The Serrano Connection (95 page)

Esmay woke in late afternoon to the chill light of an overcast sky—clouds had moved in. Nothing looked right . . . and then she remembered. She was not upstairs, not in her own bed, but in great-grandmother's. Except it was her own now, in a way that the bed upstairs had not been . . . hers not by custom, or assignment, but by tradition and law. Everything was hers now . . . this bed, the embroidered panel on the wall with The eyes of God are always open on it (her great-grandmother had done the needlework herself, as a young girl), the chairs . . . and the walls around them, and the fields around the walls, from the distant marshy seacoast to the mountain forests. Fruit trees, olive trees, nut trees, gardens and ploughland, every flower in the field, every wild creature in the woods. Only the livestock might belong to others—but it was she who would grant grazing rights, or refuse them, which land could be put to plough, and what would be pasture.

She pushed the covers aside, and sat up. Her stepmother—or someone—had laid out more normal clothes. Not anything she'd brought, but new—soft black wool trousers, and a multicolored pullover top. Esmay found the adjoining bath unit, and took a shower, then dressed in the new clothes.

In the hall, Luci was talking quietly to Sanni and Berthold. Sanni looked at her, a long considering look. "You slept well?" she asked. Esmay had the feeling that the question meant more than it said.

"Yes," she said. "And now I'm hungry again."

"A few minutes only," Sanni said, and turned toward the kitchen.

"Welcome home," Berthold said. He looked slightly wary.

"Thank you," Esmay said. She was trying to remember if her new status changed anything but the land titles . . . was she supposed to change the terms of address for Berthold and Sanni, for instance?

Her father came out of the library wing. "Ah—Esmay. I hope you're rested now. I don't know how long you can stay, but there's a great deal to be done."

"Not until after eating," Sanni said, reappearing. "We're ready now." Esmay realized they had been waiting for her.

The meal made clearer than any explanations how her status had changed. She sat at the head of the table, where her great-grandmother had sat on the rare occasions she joined the family at table . . . which deposed Papa Stefan from his position as her representative. She had not imagined he could look so small, hunched over his plate halfway down the table. She ate slowly, watching and listening, trying to feel out the hidden currents of emotion.

Her stepmother and her aunt Sanni, for instance, were eyeing each other like two cats over a plate of fish. In what way were they rivals? Her father and Berthold, though studiously polite, seemed both particularly tense. Of the youngsters, only Luci was at the table—the young ones, she supposed, had been fed informally earlier.

"Have you decided whom to name as your heir?" her stepmother asked. Sanni shot her a look that should have had gray goosefeather fletching, it was so sharp.

"Not now," her father said.

"No," Esmay said. "I haven't—it's all too new. I will need to consider carefully." She would need to look at the family tree; she had no idea who might be eligible. It might even be Luci. That wouldn't be so bad.

"The paperwork starts tomorrow," her father said. "All the judicial red tape."

"How long does that last?" Esmay asked.

He shrugged. "Who knows? It's not something we've done for a long time, and since then some of the laws have changed. It's no longer enough for the family to swear agreement to the whole change; it has to be done piece by piece."

It sounded far worse than Administrative Procedures. If the whole family had to pledge peaceful acquiescence to the change in ownership of each field, each woodland patch . . .

"At least, much of it can be done by proxy, now. My guess is that it will take hours, if not days—and all to do over again when you abdicate." He sounded more tired than resentful; Esmay considered that he had probably taken on most of the family responsibility on her behalf since her great-grandmother died.

"If she abdicates," Papa Stefan put in. "She should stay, marry well, and be the Landbride we need. She's been a hero to the world—she has proved herself—but they cannot need one young hero as badly as we need her here. She could retire now."

Her father gave her a look, and a tiny lift of the shoulders. He knew what her career meant to her, as he knew what his meant to him—but there was much he didn't know, as well, and at the moment, Esmay could almost see the wisdom of leaving Fleet before they forced her out.

"It may not be me that you need, Papa Stefan, but someone who has lived here all along, who knows more—"

"You can learn," he said, his spirits rising as he had someone to argue with. "You were never stupid, just stubborn. And why should you serve the Familias Regnant? We have not even a Seat in their Grand Council. They do not respect us. They will use you up, and discard you at the end, whenever you displease them, or they tire of you."

That was too near the mark; Esmay wondered if some word of her disgrace had leaked through the newsnets. But Berthold jumped in.

"Nonsense, Papa. Young officers of her quality are rarer than diamonds at the seashore. They won't let her go easily. Look what she's already done."

"Finished eating, is what she's done," her stepmother said. "Dessert, anyone?"

Esmay was glad enough to have the subject turned, and accepted a bowl of spiced custard gratefully.

Next morning, the legal formalities began. Her father had brought an entire court to the house: judge, advocates, recording clerks and all. First, although Esmay had openly accepted her heritage in the ceremony, she must now swear that she had done so and sign the Roll, her signature beneath her great-grandmother's, where anyone could compare its slightly awkward simplicity to the lovely old-fashioned elegance of her great-grandmother's writing. But three lines above, someone had signed in awkward childish letters that looked even worse.

Once she was sworn in as heir, the true Landbride, the real work began. Every Landsteward, including Papa Stefan and her father, had to submit an accounting of the management of each division of the Landbride's Gift. Esmay learned things about the family estancia she had never known, because in her great-grandmother's long tenure as Landbride, changes had been made before Esmay was born which had now to be explained. From the trivial (the decision to move the chicken yard from one place to another, to accommodate a covered passage to the laundry) to the major (the sale of almost a third of the cattle lands to finance artillery and ammunition for her father's brigade in the Uprising, and its eventual repurchase), the last 70 years of history were laid out in detail.

Esmay would have stipulated that the accounts were correct, if she could, but the judge would have none of it. "You were away, Sera. You cannot know, and although these are your family, and you are naturally reluctant to consider them capable of the least infidelity or dishonesty, it is my duty to protect both you and the Landbride Gift itself. These accounts must be scrutinized carefully; that is why we brought along the accountants from the Registry."

And how long would that take? She did not want to spend days sitting here watching accountants pore over old records.

"Meanwhile, Sera, as long as a representative of your family is here to answer any questions, we need not detain you."

That was a relief. Esmay escaped, only to be captured by Luci, who had in mind a lengthy discussion of the herd she managed for Esmay. From one accountant to another—but Luci was so eager to explain what she'd been doing, that Esmay did not resist as she was led through the kitchens, out the back of the house, and into the stable offices.

"You hadn't said what direction you wanted to take," Luci said. "So I decided to sell the bottom ten percent at the regional sales, not under your name. Your reproductive rates are above the family average, but not much—"

"I didn't know they could be improved at all . . ."

"Oh yes." Luci looked smug. "I started reading offworld equine reproductive journals—couldn't afford a lot of what they talked about, but I made some changes in management, and everyone smirked at me until the first foal crop. Then they said it was normal statistical variation—but your second foal crop hit the ground this year, and it was a point ahead of last year's."

Esmay had never had any interest in equine reproduction, but she knew natural enthusiasm when she saw it. She had definitely picked the right manager for her herd . . . and maybe more than that.

"What did they say about selling off the bottom end without the family name? They were branded, weren't they?"

"No . . . I decided to defer branding until after the cull period. Papa Stefan was angry with me, but it was your herd, so he couldn't stop me."

"Mmm. And what criteria are you using for culling?"

"Several things." Luci ticked them off on her fingers. "Gestational length—early or late is one cull point. That could be the mare, but there's evidence it may be the foal, too. Time to stand and suck, and vigor of suckling; if they're outside a standard deviation on time to standing, or if they don't have a strong suck, that's another cull point. You already have good performance mares in that herd—but you'll benefit by having additional survival vigor."

Esmay was impressed. "I assume you'll cull mares later?"

"With your permission, yes. And while they're young enough to sell on . . . according to the articles I read, after three foals you should know if length of gestation, foaling problems, foal vigor, and milk production are due to the mare. I can show you the references—"

"No, that's all right. You've done very well. Tell me what you think we should do with this herd."

"Produce exportable genestock," Luci said promptly. "We have the perfect outcross genome for at least five other major horse-breeding worlds. All our horses have been performing—we've culled for soundness, speed, and endurance. I entered a query in one database, to see if anyone knew of, or would be interested in, what we've got, and the response was promising. Here on Altiplano, with the reputation our family has, we can sell live animals, but the export costs are far too high to export anything but genestock . . . so I would concentrate on the most salable genestock."

"Sounds good to me," Esmay said. "When do you think we might see a profit on it?"

Luci looked thoughtful. "Not immediately. Since we usually do live breeding, and have never exported genestock, we'd need an investment in equipment. I put the income from the cull sales into a fund for that, pending your approval."

"Would genestock from the rest of the family holdings, or from Altiplano in general, be salable?"

"I would think so. Possibly even other livestock, like our cattle . . ."

"Then I'll see if it's possible to make an investment from family funds, and then you could rent the facilities."

"Would you really?"

"If it's possible, yes. Why not? It would benefit not only our family, but all Altiplano."

Luci nodded, looking satisfied. She made a notation in one of her books, then gave Esmay a challenging stare. "You look worse than you did when you left," Luci said.

"You have less tact," Esmay said, nettled.

"Was it the fighting?" Luci asked. "They say the Bloodhorde is terrible."

"No." Esmay turned over a leaf in the studbook. "I don't really want to talk about it."

Luci cocked her head. "You weren't this grumpy before, either. You looked horrible for a day or so, then better—and you were helpful to me. Something's wrong."

The girl was persistent as a horsefly, with the same ability to go straight to the blood of it. It crossed Esmay's mind that tactical ability could be shown in more than one way.

"I have had some problems. There's nothing you could do."

"Well, I can wish the best for you." Luci moved restlessly from door to window and back. "If you were my age—" A long pause, which grew uncomfortable.

"What?" Esmay said finally.

"I'd say you were lovesick," Luci said. "You have all the signs."

"Lovesick!"

"That's just the way Elise said it, when she thought no one knew. But they did. Is it lovesickness, or something else?"

"Luci." There was no way to explain. She tried another approach. "There are things I can't tell you about. Fleet things. Sometimes bad things happen."

"Esmay, for pity's sake—I grew up in a military household. I can tell worry about a war from a personal worry, and you needn't try to pretend that's what's going on."

"Well, it is, Persistence. Great-grandmother died; I've had to take on the whole estate; there's a lot to worry about."

Luci turned the conversation back to the horses, and for an hour they spoke only of this line or that, this outcross line or another. They walked up to the house together, still deep in the intricacies of fourth-generation distribution of recessives. At the door Luci said, with the most spurious wide-eyed innocence Esmay had seen, "Are you going to marry and settle down here, cousin, the way Papa Stefan wants?"