"I'm sorry business kept me away—" he murmured.
"It's not your fault," Brun said. "Someone had to keep things going. I'm glad you did."
He looked surprised at that. What had he thought she'd say? Scold him for not rushing to her side?
"Have you seen the agenda?"
"No—it wasn't posted. Mother said it was, but I couldn't find it."
"What are you whispering about?" Harlis said in a harsh voice. "It's almost time for the meeting." He looked as confident as Buttons had looked worried, and his gaze passed over Brun with none of the affection he had once lavished on her younger self. She doubted she could flirt him into her camp now. His son Kell leered at her, the sneer on his face making clear what he was thinking about.
"My brother and I were exchanging greetings," Brun said. "Do you have a problem with that?"
Buttons laid a hand on her wrist; she ignored it.
"Well, he should have come earlier," Harlis said.
"You never came at all," Brun said, deliberately misinterpreting the temporal cue.
"I was at the funeral!" Harlis said, more loudly; other heads turned to look at him, and Hobart Conselline paused in his speech, glaring.
"I wasn't talking about the funeral," Brun said, her voice deliberately lower. "Before. When I first got home."
"Wasn't any need," Harlis muttered, flushing.
Brun merely looked at him, until the gavel banged on the podium and the bell rang, signalling the end of the introductory speech.
"The first order of business," Hobart said, "is to vote on the proposed changes in the Corporate Bylaws."
"I object!" That was Viktor Barraclough again. "The proposals have not been submitted to the entire Council in sufficient advance—"
"You're out of order," Hobart said. Brun could hear the gloat in his voice. "Besides, these changes are familiar to everyone; I presented them last session—"
"And they were voted down," Viktor said.
"You're out of order," Hobart said again. "If you interrupt again, I'll have you thrown out. Now sit down. If you have anything worthwhile to say, you may say it during the discussion period."
Brun felt her muscles tightening and took a deep breath. She had never seen anything like this in the Grand Council. From the shocked looks around her, no one else had, either.
"The full text is available at 34-888-16," Hobart went on. "The annotations are at 35-888-29. Please try to follow along as I go over them."
As if they were little children and Hobart Conselline their teacher. Brun called up the two files, and read quickly, with growing dismay. Proposal to limit the franchise to those presently Seated—offspring to be Seated as space allowed and in strict order of seniority. Proposal to take "suitable measures" to meet the threat of Ageists . . . what threat? Proposal to create a special commission to investigate Ageist influence in the Regular Space Service, and another to investigate the inappropriate use of Space Service resources for private purposes. With a chill, Brun realized that this was aimed at her rescue. Proposal to restrict access of news media . . . to restrict public access to records of Grand Council meetings . . . to reduce the quorum for voting on Corporate Bylaws.
Every proposal had been presented before—the links told her when, and by whom—and had been voted down before. But that had been with time for discussion, with men like her father and Kevil Mahoney to explain why the proposals were not in the best interests of the Familias as a whole. She could remember, now she was sitting here, that on the occasion of her taking her Seat, Hobart Conselline had stood up to propose limiting the franchise. On that occasion, he'd said the influence of the Grand Council was being diluted by mere fertility—that the unSeated populace had lost respect for the Grand Council because all it took to get a Seat was being born to the right parents.
She sent a private message to Buttons:
Was he always like this?
Ever since I've had a Seat
, Buttons replied.
Brun tuned back in to what Hobart was saying.
"While no one would wish such a vicious attack on anyone, it is perhaps fortunate for Lord Thornbuckle that he cannot stand before us to justify his actions."
Brun stiffened and glanced at Buttons. His expression did not change, but his stylus pushed his pad so hard that a red light came up on the margin.
"I am truly sorry," Hobart went on, "if this distresses his daughter, who has chosen this time to take her place among us—" The tone implied that her doing so was in the worst taste. "But private feelings must defer to public weal, in this case." He looked up at her Seat with an expression that made her want to wipe her face with a clean cloth. She expected the chamber to erupt in her defense—but no one moved or spoke. Hobart gave her a stiff little smile and nod, and went on.
"Since Lord Thornbuckle is dead, and cannot reply, some might consider it unnecessary to detail the charges that might have been brought against him. But I believe in full and fair disclosure. The changes I propose to the bylaws are not trivial, and you need to know why I would suggest something so drastic. The fact is, the Familias Regnant is sick, on its deathbed, and if we don't act quickly, the patient could die. Will die, I believe, without our intervention."
Buttons muttered something Brun couldn't quite hear. She glanced at him; for an instant, with his mouth compressed, he looked exactly like his father in a rage.
A light flashed on the panel: someone asking for the floor. Hobart shook his head and went on. "There's no time for discussion, we need to get this done, get it out of the way, so we can move forward."
"There's always been time for discussion—" someone yelled loudly, from a few rows over. Brun queried her panel. Minor branch of the Dakkers Sept, coded turquoise in the Family database.
"That's the trouble, all we do is talk!" yelled someone else. Conselline, minor branch, Hobart's third younger brother.
A gabble of voices rose, and lights flashed on the panel. Hobart banged the gavel repeatedly and finally the turmoil died down. Brun, looking around, saw angry, flushed faces everywhere, all glaring tight-lipped at one another.
How had Hobart Conselline become Speaker? Brun raced through the database, trying to figure out the story behind the story. It had been the emergency Grand Council meeting, held in the hours after the assassination. Emergency meetings did not require the same quorum of Seats . . . so response was limited to those attending in person, or immediately available on an ansible link. Only 23.2 percent of the Grand Council had been polled. Naturally, Lord Thornbuckle's family had not been present or available, nor had most of their friends. Hobart Conselline had received a majority of votes cast, but it amounted to only 15.8% of the whole. Yet he was acting as if he had a large majority of the entire Council.
"Look behind the obvious," one of Brun's instructors had taught her. "Who benefits?" The Consellines, clearly, but how? They were already filthy rich—as rich or richer than the Barraclough Sept—so why this grab for power? What more did they want?
"We're going to vote now," Hobart was saying. "Right now, and get it behind us, so we can move on to important external issues."
The warning chimes of Vote in Progress rang through the chamber, and Brun's screen lit with the proposals. Had Hobart really read through all of them? She struggled through the convoluted legalese, trying to figure out what they really meant. Kevil Mahoney had always said that legal language had more subtext than any fiction ever written, but she had not actually studied law. Some didn't look that bad; the reasoning as given had a plausible ring to it. She chewed on her lip, struggling to find the hidden meanings.
Safer to vote against all of them, just in case. She hoped that was safer. She entered her votes, and sat back to watch the others. Kell, tip of his tongue just showing, was marking his votes slowly, one by one. Harlis had finished. And Hobart Conselline . . . Hobart was watching
her
, she realized.
Time dragged on, as they waited for others to complete their votes. Most seemed to have had their minds made up ahead of time, but a few earnest souls were bent over their desks, clearly checking every word of every proposition, and comparing it to other texts.
The outcome of the voting was less a surprise than it might have been . . . the bylaws changes passed, and the next vote confirmed Hobart Conselline as Speaker for a normal term. The speeches had been confusing; on both sides of what was clearly becoming a deep division, speakers seemed choked with outrage, incoherent. Brun kept quiet, watching carefully and making notes. Buttons, she saw, did the same.
After the meeting ended, they went back to Appledale in the same car, by mutual consent talking only of things they could see from its windows. After supper, they settled to business, and finally Brun's big brother treated her as an equal.
"I have to say I was impressed with your performance today."
"I didn't do anything."
"You didn't pout, flounce, flirt, or storm. You sat there being attentive, intelligent, and menacing."
"Menacing?"
"Didn't you see our new Speaker watching you during the voting?"
"Yes. Made me itchy."
"As well it should. The man's odd, Brun. Well—Mother's gone to Sirialis, I hear. Are you staying here?"
"For now, yes. I'd planned to be the person on site to deal with the Grand Council, unless you want to take it over."
"Are you sure? Because if you can keep an eye on the Council, then I can concentrate on what our dear uncle was up to with the various family companies. It's hard without Kevil—"
"I'm sorry," Brun said.
He looked at her a long moment, and she knew that he knew what she meant—sorry for everything, for becoming the issue by which the Family lost ground, as well as the reason for their father's assassination.
"Don't be sorry for being yourself," Buttons said finally. "And don't be sorry for coming back—it'd be worse if you hadn't."
"I don't see how," Brun said.
"I can think of a dozen ways," Buttons said. "And so can you, if you take the trouble. But that's not what matters right now. We've got attacks on all fronts—where'd you put the babies, by the way? I don't want them used as hostages against us."
"Cecelia de Marktos took them somewhere. She's trustworthy—"
"Well, unless she puts them in a barn and tries to turn them into racehorses," Buttons said, with the first genuine grin she'd seen on his face. "Grooms, I wouldn't mind, but you never know with her."
Brun laughed aloud. "You're right—but I don't think she has them with her."
"Good. As long as they aren't going to cause us trouble—"
"Not for another ten or twelve years . . . I don't want to think about them as teenage boys. . . ."
"If we have a Familias Regnant in ten years, we can worry about it then." Brun glanced at him; his face had gone somber, and he looked far older than his age.
"Buttons—do you agree with Hobart about that?"
"That the Familias is in danger, yes. That it's in danger because of lax leadership in the past, no. It's his policies that endanger it most. This business of restricting the franchise—one way we've had of relieving strain between Families is that the small know they can enlarge by having more Seatholders. That's let them take in outsiders as clients. Dad said the movement of power from one sept to another was a major factor in keeping the Familias stable. That's why they instituted the kingship, originally."
"Why can't Hobart see it?" Brun asked.
"I don't know. Back when I was a boy of maybe ten—and you were still in the nursery—I overheard some of the adults talking about how the new rejuv methods might change things politically. But of course, I was too young to follow it. I remember Dad and Uncle Harlis arguing, though. When I asked questions in school, nobody seemed to understand them, and later, when I was in the Royals, everyone talked as if the repeating rejuvenations were just a way to stay young for a normal lifespan, not an actual extension. It was—oh, the year that Lepescu came to Sirialis, I think it was—that Charlie Windetsson got drunk at a mess dinner and pointed out that if our parents never grew old, we had no reason to grow up. There was no future for us. Everyone laughed, and drank, and—I remember a sort of cold chill. I left the party early, called Sarah, and that's when we decided to marry."
"I didn't know that."
"Well . . . you were being wild at the time. Most of our set were, and I suddenly saw it myself. Our parents had been more grown up—working in family business in some way—by the time they finished their education. Sometimes even before. But their parents barely lived past their Centuries, and retired from Family work in their eighties. The first rejuv upset that a little, but the new one . . . I came home, and talked to Dad about it. He promised that he and Mother would resign their duties while I was still young—he transferred stock to me right after that Hunt Ball, and encouraged me to be active in Council as well as business."