The hytex provided access to an old holo of Jason arriving at Layabout alone, looking even more drawn and haggard than he looked now. His father, Hans, greeted him with an embrace, genuine tears running down the older man’s face. It was an oddly public reunion, given that the Bettelhines never had to use Layabout if they didn’t want to, but the Porrinyards didn’t know whether to find anything suspicious about that. The public venue may have been nothing more than an acknowledgment, by Hans, that the boy’s absence and unknown plight had been mourned by his world’s general public as well.
Following that, the two of them had taken the Royal Carriage, either this car or the other one, back down to the surface, and Jason had disappeared from sight for almost two years, his doings explained away by regular Bettelhine updates to the effect that he was “recovering” or “getting to know his family again.”
Sixteen months after his return, Jason was guest of honor at a ball held at the main Bettelhine estate. From precedent established by the practice among prior Bettelhine offspring, and the sheer number of articles about all the beautiful and bright-eyed young ladies from both continents who’d been invited to meet Jason at the affair, the occasion had amounted to a cattle call for consorts of high social standing, with Jason expected to determine in the few minutes he would have to dance and converse with those few that caught his eye whether there were any he considered of special interest. Local news sources around Xana identified this girl and that girl as the one they expected Jason to call again, but the absence of any further gossip implied that no Cinderellas ever received any followup visits from this particular prince.
The Porrinyards wondered if Jason might be hiding homosexual preferences, since there were worlds stupid enough to make that a secret worth hiding, but a few seconds of paging through Xana’s social register confirmed that several previous past cattle calls of this type had catered to Bettelhine offspring intent on meeting candidates of their own gender. As long as there were always new generations capable of carrying on the Family name and running the Family business, the Bettelhines didn’t give a damn how the parts interfaced.
No, it was just as likely that Jason was a true neuter. Or that he might be as close to Jelaine as I’d supposed. Or that his demons were still tormenting him one way or another.
In any event, Jason had started to travel again, this time with Family approval. He made a few public appearances on Xana before moving on to other systems in Jelaine’s company, traveling alongside Jelaine and other Family members to worlds that included Tchius, Vlhan, and my own home, New London.
That trip had taken another year.
Then they’d returned, and Jason had disappeared from sight for a few months before surprising everybody by appearing beside his father at executive functions.
Jelaine had also been present at a number of those, as quietly radiant as she had been during our own brief meeting, but the same was true of several other Bettelhine siblings. She’d also been romantically linked to a number of eligible bachelors during that time, even if none of them had lasted long enough to become more than dalliances. But she was still young.
Her reserve, like Jason’s, might mean something. And it might not.
O scin sat on the edge of the bed, brooding. Skye, lying on her side beside me, looked just as disturbed. Something about Jason Bettelhine’s story bothered them, in ways deeper than the ones that bothered this limited single-skull.
I had to ask. “What are you thinking?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Try.”
They hesitated. “It’s just a feeling. Not even anything I can define.”
“Try.”
The Porrinyards always know how to express themselves. It’s a gift that comes with being your own committee. But now, for the first time I could remember, they needed to grope for their answer, before producing a tone more halting than any I’d ever heard from them. “His life…has much in common with the broken singlets who became Oscin and Skye. A boy like that, living like royalty, but determined to flee his gilded cage—he’s either running to something, or away from something.”
The words hung in the air for a moment, before Skye finished alone. “Leaving our homeworld was a…difficult decision for us. But our singlets knew that we could never go back. He returned under his own power. What did he want?”
“His inheritance,” I guessed. “His family. His home. A place to feel safe again.”
“Maybe.” The answer seemed to acknowledge all of those possibilities without believing any of them. “And maybe he had just figured out whatever he wanted to figure out, and needed the Bettelhine resources to accomplish whatever came next….”
5
THE BIG LIE
T he chime alerting us to the dinner party in the parlor was as affected as everything else in the Bettelhine Royal Carriage. It was a sylvan tinkle, the kind of sound that could only have been tolerated by people who frown with fey disdain whenever reminded of their social obligations. Maybe I was reading too much into it. Maybe the moment I’d found myself thinking I’d had enough of the Bettelhine lifestyle came when the Porrinyards and I rose from the bed and found ourselves transfixed by an amenity that began with our old linens rolling into the bulkhead, continued with mechanisms in the bedframe unscrolling their replacement, and ended with puffs of mist wrapping everything in a nice, rueful emphasis on nice, floral scent to keep things embossed with perfection until our return.
I moaned. “Oh, come on!”
The Porrinyards grinned. “Must make it convenient for any murderer who wants to dispose of forensic evidence.”
I remembered the Claw of God and did not think the comment funny. “Must.”
It didn’t take us long to get ready. I don’t own any formal clothing. But my usual severe black suit would do, as would the Porrinyards’ matching white, especially if they wore the buttonless slipon jackets they donned whenever they wished to stress their status as a matching set. I don’t wear makeup either, though both Porrinyards have been known to, depending on local custom. There was little to be done with our hair either, thanks to their skull bristle and my own longstanding habit of keeping mine short with but a single, defiant shoulder-length lock along my right cheek. This might or might not be acceptable by Xana’s standards, but to hell with the other attendees if they thought otherwise. We weren’t here to dazzle anybody.
We emerged to find the parlor inhabited by assorted Bettelhines and associates already deep in the tiresome mill-around-and-chat that always makes me want to leap off the nearest balcony.
I caught a glimpse of a tall, elegant redhead in a silvery gown that left much of her back bare, disappearing through the doorway into one of the suites. Her movements looked familiar, but I didn’t see enough to place her.
I saw a nervous couple in their late fifties, the man all high sweaty forehead bald but for a spiral spit curl, the woman beaming with a desperate contact-high that did not translate to leaving the protection of the alcove where she and her husband huddled like frightened cats. When her eyes met mine she looked away in a hurry, as if afraid that even that moment of contact would be seen as impudent.
Jason Bettelhine was across the room, in discussion with two men I didn’t recognize, both dressed in black suits of identical design. The taller of the two glanced our way, revealing Bettelhine features beneath a helmet of premature silver. Probably the brother Jason had mentioned. Unlike Jason, he was not smiling. The third man was balding, shiny-faced, shorter than either Bettelhine and pale in ways that went beyond mere complexion. He could stay in the sun and tan himself to a crisp, and he’d still be pale beneath the skin, all the way to the bones. He glanced my way too, and nodded in recognition.
Jelaine Bettelhine was closer to us, sipping something vaporous as she chatted with the Khaajiir and a tall thin man whose face was all sharp lines. She’d changed gowns and put her hair up into a fractal swirl of the sort designed to reveal new flourishes and embellishments with every
casual flip of her head. It would have looked fussy or pretentious on anybody else, but she wore it like a jeweled crown. I’ve never given a flying crap about hairstyles and I still envied her ability to pull it off, let alone her ability to put it together in the three hours since I’d last seen her. It was, I supposed, one of the inherited skills of royalty; certainly, I certainly knew few women who would have attempted that gown, a silvery bejeweled monstrosity that seemed determined to compete with the overhead lights for luminosity. She happened to spot us as we left the suite, and flashed a smile rich with either genuine warmth or a simulation too cunning to be distinguished from the real thing. “Counselor. You look radiant.”
I had two conflicting thoughts, the first being bullshit and the second an amazed, mortifying I do? Against my will, the latter won out, and I felt a flush come to my cheeks. “Thank you.”
“Nonsense. It’s the simple truth.” She turned to the Porrinyards. “And you too, dears. I’m afraid I don’t know the proper etiquette for addressing linked pairs, and therefore don’t know whether to say handsome or pretty, let alone when to refer to both of you and when to address you as individuals, but if you show me some indulgence I promise to learn. I look forward to setting aside any awkwardness I might have in favor of friendship.”
There wasn’t a single awkward, or less than charming, cell in her body. Damned if the Porrinyards, who could normally give as good as they got, weren’t blushing too. “You’re doing fine. I like your hair.”
“Thank you. I know you’ve already been introduced to the Khaajiir,” she said, a reference the Bocaian academic acknowledged with a nod, “but I believe this is your first encounter with one of my father’s closest associates, Mr. Monday Brown.”
The man with the sharp face blinked at me. His smile, unlike Jelaine’s, never reached his eyes. He might have been determining the profit potential in selling the Porrinyards and me for component parts. “Counselor. How have you enjoyed your visit so far?”
I couldn’t believe he’d said that. “It’s been a little over-populated with assassins.”
His teeth were very small and very white. “I spoke with Antresc just a few minutes ago. He told me that both criminals remain unresponsive. But as his people were able to remove the microteemers implanted in their tear ducts, there’s little chance of them waking up and continuing to evade interrogation with further flashes.”
“That’s progress. I don’t suppose he’s found their confederate?”
“No, I’m afraid not. Nor has he been able to trace their travels any farther back than their embarkation on the Bursteeni homeworld. But he’s a good man. I’m certain that the second the teeming wears off, he’ll be able to get the answers from them in short order.”
The Khaajiir shifted his weight against his staff, the strain manifesting as a tremor in his upper arms. “And how will he do that, sir? Torture?”
“This is a civilized world, sir.”
“Alas,” the Khaajiir replied, “the definition of that word has always been fluid. We both know of worlds where civilization meant that slow torture only took place in soundproofed rooms. We also know, unfortunately, just what species of commerce provided our dear hosts with their riches, and therefore just what agonizing capabilities this society must be equipped to exercise at times of crisis.” He then seemed to remember his hostess. “No offense, dear.”
“None taken,” said Jelaine. “It happens to be a legitimate concern.”
“Still,” the Khaajiir continued, returning his attention to Brown, “if the preferences of the apparent target have any weight here, I would prefer to make sure that any questioning remained in the realm of the humane.”
Brown’s face flickered with something that was not politic and was not friendly. “What about Counselor Cort? She was a target too.”
My smile met Brown’s irritation head on. “I’m afraid I’m not quite so principled about the treatment of people who have tried to kill me. But I see no reason to oppose the Khaajiir here.”
Brown might have shown more resentment toward the Khaajiir and myself had we spoken for ourselves alone, but Jelaine had indicated agreement, too, and that changed everything. “If you wish. I’ll arrange for the two of you to speak with Mr. Pescziuwicz, so you can share your concerns.”
“Please,” the Khaajiir said.
As Brown wandered off, trailing an invisible cloud of resentment behind him, Jelaine’s expression turned pitying, like someone observing a wounded bird. “I must apologize for Monday. He’s never charming, but he’s at his best in my father’s presence. Any place other than with my father is, shall we say, not his habitat.”
I asked, “That doesn’t extend to being with you or Jason?”
“Oh, we can give him orders, if that’s what you mean. Father’s made it clear to him that any directives coming from us are to be considered as coming from him. But there are always about three hundred relatives within the Inner Family, with all the politics and personal competition that implies. Aides like Monday learn to back the ones they work for, clinging to them with a sort of determined possessiveness that leaves very little leeway for loyalty to any of the others. It’s a lot, I suppose, like having a pet. From their personal point of view, they own you. Monday’s a rather extreme example of that syndrome. My father’s his entire world.”
“He doesn’t have a family? Or friends?”
“No, he maintains quarters in my father’s house, and except for trips like this remains at my father’s beck and call from the moment my father gets up in the morning to the moment my father goes to sleep at night, taking time off only when he’s ordered to.”
The Khaajiir shifted his weight against his staff. “It’s true. I’ve seen that happen. Monday takes it like he’s being punished.”
“That’s pretty sad. Has he always been that way?”
“At least as long as he’s been working for my father.”
“What about you?” I asked her. “Do you and Jason have people like that working for you?”
“Oh, please. Subservience on his scale makes us uncomfortable. We can’t escape it, not entirely, but we prefer our loyalties earned, not imposed. So we hire out of the staff pool, as needed.” She smiled. “In any event, Andrea, is everything in your suite is to your liking?”
“I’ll feel more comfortable when I find out what this is all about.”
She placed a hand on my shoulder. “Perhaps this doesn’t all have to wait for my father. I’d love to be able to move past the ‘necessary business’ part of this relationship and proceed to what I hope shall be a warmer connection, maybe even one with that earned loyalty I talked about. Let us get you a drink first, and we’ll have a private chat. If the others will excuse us…?”
The Porrinyards took the Khaajiir with them, professing deep fascination with the sudden end of K’cenhowten’s great Dark Age.
Jelaine escorted me to the bar, which was being tended by a petite young woman with a fresh face, scarlet hair composed of artificial fibers wired to strobe with bars of orange light, and eyes like cut emeralds—which is to say, not just possessed of green irises but actually faceted, and translucent, sans any obvious whites. I’d seen stranger body-mod combinations, but could not help wondering to what degree it affected her vision. Introducing herself as Colette Wilson, and declaring herself honored to serve me, the young lady with the bejeweled eyes and the neon hair flashed the kind of smile that confirmed the opportunity to pour drinks for me a sensation somewhere between the best sex she’d ever had and direct electrical stimulation to the pleasure center of her brain.
I didn’t want anything in particular, but bowed to Colette’s superior knowledge of the stock, and asked for something sweet but light, intoxicating without any euphoric or hallucinogenic aftereffects. Whatever it was also turned out to be electric blue, in a tall glass. It was sweet, as I’d requested, but one sip and I felt tingles in my fingers and toes. Light, my ass. I was going to have to nurse it.
By
the time Jelaine led me to a quiet spot beside the tank with the Bettelhine fish, the scattering of guests had changed configuration. The nervous couple was still hiding in the alcove, but were now talking to the redhead in the gown, whose face I could still not see. Oscin and the Khaajir had moved to a set of plush couches so the frail Bocaian could sit; he was holding forth on something which made Oscin nod with unfeigned fascination. Skye had left them to join Jason Bettelhine and his companions, her very presence seeming to lift the mood on that side of the room. The Bettelhine brothers grinned at her, delighted by whatever witty thing she’d just said. Even the pale man with them seemed impressed. I was equally certain that her bon mot had been brilliant and that the men would have reacted with just as much glee to something banal. There’s a reason why I defer to the Porrinyards on matters requiring interaction with other human beings. They’re as good at being liked as I am at not.
Jelaine saw me watching Skye. “Fascinating. The way you use them.”
I stiffened. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Please, Counselor. I’m not belittling your friends—or friend, if you prefer the singular. How troublesome, referring to them can be! I can see that they’re not just assistants to you. But you’re using them as a resource right now, aren’t you? You’re using their shared perspective to gather as much intelligence as possible.” She sipped her own drink, a golden concoction in a flute. “Forgive me my sense of wonder. They’re the first linked pair I’ve ever met.”
Cylinked pairs may be rare, since the AIsource procedure that creates them is illegal on most human worlds, but I found a Bettelhine’s protestations of sheltered naïveté hard to believe. “Jason told me he had a crush on a pair of cylinked women who worked for an uncle. He said they visited the main estate on a regular basis.”
The Third Claw of God Page 7