose.

The night librarian was sharp, but polite enough that when Dalibor had silently taken himself to the section on art and lithographic prints, Herr Ples had left him alone. The thinly-veiled interest in art books was a common ruse when someone was too shy to request access to the restricted area. Most of the librarians respected the restraint, and made no mention of it. By turning the pages at lengthy intervals, most patrons, especially at this time of night, would leave him alone

Besides, the living warrior woman at the center of the genealogy section held his interest far more than the odalisques of the Enlightenment. Her disguise was thinner than his, but then, she was dodging those who avoided libraries in general. Highborns of this generation sent others to find things out for them, or retrieve reading material. Anything else smacked of actual labor.

He noted the direction of their conversation, liberally punctuated with the words “treaty” and “aid”. Most of it involved tracing back through the Movila line, finding the alliances and when they were made, when they were formalized, and if they were dissolved. Dafi and Herr Ples seemed to be drawing out a tree of all the trading partners of the house, which in turn were also military allies. They were doing well on their own, so he merely watched and listened.

There was a soft chime an hour before the actual shift change, a warning to those that needed to be at their duty stations. Dafi began wrapping up her research, tucking it into her coverall as Herr Ples pretended to check his watch against the clock on the wall. Everyone knew his watch was more accurate than anything but the Castle’s central timekeeper

Dal quietly reshelved his book, and tucking the pomander into a glassine envelope sealed with beeswax, slipped out to the upper concourse as Dafi exited. It would not do to have her get repeated views of him, especially in the improved light - the sun was just rising, with dawn-light spilling into the grand hall. When she reached the hospital section, Dalibor dashed off to his closet, to rid himself of the candy-colored uniform, and lose himself in mindless exertion in the Jägers’ gymnasium for an hour or two.

~=*=~

Dafi was able to slip into her invalid’s gown and hide her notes and boilersuit before the day shift arrived. These doctors and nurses seemed less engaging to her, perhaps because they seemed so relentlessly cheerful. They did not seem quite real to Dafi, more like actors in a troupe specializing in inane chatter. She tried to be asleep before the nurse who sang to himself as he made his rounds was on her hallway. It was not because he was a bad singer, or out of tune, but it was because he sang the hiking and wandering songs

Her sleep was interrupted by the usual meals, which she ignored as before, except for the tea and water. The night shift arrived with more than the usual chatter. In fact, it seemed as if there was quite a row going on at the nursing station. Dafi slipped out of bed, not bothering with changing out of her gown, standing with her back against the wall on the hinge side of the door, taking a firm grip on the chair for visitors. Eventually, the noise died down, but she did not leave her position. A knock at the door, followed by Dr Shriram’s careful greeting of “Dama?”, still did not signal Dafi to stand down

She waited for Dr Shriram to close the door after her to ask, “What happened?” Dafi kept her hand on the back of the chair.

The question seemed to let the other woman relax, and still wind her up. “Here you are, good. We have a situation. The first of the Movila delegation arrived this afternoon. Just as I got here, two of them were trying to get access to your medical records.”

Dafi was aghast, “Whatever for?”, then angry, “What right did they think they have?”

Dr Shriram reflected her anger, “They claimed to be representatives of the matchmaker, and they had the right to review your ‘health’ for the betrothal.” Her eyes snapped with her fury. “Here,” she handed Dafi a slim file, “these are all the records for you here. We are getting you out of here as soon as I can find the quester.”

“That would be a bad idea.” Quester Hasdeu’s voice came from the other side of the door. “May I come in?”

Dafi let him in, asking “Why is it bad for me to be out of the hospital?”

“Because here, we can restrict their access to you.” Hasdeu bowed to her, “and that will mean their focus is tied up in trying to get to you and your information.”

The doctor was not mollified. “I will NOT have those toffee-nosed gits hanging around here! We are not here to entertain them.”

“I am... not sure they will stop with just a warning.” Dafi frowned, her arms crossed over her file held to her chest, deep in thought. “I disappear, they have people all over trying to find me again. But if they find nothing of my records here, that could be just as bad.”

“You’re not far wrong. The laws governing the hospital state they have no right to your personal information without your permission, but they will argue that it is ‘traditional’ for the contract.” He shrugged, “The counter to that is you have not accepted the offer yet, and this is not acceptable courting behavior.”

“You’re damned right it is not acceptable,” Dr Shriram muttered. “I almost wish we had put her in disease quarantine. At least there, we wouldn’t have to worry about them upsetting the other patients that need quiet.”

“Can I be moved there, to save the nerves of the others?”

Flight or Fight, Chapter 17

The door that Dr Shriram had indicated led to a small private room with an en suite. It was smaller than her rooms at the fortress, but still well-appointed. From what Dafi understood, even on a flying city such as the Castle Wulfenbach, space was at a premium, and to have private facilities was the height of regard.

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.”