Against the Odds

by Elizabeth Moon

  "A Ranger, they call it. Yes—she was helpful when Harlis was fighting Dad's will."

  "So I understood. If you believe her to be discreet, Stepan would not object to your letting her know where you are, but not anyone else."

  "Fine, then."

  She called Kevil, now home from the rehab center, from the same booth and waited while he made the secure connection.

  "What are you up to now?" he asked.

  "Viktor Barraclough," Brun said. "He called to tell me Stepan wants to see me—and you, if you're up to it—on Family and sept business, this afternoon or tomorrow afternoon."

  Kevil pursed his lips a moment. "That's . . . very interesting. Have you been following the news the past couple of days?"

  "No—we've been getting Esmay back to Fleet and off to her new command. Why?"

  "The Consellines are bruiting it about that your family colluded with the Benignity to arrange the deaths on Patchcock, Hobart's assassination and Pedar's death."

  "My," said Brun. "That's ingenious—how do they think we did it?"

  "Well . . . apparently Oskar Morrelline came up with the idea that the Benignity spy in their Patchcock pharmaceutical facility was planted there by your family—to ruin the Morrellines' reputation, you see."

  "But that's ridiculous," Brun said.

  "Paranoid in high degree," Kevil agreed. "Unfortunately, however, Ottala, Oskar's daughter, must have told her father unflattering things about you, from your school days together, because he's convinced that you all had a grudge against the Morrellines."

  Memories of schoolgirl pranks rose in Brun's mind—the time she had . . . the time Ottala had . . ."She was fairly poisonous," Brun said, "but I didn't do anything worse than she did."

  "That's not how he heard it. He's almost got himself convinced that this spy was not only planted by your family, but that Ottala was on the spy's trail and about to expose him when he killed her."

  "Ottala couldn't have trailed a paint-dipped cat across a white carpet," Brun said, the old resentments flaring up. "She was impenetrably self-centered." Kevil said nothing, and she felt herself going hot. "Of course, so was I—so were we all, except maybe Raffaele—but Ottala wasn't just spoiled and rich and selfish . . . she wasn't overbright, besides."

  "Whatever the facts," Kevil said, "what people believe is something else. Oskar got a little of his influence back under Hobart, and he's making the most he can of Hobart's death. He's convinced the Benignity ambassador is lying—that the Benignity wouldn't really have someone killed just because of their beliefs about rejuvenation—and besides, Hobart wasn't a rejuvenant."

  "So the Consellines are painting us black," Brun said. "Our immediate family, or the whole sept?"

  "The whole sept."

  "I suppose Stepan wants me to be the sacrificial lamb," Brun said. "In Council, in front of everyone."

  "I doubt it," Kevil said. "Stepan respected and liked your father—he's very old, you know, and he's never rejuved. I suspect he wants you to do something, and we'd better find out what."

  "Can you make it this afternoon?"

  "Of course. Three? I'll be there. And I would bet you, if you were a gambler, that if I call his attorneys right now, someone will ask me to lunch, and then we'll go back to their offices around two, chatting about how to get my business back in shape . . . and I just might still be there at three, when you arrive."

  "Deviousness," Brun said.

  "Yes. And if you think you and Stepan will be pulling up to the door at the same time, think again. Three this afternoon gives him plenty of time to arrange staggered arrivals for everyone he wants to have come and not much time for leaks. Look worried, Brun, when you arrive—look like someone who's expecting a scolding or even to be denied her Seat. And it wouldn't hurt if you called Buttons and asked what he thought of the Morrelline rumor mill, without mentioning Stepan."

  "More deviousness," Brun said. "I can do that."

  Shortly after that, Kate arrived for lunch, kicking off her high heels as she stepped onto the patterned carpet of the hall.

  "I don't see why you wear those things if they hurt your feet," Brun said.

  "For the sheer pleasure of taking them off and wiggling my toes in this," Kate said. She looked triumphant. "I've almost got the Foreign Ministry to agree to cancel the trade embargo, and I have appointments with two other ministers this afternoon. When I get those assets unfrozen, then it's over and done and I can take off for home. With maybe just a bit of sightseeing along the way."

  "Sightseeing?"

  "Well, like I told that young man on the ship that brought me here, I wouldn't mind a bit seeing the famous sights of the Familias. When else am I going to have time?"

  "What's on your list?" Brun asked. "You know it could take a year or more . . ." They discussed tourist destinations over lunch, then Kate put her shoes on and headed out to do battle with the bureaucrats.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Brun arrived at the offices of Spurling, Taklin, DeVries, and Bolton with what she hoped was a worried scowl. She had considered, and discarded, the idea of a disguise, but she wore another conservative dress.

  "Ah . . . Sera Meager," the receptionist said. "Please come through," and unlocked the interior door. Brun stepped through, to be met by a glossy young man whom she realized, after a moment, was George Mahoney in formal business attire with an expression so different from his usual that he didn't look like himself.

  "Fooled you, didn't I?" he said. As he grinned, the old George reappeared. "Passed my exams. I'm here to interview—"

  Brun almost asked if he weren't going to work with his father, but the thought occurred that that was probably the best excuse any of them had.

  "Dad had lunch with a senior partner today," he went on, for the benefit of anyone in any of the small offices they were passing. "They have an opening—he called and said to get myself over here. So here I am, and I think they're checking out my willingness to do as I'm told by asking me to escort visitors."

  "How were the exams?" Brun asked, the least dangerous of the questions she was thinking.

  "I did pretty well," George said. A flush reddened his cheekbones. "Actually—I did very well, and Dad was pleased, and I think that's why he wangled a lunch invitation, though he said Ser Spurling had been asking before if they could help."

  "Come tops in the exams?"

  The flush deepened. "As a matter of fact, not quite. You know that cousin of yours? Veronica?"

  Brun remembered the slightly gawky girl at the Hunt Ball long ago, when the Crown Prince had ridden a horse into the dining hall.

  "She came first; I came second. And—we're getting married." Before she could say anything, he said, "And here you are, Sera Meager—Ser Spurling's office."

  Ser Spurling, who looked to be about sixty, led her into his spacious office and suggested to George that he might go downstairs and bring some files which the library clerk would have ready for him. In the office were Kevil, looking far more comfortable now with his new arm, Viktor, and Stepan Barraclough.

  "Brun, my dear, how good to see you again." Stepan stood and came to her. He was an old man, though not so old as Viktor, and looked it, his face furrowed and sagging with age, showing the bones underneath, his eyes sunken beneath heavy lids. "Thank you for coming."

  "Thank you—you're quite welcome."

  "You will have wondered why I asked you to come, and you must have heard what Oskar Morrelline's come up with."

  "Yes to both," Brun said.

  "Good. Brun, I don't know if you ever heard why I refused rejuvenation—" She shook her head. "It was the price Kostan—my grandfather—demanded for ensuring that I would be in succession for the position I now hold. It was his opinion that in the transitional period, as the scope and effects of rejuvenation spread, the sept must have someone in the power structure who had not rejuvenated. Who would be a reality check for the rest, reminding them of the passage of time, and the needs of the whole."


  "Long life or power, not both," Viktor put in.

  "Exactly." Stepan grinned. "And also, the experience of longing for long life, and the experience of dealing with those who had it. At twenty, I had no difficulty choosing power. At forty and fifty, moving up the power structure of our sept, I first felt the longing, as my friends rejuvenated, and regained their youth. My wife wanted me to rejuv—she had, and when I wouldn't join her, she left me. It was hard, then, to stick to the bargain I'd made, but I am nothing if not stubborn." He chuckled. "Besides, he'd extracted the same promise from one of my uncles, who was then the new head of our sept, so if I'd reneged, my uncle would have found someone else. And I was, as my grandfather had foreseen, good at the kind of work it takes to be a good head of the sept."

  "I chose long life," Viktor said. "But then I always had too much temper to be a candidate for the job."

  "Ah, but you make a very good stalking horse, Viktor. I can count on you to draw the enemy's fire and reveal their ambushes."

  "That's why he's so good at it," Viktor said to Brun, grinning. "He always finds a way to flatter you into doing what he wants."

  "Not always. I never found Harlis very cooperative and blessed Bunny for being born first." Stepan looked at Brun, now. "I know what you were bred for, but not entirely what you've made of it," he said. "I need your talents, my dear. I had hoped to wait another ten years or so, but events turned against me. You are young, but you've been through an experience that would mature most people; I'm hoping it's matured you."

  "I hope so too," Brun said. She began to have an inkling of where he was going, and the excitement of the possible challenge warred in her mind with the fear that she wasn't ready.

  "I need an heir," Stepan said. "And I am offering you the same bargain that was offered me." He paused; Brun said nothing . . . she could not. "The government is at a crisis; even without the Morrelline accusations, the economic problems resulting from this rejuvenation issue, and the threat from the Benignity, would have brought it to the same crossroads. The woman who would have succeeded me first—Carlotta Bellinveau—developed intractible renal failure after treatment for a routine infection. Only rejuvenation would save her life, and she was only forty-five. She opted to risk it, but despite auto-transplants, she died last year. If I were paranoid, I'd suspect the Consellines of doing this by means of the drugs she took for the original infection, but frankly I think it was just one of those things."

  "Was that . . . all? You had just one?"

  "Not originally, no. But it's the combination of leadership talent and a willingness to forego rejuvenation that makes such people hard to find. Back when I was young and repeatable rejuvenation was new, there were plenty of cautious people my age who didn't rejuv at forty or fifty—but that number dwindled. Now, many of the wealthy are doing their first rejuv at thirty; your own older sister and her husband, Brun, just rejuved and thought nothing of it. They're in their thirties."

  Brun wondered if he knew that she had wanted to rejuv to change her appearance and identity, to wipe herself out . . . now that seemed a macabre idea, clearly the thought of someone mentally unbalanced.

  "So if I agree not to rejuv, you will support me for head of the sept? I thought it was elective . . ."

  "It is elective, but like nearly all elections, it's somewhat rigged," he said. "And just agreeing not to rejuv is only the first step in the selection process. If you're going to say yes, please do so, so we can get on with the rest of it."

  After a moment of startled silence, Brun said, "Yes. I will agree to that. A short life and a merry one."

  Stepan smiled. "Good—that's the first step. I've found it a good bargain, by the way. Hard to hold in the middle, but I have no regrets at this point. Now. I haven't had time to get to know you since your return, but I've had my feelers out. Viktor, hand her the cube—" Brun took the data cube. "You'll want to view that in private—it's your complete dossier. If there's anything not on it, especially anything that could affect your political effectiveness, I need to know. How many Grand Council meetings have you been to now?"

  "Five," Brun said.

  "Good. You're over the awe of taking part, I hope."

  "Oh, yes," Brun said.

  "I'm going to ask you to address the Grand Council on behalf of our Sept, at the next session. That is, as you might expect, coming up very shortly; the Consellines are demanding it to discuss Pedar's death. It is a critical session, and I'm hoping that you'll come as a startling surprise."

  Brun managed not to gulp audibly.

  "What would you say," Stepan said, "if you were going to speak now—knowing no more than you do?"

  Brun gave Kevil a quick glance, but he was watching Stepan, not her. Ideas raced through her mind . . . which was the priority? Defend her Family and sept against the accusations of the Morrellines? Tackle the difficult and complicated subject of legal reform and its relation to rejuvenation? Attack the Rejuvenants? No . . . in a flash she saw that what was needed now—at this moment—was a common goal, something to bring the almost-warring Families into alignment, as the sight of running prey would pull bickering hounds into a line of cooperation. Was this how her father had done it? She couldn't ask him; she'd have to figure it out for herself.

  "Sirs and ladies," she said, as if this were actually the Grand Council, "whatever other problems face our realm, we have one clear priority—for to solve the difficult and intricate problems, we need time and security, and the one thing which most threatens our security, at this time, is the mutiny within our Regular Space Service. First, let us give all support to the suppression of this mutiny, the maintenance of security to our population and our trade, so that we can have the time and peace we need to discuss other issues."

  Stepan nodded. "Good. Excellent, in fact." He looked at Kevil. "You were right; she has the instincts and she's learned to use them. You will want to flesh that out, polish it—but I like the spirit of it. How will you deal with questions about your family?"

  Brun said, "With the truth, sir. And then tell them they can tear me and eat me later, if they want, but right now they must support the loyalists in Fleet."

  "One thing about a foxhunting background," Kevil put in, "is that it provides a wealth of colorful metaphor and language."

  "Yes . . . as long as you have a fox for them to chase, and I'll admit the mutiny is a very laudable fox which I hope we catch, cast, and tear before it gets to earth."

  * * *

  Thornbuckle town house, 1730

  * * *

  Brun heard Kate coming down the hall and blanked the cube reader's screen. She was breathing fast, more than a little astounded at the contents of Stepan's dossier on her. That he could readily find out about many semipublic scrapes—the ones that had appeared in various newsvid shows—didn't surprise her. But how had he dug up that mess at school when she was thirteen—and how had he found out that it wasn't her fault, when even her own parents had always believed it was? How did he know Brigdis Sirkin had refused her?

  "Only one more official appointment," Kate said, throwing herself into a chair. "Then I'm free—" She looked at Brun, and her expression changed. "What's happened to you, this afternoon? You look like someone ran over you with a herd of longhorns."

  "Old family stuff," Brun said. "Did you ever come across something that let you know exactly what someone thought about you when you were a kid?"

  "You mean like old letters or school records or something? Yes . . . I guess I know what you mean. Even if they say something nice, it's never the kind of nice you expected or wanted. And usually it's not. I remember when my mother showed me what old Miss Pennyfield had written on the bottom of my report: `Katharine Anne would be an excellent student if she would spend her energies on her studies instead of attempting to evade honest work.' And I'd thought the old prune liked me; I could always make her laugh. She'd seen right through my clowning—I could hardly laugh for a month."

  "Exactly," Brun said.

  "`Co
urse," Kate said meditatively, "I did start workin' harder, and I did learn a lot more about somethin' other than making prune-faced teachers laugh. But then she had to spoil it by adding a note to the final report about how Katharine Anne was finally applying herself. That's why I wrote `Old Prune-Face' on her front porch floor with nail polish . . . and spent half the summer doin' yard work for her to make up for it."

  "She caught you?"

  "Not her—she'd left the day after school let out to go on vacation. That's why I thought I was safe. It was her friend Miss Anson, who came by once a day—usually in the afternoons, but that day in the morning—who caught me in the act." She grinned at the memory, then looked at Brun again. "So what did you find out?"

  Brun told her about the mess in school.

  "Well, what do they expect with a lot of girls that age locked up together? Ottala—was that the same Ottala Morrelline that Oskar Morrelline's going on about?"

  "The very same," Brun said. "But I didn't do anything that bad back to her."

  "No, I wouldn't think you would. But—I hate to be self-serving about this—what effect is all this going to have on the stability of your government? It's not going to do me much good to have things going well, go home, and then have it all come unravelled again. Rangers are supposed to settle a problem once and for all."

  "It's our problem, not yours, to solve," Brun said. Kate raised her eyebrows, but Brun was getting tired of the Ranger's attitude. "But I'm arguing for Esmay's approach. First we deal with the mutiny—get ourselves some secure breathing space—and then we can work on the rest. In the long run, we've got to make big changes, as you've said—as a lot of people recognize—but in the short run we need to get Fleet back on sound footing."

  "That sounds reasonable," Kate said. "Have you had supper yet?"

  "No," Brun said. "You?"

  "Just a snack. But you're looking a bit peaked. We blondes need to keep our strength up for the roses in the cheeks; I could manage to keep you company in a snack . . ."