Hobart scowled. "It's stronger than last year."
"Indeed it is. But the imbalance affects more than your off-hand fencing, milord. It also affects the set of your spine and your gait. You need to balance them, just as you balance work and play."
Hobart's scowl deepened; he could feel the tension in his neck. "I have no time for play, Swordmaster. Surely you have heard of the terrible crisis that faces us? Lord Thornbuckle was killed by terrorists—"
"Yes, of course," Master Iagin said. "But that makes my point. You must be balanced to withstand such blows. It is the failure of balance in your society which makes it vulnerable—the undisciplined who stagger and fall when the blow falls."
"I do not intend to stagger and fall," Hobart said. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirrors that lined the salle—flushed and truculent. Dangerous.
"Nor will you, milord, I'm sure. Your work here—the discipline needed to achieve the level you've achieved—sustains you, along with your native talents. But as each movement balances contraction of one muscle group with extension of another, so the steadfast must balance strain and relaxation."
"I find relaxation in this," Hobart said with a wave to include the entire exercise suite.
"That is good," Master Iagin said. "You have a warrior's heart, which finds ease in growing stronger."
Praise, of a sort. He would take it. A warrior's heart he knew he had, and he could feel himself growing stronger.
When the lesson ended, Hobart invited Master Iagin to dinner at the family table, but the Swordmaster declined. "With your permission, milord, I will walk in your gardens; I must take ship tomorrow, and I am not often able to stretch my legs in such beauty."
"Of course." He still did not understand Master Iagin's fascination with the garden, but he anticipated that request. Discreet surveillance had revealed that the man did not tumble a maid behind the hedges or use any sort of communications device to contact a confederate. He always did what he asked permission to do—strolled along the pebbled garden paths, stopping now and then to sniff a flower. He pretended to fence with the topiary knight, and if one of the gardener's cats appeared, he would pick it up and stroke it. At the far end of the garden, he always paused to watch the black-finned fish in the lily pond. Not what Hobart had expected of a Swordmaster, but they were known to have strange habits. Most of them, for some reason or other, liked gardens.
At dinner, Delphine asked if the Swordmaster were still there. Hobart gave her a look that shut her up instantly, but then he answered her. "He's here, but he's leaving tomorrow. Why?"
"I just wanted to meet him . . ."
"You have no reason to meet him; you do not take fencing seriously." Delphine could strike a pretty pose with foil in hand, and in fencing whites, and in the garden in front of the rose hedge, looked quite exciting that way. But her footwork was execrable, and she had never shown any determination in learning better. He would not have been too pleased if she had, but her failure to oppose him even on this was another proof of her weakness. Luckily, he had been able to choose other gene lines for his sons.
Delphine picked at her shellfish and changed the subject. "I called Miranda today, but her private secretary wouldn't put me through. I was able to make an appointment for tomorrow, when she's taking condolence calls."
"That's good," Hobart said. A quick flash of anger that a secretary prevented his wife—his wife, Lady Conselline—from contacting Miranda Thornbuckle flared and died. It wasn't important, after all. Miranda would find out soon enough that what power she had had through Bunny was gone, water into sand.
"Hobart—are you in danger?"
"Me?!" He smiled at her, surprised and pleased by her solicitude. "No, my dear. Bunny made enemies I have not made." He had others, but none that would dare have him killed. "And besides, I am more careful. We have excellent security. Do not worry about me, or about yourself and the children."
"It's all so terrible," Delphine said, putting down her fork. "Pirates capturing Brun, and then the terrorists—"
"It won't happen again," Hobart said firmly. "I'll see to that."
Her eyes widened, the periwinkle-blue eyes that he loved. "But Hobart—how? You aren't—"
If she said he wasn't important, he would kill her right there; he felt himself stiffening, and saw in her face the reaction to his expression. Her mouth snapped shut; tears filled her eyes and she looked down at her plate.
"I know it's hard for you to believe," he said quietly, through his teeth. "But I am not a nonentity—"
"Oh, Hobart, I didn't say—I didn't mean—"
"And I can and will keep you safe. And others. It's my duty, and I have never shirked my duty."
"Of course not," she said. Up came her napkin, to dab at the tears.
"We have had laxity in high places," Hobart said firmly, feeling the phrases in his mouth. "With all due respect for Lord Thornbuckle—and I have known Bunny all my life—he simply did not have the . . . the moral fiber to do what was necessary. I will not make that mistake. When I am First Speaker—and I shall be, Delphine, in a matter of days—things will be handled very differently. None of his weak deference to the entrenched bureaucracy which is always afraid to make changes lest it mean the loss of influence. I will make the decisions, and I will save the realm." He looked up, to find her staring at him, eyes still wide. He pointed his knife at her. "And you, my dear, will say nothing of this to anyone. I have no doubt that the Grand Council will be glad to elect someone who has a clear vision of what should be done, but I don't want them confused by your version of events first, is that clear?"
"Yes, Hobart."
"You will say nothing to Miranda tomorrow."
"No, Hobart."
"And you will quit messing about with that crab, and eat properly."
"Yes, Hobart."
That was better. If she would just confine herself to doing what he told her, and not argue, she would be an exemplary wife. He could imagine her in the Palace, greeting those he invited to the necessary social events. Delphine was good at social events. Decorative, tactful, soft-voiced. Like Miranda, Bunny's widow, in that respect. But his wife. His tool.
R.S.S. Gyrfalcon
Barin Serrano checked his appearance in the mirror yet again. Like all his class who had not actually disgraced themselves, he had his promotion to jig, and in an hour the ensigns were to appear for the promotion ceremony in the captain's office. His parents, in accordance with tradition, had sent him their old insignia—a pair from each—and a credit chip for his contribution to the celebration in the junior officers' mess. That was handy, given that his pay was now zeroed out. They'd said nothing about that, in their accompanying note. He wondered if it had been written before they found out. He wondered if they simply couldn't think of anything to say.
Luckily, these lower-level promotions didn't require dress uniforms, and he had a natural knack for looking trim. His mind strayed, as it often did, to Esmay Suiza, whose fluffy brown hair sometimes appalled her as much as it delighted him. She would never understand, he was sure, how those stray wisps made him feel.
He hadn't heard from Esmay in weeks, but they'd both been shipbound. They'd expected it. He hadn't expected to be quite so susceptible to everything that reminded him of her, but he assumed that would pass.
"C'mon, Barin!" came a call from the hatch of the ensigns' bay. With a last glance (no, hairs had not suddenly sprouted from his ears) he turned and followed the rest to the ceremony.
The ceremony itself was brief, but the aftermath wasn't. Each newly promoted jig had, by tradition, donated a dozen drink chits into the pool, and the first twelve enlisted personnel who recognized the new rank each got one. Barin, one of the last in alphabetical order on this ship, found that he was being ambushed at every crossing until his last chit was gone.
Four hours later, the first of the new ensign assignees came aboard, a ship-to-ship transfer from the Cape Hay which had ferried them from Sector HQ. Two were already
partway through their progress from newly commissioned to jig, but three were this year's graduates, so wet they squeaked. Barin, still most junior in ship duty of the jigs, found himself assigned to escort them to the junior wardroom. He'd known the more senior ones at the Academy; Cordas Stettin was, in fact, a kind of cousin through his mother's family, and Indi Khas had been in his cadet unit. They looked incredibly young; he couldn't believe he had ever been that green. He kept almost looking behind himself when one of them called him sir.
The Gyrfalcon was on what would have been a routine patrol, if it weren't for the persistent fear that the New Texas colonies were up to something. Normally, Sector Seven was quiet; the transit points into it from Benignity space made invasion from their main enemy unlikely. Now, however, they were expecting trouble. Within the ship itself, all routines were performed under the restrictions of Level 2 alert. A few days of this, Barin thought, and people would start slacking off: not quite dogging down the blast barriers, not remembering to close off the shower-room drains after use, forgetting one or more of the niggling little details that might—if they came under surprise attack—save lives, or waste them.
Junior officers and senior NCOs were the only defense against this natural relaxation of precautions, and they had lost eight senior NCOs to the medical restrictions on rejuv recipients. Barin took his turn at inspection with a keen understanding of its importance. He had, after all, lost an uncle to someone's failure to dog a blast barrier, and had grown up with the story.
But Cape Hay had brought new orders, and Captain Escovar called Barin in to discuss them.
"You remember that professor who's been staying with your wives—er, dependents?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, we're going to stop by to pick her up, and take her with us to Sector One HQ, where we're to meet a diplomat of some sort from the Lone Star Confederation and transport her back to Castle Rock. And it might be a good idea for you to try to convince those women to do something other than sit there eating up Fleet resources. They may not listen, but they've been telling Professor Meyerson they can't do anything without your permission. Oh, and you have mail."
Barin read the message cube as soon as he had a free moment, which was hours later. His parents had recorded it, but the full weight of the Serrano dynasty lay behind it.
He was young to marry anyway, and with Fleet having already assigned him responsibility for the maximum number of dependents, how could he even think of marrying? Of course they were sure that Lieutenant Suiza would understand, and if she truly cared for him, she would see to it that she made things easier, not harder, for him. There need be no unseemly haste, assuming—
Barin argued with the message cube in resentful silence. How could he think of marrying? How could he not? Unseemly haste? They had known each other for years now; they had been through a Bloodhorde attack, the machinations of envious troublemakers, a very tricky hostage extrication, and he was not—NOT—going to be told he was too young, too inexperienced, too anything else to get married. He was a jig, not some wet-ears ensign fresh out of the Academy.
He loved her. She loved him. It was so simple, if only other people would leave them alone. Perhaps she could get leave and they could meet somewhere . . . privately . . . he toyed briefly with the idea of running away and getting married secretly, in spite of his family. That wouldn't be fair to Esmay, though. The Landbride Suiza would expect—would require—more than a hasty ceremony before some local magistrate. Still, with the ship detached for diplomatic duty, maybe—just maybe—they could manage to meet.
Chapter Six
R.S.S. Shrike
"Mail drop, Lieutenant." Chief Conway handed Esmay the hardcopy list. Esmay managed not to sigh. All these new security procedures ate time, since every piece of incoming mail at every mail drop required her to check and initial it. Luckily, they could pick up mail only when reasonably near Fleet relays. Still, she could not believe that all these security measures were necessary on a small ship like this. She ran her eye down the list, noting that the chief had flagged three names, a pivot-major and two sergeants minor. They had received more than a sig beyond the mean number of contacts, and from multiple sources.
"No packages," Esmay murmured, checking the columns.
"No, sir, not for them. There's one for you, though. And Pivot-major Gunderson is getting married at the end of this tour. The return addresses match his next-of-kin address, his future in-laws' address, and the medical center on Rockhouse Major."
"Medical center?" Then it came to her. "Oh—of course." Gunderson was neuroenhanced, and— "Is his betrothed also a NEM?"
"No . . . civilian softsider. Gunderson's trying to get a control implant approved."
That made sense—he wouldn't want to tear his spouse apart by accident. "Still . . . a civilian marriage?"
"Security's been all over it," the chief said, correctly interpreting her scowl of concern. "The family's not Fleet, but they've been subcontractors for two generations."
Esmay let her gaze drift to the next name.
"Farley's parents have sicced the whole family on her to get her to leave Fleet and work for their shipping consortium. She says she's been hassled for years, and just trashes the notes."
A message cube from Barin. Esmay put it aside for later viewing. It bore the sticker that meant it had passed censors at Sector HQ. He must have told his family by now—his grandmother already knew; this was probably about their response to his telling them about Esmay. She still hadn't heard back from her own family, though with the long transit times the new security regs imposed, that wasn't too surprising. She hoped they'd reply promptly. She and Barin would have only a short window of opportunity for their wedding, and while they wanted it to be small and informal, she still wanted it to feel like a wedding, which meant family present.
Her other mail was all official business, addressed to her position on Shrike . . . all but the package, much battered after its passage through one checkpoint after another, with Brun Meager's name in the sender ID square.
A package from Brun? Esmay hadn't heard from her since she left for Castle Rock with her babies. She noticed the rumpled sealtape, where security had tried to open it, as required by the new rules. She laid her hand on the ID plate, wondering momentarily how Brun had acquired her handprint, and the sealtape flicked free. Esmay unfolded the wrapping, aware of security watching her.
The last of the paper folded back to reveal . . . a strip of embroidery so exquisite that Esmay could not repress a gasp of pleasure. As wide as her hand, a long strip—she unfolded it carefully—that was nearly as tall as she was. And every centimeter covered with white-on-white embroidery and lace. She hardly dared touch it with bare hands; she felt she should be wearing white gloves to protect it. She laid it gently across her lap and went back to the box.
Under the folded strip was a square of some sheer white fabric, more like a net, encrusted with tiny seed pearls. And under that, several pages of drawings, sketches of a gown—a wedding gown, Esmay realized, with long sleeves and a high collar. It was more severe than she would have expected Brun to choose; it had almost the suggestion of a uniform about the shoulders.
The data cube in the same package explained. "Barin's acquisitions need a way to support themselves, Hazel told me, and you need a wedding gown. Handwork of this quality is rare; if they're working for a good designer, they'll be paid well for it. So I took the liberty of talking to some designers. I assume you don't want to pay a year's salary on it. For the Fleet hero who rescued me, and an introduction to the craftswomen doing work of this quality, Goran Hiel is willing to design your gown. He's not considered as good as Marice Limited, but I liked the slight military flair."
It was not the first time Brun had tried to plan their life for them. This was . . . the fourth, Esmay thought, trying not to resent it. Brun had grown up expecting things to go her way; money and beauty and luck had failed her only once. No wonder she wanted to go back to running t
he world—or at least her friends' lives. She was only reverting to normal; she didn't mean to flaunt her power. Probably.
Esmay looked at the drawings and embroidery again. For a moment, Esmay imagined herself in that gown, made of such gorgeous stuff. She would look . . . no, she must not think about that, not now. It was far too grand a gown for her, for a plain lieutenant in Fleet who wanted a quiet family wedding.
But for the Landbride Suiza?
It was not too grand for the Landbride Suiza, but she was not marrying Barin as Landbride . . . she paused in folding the strip of embroidery to replace it in the box. Was she not, indeed?
A cascade of difficulties unfolded in her mind, beginning with her position as Landbride Suiza. What if someone thought her marrying Barin had anything to do with that? With the historical position of Suiza of Altiplano and the Regular Space Service, or Altiplano's ambiguous position within the Familias Regnant?
The Serrano Succession Page 10
