"Basil, go to bed. I am."
Brun Meager sank into the worn tapestry upholstery of the couch in the Mahoneys' living room. "Kevil, are you sure this is all right? You've only just gotten the house back . . ."
"Stepan suggested it," Kevil said. "I see you've got your father's stick—"
"So I have." Brun leaned it against the couch. "Do you—does anyone—have the slightest idea what was going on, and who did it?"
"The present idea is that Harlis wanted to talk to you in private, he and your cousin Kell. There's no real evidence, except that Harlis found you at dinner and told you he'd been to the house looking for you and found police there. That didn't happen. My guess would be that he wasn't actually planning to kill you, just trying to bully you into doing something he wanted."
"He wanted to go to Sirialis, he said," Brun said. "I can't imagine why."
"To find out what your mother found?" asked Kate, from an armchair across the room.
"Possibly," Kevil said. "If he thought it was your mother's evidence that landed him in trouble."
"Has anyone located him?" Brun asked.
"No. He didn't go up on a scheduled shuttle, but you know there are other ways . . . does he own a shuttle?"
"He might've taken the family one—"
"Not the one at Appledale; we checked on that. But with the Grand Council meeting coming up, there are Family shuttles of all sizes coming and going. He might have caught a ride with someone. We're trying to find out. And of course he may not have tried to get offworld at all—he could be on his way back to his own place, or somewhere else—"
"And there are a few more things for the police to do than chase one suspect, I'll bet," said Kate.
"Yes." Kevil sighed. "Brun, we've made up the spare bedroom for you and Kate. Stepan's having his senior security staff check over the town house; he expects you can move back in tomorrow morning. We're covered, of course."
"Of course," Brun murmured. She felt both very tired and very alert.
"Have you told Kate about the meeting today?"
"No," Brun said. "I wasn't planning to—"
"Stepan said it wouldn't hurt, and might take the strain off you, not to be keeping more secrets than you have to." He turned to Kate. "Stepan's head of our sept—the Barracloughs—and he asked Brun to become his designated heir."
Kate frowned. "The sept—I've never quite understood. Families I understand . . . is this like a sort of super-family of families?"
"Yes, in a way."
Kate whistled. "Well—quite a step up, then."
"You'll like this," Brun said. "One thing I had to do was agree not to be rejuved."
"My . . ."
"Yes. Power versus longevity. Take your pick. And I'm being dropped in at the deep end: he wants me to address the Grand Council formally at the next meeting. So I think I'd better toddle off to bed and get my beauty sleep."
* * *
She woke with a start in the unfamiliar bed, with Kate snoring lightly across the room. She could just make out the green and cream stripes of the wallpaper. What had woken her? She heard voices in the distance, muffled by the closed door, then footsteps coming closer. A tap.
"Yes," she said softly. Kate's snore stopped in the middle.
"It's me," George said. "Can you come out?"
Brun looked at the time and sighed. She could have used another hour's sleep, but she was, after all, wide awake. "Coming," she said.
She wrapped the borrowed robe—one of Kevil's she thought—around her, and went out to find Kevil waiting for her in his study. "We just heard—Harlis rented a yacht from Allsystems Leasing yesterday. He's with a mutineer commander, and apparently rented the yacht bare. Probably crewed by Fleet personnel, in other words. They requested and got a fast-transit exit route and went into jump two hours ago."
"Did they say where they were going?"
"Harlis told Allsystems Burkholdt and Celeste, but the same mutineer had tried to get passage on a civilian ship to Millicent. I think the question at this point is, who's in command of that yacht?"
"They don't get up this early on ranches," Kate said from the doorway. She yawned. "Found Harlis, did they?"
"And lost him," Kevil said. "Case of the right hand not having told the left what was going on." He explained what they knew.
Kate frowned. "It doesn't make sense," she said.
"What doesn't?"
"The timing. He was at the restaurant when we were eating dinner—what time was that?"
"I don't know . . . it wasn't late . . . 1900 maybe?"
"And the yacht left the Station at 2230. So he must have run for a shuttle and then gone immediately . . ."
"Yes . . . that makes sense."
"Except that he leased the yacht earlier. He'd have to have been on the Station, then come down to the surface, then gone back up . . . Why? Is that even possible?" Kate looked from face to face.
"With good private shuttles, of course," Brun said.
"He came down to pick you up," George said suddenly. "He arranged to hire the ship, he leased the shuttle, and while the ship was being provisioned, he came down to get you."
"He was going to take her away? Where?" Kate looked at Brun; Brun felt a chill that struck through her like a spear of ice.
"I . . . don't want to know," she said, struggling to keep herself from showing the panic she felt. Had she really come so close to another captivity? But her mind went on working. "Sirialis. If he took me to Sirialis, the people there would think it was me. I mean, they'd think it was all right, at first, and then—"
"A hostage." Kevil said. "Against your sept, certainly against anything the people on Sirialis might do. And—Brun, you have the family codes for the communications and data storage systems on Sirialis, don't you?"
"Yes, of course. Everything but Mother's private ciphers."
"Would he know about hers? About your not having them?"
"I don't know." Brun felt a wave of panic, and shoved it down.
"Our files on him are at Appledale," Kate said. "We didn't bring them into town—didn't see a reason to. He was detained, we thought." She sounded annoyed.
"Gentleman's detention—he wore a scan bracelet," Kevil said. "His attorneys argued that he wasn't going to bolt, and he'd posted a huge bond. Anyway, he claimed to have a toothache; apparently his dentist took the bracelet off for him early yesterday morning. Nobody realized he'd slipped away for hours: the dentist claimed he had an emergency ahead of Harlis, and the bracelet returned a signal. The dentist's now in detention himself; they found the bracelet tucked under the cushion of one of the chairs."
"Did Harlis go to Appledale?" Brun asked.
"No. We've called out there; no intrusion."
"
He
has the family codes," Brun said suddenly.
"What?"
"Harlis. He has the codes. Some of them, anyway, the general ones. I'm sure—unless Mother changed them, when she left, but she would have thought he was in detention. No reason to change them. And nobody's there."
"The staff are," Kevil said. "The others . . ."
"No
family
," Brun said. "No one who can change the codes, and lock him out."
"If that's where he's going, with a Fleet warship, just changing the codes wouldn't help."
"I'll bet that's how they got in, in the first place," Brun said.
Kevil looked blank, and so did George. "Who got in? When?"
"Lepescu and his . . . hunters. I'll bet it was Harlis, or my cousin Kell."
"You could be right. Your father never did figure out why that fellow who was Stationmaster of the Pinecone let him in. If Harlis had pressured him, it makes more sense."
"But now—we have to stop him getting there. I'll have to go—"
"Brun—you can't. You have to be here."
"But Kevil—we can't just let him go in there and terrorize people . . ."
"What could you do if you were there?"
"Warn them. Try to help." But she knew it would be futile; she wasn't a battle group of Fleet ships, all in herself. No. She had to give that up, and do what she could for the Familias as a whole. She could warn them, that was all.
She suspected that Fleet would not do anything, but she had to make the attempt. Sure enough, after taking her report, the admiral minor on the screen shook her head.
"I'm sorry, sera, but in the present situation we can't detach troops to protect one world." One rich family's playground world was the implication.
"I understand that," Brun said. After the expense of her rescue, she knew she could not ask Fleet for favors. "But you needed to know that we suspect one of the mutineers' ships—or maybe more—is headed there."
"Yes, I understand that. But that's a fairly isolated world with a small population. Better they should go there than attack a more populous planet. It has no manufacturing capacity, has it?"
"No—only light industry."
"It would take them five years to build up a shipyard capable of producing FTL ships, and that's with stolen parts, not from scratch. That gives us time to cut them off. I doubt very much they have the resources to mount a proper systemwide defense. In the meantime, we have urgent concerns elsewhere. As soon as possible, we'll go get them."
"I've already warned the population that Harlis may be coming with an armed ship. I don't want to interfere with your dispositions, but may I at least tell them you
won't
be coming?"
"Of course, sera. In fact, if the mutineers go there, and find that out, perhaps they'll stay in what they think is a safe haven until we can get there. Quite frankly, sera, we have no resources that could reach Sirialis before the mutineers can, if you're right about when they might have started."
"Thank you," Brun said. She wanted to rage, to kick desks and stamp the polished floor and scream . . . but that wasn't the way to get things done, not now. "Do you have any idea what force of ships that man Taylor might have?"
"I'm sorry, sera, I don't have that information."
After Miranda and Cecelia left, Sirialis subsided into summer somnolence, with Opening Day a safe hundred or more days away. Not that its inhabitants were idle, not on an agricultural and recreational world. Sirialis fed itself and the guests who descended on it yearly. The early crops of grain were in; the first cutting of hay lay open to the sun, drying before baling. Truck farms were in full production and so were the food processing facilities that took the surplus and preserved it for the season. For most of the planet's population, life went on as usual: the schools and stores and other services for the locals didn't change much with the activities of the owners. The changing seasons and the vagaries of local weather were more important. Dredges grumbled away at the entrance to Hospitality Bay where unusually severe winter storms had raised a sandbar and caused problems for the fishing fleet. In the other hemisphere, scattered settlements—timber camps, mining camps—prepared for the depths of winter. Many people migrated with the seasons, but a few chose to stay in one place.
Whenever family members weren't in residence, the big house went to a skeleton staff except for maintenance. This spring, plumbers worked on the balky pipes of the east wing, which had given trouble off and on for over fifty years, and the engineering consultant prodded at timbers in the attics in the triennial structural inspection. Stables and gardens, of course, were fully staffed year round. Horses and roses needed constant care; grooms and gardeners both preferred the quiet seasons.
System defense, at Sirialis, had been minimal for over a century. There was the communications ansible, by which the family alerted the system to their arrival. The landing fields at the main residence and Hospitality Bay had longscan capability, but system defense and traffic control was handled mostly by the Stationmaster at the largest orbital station. All three orbital stations had longscan and there were a few batteries of anti-ship missiles from the old days, which no one had tested in at least five years.
Brun's first ansible message set off a flurry of activity. There were not enough shuttles and ships within the system to evacuate everyone from the surface; Sirialis' population was small only by comparison with more developed worlds. They had no weapons that would stand up to a military invasion, and Brun had not been able to say how many ships might show up. She had been able to get Fleet to transmit the specs of various kinds so they'd have a clue.
Goonar heard nothing from Bethya the next morning—or afternoon. Had she changed her mind? Was she trying to think of a way to let him down easily?