Brun scowled. “I wonder if dear Uncle Harlis had anything to do with the assassination.”
“No, dear. It was not Harlis.” That came out with more emphasis than she intended, and Brun looked at her with dawning comprehension.
“Mother—you know something? You know who did it?”
“I know it wasn’t Harlis.” Damn, she’d have to figure out something, or Brun would go charging off, straight into danger again.
“You don’t believe it was the NewTex—?”
“No. Although that’s still the official line, I do not.”
“Then who?”
“Brun, I am not having this conversation with you. Not now, at least. We need to talk about your father’s family, and their probable actions, and some of the other economic matters. These things must be dealt with now. Your father’s murderers . . . can wait.”
“The trail—”
“Will never be too cold. Brun, please. For once in your life listen to me—we must be careful.”
Brun had blanched at that; the muscles along her jaw bunched. “I want to go to the Guernesi Republic.”
“No. I need you here.”
“For what, an exhibition?”
“No, for an ally. If we are to defend our position, we must all help. Your sisters are already busy—up to their eyeballs in their family responsibilities, but trying to line up support. Buttons and Sarah are both working flat out. I need help, someone whose loyalty is undoubted—I need you.”
“Oh . . .” Brun looked past her, into some distance Miranda could not imagine.
“You were willing enough to help Cecelia,” she said, and hated the sharpness in her voice.
“You really need me?” Brun asked.
Miranda gave her a sharp look. “Of course—no, let me say that more precisely. Yes, I need you. No one else can do what you can; no one else in the family has the training and experience.”
“You’re serious . . . but you’ve never needed me. I’m just the troublemaker . . .” Still, an uncertain note had come into her voice.
“No. You’re the one who can survive trouble. Brun, please—help me.”
Brun’s face twisted. “I don’t know if I can . . .”
“You can if you will,” Miranda said firmly. “I want to find who murdered your father, and who is trying to dismantle the Familias Regnant, and for what purpose. I am not sure they are the same person or organization, but they might well be.”
Brun watched her perfect, serene, immaculate mother with amazement. For her whole life, she had seen her mother as the icon everyone thought her. Her father was the active one, the doer and maker and shaper of events. Her mother smoothed his way by smiling and standing by.
Now she saw the real person behind the label of “mother” and “Bunny Thornbuckle’s wife” . . . a woman as intelligent, tough and knowledgeable as her father had ever been. As dangerous, perhaps, as Lorenza had been. From the gleam in Miranda’s eye, her mother had just noticed that recognition, and was enjoying the surprise.
“I made no mistake, picking Brun Meager for my nom de guerre,” Brun said, testing her hypothesis.
Her mother smiled. “Quite so. I’m glad you recognize it. Now—are you with me?”
“Yes. If I can . . .”
“You can. Not all at once, but—let me go on here. I warned your father, after that disgraceful affair on Patchcock, to beware of his relatives doing what that Morrelline woman did. Granted, her brothers deserved it, but others could do the same with less reason. He was sure he had it taken care of, in part because old Viktor Barraclough had always been his friend and mentor. But about the time of the Xavier invasion, he and Kevil found irregularities . . . purchases of company shares they couldn’t put a name to, changes in some of the boards of directors which didn’t make sense. The military crisis had to come first, of course; and after that, with proof of traitors in Fleet, they were far more concerned with that, and with Grand Council business. But what it’s come down to is that Harlis has enough shares, and enough votes in various boards, that he can make a plausible case that much of your father’s estate was actually not his personally. I think he’d fiddled the files, but I haven’t had time to work on it. And I can’t do it here.”
“Could you do it at Appledale?”
“Not really . . . I need to go to Sirialis; that’s where we stored the backup data. Your father thought I was paranoid, sometimes, but I insisted that we take a complete readoff every half-year, and just archive it. I think that’s why Harlis is so determined to get Sirialis; he suspects that the data are there somewhere.”
“Then you should go to Sirialis,” Brun said. “He can’t keep you away, can he?”
“Not yet. But I couldn’t leave you alone here—”
Brun interrupted. “You wanted my help; let me give it. Nothing’s likely to happen at the next Grand Council meeting anyway; they’re probably still in shock, and they’ll waffle for days.”
“I’m not so sure; that Conselline fellow got himself elected interim Speaker—”
“Whatever happens can’t matter as much as stopping Harlis. Go on. I’ll attend the Council meeting, and let you know what happens. Promise.” Brun reached over and patted her mother’s arm. “We aren’t going to let Harlis take everything, and we aren’t going to let some idiot Conselline ruin the Familias. If that’s what’s happening.”
Her mother gave her an appraising look. “Sometimes, Brun, you are remarkably like your father.”
“Sorry . . .”
“No. Don’t be. All right—first we’ll clear out of this—” With a wave of her arm, she indicated the entire Palace. “Then I’ll go to Sirialis.”
Cecelia stopped on the way to the hospital to contact her hotel, and reassure the front staff that the two young women and two children were the individuals she had authorized to register in her name. Another two bedrooms? No problem. Cecelia grinned to herself; she had been so wise to invest in a hotel here on Castle Rock, rather than depending on the hospitality of friends.
When she got to the hospital, she was told that she had just missed George. She went upstairs, and stood in the corridor outside Special Care, looking at the motionless form in the bed.
He looked wretched, she thought; she wondered if she had looked as bad. He wasn’t conscious, they told her; they were still struggling to control the pressure on his brain, and he was deeply sedated except for weekly checks of neurological function. Cecelia blinked back tears, remembering herself in that drug-induced coma . . . wondering if Kevil were more conscious than they realized . . . and silently promised him she would return and get him out of there, no matter what. She found it hard to leave, but she had something even more urgent to do.
At the Laurels, she stopped at the concierge’s desk to ask for assistance in leasing a yacht. The Laurels expected such requests; it took only a moment for the concierge to connect Cecelia to the booking agent for Allsystems Leasing.
Her inspiration had been her nephew Ronnie. Ronnie and Raffaele, as newlyweds, had taken off for the frontier—to Excet-24, a world newly opened to colonization. Cecelia hoped it would have a more euphonious name before it qualified for full membership in the Familias. At last report, Ronnie and Raffa had no children yet, but were “hoping.” Cecelia wasn’t sure who was hoping—the young people or their parents—but she remembered Raffa’s problem-solving abilities, and was sure that Raffa could find the boys a good home if she didn’t want them herself.
But this meant a long trip—six weeks at least. She discussed the route with the leasing agent, and ordered the Premium Platinum package of consumables. She didn’t mind doing Bunny’s family this service, but why should she suffer for it? She wanted fresh food again.