Denys was behind the desk, on the phone—with Security, by what it sounded. Ari collected herself with a breath. "That's fine," she said, when Catlin whisked a chair to her back; she took off her gloves and her jacket, gave them to Catlin and sat down as Denys hung up the phone.
"Well, sera," Denys said, "we have the result of your baulking Security at Planys."
"Where is Jordan?"
"Under arrest at Planys. He and his companion. Damn him!"
"Mmmn, Justinis accounted for."
"Are you certain?"
"Quite. Justinis the one I want to talk to you about."
"Ser," Florian said when they had let him in, Florian in House uniform and without his coat, so Florian and therefore probably Ari had had time, Justin reckoned, to come in next door first.
But it made him anxious that it was not a call over the Minder, or a summons to Ari's apartment or her offices, just a Minder-call at the door, Florian asking entry.
And the vid still showed nothing on the news channel except that single logo.
"There's been an incident," Florian said, preface, and in the half-second of Florian's next breath: O God,Justin thought, something's happened to Ari;and was bewildered in the same half-second, that the fear included her, her welfare, which was linked with their own. "Your father," Florian said, and fears jolted altogether into another track, "—has gotten a message to the Centrists, claiming innocence."
"Of what?"Justin asked, still tracking on incident,not making sense of it.
"Of killing Dr. Emory, ser."
He stood there, he did not know how long, in a state of shock, wanting to think so, wanting to think—
— but, my God, during Giraud's funeral—what's he doing? What's going on?
"We don't know all the details yet," Florian said. "Sera doesn't want to admit to ser Denys just how far her surveillance extends, please understand that, ser, but she does know that your father is safe at the moment. She's asking you, please, ser, understand that there's extreme danger—to you, to her, to your father, no matter whether this is true or false: the announcement has political consequences that may be very dangerous, I don't know if I need explain them. ..."
"God." Art's safety. Everything—He raked a hand through his hair, felt Grant's hand on his shoulder. Florian—seemed older, somehow, his face utterly without the humor that was so characteristic of him, like a mask dropped, finally, time sent reeling. . . . Could it be true?
"She wants you to pack a small bag, ser. Sera's interim staff is on the way up to this floor, and sera asks Grant to stay here and put himself under their orders. . . ."
"Pack for where?"
Separate us? God, no.
"Sera wants you to go with her to Novgorod—to defuse this matter. To speak to the press. She wants to take the politics out of the question—for your father's sake, as much as her own. Do you understand, ser? There'll be a small question-and-answer at Reseune airport; that's safest. She's asking a meeting with Councillor Corain and Secretary Lynch. She earnestly hopes you won't fail her in this—"
"My God. God, Grant—" What do I do?
But Grant had no answers. CITs are all crazy,Grant would say.
Ari's out of her mind. Takeme to Novgorod? They don't dare.
Theyneed me. That's the game. My father under arrest. They want me to call him a liar.
Reseune Security doesn't need to kill him. They can use drugs. It takes time.
Time I can buy them to operate on him— Would Ari—do this to us? Would Florian be here without her orders?
In front of those cameras—if I get that far— How can they stop me from any charges I can make?
Grant.
Grant—being here, in Ari's keeping. That's what they're offering me— Grant's sanity—or my father's.
He looked up into Grant's face—far calmer, he thought, than his own, Grant's un-fluxed logic probably understanding there was no choice in his own situation.
I have faith in my makers.
"Grant comes with me," he said to Florian.
"No, ser," Florian said. "I have definite instructions. Please, pack just the essentials. Everything will be inspected. Grant will be safe here, with sera Amy. There will be Security: Quentin AQ is very competent, and sera Amy will have her friends for help here. No way will any general Security come onto this floor or interfere with the systems. No way will sera Amy do anything to harm Grant."
A gifted eighteen-year-old, with a thin, earnest face and a tendency to go at problems head-on: an eighteen-year-old who, he had always thought, liked him and Grant. Honest. And sensible as an eighteen-year-old had any likelihood of being.
God, they allwere. "It's a damn Children's Crusade," he said, and caught Grant's arm. "Do what they say. It'll be all right."
"No," he said in front of the cameras, in the lounge at Reseune airport. "No, I haven't been in contact with my father. I hope to get a call through—when we get to Novgorod. It's the middle of their night. They—" He tried, desperately, not to look nervous: Don't look guilty,Ari had said, before they left the bus. Don't look like you're hiding anything. You can be very frank with them, but for God's sake think about the political ramifications when you do it. Be very careful about making charges of your own, they can only muddy things up, and we have to rely on uncle Denys—we can't offend him, hear me?
"My father—is in Detention at the moment," he said, finding the pace of things too much, the dark areas too extensive. The truth seemed easier to sort out than lies were, if one kept it to a minimum. "All I can tell you—" No. Canmeant dangerous things. "All I know how to tell you—is that there's an inquiry. My father told me—at the time it happened—exactly what he told the Council. But there were things going on at the time—that might have been a reason. That's why I'm going to Novgorod. I don't know—Ari herself doesn't know—who's telling the truth now. I want to find out. Reseune Administration wants to find out."
"I can assure you," Ari said, beside him, "I have a very strong motive for wanting to know the truth in this case."
"Question for Dr. Warrick. Are you presently under any coercion?"
"No," Justin said firmly.
"You are a PR. Are you—in any way—more than that?"
He shook his head. "Standard PR. Nothing extraordinary."
"Have you ever been subject to intervention?" He had not expected that question. He froze on it, then said: "Psychprobe is an intervention. I was part of the investigation. There were a lot of them." They would question his sanity for that reason; and his reliability. He knew that. It would cast doubt on his license for clinical practice and cast a shadow on his research. He knew that too. The whole thing took on a nightmarish quality, the lights, the half-ring of reporters. He became quite placid, quite cold. "There was an illicit intervention when I was a minor. I've been treated for that. I'm not presently under drugs; I'm not operating under anyone's intervention. I'm concerned about my father and I'm anxious to get to Novgorod and answer whatever questions Council may have: I'm most concerned about my father's welfare—"