"All right . . ." Brun shut off the cube reader, and got up. "Now that you mention it, it's odd that no one's asked me. It's not the staff's day off, and they knew I'd be in this evening."
At that, Kate's eyes narrowed. "Where's your security?" she asked softly.
"Outside the house, I assume. Why?"
"Weren't when I got here. Not visibly."
Brun felt a chill run down her back. Here, in the family house, she had no weapon to hand. She hadn't thought she'd need one.
Kate gave her a long look, and said, quite clearly, "Well, never mind. Let's have dinner out somewhere. Didn't you tell me about a place Lady Cecelia liked?"
"Why not? This place is too quiet anyway." Brun felt prickles all over her skin as she stood up, stretched, fished around under the desk for her shoes. She slipped the cube from the cube reader and put it in her pocket. She looked at Kate. Now what? An attack in the hall? Outside the door?
"I'm in the mood for fish," Kate said. "That Lassaferan snailfish you people have—I wonder if we could import some eggs or larvae or whatever a snailfish has."
"No fish for me," Brun said. "I'm thinking rabbit fillets stuffed with herbed cheese."
They were in the hall. She could see the front door, and light spilling into the hall from the front rooms. No odd shadows. She glanced back toward the service door. Shut. Quiet. The wide carpeted hall, with its umbrella stand, where her father's walking stick still stood . . . Brun slid it out of the stand as she passed, without missing a stride, as if she always took a man's walking stick out to dinner.
Nobody lunged at them as they walked past the open door of the study, the front room. They paused before the door; Kate's eyebrows went up and she shrugged. "How cold was it out?" Brun asked. "Are you going to need a wrap?"
"I might," Kate conceded. "Your so-called spring is colder than ours, but you'd probably call it balmy." She reached for the door of the cloakroom; Brun held the walking stick poised.
The door opened and the interior light came on, revealing nothing more sinister than a rack of hangers, mostly empty. Her father's old smoking jacket, which she'd looked for at Appledale and not found, her mother's moss-green cashmere scarf, a tweed jacket of her own, an assortment of raincoats, dark blue and tan and gray. Kate chose a dark blue raincoat and wrapped the green scarf around her throat. Brun took another like it.
Still nothing. She flicked off the lights in the front of the house, waited a moment for her eyes to adjust to the darkness, and opened the front door. Cool damp air washed in.
Kate moved past her, staying close to the entrance; Brun left the door slightly ajar, in case they needed to bolt back inside, though she didn't think that was a good idea anyway.
"Leave it wide open and come on," Kate murmured, close again. Brun jumped. Then she pushed the door open, and followed Kate along the house wall to the corner. Outside, the distant streetlights gave enough glow that she could see rough shapes. A light in the study shone out and gilded the top of the hedge she had heard the gardener trimming that morning. At the back of the house, another bar of light lay dimly on the lawn. "Let's go," Kate said.
They struck out across the lawn; Brun had remembered to bring the lockout, so the perimeter security—if whoever had removed her staff hadn't disabled it already—wouldn't start the alarms and let the bad guys know where they were. Of course, if they had the right gear, none of this sneaking around would work . . . she sidled through a row of camellia bushes, then peered through the shoulder-high evergreen hedge beyond . . . nothing but the gleam of pavement reflecting distant streetlights. Not that she could see anything to either side. Brun pulled the raincoat up over her head to keep the needly foliage from catching in her hair and pushed the branches of one bush aside with the cane. Kate was right behind her.
Still nothing. There they were, on the sidewalk, with no obvious threat anywhere. Brun jammed her hands in the pocket of the coat and found an old scarf, which she tied over her head as they walked along.
"That was interesting," Kate said. "I think I'll report a house with an open front door when we get a little away from here."
"Mmm. I was thinking of calling the security agency and mentioning that their employees had disappeared."
"Two strings to your bow. Are you going to carry that cane all the way into town?"
"I think so," Brun said, shifting it in her hand. "Since everything else I might carry is upstairs in the bedroom."
* * *
As they came to a busier street, they joined a stream of pedestrians headed for a transit stop, and paused in the sheltered kiosk where the public comunits were. Brun called the security company, then Kevil to report where she was so he wouldn't panic. Kate called the police. They boarded a tram, got off at the next stop, dove down a subway entrance, and—three transfers and a call for reservations later—were ushered into the ladies' retiring room at Celeste. They grinned at each other in the mirrors, handed over the raincoats and scarves to the attendant, and strolled out to be seated in one of the bay-window alcoves overlooking the stone garden. This early the restaurant wasn't crowded.
"You people go in for strange gardens," Kate said. She turned her attention to the menu. "Ah . . . they do have Lassaferan snailfish. Now why is the fin twice as expensive as the whole fish?"
"You complain about everything," Brun said. "And it's because it's decorative, and nobody's been able to fake one yet. Also there's a piquant flavor to the spine of the fin. Not worth it, though, if you ask me."
"I'll have the whole fish, then. Baked, or broiled?"
"Broiled is better, and ask for a garnish of roast garlic. Some people say lemongrass, but I think garlic. Or both. Drat. They don't have rabbit—many apologies, supplier failed to deliver. If I'd known I'd have told the people at Appledale to send in some of the nuisances that ravage the kitchen garden out there."
"So what are you going to have?"
"Mmmm . . . I don't know; my mouth was really set on rabbit. Lamb maybe. Cattlelope is just too . . . too."
"Start with soup," Kate said. "So will I. We both need it."
They were most of the way through the soup, when a stir near the entrance caught Brun's attention. Someone was talking urgently to the maitre d', trying to get past him.
"She's my niece, dammit!" Uncle Harlis. Brun swallowed. Uncle Harlis was supposed to be under detention or surveillance or something—she hadn't paid much attention, beyond being assured he wouldn't bother her—pending investigation of his felonious actions in the various family businesses, and his attempt on Bunny's inheritance. "I have a right to see her; I'm worried . . ." At that, Kate turned around.
"The wicked uncle returns?"
"Something like that," Brun said. A colored light had come on at their table, discreetly signalling that someone wanted to speak with her. She pressed the response. Kate raised an eyebrow. "Might as well," Brun said. "He'll just make more of a scene if we don't, and he's not likely to try a physical assault here, in public." Now the maitre d' was leading Harlis over to their table.
"Brun, I've been so worried," Harlis said. He looked more flustered than worried, Brun thought, but she didn't argue the point. "After all, your mother—and I tried to call you but no one answered, and when I went by, there were police all over the house."
"Really?" Brun said. "Why?"
"They wouldn't say. Are you all right?"
"Fine," Brun said. "Is that all you wanted? Or is there something else?" She couldn't imagine he'd come to the restaurant just to find out if she was all right.
"Look . . . Brun . . . I know this may be a bad time, but . . . I want to go to Sirialis."
"Sirialis? Why on earth—you know the court upheld Dad's bequests."
"Yes, I know. But there're things of mine there—you know, my room in the east wing—and I want them."
"I can have them sent to you," Brun offered.
"I need to go there myself," Harlis said. His voice was louder again; Brun could see others giving them sidelon
g glances. Was he drunk?
"I don't think that's a good idea," Brun said. "There's no one in the family in residence—"
"I'm in the family!" Harlis said. "It's as much my home as yours—it should be—it's not fair—" He faltered.
"Harlis, you would have had the same access you always had, if you hadn't tried to cheat us. That wasn't fair."
"Neither is making the daughter of a murderer the Barraclough heir," Harlis snarled. Brun could almost feel the tense fascination of the other diners.
"Is that what this is about?" Brun said, wondering where he'd heard it.
"What'd you do, diddle the old man?" Harlis's voice rang through the room, and the maitre d' and one of the larger waiters started toward them.
Kate laughed, and leaned back in her chair. "What's the matter, Harlis, did you give it away?"
Brun felt her face heating—Kate's taste in humor belonged in a barn—but managed to hold her neutral expression. When the maitre d' was near enough, she spoke in a low but clear voice. "I believe my uncle is not feeling well. Perhaps you could help him to some assistance?"
"Of course, sera," the maitre d' said.
"You'll regret this," Harlis said. "Spoiled, bratty, stupid little bitch—"
The other diners applied themselves to their food with commendable delicacy until Harlis had disappeared from the room.
"I will say this about your uncle," Kate said. "He doesn't let an occasion for stupidity pass him by."
Brun snorted and almost choked on her water. "I needed that. But I have to call someone, a secured call. Can I leave you a few minutes?"
"Of course. I will amuse myself by flirting with that handsome young fellow who just walked in and is standing by the wall over there. Could it be our George?"
Brun glanced that way. "Oh. I don't need to make the call.
"You don't have to be so mysterious with me," Kate said.
"Actually I do," Brun said. "Excuse me a moment." She walked across the room and stepped out into the foyer with George Mahoney.
"I'm glad you're all right," he said, bowing formally.
"Things . . . happened."
"Yes. Dad's taken care of it."
"Harlis was here," Brun said.
"Here?"
"Yes. You must've just missed him—he was . . . asked to leave."
"Did you talk to him?"
"Yes. He wants to go to Sirialis."
"Let me call Dad—then can I join you for dinner?"
"Of course. I'll tell Kate and snag a waiter."
When George exerted himself to be charming, he could be very charming indeed. Kate, who had only seen him worried about his father, or being casual at Appledale, had not experienced the glossy splendor of George in full feather. Brun sat back and watched them banter and flirt and chat, as she worked her way through her saddle of venison without saying much. The food revived her, and by the time they were ready for dessert, she was ready to ask questions.
"The house staff?"
"All safe. Variously disposed of, but safe. Your security was less fortunate, but they're all alive. Stepan has assigned Barraclough senior security to you; the house will be safe tonight, but he recommends that you spend the night elsewhere. You can always stay with us, you know."
"Do you know who, or what?"
"Not for sure, but Harlis's name was mentioned."
"He started out saying he was worried about Brun," Kate put in. "Said he'd been by the house, seen the police . . . as if he thought something might have happened. Seemed put out that she was safe and unworried."
"Hm. Nobody told me he'd been to the house. I'd have thought they'd hold him if he'd shown up . . . where'd he go?"
"I have no idea," Brun said. "All I know is, he wants to go to Sirialis, and when I didn't agree that he could, he said I'd be sorry."
"I think we need to call that in right now," George said. "With any luck we can find him, but—" He looked at the time. "He could have caught the up-shuttle already."
"If we'd been there . . . if he'd had backup," Kate said, "Brun could be dead and he could be on that shuttle."
"Well, I'm not," Brun said, eyeing the pastry cart coming toward them. "I'm alive, and I want something with chocolate all over it."
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Rockhouse Major, 1800 local time
Goonar was just getting ready to head up to the main restaurant block in this section of the Station for dinner when his comunit buzzed. "It's Commander Tavard," a voice said. "Those fingerprints and video were very interesting."
"Oh? Are—uh—this isn't a secure link at this end, Commander."
"Not a problem. Just wanted to tell you how glad I am you aren't heading out with that particular passenger. And to keep a close eye on your area, in case he decides to retaliate for your inhospitality." Tavard sounded almost smug.
"Believe me, I shall. We were going out to dinner, Basil and I, but we could stay aboard, if you think that's wise."
"No, dinner out sounds fine, as long as you have someone reliable aboard. If we should happen to meet, I presume you're still annoyed with Fleet for its ungenerous attitude towards informers?"
"Of course. Shall I snub you, or you snub me?"
"Both a little cool, I'd say. Oh, and thanks for your information about Suiza. She's turned up—she was visiting a private residence and that's why we couldn't find her."
"You mean you really—?" Goonar had not considered that this interest might be real.
"Two strings to my bow, and two arrows nocked . . . though if I understand bows at all, that's not how it could work. But you grasp my meaning."
"Indeed." He thought of asking about Betharnya and her troupe, but decided better not complicate an already complicated situation. "I'm taking my comunit along, if you need to contact me."
With a last warning to the ship's crew, he and Basil headed up to the main levels. Rockhouse always made him feel he was in the thick of things; Zenebra might be as crowded just before the Trials, but that was all horse people, all one sort. Here it was the variety, the sense that everyone, at one time or another, might turn up on business. Shops, news kiosks with screens flickering and hardcopies racked below, more shops, the bustle of the evening traffic, mostly well-dressed at this hour: the soberly dressed businessmen and women who were still working, the gaudily dressed young out for an evening.
He watched an old woman in a brilliant red and purple caftan, her thick gray hair in a braid piled on her head, swing along as if she owned the entire station. She wasn't particularly tall, but people moved out of her way as if by some arcane force. Basil nudged him. "Reminds me of Aunt Herdion."
"She's somebody's aunt, I'd say," Goonar said. She cheered him up, for reasons he couldn't grasp. In a universe with brisk old ladies like this, old ladies who could mend quarrels between families for the sake of a lost child, he could almost believe that Betharnya would consider giving up the stage for a nice house at the family compound, next door to Basil's.
As a Terakian captain, Goonar now had a membership in the Captains' Guild; he had booked a table for himself and Basil. He'd been here before, as a junior guest of his uncle's, but this was his first time in the door as a member in his own right.
"Captain Terakian, of course." The maitre d' smiled at him. "We're always delighted to see captains of Terakian and Sons here. Please—follow me."
Then, he had been awed by the decor, unused to the style of the inner worlds of the Familias. Now . . . he could almost feel he belonged here.
Once the first course was on the table, Basil leaned across. "You aren't going to leave here without talking to Bethya, are you?"
Goonar almost choked on his soup and glared at Basil. "How can I talk to her when she disappeared into the Fleet side of the Station, and I've heard nothing?"
"You could ask. You could have asked that commander."
"He came to ask about the Suiza woman," Goonar said, mindful of listeners. "Why would he know anything about Bethya?"
&
nbsp; "Goonar . . . she likes you, and you like her. I can tell."
"You cannot. Last year you thought I was falling for that blonde—"
"I was hoping. I knew better, truly I did. But don't try to tell me Bethya doesn't stir you—"
"Don't be vulgar, Bas." Goonar leaned over his soup, the rising steam an excuse for the heat in his cheeks. "Besides, if she wants to talk to me, she knows where I am. Anyway, she's an actress. Why would she be interested in a plain old ship captain?" Other than the reasons he didn't want to hear.
"She's ready to settle down, maybe."
"I doubt it," Goonar said. The soup lay heavy in his stomach, and he wished dinner over already. Basil went on spooning his in—his appetite hadn't suffered.
His comunit buzzed. Goonar flicked it on. "Captain? This is Bethya—" His pulse raced. "We're . . . um . . . finished here." He could hear the careful phrasing. "We're contacting agents to see about a booking . . . I know we need to get our equipment off your ship and into storage or something. Could I come talk to you about that and about settling up?"
"Don't worry," he said automatically. Then, with a feeling like plunging over a cliff, he said, "Actually—Basil and I are having dinner at the Captains' Guild. Would you like to join us?"
"I don't know if I . . . yes, Captain, I'd like that. Where is it?"
Goonar gave her directions and looked up to find Basil grinning like a boy who had just pulled the prize ring out of the barrel. "What!"
"It was Bethya, wasn't it?"
"Yes, it was Bethya, and yes, she's coming over here to have dinner." He signalled a waiter and explained that he had another guest coming.
"You're grinning all over your face," Basil observed. "Some of our competitors are going to think you just made a deal."
"Let them," Goonar said. His appetite had returned with a rush; he could have eaten an entire cattlelope.
Bethya arrived a few minutes later, and Goonar would have sworn every male in the place perked up. She knew it, too, he saw, and enjoyed it. But her smile was for him alone when he seated her.
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