Change of Command

Chapter Nineteen

The long room with its high ceiling would have held twenty pairs of fencers, and had before. The walls were pale green above the mirrors, and the gilt beaded molding around the ceiling was echoed by the molding around the mirrors. The east wall, a bank of French windows, let in the natural daylight and overlooked a rose garden. This morning, bars of yellow sunlight lay across the polished wood floor. Only a few roses had opened, the early white single ones like showers of stars, but their perfume entered on the slightest movement of air. Down the middle of the polished parquet floor ran the strip, deep green.

Miranda finished her stretches, and picked up her practice foil. Facing the mirrors, she could see that Pedar, though still stretching, was watching her. She moved through the parries, smoothly but not fast, feeling for the rhythm that would best suit her needs. He finished his stretches, but made no move to pick up his own blade. He stood watching her instead. She met his eyes in the mirror, then turned.

“What? Am I doing something wrong?”

“No, my dear. I was thinking how lovely you are—and how incongruous it always is to see a beautiful woman holding a deadly weapon.”

“This?” Miranda laughed, touching the button, and bending the blade with only a little pressure. “Even if it weren’t so whippy, it could hardly kill anyone.”

“It’s the principle of the thing,” Pedar said. “And I’ve seen you with stiffer blades.”

Miranda grimaced. “I was younger, then.”

“You were Ladies’ Champion in epee . . . I have never forgotten your grace, that day.”

“I was lucky. Berenice ran out of breath—I’ve always suspected she had a cold. Usually she beat me.”

“But still—if you had live steel in hand, in the old days, I don’t doubt you’d have been a formidable opponent.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Miranda said. “Shall we?”

Still he didn’t move. “I was going to ask a favor.”

“A favor? What?”

“I see you have Bunny’s old collection here—in the hall. I know he never let anyone actually use it, but—do you suppose we could?”

Bait and hook, taken faster than she’d expected. She frowned a little. “The old weapons? But Pedar—they’re old. I don’t even know how old, some of them.”

“If I could just hold them—just feel them.”

“I don’t even know if they’re really mine to lend,” Miranda said. “I mean, they’re here because Bunny brought them along, but they are his family’s heirlooms. You’re the one who said I should be fair to Harlis—”

“Harlis need never know,” Pedar said. “It’s just—the oldest steel I’ve ever held was that antique Georgy has—you know.”

“Oh, that old thing.” Miranda allowed herself a sniff. “It’s not a day over two hundred, whatever he says. These are much older—”

“I know, that’s why I asked. Please?” He cocked his head and put his hands together like a polite child.

“I suppose it couldn’t hurt,” Miranda said. “If we’re careful . . .” She could feel her heart speed up, safely hidden under her white jacket, as she led the way back to the hall.

She unlocked the case, and stood back. Pedar reached past her, and took out, as she’d expected, the big saber with the heavy, ornamented hilt. He ran his thumb down the blade, and nodded. “Still—”

“Bunny said they were still usable,” Miranda said. “But he didn’t want to take a chance on breakage. They’re not replaceable.”

“No . . .” Pedar breathed on the blade, then buffed it with his sleeve. “Derrigay work, look at that pattern! And the ring—” He rapped it with his nail, and the blade chimed softly. Miranda shivered, involuntarily. Pedar set the blade back, and took down another. “You have no idea of their age?”

“Bunny always said that one—the epee—was the oldest, and the rapier the next oldest. He said it was just possible those two were from Old Earth from an era when they might have been used.” Used to kill, intentionally. Used as she would use a blade today.

“Amazing.” Pedar put the rapier back, and took the broad, curved blade for which she had no name. “And this?”

“I don’t know. It looks more like a chopper to me—for very large potatoes.”

He chuckled. “Not a blade for artistry, no. An executioner’s weapon, perhaps, from a very bloody period.” His hand reached again, this time for a foil. “So—this is your weight now?” His hand stroked the blade, bent it. “Not so whippy as the one you were using, but—light enough, I’ll warrant.”

“Oh, probably. I still practice with heavier blades now and then.” She had to be fair. She had to be scrupulously fair, and let his own folly put him in danger.

“Let’s fence with these, not the modern ones.”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea . . . I don’t know what they would think—”

“They? What ‘they’? Who could possibly dispute with you, now that the judgement has gone your way? What harm could it cause?”

“I don’t know,” Miranda said again. “What if a blade breaks? What if Harlis appeals, and then finds out I’ve destroyed a valuable asset?”

“He needn’t know. He isn’t a fencer; he’s probably never paid attention to them. Besides . . . I’ll explain it was all my idea.” Pedar nodded at the helms. “Look—let’s do it right. Use all the old gear, masks as well. It would be like fancy dress.” He had always liked fancy dress; he had worn it to balls where other men wore conventional clothes.

“But—”

“Just this once. There’s no one to see. Please?” Again that tip of the head, the pleading expression, then an impish grin. “I’ll bet you’ve always wanted to. Haven’t you?”

Miranda smiled. “As a matter of fact . . . I did sneak that one out once—” She nodded at the blade in his hand. “There’s something about it—knowing it’s old, knowing it was used by people long dead—”

“Yesss.” He drew out the syllable, nodding. “I thought so. Just as you enjoy old porcelain, or jewelry. Those who appreciate such things should not be forbidden the use of them. So you will humor me this once, Miranda?”

She glanced around, as if nervous of watchers. “I suppose—and after all, if we do break one, and Harlis finds out—as you said, he’s no fencer. He can hardly skewer me.”

“Well, my lady—choose your weapon.” Pedar set the blade he’d been holding back in the rack and waved her forward with an extravagant gesture.

Miranda reached, pulled back as if unsure, and finally took the blade he had just replaced, the longest of the foils, with a weighted hilt to balance it. He took its partner.

“Let’s complete the mischief,” Pedar said. “As I said, with such blades as these, our helms too should match. I’ve long fancied myself in one of these—had my armorer make a replica, but it’s not the same.” He tried on one, then another, until he found one that fit . . . the others had, as she knew well, inconvenient and uncomfortable lumps beneath the linings.

Miranda raised her brows at him. “It can’t be safe, Pedar—blades last, but old metal screening—”

“Pah! It will stand up to a blunted stroke, and if I cannot defend my face at least I’m not much of a fighter. Come, my dear . . . if you are nervous, you must wear your usual mask, but permit me my conceit. The only way you will strike my eye is with your beauty.”

It needed only that to erode the last grain of sympathy Miranda felt. She could have shot him where he stood, but she was not going to trial for the murder of a murderer.

Back in the salle, after they had clipped the buttons to the tips of the blades, Pedar moved out of the shadow to stand in one of the bars of sun, a glowing white figure with a shining golden-bronze head; the old helm gleamed in the light. She could not see his face through the pierced metal. From within her own mask, the world narrowed to the strip itself, and the opponent across from her. Could he see her face? She let herself smile now, with no guarding tension.

She brought her blade up in salute, as did he. Then he advanced.

They began with the formal introduction, the “Fingertips” as advocated by the fencing master Eduardo Callin, two centuries before. This allowed the fencer who wished a match to carry more meanings to suggest them by the quality of his touch, and this first contact, feeble to feeble, set up that possibility. Miranda’s blade tapped crisply, to signal no particular intent, but Pedar’s drew along hers, or tried to—the signal that for him, this match’s metaphor was Courtship.

Miranda could feel her lip curling, within her mask, and fought down the rush of anger. Here, at the ritualized beginning, she must maintain her ruse. At the fourth touch, her tip wavered a little—someone who had recognized his offering, and was not yet rejecting it. Thinking about it perhaps. His fifth touch, the last of the right-hand touches, attempted a spiral along her blade, which she did not allow, but did not bat away. That signified Shyness, not Rejection.

They switched hands for the next five Fingertips. His tip continued its swirl, a stronger plea of Courtship; Miranda allowed hers to droop, on the ninth and next to last. Uncertainty—the last thing she felt, but an emotion she hoped he would have for one last instant. Then the tenth—a clean tap by both to signal the end of that segment. She stepped back, as did he, and switched her blade to her right hand again. Another bow and salute, and they were into the next phase.

Miranda presented a quite ordinary opening in Fourth, and Pedar accepted. In a friendly bout such as this, there was no hurry, so they crossed blades in easy parry-riposte combinations for some fifteen exchanges.

“You’re so graceful,” Pedar said, his voice muffled slightly by the mask.

“You’re so quick,” Miranda said, out of her throat so that she would sound a little breathless.

“For you, I would gladly slow,” he said. His next stroke was slightly slower, and she met it just an instant late. If she could convince him to slow, if she could set a pace that lulled him into the wrong rhythm . . .

“I used to be faster,” she said. “I know I did—”

“It’s that blade, my dear. It’s heavy for you.”

“I need something—” She blocked his stroke, threw one intentionally slow which he blocked easily. “Against you, I need the extra length, and the stiffness—”

“Bah. I’m not going to press you harder than you can handle. You should know that, Miranda. When was I ever importunate?”

“You weren’t. It’s just—”

He stepped back and grounded his blade. “Come—let’s exchange blades. That was made for a man; you can tell by the weight of the hilt.”

“Besides, you want to try it,” she said, chuckling.

“True. Indulge me, my dear?”

“Very well. But I’m going to do more conditioning, I swear I am. I didn’t realize how out of shape I was. All those days of the funeral, and arrangements—”

“Of course.” He handed her the foil hiltfirst over his arm, with a bow. If only his courtesy meant something! She handed him her weapon with equal grace, and they exchanged places on the strip, as always after an exchange of weapons.

Miranda was sure she knew which of the old weapons had actually drawn blood. She knew nothing would show on analysis; she knew her belief was irrational and indefensible, but . . . the foil conveyed to her an eagerness for blood that matched her own. It had from the moment she first handled the old weapons.

They were just poised to begin again when her comunit chimed. “Milady—Lady Cecelia de Marktos called; she has docked and taken one of the personal shuttles.”

Cecelia coming? Bright anger washed over her. She had been so close; she might never have another chance. Why couldn’t Cecelia mind her own business? And where was she coming from? How many minutes did she have, now, to finish Pedar?

With an effort, she regained her concentration. She would figure out something . . . as long as it was over before Cecelia walked in . . .

She found it hard, at first, to conceal the speed the foil lent her. Beat, parry, parry, beat, beat. Her heart hammered, more excitement than effort; she dared not use her own pulse for a timer. She dared not wait too long, either.

She backed a pace, then another, then, with a quick disengage, lunged and made the touch. With contact, she twisted her wrist and pushed, taking Pedar’s tip on her left shoulder. Through her hand, she felt the faintest give to the tip.

“We’re both dead,” she said with a smile. The mask across from her gave no hint of Pedar’s expression; he stepped back as she did to salute and begin again.

Was the tip gone? The foil felt no different; she parried his next stroke, and his next, and then she heard it. The tip gave way, flipped by her blade’s elastic recoil into a parabolic arc; she had to drag her eyes away from it to check the break. Pedar froze an instant, then started to withdraw.

“I’m afraid a blade broke—” he said. She saw the tilt of his helm, as he looked to check his own, saw it move back.

She waited, until she knew he had time to see her blade, the sharp tip exposed by the spiral fracture.

“Miranda—?” For the first time, his voice was uncertain.

He was good; he almost parried the lightning thrust she sent at his mask—but he had dropped his arm, lost his rhythm, and responded that fractional second late. The tip of her blade—stiffer now and sharp—slammed into her target, a particular perforation in the metal of his mask. Around it, the weakened metal gave way, and she thrust on, the broken tip grating over the orbit’s rim into the eye she could not see, into the brain behind it, with a wrist motion that ensured more than a single damage track. Her blade snapped again, on the back of his skull, and quickly as she withdrew it, he was already falling.

“Ohhh . . .” She sank with him, still watchful until his hand loosened and dropped his weapon. Then she dropped her own sword, grabbed at his shoulders. “Noooo. . . . ! Pedar! NO!!”

Cecelia heard the cry as she came through the door, and saw Miranda, recognizable by both form and the golden hair that spilled out the back of her helm, facing away from her, clutching at the shoulders of her opponent, who was collapsing. She moved forward quickly. Was it Pedar, or someone else?

Miranda was scrabbling at the other person’s mask, trying to get it off.

“Miranda—let me help. Call medical—”

“It won’t come off—it won’t come off!” Miranda seemed frantic, her gloved fingers clumsily yanking at some kind of latch. Now Cecelia could see the blood trickling out where the mask had given way, and the blood on the broken short length of blade. “I told him! I told him it was dangerous! Bunny always said no one should use the old blades, or trust the old armor, but he wanted to—he insisted—”

Cecelia discovered that her mind was already working again, when she recognized all this as elements of alibi. She worked at the other side of the man’s helm, wondering why the ancients had made everything so complicated. Surely this hadn’t been made before the advent of pressure locks.

“What happened?”

“The blade broke—I was lunging—and it just shattered—”

Cecelia looked, but could see only the shadowed shape of Miranda’s face behind her mask.

“I thought you said fencing was safe.” Pedar had said that too, at the Trials. As long as it is only steel, he had said.

“It is. It’s—he wanted to use the old blades, the ones Bunny would never use. He knew Harlis wouldn’t allow it, but . . . then he said, why not the old helms. He was in one of his moods—you know how Pedar is. He’d brought me a lace scarf. He began with the Courtship, in the Ten Fingers.”

Cecelia had one side of the helm loose now, and began working on the other.

“You didn’t call for medical help.”

“Cece—when a blade goes in the eye, there is no help.”

“In the eye?”

“This old helm—the face mask failed. My blade went straight through, into his eye. You know how it is—well, you don’t, but when you thrust, if your blade snaps, you’re already moving, you can’t stop. I tried—but all I did was make it worse.”

“How?”

“The blade had already pierced his eye and the orbit—of course I yanked it back, but it was already in his brain. I didn’t realize—it was so awful—”

She had the other side of the helm open, and lifted it away. There was Pedar’s face, one eye open but dulled already with anoxia, and the other a bloody hole.

“Miranda.” Cecelia looked at her, trying to see through that mask. But sunlight blazed on the metal, and behind it was only shadow. She looked down at the gloved hands, one streaked with blood . . . at Miranda’s neck, where the high collar of her fencing habit hid her pulse.

The door slammed open now, and a crowd of servants rushed in. Where had they been all this time? Was it a plot?

“Milady! What happened—”

“We were fencing, and the blade broke . . .”

Miranda took her own mask off slowly, her hands trembling. Tears had streaked her cheeks; she looked paler than usual, with red-rimmed eyes.

“You cried—” Cecelia said.

“Of course I cried!” Miranda glared at her.

“I’ve never seen you cry before, except for Bunny—”

“You didn’t see me when I heard about Brun’s capture. Or when the babies were born.” She turned to the man in the gray suit; Cecelia did not recognize him. “Sammins, we’ll need a doctor, though I know it’s too late, and the militia. This man is—was—Minister of Foreign Affairs; we’ll have to have an investigation.”

All though the questions that followed, Cecelia sat quietly to one side, watching Miranda, listening to the timbre of her voice. Pedar had been coming to fence twice weekly since arriving on Sirialis. Pedar had initiated the practices; he had also come to talk business, and—she hesitated, and a faint color came into her cheeks—to propose a Familial alliance. On that day, they had begun as usual, but Pedar had asked—as he had before—about the antique weapons in the hall. Where were they going, and who would inherit them? He had wanted to handle them, fence with them. Bunny had never allowed it, but Pedar had begged—

And she had given in, agreed to fence with the old weapons, though they had not been inspected.

She must have scan data, Cecelia realized. She would not dare go into such detail if scan would not support what she said. And therefore—it could be an accident, just as Miranda said. Or she was even cleverer at arranging matters.

Slow anger churned her stomach. These had been her friends—or at least people she had known, people of her class. Wealthy, urbane, sophisticated . . . she had known them all her life. They collected fine art; they supported composers and artists and musicians; they had beautiful houses and landscaped grounds. They dabbled in this or that—china painting, horse breeding, designing exotic space stations—in between power plays in Family politics and acquiring more money and more power and more possessions. They wore beautiful clothes, and indulged in elaborate games of social intercourse.

And now they were killing each other off. Lorenza, trying to poison her. Kemtre, agreeing to poison his own son. Someone—Pedar, by his bragging—arranging to kill Bunny. Miranda killing Pedar.

Were they all crazy?

And if they were . . . why? And who benefitted?

She could not find her way through that maze, except in terms of the familiar, beloved world of equestrian sports and horse breeding. If she’d had a stable full of highbred horses, all carefully brought up, schooled . . . and if they had suddenly begun to act strange, to attack grooms and each other . . . what would she think?

Somebody got at the grooms.

Fine, but rich people didn’t have grooms.

Her mind stopped short, like a horse overfaced by a huge, unfamiliar obstacle on the cross-country.

Yes, they did have grooms, and veterinarians. They called them maids and valets and doctors and nurses. They all depended on pharmaceuticals for rejuv. They had all been rejuved multiple times. Lorenza, Kemtre, Pedar, Miranda, even her own sister Berenice. Some had access to other illicit drugs, like the neurotoxins Lorenza had poisoned her with.

Once she’d known Lorenza was dead, she’d given no serious thought to the source of that drug. Lorenza was a mean, vicious, sadistic woman . . . that was the threat, not the drug. It’s not the weapon, it’s the person who misuses it.

But . . . she knew. She knew about Patchcock, though she’d put it out of her mind when Ronnie and Raffa were safely married. Bad drugs. Bad rejuvenation drugs, and who knows what else, and the fallout might be worse than anyone had thought.

Was Miranda sane? Were any of them sane? The Grand Council of the Familias . . . without Bunny at its head, or Kevil Mahoney to advise, with Pedar—evil as she now believed he was—dead and stiffening on the floor in the fencing salon . . . what were they going to do? Was there anyone she could trust?

Those who had never been rejuved. Those who had been rejuved only . . . somewhere the drugs were reliable. Marta Saenz? But just because Marta was a biochemist herself, with her own labs, did that mean her drugs were good?

No. But she could not distrust everyone. She wasn’t made like that; she had to have sides, someone on hers and someone against her.

Finally the initial interviews were over, and Cecelia went up with Miranda to her suite. A white-faced maid brought them a tray of food and hot tea. Miranda stripped off her fencing whites, and took a shower while Cecelia stared out the tall windows to the hummocky country of the Blue Hunt. By the time Miranda came back in, wrapped in a thick quilted robe, Cecelia had her own questions in order.

“Miranda . . . remember when I told you what Pedar told me, shortly after Bunny died?”

“Of course,” Miranda said. “You told me that you thought Pedar knew who had killed him, that it was not the NewTex Militia.”

“Is . . . that . . .?”

“Cecelia, Pedar has always been a bit of a boor, you know that.”

“Yes, but—”

“He thought himself a man of power; he wanted to improve his status within the Conselline Sept. So naturally he claimed to have knowledge you didn’t have.”

“You didn’t take him seriously.”

“Not at first, no. He came courting, you see.”

“Courting!”

“Yes. Hinting that if I had his protection, I need not fear Harlis’s challenge to the will. That I would get to keep Sirialis—he meant he would get Sirialis.”

“He honestly thought you would marry him?”

“Apparently. He asked if he could come here; I put him off several times, but finally consented.”

“But why?”

Miranda shrugged. “I wanted to know what he knew—how he was so sure he could do what he claimed. It’s not the kind of thing you can ask over a com line: ‘Do you really have the power you say you have?’ I thought, if he visited, I could assess his abilities and intentions better.”

“But you weren’t going to marry him—”

“Heavens, Cecelia, you do stick like a burr! No, I was not going to marry him. I’m not going to marry anyone. I’m going to fight Harlis, on Buttons’ behalf, and save the inheritance, but I’m not going to marry. I had the best for most of my life; why would I settle for crumbs now?”

“I don’t know—I just worry—”

“No need.” Miranda stretched, then strolled over to the pool. Fat orange goldfish rose to the surface and swam nearer. “I’m not crazy; I didn’t get my rejuv drugs from the Morrelines, and I’m not going to rejuv again. Once I get my children settled—”

“I thought I’d never get rejuved,” Cecelia said. “Wouldn’t have, if not for the poison. But I rather like it now.”

“I understand that,” Miranda said. “You have more things you want to do. But I’m nominal forty now, actual—well, you know the actuality—and have another sixty years of health without rejuv. Sixty years without Bunny is plenty.”

“You might find someone else.”

“And gold might drop from the sky in showers. If I do, I can rejuv then, if I want. But it’s not something to plan on. End of discussion, Cece. Tell me, have you been down to the stables yet?”

“No—”

“Then you should. Just in case something happens, and Harlis ends up with Sirialis after all, you should know if there’s anything here you’d like to put a bid on.”

“I can’t believe he’d be stupid enough to shut down the stables,” Cecelia said.

“A horse broke his foot when he was a boy, and then he cracked some ribs falling off into rocks trying to keep up with Bunny. He thinks horses are large smelly abominations, a drain on the income—which they are, actually. We’ve never made money off the horses.”

“Miranda—you’re distracting me with horses, and I’m not that foolish. Did you kill Pedar on purpose?”

Miranda gave her a long, silent look. “Do you think I would do something like that?”

“I don’t know anymore what people will and won’t do. I didn’t think Lorenza would poison me and gloat over me while I lay helpless. I didn’t think Kemtre would drug his own sons, or connive at cloning. I didn’t think Bunny’s brother would terrorize an old lady into giving up her shares. Or that Pedar would have Bunny assassinated to get a Ministry.”

“We’re not answering each other’s questions,” Miranda said. “And I think that’s probably wise. But I will remind you of that old, old rule.”

“Which one?”

“A lady is never rude . . . by accident.” Miranda put a dollop of honey in her cup, then sipped the tea. “I needed that.”

“Sticking a blade into someone’s brain and stirring goes beyond mere rudeness.” Cecelia felt grumpy. She was sure she knew what had happened—or part of it—and yet Miranda wasn’t reacting as she should.

“That’s true,” Miranda said. “But the rule applies in other situations as well. Cecelia, if you’re going to make a fuss, please do so.”

“You’re not even asking me not to . . .”

“No. Your decisions are yours, as mine are mine.”

“What are you going to tell your children?”

“That Pedar died in a fencing accident. They have brains, Cecelia, and imagination; they will put on it what construction they please.”

Cecelia ate another jam-filled tart, and stared out the window again. After a long silence, she said, “I suppose it sends a message to Hobart . . .”

“I hope so,” Miranda said.