There was only her mother left. Helen had been named after her mother. Her father, born and bred in the highlands, had insisted upon that old Gryphonite custom, even though Helen’s mother herself—a sophisticate from the Manticoran capital of Landing—had thought it was grotesque.
Helen was glad for it. More now than ever. She drifted into sleep like a castaway, staying afloat on the image of the Parliamentary Medal of Honor.
Cathy
As soon as Isaac closed the door on the departing figure of Captain Zilwicki, a huge grin spread across his face. “I should be in contact with the individual quite shortly, I think,” he mimicked. “Talk about understatements!”
Cathy snorted and stalked back into the living room. Once there, she planted her hands on her hips and glared at the bookcase against the far wall. It was a magnificent thing, antique both in age and function. Cathy was one of that stubborn breed who were the only reason that the book industry (real books, dammit!) was still in business. But she insisted on having real books, wherever she lived—and lots of them, prominently displayed in a proper bookcase.
That was so partly because, in her own way, the Lady Catherine Montaigne, Countess of the Tor, was also a traditionalist. But mostly it was because Cathy herself found them immensely useful.
“You can come out now,” she growled.
Immediately, the bookcase swung open. Between the piece of furniture’s own huge size and the shallow recess in the wall, there was just enough room for a man.
Not much room, of course. But the reputation of Jeremy X was far larger than his actual size. The vicious terrorist and/or valiant freedom fighter (take your pick) was even shorter than Captain Zilwicki, and had nothing like his breadth of shoulder.
Wearing his own cheerful grin, Jeremy practically bounded into the room. He even did a little somersault coming out of the recess. Then turned, planted his own hands on hips, and exclaimed admiringly: “Tradition!”
Turning back around and rubbing his hands in an utterly theatrical manner, he said: “Never met a Gryphon highlander before. What a splendid folk!”
He gave Cathy a squint that was every bit as theatrical as the hand-rubbing. “You’ve been holding out on me, girl. I know you have—don’t deny it!”
Cathy shook her head ruefully. “Just what the universe didn’t need. Slavering terrorist fiend meets to-the-bloody-death Gryphon feudist. Love at first sight.”
Still grinning, Jeremy hopped into one of the plush armchairs scattered about the large room. “Don’t give me that either, lass. I was watching. Through that marvelous traditional peephole. You were quite taken by the Captain. Don’t deny it—I can tell these things, you know. I think it must be one of the experiments those Mesan charmers tucked into my chromosomes. Trying for clairvoyance or something.”
Cathy studied him. For all Jeremy’s puckish nature, she never allowed herself to forget just how utterly ruthless he could be. The Audubon Ballroom’s feud against Manpower Inc. made the worst Gryphon clan quarrels of legend seem like food fights.
Still, in her own way—dry, so to speak, rather than “wet”—Cathy was just as unyielding. “Dammit, Jeremy, I’ll say it again. If you—”
To her astonishment, Jeremy clapped his hands once and said: “Enough! I agree! You have just won our long-standing argument!”
Cathy’s jaw sagged. Glaring, Jeremy sprang to his feet. “What? Did you really think I took any pleasure in killing all the people I have? Did you now?”
He didn’t wait for a response. “Of course I did! Enjoyed it immensely, in fact. Especially the ones I could show my tongue to before I blew ’em apart. To hell with that business about revenge being a dish best served cold. It’s absolute nonsense, Cathy—take my word for it. I know. Vengeance is hot and sweet and tasty. Don’t ever think it isn’t.”
He grinned up at her impishly. “Ask the good Captain, why don’t you? He’s obviously a man of parts. Wonderful fellow!” Jeremy lowered his voice, trying to imitate Zilwicki’s basso rumble: “ ‘—and I’ll piss on the ashes of those who took her from me.’ ”
He cackled. “T’wasn’t a metaphor, y’know? I dare say he’ll do it.” Jeremy cocked his head at Isaac. “What do you think, comrade?”
Unlike Jeremy, Isaac preferred restraint in his mannerisms and speech. But, for all its modesty, his own smile was no less savage. “Isaac Douglass” was his legal name, but Isaac himself considered it a pseudonym. Isaac X, he was, like Jeremy a member of the Ballroom.
“I’ll bring the combustibles,” he pronounced. “The Captain’s so preoccupied with his daughter’s plight that he’ll probably forget. And wouldn’t that be a terrible thing? To fail of revenge at the very end, just because you forgot to bring the makings for a good fire?”
Isaac’s soft laughter joined Jeremy’s cackle. Staring from one of them to the other, Cathy felt—as she had often before—like a fish stranded out of water. For all the years she had devoted to the struggle against genetic slavery, and for all the closeness of her attachment to the Mesan ex-slaves themselves, she knew she could never see the universe the way they did. There was no condemnation of them in that knowledge. Just a simple recognition that no one born into the lap of privilege and luxury, as she had been, could ever really feel what they felt.
But neither was there any condemnation of herself. Decades earlier, as a young woman newly entered into the Anti-Slavery League, Cathy had been a typical guilt-ridden liberal. Like many such women, she had tried to assuage her guilt by entering a number of torrid affairs with ex-slaves—who, of course, had generally been quite happy to accept the offer.
Jeremy had broken her of that habit. That, and the guilt which lay beneath it. He was already quite famous when she met him, a romantic figure in the lore of the underground. Cathy had practically hurled herself upon him. She had been utterly shocked by his blunt and cold refusal. I am no one’s toy, damn you. Deal with your guilt, don’t inflict it on me. Stupid girl! Of what crimes could you possibly be guilty, at your age?
It was Jeremy who had taught her to think clearly; to separate politics from people; and, most of all, not to confuse justice with revenge or guilt with responsibility. And if Jeremy’sconclusion had been that he would have his justice and enjoy his revenge too—why not? As long as you know the difference—he had enabled her to do otherwise. Unlike most youthful idealists, Cathy had never “grown wiser” with age. She had simply become more patient. Close friends and comrades, she and Jeremy had become over the years, for all their long-standing and often rancorous quarrel over tactics.
Now—
“Stop joking!” she snarled at him. Then, at Isaac: “And you! Quit playing at your stupid butler act!”
Jeremy left off his cackling and plopped himself back in the armchair. Moving more sedately, Isaac did the same.
“I am not joking, Cathy,” Jeremy insisted. “Not in the least.”
Seeing the suspicion and skepticism in her eyes, Jeremy scowled. “Didn’t I teach you anything? Revenge is one thing; justice is another.” He nodded toward the door. “That marvelous officer of yours is about to hand me the instrument for my justice. In the Star Kingdom, at least. D’you think for a minute that I’m such a fool that I’d forgo it for simple revenge?”
She matched his scowl with no difficulty at all. “Yes. Damn you, Jeremy! What else have we been arguing about for the past how many years?”
He shook his head. “You’re mixing apples and oranges. Or, to put it better, retail with wholesale.” He held out his left hand, palm up, and tapped it with his right forefinger. “As long as my comrades and I only had the names of the occasional Manticoran miscreant, now and then, justice was impossible. Even if we’d gotten the bastards hauled into court for violating Manticore’s anti-slavery laws, so what? You know as well as I do what the official stance of the Star Kingdom’s government would be.”