Angel of Destruction by Susan R. Matthews Page B

longer functioning as an Inquisitor, that much was obvious, but playacting the role of the peer of a Bench intelligence specialist when not even an Inquisitor was that, presuming responsibility and influence that were no longer hers — had never been hers.
    She was a piece of work, was Noycannir.
    But he wasn’t interested in playing her game and declined her invitation to join her in review at his own desk. “I intend to do just that, but all in good time, Dame Noycannir.”
    If she was a senior Clerk of Court, she could still claim the courtesy title she had demanded as hers by right when she had held the Writ to Inquire. Garol wondered what the formal status of that Writ was. It was probably more than Verlaine’s pride would allow actually to return the credentials to Fleet with an apology, or return them at all, though they could only be executed by Noycannir. No, he’d probably simply dispensed with Noycannir’s services, started to send his witness interrogations to a qualified Fleet practitioner, and given her something else to do.
    Noycannir didn’t respond, standing at his desk with her back to him, leafing through the sections of the report he’d called for. “Taken together with the movement of goods through Sillume, I think you’ll agree that a very interesting pattern emerges. I’ve been looking forward to sharing this with you.”
    But she wasn’t sharing anything with him, when she had brought the report he’d requested.
    She was running an errand.
    Verlaine had apparently put her off to one side in Intelligence Analysis, a secure job, a comfortable placement, where he could keep an eye on her. Intelligence Analysis was strictly support. They had no authority, made no recommendations, controlled no data.
    He’d never liked Noycannir.
    He had reasons, too.
    And now — though he could fully sympathize with the keen sense of lost status that had to be behind her pathetically desperate pretense — he was getting annoyed.
    He didn’t believe in gratuitous rudeness, but if she was going to ignore polite hints —
    Garol opened his mouth to say something pointed, but a voice from the still-open doorway did the trick for him.
    “Thank you, Mergau. Would you excuse us now, please.”
    That was the voice of the First Secretary, deep and powerful and utterly implacable. Noycannir stiffened when she heard it, and closed up the documents case with almost fearful care.
    “Of course, First Secretary. I’ll be at my post should you wish to call for a tertiary analysis, good-greeting.”
    Bench Intelligence specialists did their own tertiary analyses, and they all knew it.
    Noycannir left the room with her head meekly lowered, her eyes carefully fixed on the floor. Verlaine stood aside to let her pass, watching her as she went with an expression that spoke volumes to Garol of the First Secretary’s disappointment, disgust, and a guilty sort of forbearance. Well, the First Secretary had a reason to blame himself if Noycannir had failed. It had been his wish that she make the trial in the first place, and as much his failure as hers.
    It couldn’t be pleasant for Verlaine to be reminded of his responsibility for the unfortunate experience Noycannir had had with her Writ, rendering it almost admirable on Verlaine’s part that he kept her close — protected her from the enemies she had made in plenty — and paid her salary, even if it was only that of a Clerk of Court.
    Verlaine closed the door. “Excuse the intrusion, Bench specialist,” Verlaine said. “Can I have a few moments?”
    If Verlaine had called Garol to his office, Garol would have gone; it was a concession on Verlaine’s part to come down to Garol instead — a concession, or a mark of the importance Verlaine put on the current health of the Langsarik settlement. Garol could respect that.
    “Not at all, First Secretary. I’ve only just gotten in, though; I haven’t had a chance to review the intelligence reports. Have a