The Serrano Succession

by Elizabeth Moon

  Cecelia discovered that her mind was already working again, when she recognized all this as elements of alibi. She worked at the other side of the man's helm, wondering why the ancients had made everything so complicated. Surely this hadn't been made before the advent of pressure locks.

  "What happened?"

  "The blade broke—I was lunging—and it just shattered—"

  Cecelia looked, but could see only the shadowed shape of Miranda's face behind her mask.

  "I thought you said fencing was safe." Pedar had said that too, at the Trials. As long as it is only steel, he had said.

  "It is. It's—he wanted to use the old blades, the ones Bunny would never use. He knew Harlis wouldn't allow it, but . . . then he said, why not the old helms. He was in one of his moods—you know how Pedar is. He'd brought me a lace scarf. He began with the Courtship, in the Ten Fingers."

  Cecelia had one side of the helm loose now, and began working on the other.

  "You didn't call for medical help."

  "Cece—when a blade goes in the eye, there is no help."

  "In the eye?"

  "This old helm—the face mask failed. My blade went straight through, into his eye. You know how it is—well, you don't, but when you thrust, if your blade snaps, you're already moving, you can't stop. I tried—but all I did was make it worse."

  "How?"

  "The blade had already pierced his eye and the orbit—of course I yanked it back, but it was already in his brain. I didn't realize—it was so awful—"

  She had the other side of the helm open, and lifted it away. There was Pedar's face, one eye open but dulled already with anoxia, and the other a bloody hole.

  "Miranda." Cecelia looked at her, trying to see through that mask. But sunlight blazed on the metal, and behind it was only shadow. She looked down at the gloved hands, one streaked with blood . . . at Miranda's neck, where the high collar of her fencing habit hid her pulse.

  The door slammed open now, and a crowd of servants rushed in. Where had they been all this time? Was it a plot?

  "Milady! What happened—"

  "We were fencing, and the blade broke . . ."

  Miranda took her own mask off slowly, her hands trembling. Tears had streaked her cheeks; she looked paler than usual, with red-rimmed eyes.

  "You cried—" Cecelia said.

  "Of course I cried!" Miranda glared at her.

  "I've never seen you cry before, except for Bunny—"

  "You didn't see me when I heard about Brun's capture. Or when the babies were born." She turned to the man in the gray suit; Cecelia did not recognize him. "Sammins, we'll need a doctor, though I know it's too late, and the militia. This man is—was—Minister of Foreign Affairs; we'll have to have an investigation."

  All though the questions that followed, Cecelia sat quietly to one side, watching Miranda, listening to the timbre of her voice. Pedar had been coming to fence twice weekly since arriving on Sirialis. Pedar had initiated the practices; he had also come to talk business, and—she hesitated, and a faint color came into her cheeks—to propose a Familial alliance. On that day, they had begun as usual, but Pedar had asked—as he had before—about the antique weapons in the hall. Where were they going, and who would inherit them? He had wanted to handle them, fence with them. Bunny had never allowed it, but Pedar had begged—

  And she had given in, agreed to fence with the old weapons, though they had not been inspected.

  She must have scan data, Cecelia realized. She would not dare go into such detail if scan would not support what she said. And therefore—it could be an accident, just as Miranda said. Or she was even cleverer at arranging matters.

  Slow anger churned her stomach. These had been her friends—or at least people she had known, people of her class. Wealthy, urbane, sophisticated . . . she had known them all her life. They collected fine art; they supported composers and artists and musicians; they had beautiful houses and landscaped grounds. They dabbled in this or that—china painting, horse breeding, designing exotic space stations—in between power plays in Family politics and acquiring more money and more power and more possessions. They wore beautiful clothes, and indulged in elaborate games of social intercourse.

  And now they were killing each other off. Lorenza, trying to poison her. Kemtre, agreeing to poison his own son. Someone—Pedar, by his bragging—arranging to kill Bunny. Miranda killing Pedar.

  Were they all crazy?

  And if they were . . . why? And who benefitted?

  She could not find her way through that maze, except in terms of the familiar, beloved world of equestrian sports and horse breeding. If she'd had a stable full of highbred horses, all carefully brought up, schooled . . . and if they had suddenly begun to act strange, to attack grooms and each other . . . what would she think?

  Somebody got at the grooms.

  Fine, but rich people didn't have grooms.

  Her mind stopped short, like a horse overfaced by a huge, unfamiliar obstacle on the cross-country.

  Yes, they did have grooms, and veterinarians. They called them maids and valets and doctors and nurses. They all depended on pharmaceuticals for rejuv. They had all been rejuved multiple times. Lorenza, Kemtre, Pedar, Miranda, even her own sister Berenice. Some had access to other illicit drugs, like the neurotoxins Lorenza had poisoned her with.

  Once she'd known Lorenza was dead, she'd given no serious thought to the source of that drug. Lorenza was a mean, vicious, sadistic woman . . . that was the threat, not the drug. It's not the weapon, it's the person who misuses it.

  But . . . she knew. She knew about Patchcock, though she'd put it out of her mind when Ronnie and Raffa were safely married. Bad drugs. Bad rejuvenation drugs, and who knows what else, and the fallout might be worse than anyone had thought.

  Was Miranda sane? Were any of them sane? The Grand Council of the Familias . . . without Bunny at its head, or Kevil Mahoney to advise, with Pedar—evil as she now believed he was—dead and stiffening on the floor in the fencing salon . . . what were they going to do? Was there anyone she could trust?

  Those who had never been rejuved. Those who had been rejuved only . . . somewhere the drugs were reliable. Marta Saenz? But just because Marta was a biochemist herself, with her own labs, did that mean her drugs were good?

  No. But she could not distrust everyone. She wasn't made like that; she had to have sides, someone on hers and someone against her.

  Finally the initial interviews were over, and Cecelia went up with Miranda to her suite. A white-faced maid brought them a tray of food and hot tea. Miranda stripped off her fencing whites, and took a shower while Cecelia stared out the tall windows to the hummocky country of the Blue Hunt. By the time Miranda came back in, wrapped in a thick quilted robe, Cecelia had her own questions in order.

  "Miranda . . . remember when I told you what Pedar told me, shortly after Bunny died?"

  "Of course," Miranda said. "You told me that you thought Pedar knew who had killed him, that it was not the NewTex Militia."

  "Is . . . that . . .?"

  "Cecelia, Pedar has always been a bit of a boor, you know that."

  "Yes, but—"

  "He thought himself a man of power; he wanted to improve his status within the Conselline Sept. So naturally he claimed to have knowledge you didn't have."

  "You didn't take him seriously."

  "Not at first, no. He came courting, you see."

  "Courting!"

  "Yes. Hinting that if I had his protection, I need not fear Harlis's challenge to the will. That I would get to keep Sirialis—he meant he would get Sirialis."

  "He honestly thought you would marry him?"

  "Apparently. He asked if he could come here; I put him off several times, but finally consented."

  "But why?"

  Miranda shrugged. "I wanted to know what he knew—how he was so sure he could do what he claimed. It's not the kind of thing you can ask over a com line: 'Do you really have the power you say you have?' I
thought, if he visited, I could assess his abilities and intentions better."

  "But you weren't going to marry him—"

  "Heavens, Cecelia, you do stick like a burr! No, I was not going to marry him. I'm not going to marry anyone. I'm going to fight Harlis, on Buttons' behalf, and save the inheritance, but I'm not going to marry. I had the best for most of my life; why would I settle for crumbs now?"

  "I don't know—I just worry—"

  "No need." Miranda stretched, then strolled over to the pool. Fat orange goldfish rose to the surface and swam nearer. "I'm not crazy; I didn't get my rejuv drugs from the Morrelines, and I'm not going to rejuv again. Once I get my children settled—"

  "I thought I'd never get rejuved," Cecelia said. "Wouldn't have, if not for the poison. But I rather like it now."

  "I understand that," Miranda said. "You have more things you want to do. But I'm nominal forty now, actual—well, you know the actuality—and have another sixty years of health without rejuv. Sixty years without Bunny is plenty."

  "You might find someone else."

  "And gold might drop from the sky in showers. If I do, I can rejuv then, if I want. But it's not something to plan on. End of discussion, Cece. Tell me, have you been down to the stables yet?"

  "No—"

  "Then you should. Just in case something happens, and Harlis ends up with Sirialis after all, you should know if there's anything here you'd like to put a bid on."

  "I can't believe he'd be stupid enough to shut down the stables," Cecelia said.

  "A horse broke his foot when he was a boy, and then he cracked some ribs falling off into rocks trying to keep up with Bunny. He thinks horses are large smelly abominations, a drain on the income—which they are, actually. We've never made money off the horses."

  "Miranda—you're distracting me with horses, and I'm not that foolish. Did you kill Pedar on purpose?"

  Miranda gave her a long, silent look. "Do you think I would do something like that?"

  "I don't know anymore what people will and won't do. I didn't think Lorenza would poison me and gloat over me while I lay helpless. I didn't think Kemtre would drug his own sons, or connive at cloning. I didn't think Bunny's brother would terrorize an old lady into giving up her shares. Or that Pedar would have Bunny assassinated to get a Ministry."

  "We're not answering each other's questions," Miranda said. "And I think that's probably wise. But I will remind you of that old, old rule."

  "Which one?"

  "A lady is never rude . . . by accident." Miranda put a dollop of honey in her cup, then sipped the tea. "I needed that."

  "Sticking a blade into someone's brain and stirring goes beyond mere rudeness." Cecelia felt grumpy. She was sure she knew what had happened—or part of it—and yet Miranda wasn't reacting as she should.

  "That's true," Miranda said. "But the rule applies in other situations as well. Cecelia, if you're going to make a fuss, please do so."

  "You're not even asking me not to . . ."

  "No. Your decisions are yours, as mine are mine."

  "What are you going to tell your children?"

  "That Pedar died in a fencing accident. They have brains, Cecelia, and imagination; they will put on it what construction they please."

  Cecelia ate another jam-filled tart, and stared out the window again. After a long silence, she said, "I suppose it sends a message to Hobart . . ."

  "I hope so," Miranda said.

  Chapter Twenty

  Esmay scowled at the message strip the clerk handed her. They'd had it all arranged, she thought. Why meet in a private room, and not in the restaurant? She scanned the lift tubes, looking for the right range. Thirty-seven to forty . . . odd. Most tubes served at least ten floors. She tapped the access button.

  "Room and name, please?"

  What was this? If Barin had been there, she'd have whacked him in the head, but he wasn't. "3814," she said instead. "Lieutenant Suiza."

  The lift tube access slid open, with the supporting grid glowing green for up. Esmay stepped in, and found herself in a mirrored cylinder that rose smoothly, with none of the exuberance of most lift tubes. Her ears popped once, then again. It was only thirty-eight floors—what was happening here?

  She stepped out into a green-carpeted foyer, the walls striped in subtle shades of beige and cream. The pictures on the wall . . . she caught her breath at the bold geometric. Surely that was a reproduction—she stepped closer. No . . . the thick wedge of purple, that cast a shadow in every reproduction, cast a different shadow here, lit as it was by a pin spot on the opposite wall. Genuine Oskar Cramin. Then that might be a real Dessaline as well, its delicate traceries refusing to be overborne by the Cramin's almost brutal vigor. Quietly, with the confidence of greatness, the little gray and gold and black Dessaline held its place.

  She shook her head and looked around. Beyond the foyer, a short hall had but four doors opening off it, and one was labelled Service. Barin must have spent a fortune . . . 3814 was the middle door. She moved into its recognition cone, and waited.

  The door opened, and she was face to face with . . . a middle-aged woman she'd never seen. Before she could begin to stammer an apology, the woman spoke.

  "Lieutenant Suiza! How good to meet you—I'm Podjar Serrano, Barin's mother."

  Barin's mother. Panic seized her. She had been prepared for Barin, for a few stolen moments of privacy . . . a chance to talk before she met his mother.

  "Come on in," Podjar was saying. "We're all dying to meet you."

  We? What we? We all? She could hear a low hum of voices, and wanted nothing more than to run away. Where was Barin? How could he lead her into this?

  Podjar had her by the arm—Barin's mother; she couldn't just pull away—and led her inside, to a room that seemed as big as a planet right then.

  "Here she is at last," Podjar said to someone else, a short thickset man who had Barin's grin but nothing of his grace. Brother? Father? Uncle? "This is Kerin, my husband," Podjar said. Esmay hoped that meant he was Barin's father, because otherwise she hadn't a clue.

  Farther into the room, her stunned wits began to register additional details. Not only was the room big, and arranged for entertaining, but it was comfortably full of people who all seemed to know each other. Barin's family?

  "Esmay!" Her heart leapt. That was Barin, and he would get her out of this, whatever it was. He came toward her, clearly gleeful and full of himself. She could have killed him, and hoped he understood steel behind her fixed smile.

  "I'm sorry I wasn't at the lift to meet you," he said. "I had an urgent call—"

  Esmay couldn't bring herself to be polite and say it didn't matter. "What is this?" she said instead.

  Barin grimaced. "It got out of hand," he said. "I wanted you to meet my parents, and they were coming through here on the way home. Then grandmother—" he waved; Esmay followed the gesture to see Admiral Vida Serrano at the far end of the room, surrounded by an earnest cluster of older people. "—Grandmother wanted to talk to you about something, and thought this would be a good opportunity. And then . . . they started precipitating, falling out of the sky . . ."

  "Mmm." Esmay could not say any of what she was thinking, not with his parents standing there smiling at her a little nervously. "Are we . . . going to have a chance to talk?" By ourselves she meant.

  "I don't know," Barin said. "I hope so. But—" His gaze slid to his mother, who quirked an eyebrow.

  "Barin, you know it's important family business. We must confer."

  Great. The only leave she'd been able to wangle, in the current crises, and it looked as if she'd be spending it conferring with his family instead of hers.

  "How was your trip, Esmay?" asked Barin's father. He had lieutenant commander's insignia, with a technical flash.

  "Fine, though we lost a day at Karpat for unscheduled maintenance procedures." She couldn't keep the edge out of her voice.

  "Mmm. That's typical." Barin's father nodded across the room. "Let me
show you to your room."

  "My—"

  "Of course you have your own room here. We may have descended in force, but we're not entirely uncivilized. You have to stay somewhere." Across the room, through another door, into another corridor . . . Esmay was by this time beyond astonishment when he showed her to a small suite, its sitting room wall showing a view of the station's exterior. "This is yours—and I'm sure the staff are sending up your things."

  "I have only the carryon," Esmay said.

  "Well, then. Come out when you're ready." With a smile, he turned away and closed the door behind him. Esmay sank down onto one of the rose-and-cream-striped chairs. What she wanted to do was put her head in her hands and scream. That wouldn't be productive, she was sure. But what was going on?