Against the Odds

Chapter Six

Brun Meager stroked the length of the pool, and splashed water on the woman lounging beside it. “Kate—come on in. You’re being lazy.”

“The water’s cold,” Kate Briarley said. “I’d get cramp.” The Lone Star Confederation Ranger had changed into a swimsuit, but had a towelling robe around her shoulders. Her datapad and comunit were beside her, as well as one of her many weapons, this one a black-matte needler.

“You’d get exercise,” Brun said. “Your whole planet can’t be warm.” Kate grinned, but shook her head. Brun rolled over and swam down the pool again. The water wasn’t cold; the water was just right, as long as she kept moving. On her way back, she saw Kate was sitting up, talking into a comunit. Brun ignored her and flipped into a turn for another lap. She needed to work off tension anyway. Soon—in a day or so anyway—she would have to do something about her mother. And she had no idea what. She stretched, revelling in the feel of her body’s strength and agility, the flow of cool water past her shoulders, her hips, her legs.

As she came back down the pool, this time in sidestroke, she saw Kevil Mahoney come out of the house. He walked better now, without any aids, but unevenly. Would a rejuv help that? He couldn’t afford it, not until they straightened out his financial problems, but she could provide it. She made a mental note to talk to the family medical advisors about it as she rolled into a crawl, and powered off the last fifteen meters, hoisting herself at the end with a rush of water.

“Breakfast out here?” she asked. Then she blinked the water out of her eyes and saw their expressions. “What now?”

“Hobart’s dead.”

“What?”

“Hobart Conselline is dead. At the hands of a visiting fencing master, if you can believe that.”

Brun grabbed a towel from the stack and scrubbed her head with it. She dropped that one, grabbed another to wrap around her shoulders. “When did this happen?”

“Yesterday afternoon.”

“And we’re only finding out now—?”

“His sept put a lock on the news, to locate all the Barraclough Chairholders before it was announced.”

“His sept—!” Brun clamped her teeth together for a moment. “I see.” She reached out to the table already set for breakfast, and touched its pad. “Staff—change of plans; we’ll be eating inside, in the library. I’ll be going in to the city as soon as I’ve dressed and eaten.”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Kate asked.

“I’m sure it’s necessary.” Brun looked at Kevil. He said nothing—he wouldn’t, outside in an unsecured field—but his expression ended any doubts she might have had.

It still felt strange to her, this sense of mastery that had come during her first Grand Council meeting after her father’s death. It felt strange to walk into Appledale as if she owned it, even though she did, strange to feel no guilt about leaving wet footprints on the Issai carpets as she hurried upstairs. “I’ll need a secure comlink to Buttons,” she said to the guard on station in the entry hall—an innovation of Kate’s that she now recognized as necessary.

Upstairs, in the room she had always occupied, she toweled off, and stood a moment scowling at her wardrobe. Pregnancy had changed her body enough that many of her old clothes didn’t fit. Dark mourning made her look sick; she needed to look healthy and competent. Finally she chose a tailored suit in steel gray, and tucked a blue-patterned scarf into the neckline.

When she came down, Kevil and Kate were in the library, already loading their plates from a serving table. Kate had changed from the red swimsuit into one of her less-flamboyant Lone Star suits, this one pale blue. Her high-heeled fringed boots were beside her chair; her stockinged feet looked absurd in the deep carpet.

“It’s clean,” Kate said, waving at the room. Brun checked the scans and fields herself anyway and saw Kate nod approvingly.

“So—a fencing master went bonkers and killed Hobart. What else?”

“His sept claims it’s conspiracy. By the Barracloughs—by you, in fact.”

“What, in retaliation for my father’s murder?”

“Except that they don’t admit having him killed.” Kevil prodded a sausage and sighed. “I’m not supposed to eat these things.”

“Oh, live dangerously,” Kate said, around a mouthful of bacon. Brun glanced at her. Kate had never been pregnant; maybe that’s why she could eat the way she did, lounge about while Brun exercised, and not gain an ounce.

“I did,” Kevil said, with a grin. “That’s what got me in this mess.” But he forked up a bite of sausage.

“Since I know I didn’t hire any fencing masters to cut Hobart’s head off—” Brun got that far and noticed that the others weren’t moving. “What?”

“That’s how it was done. Decapitation.”

Brun looked at them, one after the other. “You’re serious? His head—? Yes, I see you are. And so, he had his head cut off, and I mentioned it, and now you think—”

“No,” Kevil said. “I don’t think that. It’s not your style, hiring someone else. But there’s another complication.”

“Which is?”

“Your mother.”

“Oh, be reasonable, Kevil. She’s off on Sirialis; she can’t have come back here to behead Hobart.”

“No, but she is Bunny’s widow, and the evidence we unearthed about your uncle’s dealings with the Consellines might be construed as giving her a motive. The very fact that she’s off on Sirialis could be considered suspicious.”

Brun shook her head. “Not Mother. She feels deeply, of course, and if we’d caught Dad’s killer, she might have slapped his face, but I can’t see her conniving at assassination.”

Kevil shook his head. “Nor can I, exactly, and yet—your mother’s a lot more complicated than you know, Brun. Back when we were young, she and my wife were close friends, and I heard more about the young Miranda than most.”

Brun wondered suddenly what had happened to Kevil’s wife, but didn’t ask . . . whatever it was, now was not the time. “Still, if she was going to have anyone killed, I’d bet on Uncle Harlis for the designated victim—”

“Don’t joke, Brun,” Kevil said. “Right now, for the sake of the sept, you must hope your uncle stays healthy.”

“For all of me, he can,” Brun said, scooping marmalade onto a slice of toast. “Now that we’ve got his sticky fingers off Dad’s estate—or at least put a kink in that—” She gave Kevil a questioning look.

“A kink, certainly. I’m afraid Hobart’s murder, unless the motives become clear, will weaken your case. When you talk to Buttons, be sure to tell him to be especially alert for unexplained movement in the holdings of peripheral companies, will you?”

“Of course.” Brun glanced around. “Where’s George? I can give him a ride into the city—”

Kevil nodded at a crumb-covered plate. “He left an hour ago.”

“Your secure link to Lord Felix, milady.” The security tech gestured from the doorway. Brun rose and then closed herself into the family’s combooth, entered her personal codes and touched the screen with the datawand that confirmed both her ID and her codes. Buttons’ face appeared, looking even more like her father’s than the last time she’d seen him.

“I’m glad you called,” he said. “Bad news—”

“I know,” Brun said. “We just heard an hour ago—but I didn’t think you’d have heard yet.”

“Why not?” Buttons asked. “I’m a lot closer—”

“What? Not to Castle Rock—or are you talking about something besides Hobart Conselline’s death?”

“Conselline’s dead?” Buttons looked startled, then more grave than ever. “When?”

“Yesterday afternoon; they just released the news this morning, local time. You didn’t know? Then what bad news did you have?”

“Pedar Orregiemos—Conselline’s foreign minister. He’s dead too.” Buttons flushed, then paled again. “Mother. She . . . er . . . killed him. By accident, of course . . .”

“Mother killed a Crown Minister?” Brun hardly knew what she said. It came to her like a sudden rupture in the foundations of a familiar tower . . . the sagging away of the wall . . . she pulled her mind back. “Mother . . . herself?”

“Yes.” Buttons chewed his lip. “Apparently this fellow had invited himself to Sirialis. The servants say he was paying court to Mother. She had been up at the snow lodge, and he announced himself while she was gone . . . she’d just come back to the main house when he arrived. Anyway . . . he wanted to fence with her. Apparently he’d fenced with her long ago, before she married Dad. He insisted on using those old weapons out of the case in the hall.”

Into Brun’s mind came the memory of her father, standing by that very case, leaning on the wall, and talking to Kevil Mahoney. She had been—what? eleven or so?—and her father was saying, “The thing about Miranda, Kev, is that people simply can’t recognize what she is. They see the porcelain figure of elegance, the beauty, the gracious behavior . . . and fail to recognize that she’s deadly as any of these blades.” Her father had tipped his head toward the case. “I’m just the front for her ambitions, really . . . as a swordsman is just the means for the steel to strike. She wields me skillfully, so skillfully no one notices.”

Kevil had shaken his head, but smiled, then said, “I hope to God you have the scans off, Bunny.”

“Well . . . I’m not a fool either,” her father had said, and then turned to Brun. “And as for you, Bubbles, it’s time you fizzed away to bed.”

She had argued, she remembered, and lost the argument; she’d heard the tail of one of Kevil’s comments as she flounced away to the main stairs. “—your instincts? Or Miranda’s?” and her father’s answer, which she’d paused, just around the corner of the stair, to listen for. “Both, Kev. Though at the moment she seems nothing but fizzy bubbles, she’s got a brain in her head.”

“Mother killed him?” she asked Buttons now. “Herself?”

“It was an accident, apparently,” Buttons said. “The old blade broke, and Pedar was wearing an antique mask as well—and the metal was brittle.”

“They didn’t test it before—? No, they wouldn’t, of course.” Brun tried to put her scrambled thoughts in order. “When did this happen, Buttons?”

“Local time on Sirialis . . . perhaps four days ago, or five. Lady Cecelia was there, by the way. She’d come visiting—why I have no idea, it’s not anywhere close to hunting season. Mother’s gone off with her, to the Guerni Republic.”

Lady Cecelia, who seemed to think of nothing but horses, but had the same lightning rod effect on things as she herself, Brun thought. Lady Cecelia, who could see through a brick wall at the worst possible moments. At least she was a Barraclough too.

“It’s going to look bad,” she told her brother. “Just Hobart alone would have looked bad, but this—”

“It was an accident,” her brother insisted. “Old weapons, brittle metal . . .”

“It will still look bad,” Brun said.

“But you don’t think . . .” Buttons’ voice trailed away; his face was taut and strained.

“I don’t think our mother managed to connive at the deaths of a Speaker and one of his Ministers at the same time, and if she had, she certainly wouldn’t have gone fencing with one of them with faulty equipment.”

That seemed to satisfy him; his face relaxed slightly. It did not satisfy Brun.

“What are we going to do?” Buttons asked, almost plaintively. “I can’t very well come back now—we’re in the midst of some ticklish negotiations—and even if I did, it’d be weeks before I got back to Castle Rock.”

“Stay there,” Brun said. “I’ll deal with whatever happens here. Did Mother ask for help?”

“No—”

“Then we’ll assume she settled things on Sirialis.”

“But Brun . . . can you do it alone?”

“We’ll find out,” Brun said, more cheerfully than she intended. “They’re going to hold a Council meeting to try to ram something through. I don’t know what. I have to go.”

“Well . . . I guess there’s nothing I can do from here. I’ll contact the committee and see if they’ll let you vote my proxy, but if they’re convinced we did it, they won’t . . .”

“That will help, Buttons. Thanks. I’d better go now.”

Brun let herself out of the combooth, reset the controls, and went back to the breakfast room.

“More trouble?” asked Kevil after a quick look at her face.

“That was Buttons,” she said. “You remember Pedar Orregiemos? Hobart made him a minister.”

“A blot,” Kevil said. “Your father disliked him very much.”

“Well, my mother just killed him.” She could not resist pausing a beat to see the result of that remark. The Lone Star Ranger choked on her muffin; Kevil blinked slowly, his mouth tightening. “By accident,” Brun said then.

“So I would hope,” Kevil said. His glance flicked sideways to the other woman. “Did Buttons give you any details?”

“Only that they were playing around with the old fencing gear and something went wrong,” Brun said. She wanted to chatter; she must not chatter. In lieu of chatter, she picked up a muffin and buttered it, then spooned on a dribble of apple-blossom honey. Around a mouthful of sweetness and crumbs, she added, “Lady Cecelia was there.”

“Why?” asked Kate, before Kevil, his mouth already open, could ask the same thing.

“I don’t know.” Brun took another bite of muffin, slowing herself down. She felt that her brain was beginning to spin out of control. “I don’t think Buttons knows; he said he was surprised because it wasn’t close to hunting season.”

“Perhaps she wanted to look at your bloodstock,” Kate said. “She’s the one who’s so crazy about horses, right?”

“Yes . . . I suppose that could be it.” Brun was aware of a warning look from Kevil, and took another bite of muffin.

“By the way, I’m coming to the city with you.”

“You don’t have to,” Brun began, but Kate waved her to silence.

“I’m coming, because you may be in danger. If these Consellines really believe you engineered Hobart’s death—”

“I have security staff,” Brun said.

“Yes, but they’re just security.” Kate grinned, that wide insouciant grin that made her seem so harmless. “I’m a Ranger, remember.”

“I suppose you’re going to wear your badge?” Kevil asked.

“On this occasion, yes.”

“I think I’ll come,” Kevil said. “I haven’t been back, since—” Since they had brought him to Appledale, out of his poverty, out of the clutches of that most suspicious male nurse.

“To the house?” Brun asked. She wiped her mouth and rang for staff, sending the first for her briefcase and the second for her car.

“No—but I’ll check with the banks in person. That might loosen their memory. I can also find out when my new arm might be coming out of the bins. They said next week, but I might be lucky . . .”

“Fine, then. Let’s get going.”

On the drive to the city, they reviewed possibilities. Brun updated her personal comp with the whereabouts of all the Seated Family members; she was sure there would be an emergency Grand Council meeting that day or the next.

Brun did not ever remember seeing the Benignity ambassador before. She knew they had one—she knew which building in Embassy Row belonged to the Benignity of the Compassionate Hand, a big gray stone building like so many in the city. Now, in the Grand Council chamber, she stared like everyone else at the man of middle height, dark-haired and green-eyed, who wore a perfectly conventional dark suit. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected, but Sr. Vadis Unser-Marz, as his name appeared on her monitor, looked too ordinary to represent the fabulously wicked Benignity of the Compassionate Hand.

So far news of Pedar Orregiemos’s death hadn’t reached the news media; reporters outside the chamber had asked only for a reaction to Hobart Conselline’s assassination, and she had expressed shock, and her condolences for his family. “I know what it’s like to lose a father,” she had said, and they had gone looking for another victim.

Brun knew the meeting would be chaired by the head of a minor family, Jon-Irene Pearsall, as neutral as anyone could be. She wondered how long he’d last; he didn’t look very forceful. He tapped for order.

“On this sad day, we have only one order of business; Ambassador Unser-Marz has an urgent message from his government, which we will hear.”

War. Brun could feel the tremor of apprehension across the chamber. The ambassador stepped up to the podium with ceremonious grace.

“Chairholders, it is my responsibility to read to you this urgent communication from our government and to assure you of the most sincere apologies and regrets which accompany it.”

That sounded ominous, but why would anyone apologize for declaring war?

“I am having the text sent to your individual displays, but I will also read it.” He began quoting; Brun glanced down at the monitor. His accent was not hard to follow, but she wanted to be sure to catch every word. “It is with sincere regret that the Benignity of the Compassionate Hand must take responsibility for the unprovoked attack by Swordmaster Hostite Fieddi on the head of state of the Familias Regnant. This attack was ordered by the former Chairman of the Board of the Benignity, without the knowledge or consent of the Board. The former Chairman has been judged guilty of political assassination and punished.”

Brun realized she’d been holding her breath, and let it out. She glanced around and met startled glances. She looked down again. There it was in print—and then a sharply focussed video clip of a much older man, almost bald, with a crawler below: Pietro Rossa-Votari, the Chairman, and the charges against him. Sentenced to death, it said. Then the text flicked back up, and the ambassador started reading again.

“Although the Benignity of the Compassionate Hand did not consent to, or condone, the former Chairman’s order to assassinate Hobart Conselline, it is felt that the Grand Council of the Familias Regnant should be made aware of the reasons for his decision, deplorable as that decision was.”

A rising murmur, as Chairholders drew breath and looked at one another. Brun said nothing, trying to think it through. Hobart had been a power-hungry blot, but why would the Benignity want him dead?

“It is important for you to know that no one in the Familias Regnant was involved. No sept, no family, no individual. Chairman Rossa-Votari acted alone. He left the following recorded message to be transmitted to you.”

“It’s a fake!” blurted someone off to the right. Brun checked her display. Kasdar Morrelline, that was, Ottala’s older brother.

“No, it is not a fake,” the ambassador said. “I beg of your courtesy to hear this—and the text will appear on your monitors, since the Chairman’s accent was stronger than mine.”

The voice in the recording was pitched a little higher, and sounded older; Brun scanned the text and tried to match words to sounds. “It is with deep regret that I order the death of a head of state. This is a decision never made lightly by one in my position, for to order it is to order my own death as well. Yet I must care for my family, and it is God’s will that sometimes a father sacrifice himself for his children. I am convinced that the safety of my people—perhaps of all people everywhere—requires that Hobart Conselline die.

“It became clear to me that Ser Conselline and his government favored the unrestricted use of rejuvenation technology to extend lives without limit. The implications of this, and of a free-birth policy, are clear: the Familias Regnant will inevitably seek to expand its territories at the expense of its neighbors. This will bring us into conflict, possibly into full-scale war. This we do not want.

“I urge the successors of Ser Conselline to consider the benefits of accepting the natural and legal limits of expansion. The Guerni Republic has used this technology but committed to maintaining a constant population size and has a long history of staying within its present borders. The Familias, by contrast, has been expanding slowly but steadily for the past two hundred years, and more rapidly in the past fifty.”

“So have you,” someone near Brun muttered. Her thought exactly. They had invaded the Xavier system.

“It is my hope that my successor and the government of the Familias Regnant can come to some permanent agreement on the border between us, and some controls to be placed on Familias expansion.” The ambassador paused, then went on. “That is the end of the the former Chairman’s message, Chairholders. I am at your service to answer any questions.”

Brun pushed the button that signalled her request to speak.

“Ambassador, I’m not clear on something. Does your government expect us to stop using rejuvenation technology, or does it expect us to offer some guarantee that we will not expand into your territory?”

“Sera, we have many concerns about rejuvenation itself. It was our Chairman’s belief that rapid population growth and the restriction of opportunities for younger persons would lead to political unrest, culminating in either civil war or expansion into the territories of neighboring states. We do not choose to be overrun by you, and we would avoid a war if possible.”

“So you think repeatable rejuvenations are driving population growth and this will make us an expansionist state?” asked one of the Dunlearies across the chamber.

“Or a very volatile, unstable neighbor, at the least,” the ambassador said. “It is our intent to press for some restriction on repeatable rejuvenations—”

“No!” yelled Oskar Morrelline; he was gavelled down.

“Or some other reliable, measurable means of population control,” the ambassador said. “What we want is a stable border—”

“You just invaded us in Xavier a few years ago,” someone pointed out.

The ambassador folded his lips together, shook his head, and said, “Ser . . . it is not my mission to discuss what might have motivated the late Chairman to attempt an incursion into your space. That was his responsibility, and he is no longer able to answer our questions. It is my mission to inform you of these facts; that your Speaker, Hobart Conselline, was executed on the order of the late Chairman, who has paid for that order with his life, and that the reason for the order was his concern—which the present government shares—about the instability unrestricted rejuvenation might cause in both your internal politics and our relationship.”

“But it’s none of your business what we do in our own space,” someone else said.

“Sera, we are neighbors. A fire in your house could loose sparks to burn ours.”

“But you can’t expect us to just turn around and quit using a medical procedure that so many—”

“Sera, I expect nothing, but to be heard. It is not my place to tell you what to do, only to tell you what my government thinks of what you do, and what my government might do in response to what you do.”

“Is that a threat?” Brun asked.

The ambassador spread his hands. “I would hope we are very far from discussing threats.”

“And yet you killed Hobart Conselline.”

“The late Chairman ordered his execution, yes. It is not quite the same thing. The present government deplores that decision, and wishes most heartily that the late Chairman had found it possible to convey his concern in a less . . . striking . . . way.”

“By starting a mutiny, I suppose.” That was Viktor Barraclough.

“No, ser. We started no mutiny. We deplore the mutiny and consider it a serious threat to peaceful interaction between our governments. Though if you want our opinion—”

“Oh, by all means . . . do give us your opinion.” Viktor’s sarcasm raised a nervous ripple of laughter. Even the ambassador smiled.

“It may well come back to this rejuvenation problem. The lack of opportunities for the young would naturally show up first in a stratified and disciplined segment of society. And was there not some problem with the military rejuvenations?”

Brun had the feeling that there was much more that the ambassador wasn’t saying. It had been a Benignity agent on Patchcock, she remembered, who’d been involved in the production of substandard rejuv drugs, though she didn’t know if it had been proved he was responsibile. Naturally . . . if the Benignity was worried about expansion, they’d try to cripple the military ahead of time, make it impossible to maintain a strong, experienced military force—the kind of force that could invade. Or protect against invasion.

“Do you have more information for us, Ser Unser-Marz?” she asked.

“Not more information, no.”

“Then I move that the ambassador be thanked for his information, and that he be asked to hold himself in readiness for more questions.”

“Are you trying to cut off discussion?” the ambassador asked.

“No. But I see no benefit to the Familias in discussing this in front of you, Ambassador, with all due respect.”

“Agreed,” said Viktor Barraclough. “I second the motion.”

“If I may—” the ambassador said.

“Yes?” The Speaker looked confused.

“I would like to assure the Council that I or my staff will be available to answer questions at any time, and I quite agree that my presence is unnecessary while you conduct your business. If I might be excused?”

“Of course, Ambassador.”

After he left, Brun realized that no one had asked one crucial question: had he known ahead of time? But argument swirled around her, as it had after her father’s death. Although most now seemed to accept the ambassador’s statement that the Benignity had been responsible for Hobart’s death, the news of Pedar’s death hadn’t yet reached them. She was fairly sure that would change things again. One death, that the Benignity admitted to, was one thing. Two deaths, so close together, and one of them indubitably her mother’s doing?

If they got out of this without a full-scale civil war, it would be a miracle.