“No idea what you’re talking about!” said the turkey-necked oldster at the head of the table. “But it’s good news all the same.”
“Yes, well.” Oliver, Earl Hjorth, pulled a chair out for her. She lowered herself into it gratefully. “I gather our number one problem has been removed from the map by our number two problem. Or is that a slight oversimplification?”
“Very probably.” The possibly newly promoted Earl Riordan put down the document he’d been studying and stared at her, his blue eyes cold as a mountain lake in winter. “If you don’t mind waiting, milady, we are expecting one more participant, in a nonexecutive capacity.”
“Oh?” Iris asked, as the door opened again.
“Hi, everybody! Am I late? Oh! Iris! How are you? . . .”
Olga seemed flustered, but happy to see her—as indeed she should be. Iris suppressed a smile. “No time for social niceties, child! We have a meeting to start.”
“Yes.” Riordan raised an eye at her. “And what delayed you, my dear?”
“A traffic accident.” Olga’s smile vanished. “Fatal. On Route 95.”
“Ah.” Iris glanced sideways as Oliver scribbled something on his notepad.
“Well, we’re all here now,” Iris commented. “Aside from the absentees. So if you’d care to start? I assume you have an agenda in mind?”
“Yes.” Riordan’s cheek twitched. “Let’s see: attending . . . everyone on the list, yes. Apologies, none. Absent due to death: Henryk Wu-Thorold, Peffer Hjorth, Mors Hjalmar, Erik Herzog, Lars Thorold. Scheisse . . . New attendees include Patricia Thorold-Hjorth, Oliver Hjorth replacing Mors Hjalmar, Olga Thorold replacing myself, myself deputizing for Angbard Lofstrom. We are quorate—just barely. The agenda—look under your notepad, it probably got covered up. If you don’t mind, as we’re starting late, I’d like to begin by calling Lady ven Thorold to report on the current medical prognosis of the principal security officer. Then we’ll proceed onto matters arising and work out where we go from there. Olga?”
“Oh. Right.” Olga looked almost comically blank for a moment, then reached into her handbag to remove a day planner bulging with notes. “To recap, the duke has been in the high dependency unit for six days now, and he isn’t dead. He’s even showing some signs of awareness and trying to communicate. That’s the good news. The bad news is, he isn’t getting any better. Let me just go over what Dr. Benford told me. . . .”
She rattled on for almost ten minutes. “He is much the same,” she concluded. “His recovery is slow, and he betrays holes in his memory. He has trouble with names, and his left arm is still very weak.”
She put her day planner down and leaned back in her chair, looking almost bored. Well, she’s had longer to adjust to this than the rest of us, Iris considered. Beneath the blond mop—and Olga could play the blond airhead role for all it was worth when she wanted to—there was a very sharp young mind. She doesn’t think he’s coming back. Iris suppressed a pang of horror. Oh my brother, why did you have to do this to us now, of all times?
“In short, his grace is unlikely to join Sky Father in his halls this month, but he will probably not be issuing orders in the short term. We may hope that he will recover sufficiently to conduct his private affairs, and possibly even to resume the leadership of Security—but this is likely to take months, or years.” She leaned back and crossed her arms, tired and defensive. “All yours, cuz.”
“If I may interrupt?” Julius sat up slightly. Oh, come on—Iris bit back on her response. Julius had always had a sharp mind behind that slightly vague façade; as one of the last of the elder generation of power brokers still standing, he called for a certain wary respect—but he also had a tendency towards unhurried meandering, which had grown worse in recent years.
“You have the floor.” Riordan nodded and made a note on his pad. The cassette recorder at his left hand was turning, red LED steady: Preparing the minutes would be a sensitive job.
“Thank you. As chair of the Council of Families, I would like to note on the record that in view of the current emergency, we cannot allow the seat of principal security officer to remain empty. I therefore propose that until the duke reclaims his throne, or until the council of families votes to replace him, Earl-Major Riordan should continue to execute security policy in his stead. As for the direction of that policy, I believe the best way of ensuring impartiality is to place it in the hands of a committee. Such as this one, assembled as it is to evaluate the situation—I believe all interests are adequately represented? Earl Hjorth?” He turned to Iris. “Your grace?”
Oliver was staring at her, too. Iris nodded slowly, gathering her thoughts. “It could fly. But you’ve missed someone out,” she said after a moment. “And I want to see some limits. . . . Six months, or the death of a member, and it goes to an emergency session of the full council, not just this security subcommittee.”
Oliver was nodding, but Riordan looked irritated. “An emergency session could be difficult to arrange—”
“Nonsense. This is a policy committee, not the executive. You have an emergency? You handle it. But for policy—we have differences.” Oliver stopped nodding. “I won’t lend my name to an office that can outlive my approval.”
“You’re talking coalition,” said Julius.
“Yes, exactly.” She winked at Oliver. “I don’t think any of us want to see a return to the old ways. Let’s not leave ourselves open to temptation.” In the old days, assassination was a not-unheard-of tool for manipulating the collective will.
Riordan cleared his throat. “You said you thought we were missing a member,” he said.
“Yes.” She picked up her water glass and took a sip. “There are two aspects to this job: How we pacify our homeland and how we deal with the American authorities. When it comes to the former, it would appear that my daughter is”—she swallowed again—“holding an extremely useful asset. And I gather the central committee”—she nodded at Julius—“have already considered her potential as a tool of state. But, speaking as one who knows her mind, I must warn you that if you think you can use her purely as a puppet you’re mistaken. She’s a sharp blade; if you don’t want to cut yourself, you’ll need to get her to wield herself. And the best way to do that is to co-opt her. Offer her a seat on this committee and listen to her input.”
“Ah.” Oliver picked up his pen, twirled it between his fingertips in thought. “Who do you propose should step down to vacate a seat for her?”
Iris saw Olga begin to open her mouth and pushed on. “I don’t. You”—she pointed at the earl—“are here to represent your circle. He”—Riordan—“is Clan Security. Julius is our council overseer; she”—she pointed at Olga, whose eyes widened—“happens to have new party sympathies”—as close to a lie as I’ve told all day—“and as for me, I’m here to make sure nobody poisons my half-brother.” Her cheek twitched. “Call me an insurance policy.” She crossed her arms and waited.
“I thought you were in favor of marrying her off? Integrating her as fast as possible,” Oliver accused.
“That was then, this is now.” Iris shrugged. And what you think has very little to do with the truth of the matter. . . . “You don’t still think I’m trying to undercut your inheritance?”
“Ach.” Oliver shook his head. “That’s of secondary importance, compared to the mess we’ve got to clean up! I am prepared to set the matter aside for a period of, say, a year and a day, then submit it to mutually agreed arbitration. In the interests of ensuring that there is a future in which I can peacefully enjoy my inheritance, you understand. If you think her claim can be made to stick—”