“Ronnie—I thought you were stuck on a colony—”
“I am, but I had to make this session. Did my aunt tell you about the problems in colonial administration?”
“Some—I’m glad you made it out.” He got out of his seat and came over to crouch beside her.
“Listen, Brun, we didn’t even know about your being captured until after you were back. Raffa sends her love. She’s my vice-governor, so she had to stay. But I’m hearing rumors that you’re leading an Ageist revolt—is that so?”
“Not exactly,” Brun said. “Let me explain between sittings, why don’t you? Have you heard what Stepan did?”
“No, not yet.” Ronnie gave Kell a suspicious glance. “Tell me later?”
“Sure. Lunch?”
“I’m lunching with George and Veronica. You could join us.”
“I’ll try,” Brun said.
Now the Ministers filed in to take their places at the Table of Ministers . . . Brun knew that in the wake of Hobart’s assassination and the mutiny, his appointee at the Ministry of Defense had resigned in favor of Irion Solinari who had now returned to the capitol. The head of Colonial Affairs, another Conselline appointee, looked worried and glanced several times towards the Carruthers’ table.
Stepan buzzed her and his quiet old voice purred into her ear. “Brun . . . there are more young people here today—and proxies registered for even more. Be sure you speak to their concerns.”
“I’ve just talked to Ronnie Carruthers,” she said. “He’s here in person.”
“Excellent,” Stepan said. “I urged his father to ask him back for a Council meeting even before Hobart died.”
So that was how Ronnie had made it.
The interim Speaker, Jon-Irene Pearsall, tapped the ceremonial gavel as if he were afraid the head would come off. Several weeks of power had given him no confidence.
“We have several questions before the Council,” he said. “A motion to censure the late Lord Thornbuckle’s widow for the death of Minister of Foreign Affairs Pedar Orregiemos. A motion to appoint a special investigator to examine the relationship between Pedar Orregiemos’ death and the assassination of Hobart Conselline. A motion to appoint a special investigator to determine the cause of the mutiny in the Regular Space Service. A motion to appoint a special investigator to determine the relationship of the Benignity of the Compassionate Hand with the Barraclough Sept. A motion of support for the loyal service of the Regular Space Service . . .” He droned on down a list, most of it motions to investigate, censure, or support.
Brun had already registered her request to speak to certain items on the list. A Conselline representative, one of Hobart’s nephews, was up first on item one. He was, she noted, in his mid-thirties, and unrejuved. He read a prepared text in a rapid monotone, with occasional nervous glances at his hearers.
“It is clear that Pedar Orregiemos was killed by Miranda Thornbuckle as part of a widespread plot to bring down the Conselline Sept. This fiction that he was killed in a fencing accident is just that—fiction—and if the crime had not been committed on private property far away from any nonpartisan law enforcement, the murderer would have been quickly brought to book. Indeed, she has admitted her guilt by fleeing—which suggests that even the tame militia of Sirialis weren’t satisfied . . .” He went on in this vein for some minutes, painting a picture of Barraclough scheming to murder Hobart and Pedar, hinting at other assassination attempts, at a Barraclough Ageist conspiracy. Finally he ran down.
Brun stood up and waited until the murmurs had died down. She knew she was about to drop a bombshell and didn’t want to waste any of its concussive power. When the silence had reached a point of tension she felt in every nerve, she spoke.
“I realize Cerion Conselline would like to believe everything that goes wrong is our fault,” she said. “It would be handy if the Thornbuckles were really just thorns, and you could be rid of trouble by plucking us out and tossing us in the fire.” Her tone invited a chuckle from the unaligned, and she got it. “But such easy solutions have never worked, in the whole history of humankind. However, I’m not here to discuss human history and psychology . . .” Another chuckle; this time she spoke over the tail end of it. “Nor am I here to defend my mother. It’s too late for that—” A startled murmur, this time. Brun went steadily on. “My mother is dead.”
“You’re lying!” burst out Oskar Morrelline. “She’s just run off.”
“She and Cecelia de Marktos were traveling to the Guerni Republic,” Brun said. “Alone, in Lady Cecelia’s yacht Pounce. They were captured by mutineers on the cruiser Bonar Tighe—yes, the one identified at the beginning of the mutiny—when their yacht came out of FTL unexpectedly.” Now she had their attention again and a silence heavy with dread. “She and Lady Cecelia were put in the brig with other loyalist prisoners. Knowing they were doomed anyway, they all attempted an escape; my mother was with a party that made their way to the communications equipment and sent off a message giving the ship’s location. Lady Cecelia was with a party engaged in disabling the ship as much as possible.”
“You expect us to believe two rich old ladies could disable a ship?” Oskar yelled. Pearsall tapped for order, and Oskar glowered at him and threw himself back in his seat, folding his arms dramatically.
“The loyalist prisoners had the expertise,” Brun said. “But my mother and Lady Cecelia made the escape possible. Because they were civilians, and rich ladies, the guards were less careful with them. They managed to disable the guards and unlock the cells.”
“How do you know all this?” called another Conselline supporter.
“I was informed yesterday by Grand Admiral Savanche, who gave me permission to inform this assembly. The Regular Space Service will release the story to the news media today. A loyal task force seeking out mutineers found the mutineer ship and destroyed it. Unfortunately, while Lady Cecelia and some of the loyalist prisoners managed to escape in a troop shuttle, my mother died helping others get away. She drew fire from the mutineers to let others escape.” Brun drew a long breath. “Fleet,” she said, “considers her a hero. I don’t ask you all to agree . . . but if you insist on thinking her a murderer, at least she has paid her debt by giving her own life for others.”
“Were all the mutineer ships destroyed?” asked a young man from the upper tiers. Brun didn’t have to look at her list to know that this was a Kimberly-Dwight, her own age.
“No,” Brun said. “We know for a fact that others exist. But the Bonar Tighe is thought to have been the flagship of the mutineer fleet.”
“How did they disable it?” asked someone else.
“I don’t know all the details,” Brun said. “But Admiral Savanche said it was one of the most imaginative schemes he’d heard of.”
“What commander destroyed it?” asked another.
“I think that will be in today’s report,” Brun said. “I was most concerned with my mother’s fate, as you can imagine. It’s—I don’t want to be maudlin, but it’s been less than a year since my father died.” This time she heard murmurs of sympathy as well as the buzz of curiosity. “However, I stand in opposition to a motion to investigate my mother, since she is dead, apparently with credit to herself.”
Cerion Conselline huddled with the more senior Consellines, including Oskar, and finally turned back to the Chair. “I withdraw the motion,” he said. “In consideration of Sera Meager-Thornbuckle’s recent loss. But I will have another motion of investigation later, since all the persons suspected of collusion aren’t dead yet. There’s still the matter of an Ageist conspiracy.” This clumsy threat brought scattered laughter.