Today she had Florian by her on Filly Two, both horses fretting at the bits and wanting to go. "Race you," she said, and aimed the Filly at the end of the field, to the kind of stop that had once sent her most of the way off, hanging on the Filly's neck—she had sworn she would killAndy and Florian if they told; and she was very glad no one had had a camera around.
All the way there with both horses running nearly neck and neck; and it would have taken somebody on the ground to see who was first. Florian could try to be diplomatic. But the fillies had different ideas.
"Easier back," Florian said. The horses were breathing hard, and dancing around and feeling good. But heworried when they ran like that.
"Hell," she said. For a moment she was free as the wind and nothing could touch her.
But racing was not why they were out here, or down in AG, or why Catlin had special orders up in the House.
Not why Catlin was walking out of the barn now—a distant bit of black; with company.
"Come on," she said to Florian, and she let the Filly pick her pace, which was still a good clip, and with ears up and then back again as the Filly saw people down there too, and tried to figure it out in her own worried way.
ix
Justin stood still beside Catlin's black, slim impassivity, waiting while the horses brought Ari and Florian back—big animals, coming fast—but he figured if there were danger of being run down Catlin would not be standing there with her arms folded, and he thought—he was sure . . . that it was Ari's choice to scare him if she could.
So he stood his ground while the horses ran up on them. They stopped in time. And Ari slid down and Florian did.
She gave Florian her horse to lead away. She had on a white blouse, her hair was pinned up in Emory's way; but coming loose all around her face. The smell of the barn, the animals, leather and earth—brought back childhood.
Brought back the days that he and Grant had been free to come down here—
A long time ago.
"Justin," Ari said. "I wanted to talk to you."
"I thought you would," he said.
She was breathing hard. But anyone would, who had come in like that. Catlin had called his office, said come to the doors; he had left Grant at work, over Grant's objections. No, he had said; just—no. And gotten his jacket and walked down, expecting—God knew—Ari, there.
Catlin had brought him down here, instead, and no one interfered with that. But no one likely interfered much with anything Ari did these days. "Let's go sit down," Ari said now. "Do you mind?"
"All right," he said; and followed her over to the corner where the fence met the barn. Azi handlers took the horses inside; and Ari sat down on the bottom rail of the metal fence, leaving him the plastic shipping cans that were clustered there, while Catlin and Florian stood a little behind him and out of his line of sight. Intentionally, he thought, a quiet, present threat.
"I don't blame you for anything," she said, hands between her knees, looking at him with no coldness, no resentment. "I feel a little funny—like I should have put somethingtogether, that there was something in the past—but I thought—I thought maybe you'd gotten crosswise of Administration. The family black sheep. Or something. But that's all history. I know nothing is your fault. I asked you to come here—to ask you what you think about me."It was a civilized, sensible question. It was the nightmare finally happening, turning out to be just a quiet question from a pretty young girl under a sunny sky. But his hands would shake if he was not sitting as he was, arms folded. "What I think about you. I think about the little girl at the New Year's party. About the damn guppies. I think about a sweet kid, Ari. That's all. I've had nightmares about your finding out. Ididn't want what happened. I didn't want fifteen years of walking around the truth. But they couldn't tell you. And they were afraid I would. That I would—feel some resentment toward you. I don't. None."
Her face was so much Ari's. The lines and planes were beginning to be there. But the eyes were a young woman's eyes, worried—that rare little expression he had seen first that day in his office—over a jar of suffocated baby guppies. I guess they were just in there too long.
"Your father's at Planys," she said. "They say you visit him." He nodded. A lump got into his throat. God. He was not going to break down and go maudlin in front of a fifteen-year-old. "You miss him."
Second nod. She could feel her way to all the buttons. She wasEmory. She had proved it in Novgorod, and the whole damn government had rocked on its pinnings.
"Are you mad at me about it?" she asked.
He shook his head.
"Aren't you going to talk to me?"
Damn. Pull it together, fool!
"Are you mad at my uncles?"
He shook his head again. There was nothingsafe to say. Nothing safe to do. She was the one who needed to know. He knew everything. And if there was a way out for Jordan it was going to be in her administration—someday. If there was any hope at all.
She was silent a long time. Just waiting for him. Knowing, surely, that he was fracturing. Himself, who was thirty-four years old; and not doing well at all.
He leaned forward, elbows on knees, studied the dust between his feet, then looked up at her.
No knowledge at all of what the first Ari had done to him. Denys swore to that. And swore what he would do if he opened his mouth about it.
I won't,he had said to Denys. God, do you think I want her into that tape?
She hasn't got it,Denys had assured him. And won't get it.
Yet—had been his thought.
There was nothing but worry in the look Ari gave him.
"It's not easy," he said, "to be under suspicion—all the time. That's the way I live, Ari. And I never did anything. I was seventeen when it happened."
"I know that," she said. "I'll talk to Denys. I'll make it so you can go visit when you like,"
It was everything he had hoped for. "Right now—" he said, "there's too much going on in the world. The mess in Novgorod. The same reason they have you flying with an escort. There's a military base right next to Planys. The airport is in between the two. Your uncle Denys is worried they might try to grab my father; or me. I'm grounded until things settle down. I can't even talk to him on the phone. —And Grant's never even gotten to go. Grant—was like his second son."
"Damn," she said, "I'm sorry. But you willget to see him. Grant, too. I'll do everything I can."
"I'd be grateful."
"Justin, —does your father hate me?"
"No. Absolutely not."
"What does he say about me?"
"We stay off that subject," he said. "You understand—every call I make to him, every second I spend with him—there's always somebody listening. Talking about you—could land me back in Detention."
She looked at him a long time. Shock, no. But they had not told her that, maybe. There was a mix of expressions on her face he could not sort out.
"Your father's a Special," she said. "Yanni says you ought to be."
"Yanni says. I doubt it. And they're not even going to allow the question—because they can't touch my father—legally—so they don't want meunreachable. You understand."
That was another answer that bothered her. Another moment of silence.
"Someday," he said, "when things are quieter, someday when you're running Reseune—I hope you'll take another look at my father's case. You could do something to help him. I don't think anyone else ever will. Just—ask him—the things you've asked me." But, O God, the truth . . . about that tape; about Art; the shock of that—no knowing what that will do to her.