by Allen Wold
"I do. Except for Gawin. Here's his invitation."
She took the letter from him, and opened it with some surprise. "He went the whole length, didn't he," she said.
"I got the impression that it was indeed somewhat formal." The invitation, hand-lettered on heavy cream-colored card stock, addressed Rikard by name.
"He's issued it as a son of the host," Gwineth said, "and that means that even Grandfather can't deny you here."
"This is Grandfather's party, he can deny whom he wishes."
"No, he can't. I think Uncle Gawin really wanted to see you."
"That's the impression I got. We've been on Malvrone for seven days, and he hasn't been home once."
"He's been here. He'll be home tomorrow. I wonder why the urgency."
"Maybe he wants me to meet the family," Rikard said with a dry smile, "and figured they wouldn't come to see me at his place."
"That could be," Gwineth said. "They wouldn't. I'm glad you came."
"Are you really?"
"Of course I am. Uncle Gawin and I are much alike. Both of us are barely tolerated, though I get away with it better since I'm younger and I don't engage in trade. One thing the conservative element in our family always forgets is that everybody is different. And they also choose to forget that the founders of our family were a lot more like your father than they were like mine."
"You don't sound as if you like it here very much."
"Oh, I like it just fine." She flashed him a big smile. "It's the people, most of them, I'd rather do without." The smile became somewhat wistful.
"So how come you haven't gone off on your own by now?"
"It's the money and power," she said as if she wanted to change the subject. "Would you like to find Gawin?"
"Yes I would. I'm not really very comfortable here."
"Well, you'll have to put up with it for a bit," Gwineth said with a grin. "I'll show you around and we'll meet Gawin sooner or later. Just be discreet when you talk to anybody."
"You may rest assured that I'm quite used to doing that."
They worked their way through the people. Every now and then Gwineth paused to introduce Rikard to somebody, but he felt no compulsion to remember anybody's name. He told her so.
"That's okay," she said. "You'll probably not meet them again anyway. If it's somebody important, I'll let you know."
Once she stopped to join in a conversation for a moment. Rikard stood to one side as his cousin and the other couple spoke lightly and briefly about constituencies and local level representation. Gwineth broke off as quickly as she could, then took him through a doorway into a hall.
Not a corridor, but a grand hall. The room they had left was just an antechamber. "This," Gwineth explained, "is where most of the guests mix. There are various other chambers and rooms connecting here, if you have special interests."
The display of wealth was fantastic. The hall was decorated with metals, woods, gemstones, with artwork that almost rivaled Gawin's collections, with craftwork, furniture, lighting, with ornamentations of all sorts. And it was all presented as if such surroundings were appropriate for people to mingle in.
"I suspect that Uncle Gawin will be in the game room," Gwineth said, and they worked their way across the hall. There were many more people here, and it was not easy to always keep moving. And then, too, people frequently greeted her as she passed, or called to her, and then they had to pause a moment or two. Sometimes Gwineth introduced Rikard to her acquaintances, sometimes she did not. When she did, she sometimes mentioned that he was her cousin, most of the time she did not. Rikard remained polite, somewhat distant, and even when Gwineth had to participate in a conversation, he remained silent, saying no more than necessary. It apparently was the right thing to do. Only once did someone, on hearing his name, pause and say, "Are you by any chance related to Arin Braeth?"
"I am," he said, and searched the man's face for some clue.
"He and Gawin used to knock around a bit when they were younger, as I recall."
"That's what I've heard," Rikard said with as neutral a smile as he could muster.
"Well, I'm glad to meet you then." The man extended his hand, Rikard shook it, and then the man, whose name Rikard had already forgotten, turned away to someone else.
The far side of the hall was marked by great arches. "The gaming rooms are just beyond," Gwineth said.
Rikard looked but could see no doorway, just a flat surface that shimmered slightly. He was about to ask when a man called Gwineth's name as they passed the group in which he was engaged in conversation.
"Oh, dear." Gwineth looked up at Rikard pleadingly.
The man, tall and handsome and just past his first century, came up to them. "Gwineth," he said again, and smiled. There was something familiar about him.
Gwineth turned and looked up at him. "Hello, Father."
Now Rikard knew why the man looked familiar. It was his uncle Braice, likely heir to Artos's position as director of the Board of Malvrone, even though he was not eldest. According to Gawin, who was the third, Rikard's aunt Bevry had never been interested in wielding power, only in spending money, and kept her power only to protect her financial interests.
Rikard had never met Bevry, but he could see the resemblance between Braice and Gawin, and his mother too, as he remembered her. Except that where his mother, Sigra, had been gentle, Gawin was mischievous, and Braice was hard. Sigra had had a sense of humor, as Gawin did, but Braice did not show it if he shared it. He spoke with his daughter as a father would to a child, and she responded dutifully. Rikard felt a growing apprehension. He wanted to be away from here. This was his mother's brother, after all, and he had her eyes, but Rikard feared him.
At last Braice raised his glance from his daughter's face and looked at Rikard. At last this epitome of power, poise, and pride condescended to notice his daughter's companion. His eyes met Rikard's, and though his face underwent no change of expression, all warmth faded.
But strangely, even so, Rikard felt his own confidence returning, even as he felt his anger grow at his uncle's so carefully controlled but carefully expressed dislike.
"Father," Gwineth said, "this is—"
"I know who it is," Braice said to her. His voice was absolutely flat. "You are Sigra's child," he said to Rikard. It sounded as though he were accusing Rikard of being a child, and of somehow being the cause of Sigra's death and disgrace. "I think perhaps," he went on before Rikard could respond, "that you are in the wrong place."
Rikard and his uncle were nearly of a height. Rikard felt the barest twitch of a smile begin at the corner of his mouth. "Please rest assured, Uncle Braice, that I am most certainly aware of that. But Uncle Gawin has asked me to come."
Braice's face did not change except to grow a touch colder, a touch harder. "That is Gawin's error. It is not his place to invite such as you to this event."
"Such as I? I am a grandson of Artos Lord Malvrone, and the invitation was extended to me as from him. I am not about to dispute that with anyone but Lord Malvrone himself."
"You will dispute nothing," Braice started to say, but Gwineth spoke up.
"Please, Father, Rikard, this is not the time nor the place."
"Indeed it is not," Braice said. His breathing was a little deepened, and there was some color in his face now. But Rikard, though angry, was really quite calm. He had taken Braice's measure, and knew that he was in no physical danger. He was stronger than his uncle by a bit, and in better shape, and it was unlikely the other was armed. Social danger was something else, but he suspected that whatever his grandfather felt for him, he wouldn't like it if Braice overstepped his bounds.
Braice took a breath, glanced at his daughter, then glared back at Rikard. "Let me warn you," he said, and his voice was not quite as level as it might have been, "that though my little brother has issued you an invitation in our father's name, Lord Malvrone may have some quite different feelings about it."
"That is as it may be," Rikard said, "but I'm su
re that he can speak for himself."
"Indeed," Braice said, looking as though Rikard had hit him in the solar plexus. "My father can very well speak for himself, but what makes you think that my parents would speak to you at all? When they learn that you are here, there will be no speaking. They will just have you removed."
"Please, Father," Gwineth said. "You're drawing attention."
Braice looked down at her, surprise penetrating his rage, then looked around the room. The people nearest were doing their best to be elsewhere, and those who thought they were at a safe distance were watching covertly.
"Why?" Rikard asked his uncle. He felt very calm now, and very in control. "Why would they do such a thing to their grandson?"
"Because," Braice said, straining to keep his voice low, "of what your father did to my little sister!"
"He rescued her," Rikard said softly. "Would it have been better if she had died at the hands of her kidnappers?"
"Better?" Braice said. "Indeed. At least she would have been spared the years of ignominy that she spent on whatever that place was. How can you imagine someone accustomed to this"—his hand swept the air to indicate the hall and the people in it—"living on some M'Kade-forsaken world where the best you could be was a professor!"
"Even granting," Rikard said, "that your evaluation is true, what's wrong with it?"
"Are you really such an imbecile?"
"And even if your condition here were really preferable, how is it possibly my fault what my father did?"
"I know who you are, Rikard Braeth. The news of your doings is not hard to come by. You are just like your father, and what more could be expected? As is the father, so is the son."
"I see," Rikard said. "Then you too are an oath-breaker."
Gwineth had been trying discreetly to placate them but Rikard's words surprised her as much as they did Braice.
"What the hell do you mean by that?" Braice demanded.
"The only reason my father ever got to know my mother," Rikard said quietly, "is because your father hired him to rescue her, and then reneged on the contract and refused to pay the fee he'd offered. That's not exactly an honorable outcome. At least my father married my mother, and didn't just throw her away and leave her as your father did."
For a moment Braice was actually speechless, and indeed Rikard thought he could see almost more shame than anger in his reaction. As why not, since the story was true.
"Perhaps," Rikard went on softly, "that is why my grandfather hates me so much, because he still feels somewhat guilty for what he did to my father, and my mother, after the rescue."
Braice's mouth worked as if he would say something, but he was caught in a dilemma. At last he said, "Just be wary. My father does indeed hate you, and if word of what you've said comes back to him, he might decide to defend his honor."
"Rikard said nothing but the truth," Gwineth said. "I know the story as well as you. What is there for Grandfather to defend?"
"If I were you," Braice said to her, "I'd be very careful. You are not exactly in Father's good graces, you know."
Then Braice turned and walked off. Some of the people nearby watched curiously. Though they were not privy to the conversation, they saw all too clearly that there had been a contretemps, and it would appear that the heir to the chairmanship of Malvrone had come off second best.
Gwineth was shocked by her father's words, but she had poise, more than he, and she watched him as he strode unresponsively through the hall until he was out of sight. "You were quite impressive," she said as she turned to Rikard, and then she cowered back, almost as if struck.
"What's the matter," he asked her. She was afraid.
"I thought you were so calm," she said, almost in a whisper.
"I'm sorry," he said, and tried to compose his face. His expression had gotten him into trouble before, for though he felt calm, he in fact had been in a rage, and one that had shown as a flicker of something behind his eyes.
"You were going to kill him," she said. "Weren't you?"
"It wasn't my intention, but I probably would have."
"You have killed before."
"I have had cause to before. Gwineth, I'm sorry. And it's ironic that one of the things that makes it worse is that I think I'd like your father if he didn't hate me so much. And honest to God, I really don't understand why he does."
As if on cue a waiter came by bearing a tray of full glasses. Gwineth stopped the man, handed Rikard a drink, and kept the waiter waiting while her cousin drank it off. She took his empty glass, put it back on the tray, and handed him another, and this time took one for herself.
They stood side by side for a moment, not saying anything. Rikard sipped at his second drink. It was not the same as the first, rather sweeter and not as potent.
"I understand," Gwineth said, "that you have two traveling companions."
"I do."
"And are they here on Malvrone?"
"They are." He recognized her ploy. She was giving him some time to calm down, and to think about something different. "They were not invited here tonight, however, and considering the formality of the invitation, I felt that they might be a bit less welcome than I, and so they stayed at Gawin's place."
"Are they really as strange as stories have made them out to be?"
"And how strange is that?"
"That the one called Grayshard likes his food well rotted."
"He's a fungus, or very much like one, except that he moves and thinks. He has no alimentary organs at all, he just absorbs organic material through his skin, as it were. He likes it highly fermented and in a liquid state. It's easier for him to take it in that way."
"I hear he looks like a huge tangle of hair."
"He does. White, with red tips. But he wears a humanoid disguise most of the time. People don't notice him much.
"Now Endark Droagn, they notice," he went on, and told her a bit about his serpentine companion. Gwineth told him one or two stories she had heard about him, which were exaggerations of the truth, or misinterpretations. He let himself be distracted as he quite honestly and sincerely set her straight as best he could. Then, when she smiled up at him—she wasn't really that much shorter than he—he knew he was calm.
"Just be glad," Gwineth said with a smile, "that your first run-in wasn't with Grandfather, because he would have had you killed on the spot. Now let's go find Gawin." She led him toward one of the arches that they'd started for so long ago.
As they neared, Rikard could see that the shimmering surface within the arch was an optical energy field, not drapes, though it looked solid enough. It served not only to make a portal through which one had to deliberately pass, but also to cut down noise and kept casual people out.
On the other side was what Gwineth had been calling the game room. It was more like a super casino, certainly bigger than anything Rikard had ever seen, not that he was generally given to gambling.
It was spacious, but filled with people between the widely spaced tables. Rikard and Gwineth slowly walked toward the center of the near end of the room, squeezing between the players and the spectators.
There were card tables, of course, for four people, or six, or eight, or sometimes more, some of them with a dealer, many without. There were billiards, roulette, craps, a variant of keeno, a simplified four-handed competitive pinball, and even circular pocket pool.
In spite of the crowding the sound level was quite muted. Everywhere there were people talking, but their conversations could be heard only when within a meter or so of the speakers. Though there was lots of liquor, and several varieties of smoke, the air was clear and smelled pretty good. The light was quite bright, and completely sourceless. They paused between a poker table and a set of pachinko machines.
"There seems to be some serious gambling here," Rikard commented.
"This is just the social room," Gwineth said. "The serious stuff is in private rooms at the other end of the casino."
As Rikard watched some
money being lost, he wondered what serious gambling could be. "Why hasn't Gawin met me yet? The note with the invitation made it seem rather important."
"He has family obligations far more demanding than his business ones, if he wants to stay a member of the family and not be given a remittance. Grandfather just barely puts up with him as it is. If it weren't for the fact that Uncle Gawin can get Grandfather whatever he wants at a good price, he'd have been kicked out long ago."
They proceeded down the center of the room toward the other end. Once or twice they met somebody who Gwineth had to talk to. In each case, Rikard just stayed quietly in the background. As they went they passed a variety of games, many like those they'd seen before, but some different ones as well, such as mancala, shovelboard on a circle, and a kind of rotating backgammon versus the house.
At the far end of the casino were several doors that led to the back rooms. Gwineth opened the nearest one on the right and they went through to a much smaller room, only the size of a basketball court, in which were a variety of electronic arcade games with gambling features as well as enhanced skill features.
There were quite a few people in here as well, and Rikard and Gwineth quickly went through the room, looking for Gawin, but he wasn't there. Gwineth stopped one of the perfectly dressed servants and asked.
"Msr. Gawin was here early in the evening," the woman said, "but he hasn't been here for several hours."
"Do you have any idea where he went?"
"No, Msr. Gwineth, but he left with a Msr. Rafe Tomisonne."
"Thank you." Gwineth let the woman go on about her business.
"Who's Tomisonne?" Rikard asked.
"He's a family friend who keeps on trying to get Uncle Gawin interested in what he calls 'something appropriate,' that is, more in line with family business."
"And that is?"
"Governing Malvrone and making its influence felt in the Federation."
They left the gambling room and Gwineth led Rikard, with only one stop to speak, to another private room at the far front of the casino. Here they found more physical sports, such as bowling, racketball, fencing, and hurdlepuck. Gawin was not there, and when Gwineth inquired they learned that though he had been there with Rafe Tomisonne, he hadn't stayed very long.
