Turner 3

Untitled as yet

By Mark Eller

Prelude



“The straps need to be tighter.”

“But the sores are worse,” Mu Lei protested. “You need to relax the restraints until you have time to heal.

Helmet Klein’s scowl was all the answer she needed. He was a man of pride. He had come to accept his worthless body, but he would not allow himself to look the fool. Arms and legs that flopped loose or fell free were signs begging for pity. A man who was pitied was a man who would soon lose control.

“You need to take care of your body,” Samuel Aybarra reprimanded. “It won’t last forever.”

“It won’t last three years,” Klein snapped. “Enough of this foolishness from both of you. I am under a deadline. I need to know what you’ve accomplished.”

Mu Lei rubbed his neck gently. It was one sign of caring he could still feel, and she was the only person allowed to give it to him. Such was her privilege as the Emperor’s wife. Her position was onerous, but it was one she accepted gladly. Being the wife of Helmet Klein was more honor than she had expected to have in this life. She did regret their lack of children, but some honors were worth any price.

“He has not answered,” she said gently. “He never answers. Are you sure of this love between you.”

“He loves me,” her husband answered shortly. “He is also afraid of me. Aaron is smart enough to know that if I want to see him it’s because I have a use for him.”

“So he won’t answer and he won’t come,” Aybarra supplied.

Mu Lei smiled gratefully. This strange black man was a late addition from her husband’s birth world, but he was a welcome and loyal one. Years past she had thought Helmet lost to them until Aybarra walked into their camp with Helmet’s newly paralyzed body held in his arms. Since that day Aybarra had been Helmet’s Head of Security and her friend.

“He will come,” Klein said resolutely. “We just have to work it another way. The invitation has to come from somebody else, and it has to come in a way that works on his conscience. I know the man well enough to play him. I didn’t want to do this, but his stubbornness has forced it on me.”

Mu Lei dug her fingers into the muscles of his neck. She sometimes found it amazing how tight those muscles became. There were days when Klein groaned as she worked the knots. Helmet Klein was her husband and the Savior of her people. She did not pity him, but she did know compassion. She prayed the day would soon arrive when he could lay down his burdens and allow himself to die. When that day came, she would gladly join him in his grave after the tour of display. An eternity with him in death would be sweeter than a day of life without him.

“He will resent it,” she said thoughtfully. “He will fight you once he discovers what you have done.”

Helmet’s face twisted into a grimace and then settled back into its habitual lines of command. “I don’t care what he resents or how hard he fights,” he said firmly. “Once I get my hooks in him he won’t get away. I know him well enough for that. I know him well enough to twist him in any direction I desire.”

“So you don’t want me to write him again?” Aybarra stated.

“No. Writing him is a waste of time. I have other letters I want you to write. There are people we need to contact. It will take time and planning, but I will draw him in.”

“How?” Aybarra asked.

“A ruse,” Klein answered. “I will do something that involves half the world. He won’t escape me this time.”

Mu Lei shifted her fingers to his scalp, not liking what she heard. Aybarra’s eyes were wary as he worked at fastening Klein’s arms and legs to the throne.

“Tighter,” Klein ordered. “Pull them until the flesh bulges. I won‘t look the fool on my throne. Make them bleed if you have to.”









Chapter One



“Ware below!”

Aaron moved with practiced speed as he threw his body against the dirty bricks of the three-story building. He was barely in time. The slops landed less than four feet from his toes. The noxious mixture rose in a circular wave of liquid brown that flung itself at his dancing feet. Some of it found its unerring way to the tip of his left shoe.

Zisst hissed protest at the sudden interruption of his nap. He lifted his head sleepily from Aaron’s arm and looked around. Assured there was no reason for alarm, he lay his head back down.

Aaron looked up to the closing window and wasted a silent curse on the now absent woman. Her actions were strictly illegal here in Londanary, the same as they were illegal in most of the civilized world. Unfortunately and universally, laws did a poor job regulating the pure disgust people felt after they lived with their own waste for half a week or more while they waited on the sporadic return of the waste wagon. Here, as everywhere else, the availability of public services did more to regulate the flow of life than the actual laws set in place.

He rose on his toes and stepped gingerly past the splattered leavings. Once clear, he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and did a little hop as he carefully used it to clean his shoe with one hand while he tried not to upset the hold he had on Zisst with the other. Finished, his lip curled with disgust as he dropped the handkerchief to the walkway and continued on his journey. The handkerchief would not be missed. He had several in his pocket; his years of city living had taught him the advisability of always carrying half a dozen at all times. That, he promised himself, was one habit he would soon be able to break. From this day forward he was done with the complexities and the complications and the politics of big city living.

A brown and gold cab caught his eye. The driver looked bored and abstracted. She leaned back in her seat, one leg propped up on the mud guard in front of her while her eyes lazily watched the breeze stir leaves on a tree a hundred feet or so down the road. Her air of nonchalant ennui was enough to make Aaron doubt she waited for a regular fare. He nodded with satisfaction and headed in her direction. A lifted hand and a gesture caught the woman’s attention as he drew near.

She lowered her comfortably propped foot and cocked one brow. “Where to, buddy?”

“Galesword.”

Disbelieving amusement ran across her features. “Mister, that’s a thirty mile drive. It’ll take me the rest of the day to get there, and then I won’t be able to start back until tomorrow. You’re talking a longish trip. I’d have to charge you for both directions.”

Her half smile, half frown, told Aaron she was not sure if she wanted to deal with this. Her gaze flicked hopefully up and then down the street in a vain attempt to see a different fare heading her way. Aaron gave her his most winning smile and held out eight full silvers. “This should cover the cost.”

It had better cover the cost. The silvers were worth four months wages for her and five of her friends. The pay he offered was extravagant, but he was anxious to see his new home and business. He was even more anxious to get away from the stress and demands of N’Ark, to get away from the manipulation of politicians and the demands of lawyers. Even more, he needed to escape the importunities of the acolytes of the One God who seemed to think he bore a sign of divine favor. Strangely enough, he also ran from all the headaches associated with having a truckload of unwanted money. Most of all, he wanted to get away from Miss Amanda Bivins and her constant desire to take over the legal world, not to mention her desire to ruin and discredit a few Old Money dynasties she still held personal grudges against.

Gods, the woman was so driven by ambition and spite that she barely had time for a personal life. That was okay by Aaron because it was her life to run. To his way of thinking, problems did not occur until her wants and concerns ran Aaron’s life as well as her own.

He smiled at the thought of how his life would soon change. Lord and Lady, it would be good to live simply again. Maybe Amanda was right. Maybe he was running away. Frankly, he did not care. He was willing to run from something he wanted no part of. He wanted peace of mind and satisfaction and contentment. He looked for a surcease of grasping hands and demands for answers and time. He wanted a life free of users and takers, a life free from the manipulations of corrupt politicians--and by the Gods, he would find it.

He would find it here. N’Ark and Isabella were an ocean away. Jutland was a new land offering new opportunities and thousands of people. It was a land where the name Aaron Turner was virtually unknown. True, a part of him did not regret the notoriety he had garnered in Isabella. He could not have avoided being known in that growing land, not with the fortune Miss Bivins had built for him, and certainly not with over one hundred and ninety Turner Houses bearing his name. He did not resent being rich, and he certainly did not resent the orphanages he had built, but he did resent the pressures and the politics those things forced on him. He resented living a life where he never knew which of his friends were truly friends, and which only wanted access to his money. In all of N’Ark there were only a few people he actually trusted. Even those friendships were things of old memories or shared duties. He only saw Faith and Armand Crowley on rare occasions. Their elevation in IFBIS meant they had little spare time for him. Felicity’s time was too filled with her building psychology practice and her research into the workings of the mind. Celine’s duties as Overseer of the Houses kept her mostly out of N’Ark, and Joliet Random was too involved in absolutely everything when she was not busy swatting one of her brats on the behind. They all had lives to live, lives which mostly left Aaron Turner behind.

Well those times were done. He was finished with it all. Miss Bivins would see to his interests and make sure the Houses were properly financed. She was a bright and opportunistic woman who knew better than to play loose with her responsibilities. The years she had spent shepherding Aaron’s finances changed her from a bright but poor new graduate fresh from law school into a major power in N’Ark, and a not so minor one in the politics of Isabella. The others would take care of themselves. Aaron could get on with his life without worry.

The cabby’s eyes grew large at the sight of the coins and then they returned to their normal size. All signs of hesitation disappeared. “All right mister,” she said. “You got yourself a deal. Do we need to pick up your luggage?”

“No, everything I need has already been shipped ahead. However, if there’s something you need to get for yourself, we can stop for it. I’m not in that much of a hurry.”

She smiled with relief. “Glad to hear it. My husband would worry something fierce if I didn’t come home for a couple days and him not knowing why. If he thought I left him permanent and neglected to take the kids, he’d probably kill himself. What do I call you?”

“Turner,” Aaron replied.

“Like in those kids homes I read about in Isabella?”

Aaron sighed. “Yeah, just like them. Would you please try to remember that Turner is a fairly common name?”

She laughed gaily. “Been getting a lot of confusion on that, have ya? Well I know at least half a dozen Turners myself, and they have had a bit of trouble because of them Turner Houses. Of course, none of them are from overseas the way ya are. I suppose what with ya being foreign ya must be mistaken for that other fellow more often.”

“Do my origins show that badly?”

“With your accent? Mr. Turner, it’s plain to me that ya ain’t no native of Jutland. I’m not too sure where ya are a native from, and that is strange because I can generally place people--but I’m sure ya never came from here nor even Normandy. Now why don’t ya climb in and we can get this trip started once I drive around and let the Mister know I ain’t abandoning him with the kids.” She shook her head sadly. “Had one wife do that to him already. I’ll tell ya, them kids came close to killing him before he married me. Took me some little time to set them right too.”

“I suppose it isn’t easy raising somebody else’s kids.”

She snorted. “Easy or not, I have to tell ya it’s a joy. When them kids don’t make me sit up to take notice, they make me smile, they do. It’s a joy they are to my life. Well hang on. We’re out of here.” She shook her reins. “Yah.”

She drove them to a small but neatly decorated home. Aaron waited on the cab’s seat while she went inside to explain things to her husband. A half hour passed before she gathered a bag full of clean clothing and divested herself from her clinging husband, a somewhat beleaguered looking man who begged her to please hurry back. The six children, ranging in age from four to twelve, gave her a brief hug and eyed their father with speculative eyes. Aaron started to feel guilty for taking the man’s wife away for a few days, but he quickly brushed that aside. Those days of unreasoning guilt were behind him. His conversations with Felicity had done that much and more for him. This man’s problems with his children were of his own making. A little time alone with them might do something to help straighten the situation out.

The journey to Galesword took less time that Aaron had anticipated. Jutland was an old land, far more settled than Isabella, and so it was a land with better roads and shorter distances between towns and villages. The cab driver, one Mistress Halbain, stopped at two stations to change her pair of horses. She was a careful driver who made sure to never let them get tired. She had a habit of stopping them in the middle of long uphill grades. She would set the brake and wait for five or ten minutes so they could gain some rest before they had to finish the difficult climb. Beyond that, she gave them a ten minute break every hour, and she made sure they were always well watered. Aaron approved of the care she took with her animals. He further approved of her frequently changing teams. It showed she cared. Her new teams were rentals, and she never approached him for money, so he knew she paid for them out of her own pocket.

She spoke to him halfway through the day.

“What?” he asked. His mind had wondered over past events. It was a habit he had fallen into of late. He tended to become melancholy and reflective, and when he did, his focus became so tight the rest of the world disappeared from around him.

“I said are you married? Do ya have any wives or children?” The cab started drifting to the right. She clucked her tongue and flipped a rein. “Always seems to be one lazy one in every team. One of these days I‘ll get a matched set that gets along and works together.”

“One wife and three kids,” he said as the cab slid back into place. “I haven’t seen any of them in a few years.” That was another set of memories taking up too much of his time. Five years back, Jorrin had grown frail and weak and started suffering from a persistent cough that sometimes bloodied his lips. Doc Gunther had saved his life, but he was unable to restore more than a third of Jorrin’s lung capacity. Jorrin’s lungs were too damaged from his years of leaning over a forge for him to continue his duties at the bearing factory. His poor health forced him to retire. Kit sold the Manor and the small factory, and then she took off for parts unknown. Aaron had not heard from her since. He did not even know if she and the kids were still alive.

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

Aaron accepted her words. She sounded sorry--she sounded ‘I wish I had not asked that particular question’ sorry. Like most other people, she had a life and troubles of her own. She had very little time to worry about his problems.

“It’s no big deal,” Aaron said with a lying smile. “The marriage was for convenience. I do miss the kids, though. It would have been nice to have seen them grow up.”

Kit had wanted him to know the kids too, but she had also wanted the children to grow up with what she considered a normal life. Kit had become frightened that Aaron’s notoriety and troubles would start to reflect back on the children. She had written that she thought it best if she moved into the newly opened Clan lands where she could raise them as regular children instead of pampered pets. She was gone, and the children were gone with her, and he had no idea where they were. They were not forgotten though. She had the ability to contact him if she had need. He had seen to that. He had left his forwarding address in several places where she might look. Besides, she had her Talent for finding. He did not know where she was, but she would always know in exactly which direction she had to travel to find him.

Dinner was at a small café just past the halfway mark toward his destination. He took Mistress Halbain’s suggestion and ordered spiced sausages in a hard roll. The sausage was good, but it was too spiced for his liking, so he washed his meal down with hot chocolate, the first of that beverage he had seen in several years. He gave a quarter of the sausage to Zisst and the old fellow ate it down without a hint of discomfort. Aaron wasn’t surprised. As best Aaron could tell, Zisst was capable of eating anything. He was more than willing to bet the mutable beast could survive on rocks and air if nothing else was available.

The waitress hovered over him constantly, asking him if there was anything else he needed, making sure any crumbs he dropped were instantly swept away. She wore no wedding ring on her finger, so her intentions were clear. Aaron would have been flattered if she had not also treated another gentleman in a similar manner. Like so many others, she was an aging woman in a man poor world who desperately wanted to find herself a husband. He ignored her as best he could. When he paid the bill he left her a large tip. The attention had been nice. Maybe the larger tip had been all she really wanted.

Right.

They arrived in Galesword late in the afternoon. Aaron immediately fell into like with the place. The city streets were well maintained. The houses were close built, neat and tidy. More that anything, they looked like the pictures of gingerbread houses that had been in the picture books his mother read to him too many decades earlier. The sight brought forth feelings of nostalgia and filled him with warmth. Yes, this was a place where he could set down roots. It was a city, but it was a small city. This was a city where people could live in a lazy and civilized manner. It was a place of warmth and good feeling. He felt Galesword’s comfortable pace humming in his bones.

Aaron smiled as he saw people who actually worked in their yards. Many called out greetings and gave him a friendly wave. There was no denying it. He really did like this place. It seemed open and warm and welcoming. Most of all, it seemed uncomplicated. At the moment he was really interested in uncomplicated.

Galesword was large compared to Last Chance, the home of his heart. It was seven or eight times larger than Last Chance was presently, perhaps fifteen times bigger than Last Chance had been when he lived in it. Large by those standards, but small when compared to N‘Ark, the city seemed to be settled and gentle in its nature. Galesword had the appearance of having existed forever. With the centuries of history Jutland boasted of, the city could very well have been here almost forever. If so, its years had been peaceful ones. He saw no sign of city walls beyond the long rows of hand-built stone fences bordering many of the age-old homes. He supposed it possible those stones had once belonged to defensive walls. If so, that had been many years in the past. Perhaps centuries.

He found himself smiling as they drove down the main street. He loved the pace he saw. Living here would be a refreshing change from the hectic rush that was N’Ark. Here, he would be only one person with an unknown history. He would make sure he appeared comfortable but not unrealistically wealthy. In most ways he would be seen as quite normal. He wanted it that way.

Making friends was important. He was tired of being lonely. He was tired of deals and schemes, tired of promoters and big business. He did not possess a temperament that dealt easily with such matters. His track record proved that. Almost every time he stepped in and tried to make his wishes into reality, he lost either money or prestige. His only real successes were his bearing factories, and most of the credit for those went to the people he had chosen to head them. He had put little time or energy into them once a factory started producing.

He supposed his troubles were mostly his own stubborn fault. Lawyers, Miss Bivins had constantly reminded him, were trained to deal with lawyers. Non-lawyers were prey. He was a non-lawyer. He was, perhaps, a businessman by nature, but his nature was happiest running small business instead of a large international conglomerate.

“Where we stopping, Mr. Turner?” The near horse snorted and tossed its head irritably. Its mate, named Betty if Aaron recalled properly, gave its own snort and snapped at its partner. It missed.

“Ho there,” Mistress Halbain soothed. She did something with the reins that settled them down. “The thing is, sir, I can’t take ya to a place where ya ain’t yet told me to go.”

“The address is Sixteen Bakerfield. Do you know where it is?”

“Not yet I don’t. Never been here before.” She reined the horses in. “Hey there,” she called to a woman arranging flowers in her front yard. “Can you tell me where Bakersfield is?”

The woman looked up. Dirt smudged her tanned left cheek. “I suppose I could. Go up about ten or a dozen streets and you’ll find it. Has a stop sign on the corner.”

“Thanks.”

Bakerfield bisected the city. Sixteen Bakerfield, his new home, was so close to the center of everything that it made no difference. Because of its location and appearance, the place was obviously one of the oldest buildings in town. It was cultured and stately and so huge that it could have passed as two combined inns and a diner. Aaron instantly fell in hate with it.

Damn

He had hoped his new home would be one of the quaint gingerbread affairs. Sixteen Bakerfield was huge. It was two stories tall and appeared to have several separate wings. It sat on an entire block of well manicured lawn right smack dab in the middle of town. Aaron stared at the thing with disbelief. His eyes threatened to roll out of his head. The place was huge. It was gigantic.

It screamed of money.

Slow anger churned. If he could have pointed at a picture and said I want nothing like this, he would have picked the house in front of him.

Miss Bivins was in one hell of a lot of trouble. She knew he wanted obscurity. She knew he wanted simplicity and a lack of strife and the ability to blend in. Most of all, she knew he damn well wanted to be left alone. How in hell would he accomplish those goals while ensconced within the walls of that abortion of a house? Whichever one of her associates Miss Bivins had assigned to buying his new home had screwed up very badly.

“Whoo boy,” Mistress Halbain said when she stopped the cab in front of the main gate. “I knew you had money from the way you paid me. I never suspected you had this much.” The eyes she turned on him were filled with distant respect and careful wariness. The beginnings of the camaraderie they had shared almost instantly faded away. Conspicuous wealth had its costs.

Grumbling under his breath about women and lawyers, Aaron gave her am angry glare as he got out of the cab. He immediately felt guilty for his surliness, so he gave her an extra tip for the ride and her company. She took the money and thanked him politely. Her voice was warm, but her manner remained distant and he knew that he had lost a potential friend.

Damn the woman. He and Amanda were going to have a talk. They were going to have a very long talk.

It took him only a few moments to unload his luggage onto the walkway beside the cab. Once that task was complete, he walked past the cab and the horses to reach the front gate. The curbside horse eyed him suspiciously and tried to take a quick bite from his shoulder. Halbain’s jerk on the reins pulled its head away, but her intervention was not needed. Aaron was always prepared for horses. He did not trust any horse that still lived.

Mistress Halbain gave him a wave and clucked the horses along when he reached the gate.

It was locked. He gave it an extra shake to make sure it was latched closed by more than the visible rust, and then he rang the bell that hung on a cord.

He waited.

He rang the bell again and frowned when his ring was answered by silence.

He sat Zisst on the ground and waited a long while before he rang the bell a third time.







Chapter 2



The woman who finally appeared was at least an ill preserved seventy. Aaron bet she was a decade or two older than that. Her features were buried in carefully tended wrinkles surrounded by snow white hair. She wore an impeccable light blue uniform that would have looked sharp on someone even ten years younger. Her eyes were dull and rummy. Small collections of dried pus gathered at their corners.

“Can I help you sir?” Her voice sounded thin and whispery.

“You can,” Aaron replied. “I am Mr. Turner. Let me in please.”

She peered at him suspiciously. Her eyes had once been blue but were now a clouded gray. “How do I know you are the Mister? Any man I don’t know could claim to be he. No sir, you are too young to be the Mister.”

Aaron grunted. He was close to thirty six years old but he looked to be in his mid twenties. One particular unanticipated aspect of his Talent Stone was that it slowed the deteriorating effects of time. He seemed to be aging about one tenth as quickly as he should. For the last couple years people constantly asked him to prove who he was because his looks contradicted his actual age.

Sighing, he pulled out his wallet and passed it through the bars. She took it with a shaking hand and opened it up. She was more than nosy. She shuffled through every one of his papers, peering this way and that at the writing on every page. Her hands shook so badly the papers rattled in her grasp. Despite the meticulous care of her observation, Aaron doubted she could read a single word. The cataracts filming her eyes were more than enough proof of that.

She stuffed the papers back into his wallet as best she could and handed the crumpled ill-defined mess back. Her fingers fumbled at the gate’s inside latch for almost a full minute before it clicked.

Squeeeee

Aaron winced. It figured. His ears were finally getting some rest from the squeaking of wagon wheels, so now he had to listen to badly oiled gates instead.

“Welcome to Hapsburg Manor, sir. I am Mistress Willowby. Would you like me to show you your new home, or would you prefer I remain here so I may continue guarding the gate?”

Aaron spent a moment contemplating just how long it would take him to get anywhere if he were forced to follow her. “Mistress Willowby, I would prefer that you remain here. If you get a free moment you could perhaps see to oiling the noisy hinges.”

She looked perplexed. “The hinges are as smooth and quiet as ever, sir. I haven’t heard a rumble from them in years. The house is this way.” She started down the only path leading from the gate.

“Excuse me.”

She continued her slow hobble.

“EXCUSE ME!”

She paused and turned around to face him.

“Sir?”

“I have luggage out on the walkway. I need to bring it in.”

She nodded her understanding. “I will attend to that sir.” She started hobbling back toward him. Aaron’s mind instantly filled with visions of the old woman suffering a stroke or a heart attack while she struggled with his belongings. He could not allow that, so he waved for her to remain still and brought his own luggage onto the property of his new home. Mistress Willowby remained exactly where she stopped, humming quietly while Zisst sniffed the ground at her feet.

When Aaron finished, the luggage was piled on the side of the Manor’s walkway on the inside of the gate. The Manor was set some small distance back onto the property, so he would not try to carry it all himself. Since the place was huge, and because he seemed to have an employee who did nothing except watch the gate, Aaron figured it would be safe to assume he had other servants somewhere on the premises. One of them could carry his belongings up to the house.

“We can go now?”

“Whatever the Sir desires.”

She turned back and shuffled off again. Fifteen feet later she stopped when she reached a padded leather chair. A permanently placed umbrella stood guard over it. “I will let you go your own way now, sir. The house is right down this lane.” Aaron watched as she settled down into the well worn chair. If asked, he would have sworn he heard her bones sigh with relief as her posterior nestled into its familiar place on the leather.

An old man rounded the corner of the house as Aaron drew near. If anything, the man appeared older than Mistress Willowby. He also looked in much better condition than the old woman. He stepped lively while he pushed a mower before him. He let out a small bark of a laugh, released the mower’s handles, and walked confidently forward when he saw Aaron. The odor of sweat and freshly cut grass reached Aaron before the man did. When the man finally arrived, Aaron saw that he possessed bright and lively eyes, full of interest and questions.

“You would be Mr. Turner, sir?”

“I would be, yes.”

“Please step inside, sir. I will prepare the staff. This should not take long since we have been expecting you for the last several days.”

The foyer led into a Great Room that was impressive for its rundown antiquity. Everything in the room looked ancient. From the cracked paintings on the walls to the worn carpets and the leaning furniture, the place stank of moldy age. Even the paint on the baseboards was yellow and cracked. Aaron made a silent vow that he would not spend a great deal of time hanging around this room. He had a difficult enough time fighting off his incipient bouts of depression. Surroundings like these he did not need.

Once gathered, the staff appeared both young and sprightly--but only if they were compared to the room surrounding them. The youngest had to be at least sixty five. The oldest appeared to be over ninety. The gardener took charge of introductions.

“First in line is Miss Adams and Miss Bentley. They are your cooks. The next four people are your maids. They are all Buntson’s, married to myself this past year. Beyond them is Mr. Hodkins, your butler, and Miss Lavine who handles the household accounts and does our outside purchasing. Miss Cartridge is our Major. She coordinates out duties and answers all correspondence that does not require the Mister’s attention. She will also arrange your social invitations and plan the parties you decide to hold here at Hapsburg Manor. I am, of course, Mr. Buntson, your gardener and maintenance man.”

Aaron looked at the group with disbelief as they stood before him with their eyes lowered in humble dignity. Of them all, Mr. Buntson and Miss Cartridge were the only two who seemed to have any pretense of good health. The others appeared stiff and slow. Some apparently suffered from constant tremors. These people were in horrible shape. It was amazing they had all managed to make it to the Great Room to great him without dying from a stroke.

He would really have to speak with Miss Bivins. A cottage, he remembered telling her. I want a cottage I can care for myself. I want a place where I will be alone, a place where I can learn to live peacefully again. I want something with a little land, a lot of privacy, and not too many neighbors. A nearby fishing stream would be nice, or maybe a lake.

He could not live here. He was already ruined in Galesword. After it was known he had bought this place no one would believe he was nothing more than a small businessman. He would be treated with reverence and suspicion, and he would always be three steps outside the fringes of the crowd. He would never fit in.

So--he would give Miss Bivins a few months to find him someplace else. Meanwhile, he would relax and catch up on reading a few books. This was a big world with poor communications. There were plenty of places he could live in peaceful obscurity. Amanda, or one of her people, had screwed up, but that did not mean they would not get it right the next time.

Buntson cleared his throat nervously and Aaron realized he had been staring at the group for some time. They expected something from him, but he was damned if he knew what that something was. It wasn’t as if he was used to having servants. Other than hiring a cleaning lady every once in a while, Aaron’s apartment in N’Ark was strictly a place where he lived alone.

He gave them his habitual half smile and gestured pointlessly with one hand. “Very well. Is there anything I should immediately know about the house?” He gave the Great Room a slow look. “Are any ceilings likely to cave in?”

Miss Cartridge took a step forward. “Sir, we have located your rooms in the west wing. The servants normally live on the second floor, but we moved into the lower south wing a few years ago because one or two of us have difficulty traversing the stairs. I am afraid that the upper floor is not as pristine as it should be. Also, there is a visitor for you. Miss Tremont has waited for your arrival for the last several days. She has shown up at first light these last mornings, and she refuses to leave until just before dusk.”

Aaron looked pointedly around. “Where exactly is this persistent Miss Tremont?” Great, the supplicants had started gathering before he had even arrived. He definitely would not stay here now. He would not put himself in a situation where he had to constantly deal with cons wanting to play him for a fool.

“She is in the lesser den, sir. If you care to follow me?”

Aaron did not care to follow her, but he was too polite to say so. He wanted to go to his still unseen rooms so he could lie down and wallow in his own self pity. He had held such high hopes for Galesword. It had been so peaceful and picturesque that he had allowed his guard down for a short while. Just went to show that life, or Miss Amanda Bivins, had it in for him.

He held out Zisst. “This is Zisst. See that he is put in my rooms?”

“Of course sir.” She eyed Zisst doubtfully. Aaron did not blame her. The parti-colored animal was like nothing Aaron had ever seen before, or since. Then again, he had no way to know if he had met any of Zisst's relatives since Zisst was in a constant state of metamorphosis. There had been no telling what the beast would look like from one day to the next when Zisst was younger. Even now the old fellow changed his configuration somewhat at least once a month.

Resignedly, because he was many things but seldom deliberately rude, Aaron followed Miss Cartridge through the left hand door of the Great Room, down a short hallway, second door on the right. Miss Cartridge opened the door. “The Mister,” she announced.

Miss Tremont was not the supplicant Aaron expected. She was not one more octogenarian in this house of the aged. She was not a young woman, or even a middle-aged woman. She was, in fact, a child of nine or ten who sat very primly on the visitor’s chair provided for her, hands folded neatly in her lap, eyes closed. Her head tilted back and small snores issued from her elfin mouth. Miss Cartridge made a grunting noise that startled and woke the child. She jerked herself erect and pulled hurriedly to her feet as her eyes found Aaron. Those folded hands pulled apart and brushed at her dress, smoothing down invisible folds and wrinkles. She bit the lower lip on a face that was suddenly serious and very frightened.

Aaron watched her nervousness for a moment before he walked around the large walnut desk taking up most of the room. He sat in the chair behind the desk, the only seat except for the one Miss Tremont had recently vacated. A pile of dusty correspondence paper sat at his right hand. He picked up one sheet, crumbled it, and launched it at an empty wastebasket in the corner. The wadded paper sailed gently through the air, touched against the wall, and struck against the rim of the wastebasket. It hovered indecisively for a moment and fell outward to hit the floor.

He had missed.

Miss Tremont looked shocked. She smiled nervously and brushed at her too perfectly combed hair. The tip of her tongue peeked forth as it wetted dry lips.

Aaron wadded up another sheet and tossed it. This one struck the rim and bounced away. He shook his head sadly and looked at her with forlorn puppy dog eyes.

Miss Tremont giggled.

Aaron frowned mock sadly. “I suppose you could do better?” he asked in an exaggerated clownish voice.

She shook her head. “Oh no sir, I could never.”

“Prove it.” He wadded up a third piece of paper and tossed it to her. “I refuse to hold a discussion until you put one of those in the basket ten times. If you get all ten in before I do you will get a full copper. Oh--you may go now, Miss Cartridge.”

“Yes Sir.”

The girl might be unsure and nervous. She was not slow when it came to money. She leaped to his desk and then there was a sudden flurry of flying paper. Aaron lost count of who made what. He arbitrarily declared her the winner because he found it difficult to creatively miss the basket time after time. He had to stop before she caught onto his ploy. Her face flushed with excitement when he handed her the coin. Aaron liked this face much better than the one she had shown before. He hated being around children overstuffed with their own dignity or too impressed with his position.

“Now,” he said after he helped her clean up their mess, sat her back down, and propped his feet up on a desk that belonged to him until he found a new buyer for this place, “I hear you’ve been waiting to see me for a long time.”

“Every day for the past week and more,” she said, her voice thin with worry. Aaron grimaced. The effects of his little game had been very short lived, so whatever bothered the young Miss must be extremely important to her. “I was here almost every hour except for going home to get lunch and make supper for me Mum.”

Aaron gave her an encouraging nod and wished she were not here. The last thing he needed was to become involved in somebody’s life when he would be gone in a week.

“I assume there’s a reason you’ve been waiting for me.” he said, hating the forced formality of his words and tone. The girl‘s lost waif eyes made him nervous. “I’m sure you had no clue you would win a copper because you can throw crumpled paper better than me.”

“Yes sir.” Her face grew even more serious. It was an unpleasant expression to see on a child so young. “I came to beg you not to fire me Mum. I know she was late for work Sunday before last, but she really didn’t mean to be. It was just that my stomach hurt terribly bad the entire night before and she had the most difficult time getting the doctor to come so he could make me stop hurting.”

Aaron slowly closed his eyes in silent pain and opened them again. He did not like the implications of this at all.

“Why,” he asked carefully, “would I want to fire your Mum? I’ve never fired a person because they had sick kids in my entire life. I would never think of such a thing.”

“But Mr. Grebfax says you will fire everybody if they miss any more work or take short days. Mum always looks so tired when she comes home, and she never gets enough sleep cause it’s way after dark and there’s still so much work to do. She has these big black circles under her eyes, and she bumps into things and sometimes she hurts herself. She told me the factory is going to kill her if this keeps on.”

A cold feeling ran through Aaron. A blanket of impending doom settled over his shoulders. He sat quiet for several moments while her liquid eyes pierced him. He watched tears well up and start to spill, and he wished he were anywhere but here.

“What factory?” he finally asked.

“Your factory sir. The one making the runabouts.” She appeared confused by his question, though not half so confused or torn as he was.

“The runabouts,” he heard himself say absently. What the hell was a runabout? What was he doing with a factory? Miss Bivins had promised him a gentleman’s clothing store, for the God’s sake, not a factory. Maybe this snit of a girl had the wrong person. Maybe the factory belonged to some other poor sap. It was possible she had been sitting on the wrong doorstep for the past several days.

“Yes sir,” the young Miss Tremont said with a quaver in her voice. “Mum said they started building them last month after the name on the sign was changed to Turner Fabrication. She says things were bad before, but now they have become worse, and she doesn‘t know what she is going to do if she gets fired because there are not many jobs where a person can make enough to feed themselves and a daughter too.”

Miss Bivins would pay. She would pay big. Take a woman to bed one time--one time--and suddenly she thinks she can run your life more than she had before. Anger boiled his blood. What made her think she knew what he needed better than he did? She had her life to run so she had damned well better leave him to run his own affairs.

It wasn’t as if he had not told her exactly what he wanted. A quiet life in a nice quaint community where he could run a simple gentleman’s clothing store. Was that too much to ask? Was it really?

“Sir?”

Aaron jolted back to attention. Miss Tremont looked at him worriedly. She nervously twiddled her fingers and her cheeks were damp. Aaron cursed his callousness. Now was not the time to wail about his own troubles. He was an adult and well suited to dealing with these matters. Miss Tremont was a young girl who worried about her mother and her home and herself. She needed reassuring.

“Could you do me a favor, Miss Tremont? Could you not mention this conversation to your mother? I want to see the factory without anyone knowing you spoke to me. Is that okay? Could you do that for me?”

“Yes sir.” Doubtfully.

“Thank you. Miss Tremont, things will get better for your mother. If she loses this job I will see to it that she gets another, and it won’t be a job where she worries about getting fired because her child is sick.”

He rose from his chair and went over to her. Placing his hands on her shoulders, he looked straight into her eyes in an attempt to be as reassuring and believable as possible. “I promise. All I ask in return is that you don’t let anyone know you came to see me. Not yet.”

Large eyes in a face starting to relax its strained lines looked at him. “Yes sir. Thank you sir.”

“Oh, and Miss Tremont.”

“Sir?”

“What is your first name?”
“Julia,” she answered, eyes filled with fearful hope and longing. “You can call me Julia.”



The wing his servants assigned him was considerably different from the rest of the house. For one thing, it was newer. The east wing consisted of a master bedroom, two smaller bedrooms, a den, a library, and a large sitting room. The walls were freshly painted in colors he liked. The pictures were copies of Bouveit, Hallen, and McNivit, artists he had shown a preference for in the past. The carpets were new, as was the furniture, and praise the Lord and His Lady, the chairs had actual usable cushions on them. He had a skinny butt that demanded a certain amount of cushioning.

The library, he found, was well stocked. The older books had obviously been here for some time, but the newer ones included his favorite authors as well as several writers he had never encountered before. He opened one of those unknowns, one picked at random, and read a long passage. The author was succinct and knowledgeable. He spiced his writings with humorous observation on the topic of ancient cultures.

Disgusted, Aaron threw the book across the room. There was no doubt about it. He had most definitely been set up. His mind had played with the notion that everything could have been a horrible mistake. Wires could have been crossed. Messages could have been scrambled. Miss Bivins could have claimed unknowing innocence of this entire debacle--until the moment he saw this wing. Everything had been chosen with him in mind.

Damn her! The woman thought she could run his life.

He checked the drawers and closets. All the possessions he had shipped overseas during the past months were here--except for his wardrobe. His new clothes were better cut and of a much higher quality. He had three racks of ties. He had not worn a tie more than half a dozen times in his life.

A piece of paper was pinned to the front tie. He fumbled it free, dropped it and watched as it fluttered to the floor. With a feeling of foreboding he bent over to pick it up. Yep. Exactly what he expected. The paper showed him the exact steps needed to properly tie a tie.

Aaron growled her name.

So! He did not have to do what she wanted. He could be back in N’Ark in a moment. Hell, he could be in her bedroom in moments.

He did not need her or her hirelings. It would take longer and be more inconvenient, but he could go back to N’Ark and grab some money. He could search out his own place to settle down. Galesword would be history by tomorrow evening. Hell, it could be history even before then. It wasn’t as if there was anything here that he could not easily replace.

He threw the note into the closet and slammed the door shut. Frowning, he glared at the bed and at drapes that were in a style he liked. He was out of here. He would pull a Kit on the good Miss Amanda Bivins by leaving no forwarding address.

“Please don’t fire me Mum.”

Large liquid eyes staring at him.

“Shut up.” Aaron tried to brush the absent girl from his mind.

They spoke Jut in Scotsdale. He could go there. True, their accent was atrocious, barely understandable, but he would learn to comprehend them in time. Scotsdale was supposed to be an interesting place. They raised lots of sheep. It was the sheep raising capital of the world. On the other hand, he hated sheep. Then again, where else would he have such a great opportunity to make live sheep into dead mutton? He could learn the intricacies of how to sort and card wool.

“Mum always looks so tired.”

“Damn you girl. Shut up!”

A bell rang by the entrance to his rooms. That would be Mr. Hodkins waiting for him. He went to the door and swung it open. Mr. Hodkins stooped before him, panting. Aaron waited an interminable moment before the man managed to speak.

“Sir, there is some small argument taking place among the staff. I think your input could resolve matters.”

The voice was thin and wavering. Aaron decided he had been grievously wrong. There was no way Mr. Hodkins was ninety years old. The man had to be pushing a hundred.

“And the problem is?”

“It is a matter having to do with your luggage, sir. Several of the servants are in disagreement as to whose duty it is to bring your discarded luggage into the Manor.”

Right. Of course they argued. With the exception of the gardener, it was likely none of them could carry a single piece of the luggage, let alone all of it. Mr. Buntson had probably gone back outside, once again tending the grounds.

“Tell them I will see to my own luggage.”

“Very good sir. And when will the sir want to dine?”

“When will it be ready?”

“It would be ready now sir,” Hodkins said. “The House always dines at six o’clock sharp. We have kept your meal warm for you this last half hour.”

Aaron felt himself blush and had no idea why. It wasn’t as if they had told him the food was ready. Besides, the last he noticed, they worked for him, not the other way around.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I’ll be down in a bit.” Okay, so logic did not always work. He still felt warm.

Hodkins did not move.

“Perhaps I should escort you. You have not been to the main dinning room before.”

“Of course. Why don’t you lead the way?”

“And the animal?”

Right, Aaron supposed Zisst would not be terribly welcome at the main table. Besides, the fellow was getting on in years. He enjoyed a good nap more than he did a new exploration. Zisst had definitely reached his dignified years.

“Zisst will remain here. I want a small amount of meat and some vegetables brought up for him. Now, how about that leading the way thing.”

Hodkins nodded slowly. “I shall do so, Sir.”

Aaron used will power to beat his face back into a semblance of normalcy. He used even more will power to keep from stepping on Mr. Hodkins’s heels, the man moved so slowly. Aaron could have taken a step outside, gone for a leisurely stroll around the house, and been back before Hodkins made it halfway down the hallway. Finally, after five or six eternities, they made it to the dining room.

The dinning room was long and narrow. The single table held seating for at least thirty people. Aaron stopped and took a good long look at that table. The thing was solid maple, and it was impressive in its size. He took a count of himself and everyone sitting at the table. He took another count and then had a moment of deja vu. He had done a similar thing when he bought a table for his new addition in Last Chance.

Like then, and like all the other times he had counted himself, he arrived at the same number. One. He would be the only person sitting at that monstrosity.

Welcome to your discomfort zone, he told himself.

Surprisingly, the meal was quite good. The beef had been well grained; the vegetables were entirely fresh. Aaron would have found the meal more enjoyable if Hodkins and Cartridge had not hovered over his right and left shoulders.

He lost his patience after Hodkins spent two minutes arranging six green beans on his plate.

“I can serve myself.” The glare he gave Hodkins should have withered the man’s few remaining hairs. Hodkins never deigned to notice.

“No sir, you cannot serve yourself,” Miss Cartridge replied firmly. “We have been given strict instructions that you are to be trained for polite society. Miss Bivins was very firm on that point when she visited.

Miss Bivins. Damn her and damn her again. He would not be trapped here by that woman’s manipulation. He would leave. He would leave and find a place where he could remake himself right after he got a good night’s sleep, right after he made a very pointed visit to one Miss Amanda Bivins.

“She says the factory is going to kill her.”

He shook his head, trying to get Julia Tremont’s voice out of it. The shaking did no good. Her pleading eyes kept interfering with his meal.

“We will starve if Mum gets fired.”

Enough food was on this table to feed six people. Most of it would go to waste.

Maybe he could take one morning to look at that factory. What difference would one morning make? He had given Miss Tremont his promise, and a promise was something very important to the young. If there was a problem he could spend a week or two taking care of it. He had a good deal of money and money had a habit of smoothing away many of the worst difficulties.

He forked one of the green beans and put it in his mouth. The thing really was very good. They had a way of seasoning or cooking in Jutland that was different from what he was used to. He tasted butter and light garlic, and there were bits of bacon in among the beans.

He lifted his fluted wineglass and took a sip of the amber liquid within. He smiled. Say what you will, Jutland’s wine was far better than what he had been drinking. This stuff even put his favorite Runeburg White to shame. He took another sip, changed his mind, and turned the sip into a gulp.

It really was good.

Maybe he would stay for a few days anyway. One or two. A week at the most.

“Thank you Sir.”

It wouldn’t hurt to take a short look at things. What could happen with just a look?