Thurfian smiled tightly. “Are the Aristocra that predictable?”
“The Aristocra? No.” Ba’kif matched Thurfian’s smile. “But their rivalries are.”
“I imagine so,” Thurfian conceded, lowering his eyes again to Vurawn’s records. If the boy lived up to even half of his potential, he would be a worthy addition to the Mitth family.
Once, thousands of years ago, families had been just that: groups of people bound by blood and marriage and closed to everyone else. But the inherent limitations of such a system had led to decline and stratification, and some of the patriarchs had begun experimenting with methods for absorbing outsiders that didn’t involve marriage. The result had been the current system, where likely prospects could be brought in as merit adoptives, with those who proved themselves especially worthy rising to Trial-born and possibly even ranking distant.
Vurawn certainly fit the criteria for becoming a merit adoptive. More important, if the Mitth took him the Irizi wouldn’t be able to snatch him up. One of the many family rivalries Ba’kif was no doubt thinking of when he spoke of predictability.
But even that was beside the point. The Syndicure had finally agreed to the Defense Force’s long-standing pleas to expand its capabilities and mandate, and the newly formed Expansionary Defense Fleet was the result. Its mission was to watch over Chiss interests in the parts of the Chaos extending beyond the Ascendancy’s borders, to learn who was out there and assess their level of threat.
And for once, the Aristocra had actually been generous with their military funding. The Expansionary Fleet’s new ships, bases, and support facilities were already under construction, and they were going to need all the competent officers and warriors they could get.
This Vurawn looked like someone who would fit into such a role. A man who might make a name there, both for himself and for his family.
“Fine,” he said. “Let’s go talk to him. See how he stands up to a proper interrogation.”
“I trust the compound isn’t too far away,” Vurawn said as Thurfian’s car flew swiftly across the Rentor landscape. “I’m already missing all of today’s classes. My instructors would be displeased if I missed tomorrow’s, as well.”
“You’ll be all right,” Thurfian said, hearing the strained patience in his voice. Did the boy really not understand the depth of the honor that had been bestowed upon him?
Apparently not. Attending his classes was important. Adoption into one of the Nine Ruling Families wasn’t.
Rentor wasn’t exactly a political and cultural hub, and Thurfian knew he had to make allowances for a certain degree of ignorance. Even so, such a lack of awareness set Vurawn apart from even the unsophisticated commoners around him.
Still, if Ba’kif’s assessment was correct, the boy would be heading for a military career. Politics weren’t nearly so important there.
If Vurawn was rematched to the Mitth, which was hardly yet guaranteed. Thurfian had sent in his own report, but there was still an interview to be conducted by the Councilors who oversaw Mitth interests on Rentor, followed possibly by a short meeting with the local Patriel herself if the Councilors were suitably impressed. Once all that was over, the results would be forwarded to the homestead on Csilla for final review, and only then would Vurawn learn whether or not he’d been selected to be a Mitth merit adoptive. The whole process typically took two to three months; Thurfian had seen it take as many as six—
His questis signaled. Pulling it from his pocket, he keyed it.
It was a script message. A very brief script message.
Vurawn accepted as merit adoptive.
Thurfian stared. Accepted?
Impossible. The interviews—the Patriel evaluation—the homestead review—
But there it was, staring him in the face. The process had been short-circuited by someone, and none of the usual procedures were going to matter.
In fact, none of them were now even necessary. Presumably the Patriel had received the same message, and the only thing that would happen when they reached the compound would be the brief ceremony detaching Vurawn from the Kivu family and rematching him to the Mitth.
“Is there trouble?” Vurawn asked.
“No, nothing,” Thurfian said, putting the questis back in his pocket. So on the strength of Thurfian’s own interrogation, plus perhaps the boy’s school records and evaluations, he was accepted?
That made no sense. Impressive though the boy might be, there still had to be more to it. Clearly, someone high up in the family had been keeping watch on Thurfian’s mission today. That same someone had apparently also been following Vurawn’s life and had already decided that taking him was in the Mitth’s best interests.
So if the decision had already been made, why had Thurfian been sent to do an interview in the first place? Surely his recommendation didn’t hold that much weight with the homestead.
Of course it didn’t. Thurfian had been sent here to help cover the fact that Vurawn had already been selected for rematching. Pure politics, because with the Nine Families, it was always about politics.
He frowned, his thoughts belatedly catching up with him. He hadn’t reacted in any way when he received the message—he’d been an Aristocra and political creature long enough to know how to keep emotions like surprise out of his face and voice. Yet somehow Vurawn had recognized that the message had been disturbing enough to inquire about it.
He eyed the boy again. That kind of observational skill wasn’t common. Maybe there was more there than he’d realized. Some spark that would someday bring honor and glory to himself and his family.
Apparently someone at the homestead thought so, too, and that someone had determined that the family on the receiving end of that glory would be the Mitth.
There was still the question of whether or not the boy would be sent to the Taharim Academy. But with Vurawn’s unidentified benefactor pulling the strings, Thurfian expected that would also be a foregone conclusion.
He scowled at the landscape racing past beneath them. He didn’t like being manipulated. He very much didn’t like proper and time-honored procedures being thrown out the window on someone’s whim.
But he was an Aristocra of the Mitth, and it wasn’t his job to approve or disapprove of his family’s decisions. His job was merely to do the tasks he was given.
Perhaps someday that would change.
“No, no trouble,” he said. “I just received word that you’ve been accepted.”
Vurawn turned widened eyes on him. “Already?”
“Yes,” Thurfian confirmed, secretly enjoying the other’s confusion. So he could be surprised. And at least he knew enough politics to recognize the unusual nature of the situation. “We’ll presumably go through the ceremony when we reach the compound.”
“As a merit adoptive, I assume?”
So the kid also knew something about the Ruling Families. “That’s where everyone starts,” Thurfian told him. “If and when you go through the Trials, you’ll move up to Trial-born.”
“And then ranking distant,” Vurawn said thoughtfully.
Thurfian huffed out a silent breath. That, at least, would never happen. Not to someone from such an insignificant family. “Perhaps. For now, just start getting used to the name Mitth’raw’nuru.”
“Yes,” the boy murmured.
Thurfian studied him out of the corner of his eye. The boy might bring glory to the Mitth, the way Ba’kif thought. He might just as easily bring shame and regret. That was how the universe operated.
But either way, it was done.
Vurawn was no more. In his place now stood Thrawn.