Pay the Piper: Hathe Book Two

by Mary Brock Jones

  And inside her body, a new life awoke.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The hotel room was like all the others in a long line of temporary stops, its perfect sterility a mocking counterpoint to her pacing footsteps. Tasteful. Marthe’s mouth creased. She’d had her fill of tasteful rooms—six months full. Six months, three planets and how many hotel rooms since they’d been catapulted from Earth?

  It had unsettled her more than she expected, the sorrow she felt at leaving a house she had begun to think of as home coming as an unwelcome surprise.

  It had unsettled her, yes, but it had torn Hamon asunder. The Alliance didn’t believe that he meant to leave Earth, or so they said. No father, not even Garth Radcliff, could possibly be a threat to a son long allied to his beliefs. Marthe remembered the look on an Truro’s face as he’d said that—the contempt and the dislike. She had wondered at the time whether it was personal. Had Hamon wronged the man at some time? Or was it a more general desire to annihilate any push by the Terrans for independence, with the renewal it must bring of their threat to Hathe. Hamon’s face had remained unchanged throughout, his professional reserve solidifying about him. She knew, though, what it cost him. He had been granted one boon only: a few moments’ privacy with his mother—an illusion; they were monitored at all times, but she didn’t think it mattered.

  It had been mother and son alone on that perfect Earth morning, a final farewell. Marthe owed Freya that. She didn’t know the words he spoke there, and couldn’t have guessed their significance in any case. All she had seen was Hamon pass something to his mother, and the look on the older woman’s face, before the door slid to.

  It had been very quiet in that small room. Madame MacDiarmid looked at her eldest son, memorizing each line of his face and watching the color deepen in his eyes.

  “I always used to dread it when your eyes turned quite that shade of green. You were either furious, or something was very serious.”

  She ignored the capsule in her hand.

  “It’s serious, Mama.”

  She nodded still refusing to look down, even as he put his hand on the capsule, pushing it towards her.

  “I’m turning the guardianship of the reserve over to you, to be held in trust until one of my children can take it up.”

  “But it’s been in your father’s family for centuries,” she cried.

  “And Gramps and Grandma deeded it to me, not Garth. It is my choice what happens next. You know what the reserve means to me. I can trust you to keep it safe. One day, my children may be able to return, and it must …it must still be here for them. I don’t think I can bear all this if the only legacy I am to leave is one of fear and deceit. You will keep it safe, Mama?”

  Her fingers had grasped the capsule then and she’d slid it into a pouch, her head nodding in promise. Her arms came around him, and her words then were the age old, words of wisdom mothers give to their departing sons, hoping to shield them from the dangers ahead.

  Marthe had seen her face at the end and did not try to draw Hamon’s attention. Her mother-in-law had given her the gift of her son, and these last moments together were but a small price in recompense. There had been some official business, and Riardan had been held close to his grandmother. Freya had searched the baby’s face as she held him close, absorbing the feel of the little body into her skin. It was a memory imprinted deep within Marthe, and she vowed that, as he grew, Riardan would know of it, would learn the treasure of his dual heritage.

  Their departure from Earth had been rapid. Military figures guarded every stage, imprisoning and protecting. Just before entering the shuttle that would take them to their ship, Hamon was stopped by an Truro.

  “I understand that you have sufficient funds elsewhere to enable you to survive away from Earth?” the man said in a cold tone.

  “I have business interests on a number of Alliance planets,” Hamon had confirmed curtly.

  “Then you have no need to return to Earth?”

  “I have made arrangements to ensure that it’s not necessary.”

  “For if you do,” had continued an Truro as if uninterrupted, “you will be arrested and charged with the full weight of your crimes against Hathe.”

  “Wouldn’t that be rather inadvisable, politically?”

  “I don’t give a damn. You will be charged, tried and executed,” an Truro had snapped, then turned and ordered the guard to escort them on board. Hamon had also turned then to march onto the ship, his eyes and hands isolated as Marthe and Riardan followed.

  The sliding of the door broke Marthe from her thoughts. Anxiety etched her face as she swung around.

  “Was it the same man?”

  “Yes. They’ve found us again. Father’s trackers are as efficient as ever,” replied Hamon.

  “I’ll start packing.”

  “No. This time we stay. I’ve already informed the authorities of their presence, and Cantor is one planet that knows how to handle intruders. The stars know, we can’t keep running for the rest of our lives. This time I say we stop and deal with them.”

  “He’ll only send more.”

  “Probably, but I’ve informed the Cantorese that I intend to increase the level of my investment in this planet, and they have a profound dislike of offworlders using their soil for the kind of minor war my father favors—along with the capability to stop such. For now, we’re safe, and likely to stay so.”

  He moved up to her, one hand going over her shoulder and the other sweeping round to cradle the bulge of her stomach. “It’s a good planet, this, and I’m almost as good at business as I was at counterintelligence. They also have a fine university where you can further your studies. We could make a life here.” His eyes held hers, green flecks sharpening the softness of hazel as an edge of urgency cut his voice. “We are not going to find anywhere better in the next few months, and I don’t want you going into labor on some space freighter with the stars know what help available. Riardan’s birth was more than enough excitement for one lifetime.

  She leaned back into his shoulder with a slight chuckle. “So be it. Riardan will just have to put up with an excess of supervision for a few weeks.”

  “And where is that young rascal?”

  “Asleep, thanks be. To think I couldn’t wait till he started walking!” A fond smile touched her lips as she stared out the window. It was gone when she twisted back to face Hamon. “He will be safe?” she demanded.

  “On my life and honor.”

  Marthe relaxed, twisting back to the window and his arms. Hamon Radcliff knew well what such a pledge meant, and what it might cost. Riardan was safe.

  She was glad. She liked this world. Never would it replace her lost home. The memory of Hathe lay deep within her, a constant, raw pain which was now so much a part of her that she welcomed it as a friend; but Cantor had something of the spirit of the Hathe of her childhood. The great university of its capital wove its thread throughout the life of the planet, and here her children could grow up free, delighting in the gifts that grew within them. There was justice, curiosity and hope here, strong building blocks for a good life. She might even learn to dream again.

  “Done. Cantor it is.” She caught his hands, drawing them about her as a grin lit up her face. “Just don’t expect a child of Cantor too soon after this one.”

  “Agreed,” he laughed, “so long as I can keep in practice for when you do want another.” He swung her carelessly up, grunting only slightly as he valiantly carried her through the doors to the bedroom and deposited her on the sleeper. “Agreed, my wonderful Hathian, beloved of my life.”

  To her relief, she caught sight again of the wicked grin that had first called her so strongly, whispering of laughter and adventure. She had seen it so rarely of late.

  The following months were a precious interlude of mundane domesticity. They searched for, and eventually found, a home—a house set in a wide landscape reminiscent of both the high plains of Hathe that Marthe had always loved best and the
grandeur of Hamon’s reserve. It stood on a slash of rock gouged from the mountains, high above a great sweep of land plunging down and out from the rugged peaks behind them. This was not a region favored by the Cantorese, too challenging in its rawness for that urbane and essentially cosmopolitan people, and there was a welcoming echo of emptiness in the land.

  They stood together on the balcony. Hamon needed only one brief look then he turned towards her, his smile an answer and a question.

  “Yes!” she breathed back, seeking his hand, and then laughing as Riardan forced himself between them. His father caught him up, tossing him high in merry abandon then turning to show him the view.

  “And what do you think, young man? Will it suit you?”

  “Din, din,” shrieked that young man, his head nodding happily. He burrowed into his father’s shoulder, excited far more by his parents’ happiness than by any view.

  Marthe swung round to the agent. “How soon can we move in?”

  “You can have a temporary tenure immediately. It will take some months to clear the permanent lease through Immigration, but you might as well stay here while you’re waiting.”

  “Cleared through Immigration?”

  “Our government is very careful about whom it allows to live here long term. Any lease by a non-citizen requires a clearance.”

  “A technicality, I hope?”

  “Given the financial status of Ser Radcliff, I don’t envisage any problems,” assured the agent, smiling unctuously.

  Marthe had heard him with reservations at the time, too used to feeling destined to always follow the troubled path, but the next few months seemed to fulfill his words. The final settlement was taking time, admittedly, but they had rapidly learnt that such was the way of the Cantorese bureaucracy.

  The birth of a daughter in the new year gave further hope that, just maybe, they had been granted a reprieve.

  “We’ll name her Freya, for your mother. She has the look of her.”

  “How can you tell with such a red and wrinkled, little bundle?” retorted Hamon, putting forth his finger gently to the baby’s crazily questing hand.

  “She is not! She’s perfectly beautiful.”

  “She is, isn’t she? “They both stared rapturously at the newest addition to their patchwork family. “She is also very red and very, very wrinkled.”

  “Maybe, but you’ll fill out, won’t you, sweetheart?”

  Marthe held her tiny daughter close, till she was forced to swap her hurriedly to the other side as Riardan rushed forward and lunged onto the sleeper. His new nurse followed hastily into the room, a young woman with a warmly infectious laugh, quick to surface. Only not at the moment.

  “I’m sorry. I couldn’t keep him away any longer. Ever since he woke, he’s known something is different. Well, the whole house does, so I suppose it’s not surprising.”

  “Don’t worry,” smiled Marthe, gathering her small son into her other side. She was overcome by an enormous feeling of rightness. The nurse, bless her sensitive soul, discreetly withdrew.

  The birth had been relatively easy, and both Freya and Marthe throve in the peace of their new home. For Marthe, it was as if she had entered a sanctuary, free for a time from the buffeting of their troubles. A part of her recognized the constant vigilance Hamon maintained over them all, and knew that from time to time he was forced to take action against their enemies, both Terran and Hathian. It may be unfair, but for this time she let it all fall on his shoulders. He had been as shattered by his exile from Earth as she had by hers from Hathe and was in equal need of solace, but they could not each simultaneously support the other, and for now Marthe drank greedily of his solid comfort, a small part only watchful that he shouldn’t exceed his strength.

  Nor was it selfish. As she grew in ease, the laughter of his wife and children surrounded Hamon, bringing a healing of the bleakness within. Hope entered their house.

  Freya turned out to be more like her grandmother than expected.

  “That child runs this house,” exclaimed an exasperated Marthe as, yet again, she was forced to put aside her medical texts to attend to a hungry and fractious daughter. “At this rate, I’ll never qualify for registration here!”

  “Why don’t you read while you feed her,” suggested Hamon, glancing up from a screen displaying the latest business data.

  “I’ve tried that. She’s perfectly happy if I read something lightweight, but as soon as I try anything of a vaguely serious nature, she grizzles and refuses to settle. Mathe knows why! Maybe I’m just not relaxed enough for madame if I read study notes.”

  She sighed, though there was little true regret on her face as she gave in to her daughter’s preferred regime, switching her reading matter to a scandalous and utterly ludicrous tale and rapidly losing herself in the improbable passages. Hamon barely caught a quick, self-satisfied glance from Freya to her mother before she settled happily to feed, and smiled to himself. It was the selfsame smile he had seen on his mother’s face whenever she had managed to organize an official down a path she alone favored.

  His screen bleeped him. Talk about thought conjuring up reality, he mused as he recognized the code on the incoming message. Scrambling a personal note seemed rather excessive, even for his mother, and his mouth lifted in a grin as he hit the decoder.

  The grin vanished. “Marthe, switch to my screen.”

  She obeyed, reading the decoded message, then looked up in dismay. Nor did she bother asking who could do such a thing. This had Garth Radcliff written all over it. “Can he do that?”

  “Technically, no, but it will cost me a large chunk of all I own to stop him. if it’s true.”

  In grim haste, Hamon brought up the files on his various companies, and there it was. Proof.

  Almost every enterprise he owned was under legal bond, all trading ceased. The claim informed him that, as a recent resident of Cantor, his businesses were still considered subject to Earth’s laws—one in particular, which Hamon ironically remembered helping to draft back in his student days, during his cadetship in the office of the Finance Administrator. It had been aimed at stopping an outflow of Terran companies that, although established and run by Terrans from Earth, were claiming they were not subject to Terran taxation as their head offices had been shifted off planet.

  The law firm filing against him was no stranger either. It belonged to a friend of his father.

  In all, it was claimed that he owed ten years back taxes on each of his companies. The total sum must have been carefully calculated. It would not bankrupt him, but what little it left him would not impress the Cantorese—certainly not enough to warrant their continued protection. It would leave him and his small family exposed to any danger his father cared to throw at them.

  He twisted round, looking up at Marthe. She had not bothered with the figures, he saw. His face told her all she needed.

  “You say that technically he can’t do this. Why not?”

  “My companies were all founded off planet, so the law doesn’t apply, but to prove that, I need to track back through the history of each company. Something I’m not sure even I could do. Most of them began purely by chance, back in my travelling days, and were set up under assumed names. They were only ever meant to make me enough money to get me to whatever place was next on the map. But I found I had a knack for coming up with a new angle and exploiting it. A number did rather well, and there seemed no point in closing down good businesses. Then, during the occupation on Hathe, I formalized the best of them and transferred ownership to my own name through a chain of bogus holding companies. We Terrans were getting nowhere on Hathe, and Earth had no other way of surviving, so it seemed prudent to organize an alternative. I learnt very early in life that all governments love a rich man and that no administration is forever.

  As it turned out, I was right to be prudent.”

  His voice was bitter, and Marthe could only guess how much he wished it hadn’t been so. Nor was there any way to deny his s
orrow, and instead she homed in on an aspect that puzzled her.

  “I still don’t see why it should be so difficult to prove that they weren’t founded on Earth. The records of the transactions must still exist.”

  “Yes, but to trace them would cost me almost as much as the taxes they’re claiming. Also, if I do that, I will be exposed as a businessman with an even more dubious background than the one about which the Cantorese already know. Cantor welcomed us only because I transferred all my wealth here. Once that looks shaky, so does our welcome.”

  “Either we leave, or they look the other way the next time your father’s thugs turn up?”

  He nodded. “The best option is to pay the taxes. My business reputation would then be kept intact and the Cantorese may decide that if I could make money once, I can do it again.”

  “Which is a fair assumption.”

  “Maybe, but I have to say it’s not an attitude I would count on them adopting. Cantor is an ally of Hathe and must know your Council would be only too pleased to have me conveniently disposed of.”

  “Leaving me to be re-educated and repatriated, you mean?” Her bitterness equaled his.

  She suddenly found herself badly in need of reassurance. She laid the sleeping Freya in her cot, then moved across and slid under Hamon’s arm, molding herself tightly to his powerful body. It helped a bit. “How long do you think we have?”

  “Thirty-six standard hours. It will take them at least that long to complete the formal registration of claim in the Cantorese and Terran courts.”

  She wriggled then, and her chin lifted defiantly. “You’d better get started then. I’ll bring us something to eat.” A picture of Garth Radcliff strayed into her head. No, she was not about to let him beat them.