Change of Command

Chapter Thirteen

Confession, for a member of the Order of Swords who had been on a mission, must always be to a priest of the Order. Even so, there were things no one confessed, not if he wanted to live; the priests had the right—ecclesiastical and legal—to mete out punishment, including death.

Hostite Fieddi knelt in silence, awaiting the priest’s arrival, and thought about what he had to confess, and what he had to conceal. As a young man, he had found distinguishing between debriefing and confession very difficult, but now it was second nature.

The soft chime rang; Hostite began the old, familiar ritual, “Forgive me . . .” Even as his voice continued the opening phrases, his mind was dividing, as sheep from goats, the truths he must repent from the other truths of which he must not repent, as long as he was a Swordmaster.

“It has been a long time,” the priest said.

“I was on a mission,” Hostite said. “To distant worlds.”

“Beyond the Church’s dominion?” asked the priest.

“Nothing is beyond the Church’s dominion,” Hostite said. “But this was far from any priest of the Order of Swords.”

“Ah. Go on then.”

Category by category, he laid his soul’s burden out, the temptations acted upon and those merely dwelt upon in the mind, the orders followed which ought not to have been followed, the orders not followed which ought to have been followed. He was heartily sorry for them all, for the necessities which his duty placed upon his conscience, when he would—were he other than he was—have been happy to live in peace all his days, with no more to confess than a lustful glance at someone’s daughter.

“And have you any other sins . . . lust perhaps?”

They always asked about lust, though by now they should know that his conditioning had destroyed that possibility. He answered as always, and as always received his penance in true submission of spirit. When he was too old to be of service, when the Master of the Order of Swords commanded, he would confess the last of his sins, and go to his death clean-hearted, no longer the Shadow of the dancers, but filled with light. So it had been promised him, and so he believed.

There was no other life but this possible, and no other future to which he belonged.

“Hostite—!” The Master’s call brought him out of the reverie which a long penance produced.

“Milord.” Hostite rose smoothly from his knees and turned.

“The Chairman would like an expansion of your report on the situation in the Familias.”

“Milord.”

“We will be granted an audience this afternoon. I will accompany you, as will Iagin Persius.” Persius, another who had recently completed a mission in the Familias. Hostite was elder by three years, but he knew Persius as a competent agent. “You will report to the Order’s Clothier for a fitting now.”

“Yes, milord.” Hostite bowed; the Master withdrew from the chapel, and Hostite made his way to the storerooms in which the Order kept all the costumes its members might need. He did not dwell upon the afternoon’s meeting. Rumor had many things to say about audiences with the Chairman, but Hostite had been there before, and in any case feared nothing, including death.

The costume appropriate for a Swordmaster in this instance was simple enough. The bodysuit of black stretch-knit fit like skin and incidentally left no space for hidden weapons. The scarlet velvet cap matched scarlet velvet slippers, and denoted his Swordmaster rank. Looped through the shoulder epaulets were cords of gold, green, and red silk—the level of experience, the number of assassinations domestic and foreign, the whole story of his career, if one knew how to read it—and the Chairman certainly did. As he was checking the fit of the slippers, Iagin Persius came in. He nodded but did not speak. Hostite nodded in return. They could not discuss their missions until after the report to the Chairman, lest they be suspected of colluding in some error.

From then until lunch, Hostite reviewed his debriefing cube, correcting minor errors in transcription with a coded datawand; four seats down, Persius was doing the same thing. At lunch, they ate at different tables in the Order mess; Hostite restricted himself, as his penance required, to clear soup and water with a lump of “sinners’ bread”—a hard, sour, unleavened lump that offered just enough nourishment to ensure that the penitent could perform any necessary duty.

Outside the Chairman’s office, the Master of the Order of Swords handed his red cut-velvet cloak to the gray-uniformed guards, and unbuckled his sword belt. Hostite wondered why the Master was required to wear full dress, and then relinquish the cloak and swords, but he pushed the question aside. Tradition required it, that was all. He and Persius doffed their velvet caps for inspection, then put them back on.

The Chairman sat behind his great black marble desk, his face reflected dimly in its gleaming surface. On either side, his personal guards.

“Fieddi, you were sent to see the Barracloughs . . . what, then, did you find?”

Hostite bowed, then began his recital, carefully gazing at the bronze plaque on the wall behind the Chairman’s head. “This was my third visit to the Barraclough senior branch, in the persona of a sabre-dance troupe’s visiting instructor. On my fourth day there, the assassination of Lord Thornbuckle was reported. The dance troupe is comprised of locals, though they have been trained by Swordmasters; their reactions indicated that they were aware of friction between Lord Thornbuckle and his younger brother, and between Thornbuckle and certain Families: the Conselline-Morrelline Sept in particular.”

“Did you have speech with family members?”

“I gave private lessons to six family members while there, including Stefan, the present head of Family; Mieran, his wife; Rudolf and James, his sons; Katarin, his daughter; and Viola, his niece. Stefan spoke only of the art of fence; he is proficient in three weapons, but wishes to become expert. He asked advice on hiring a permanent master; this request had been anticipated by the Master, and I recommended Alain Detours, as instructed. Mieran expressed the opinion that Lord Thornbuckle’s death was a dreadful nuisance, but that he had brought it on himself, and she hoped that the New Texan assassins would be satisfied with one death.”

“How does she fence?” asked the Chairman.

“With that same wit,” Hostite answered. “She answers a threat well enough, but always directly. She cannot see beyond the next thrust. Most women of the Seated Families are more astute.”

“And the others?”

“Rudolf prefers parpaun; he fences only because it is done in his set, and is content with mediocrity.”

“His mother’s son . . .” the Chairman said. “Go on.”

“James competes in school tourneys; he seeks praise from me when I visit. He may mature into a good fencer someday.”

“Weapon?”

“Epee, I think, though perhaps saber later.”

“Continue.”

“Katarin and Viola both fence well, for women.”

“You have no more to say about them?”

“No . . . they fence because it is done, as they play at nets or ball or swim.”

“Are they pretty, Fieddi?”

Hostite cast his mind back; he could see the faces clearly but he had no grasp of what the Chairman’s standard of beauty was. “They are young, and rich,” he said. “They are not Dancers.”

The Chairman laughed. “Your standards are strict, I see. Well, then . . . Iagin Persius. You were sent to the Consellines. What did you find?”

“Hobart Conselline continues in his belief that he is ill-treated. Although he is now the acknowledged head of that family and sept, he still hungers after the approval he feels was given his brother. He is ambitious for himself and his friends; he wants to ensure his secure hold on power for the rest of his life.”

“And he is a Rejuvenant?”

“Yes, a multiple. He despises the short-lived who cannot afford rejuvenation.”

“And does he know where the Compassionate Hand stands on rejuvenation?”

“He does, sir, and he says it is the one weakness of the Compassionate Hand.”

“His religion?”

“He has no belief in any higher power than wealth and influence, sir.”

“Ah. Such men are ripe for superstition. Hostite, how about the Barracloughs?”

“Some in the family are believers, but not in our faith. Theirs is debased, decadent, a descendant of those rebellious faiths of Old Earth, which broke away from Holy Church so long ago.”

“Hostite! I did not know you could be eloquent.” That arch surprise was dangerous; Hostite tried to empty his mind of all but his duty. “So you are passionate about the Church?”

“Sir, I am a member of the Order of Swords; I have given my life to the Order since childhood.”

“I know that, Hostite. But I sense in you some deeper emotion. Have you ever had a vision or revelation of Our Lord?”

“No, sir, none that could not be explained as a child’s wishful fantasy. But the contact with those unbelievers in the Familias has made me realize what a treasure the True Faith is. They play with their faith as a child with jacks and balls, putting it away in a mental box when it is not convenient. That is not real faith.”

“No, of course not. But let us go back to the matters at hand. How stand the Barracloughs on rejuvenation?”

“Most of them over forty have been rejuvenated, sir, but several of the seniors have refused. The Barraclough family has an elective power structure: Stefan, the current head of family, is not actually the eldest son of eldest sons. His older brother Viktor specialized in legal theory, and he refused rejuvenation. His objection was legal—the turmoil that would be caused by multiple rejuvenations. Viktor is now in his seventies. Viktor’s daughter Viviane was rejuvenated with the new process at forty; she is now forty-five, but my sources say that she is determined not to repeat the process. Stefan is fifty-seven, and has received two rejuventions, giving him an apparent age of thirty. However, he disapproves of what he calls ‘frivolous’ rejuvenations.”

“Ummm . . . for either of you: to what extent do the non-Family citizens of the Familias regard rejuvenation as a legal or social or religious matter?”

Hostite paused, thinking, but Iagin spoke up quickly. “Because Hobart Conselline is so willing to talk—more willing to talk than almost anything else—I have data on these points. He is very concerned about opposition to serial rejuvenation. This is fuelled both by concerns about the profit margin—Conselline Sept’s family investments in rejuv pharmaceuticals are large, and until the Patchcock scandal, these had formed twenty percent or more of the profits—and by concern about the social constraints that might be put on serial rejuvenants. The Consellines introduced and strongly supported the repeal of the law against repeat rejuvenations. He feels that serial rejuvenation, conferring unlimited lifespan, is the earned right of those who have shown their fitness by accumulating the wealth to afford it.”

“Ah—and would he apply this same philosophy to foreign affairs?”

“In all likelihood. He follows up advantages in fencing—and, from what I’ve been able to gather, in other domains as well—with great vigor and intensity. I have observed him at table, and with his family, and would say that nothing is ever enough for him. If he had no access to rejuvenation and advanced medical care, he would eat and drink himself into the grave.”

“Truly, the discipline of the Faith saves more than souls,” the Chairman said, flashing a smile at Hostite. The Chairman, as lean and fit at sixty as he had been thirty years earlier, had not been rejuvenated and would not be: the Church forbade it. But neither would he inflict damage on his own body for selfish purposes. “So . . . Hobart Conselline, who has become the new head of government, is a man of grudges and jealousies, scheming and ruthless, a man who will not feel safe until he controls everything. What, Hostite, will the Barracloughs do when he tries to control them?”

“Viktor will fight, with all the legal knowledge he has—but the Familias Regnant has no formal Constitution. Stefan will start by hoping for the best, but if Hobart angers him sufficiently he will lead his Family in opposition. He is not a man of great vision, however. He counters the obvious attack, but does not see the oblique one that covers.”

“Why, I wonder, did they elect him head of the Family?”

Hostite cleared his throat. “Of the posssibilities, he seemed least likely to interfere with the others’ lives. Lord Thornbuckle was already Speaker, in any case—he did not want the Family leadership as well. His younger brother Harlis was not well-liked. Viktor didn’t want it. And although the Familias is far from strict on the gender issue, few of the great Families have women at the head. None of the Barraclough women were dissatisfied enough to make a run for it.”

“They have no renegade women?”

“They do, but their tastes run to inconsequentials. Lady Cecelia de Marktos, for instance, breeds horses.”

“She was on Xavier,” the Chairman said, with a cold contempt that almost loosened Hostite’s bowels. He should have known that; he had been listening to what her family said about her. “She might be just a horse breeder, but she has been inconveniently near several disturbances in our plans. She was on Sirialis when Lepescu was destroyed—”

“Lepescu was ours?” Iagin asked. The Chairman gave him a look Hostite would not like to have received.

“No. I would not use that filth. It is one thing to kill—even to maim, as a lesson—but quite another to treat an enemy as less than human. No, what I’m remembering is that Cecelia de Marktos was the one who took the Crown Prince back to his father, and meddled. I did not authorize our agent’s attack on her—women are simply not reliable, and I suspect personal jealousy of some sort—but she showed up again interfering with the Patchcock situation. It passes chance that she—a woman never previously far from a horse—should be right at the scene of problems so many times.”

“Heris Serrano,” Hostite murmured. “The commander was there also.”

“Yes. And the Serranos have always had the reputation for neutrality in the Familias. Here they are linked to a Barraclough repeatedly . . .”

“Heris Serrano had resigned her commission; she began her association with Lady Cecelia as a hireling.” That was Iagin.

“Easy enough to contrive that, if one wanted to form a duetto.” A bonded pair hunting together, that meant.

“Thank you both,” the Chairman said then, nodding. “Master, if you will wait a moment . . .”

Hostite backed away from the Chairman’s desk until he felt the ridge in the carpet that signalled the correct distance, then turned to go.

Somewhat to his surprise, he lived to cross the threshold. He and Iagin strolled back to the vesting room, and Hostite felt the languid ease that always followed a moment of mortal danger survived.

The Chairman eyed the Master of Swords. “Hostite is our oldest Swordmaster, is he not?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Unusual for a Swordmaster to live this long. And yet—extraordinary, would you say?”

“In his way, yes.”

“He has a clean stroke,” the Chairman said. “He never misses his mark, and I hear from all sources that he is sober and submissive.”

“That is true, Chairman.”

“Yet—?”

“Yet I cannot warm to him, Chairman.”

“No. And that is why I insist he has not reached his end; I must have one Swordmaster whom the Master of Swords does not like.”

The Master bowed. They both knew this; they had said it before.

“I find the news of Hobart Conselline disturbing, however. Such a man might do anything, if he felt endangered. We thought the discovery that their rejuvenation drugs were so easily contaminated would slow down the rate of rejuvenation . . . why would someone risk insanity, senility, just for the chance of unending life?”

“They fear death?”

“It is not just that. They do it when they are years from death, just for pleasure. I told myself it was their decadent class structure, that rejuvenation would spread to the professionals and workers only rarely and later. But no. They do not want eternal life . . . they want eternal youth. That is not the same.”

“No, Chairman.”

“We did not realize that at first; we had no comprehension of their desires. And without the comprehension of desires, there can be no shaping of policy. It is beyond the understanding even of Holy Father, except as another example of their sinful nature. It poses a great problem for us. The strategy which we prepared for use in one situation may be useless in another . . .” His voice trailed away, and he turned to look out the window. Children. They were aging children, who did not want to earn anything or learn anything, who abhorred the discipline of faith. How could he influence aging children? He had a terrible vision of Hobart Conselline as he appeared in the data cubes, still spoiled and smug a hundred years hence, when he himself was dead and in his grave. His successor’s sucessor might be dealing with that one, and all the rest—and how many there would be by that time.

It would not do. He must find a solution, and soon. His family, his vast extended family, the entire Benignity of the Compassionate Hand, relied on him to keep them safe and prosperous and orderly. It was his duty, and he was Chairman precisely because he had never yet failed in his duty.

“I may need to speak to Hostite Fieddi again,” he said. “Please inform him to remain in the compound. I also need your analysis—is there anyone in the Seated Families who has refused serial rejuvenation, and if so . . . why? Are there any sane members of their Council?”

“Yes, Chairman.”

When the Master of Swords had gone, the Chairman turned to look out the window again. Aging children . . . senile children, if a merciful God limited the number of rejuvenations with even the best drugs. A terrible prospect, that great empire full of aging senile children. And in the interim, all that energy and expertise . . . their great space navy with admirals wiser than his, replenished constantly by commanders wise as admirals. But not enlisted personnel. At least they had taken care of that. Still . . . a grave, a very grave situation.

He would have to pray for Hobart Conselline. He would have to pray a very special prayer for the soul of Hobart Conselline . . . and for the soul of Hostite Fieddi, it might be.

In the Boardroom, the Chairman faced his Board, and explained what he had learned.

“So the Familias will be in even more turmoil?”

“And even more acquisitive. I have the Master of Swords looking into the possibilities of a coup d’etat, but we will need a suitable successor.”

“With due respect, Chairman, I thought our policy was to promote addiction—”

“You misunderstood.” A breathless silence, while everyone waited for the Chairman’s next comment. “We promote no vices; we do profit from them where faulty human nature allows them to flourish. But in this case, it was my most earnest hope that they would withdraw the drugs, either voluntarily, from shame, or involuntarily, as the evidence of the danger spread. We did not object to the damage done to their military, of course, but that damage was intended to shift their policy away from that process to a safer, more limited drug which merely prolonged life a decade or so.”

“Our resources—”

“Are unequal to full-scale war with the Familias. Yes. We lost an entire assault group at Xavier, and another such loss would be unprofitable. We need a way to protect ourselves, without risking ourselves.”

“To eliminate Hobart Conselline?”

“That’s one possibility, certainly. Especially if the right man can be found to take his place, someone who understands that unlimited expansion brings explosive decompression in the end.”

His Board looked back at him. He knew what they were thinking, and knew that they knew he knew. A hundred, a thousand stalks of wheat fall before the reapers, and no one knows one from another but the Almighty . . . but the fall of a great tree brings down those around it and shakes the very ground. Perhaps God cared as much for a blade of grass as for a tall cypress . . . but mere humans noticed one more than another. It was his decision, but on them would fall the consequences.

Miranda walked down the hill to the stables in a chill evening drizzle that did nothing to cool her anger at the dapper little man who had been so sure of his welcome.

She had tried to be fair. She had tried to be reasonable. She had told herself that Cecelia often got things wrong, in her hot-headed enthusiasms.

But Pedar Orregiemos seemed determined to push her past her limits. He had written, expressing his delight in his Ministry. He had written again, complaining of her daughter’s “interference” in foreign affairs, when Brun had invited that Texas woman to be her guest at Appledale. He had called by ansible to insist that she be “fair” to Harlis. Because, he explained, she didn’t really need all that property. He could provide for her, and advance her interests himself, as Minister of Foreign Affairs.

And today, he had arrived at Sirialis, smugly certain that he was telling her what she did not already know, when he brought the results of the judgement for Bunny’s will and against Harlis. Smugly certain of his welcome. Smugly certain that he could comfort a widow he was sure needed comforting.

If only he had let her alone. She glanced around, and saw only the grooms busy with the last evening chores. They nodded to her, and she to them, as she ducked into the passage between the stable offices and the vet supply storage. No one would be surprised to see her here; she often came down for evening rounds, or after, with a few sugar cubes for Bunny’s favorite mounts.

If only he had left her alone, she would have done nothing. If only he had not flaunted his power, his connections, and hinted so broadly at his involvement that she could not ignore it. What did he think? That she had always loved him secretly, that she had been hoping to slough off an unwanted husband and take a lover?

Was he really such a fool?

She opened the door of the old smithy where bits and stirrups and buckles waited for repair. Above the long counter with its burners and torch tips, bottles of chemicals in neat racks. A small forge filled the end of the room, which had been built around it when the new smithy—much larger, and suited to a stable with more horses—had been built in the other courtyard.

Brun’s information had been more complete than Cecelia’s. Pedar was linked to the Rejuvenants and to Hobart Conselline . . . but while Hobart had refused to intervene to protect Harlis’s interests, he would not cooperate in his own downfall. Neither Brun nor that Texan Ranger thought that the evidence they had would stand up, since the Speaker could dismiss and appoint Ministers and higher-court justices at will.

“I’m sure Pedar planned it,” Brun had written. “I’m sure he hired the killers, though Cecelia says he could not have done it himself; he was in Zenebra. Kate thinks she’s found a money trail—a tenuous one—but in a hostile court it probably would not hold. But whether he did it on his own, as a way of currying favor with Conselline, or on Hobart’s orders, we can’t determine. The reward seems to indicate a payment for services rendered—why else would anyone appoint Pedar to Foreign Affairs?—but we can’t prove it. Unless you’ve uncovered something in the archives, we’re at a standstill.”

The archives had thoroughly implicated Harlis Thornbuckle and his son Kell in financial chicanery, extortion, and intra-Family power plays—but not in the death of his brother, and not in connection with the Rejuvenants. At least, not that she’d found yet.

She moved about the room, then picked up a broken snaffle and sat down at the workbench. Was she sure, in her own mind, that Pedar had had Bunny killed?

Yes.

Was she sure, in her own mind, that he could not be brought to justice?

As long as Hobart Conselline was Speaker, and Pedar his Minister of Foreign Affairs, yes. Who would believe the hysterical accusations of a grieving widow?

Was she really willing to put herself at such risk, when nothing she did could bring Bunny back to life?

She thought about that, turning the bit over and over. If he would go away and leave her alone . . . no. No. He would not; it was not in his nature. He would wheedle and whine, year after year; he would act against her one way and another, to force her into his bed, as he had maneuvered when she was a young girl in love with someone else. But then she had had Bunny. Now she was alone, with no protection but her own wits.

She could do nothing about Hobart Conselline, the ultimate enemy, the one who, she was sure, had inspired Pedar to his actions, whether or not he had ordered them. But here, in her own house, she could deal with his minion.

She turned on the smaller torch, and played it over the bit in the clamps. She had first learned to work metal as a hobby, when she’d wanted a particular style of guard on her foil. Over the years, she’d learned how to make metal stronger, or weaken it; how to make it look old, how to make it look like something else entirely.

You may not approve, my love, but you will understand.

She hoped her children would.

Finally, she turned the torch off, and left the bit to cool. She had not mended it properly, but she had made a start. That was sometimes the best a person could do.

Neil waited by the outer gate.

“Goodnight, Neil,” she said. “I made rather a mess in the old forge—that broken Simms bit. You were quite right; the little torch isn’t hot enough.”

“It’ll come right in the end,” he said.

She hoped it would. She would do her best to see that it did.