Free An Exchange of Hostages by Susan R. Matthews Page B

become too insolent to be permitted to pass. Koscuisko looked rather more enraged than irritated, very much as if he was considering some internal vision of Tutor Chonis in three pieces. His glare seemed to wash the color out of his pale eyes until they almost seemed all white and no pupil — like the Nebginnis, whose vestigial eyes, no longer functional, had been replaced by sonar sensing. Chonis was gratified with the effect. It had not been easy, but it looked at last as if he had got Koscuisko’s attention.
    He resumed his line of discourse. “Remember well that the dignity of even the guilty must be carefully cherished. . . . And is not the painful disregard of that dignity one of the most severe marks of the Bench’s regretful censure of wrong conduct?”
    Except that if he didn’t watch his own tone of voice he would lose all that he had gained. He sounded almost sarcastic to himself; and if he thought he sounded sarcastic — with his lifetime’s worth of training in picking up linguistic subtleties — then there was the danger that Koscuisko, whose records pointed to a high level of innate empathy, might sense the same thing. Chonis pulled a weapon from Joslire Curran’s daily reports to use against Koscuisko’s formidable sense of center.
    “You are at least nominally an adult, by the Jurisdiction Standard. I understand that in your birth-culture confessions are made only to priests, and all the rules are unwritten. It is not so here.” In Koscuisko’s birth-culture, no man whose father was out of cloister was an adult. The women had it easier on Azanry, in that sense at least, because women became adults with the birth of their first legitimate child — no matter how old their mothers lived to be.
    Koscuisko, seemingly disinclined to be drawn out, had squared his chair to the desk and folded his hands. He appeared to be concentrating on the minuscule text printed on the index line of one of the record-sets on the library shelf, his expression one of mild, polite disinterest as Chonis lectured.
    “Confession is a deadly serious legal action. And the penance voluntarily accepted by the transgressor is serious, too, Koscuisko, remember that.” In order to provide the correct exemplary deterrent. “It isn’t the sort of risk you ever took. That is, if you’re religious.”
    Confession and penance. Koscuisko had nerved himself up to his ordeal by drawing the analogy himself. Koscuisko had been thoroughly scolded now, and Noycannir put on notice as to what sort of reception her first stumble would earn her. Perhaps one final pious admonition . . .
    “After all, whatever penance you might have risked could hardly be said to equate with the just outrage of the Judicial Bench.”
    Koscuisko stared him in the face once more, and this time his gaze was frank and honest — no trace of resentment or rebellion.
    “You never had to confess to Uncle Radu after an anniversary party,” Koscuisko said.
    Humor.
    Koscuisko’s ability to find humor in the current situation only indicated that there would be more problems yet down the time-stream.
    “Very well. We will speak no more about it.” But the Administration would watch and wait, record, and meditate.
    “As you will have noted, the next practical exercise is scheduled for five days from now. We will be defining the Second Level of the Preliminary Levels. Please direct your attention to your screens.”
    Humor and a sense of proportion were both unpredictable traits, not subject to reliable manipulation. Koscuisko’s unpredictability had to be explored, detailed, and controlled.
    Because an unpredictable Inquisitor with a sense of the ridiculous and an imperfectly submerged sense of proportion was potentially more disruptive of the Judicial order than even the Writ in Noycannir’s ignorant hand could be.

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    Standing in the lavatory, Andrej stared at himself in the reflector. He could hear Joslire in the outer room; it was a familiar set of sounds,