The Serrano Succession (18 page)

"Yes, but what does this have to do with rejuvenation drugs and rejuv psychosis?"

"Not much—but you need to know that, to understand some recent decisions by the Family Council, which will affect everything from the contracts we take to the way we select crew. The Family Council hadn't paid much attention to your report from Zenebra about the NewTex saboteurs there, but now they consider that the NewTex forms a possible serious threat to Terakian Shipping specifically, because of the way we have been casual about picking up replacement crew. And because you and Basil caught that agent on Zenebra. There's also concern about spies in shipping agents' staffs. They're convinced that the raiders knew about the
Elias Madero
's deviation from its filed flight plan."

Goonar snorted. "I'd say half the merchanters who work in that area know about that shortcut."

"No more. At least, not Terakian ships. We're restricted from anything but green-lined routes—"

"That'll put paid to our fast-courier service—"

"Yes, but we won't be subject to piracy. At least not that kind of piracy."

"So—what about this rejuvenation stuff? I still think we need to suck some data off the financial ansibles—"

"We have. I'm not sure what it all means, though." Laisa handed him several cubes. "That one's from Benedictus, and this one's Caskadar three weeks ago. We'll suck it again on the way out."

"Where are we going?"

"Where God and the Fathers will. I haven't been told yet."

Goonar settled down to data analysis. While the price of rejuv drugs had bounced up and down with every rumor of contamination or scarcity, the price of the raw materials had been growing . . . slowly at first . . . since the Patchcock mess. Somebody was buying the stuff, in quantity. Rejuv drugs used some of the same raw materials as many other pharmaceuticals, but some were unique to that process. He highlighted them—the prices rose steadily. So . . . somebody was buying, and presumably using the raw materials to make the finished drugs, for which they had—or expected to have—a market.

He kept digging, paused to eat, slept awhile, and woke to Laisa's call. "We have the new squirt."

He rubbed his eyes and groaned. "And a destination, O beauteous one?"

"Marfalk."

Marfalk. An obscure world; he'd heard the name but knew nothing about it. "How long?"

"Eight days, about."

"I'm going back to sleep."

But he didn't sleep; the new data he hadn't seen kept him awake. Finally he rolled out of the bunk, muttering curses in four languages, and punched it in.

"You didn't tell me you intercepted a memo," he said to Laisa over the shipcom.

"You were sleepy," she said.

"Not now." It had been encrypted, but
Flavor
's systems were designed to handle all the standard commercial encryption schemata. Under the first level of encryption was another—as usual, simpler. The decryption machine made short work of that, too. Then, finally, the code. Goonar looked at it, and let his mind freewheel. Whose code was it? Something about it looked familiar . . . then it came to him. Conselline senior family branch. His breath came short. "Laisa . . . do we have a code chip for Conselline senior branch?"

"Not on board. Is that what you think you've got?"

"Looks like it. We can start running it past the other chips, but I'm betting on that one." He tipped his head one way, then the other. The Conselline memo looked almost readable as it was, but he knew that was deceptive. Nothing was ever that simple. Then the pattern popped out at him, as if someone had outlined words in red ink.

Brun called the Mahoney residence and, for a wonder, George answered.

"George—it's Brun."

"Oh . . . if you want my father, he's still not—"

"No, I know that. I was after you."

"Brun, I'm sorry I didn't come to see you after your father—I mean, I've been so busy with Dad in the hospital—"

"I know, George. I'm not upset; I just need to talk to you."

"Um . . . I should tell you, I've been going out with your cousin." George, of all people, sounded embarrassed. And what did this have to do with his father's injuries, her father's assassination, or the political situation? Still, she knew what to do with that opening.

"Seriously?"

"Looks that way. We're both in law school."

"Which cousin?" Brun had a sudden cold worry that this was the leak through which Harlis had gained information.

"Not Harlis's—Jessamine's."

Her mother's sister's child. The one she had dismissed so blithely back on Sirialis, the first year the girl came for hunting. "Sydney?"

George laughed. "No, that's her older sister. This is Veronica. What did you want, Brun?"

"Information, of course. Where is everyone in our crowd, and what's going on. Since I got back . . . things have happened too fast, and you're the only one here I can ask without getting a lecture."

"Ronnie and Raffa are off pioneering—you knew that, didn't you?"

"Yes, though I still think they're crazy. Do you know where?"

"Some dismal colony world; I can look it up if you want. I send mail via the Development Office—rather, I did at first, but they don't answer. What with law school—"

"Never mind, George. I hope your father's better soon."

"It's—he's not like himself at all, Brun. I remember when you were getting Lady Cecelia out . . . I never realized what it's like when someone you know doesn't even seem to recognize you. And he can't talk; he just makes these noises—"

She didn't want to think about that. She couldn't, and stay reasonable.

"George, I'm so sorry. If it's all right, I'll call again—we should stay in touch."

"All right." He sounded tired, worried, miserable. Brun felt guilty for a moment, but then turned her mind to the more pressing problem of finding out what was going on in politics. She still didn't expect anything much to happen in the Grand Council meeting, but it was always better to be prepared. She checked the directory her mother had left with her, frowning as one name after another came up absent. Apparently a lot of people thought nothing much was going to happen, and had not bothered to stay on Castle Rock and find out.

Brun slipped her card into the slot, unlocking her chair's displays and communications, and settled into her chair. Aside from the formal presentation, when she became old enough to have a Seat, she had not been to any meetings, and none of her dreams in the years since had involved taking part in a routine Council meeting.

At the far end of their Family table, her uncle Harlis glowered at her, then leaned over to speak to her cousin Kell. Well, she already knew she could expect no help from him. She smiled, trying for the serenity that had always been her mother's trademark.

The Ministers straggled in, no longer in the formal robes she remembered—when had they quit wearing them? Had her father put an end to it?

Hobart Conselline stood at the Speaker's podium. Brun blinked, surprised. The Conselline family had lost ground in the wake of the Patchcock scandal, because the Morrellines were in their sept. Even though no one could prove that the Consellines had known about it, other Families had taken advantage of the opportunity to take market share from the largest and wealthiest of the septs. When had they regained their influence? And what did it mean? She skimmed the minutes of the emergency meeting after her father's death.

As she adjusted the viewer to bring each face into focus, she noticed something odd. To the Speaker's right, the Ministers' faces expressed suppressed glee mingled with impatience and even anger. To his left, the faces seemed lifeless, sodden with despair.

What was going on? She looked around for anyone she knew, who might give her a clue, but she had been away too long. The seating arrangements had rotated again; no one was where she expected. She called up the seating chart. No one—wait—Sarah's older sister Linnet had a chair one row over and four up. She entered the callcode, and her own name. The screen lit, and letters appeared.
Good to have you back, Brun.

Thanks,
she entered, then glanced at Linnet, who smiled and nodded.
Any idea what's going on today?

Yes, but I won't put it onscreen. We'll talk at the break.

That was clear as mud. Brun glanced over; Linnet nodded again, this time without smiling. Well . . . she would have to figure it out for herself. She referred again to the desk's databank. The unhappy Ministers first . . . her father's appointees, she realized by the dates. The longest in office, Foreign Affairs, Cabby DeLancre. Minor family, but a good solid man she knew her father respected. Defense, Irion Solinari. Another minor family—her father had long promoted the view that minor families should take their turn in major roles. The Clerk-Minister, Emilie Sante-Foin, who supervised the clerical staff.

The gleeful ones were all new. Her father had appointed one, at the Council meeting just before his death: Elory Sa-Consell, Legislative Affairs. A Conselline, but one Kevil had recommended—she'd found that in her father's papers. The others had been appointed at the emergency session held immediately after her father's death. A new Minister of Internal Security, to replace Pauli de Marktos, who had obviously just failed in his duty, and whose offer to resign had been accepted so swiftly: Bristar Anston Conselline. A new Legal Advisor, replacing Kevil Mahoney: Sera Vesell. Born a Conselline, Brun noted with a quick flick of the data to the bio section. Judicial Affairs: instead of Clari Whitlow, who had held the post since before Kemtre's abdication, Norum Radsin, whom even Brun had heard of as a troublemaker in the legal profession. Colonial Affairs: Davor Vraimont.

So . . . it looked like a Conselline coup. In that case, why was her uncle looking so complacent? Did he not see it, or had he known already?

The excitement started before the meeting. Kemtre Altmann, the former king, came forward to stand in front of the Table. He had evidently rejuved again since she'd seen him last; he looked smooth and healthy, with only a decorative streak of white in his hair, though there was still the faint suggestion of a drooping eagle to his posture. Shocked murmurs followed him, and finally died away.

"I yield the floor to our beloved former king," Harlis Conselline in a voice that practically dripped butter.

"Thank you," Kemtre said. "I just want to ask you all to put the realm—the Familias—first, as you think about the issues before us. There's been a lot of dissension, a lot of anger, a lot of conflict among us—"

There had? Brun had heard nothing of it from her father in their brief time together, but perhaps he had concealed it from her.

"We need to think about the good of the whole Familias Regnant," Kemtre was saying. "In the face of all the threats to our stability, we must not fall prey to internal bickering. The welfare of all is more important than any petty personal grievances."

From somewhere behind, Brun heard an angry exclamation. Across the chamber, a man stood up and yelled "Don't
you
start, Viktor!"

Brun scrabbled at the databank controls trying to figure out who these people were, even as Kemtre bowed and made his way back up the aisle to a sprinkling of applause, clearly stronger in some areas than others. Viktor—that had to be Viktor Barraclough, a distant relative, the eldest of the elder branch of the Sept, though not the elected head of the Family—and the other man—she looked again at the seating chart. Alfred Sebastian Morelline-Contin.

Political instincts she had not known she possessed told her the whole thing was a setup . . . Hobart Conselline had pulled a coup, and Kemtre appealed for unity because he knew there was none. And her uncle Harlis was not surprised or dismayed, as he should have been when a rival Family grabbed so much power, which meant that he had known ahead of time. He had been bought, with what coin she thought she knew.

Contested inheritances were heard in the Court of Wills, and the Minister of Judicial Affairs had the right to appoint justices to that court. Hobart's new Minister had promised Harlis a deal.

Rage blurred her vision a moment, as Hobart stood up and began speaking . . . something about this sad occasion, and the need for clear direction. Hobart's voice had an unpleasant tone—monotonous and yet insistent—which made it hard to listen to the sense of what he was saying. Brun's mind drifted to the odd division of expressions on the Ministers' faces. She had never missed Kevil more. He would have known why Emilie Sante-Foin glowered and Davor Vraimont smirked. With a few low-voiced phrases, he could have made clear the relationship between Vraimont Industrial Arts and the opportunities implicit in being the Colonial Affairs Minister.

Buttons came down the long aisle to the table; Harlis glared, and Buttons nodded. Then he smiled at Brun, with the weary amity of someone who is too exhausted to fight.