For an hour now, the Members had streamed in past uniformed guards and weapons checks and more guards and more weapons checks. The lines extended across the lobby, out the tall front doors, down the steps, to the sidewalk where yet more limousines disgorged yet more Members. A light rain brushed the steps with one slick layer after another, and those who had not expected a wait got damp and grumpy.
Cecelia watched her sister and brother-in-law climb up the steps. She, Heris, Meharry, and Ginese were part of a thin crowd held back by a chain attached to a movable post. From the chain a little tin sign dangled, with the words “Members Only Past This Point.” Across from them, on the far side of the entrance steps, another such chain restrained another small clump of observers.
“When are you going?” Heris asked.
“After Lorenza. I want to be sure she’s here.”
“What if she doesn’t attend?”
“Oh, she will. She may not take her own Chair, but she always attends her brother. There—that’s theirs—” Cecelia started to look down, then remembered she didn’t look anything like the Cecelia Lorenza would recognize. They had docked the yacht over on Rockhouse Minor, where Bunny’s shuttle retrieved them. There would have been gossip, of course, but Livadhi, at Heris’s suggestion, had docked at the Fleet terminal at Rockhouse Major, and complained loudly to his fellow officers that “that bitch Serrano” had disappeared again.
Cecelia watched as the portly Crown Minister—when had Piercy gained all that weight?—climbed out and offered his arm to Lorenza. She, at least, had prepared for a wait, in a pretty ice-blue raincoat. Piercy had an umbrella; Cecelia felt her lip curling. If you couldn’t stand a bit of rain, then carry a personal shield, not an ostentatious umbrella. That was carrying the fashion for antiquity too far. Piercy held the umbrella over Lorenza’s head; she looked out from under it with catlike smugness. Cecelia realized she was trembling only when Heris touched her hand. Rage filled her; she could hear that voice whispering in her ear . . . how had she not known who it was? How could she not leap over the chain and strangle that smug little tramp?
Lorenza looked around, as if for admiration. Cecelia stood straight, watching her; their eyes met. Lorenza frowned a little, shook her head minutely, and went on up the steps to the tail of the line. Half a dozen more Members got in line; Cecelia shifted her feet.
“Let’s go.”
“It’s too close,” Meharry said. “She’ll see you—she’ll start trying to remember—”
“Let her!” Cecelia was breathing deeply as if before a race. Heris gripped her hand.
“Milady, we’re with you. You have allies; you know that. Don’t let her shake your resolution. Even if she does look like the worst insipid tea biscuit I ever saw.”
That got a grim chuckle; Cecelia felt her tension ease. “All right. But not much longer.”
“No, not much longer.” They waited until Lorenza and her brother were near the top of the steps, when the guards at the door recognized them and swept them inside ahead of the others. “Now,” Heris said. They stepped around the barrier, and Cecelia clipped her Member badge to her coat. The others put on the ID tags Bunny had arranged; Members could bring their personal assistants, as long as none carried weapons. Heris wasn’t worried; Meharry and Ginese were weapons.
Most of the delegates had arrived; the line moved faster. At the door, Cecelia moved into the Members Booth for an ID check. The others, with staff IDs, went through without incident. Cecelia came out of the booth and found them waiting. Now, in the lobby, out of the rain, she could hear the steady sound of all those people talking. She felt weak at the knees. She had been alone so long . . . and then with a few friends . . . and now, to face that crowd . . . she had always hated public speaking. She felt the others close in.
“All right, milady?” Heris asked.
“All right. I just—I’m fine.” The line they were in snaked slowly forward. She could see in the door at last . . . it had been decades since she’d attended a Grand Council. When she’d been a young woman, first eligible for a Chair, it had been a thrill . . . later a bore . . . later something she delegated to a proxy without a second thought. Now that earlier awe struck her again. That tall dome spangled with stars, those dark polished Tables, each with its Chairs of red leather, all symbols of power that had kept her safe and wealthy all these years, and then had nearly killed her. Across the chamber, as she came to the door, she saw the king on his throne. He stared out, seeming to see no one.
Her family Table had moved since the last time she’d attended; Tables were drawn by lot every other Council. Now it was midway down the right side of the left aisle, almost directly across from the Speaker’s Table. A page led them to it, and checked Cecelia’s ID again before handing her to her Chair. The Chair itself required her to insert her Member card . . . a precaution resulting from the behavior of a speedy young man who had once managed to vote two Chairs by flitting from one to another while a long roll-call vote dragged on. With the card in place, the screen before her lit. Only then did she look around. Her sister Berenice, two Chairs down, stared at her, white-faced, then glanced at her companions and turned even whiter. Ronnie, at the foot of the Table, started and then grinned happily. Gustav would be at his family’s Table; Cecelia had no idea where it was now.
“Good to see you again,” Cecelia said. They had not told Berenice; they had not told anyone. Berenice’s shock was almost vengeance enough for her treatment of Heris.
“You’re—you had—”
“Rejuv, yes. Just as you did.” Cecelia smiled. “Where’s Abelard?”
“Probably having a last drink,” Berenice said. Abelard, their oldest surviving brother, always came late. Ronnie looked as if he were bursting with glee and news both. Cecelia gave him a look she hoped would quell him. They already knew what he knew; Bunny had told her. She looked around. Kevil Mahoney was in his Chair, with George beside him. Bunny, his brothers, and his sons were already seated; Brun, a year too young for her own Chair, crouched beside her mother at another Table. She was scanning the chamber, looking . . . and she saw Cecelia. A grin spread over her face; Cecelia gave a little nod. Now . . . to find Lorenza. The Crown Ministers sat together, at two Tables to either side of the throne . . . but when she found Piercy, leaning back to hand a file to a page, she did not see Lorenza’s gold head anywhere near. She let her eyes rove the chamber, but it was Meharry who spotted her.
A nudge—Cecelia leaned over and Meharry murmured, “Top tier, near the right aisle.” Cecelia turned casually. There. The ice-blue raincoat had been slung carelessly over the back of a neighboring Chair—unlike the precise Lorenza. But there she was, leaning over to talk to someone else Cecelia couldn’t see. Whose Family was that? Not Lorenza’s certainly . . . Lorenza’s mother had been a Sturinscough, and her aunt Lucrezia should be heading that Table. So she was, an upright old tyrant in black lace whom no amount of rejuvenation could soften . . . maybe, thought Cecelia, it runs in the family.
So why was Lorenza back with the Buccleigh-Vandormers? True, people sometimes got permission to sit in other Chairs—if they had physical problems, if they planned to leave early—ah. Cecelia felt her smile widening to a dangerous grin. Let her leave . . . let her try to escape. It wouldn’t do her any good.