She retired for the night shortly thereafter. She found him already undressed and in bed, propped up on several pillows, reading from a large, visibly worn hardbound book. He looked up and smiled again, with the same lack of pleasure as earlier.
“Something interesting?” she ventured.
He closed the book, set it aside, and beckoned to her. She took a moment to unlace her boots, then lay down next to him and sidled cautiously into his embrace.
“Relevant, at least,” he said. “The theory and practice of justice in a stateless society.”
“Where’d that come from?”
“Chuck lent it to me,” he said. “One of his texts from Gallatin. How old are he and Charisse?”
“Hm.” She calculated briefly. “My grandfather Armand said she was his younger sister by two years. That would make her about a hundred and eight. I think Chuck is three years older.”
“How long has she been the boss here?”
Boss?
“She took over the management of the clan’s businesses while Armand and Teresza were still up on the peninsula.”
He squinted down at her. “They were very young then, weren’t they?”
She nodded.
“So she’s been in the power seat for about ninety years. More than three quarters of her life.” He blinked. “That’s a long time even by today’s standards. Not good.”
“Hm? Why not good?”
“Power changes people, Al.” He smirked. “Even the sort of noncoercive power a clan head has. They get used to being deferred to and accommodated. After a while, any change in the pattern looks to them like the end of the world.”
And ninety years is quite a while.
She pulled herself more snugly against him.
“I’ve only known her as matriarch,” she said. “The day I was born she’d already been running this place for more than fifty years. I have no idea what she was like before that.” She grimaced. “Chuck would know.”
“I doubt he’d want to talk about it,” Martin said. “When was the last time either of them came to the hearthroom after dinner?”
“Oh, it hasn’t been that long. It was just...” She realized she couldn’t remember, and fell silent.
He said nothing more.
—He changed subjects on you pretty smoothly.
Hi, Grandpere. Yeah, he did. I don’t know if I want to return to the previous one.
—You should.
Hm. Okay.
“So tell me about the pursuit of justice in a stateless society,” she said. “How’s it supposed to work?”
Martin chuckled without humor. “I was hoping you’d forget about that for a few years.”
“Not a chance.” She rose from his side, doffed her garments, doused the lights, and returned to bed. He welcomed her back into his arms, and she laid her cheek against his chest. “So? Come on, spill it.”
There was a long moment of silence. She found herself growing tense.
Grandpere, why doesn’t he want to tell me?
—Patience, Al. You’ll find out.
“If I can go by Chuck’s book, the theorists never quite figured it out,” Martin said at last. “The enforcement of a rule of justice requires two things: jurisdiction and a preponderance of force. Acquiring a preponderance of force is a practical matter, contextual and not necessarily permanent. Jurisdiction is the tough part. Asserting it is easy. Rationalizing it is another thing altogether.”
“Why is that?” she said.
“Because of the inevitable objection.”
“Which is?”
He smirked at her through the darkness. “Who died and made you king?”
“Ah.”
“But there’s worse, Al.” She tensed again, and he squeezed her gently. “If you can pull it off—the enforcement of justice in some particular case, where everyone who knows about it agrees that what you did was the right thing, that it needed to be done, and that you had the right to do it—you automatically become king. It changes the whole of the society around you. Your neighbors come to you with every complaint they have against one another. You’re not allowed to duck anything. The little bit of justice you made sticks to you like a coat of tar.”
The knot of tension in her chest had swelled to the size of a cocoanut.
“Is that what’s in store for me? To become...a State?” she whispered.
“According to Chuck’s book,” he murmured, “there was only one exception in all of Earth history.”
“Who?” she whispered.
“A man named Solon.”
“How did he get out from under it?”
Martin turned to face her in the darkness.
“He fled for his life,” he said. “He left the city of his birth, the only home he’d ever known, and didn’t return for ten years.”
“Was it long enough?” She swallowed. “When he returned, did the people of his city still regard him as their king?”
“The book doesn’t say.”
—Do you begin to see, Al?
Was this what you wanted to warn me about, Grandpere?
—This and nothing else.
I’m sorry I blew you off, Grandpere. Forgive me?
—Of course. But will you do it again?
Not as long as I remember this!
She gathered her resolve.
“Then that’s what I’ll do. Sulla, maybe.”
“What about the peninsula?” Martin said.
“Hm?”
“We were planning to establish a lab there, weren’t we?”
“Oh. Yeah.” She pondered it. “I suppose that would work, too. But Martin,” she faltered, “this is about my stupidity. This exile, I mean. No one’s going to blame you for any of it.” The next words caught in her throat. She bore down and forced them out. “You don’t have to come along.”
He gasped.
“What, love?”
“What makes you think I could or would stay here without you?” he murmured. “You don’t want that, do you?”
“I just don’t want you to suffer for my...my...”
“For your sins?” He pressed her tightly to him. “Entreat me not to leave thee, nor to refrain from following thee, for whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou dwellest, I will dwell; and thy people shall be my people, and...”
“And what?” she whispered.
“Never mind. Is there some reason you won’t have me?”
“No!”
“Then we proceed as planned.” He kissed the top of her head. “Let the rest of Jacksonville think whatever it likes.”
“Okay,” she whispered.
It’ll be harder now, without Grenier Air.
—Maybe not that much harder, Al. Talk to Charisse. Calmly this time.
I’ll give it my best.
—(humor) You could hardly do worse.
Grandpere—
—Go to sleep, Althea. Come back to it in the morning.
Why? You think things will look better then?
—(humor) Not at all. Things will look just as bleak then, but at least there’ll be hot coffee and you’ll be well rested.
Okay.
* * *
Patrice Kramnik listened to Barton’s narration of the day’s events at Kramnik House without saying a word. Alvah sat beside her with her hand loosely clasped in his, equally silent, equally enthralled.
When Barton had run down, Patrice rose and beckoned him into her arms. He hesitated, then accepted her embrace.
“We thought less of you than you deserved,” she said. “That’s a mistake we won’t repeat.” She pushed him a little away and looked directly into his eyes. “But you must tell us, Bart, where you stand now. Do you plan to remain here, a supplicant to persons to whom you have no ties, or do you hope to return to the clan of your birth?”
Barton’s forehead wrinkled. “I’m going to marry Nora Morelon,” he said. “If she’ll still have me after all this.”
“So?” Alvah rasped.
“That’s no obstacle to returning to your rightful home and your rightful station. With a rather prestigious spouse on your arm, at that.”
Barton’s eyes flicked back and forth between them.
“What have you got in mind?”
Patrice cast a monitory glance over her shoulder at Alvah. He frowned, then nodded.
“Given what you’ve told us, it’s highly unlikely that your father will be clan patriarch for much longer,” she said. “That, of course, raises the question of his successor. You were his designated heir. In the usual course of things, you would have become the leading candidate for the position once Douglas decided to retire. You must have been aware of that, surely?”
Barton nodded warily.
“Well? Did the prospect appeal to you? Does it appeal to you today?”
Barton’s expression had clouded over and closed up completely.
“I have to tell you, I’ve never given it a lot of thought.”
“Clan Kramnik needs a strong leader,” Alvah said. “Patrice and I are too old. We lack the required energy. Sebastian and Leo are too diffident. None of the other elders possesses the necessary stature. You would be a good fit to the post, with a certain amount of guidance. We would be willing to act as your counselors, preferably in private, so that you could always present a confident, self-assured face both inside and outside the clan.”
Patrice strained to repress a wince at Alvah’s too-candid disclosure of their ambitions. Barton seemed not to notice. Still, his expression was maximally guarded. She could read nothing of his desires or intentions from it.
“I know,” he said, “what being designated Dad’s scion is supposed to mean. But you might not know that Dad doesn’t expect to give up the power seat. Didn’t, anyway.”
“Bosh,” Alvah snorted. “He’ll grow old and feeble the same as anyone else. He’s already past his prime.”
A slight, rueful smile formed on Barton’s face. He shook his head slowly.
“So you don’t know.”
“Don’t know what?” Patrice said.
Barton turned that gently pitying smile on her.
“Who does the family’s bookkeeping, Patrice? Who pays the clan’s bills? Who decides on budgets for this and that? For things like medical treatments, for instance?”
An unpleasant realization rose within her.
“Do you really mean to imply...?”
Barton nodded. “Even I didn’t know about it until the day before yesterday. But then, who would take any serious interest in the accounts of a business as marginal as ours?”
Alvah rose from the bed and moved to stand beside Patrice.
“Just him, Bart?” he hissed.
“Just him.” Barton smirked. “Maybe he would have arranged for me to get them, some day, but for the moment, just him.”
He looked away. “I hadn’t thought seriously about returning to Clan Kramnik until you brought it up. It’s a tough sort of place for someone like me. I don’t have your moves, or your taste for intrigue. And now that you’ve made it plain how you’d like to use me, I’m definitely not going back there. Not even to pick up my clothes.” He brightened. “But Nora wants me, though I can’t imagine why, and Althea has promised I’ll be accepted into this clan without prejudice.”
He freed himself from the remnant of Patrice’s embrace, made for the door, stopped and turned back toward them.
“Just so there won’t be any further uncertainty about where I stand, I think I’ll change my name to Morelon.”
With that he exited, closing the door carefully behind him.
==
Chapter 10: Sexember 14, 1303 A.H.
When she was about equidistant from Morelon House and the cluster of retail establishments at the far end of her running track, Althea braked gradually to a halt.
Is this isolated enough, Grandpere?
—I think so, Al. What do we have to work with?
Hm?
—Just look around you and describe what you see.
She swiftly scanned the area.
There’s a thick layer of mason trees and Earth oaks directly across from the river. It’s pretty much continuous in both directions. Clumps of wildflowers here and there at the outer edge. A few small rocks strewn along the riverbank. And of course, we have the Kropotkin River itself, which is about as high as usual for this time of year.
—Very good. Select a rock no larger than a man’s fist.
Go get a small rock, check.
—No, no! Select a rock. Visually. Don’t go to it or touch it.
Hm?
—Just do it, Al.
She shrugged and looked along the bank for a rock of the specified size. There were several.
You can have your pick, Grandpere.
—Choose one, Al. One. You only need one for our first exercises. Then stare at it fixedly.
Okay. Now what?
—Describe your physical posture.
Hm? I’m just standing on the track staring at this rock and waiting for—
—Althea...
Okay, okay! I’m upright but relaxed, facing the river. My hands are on my hips. My feet are spread about twenty-four inches apart, toes pointing toward the river. My center of gravity is right above the midpoint of my stance.
—Very good. Are you still staring at your selected rock?
(growl) Yes, Grandpere, just as you commanded.
—Be polite, young lady. You’re about to do something brand new. It’s likely to shock you a bit. Now, without altering your posture in any way, fix the image of that rock in your mind’s eye, but let your body’s eyes close.
She complied, feeling only moderately silly.
—Now, without moving an inch, approach that rock.
What?
—Extend your viewpoint toward it, until it seems as if you could reach down and pick it off the riverbank.
Hm. Give me a moment, okay?
—Take your time. Just don’t move physically.
It was an exercise of mind she’d never previously attempted. It took some time to convince her “viewpoint,” whatever that was, to move toward the bit of feldspar she’d chosen. She imagined it growing larger, as if she were approaching it physically, and stopped when it appeared to rest directly before her feet.
Okay, Grandpere, now what?
—Now pick it up.
Huh?
—Reach down and pick it up, Al. I can’t make it any simpler than that. You can do it!
It was pointless to argue with him. She shrugged, imagined herself bending, reaching toward the rock, closing her fingers on it and lifting it to about eye level.
Check, Grandpere. I’ve picked up the Spooner-be-damned rock. Now what?
—(humor) Now open your eyes.
She did, and immediately grew faint.
The rock hung suspended in the air, about five feet off the ground. Defying gravity.
She gasped, and the rock fell to the ground.
Uh, Grandpere? Was I hallucinating? That’s not possible, after all.
—No hallucination, Al. You just lifted a rock of about two pounds’ weight via telekinesis.
Rothbard, Rand, and Ringer!
—They had no part in it, dear. It’s an aspect of your gift. One that would be very useful in space, don’t you think?
But the conservation laws! Where did the energy come from? And what about the momentum?
—Don’t ask me to explain it, Al. I can’t. All I can say is that intelligence apparently has power over that which is not intelligent. Far more power than is usually supposed.
Then anyone could do this?
—(humor) No, dear. Not quite. At this time and on this world, only you. As far as I know, anyway.
This is going to take some getting used to.
—Because it upsets your assumptions about physical law?
Well, yeah!
—That’s one of the reasons for your gift. One of the larger ones. Are you ready for a little mor
e practice? I’d like for you to be able to do it with your eyes open before the end of the lesson.
Uh, give me a minute, okay?
—(humor) Take your time, dear. We have plenty.
* * *
Patrice Kramnik ambled irregularly back and forth across the width of the modest bedroom Charisse Morelon had assigned to her and Alvah.
“Do you still want to go back to Kramnik House without him?” she said.
Alvah sat a little straighter and shook his head. “I’d rather not as long as Douglas is patriarch. The other elders are sheep. With Barton out of the picture, they’ll depose Douglas only if one of us is willing to accept the premiership. I'm not. Are you?”
“I don’t want it.” She continued to roam. “But why not? Do you really think we have to have the power seat to be safe there?”
Alvah regarded her sardonically. “Do you want to remain an insignificant fish in an insignificant pond, cousin? The patriarchy is our only hope of attaining any sort of stature in this community. As for ‘safe,’ we’re perfectly safe here, aren’t we?” He waved a hand around the little bedroom they’d been allocated. “We’re sheltered and protected by the richest and strongest clan on Alta, probably for as long as we care to stay. We’re also nobodies: no function, no stature, and no influence.” His tone sharpened. “Charisse will probably even agree to pay for Hallanson-Albermayer treatments for us, so we can go on being nobodies for centuries. Living trophies to the generosity and nobility of Clan Morelon. Would you be satisfied with that?”
Patrice ceased to pace and stared at him. He remained seated at the edge of their bed, apparently impassive.
“You weren’t like this before...”
“Before Eunice died?” Alvah’s smirk lacked any trace of amusement. “Perhaps not. Does that matter? Here, we’re safe, but we have nothing else. We’re objects of charity, useless to the clan that shelters us. There, we’d be persons of influence, living refutations to Douglas’s fantasy of unbridled power. When he falls or is toppled, we’d become gray eminences. People the clan’s enemies would need to conciliate...or fear.”
Freedom's Scion (Spooner Federation Saga Book 2) Page 10
