Against the Odds

Chapter Eighteen

Brun arrived at the offices of Spurling, Taklin, DeVries, and Bolton with what she hoped was a worried scowl. She had considered, and discarded, the idea of a disguise, but she wore another conservative dress.

“Ah . . . Sera Meager,” the receptionist said. “Please come through,” and unlocked the interior door. Brun stepped through, to be met by a glossy young man whom she realized, after a moment, was George Mahoney in formal business attire with an expression so different from his usual that he didn’t look like himself.

“Fooled you, didn’t I?” he said. As he grinned, the old George reappeared. “Passed my exams. I’m here to interview—”

Brun almost asked if he weren’t going to work with his father, but the thought occurred that that was probably the best excuse any of them had.

“Dad had lunch with a senior partner today,” he went on, for the benefit of anyone in any of the small offices they were passing. “They have an opening—he called and said to get myself over here. So here I am, and I think they’re checking out my willingness to do as I’m told by asking me to escort visitors.”

“How were the exams?” Brun asked, the least dangerous of the questions she was thinking.

“I did pretty well,” George said. A flush reddened his cheekbones. “Actually—I did very well, and Dad was pleased, and I think that’s why he wangled a lunch invitation, though he said Ser Spurling had been asking before if they could help.”

“Come tops in the exams?”

The flush deepened. “As a matter of fact, not quite. You know that cousin of yours? Veronica?”

Brun remembered the slightly gawky girl at the Hunt Ball long ago, when the Crown Prince had ridden a horse into the dining hall.

“She came first; I came second. And—we’re getting married.” Before she could say anything, he said, “And here you are, Sera Meager—Ser Spurling’s office.”

Ser Spurling, who looked to be about sixty, led her into his spacious office and suggested to George that he might go downstairs and bring some files which the library clerk would have ready for him. In the office were Kevil, looking far more comfortable now with his new arm, Viktor, and Stepan Barraclough.

“Brun, my dear, how good to see you again.” Stepan stood and came to her. He was an old man, though not so old as Viktor, and looked it, his face furrowed and sagging with age, showing the bones underneath, his eyes sunken beneath heavy lids. “Thank you for coming.”

“Thank you—you’re quite welcome.”

“You will have wondered why I asked you to come, and you must have heard what Oskar Morrelline’s come up with.”

“Yes to both,” Brun said.

“Good. Brun, I don’t know if you ever heard why I refused rejuvenation—” She shook her head. “It was the price Kostan—my grandfather—demanded for ensuring that I would be in succession for the position I now hold. It was his opinion that in the transitional period, as the scope and effects of rejuvenation spread, the sept must have someone in the power structure who had not rejuvenated. Who would be a reality check for the rest, reminding them of the passage of time, and the needs of the whole.”

“Long life or power, not both,” Viktor put in.

“Exactly.” Stepan grinned. “And also, the experience of longing for long life, and the experience of dealing with those who had it. At twenty, I had no difficulty choosing power. At forty and fifty, moving up the power structure of our sept, I first felt the longing, as my friends rejuvenated, and regained their youth. My wife wanted me to rejuv—she had, and when I wouldn’t join her, she left me. It was hard, then, to stick to the bargain I’d made, but I am nothing if not stubborn.” He chuckled. “Besides, he’d extracted the same promise from one of my uncles, who was then the new head of our sept, so if I’d reneged, my uncle would have found someone else. And I was, as my grandfather had foreseen, good at the kind of work it takes to be a good head of the sept.”

“I chose long life,” Viktor said. “But then I always had too much temper to be a candidate for the job.”

“Ah, but you make a very good stalking horse, Viktor. I can count on you to draw the enemy’s fire and reveal their ambushes.”

“That’s why he’s so good at it,” Viktor said to Brun, grinning. “He always finds a way to flatter you into doing what he wants.”

“Not always. I never found Harlis very cooperative and blessed Bunny for being born first.” Stepan looked at Brun, now. “I know what you were bred for, but not entirely what you’ve made of it,” he said. “I need your talents, my dear. I had hoped to wait another ten years or so, but events turned against me. You are young, but you’ve been through an experience that would mature most people; I’m hoping it’s matured you.”

“I hope so too,” Brun said. She began to have an inkling of where he was going, and the excitement of the possible challenge warred in her mind with the fear that she wasn’t ready.

“I need an heir,” Stepan said. “And I am offering you the same bargain that was offered me.” He paused; Brun said nothing . . . she could not. “The government is at a crisis; even without the Morrelline accusations, the economic problems resulting from this rejuvenation issue, and the threat from the Benignity, would have brought it to the same crossroads. The woman who would have succeeded me first—Carlotta Bellinveau—developed intractible renal failure after treatment for a routine infection. Only rejuvenation would save her life, and she was only forty-five. She opted to risk it, but despite auto-transplants, she died last year. If I were paranoid, I’d suspect the Consellines of doing this by means of the drugs she took for the original infection, but frankly I think it was just one of those things.”

“Was that . . . all? You had just one?”

“Not originally, no. But it’s the combination of leadership talent and a willingness to forego rejuvenation that makes such people hard to find. Back when I was young and repeatable rejuvenation was new, there were plenty of cautious people my age who didn’t rejuv at forty or fifty—but that number dwindled. Now, many of the wealthy are doing their first rejuv at thirty; your own older sister and her husband, Brun, just rejuved and thought nothing of it. They’re in their thirties.”

Brun wondered if he knew that she had wanted to rejuv to change her appearance and identity, to wipe herself out . . . now that seemed a macabre idea, clearly the thought of someone mentally unbalanced.

“So if I agree not to rejuv, you will support me for head of the sept? I thought it was elective . . .”

“It is elective, but like nearly all elections, it’s somewhat rigged,” he said. “And just agreeing not to rejuv is only the first step in the selection process. If you’re going to say yes, please do so, so we can get on with the rest of it.”

After a moment of startled silence, Brun said, “Yes. I will agree to that. A short life and a merry one.”

Stepan smiled. “Good—that’s the first step. I’ve found it a good bargain, by the way. Hard to hold in the middle, but I have no regrets at this point. Now. I haven’t had time to get to know you since your return, but I’ve had my feelers out. Viktor, hand her the cube—” Brun took the data cube. “You’ll want to view that in private—it’s your complete dossier. If there’s anything not on it, especially anything that could affect your political effectiveness, I need to know. How many Grand Council meetings have you been to now?”

“Five,” Brun said.

“Good. You’re over the awe of taking part, I hope.”

“Oh, yes,” Brun said.

“I’m going to ask you to address the Grand Council on behalf of our sept, at the next session. That is, as you might expect, coming up very shortly; the Consellines are demanding it to discuss Pedar’s death. It is a critical session, and I’m hoping that you’ll come as a startling surprise.”

Brun managed not to gulp audibly.

“What would you say,” Stepan said, “if you were going to speak now—knowing no more than you do?”

Brun gave Kevil a quick glance, but he was watching Stepan, not her. Ideas raced through her mind . . . which was the priority? Defend her Family and sept against the accusations of the Morrellines? Tackle the difficult and complicated subject of legal reform and its relation to rejuvenation? Attack the Rejuvenants? No . . . in a flash she saw that what was needed now—at this moment—was a common goal, something to bring the almost-warring Families into alignment, as the sight of running prey would pull bickering hounds into a line of cooperation. Was this how her father had done it? She couldn’t ask him; she’d have to figure it out for herself.

“Sirs and ladies,” she said, as if this were actually the Grand Council, “whatever other problems face our realm, we have one clear priority—for to solve the difficult and intricate problems, we need time and security, and the one thing which most threatens our security, at this time, is the mutiny within our Regular Space Service. First, let us give all support to the suppression of this mutiny, the maintenance of security to our population and our trade, so that we can have the time and peace we need to discuss other issues.”

Stepan nodded. “Good. Excellent, in fact.” He looked at Kevil. “You were right; she has the instincts and she’s learned to use them. You will want to flesh that out, polish it—but I like the spirit of it. How will you deal with questions about your family?”

Brun said, “With the truth, sir. And then tell them they can tear me and eat me later, if they want, but right now they must support the loyalists in Fleet.”

“One thing about a foxhunting background,” Kevil put in, “is that it provides a wealth of colorful metaphor and language.”

“Yes . . . as long as you have a fox for them to chase, and I’ll admit the mutiny is a very laudable fox which I hope we catch, cast, and tear before it gets to earth.”

Brun heard Kate coming down the hall and blanked the cube reader’s screen. She was breathing fast, more than a little astounded at the contents of Stepan’s dossier on her. That he could readily find out about many semipublic scrapes—the ones that had appeared in various newsvid shows—didn’t surprise her. But how had he dug up that mess at school when she was thirteen—and how had he found out that it wasn’t her fault, when even her own parents had always believed it was? How did he know Brigdis Sirkin had refused her?

“Only one more official appointment,” Kate said, throwing herself into a chair. “Then I’m free—” She looked at Brun, and her expression changed. “What’s happened to you, this afternoon? You look like someone ran over you with a herd of longhorns.”

“Old family stuff,” Brun said. “Did you ever come across something that let you know exactly what someone thought about you when you were a kid?”

“You mean like old letters or school records or something? Yes . . . I guess I know what you mean. Even if they say something nice, it’s never the kind of nice you expected or wanted. And usually it’s not. I remember when my mother showed me what old Miss Pennyfield had written on the bottom of my report: ‘Katharine Anne would be an excellent student if she would spend her energies on her studies instead of attempting to evade honest work.’ And I’d thought the old prune liked me; I could always make her laugh. She’d seen right through my clowning—I could hardly laugh for a month.”

“Exactly,” Brun said.

“’Course,” Kate said meditatively, “I did start workin’ harder, and I did learn a lot more about somethin’ other than making prune-faced teachers laugh. But then she had to spoil it by adding a note to the final report about how Katharine Anne was finally applying herself. That’s why I wrote ‘Old Prune-Face’ on her front porch floor with nail polish . . . and spent half the summer doin’ yard work for her to make up for it.”

“She caught you?”

“Not her—she’d left the day after school let out to go on vacation. That’s why I thought I was safe. It was her friend Miss Anson, who came by once a day—usually in the afternoons, but that day in the morning—who caught me in the act.” She grinned at the memory, then looked at Brun again. “So what did you find out?”

Brun told her about the mess in school.

“Well, what do they expect with a lot of girls that age locked up together? Ottala—was that the same Ottala Morrelline that Oskar Morrelline’s going on about?”

“The very same,” Brun said. “But I didn’t do anything that bad back to her.”

“No, I wouldn’t think you would. But—I hate to be self-serving about this—what effect is all this going to have on the stability of your government? It’s not going to do me much good to have things going well, go home, and then have it all come unravelled again. Rangers are supposed to settle a problem once and for all.”

“It’s our problem, not yours, to solve,” Brun said. Kate raised her eyebrows, but Brun was getting tired of the Ranger’s attitude. “But I’m arguing for Esmay’s approach. First we deal with the mutiny—get ourselves some secure breathing space—and then we can work on the rest. In the long run, we’ve got to make big changes, as you’ve said—as a lot of people recognize—but in the short run we need to get Fleet back on sound footing.”

“That sounds reasonable,” Kate said. “Have you had supper yet?”

“No,” Brun said. “You?”

“Just a snack. But you’re looking a bit peaked. We blondes need to keep our strength up for the roses in the cheeks; I could manage to keep you company in a snack . . .”

“All right . . .” Brun shut off the cube reader, and got up. “Now that you mention it, it’s odd that no one’s asked me. It’s not the staff’s day off, and they knew I’d be in this evening.”

At that, Kate’s eyes narrowed. “Where’s your security?” she asked softly.

“Outside the house, I assume. Why?”

“Weren’t when I got here. Not visibly.”

Brun felt a chill run down her back. Here, in the family house, she had no weapon to hand. She hadn’t thought she’d need one.

Kate gave her a long look, and said, quite clearly, “Well, never mind. Let’s have dinner out somewhere. Didn’t you tell me about a place Lady Cecelia liked?”

“Why not? This place is too quiet anyway.” Brun felt prickles all over her skin as she stood up, stretched, fished around under the desk for her shoes. She slipped the cube from the cube reader and put it in her pocket. She looked at Kate. Now what? An attack in the hall? Outside the door?

“I’m in the mood for fish,” Kate said. “That Lassaferan snailfish you people have—I wonder if we could import some eggs or larvae or whatever a snailfish has.”

“No fish for me,” Brun said. “I’m thinking rabbit fillets stuffed with herbed cheese.”

They were in the hall. She could see the front door, and light spilling into the hall from the front rooms. No odd shadows. She glanced back toward the service door. Shut. Quiet. The wide carpeted hall, with its umbrella stand, where her father’s walking stick still stood . . . Brun slid it out of the stand as she passed, without missing a stride, as if she always took a man’s walking stick out to dinner.

Nobody lunged at them as they walked past the open door of the study, the front room. They paused before the door; Kate’s eyebrows went up and she shrugged. “How cold was it out?” Brun asked. “Are you going to need a wrap?”

“I might,” Kate conceded. “Your so-called spring is colder than ours, but you’d probably call it balmy.” She reached for the door of the cloakroom; Brun held the walking stick poised.

The door opened and the interior light came on, revealing nothing more sinister than a rack of hangers, mostly empty. Her father’s old smoking jacket, which she’d looked for at Appledale and not found, her mother’s moss-green cashmere scarf, a tweed jacket of her own, an assortment of raincoats, dark blue and tan and gray. Kate chose a dark blue raincoat and wrapped the green scarf around her throat. Brun took another like it.

Still nothing. She flicked off the lights in the front of the house, waited a moment for her eyes to adjust to the darkness, and opened the front door. Cool damp air washed in.

Kate moved past her, staying close to the entrance; Brun left the door slightly ajar, in case they needed to bolt back inside, though she didn’t think that was a good idea anyway.

“Leave it wide open and come on,” Kate murmured, close again. Brun jumped. Then she pushed the door open, and followed Kate along the house wall to the corner. Outside, the distant streetlights gave enough glow that she could see rough shapes. A light in the study shone out and gilded the top of the hedge she had heard the gardener trimming that morning. At the back of the house, another bar of light lay dimly on the lawn. “Let’s go,” Kate said.

They struck out across the lawn; Brun had remembered to bring the lockout, so the perimeter security—if whoever had removed her staff hadn’t disabled it already—wouldn’t start the alarms and let the bad guys know where they were. Of course, if they had the right gear, none of this sneaking around would work . . . she sidled through a row of camellia bushes, then peered through the shoulder-high evergreen hedge beyond . . . nothing but the gleam of pavement reflecting distant streetlights. Not that she could see anything to either side. Brun pulled the raincoat up over her head to keep the needly foliage from catching in her hair and pushed the branches of one bush aside with the cane. Kate was right behind her.

Still nothing. There they were, on the sidewalk, with no obvious threat anywhere. Brun jammed her hands in the pocket of the coat and found an old scarf, which she tied over her head as they walked along.

“That was interesting,” Kate said. “I think I’ll report a house with an open front door when we get a little away from here.”

“Mmm. I was thinking of calling the security agency and mentioning that their employees had disappeared.”

“Two strings to your bow. Are you going to carry that cane all the way into town?”

“I think so,” Brun said, shifting it in her hand. “Since everything else I might carry is upstairs in the bedroom.”

As they came to a busier street, they joined a stream of pedestrians headed for a transit stop, and paused in the sheltered kiosk where the public comunits were. Brun called the security company, then Kevil to report where she was so he wouldn’t panic. Kate called the police. They boarded a tram, got off at the next stop, dove down a subway entrance, and—three transfers and a call for reservations later—were ushered into the ladies’ retiring room at Celeste. They grinned at each other in the mirrors, handed over the raincoats and scarves to the attendant, and strolled out to be seated in one of the bay-window alcoves overlooking the stone garden. This early the restaurant wasn’t crowded.

“You people go in for strange gardens,” Kate said. She turned her attention to the menu. “Ah . . . they do have Lassaferan snailfish. Now why is the fin twice as expensive as the whole fish?”

“You complain about everything,” Brun said. “And it’s because it’s decorative, and nobody’s been able to fake one yet. Also there’s a piquant flavor to the spine of the fin. Not worth it, though, if you ask me.”

“I’ll have the whole fish, then. Baked, or broiled?”

“Broiled is better, and ask for a garnish of roast garlic. Some people say lemongrass, but I think garlic. Or both. Drat. They don’t have rabbit—many apologies, supplier failed to deliver. If I’d known I’d have told the people at Appledale to send in some of the nuisances that ravage the kitchen garden out there.”

“So what are you going to have?”

“Mmmm . . . I don’t know; my mouth was really set on rabbit. Lamb maybe. Cattlelope is just too . . . too.”

“Start with soup,” Kate said. “So will I. We both need it.”

They were most of the way through the soup, when a stir near the entrance caught Brun’s attention. Someone was talking urgently to the maitre d’, trying to get past him.

“She’s my niece, dammit!” Uncle Harlis. Brun swallowed. Uncle Harlis was supposed to be under detention or surveillance or something—she hadn’t paid much attention, beyond being assured he wouldn’t bother her—pending investigation of his felonious actions in the various family businesses, and his attempt on Bunny’s inheritance. “I have a right to see her; I’m worried . . .” At that, Kate turned around.

“The wicked uncle returns?”

“Something like that,” Brun said. A colored light had come on at their table, discreetly signalling that someone wanted to speak with her. She pressed the response. Kate raised an eyebrow. “Might as well,” Brun said. “He’ll just make more of a scene if we don’t, and he’s not likely to try a physical assault here, in public.” Now the maitre d’ was leading Harlis over to their table.

“Brun, I’ve been so worried,” Harlis said. He looked more flustered than worried, Brun thought, but she didn’t argue the point. “After all, your mother—and I tried to call you but no one answered, and when I went by, there were police all over the house.”

“Really?” Brun said. “Why?”

“They wouldn’t say. Are you all right?”

“Fine,” Brun said. “Is that all you wanted? Or is there something else?” She couldn’t imagine he’d come to the restaurant just to find out if she was all right.

“Look . . . Brun . . . I know this may be a bad time, but . . . I want to go to Sirialis.”

“Sirialis? Why on earth—you know the court upheld Dad’s bequests.”

“Yes, I know. But there’re things of mine there—you know, my room in the east wing—and I want them.”

“I can have them sent to you,” Brun offered.

“I need to go there myself,” Harlis said. His voice was louder again; Brun could see others giving them sidelong glances. Was he drunk?

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Brun said. “There’s no one in the family in residence—”

“I’m in the family!” Harlis said. “It’s as much my home as yours—it should be—it’s not fair—” He faltered.

“Harlis, you would have had the same access you always had, if you hadn’t tried to cheat us. That wasn’t fair.”

“Neither is making the daughter of a murderer the Barraclough heir,” Harlis snarled. Brun could almost feel the tense fascination of the other diners.

“Is that what this is about?” Brun said, wondering where he’d heard it.

“What’d you do, diddle the old man?” Harlis’s voice rang through the room, and the maitre d’ and one of the larger waiters started toward them.

Kate laughed, and leaned back in her chair. “What’s the matter, Harlis, did you give it away?”

Brun felt her face heating—Kate’s taste in humor belonged in a barn—but managed to hold her neutral expression. When the maitre d’ was near enough, she spoke in a low but clear voice. “I believe my uncle is not feeling well. Perhaps you could help him to some assistance?”

“Of course, sera,” the maitre d’ said.

“You’ll regret this,” Harlis said. “Spoiled, bratty, stupid little bitch—”

The other diners applied themselves to their food with commendable delicacy until Harlis had disappeared from the room.

“I will say this about your uncle,” Kate said. “He doesn’t let an occasion for stupidity pass him by.”

Brun snorted and almost choked on her water. “I needed that. But I have to call someone, a secured call. Can I leave you a few minutes?”

“Of course. I will amuse myself by flirting with that handsome young fellow who just walked in and is standing by the wall over there. Could it be our George?”

Brun glanced that way. “Oh. I don’t need to make the call.

“You don’t have to be so mysterious with me,” Kate said.

“Actually I do,” Brun said. “Excuse me a moment.” She walked across the room and stepped out into the foyer with George Mahoney.

“I’m glad you’re all right,” he said, bowing formally.

“Things . . . happened.”

“Yes. Dad’s taken care of it.”

“Harlis was here,” Brun said.

“Here?”

“Yes. You must’ve just missed him—he was . . . asked to leave.”

“Did you talk to him?”

“Yes. He wants to go to Sirialis.”

“Let me call Dad—then can I join you for dinner?”

“Of course. I’ll tell Kate and snag a waiter.”

When George exerted himself to be charming, he could be very charming indeed. Kate, who had only seen him worried about his father, or being casual at Appledale, had not experienced the glossy splendor of George in full feather. Brun sat back and watched them banter and flirt and chat, as she worked her way through her saddle of venison without saying much. The food revived her, and by the time they were ready for dessert, she was ready to ask questions.

“The house staff?”

“All safe. Variously disposed of, but safe. Your security was less fortunate, but they’re all alive. Stepan has assigned Barraclough senior security to you; the house will be safe tonight, but he recommends that you spend the night elsewhere. You can always stay with us, you know.”

“Do you know who, or what?”

“Not for sure, but Harlis’s name was mentioned.”

“He started out saying he was worried about Brun,” Kate put in. “Said he’d been by the house, seen the police . . . as if he thought something might have happened. Seemed put out that she was safe and unworried.”

“Hm. Nobody told me he’d been to the house. I’d have thought they’d hold him if he’d shown up . . . where’d he go?”

“I have no idea,” Brun said. “All I know is, he wants to go to Sirialis, and when I didn’t agree that he could, he said I’d be sorry.”

“I think we need to call that in right now,” George said. “With any luck we can find him, but—” He looked at the time. “He could have caught the up-shuttle already.”

“If we’d been there . . . if he’d had backup,” Kate said, “Brun could be dead and he could be on that shuttle.”

“Well, I’m not,” Brun said, eyeing the pastry cart coming toward them. “I’m alive, and I want something with chocolate all over it.”