Sense of Wonder: A Century of Science Fiction, page 410
“Why did you break Raina’s neck, instead of cutting her throat?”
“Harra, she must not know,” said Ma Mattulich. “Poor baby. It would look like she just died.…”
Miles eyed Lem, Speaker Karal. “It seems a number of others shared your opinion that Harra should not know.”
“I didn’t want it to be from my mouth,” repeated Lem sturdily.
“I wanted to save her double grief, m’lord,” said Karal. “She’d had so much.…”
Miles met Harra’s eyes at that. “I think you all underestimate her. Your excessive tenderness insults both her intelligence and will. She comes from a tough line, that one.”
Harra inhaled, controlling her own trembling. She gave Miles a short nod, as if to say Thank you, little man. He returned her a slight inclination of the head, Yes, I understand.
“I’m not sure yet where justice lies in this case,” said Miles, “but this I swear to you, the days of cooperative concealment are over. No more secret crimes in the night. Daylight’s here. And speaking of crimes in the night”—he turned back to Ma Mattulich—“was it you who tried to cut my horse’s throat last night?”
“I tried,” said Ma Mattulich, calmer now in a wave of fast-penta mellowness, “but it kept rearing up on me.”
“Why my horse?” Miles could not keep exasperation from his voice, though a calm, even tone was enjoined upon fast-penta interrogators by the training manual.
“I couldn’t get at you,” said Ma Mattulich simply.
Miles rubbed his forehead. “Retroactive infanticide by proxy?” he muttered.
“You,” said Ma Mattulich, and her loathing came through even the nauseating fast-penta cheer, “you are the worst. All I went through, all I did, all the grief, and you come along at the end. A mutie made lord over us all, and all the rules changed, betrayed at the end by an off-worlder woman’s weakness. You make it all for nothing. Hate you. Dirty mutie…” Her voice trailed off in a drugged mumble.
Miles took a deep breath, looking around the room. The stillness was profound, and no one dared break it.
“I believe,” he said, “that concludes my investigation into the facts of this case.”
The mystery of Raina’s death was solved.
The problem of justice, unfortunately, remained.
* * * *
Miles took a walk.
The graveyard, though little more than a crude clearing in the woodland, was a place of peace and beauty in the morning light. The stream burbled endlessly, shifting green shadows and blinding brilliant reflections. The faint breeze that had shredded away the last of the night fog whispered in the trees, and the tiny short-lived creatures that everyone on Barrayar but biologists called bugs sang and twittered in the patches of native scrub.
“Well, Raina,” Miles sighed, “and what do I do now?” Pym lingered by the borders of the clearing, giving Miles room. “It’s all right,” Miles assured the tiny grave. “Pym’s caught me talking to dead people before. He may think I’m crazy, but he’s far too well trained to say so.”
Pym in fact did not look happy, nor altogether well. Miles felt rather guilty for dragging him out; by rights the man should be resting in bed, but Miles had desperately needed this time alone. Pym wasn’t just suffering the residual effect of having been kicked by Ninny. He had been silent ever since Miles had extracted the confession from Ma Mattulich. Miles was unsurprised. Pym had steeled himself to play executioner to their imagined hill bully; the substitution of a mad grandmother as his victim had clearly given him pause. He would obey whatever order Miles gave him, though, Miles had no doubt of that.
Miles considered the peculiarities of Barrayaran law as he wandered about the clearing, watching the stream and the light, turning over an occasional rock with the toe of his boot. The fundamental principle was clear; the spirit was to be preferred over the letter, truth over technicalities. Precedent was held subordinate to the judgment of the man on the spot. Alas, the man on the spot was himself. There was no refuge for him in automated rules, no hiding behind the law says as if the law were some living overlord with a real Voice. The only voice here was his own.
And who would be served by the death of that half-crazed old woman? Harra? The relationship between mother and daughter had been wounded unto death by this, Miles had seen that in their eyes, yet still Harra had no stomach for matricide. Miles rather preferred it that way; having her standing by his ear crying for bloody revenge would have been enormously distracting just now. The obvious justice made a damn poor reward for Harra’s courage in reporting the crime. Raina? Ah. That was more difficult.
“I’d like to lay the old gargoyle right there at your feet, small lady,” Miles muttered to her. “Is it your desire? Does it serve you? What would serve you?” Was this the great burning he had promised her?
What judgment would reverberate along the entire Dendarii mountain range? Should he indeed sacrifice these people to some larger political statement, regardless of their wants? Or should he forget all that, make his judgment serve only those directly involved? He scooped up a stone and flung it full force into the stream. It vanished invisibly in the rocky bed.
He turned to find Speaker Karal waiting by the edge of the graveyard. Karal ducked his head in greeting and approached cautiously.
“So, m’lord,” said Karal.
“Just so,” said Miles.
“Have you come to any conclusion?”
“Not really.” Miles gazed around. “Anything less than Ma Mattulich’s death seems…inadequate justice, and yet…I cannot see who her death would serve.”
“Neither could I. That’s why I took the position I did in the first place.”
“No…” said Miles slowly, “no, you were wrong in that. For one thing, it very nearly got Lem Csurik killed. I was getting ready to pursue him with deadly force at one point. It almost destroyed him with Harra. Truth is better. Slightly better. At least it isn’t a fatal error. Surely I can do…something with it.”
“I didn’t know what to expect of you, at first,” admitted Karal.
Miles shook his head. “I meant to make changes. A difference. Now…I don’t know.”
Speaker Karal’s balding forehead wrinkled. “But we are changing.”
“Not enough. Not fast enough.”
“You’re young yet, that’s why you don’t see how much, how fast. Look at the difference between Harra and her mother. God—look at the difference between Ma Mattulich and her mother. There was a harridan.” Speaker Karal shuddered. “I remember her, all right. And yet, she was not so unusual, in her day. So far from having to make change, I don’t think you could stop it if you tried. The minute we finally get a powersat receptor up here, and get on the comnet, the past will be done and over. As soon as the kids see the future—their future—they’ll be mad after it. They’re already lost to the old ones like Ma Mattulich. The old ones know it, too, don’t believe they don’t know it. Why d’you think we haven’t been able to get at least a small unit up here yet? Not just the cost. The old ones are fighting it. They call it off-planet corruption, but it’s really the future they fear.”
“There’s so much still to be done.”
“Oh, yes. We are a desperate people, no lie. But we have hope. I don’t think you realize how much you’ve done, just by coming up here.”
“I’ve done nothing,” said Miles bitterly. “Sat around, mostly. And now, I swear, I’m going to end up doing more nothing. And then go home. Hell!”
Speaker Karal pursed his lips, looked at his feet, at the high hills. “You are doing something for us every minute. Mutie lord. Do you think you are invisible?”
Miles grinned wolfishly. “Oh, Karal, I’m a one-man band, I am. I’m a parade.”
“As you say, just so. Ordinary people need extraordinary examples. So they can say to themselves, well, if he can do that, I can surely do this. No excuses.”
“No quarter, yes, I know that game. Been playing it all my life.”
“I think,” said Karal, “Barrayar needs you. To go on being just what you are.”
“Barrayar will eat me, if it can.”
“Yes,” said Karal, his eyes on the horizon, “so it will.” His gaze fell to the graves at his feet. “But it swallows us all in the end, doesn’t it? You will outlive the old ones.”
“Or in the beginning.” Miles pointed down. “Don’t tell me who I’m going to outlive. Tell Raina.”
Karal’s shoulders slumped. “True. S’truth. Make your judgment, lord. I’ll back you.”
* * * *
Miles assembled them all in Karal’s yard for his Speaking, the porch now having become his podium. The interior of the cabin would have been impossibly hot and close for this crowd, suffocating with the afternoon sun beating on the roof, though outdoors the light made them squint. They were all here, everyone they could round up, Speaker Karal, Ma Karal, their boys, all the Csuriks, most of the cronies who had attended last night’s funereal festivities, men, women, and children. Harra sat apart. Lem kept trying to hold her hand, though from the way she flinched it was clear she didn’t want to be touched. Ma Mattulich sat displayed by Miles’s side, silent and surly, flanked by Pym and an uncomfortable-looking Deputy Alex.
Miles jerked up his chin, settling his head on the high collar of his dress greens, as polished and formal as Pym’s batman’s expertise could make him. The Imperial Service uniform that Miles had earned. Did these people know he had earned it, or did they all imagine it a mere gift from his father, nepotism at work? Damn what they thought. He knew. He stood before his people, and gripped the porch rail.
“I have concluded the investigation of the charges laid before the Count’s Court by Harra Csurik of the murder of her daughter Raina. By evidence, witness, and her own admission, I find Mara Mattulich guilty of this murder, she having twisted the infant’s neck until it broke, and then attempted to conceal that crime. Even when that concealment placed her son-in-law Lem Csurik in mortal danger from false charges. In light of the helplessness of the victim, the cruelty of the method, and the cowardly selfishness of the attempted concealment, I can find no mitigating excuse for the crime.
“In addition, Mara Mattulich by her own admission testifies to two previous infanticides, some twenty years ago, of her own children. These facts shall be announced by Speaker Karal in every corner of Silvy Vale, until every subject has been informed.”
He could feel Ma Mattulich’s glare boring into his back. Yes, go on and hate me, old woman. I will bury you yet, and you know it. He swallowed and continued, the formality of the language a sort of shield before him.
“For this unmitigated crime, the only proper sentence is death. And I so sentence Mara Mattulich. But in light of her age and close relation to the next-most-injured party in the case, Harra Csurik, I choose to hold the actual execution of that sentence. Indefinitely.” Out of the corner of his eye Miles saw Pym let out, very carefully and covertly, a sigh of relief. Harra combed at her straw-colored bangs with her fingers and listened intently.
“But she shall be as dead before the law. All her property, even to the clothes on her back, now belongs to her daughter Harra, to dispose of as she wills. Mara Mattulich may not own property, enter contracts, sue for injuries, nor exert her will after death in any testament. She shall not leave Silvy Vale without Harra’s permission. Harra shall be given power over her as a parent over a child, or as in senility. In Harra’s absence Speaker Karal will be her deputy. Mara Mattulich shall be watched to see she harms no other child.
“Further. She shall die without sacrifice. No one, not Harra nor any other, shall make a burning for her when she goes into the ground at last. As she murdered her future, so her future shall return only death to her spirit. She will die as the childless do, without remembrance.”
A low sigh swept the older members of the crowd before Miles. For the first time, Mara Mattulich bent her stiff neck.
Some, Miles knew, would find this only spiritually symbolic. Others would see it as literally lethal, according to the strength of their beliefs. The literal-minded, such as those who saw mutation as a sin to be violently expiated. But even the less superstitious, Miles saw in their faces, found the meaning clear. So.
Miles turned to Ma Mattulich, and lowered his voice. “Every breath you take from this moment on is by my mercy. Every bite of food you eat, by Harra’s charity. By charity and mercy—such as you did not give—you shall live. Dead woman.”
“Some mercy. Mutie lord.” Her growl was low, weary, beaten.
“You get the point,” he said through his teeth. He swept her a bow, infinitely ironic, and turned his back on her. “I am the Voice of Count Vorkosigan. This concludes my Speaking.”
* * * *
Miles met Harra and Lem afterward, in Speaker Karal’s cabin.
“I have a proposition for you.” Miles controlled his nervous pacing and stood before them. “You’re free to turn it down, or think about it for a while. I know you’re very tired right now.” As are we all. Had he really been in Silvy Vale only a day and a half? It seemed like a century. His head ached with fatigue. Harra was red-eyed, too. “First of all, you can read and write?”
“Some,” Harra admitted. “Speaker Karal taught us some, and Ma Lannier.”
“Well, good enough. You wouldn’t be starting completely blind. Look. A few years back Hassadar started a teacher’s college. It’s not very big yet, but it’s begun. There are some scholarships. I can swing one your way, if you will agree to live in Hassadar for three years of intense study.”
“Me!” said Harra. “I couldn’t go to a college! I barely know…any of that stuff.”
“Knowledge is what you’re supposed to have coming out, not going in. Look, they know what they’re dealing with in this district. They have a lot of remedial courses. It’s true, you’d have to work harder, to catch up with the town-bred and the lowlanders. But I know you have courage, and I know you have will. The rest is just picking yourself up and ramming into the wall again and again until it falls down. You get a bloody forehead, so what? You can do it, I swear you can.”
Lem, sitting beside her, looked worried. He captured her hand again. “Three years?” he said in a small voice. “Gone away?”
“The school stipend isn’t that much,” said Miles. “But Lem, I understand you have carpenter’s skills. There’s a building boom going on in Hassadar right now. Hassadar’s going to be the next Vorkosigan Vashnoi, I think. I’m certain you could get a job. Between you, you could live.”
Lem looked at first relieved, then extremely worried. “But they all use power tools—computers—robots.…”
“By no means. And they weren’t all born knowing how to use that stuff, either. If they can learn it, you can. Besides, the rich pay well for hand-work, unique one-off items, if the quality’s good. I can see you get a start, which is usually the toughest moment. After that you should be able to figure it out all right.”
“To leave Silvy Vale…” said Harra in a dismayed tone.
“Only in order to return. That’s the other half of the bargain. I can send a com unit up here, a small one with a portable power pack that lasts a year. Somebody’d have to hump down to Vorkosigan Surleau to replace it annually, no big problem. The whole setup wouldn’t cost much more than oh, a new lightflyer.” Such as the shiny red one Miles had coveted in a dealer’s showroom in Vorbarr Sultana, very suitable for a graduation present, he had pointed out to his parents. The credit chit was sitting in the top drawer of his dresser in the lake house at Vorkosigan Surleau right now. “It’s not a massive project like installing a powersat receptor for the whole of Silvy Vale or anything. The holovid would pick up the educational satellite broadcasts from the capital; set it up in some central cabin, add a couple of dozen lap-links for the kids, and you’ve got an instant school. All the children would be required to attend, with Speaker Karal to enforce it, though once they’d discovered the holovid you’d probably have to beat them to make them go home. I, ah”—Miles cleared his throat—“thought you might name it the Raina Csurik Primary School.”
“Oh,” said Harra, and began to cry for the first time that grueling day. Lem patted her clumsily. She returned the grip of his hand at last.
“I can send a lowlander up here to teach,” said Miles. “I’ll get one to take a short-term contract, till you’re ready to come back. But he or she won’t understand Silvy Vale like you do. Wouldn’t understand why. You—you already know. You know what they can’t teach in any lowland college.”
Harra scrubbed her eyes, and looked up—not very far up—at him. “You went to the Imperial Academy.”
“I did.” His chin jerked up.
“Then I,” she said shakily, “can manage…Hassadar Teacher’s College.” The name was awkward in her mouth. At first. “At any rate—I’ll try, m’lord.”
“I’ll bet on you,” Miles agreed. “Both of you. Just, ah”—a smile sped across his mouth and vanished—“stand up straight and speak the truth, eh?”
Harra blinked understanding. An answering half-smile lit her tired face, equally briefly. “I will. Little man.”
* * * *
Fat Ninny rode home by air the next morning, in a horse van, along with Pym. Dr. Dea went along with his two patients, and his nemesis the sorrel mare. A replacement bodyguard had been sent with the groom who flew the van from Vorkosigan Surleau, and stayed with Miles to help him ride the remaining two horses back down. Well, Miles thought, he’d been considering a camping trip in the mountains with his cousin Ivan as part of his home leave anyway. The liveried man was the laconic veteran Esterhazy, whom Miles had known most of his life; excellent company for a man who didn’t want to talk about it, unlike Ivan you could almost forget he was there. Miles wondered if Esterhazy’s assignment had been random chance, or a mercy of the Count’s. Esterhazy was good with horses.
