Freedom's Scion (Spooner Federation Saga Book 2)

by Francis Porretto

  “Would you mind, Alvah? There are usually thirty or more people under this roof. They expect to be fed three times a day. I usually have Dorothy and Cecile to help.” She shrugged. “I suppose they’d still be available for washing-up chores, at least.”

  Alvah chuckled heartily. “Dear Charisse, that’s more than I had any right to expect. I’ll take the job gladly, if you think it’s enough compensation for admitting me to the clan.”

  “And Patrice?” she said. “What’s her major talent?”

  “She’s an organizer. A good one. Everything from an underwear drawer to a million-deka project.” He chuckled again. “Though I doubt many of your kin need help with their underwear drawers.”

  She looked away.

  No question that I could use the help. Maybe Althea could, too.

  “Are you Christians?” she said.

  He shook his head. “I’m not. I can’t speak for Patrice. Does it matter?”

  “No, not really. Some of us are, some aren’t. I was just curious.”

  He said nothing more.

  We don’t owe them, and they don’t really know us yet.

  Still, it might be for the best. For Jacksonville.

  “As far as I’m concerned,” she said, “you’re in. But...this is so completely unprecedented that I have to collect a few other reactions before we call it a done deal. Give me a few days?”

  He nodded, they rose, she held out a hand, and he took it.

  “May I cook for us while you’re making up your mind?” He laid a barely audible stress on us. “I get more pleasure from it than you might think.”

  She grinned. “The pleasure will be all mine.”

  Well, perhaps not all mine.

  * * *

  “Why are you here?” Douglas Kramnik said.

  Chuck Feigner leaned back in Kramnik’s guest chair. He put his fingertips together and peered at them as if studying them.

  The bastard is too calm. I could gun him down where he sits, and he doesn’t seem to care.

  “Well?”

  “For clarity,” Feigner said. “Recent events have made relations between our clans cloudier than Charisse likes. Just now she’s extremely busy, so I volunteered to take this duty off her shoulders. To be her emissary, if you will.”

  He sat forward, dropped his folded hands to his lap, and looked directly into Kramnik’s eyes. “Do you consider your previous commercial agreement with Clan Morelon to remain in force?”

  Kramnik opened his mouth, closed it without speaking.

  Feigner cocked an eyebrow. “From your reaction, I’d guess that you haven’t given it any thought yet.”

  Kramnik nodded. “That’s correct. Did you have an expectation?”

  Feigner smirked. “Yes, we did. That you wouldn’t have given it any thought yet.”

  Kramnik chuckled despite himself. “I suppose that’s as reasonable an assumption as any other. But does Clan Morelon want that purchase agreement to continue in force?”

  “Charisse does,” Feigner said levelly. “I’m here to add a little something to it.”

  “Oh?” Kramnik reached for pen and paper. “What else do you need?”

  Feigner’s face turned as opaque as porcelain. He locked eyes with Kramnik and waited. The patriarch pushed his pad aside and leaned forward.

  “Well?”

  “Your son Barton will marry my grandniece Nora ten days from today, in the hearthroom of Morelon House,” Feigner said. “At the same celebration, Charisse will announce the adoption of Patrice and Alvah Kramnik into the clan as regular members and house residents. Every Morelon within two hundred miles will be present for the ceremonies. So will the patriarchs of Clan Luchin, Clan Leschitsyn, Clan Fitzpatrick, Clan Dunbarton, Clan Wolzman, Clan Albermayer, and all the lesser clans.” He produced an arctic smile. “And so will you.”

  Kramnik’s blood rose. He strove to match the hardness of Feigner’s glare. “Is that an invitation or a command?”

  Feigner’s smile sharpened. “I see you’re beginning to grasp the altered nature of Jacksonville affairs. You will be there, Douglas. You’ll make a few happy remarks about the new bond between our clans. You’ll kiss the bride and congratulate the groom. You’ll have a piece of cake, which Alvah assures us will be light, sweet, and non-toxic. But Douglas, you haven’t heard the best part yet.”

  Kramnik forced himself to sit perfectly still.

  “Before you leave the premises, you’ll smile and kiss Charisse on the cheek. You’ll tell my wife how beautiful she looks. And you’ll do that in full view of all the other attendees. Don’t entertain thoughts of any other course. I promise you, you would not be pleased by the consequences.”

  Tokens of full submission, out in front of everyone.

  “So Charisse wants to make Clan Kramnik her vassal,” Kramnik snarled.

  Feigner’s eyes widened. He shook his head and laughed softly.

  “Not at all, Douglas. Charisse didn’t say any of that. She merely wants an end to your scheming, and thought having you at Bart and Nora’s wedding would heal what breaches remain between our clans. All the rest are my stipulations. I’m trying to avert the necessity of killing you.”

  He rose and smiled down at Douglas Kramnik. The patriarch remained motionless in his seat.

  “You’ve revealed yourself as a troublemaker and a plotter,” Feigner said. “I have no idea of your motives, but then, they don’t really matter. I merely want to ensure that you’ll aim no more plots at Clan Morelon. So our two clans are going to kiss and make up with everyone in the area watching us. We’re uninterested in playing games of intrigue with you. For us, there’s no percentage in them.”

  Because you’re already on top.

  “I know you think of my clan as a kind of political power,” Feigner said. “We have no such power and no aspirations to it. We merely want to conduct our business in peace and be well regarded by our neighbors. But given our size and our wealth, it would take only one envious neighbor to poison local attitudes toward us. So, since you’re the moving force over here, I’ve decided to pull your fangs before you can make a second attempt to bite us.”

  Feigner straightened and donned a formal smile.

  “We’ll see you at noon on September the tenth,” he said. “Try to be on time.”

  Feigner turned and made his exit.

  ====

  Chapter 12: Sexember 24, 1303 A.H.

  Althea held completely still. She concentrated on keeping her breathing shallow and regular, lest she burst the hooks on the instrument of torture doing its steel-under-satin best to asphyxiate her. Elyse carefully zipped the back of Althea’s gown closed over the corset lacings, fastened the hook at the top, and stepped back.

  “Put your pumps on.”

  “Grandaunt, this really isn’t—”

  “For Rand’s sake, Althea, just do it!”

  She stood, slipped her feet into the unfamiliar shoes, wobbled a little, took a tentative step, and immediately found herself flailing the air for balance.

  “Rothbard, Rand, and Ringer!”

  Elyse chuckled. “High heels do take a little getting used to. Especially trussed up the way you are at the moment.”

  By Spooner’s beard, if a dozen generations of Earth women could do this, so can I!

  —That’s the spirit, Al. Gravity is the weakest of all the forces, isn’t it?

  I’m beginning to wonder, Grandpere. They make me feel as if someone is trying to topple me over. At least they don’t hurt...much.

  —Try walking a mile or two in them and then form an opinion.

  Grandpere? Did Teresza dress this way for your wedding?

  —(humor) No, our betrothal ceremony was somewhat less formal.

  I want to hear more about this.

  —After the wedding, dear.

  I’m holding you to that.

  “It’s time for you to look at yourself, dear,” Elyse said. “Take small steps, put one foot directly in front of the othe
r, and don’t try to run!”

  Balance re-established, Althea took a series of tiny, careful steps toward the full-length mirror in Elyse’s bedroom, cast her gaze upon herself, and immediately became lightheaded.

  The pearl gray floor-length silk gown, the corset beneath it, and the high-heeled pumps had transformed her into a vision of erotic fantasy. Her figure, which had always been just a bit blockier than she’d have liked, had attained perfection. The work Elyse had done on her makeup gave her face a glow it had never before possessed. Even her hair, which she had taken to chopping short and seldom bothered even to comb, was perfect. The cap of shining, delicately tousled auburn tresses nicely completed a gestalt that would immediately put any male past puberty into an agonizing state of arousal.

  That’s me?

  —Yes, Al, it is. It was always there, beneath the surface you usually show the world. It just took a little effort to bring it into the open.

  I wish...

  —Yes, dear?

  ...that I’d allowed Grandaunt Elyse to primp me this way for my wedding!

  —That’s the past. Just remember how she made you look today, and how delighted you are with the result...and that with a little help, you can recreate this look, and this feeling, whenever the mood strikes you. A suggestion?

  Hm?

  —Don’t let Martin see you before the ceremony.

  Okay, but why not?

  —Just trust me.

  Elyse had moved up to stand behind her.

  “Do you like what you see, Althea?”

  “Grandaunt...” Despite all her effort, Althea broke into a fit of giggles. They unsteadied her, and she started to tip over. She would have fallen but that Elyse wrapped her arms around her waist and kept her upright.

  “I don’t know what to say,” she said after her giggling had subsided. “I mean, I know it would be ridiculous to want to look and dress this way every day, but...”

  Elyse smiled. “I know what you mean, dear. Take pleasure in knowing that it’s possible—and never hesitate to come to me for pointers, or for a little help in looking your best for, ah, a special occasion with Martin.”

  Althea peered at her uncertainly. “What sort of special occasion?”

  Elyse’s eyes twinkled. “Any sort, dear. An evening alone together, perhaps?”

  Althea grinned and went back to gazing raptly at her transformed self.

  “Althea?”

  “Hm? Yes, Grandaunt?”

  “Don’t try to descend the stairs with those heels on. That takes a lot of practice, and you haven’t had any. Take them off and put them on again at the bottom. Oh, and there’s something else you should know.”

  “What?”

  Elyse Morelon’s smile turned impish and sly.

  “Nora will look even better.”

  * * *

  Barton Kramnik waited before the huge hearth. Martin Forrestal, Cameron MacLachlan, and Chuck Feigner stood at his right hand. He struggled to quiet his nerves and stood rigidly still to minimize the chafing of the ancient wedding costume Feigner had imprisoned him in. He’d never before seen anyone wear such a thing. Several of its components seemed designed to make the groom want the ceremony over with as swiftly as possible. Nevertheless, Feigner had assured him that it was both traditional and a perfect complement to the garb in which his bride would appear.

  I’m dead certain Dad didn’t wear anything like this at his wedding. Oh, well. Different plans for different clans.

  His father stood against the far wall, chatting inaudibly with Alexander Dunbarton. He was about as far from Barton as it was possible to be while remaining within the confines of the hearthroom. In the half hour since Douglas Kramnik’s arrival, he’d met his son’s eyes exactly once, for no more than a second, and had immediately swerved away. He’d put equal effort into staying as far as possible from Patrice and Alvah.

  Maybe we’ll manage to fix things in a few months, or a year. Maybe.

  I wonder why I wasn’t allowed to see Nora this morning.

  The answer was not long in arriving.

  First through the archway was Charisse Morelon. Her violet silk robes and matching sandals were, as her husband had told him, the celebrant’s traditional garb for a wedding among the Morelons. She strode gracefully forward, obviously fully accustomed to her costume and her role, to stand at his left, and turned to face the gathering. Every one of that multitude fell perfectly silent. Two hundred pairs of eyes fixed themselves to her.

  Behind Charisse came dowager matriarch Elyse and clan scion Althea. Elyse wore a hooded mantle of gray silk that flowed all the way to the floor and a little beyond. It made her appear as if she were gliding across the surface of a limpid pool. The hood draped over her forehead gave her the aspect of an oracle or a sage, a venerated dispenser from a repository of ancient wisdoms.

  Althea was...stunning. There was no other word for it. The Morelon scion had become a fantasy vision in gray silk, more alluring than she’d ever before appeared. Her augmented height intensified the drama of her already dramatic figure. The caressing embrace of the gown gave her an overpowering femininity. Barton could not remember ever before seeing her as a focus of desire, despite her innate beauty and vitality.

  She’s not for me. She never was. It was always a mirage to think so. I belong with my sweet little mouse.

  Upon the heels of that thought, his bride-to-be appeared in the archway, and his heart surged high in his chest.

  Nora Fitzpatrick Morelon was garbed in a strapless, high-waisted gown of brilliant white satin, stippled from bodice to hem with pearls and fire opals. The hem came to just above her knees. Her face, made up to accent the glory of her large brown eyes, was a portrait of mystical transport. She moved along behind Elyse and Althea at a stately pace. Much to Barton’s surprise, her feet were bare.

  “One of our traditions,” Martin whispered at him.

  “I thought I knew them all,” he said.

  Martin chuckled. “Not a chance.”

  He nodded and fought to slow his racing heart.

  Elyse and Althea moved to one side as Nora took her position at Charisse’s left. Nora’s eyes moved to his, and she smiled.

  This is it. It’s really going to happen.

  Charisse stepped forward.

  “Marriage,” she said, “is the oldest human institution. It predates all other institutions, all religions, and all other celebrations and traditions. It goes back as far as we have records of human societies, and probably further still. Every civilization that showed any persistence has been founded on marriage and the families that spring from it.”

  She smiled. “Obviously, it’s something to be taken seriously.

  “Some years ago I made a study of marriage and marital customs, and I was intrigued by what I discovered. The earliest records describe marriage ceremonies and the subsequent celebrations that lasted for several days. In one culture, if a widow had not yet borne children, her deceased husband’s oldest surviving brother was required to take her to bed and do his best to give her progeny. In another culture, the widow was expected to fling herself onto her husband’s funeral pyre as a final demonstration of her love and grief.” The crowd murmured dismay, and Charisse shuddered. “If she were disinclined to do so, her husband’s nearest kin were obliged to, ah, assist her. In a host of Old Earth cultures, a husband and wife were not considered officially wed unless the State gave them its sanction.”

  Charisse smiled again. “Clan Morelon has its own customs. Some of you are already acquainted with them. For the rest, please be aware that these are merely our traditions...our ways of marking a passage into a deeper adulthood and a deeper, fuller bond with our clan.”

  Charisse turned to Nora. “Nora Morelon, you come here as a maiden free of all obligations, who has never known any tie but to the clan that bore and nurtured you. The bond of marriage has been offered to you. Are you ready, in full awareness of its weight and its implications, to accept it?”

&nb
sp; Nora inclined her head. “I am.”

  Charisse turned to Elyse and nodded. Elyse reached behind her and brought forth a pair of satin high-heeled pumps, as brilliantly white as Nora’s gown. The dowager matriarch knelt before the bride, slipped them onto her small feet, and rose to address her.

  “You will be a child no longer,” Elyse intoned, “from this day forward. Walk forth from here as a wife and a woman among women.”

  Nora curtseyed, and Elyse returned to her previous position. Charisse turned to Barton, who swallowed hastily.

  “Barton Kramnik,” she said, “you come here as a bachelor, who has not yet known the burden of a spouse or children. The bond of marriage has been offered to you. Are you ready, in full awareness of its weight and its implications, to accept it?”

  “I am,” he said as steadily as he could manage.

  Charisse nodded to her husband. Feigner brought forth a pair of gold rings. He moved to stand before Barton, bowed, and offered the rings to him.

  “In taking this maiden to wife,” Feigner rumbled, “you accept the responsibility for her love and support, for the love, support, and education of the children she will bear you, and for other things no one can foresee.” His eyes pierced Barton’s own. “Bind yourself to her, and her to you, with these rings. Walk forth from here as a husband and a man among men.”

  Barton took the rings from the huge hand and bowed in acknowledgement. Feigner bowed again and returned to his previous position.

  Barton turned to Nora. She held out her right hand, he gave her the ring meant for him, and she held out her left hand. Trembling only slightly, he slipped her wedding ring into place, and held out his right hand for her to do the same. Together they turned to face Charisse Morelon. She took their beringed hands into hers.

  “Nora and Barton,” she said, “do you agree to become husband and wife? To love, cherish, protect, and support one another in all things great and small? For better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, forsaking all others, till death do you part?”

  In perfect unison, Barton and Nora said, “We do.”