An Exchange of Hostages by Susan R. Matthews Page B

binding his forearms, tight across his barrel-ribbed torso — leather straps, to anchor the sheathing Joslire wore.
    Understanding came with a shock of recognition. Andrej turned his head away, waving Joslire off. He was ashamed of himself for not having considered what he was requiring when he’d decided to have a sauna. Joslire was Emandisan, and wore five-knives. And Emandisan were reputedly so private about their five-knives that you had to be married to one to even know which one went where.
    “Go and dress yourself, Joslire, you look cold.” He was the one who’d insisted Joslire strip to his towel; he was the one who’d assumed that Joslire would be uncomfortable in the unaccustomed heat if he tried to accompany Andrej into the sauna fully clothed. “Or will it be a violation, if I am alone for eight minutes?”
    A violation. Joslire would not violate his discipline, and part of that clearly meant giving no hint as to his personal preferences one way or the other. As if personal preferences were a privilege of free men, and officers had to be discouraged from considering their bond-involuntaries’ comfort as if it mattered. His insistence that Joslire take off his clothing in order to bear the sauna’s heat more easily had probably generated twice as much discomfort between them as had he simply permitted Joslire to fall flat on his face of heat exhaustion in the lawful pursuit of his duty, and be done with it.
    “The officer should not exercise himself.” That was a joke; he hadn’t voluntarily exercised anything except for his drinking arm since he’d got here. Participation in the combat drills that Joslire demonstrated for him so patiently twice a day was certainly not voluntary, or he would happily have done without. “There is no reason for the officer to be concerned on this troop’s behalf.”
    It was disgusting. He was supposed to pay more attention than that. He was accountable for what belonged to him. “I don’t believe you, Joslire. But I’ll take your word for it.” Because he was liable to create even more awkwardness if he didn’t. Andrej settled himself against the paneled wall of the sauna, and closed his eyes. “Tell me, if you can, then. To how many Students have you been assigned, prior to this particularly thickheaded one?”
    He wasn’t aware of any prohibition against gossiping about former Students. If there was such a prohibition, Joslire would find some way to observe it without letting on, in which case Andrej would learn nothing, in which case he would know.
    “There have been five, previous to the officer.” From the sound of Joslire’s voice he was back at his original post by the door. “The first of the Intermediate Levels has been a critical point for each one of them.”
    He might as well have said “each one of you,” “all six of you.” “Am I really so obvious? You may neglect to answer that question, Joslire. I actively encourage you to neglect to answer that question.”
    Three levels in the Preliminary set, suitable for persons accused or suspected in regards to whom there was not yet enough evidence to make an arrest. Almost they could be said to correspond to basic physical examination, and the taking of patient histories. The invasive techniques came next, here as they had at Mayon; but the focus was all wrong. Andrej could not shake a feeling of unreality, the stubborn suspicion that there had to be something that they weren’t telling him. He was certain of it. They could not — they could not — expect any thinking being to take such Levels seriously, and go forth to beat a shopkeeper on suspicion of having shortchanged a Jurisdiction clerk by an octe’s weight of sallets on a slow day five weeks gone.
    That kind of a joke was not so bad, as long as it remained a joke. His thin-blade duels had all been jokes, in the end, a recreation comprised of the hazard of lethal force against the flimsiest pretexts imaginable. It was precisely that