For a long moment the churning of the looms was the only sound to be heard.

"Maybe I will, at that," Althea said at last. "But no matter what he says or doesn't say, you and I aren't finished. You committed a kidnapping, and of someone who'd become important to Clan Morelon, at that. I doubt you feel any remorse. I'm pretty sure that if I hadn't intervened, none of your relatives would have done the least little thing about it." Her gaze swerved to the mass of onlookers. "Were you folks aware that your patriarch exiled two elders from your clan earlier today?"

A second murmur rippled through the crowd.

"No? I'm surprised, given the brass he's shown me here. I'd have thought he'd brag about it. You know, flaunt the power a little. Anyway, Patrice and Alvah Kramnik turned up at Morelon House not too long ago, trundling a couple of rickety wheelbarrows filled with their belongings. They came to beg for sanctuary. Charisse gave it to them, of course. If any of you would like to inquire about Doug's reasons for ejecting them, they'll be at our place for the foreseeable future."

She holstered her needlegun, beckoned Barton to her, and clamped a hand onto his arm.

"Keep your patriarch nice and safe, folks. I don't want anything bad to happen to him before I return. Come on, Bart."

Douglas Kramnik watched his kindred flow aside to let them pass.

Barton was in a kind of fever-dream delirium. The accumulation of unprecedented events, notably the ones done to him and for him, had ripped away his sense of the world's logic. He no longer expected to understand what he saw, heard, or experienced. Without consciously willing it, he had placed his fate in the hands of his liberator.

Althea said nothing as they made their way to Grenier Air Transport. From her expression, she wasn't yet certain how to deal with the confrontation with Adam Grenier. Yet her stride was swift and resolute. It took Barton considerable effort to keep pace with her.

As they rounded the final turn toward the hangar, she halted them and made him face her.

"Is there anything you haven't told me about this favor?"

He shook his head. "Dad said nothing about the details. He was very proud of himself, though."

Althea's mouth tightened. "I wonder why. Bart, I want you to accept one thing above all else: my family isn't like that. What we do, we do in plain sight. We don't plot against other clans...and we don't play power games against one another. Think you can adapt yourself to an environment that simple and straightforward?"

He laughed. He couldn't help it. It took a while for him to master himself. Althea waited.

"Well, Al," he said as he ran down, "the challenge sounds formidable, but I promise I'll give it my best shot." He gazed down at his boots. "But I forgot something."

"Hm?" Althea's brow wrinkled.

"To thank you."

"Oh." She smirked. "Think nothing of it, Bart. Actually," she said, "it was kinda fun. Don't think I should make a habit of it, though. Come on, let's finish up."

At the mouth of the hangar, Althea poked her head inside, shouted "Adam!" at a wake-the-dead volume, stepped back and drew her needlegun.

Presently Adam Grenier came trotting out of the darkness, eyes roving for the source of the call. When his gaze lit on Althea and Barton, his hand swerved toward his needler. Althea grinned malevolently and leveled hers at his chest, and he froze in place.

"Know what a hyperesthetic is, Adam?"

Grenier shook his head warily.

"It's the opposite of an anesthetic. Makes the pain hurt worse. Lots worse, according to the formulary I used to make the seasoning for these rounds. If you so much as twitch, you'll get to experience the effects first hand. So you just stay right there while we chat."

Grenier's gaze flicked to Barton. Barton shrugged.

"What do you want?" Grenier said tonelessly.

"Bart here tells me that you and his Dad just concluded a new agreement. He mentioned something about a favor, too. A favor negotiated behind closed doors, that he wasn't allowed to hear about." Her eyebrows rose. "That's pretty strange behavior for a patriarch toward his scion. When I asked Douglas about it, he referred me to you."

Grenier said nothing.

"Adam," Althea murmured, "I intend to know. If it's something intended to work to my detriment, or to the detriment of my clan, you had better hope that you haven't put it into motion yet."

The seconds ticked by in electric stillness.

"Adam? This is the last time I'll ask nicely."

"He wanted to cripple your lab development plan," Grenier croaked. "Asked me to arrange to have your cargo ruined somehow. Maybe have it badly damaged during the loading, or fall out of the plane in mid-flight."

"And you agreed to it."

Grenier didn't answer.

Althea holstered her needler.

"You just lost Clan Morelon's business, Adam." She peered at him as if he were something unpleasant on a microscope slide. "All of it. How much of your neighbors' business do you think you'll lose when this gets around?"

Grenier's eyes widened in panic. "But I didn't-"

"Do you really think that matters?"

Althea whirled, took Barton by the arm once more, and led him away.

When they were back under the canopy to the commercial area, Barton said, "He was my friend."

Althea glanced sideways at him. "Past tense?"

He nodded.

"Smart fella." She snorted. "Some people don't deserve friends."

"Yeah."

Chapter 9: Sexember 13, 1303 A.H.

At the door to Morelon House they confronted Charisse wearing a thunderhead face.

Barton regarded the Morelon matriarch with a degree of awe. He knew of no one else on Alta who'd ever garnered his father's respect, much less his deference or his fear. He started to speak, to express his thanks for being welcomed into Morelon House even as a guest. He didn't get a complete syllable out before Althea halted him.

"Yes, Grandaunt?"

"Exactly what," Charisse ground out, "did you say to Adam Grenier?"

Althea grinned. "From the look on your face and the tone of your voice, I'd guess that you've spoken to him already, so why ask me? Don't you trust his account?"

"He said," Charisse continued in the same impending-doom tone, "that you took it upon yourself to cancel all the clan's contracts with him."

Althea nodded. "So far, right on the mark. That's exactly what I did."

"You have no authority over such things, Althea."

Another nod. "I decided not to let that bother me."

"Althea-"

Barton's rescuer did something he'd never have expected: she roared fury into her clan matriarch's face.

"That bastard," Althea bellowed, "struck a quiet little deal with Douglas Kramnik. A deal involving the destruction of about a million dekas' worth of my cargo, and not coincidentally, my ability to function on the Hopeless peninsula. Mine and Martin's. Did he tell you about that little detail, Grandmere? Would you allow that that aspect of our exchange might be reason enough for me to anticipate your reaction, or are you so jealous of your position that the idea is too galling to accept even so?

"I've brought home a new member for the clan, Grandaunt," Althea continued at lower volume. "He wants to marry Nora as soon as we can see to it. He's so eager to join Clan Morelon that I think he'd agree to become our indentured servant just to be allowed to sleep under our roof. But no sooner have I opened the door to usher him in than I find you standing here, looking like a volcano about to erupt-and why? Because I dared to speak for Clan Morelon? Because I usurped your authority?"

Charisse gaped at her, stunned speechless.

She took Barton by the arm and pulled him across the threshold. Charisse backed away, at last facing them across the wide entranceway to the mansion.

"I'm going to show Barton to an unused bedroom," Althea grated. "At the moment, he has nothing but the clothes on his back, so I figured I'd scout out some alternates and other grooming items for him before introducing him around. Do you have a problem with having him eat at our table for the foreseeable future?"

"No," Charisse murmured.

Althea smiled grimly. "I'm glad to hear that. Now why don't you get back on the radio to Grenier Air? Adam might be willing to sell the Guppy at a bargain price-I'd say seven hundred thousand is about right-in which case I'd recommend that you buy it. Or you could renegotiate all the clan's haulage contracts with him. I'd imagine he'd be very relieved, not to mention agreeable to whatever rates and conditions you might care to stipulate. I'd get busy on one or the other of those right away, while he's still in a panic. If you decide you want to continue this conversation, we can do it after dinner." She turned to Barton. "Come on, Bart, let's get you settled."

She marched the two of them past the matriarch of Clan Morelon and up the stairs to the bedroom level.

Martin was unusually quiet throughout the evening. Althea tried to prod him into conversation several times, without result. That his thoughts had wandered far from the here and now was painfully evident. After dinner, he retired to their bedroom rather than accompany her into the hearthroom for the family's usual postprandial entertainments. He said nothing about it, merely smiled wanly at her and mounted the stairs.

She retired for the night shortly thereafter. She found him already undressed and in bed, propped up on several pillows, reading from a large, visibly worn hardbound book. He looked up and smiled again, with the same lack of pleasure as earlier.

"Something interesting?" she ventured.

He closed the book, set it aside, and beckoned to her. She took a moment to unlace her boots, then lay down next to him and sidled cautiously into his embrace.

"Relevant, at least," he said. "The theory and practice of justice in a stateless society."

"Where'd that come from?"

"Chuck lent it to me," he said. "One of his texts from Gallatin. How old are he and Charisse?"

"Hm." She calculated briefly. "My grandfather Armand said she was his younger sister by two years. That would make her about a hundred and eight. I think Chuck is three years older."

"How long has she been the boss here?"

Boss?

"She took over the management of the clan's businesses while Armand and Teresza were still up on the peninsula."

He squinted down at her. "They were very young then, weren't they?"

She nodded.

"So she's been in the power seat for about ninety years. More than three quarters of her life." He blinked. "That's a long time even by today's standards. Not good."

"Hm? Why not good?"

"Power changes people, Al." He smirked. "Even the sort of noncoercive power a clan head has. They get used to being deferred to and accommodated. After a while, any change in the pattern looks to them like the end of the world."

And ninety years is quite a while.

She pulled herself more snugly against him.

"I've only known her as matriarch," she said. "The day I was born she'd already been running this place for more than fifty years. I have no idea what she was like before that." She grimaced. "Chuck would know."

"I doubt he'd want to talk about it," Martin said. "When was the last time either of them came to the hearthroom after dinner?"

"Oh, it hasn't been that long. It was just..." She realized she couldn't remember, and fell silent.

He said nothing more.

-He changed subjects on you pretty smoothly.

Hi, Grandpere. Yeah, he did. I don't know if I want to return to the previous one.

-You should.

Hm. Okay.

"So tell me about the pursuit of justice in a stateless society," she said. "How's it supposed to work?"

Martin chuckled without humor. "I was hoping you'd forget about that for a few years."

"Not a chance." She rose from his side, doffed her garments, doused the lights, and returned to bed. He welcomed her back into his arms, and she laid her cheek against his chest. "So? Come on, spill it."

There was a long moment of silence. She found herself growing tense.

Grandpere, why doesn't he want to tell me?