—Al, even if you could guarantee that the price will be all yours, it will be a load you shouldn’t have to carry. That no one should have to carry!
Should, eh? I’ve got this major soft spot for should. I hear it a lot from people who don’t want me to do whatever I’ve decided to do. Sometimes it even works. I love you, Grandpere, but should isn’t going to stop me today.
—Al—
Forget it, Grandpere. I’m freeing Bart and I’m doing it today. We’ll take it from there.
She knocked at the mansion's door and stepped back a pace.
The door opened to reveal Ellen Kramnik, Sebastian Kramnik’s youngest daughter. The normally cheerful, winsome young woman’s face was puffy and tear-streaked.
“Things not so good at home, El?”
She nodded. “Uncle Doug isn’t listening to anyone.”
“I know.” Althea looked away. “It’s why I’m here. Will you let me in, so I won’t have to use this?” She held up the flat oblong package that held her homemade breaching charge.
Ellen’s gaze sharpened. “What would it do?”
Althea grimaced. “Blow the door off its hinges.”
“Oh.” Ellen’s face twitched. “I shouldn’t, you know. Uncle Doug will be very angry.”
Althea took a deep breath, let it out gradually, and forced her brightest smile.
“Believe me, El, once I’m done with him, he’ll have lots of reasons to be angry. You won’t even blip his radar. Just let me in and take me to where he’s keeping Bart.”
Ellen Kramnik opened wide the door of Kramnik House and stepped to one side.
* * *
Ellen led Althea to the end of an ordinary-looking hallway, and indicated an ordinary-looking door at the back of the mansion. The noise of the looms in continuous operation had risen steadily as they walked.
“Closet?” Althea said.
“Sort of. It’s a storeroom for loom supplies.”
“Ah. Is that a steel door?”
“I’m not sure.”
Althea grinned. “Let’s find out.” She waved Ellen to one side, backed up as far as the corridor would allow, and launched a full-power side kick at the door latch’s junction to the jamb.
The jamb gave way with a sharp crack and a flurry of splinters. The door, though it turned easily on its hinge, seemed undamaged. Althea turned to her guide and shrugged.
“Doesn’t make a lot of sense to mate a steel door to a masonwood jamb, does it?”
Ellen’s expression was pained. “I guess not.”
The door swung back against the wall to reveal a modest storeroom. It contained shelves loaded with a wide variety of machine parts, half a dozen small barrels of assorted lubricants and solvents, and Barton Kramnik, gagged and elaborately bound to a wooden chair. He spied Althea in the doorway and his eyes went wide.
A storm of footfalls alerted them to the imminent arrival of uninvited company. Althea donned her sweetest smile, casually pulled her needlegun from its holster, and turned to level it at the approaching Kramnik horde.
“Ladies? Gentlemen? Can I help you in some way?”
The crowd clotting the corridor rumbled to a halt. At its head was a middle-aged man she didn’t recognize.
“What are you doing here, Morelon?” the leader spat.
Althea gestured casually with her needler. “Why don’t we start with why you weren’t here well before me.” She jerked her head toward the open door of the storeroom. “Were you aware that your patriarch was holding one of your kin prisoner and incommunicado because the poor fool dared to entertain the thought of marriage to one of my kin?”
The leader’s face drained of color. Althea stared him full in the eyes.
“Well?” she said. “Did you know?”
For a long moment the only sound in the hallway was the churning of the looms in the mill hall beyond.
“We...did,” the leader said. “Some of us did, anyway.”
“But you chose to permit it.”
The leader hung his head. The faces of those behind him had become abashed...those that hadn’t gone utterly gray.
Althea sauntered up to the leader as if there were nothing of any import in prospect. She put her free hand to his chin and forced him to look at her.
“What’s your name?”
“Everett Kramnik.”
“Pleased to meet you, Everett,” she said. “My name is Althea Morelon. Where’s Douglas at the moment?”
He said nothing.
“You know,” she continued, “just in case it isn’t perfectly obvious, I’m not in a good mood.” She gestured at the fragments of the door jamb. “I’d rather not go home this way. It would help a lot if you were to give me what I ask for.” She looked around. “Would any of you like to find out what I’m capable of? The hard way, I mean.”
No one spoke. Everett Kramnik shook his head.
“Then go find Douglas and bring him here, right now. You,” she said, pointing to another in the crowd with her needler, “get over here and get Bart untrussed from that chair. As for the rest of you, you can hang around if you like, but I won’t promise that you’ll enjoy the entertainment.” She smiled grimly as Everett Kramnik scurried off.
“What are you going to do now?” a Kramnik woman said hesitantly.
“Now?” Althea looked off as if pondering it. “Now we wait.”
* * *
The audible diffidence of the knock on Douglas Kramnik’s office door caused him to frown.
“Come in.”
The door opened partway. His cousin Everett’s head poked into the office.
“Doug? There’s...stuff going on downstairs. You might want to have a look at it.”
Douglas rose from his desk, followed his cousin down the stairs, saw the large mass of Kramnik kindred assembled in the corridor, and stopped. A few of them turned to look at him. They seemed afraid of something.
“Uncle Douglas?” His niece Ellen’s alto wobbled uncertainly over the heads of the crowd. “We’re over here.”
He pushed his way through the throng to its far edge, muttering impatiently. His eyes lit first on the loosely swinging door of the storeroom, then on the furious face of Althea Morelon. Before he could react, the young woman took him by the throat and slammed him against the wall.
He groped for his needlegun, only to find that it had been ripped from its holster. It hardly mattered; the muzzle of Althea’s needler was pressed firmly against his crotch.
“I have some special rounds in this thing, Doug,” Althea purred. “Hyperesthetics. They amplify nerve responses to the point where a tap from one finger feels like a roundhouse kick. Took a while to season, so I’d rather not waste them. Are you willing to talk nice?”
He nodded. Althea stared hard into his eyes for a moment more before releasing him and backing a step away. Her needler remained leveled at his midsection. His kindred stood silent and immobile.
“I want you to explain to us all why you imprisoned your scion.” Althea flicked a hand at Barton, who had been released from bondage and was plainly unhappy. “Be extremely specific. I’m not willing to listen to a load of self-justifying nonsense.”
Douglas swept his gaze swiftly around the Kramniks in the corridor. He couldn’t detect much sympathy there.
“To keep Bart from marrying your cousin Nora and leaving our clan.” He clamped his lips against any further explanation.
“I see,” Althea said. “Bart? Does that square with your understanding?”
Barton looked accusingly at Douglas. “With one little addendum,” he said. “Dad wanted a favor from Adam Grenier. I don’t know the details. They had that part of their conversation behind a closed door. But just before that he’d been arguing to Adam that you were still going to undercut his cargo business.”
A murmur ran through the watching Kramniks.
“Tell us about this favor, Doug,” Althea said.
He tried to shrug it aside. “I was just suggesting that he s
houldn’t—”
“I will ask Adam Grenier for confirmation,” Althea said. “If his account doesn’t match yours in all particulars, I’m going to come back here even angrier than I am right now.”
Douglas looked once more to his kinsmen. He read even less support in their faces than before.
They won’t defend me. Not to this bitch, at least.
I’ll have to try to brazen it out.
“Why don’t you speak to Adam first, Althea?” He folded his arms across his chest. “Frankly, I’m indisposed to let you in on the details of a commercial agreement you’re not a party to. I’d be surprised if he feels any different.” He nodded at her weapon. “Of course, you could always try your unique methods of persuasion on him.”
For a long moment the churning of the looms was the only sound to be heard.
“Maybe I will, at that,” Althea said at last. “But no matter what he says or doesn’t say, you and I aren’t finished. You committed a kidnapping, and of someone who’d become important to Clan Morelon, at that. I doubt you feel any remorse. I’m pretty sure that if I hadn’t intervened, none of your relatives would have done the least little thing about it.” Her gaze swerved to the mass of onlookers. “Were you folks aware that your patriarch exiled two elders from your clan earlier today?”
A second murmur rippled through the crowd.
“No? I’m surprised, given the brass he’s shown me here. I’d have thought he’d brag about it. You know, flaunt the power a little. Anyway, Patrice and Alvah Kramnik turned up at Morelon House not too long ago, trundling a couple of rickety wheelbarrows filled with their belongings. They came to beg for sanctuary. Charisse gave it to them, of course. If any of you would like to inquire about Doug’s reasons for ejecting them, they’ll be at our place for the foreseeable future.”
She holstered her needlegun, beckoned Barton to her, and clamped a hand onto his arm.
“Keep your patriarch nice and safe, folks. I don’t want anything bad to happen to him before I return. Come on, Bart.”
Douglas Kramnik watched his kindred flow aside to let them pass.
* * *
Barton was in a kind of fever-dream delirium. The accumulation of unprecedented events, notably the ones done to him and for him, had ripped away his sense of the world’s logic. He no longer expected to understand what he saw, heard, or experienced. Without consciously willing it, he had placed his fate in the hands of his liberator.
Althea said nothing as they made their way to Grenier Air Transport. From her expression, she wasn’t yet certain how to deal with the confrontation with Adam Grenier. Yet her stride was swift and resolute. It took Barton considerable effort to keep pace with her.
As they rounded the final turn toward the hangar, she halted them and made him face her.
“Is there anything you haven’t told me about this favor?”
He shook his head. “Dad said nothing about the details. He was very proud of himself, though.”
Althea’s mouth tightened. “I wonder why. Bart, I want you to accept one thing above all else: my family isn’t like that. What we do, we do in plain sight. We don’t plot against other clans...and we don’t play power games against one another. Think you can adapt yourself to an environment that simple and straightforward?”
He laughed. He couldn’t help it. It took a while for him to master himself. Althea waited.
“Well, Al,” he said as he ran down, “the challenge sounds formidable, but I promise I’ll give it my best shot.” He gazed down at his boots. “But I forgot something.”
“Hm?” Althea’s brow wrinkled.
“To thank you.”
“Oh.” She smirked. “Think nothing of it, Bart. Actually,” she said, “it was kinda fun. Don’t think I should make a habit of it, though. Come on, let’s finish up.”
At the mouth of the hangar, Althea poked her head inside, shouted “Adam!” at a wake-the-dead volume, stepped back and drew her needlegun.
Presently Adam Grenier came trotting out of the darkness, eyes roving for the source of the call. When his gaze lit on Althea and Barton, his hand swerved toward his needler. Althea grinned malevolently and leveled hers at his chest, and he froze in place.
“Know what a hyperesthetic is, Adam?”
Grenier shook his head warily.
“It’s the opposite of an anesthetic. Makes the pain hurt worse. Lots worse, according to the formulary I used to make the seasoning for these rounds. If you so much as twitch, you’ll get to experience the effects first hand. So you just stay right there while we chat.”
Grenier’s gaze flicked to Barton. Barton shrugged.
“What do you want?” Grenier said tonelessly.
“Bart here tells me that you and his Dad just concluded a new agreement. He mentioned something about a favor, too. A favor negotiated behind closed doors, that he wasn’t allowed to hear about.” Her eyebrows rose. “That’s pretty strange behavior for a patriarch toward his scion. When I asked Douglas about it, he referred me to you.”
Grenier said nothing.
“Adam,” Althea murmured, “I intend to know. If it’s something intended to work to my detriment, or to the detriment of my clan, you had better hope that you haven’t put it into motion yet.”
The seconds ticked by in electric stillness.
“Adam? This is the last time I’ll ask nicely.”
“He wanted to cripple your lab development plan,” Grenier croaked. “Asked me to arrange to have your cargo ruined somehow. Maybe have it badly damaged during the loading, or fall out of the plane in mid-flight.”
“And you agreed to it.”
Grenier didn’t answer.
Althea holstered her needler.
“You just lost Clan Morelon’s business, Adam.” She peered at him as if he were something unpleasant on a microscope slide. “All of it. How much of your neighbors’ business do you think you’ll lose when this gets around?”
Grenier’s eyes widened in panic. “But I didn’t—”
“Do you really think that matters?”
Althea whirled, took Barton by the arm once more, and led him away.
When they were back under the canopy to the commercial area, Barton said, “He was my friend.”
Althea glanced sideways at him. “Past tense?”
He nodded.
“Smart fella.” She snorted. “Some people don’t deserve friends.”
“Yeah.”
==
Chapter 9 : Sexember 13, 1303 A.H.
At the door to Morelon House they confronted Charisse wearing a thunderhead face.
Barton regarded the Morelon matriarch with a degree of awe. He knew of no one else on Alta who’d ever garnered his father’s respect, much less his deference or his fear. He started to speak, to express his thanks for being welcomed into Morelon House even as a guest. He didn’t get a complete syllable out before Althea halted him.
“Yes, Grandaunt?”
“Exactly what,” Charisse ground out, “did you say to Adam Grenier?”
Althea grinned. “From the look on your face and the tone of your voice, I’d guess that you’ve spoken to him already, so why ask me? Don’t you trust his account?”
“He said,” Charisse continued in the same impending-doom tone, “that you took it upon yourself to cancel all the clan’s contracts with him.”
Althea nodded. “So far, right on the mark. That’s exactly what I did.”
“You have no authority over such things, Althea.”
Another nod. “I decided not to let that bother me.”
“Althea—”
Barton’s rescuer did something he’d never have expected: she roared fury into her clan matriarch’s face.
“That bastard,” Althea bellowed, “struck a quiet little deal with Douglas Kramnik. A deal involving the destruction of about a million dekas’ worth of my cargo, and not coincidentally, my ability to function on the Hopeless peninsula. Mine and Martin’s. Did he tell you abo
ut that little detail, Grandmere? Would you allow that that aspect of our exchange might be reason enough for me to anticipate your reaction, or are you so jealous of your position that the idea is too galling to accept even so?
“I’ve brought home a new member for the clan, Grandaunt,” Althea continued at lower volume. “He wants to marry Nora as soon as we can see to it. He’s so eager to join Clan Morelon that I think he’d agree to become our indentured servant just to be allowed to sleep under our roof. But no sooner have I opened the door to usher him in than I find you standing here, looking like a volcano about to erupt—and why? Because I dared to speak for Clan Morelon? Because I usurped your authority?”
Charisse gaped at her, stunned speechless.
She took Barton by the arm and pulled him across the threshold. Charisse backed away, at last facing them across the wide entranceway to the mansion.
“I’m going to show Barton to an unused bedroom,” Althea grated. “At the moment, he has nothing but the clothes on his back, so I figured I’d scout out some alternates and other grooming items for him before introducing him around. Do you have a problem with having him eat at our table for the foreseeable future?”
“No,” Charisse murmured.
Althea smiled grimly. “I’m glad to hear that. Now why don’t you get back on the radio to Grenier Air? Adam might be willing to sell the Guppy at a bargain price—I’d say seven hundred thousand is about right—in which case I’d recommend that you buy it. Or you could renegotiate all the clan’s haulage contracts with him. I’d imagine he’d be very relieved, not to mention agreeable to whatever rates and conditions you might care to stipulate. I’d get busy on one or the other of those right away, while he’s still in a panic. If you decide you want to continue this conversation, we can do it after dinner.” She turned to Barton. “Come on, Bart, let’s get you settled.”
She marched the two of them past the matriarch of Clan Morelon and up the stairs to the bedroom level.
* * *
Martin was unusually quiet throughout the evening. Althea tried to prod him into conversation several times, without result. That his thoughts had wandered far from the here and now was painfully evident. After dinner, he retired to their bedroom rather than accompany her into the hearthroom for the family’s usual postprandial entertainments. He said nothing about it, merely smiled wanly at her and mounted the stairs.
Freedom's Scion (Spooner Federation Saga Book 2) Page 9
