The Serrano Succession Page 6

  "And I went back to Rotterdam to play with horses," Cecelia said.

  "Yes. I understand it, in a way. Venezia Morrelline had her pottery, and you had horses, and Kata Saenz had her research. Most people do have their private interests, and that, after all, is what a good political system is supposed to do—leave you free to do what you are best at, whatever it is. People want to do the work they love, marry and have children, have some fun. But if too many people do that, Cecelia, it leaves gaps for people who want power for its own sake, and who may use it in ways that later degrade your life."

  Like Bunny using Fleet resources as if they were personal, to rescue Brun. She didn't say that; she knew that Miranda knew what people thought. "How is Kevil?" she asked instead.

  "Alive." From her tone, Cecelia couldn't tell if Miranda were pleased about that or not. Then she sighed. "I can't wish Kevil dead, only Bunny alive as well. Kevil was badly hurt—days in the regen tank, and then the head injury—he's still not himself. He may never be, the doctors say. And without Bunny—or me, if I could only find a way—he doesn't have the backing to do what he did for us before."

  "I should visit him," Cecelia said.

  "Yes, you should. You should tell him what you told me, with all the names you know. He might know something useful, something that would give us leverage."

  "And Brun?"

  "Brun . . . has a crazy notion of changing her identity. Going to the Guernesi and getting a rejuv and biosculpt that will make her a new person from the bones out. I think she got the idea from the prince's clones."

  "She doesn't want the children," Cecelia said, not asking.

  "Would you?" Miranda shivered, then sighed. "No, she doesn't want them. I don't want them myself, really. Bunny did. Bunny had some crazy idea that they could grow up to prove their existence wasn't a disaster, but it is."

  "That's a lot of burden on them."

  "Yes. Unfair, too. I know that. But nothing can make them other than they are: bastards, Brun's ruin, the ruin of all our hopes for the Familias. They are the lit fuse, poor little brats."

  "What are they like?"

  "Babies. Toddlers, really, at this point. Neither looks like anyone in our family, and they aren't identical. One has the brightest red hair I ever saw, and the other's is brown. Brun says one of the men was a redhead. . . ."

  Cecelia noticed that Miranda had not used names; before she could ask, Miranda went on.

  "The gene scan showed up some interesting anomalies—according to one geneticist, who's also looked at the women and other children, these people were seriously inbred, with a lot of undesirable recessives concentrated. They had noticed that children born of captured women were less likely to be disabled, but considered that as proof of their God's blessing on capturing women. Of course, we had the boys treated at once, although it was too late for a complete washout."

  "What do you call them?" Cecelia finally got a word in.

  Miranda blushed. "We don't actually . . . have names. Brun never did, and she refuses to talk about it. Their nurses call them Red and Brownie. I know—" She held up a hand. "Those are names for dogs or ponies, not boys. Nicknames, at best. I just don't—Bunny and I had been talking about it when he was killed." She moved her cup restlessly. "Would you like to see them?"

  "Of course." Cecelia stood.

  Down the hall, past several doors and now she could hear the crowing of a happy child, the chuckle of another. Miranda paused just before the open door. Cecelia looked in. Two young women in colorful smocks, a floor strewn with toys, and two sturdy toddlers. One, the redhead, was bouncing up and down, clapping his hands. The other, sitting in a scatter of blocks, looked quickly toward the door, grinning.

  They were normal children, not monsters. Happy children, not monsters. Children who were more than "lit fuses"—who were potentially normal, if only they didn't grow up burdened with a past they had not made.

  "You have to send them away," Cecelia said, surprising herself. "There are people who want children and don't have them; there are places where these boys will be treasured as they should be."

  "Bunny said—"

  "Bunny's dead. They're alive. They can have a good future—and the universe is big enough that they need not be anyone's pawns in some power game."

  "And you know who—?" A tone suspended between sarcasm and hope.

  "No, but I can find out. Will you let me do that? Find them homes where they'll have a chance?"

  Miranda sagged. "I . . . don't know."

  "Miranda. You have other grandchildren, and will have more. Children you can love naturally. Children whose political importance, if any, comes with a family commitment. You haven't even given these boys names—you know yourself that's wrong. Give them up; give them a chance."

  "Brun wants to . . ." Miranda said. "She said . . . she doesn't want to hate them, but she can't live with them around. But neither of us can face the thought of an orphanage."

  "She's right," Cecelia said. "You said we were alike—we may be, that much. If I had borne them, in her circumstances, I'd have to give them up. It's a big universe; they need never know."

  She left Miranda in the doorway and went on into the room, nodding to the nurses, and sitting on the floor. Red, his hair an orange flame, put a fat thumb in his mouth, but Brownie grinned at her. Cecelia pulled out the ring of keys from the stable and jingled it. His grin widened, and he came to her, grabbing for the keys. Though he looked little like Brun, his boldness and the sparkle in his blue eyes suggested Brun's attitudes.

  Cecelia did not think of herself as a religious person, but she found herself praying to something, somewhere, to give these boys a better life than their beginning.

  "Lady Cecelia!" That was Brun; Cecelia turned.

  "You look well," she said. Brun looked well physically—her tall body trim and fit, her tumbled gold curls in a riot around her head. But the clear gaze was shadowed, darkening when she looked at the boys.

  "I'm fine," Brun said. "Considering everything."

  "I agree with you and your mother," Cecelia said. "These boys need a proper home, not to mention names."

  Brun's face stiffened, then she grinned. "Still tactful, I see."

  "As ever," Cecelia agreed. "My dear, I'm almost ninety, and rejuvenation did nothing to soften my personality. Why don't we do it today?"

  "Today?" Both Miranda and Brun looked shocked; so did the nurses.

  "They're starting to talk; they understand even more. Every day you wait makes it harder on them."

  "I . . . want to be sure they have good homes . . . that they lack for nothing . . ." Brun said.

  "A good home is a loving home," Cecelia said, with all the confidence of the childless. "And right now they're lacking the most basic needs of all—a name, a parent—"

  "But what will you do with them?"

  "Take them to a safe and loving home. Brun, you've known me all your life. Have I ever lied to you?" Brun shook her head, tears rising in her eyes. Miranda started to speak, but Cecelia waved her down. "I have told you the truth, even when it wasn't what you wanted to hear. I tell you the truth now—if you let me have these boys I will see to it that they find a good home. I will do it myself. . . ."

  "But your schedule—"

  "Is my own. Miranda, you were twitting me with my self-indulgence. This is what self-indulgence is good for. I can help you, right now, because I have no other obligations in the way." She softened her voice. "Please let me."

  Brun looked down, then nodded. Cecelia could see the gleam of tears in her eyes.

  Miranda stared at Cecelia a long moment, then said, "All right. And I still have money for them—a start in a new life—"

  "Good." Cecelia tried to think what next. She had said today without really thinking what that would mean, but now the two nursemaids were watching her, waiting for orders. She had no idea how long it took to pack up two children, or where to take them, but she knew she must not hesitate. She spoke to the nursemaids.
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  "Are you full-time employees, and would you be able to travel for a month or so?"

  "Yes, ma'am," said one of them. "We're from Sirialis, originally, but we thought we'd be staying for years . . ."

  "Then will you please start packing—or have someone help you pack—the boys' things? I need to talk to Miranda and make some arrangements—" She would need a bigger ship—a momentary pang, when she thought of how easy it would have been with Sweet Delight, and Heris Serrano, to take the twins and their nursemaids anywhere. Reservations on a commercial liner? No, too much chance of publicity. She'd have to lease a ship and crew. No, to start with she'd need another room—set of rooms—in her hotel. She'd made reservations for one. Or perhaps another hotel. Ideas whirled through her head like leaves before a wind. "Miranda, let's go to your suite—we have business."

  "Yes, Cecelia." Miranda nodded at the nursemaids, already beginning to gather toys. "I'll send a maid in to do the packing; just be sure the boys are clean and dressed. And I'll take care of your salaries and references."

  Then she led the way to her suite. Brun came along with them, her face once more stiff with misery.

  "Do you have any notion where you're going with them?" Miranda asked, when they were again in her sitting room.

  "Yes." The thought had come as she walked down the passage. "I know the perfect planet, and probably the perfect couple. Do you want to know?"

  "Not . . . now. Later, maybe." Brun sat hunched, her eyes on the carpet.

  "Fine, then. Miranda, I'll need the use of your comset—"

  "I'll just call Poisson—"

  "No. I'll make the reservations myself." Only as far as the first hotel, she told herself. From there, she would arrange transportation. And she wanted no records in the Palace computers, where reporters might already have a tap.

  "I have resources—"

  "You said you were feuding with Bunny's brother—"

  "In my own right. At least let me help."

  "Of course." Cecelia turned politely to Brun as Miranda opened a line to her bank. "Brun—have you heard from that girl—Hazel, wasn't it?—lately?"

  Brun looked up. "I worry about her. She seems to be doing fine, for someone who's been through so much, but she never has admitted how bad it was. She keeps wanting to get me to meet with that Ranger's wife—Prima Bowie."

  "Why?"

  "I don't know." Brun shifted restlessly. "Hazel liked her, I think. Says she was kind. Hazel feels sorry for her, being a stranger in our society. But she chose it; she wasn't abducted."

  "Are they all still together, all those women?" asked Cecelia.

  "As far as I know. I don't . . . really care."

  Miranda broke in. "I've deposited a lump sum in your account, Cecelia; I can send more later if—"

  "Don't worry about it," Cecelia said. "Tell me—do the maids take the boys out to play? In a park or anything?"

  "Not off the grounds. The news media are bad enough as it is."

  "Then—how about palace employees with children? Are there any?"

  "I'm sure there are, but I don't know who. . . ."

  "Perhaps the maids will. We don't want publicity when we take the children out."

  The little crocodile of children from Briary Meadows Primary School being herded through the public rooms as part of their field trip acquired a short tail. They didn't pay much attention; they were tired of glass-fronted cases full of trophies, letters, gifts to this or that famous person by another famous person, the rooms of interesting furniture which they could not touch, the silken ropes on which they were not supposed to swing, the constant admonitions to pay attention, be quiet, quit straggling or crowding.

  The children had been promised a stop at Ziffra's, the famous ice-cream parlor, if they were good, and only a steady murmur of commands kept them from trampling one another on the way out the door. The nursemaids, now wearing the green smocks of adult helpers in the school, complete with dangling nametags, brought up the rear, each with a toddler on her hip.

  Outside, the remaining media scavengers waited for any sign of Brun or her children, but ignored the confusion of piping voices and busy adults. They had seen bright green buses with the school name arrive, and crowds of obvious schoolchildren arrive, teachers hustling them into neat lines and adult volunteers scampering to catch the inevitable escapees. At least one such field trip arrived every day; the Palace had always been a favorite tourist site, and busloads of children, retirees, and convention attendees showed up so often that no one in the press corps paid them any mind.

  Now, as the chattering youngsters piled into the buses, and the harried adults counted, compared notes, and shut the doors, they ignored the confusion, keeping an eye out instead for the return of Lady Cecelia, whose limousine waited at the other end of the car park.

  A half hour later, Cecelia left, smiling into the holo lens and accepting congratulations on her win in the Senior Trials. She fielded a couple of questions about her breeding program, expressed sympathy for Bunny's family, and stepped into the waiting limousine, which took her to the medical center where Kevil Mahoney was still listed in critical condition.

  And later that afternoon, the two school volunteers whose green smocks and nametags had been borrowed for a time walked out the service entrance with other Palace staff who lived offsite. No one paid attention to them, either.

  Miranda listened to the silence and felt something shift inside her mind. She had not really been able to hear the twins, but knowing they were not there, that she could not hear them even if she walked down the hall, tipped her toward some distant horizon. She glanced at the clock. Was it still so early? Surely Cecelia had not been able to get them offplanet yet. She could check . . . she stopped, her hand outstretched to the comunit.

  No. As if it were a robotic arm she were operating, she concentrated on her hand, and brought it back to her lap.

  They were gone. They were gone forever.

  Lightness filled her, as if she were a transparent husk of herself. She might blow away . . . but of course that was nonsense. She was tired, very tired, and—

  "Mother?"

  Weight and darkness returned so suddenly she could hardly breathe. "Yes, Brun?"

  "You do think they'll be all right."

  "Of course." Miranda took a deep breath. "Cecelia is reliable, in her own way, and she will make sure of it."

  "Good." Brun came into the room tentatively, as if she were unsure of her welcome. "I feel . . . strange."

  Of course she felt strange. No one could survive what she had survived, and not feel strange, the moment life gave time to stop and notice.

  "Sit down," Miranda said. "Have some tea." Cecelia had not even finished hers. Brun sat as gingerly as she had come in. They nibbled pastries in silence for awhile, then Brun set down her plate.

  "What's going to happen with the family holdings?"

  Not the question Miranda had expected, but one she was glad to deal with at the moment. "It's going to be very difficult," Miranda said. "When your father mobilized the Fleet to go after you, he antagonized a lot of people, his own family included."

  "Too much for one person," Brun murmured.

  "It wasn't their daughter," Miranda said. "And it wasn't your decision; it was his. But Harlis gained ground with the rest of the family then—he'd already been working on it, claiming that Bunny was spending too much time and energy on Council business, and neglecting the family interests. He said Buttons was too young and inexperienced; he started demanding silly, time-wasting reports, and nitpicking everything. Buttons has had a lot to learn in only a few years, but he's doing very well. It's just that Harlis promises he could do better. And now—well, he's determined to get Sirialis."

  "That's stupid," Brun said, with some of her old arrogance. "That's not profit; the place has never made a profit—"

  "That's partly Harlis's point. He claims it could, if it were managed properly. Which does not, of course, include foxhunting . . . or only as
a commercial enterprise. He's strong on commercial enterprises. I don't know if you've kept track of the branches he manages—"

  "No," Brun said.

  "You can look it up later, then. He thinks Sirialis would pay as a mature colony prospect—"