A Peace Within
Ann Somerville
‘A Peace Within’ Copyright © 2006 by Ann Somerville
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Smashwords Edition 1, June 2011
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Published by Ann Somerville
A Peace Within
I’d been a soldier since I was seventeen. I’d been shot, blown up, buried alive, led men to their death, lost count of the men I’d killed. After fighting a filthy war for fifteen months, I came home, left the army, surrendered my rifle for the last time. I thought my life would never change again. A soldier should know better than to tempt the will of his god like that.
He was sitting alone on a bench at a viewpoint by the river, a well-dressed man with apparently nothing to occupy himself on a working day save staring out over the water towards West Disenko. Small brown birds pecked around his feet, and he was so still, they probably imagined him part of the bench itself. They ignored him much as he ignored them.
“Good day, sir,” I said pleasantly. I was new to this position, and taking every chance to reacquire the civilities of ordinary life I’d had no need of for so many years.
“Hello,” he said quietly, and turned his head. It was then I saw his eyes—blue, and wide, and full of weary sadness—and I wanted to apologise, absurdly, for intruding. But it was too late to undo my interruption. “Was there something you wanted, officer?”
“Not at all,” I said hastily. “Lovely day.” It was a little chilly, in fact, and his clothes, though well made and cut from good cloth, were rather light for the weather. I wondered if he was supposed to be at work, and had slipped away from his place of employment to enjoy the fresh air.
“Yes,” he said, and turned his gaze back to the river. “You’re new,” he added, not looking at me. “Parger Joeno usually walks this path.”
“He’s retiring. You know him?”
“Not at all.” A slight smile flitted across his lips. “He introduced himself once, that’s all.”
Was this a habitual place of rest then, I wondered. “I’m Parger Teisu. I’m in charge of this sector now.”
“Congratulations.”
He didn’t offer to reciprocate with his own name, and I could hardly ask, since he was breaking no laws. Given the lack of further information, I had no reason to prolong the conversation, so I tipped my cap. “Thank you. Good day again, sir.”
He nodded apparently concerned only with the slow-moving river below us, or perhaps the busy bridge a quarter demi-dec away. I turned, intending to resume my patrol, when he spoke again. “Was it your right femur or your tibia you broke in service?”
I stopped short, and narrowed my eyes at him. “And what do you know about that?”
“Nothing, I—”
“May I see your papers, sir?”
I put my hand on my baton to show I was serious, but he seemed utterly unperturbed, pulling a fine-grained leather wallet from his inner jacket pocket, and extracting his identity papers. He held them out to me in long, elegant fingers. “I’m sorry—I’m an anatomist. The pathology of military injuries is one of my interests.”
I grunted, still suspicious, but his papers were in order, confirmed he was one Garwe hon Jeimsaie, a medic consultant of this city, and a registered empathic and telekinetic paranormal. There were no endorsements, and the documents seemed genuine. I handed them back. “That doesn’t explain how you knew I was military, Mase Garwe.”
“Your bearing, your manner of speech. Also, your profession,” he added with an embarrassed little nod. “Civil defence employs many reservists and former servicemen, does it not? Especially now the war is over. I assume you broke your leg some twelve months ago or more. The army is very bad about ensuring the bones are properly supported through healing, and so there’s often a shortening of the bone and the consequent limp.” He coughed. “It’s very typical,” he said. “The way you walk.”
“Ah.” It seemed simple enough, explained like this. “So are you observing? For your research?”
“No,” he said quietly. He tucked his papers into his wallet with precise, delicate movements, then placed the wallet back in his jacket. “I meant no offence.”
“None was taken.” He smiled slightly, but offered no further information. “Sorry to have interrupted your musings, Mase Garwe. Enjoy the day.”
He turned away as if I was forgotten, and after a moment or two, I walked on. I did have a patrol to do, and much to learn about the sector. But my thoughts drifted back many times that day to the quiet, brown-haired man with sad, observant eyes, and I puzzled over what he was doing by the river. I’d seen him again on my way back to the station and he’d apparently not moved at all in the hours since I’d first encountered him. I had no patience with idleness or inactivity—the three months I’d been laid up with my broken leg had been pure hell for me—and a man of education and intelligence surely had better things to do with himself.
But seemingly not, for I saw him again the next day, and the one after that. Always in the same spot, always alone, and always with nothing else to occupy him but the view, the birds and his own thoughts, whatever they might be. If he was an anatomist, he wasn’t active, but he was too young to be retired. His papers said he was a year younger than me, and I wasn’t yet forty. A puzzle, and an oddity, but harmless for all that.
Something to fit into the mosaic picture I was constructing of this sector of the city. To have the leisure and the peace to do this, felt very strange after the war. To walk down a street and know the worst that might happen to me was that I would have to break up a drunken fight, or apprehend a pickpocket, perhaps listen to an honest citizen complaining about the suspicious habits of her neighbour—invariably a quiet, blameless soul whose only sin was to belong to the wrong temple, or enjoy unusual art, or to spend too little or too much on their barchin carriage—was luxury indeed. My dreams at night might be filled with blood and explosions and the screams of dying men in sun-scorched lands across the ocean, but my days were uneventful. In a year, I might regret that. For now, it was what I needed.
I first encountered Mase Garwe towards the end of summer, and as the days grew cooler, and his vigil remained unchanged, I came to realise I wasn’t the only person with an interest in him. Twice I saw a woman speaking to him, remonstrating with him, and on the second occasion, she dropped an overcoat onto his shoulders. He only smiled, and didn’t shift position, and as she walked off, a frown on her pleasant features, he made no move to tug the coat about him more securely, even though the breeze held a definite hint of the winter just weeks away. All this I observed from a little distance away. At the time, I had no thought of becoming involved, but as it happened, the woman changed direction downhill towards the town and headed my way.
On impulse, I stepped into her path, startling her. “Good day, madam. May I have a word with you?”
“Oh! Officer...of course. Is something wrong?”
She was much younger than Mase Garwe, with the same deep blue eyes, the general fine shape of the nose and ears. She had to be his sister. “I wanted to ask you about him,” I said, nodding back at the solitary figure on the little bench, high above the river.
“Gar? Why? Has he done something?” she asked, a hand coming up over her breast as if the man was in the habit of causing her worry.
“No, not at all. I was merely curious as to why...what he could be doing here, day after day. He’s your brother, is he not?”
She seemed rather startled at that assessment, but then she nodded. “Yes, my only sibling. Officer—”
“Parger Teisu,” I said, quickly introducing myself. “He’s not in any trouble. I’m merely curious. I see him here every day on patrol.”
“Oh.” Her eyes darted quickly back up the hill, but her brother was unaware—or at least, uninterested—in what either of us were up to.
“Does he have no employment at present?” She was well-dressed, I saw, and the ornaments at her neck and ears were subtle but expensive, the kind of thing worn by women who had no need to proclaim their status because they were secure in their social standing. “Or does he not need any?”
She grimaced. “He has need,” she said, “but not for money.” She glanced up the hill again. “Parger, I don’t want him to see me talking to you. I don’t want to distress him. Would you come to my house? It’s not far.”
I agreed readily, intrigued at learning more about my little puzzle. To my shame, I thought it no more than that—a simple distraction, an oddity, something to leaven the mundanity of my routine. I didn’t miss the terror of the battlefield, but already I’d rediscovered a taste for more excitement in my day than my day usually offered. That was all that was in my mind as I followed her through the streets of East Disenko, towards the fashionable quarter. Even with her dress and jewellery as warning, I confessed myself astonished at the residence to which she led me. The house two doors down belonged to the Minister of Finance. Across the street lived the head of the largest bank in the region. Neither home was as lovely or as large as the house through whose gates I was admitted by a sombrely uniformed footman.
Her gloves and cape were taken by a ladies’ maid whose eyes grew big at the sight of a civil defence officer in her mistress’ company. My hostess ignored her attendant’s surprise. “Mirei, kifai for two in the yellow sitting room, please.” The maid bobbed a curtsey and scurried off.