Rosalor Bahlmis stood at the window of the study that had been hers for more than twenty years, gazing out at the sunlit quadrangle of the College that had been her home for almost forty. More home to her than Bahlmis House had ever been, for certain . . . and now they wanted her to leave the one for the other.

The letter lay on the desk behind her, adorned with the Ducal seal. She had been expecting it for some time, of course, ever since the news of her family's failed coup had arrived from the capital. First the rumors (those traveled faster than light, she sometimes thought), then copies of Aquilan newspapers, fact mingled with lurid fabrication, and finally the official announcement with a list of those executed for treason. Cousins. Nephews. Brothers.

Idiots, she thought once more, with a twist of pain and anger. Little affection she'd held for most of them, true enough, but family was family, and the deaths hurt no less for that they'd brought them on themselves. Gone to the scaffold, all of them, and left her as head of the House of Bahlmis.

It was not a position she had ever expected, much less wanted, to fill. As a Bahlmis daughter, of course, she had initially been groomed for an advantageous marriage, but no such alliance had ever materialized. With her strong features, angular frame, and uncomfortably keen intelligence, Rosalor was not the sort of girl who appealed to the average young man of good family. There had been some talk of allowing her to enter the family business, but somehow her acuteness of mind had never extended to the manipulation of numbers, and a trader who could not balance the books was more a liability than an asset. Finally her parents had thrown up their hands and packed Rosalor off to the Women's College, to see if they could make anything of her.

And they had. They had made her a scholar, who had taken a First in Classics; then a Fellow; and finally Professor of Classics and Ancient Literature, with a book-lined study of her own that looked out onto the rose garden and the freedom to pursue knowledge wherever it led her. It was all the domain she had ever needed or wanted. And now it must be left behind.

Rosalor sighed. On the desk along with the letter were various scraps of paper filled with scribbled family trees, but unfortunately her reckoning tallied exactly with that of the Duke's secretaries. She wished, fleetingly, that Aquila were as ruthlessly patrilineal as some of the ancient Earth cultures from which it had sprung; if so, one of her nephews would certainly have received the nod in her place. Talaren, for instance, whose descent was in the male line, though of a branch junior to hers.

Not that Tal would feel any more comfortable with it, she thought with a fond smile. Judging from his letters and what she knew of his life, in his own way he was as independent-minded as she was. Still, he had better be summoned, and truly it would be good to see him in the flesh. Her younger sister's boy, Basil Mederes, should be contacted too . . . and there might be others as well. She would have to search the family records when she arrived at Bahlmis House.

Reluctantly, Rosalor came away from the window and sat down. The moment she did so, Mercurio jumped onto the desk from his perch on the nearest bookshelf and trilled at her inquiringly. She stroked the shanalythe's silky, cream-colored mane with one hand, while the other automatically opened the small drawer where she kept a box of dried fruit for him.

" Here, take one and go back to your perch, love," she told him. "I have letters to
write."

The first of which must be her formal letter of resignation. She had talked matters over with the Provost already, of course, so it wouldn't be unexpected, but she was not looking forward to it. It seemed so . . . final, and made the whole situation all too real. But Rosalor Bahlmis had never been one to shirk her duty. That one first, and then the others, to call her nephews home.

The sun came up over the distant range of mountains. The dawn light seemed to hesitate on the rim and then, like liquid brimming and spillingnonto a bowl, it began to pour down the mountain side, lighting up the mists that hung in shreds and tatters throughout the dark green forests on the mountain sides till they glowed a faint gold between the trees.

The dark waters of the lake received the first touches of the sun impassively, and then - suddenly - it was a shining disc of gold, a coin of immense size and value at the heart of the valley. And then, with equal suddenness, the gold was gone - and the lake was the palest of blues ... an icy cool indifferent blue, an almost impossible shade that spoke of its coldness and its calm ...

A figure came out of the wodden house, half-hidden under the trees. A grizzled old man, dressed in simple, warm clothes - a thick heavy sweater and trews, sturdy boots. He looked down over the long meadow that led to the lake ... as though expecting something.

In the event, it was a sound he head before he saw anything. A long liquid whistle ... sustained on two rich, pure notes. And then, following it, the glad bark of a dog. Two dogs.

The old man smiled, a little grimly, and waited.

Soon his patience was rewarded as a tall figure came into view. Not a giant of a man, but well formed. He wore soft leather trousers and a sheep fleece jerkin. Despite the coldness of the dark, his powerful arms were bared. Two dogs, rather like Welsh springers, frisked at his heels. His hair was dark and straightened by being damp, but the walk from the lake was already drying it into the usual dark curls.

"You've been swimming then," the old man said by way of greeting as the younger approached. "Cold morning for it."

The younger man shrugged.

"After the first three minutes, I never notice," he said. "It'll be a good day for hunting. And the dogs need a run."

"There's a letter come," said the old man. "From that planet of yours."

Lines crinkled around his blue eyes as he smiled. "Not mine, old man. A long way from being mine."

There was a good smell of fresh bread in the house as they entered. It was light and airy inside, being whitewashed and set with long low windows and yet the younger man seemed almost too large for the place, as though outdoors was his natural element ... Nevertheless, he readily drew up a chair to the long wooden table and accepted unquestioningly the older man serving him with coffee, bread and bacon.

He didn't speak while he ate, but he slipped a slim dagger from his belt, sliced open the envelope, and read, with an increasingly darkening brow, the contents.

The old man watched in some concern. Finally he spoke.

"What is it, Master?"

"My aunt," said the other shortly. "Indeed, for what she writes I'd damn near say my only surviving relative. A damnable mess."

"Your family have been killed?" said the old man in horror.

"Many of those on Aquila," responded the other. "They touched the family curse - politics - and were consumed in the resulting conflagration. Damn ... damn ... Damn!"

He slammed his open hand down hard on the table, then rose and went to the door, still open despite the coolness of the morning. He stood for a long minute, looking out at the meadow ... the lake ... the forests and the mountains. All bright now, and shining in the glittering air.

"My aunt ... wishes me to return to Aquila," he said at last.

The old man said nothing.

At last Talaren Bahlmis sighed and turned inwards again.

"Pack bags for us both," he said. "We'll set out tomorrow."

"Mederes-_Bahlmis_. Basil Mederes-Bahlmis." He kept saying it, trying the feel of it in his mouth. It still felt odd; he'd been calling himself a Mederes all his life. Connection to his mother's family had seemed neither appropriate nor a good idea; if you were a Mederes, you were family, you were Inside. But if you were Mederes-Bahlmis, who knew where you stood? Not a recipe for getting promoted.

Now, though...he picked up the letter and read it over again. Being a Hyphen-Bahlmis didn't mean much halfway across space from the Bahlmis, but when things shook up like this, and you suddenly found yourself one of the most senior members of the family... well, then you could be the Mederes
Inside the Bahlmis. Where did you stand then? Liaison. House Representative. With a whole planet as your assigned territory.

Still, for all the opportunity this situation offered, there was a lot of danger too, and he was going in almost blind. Mother had never talked about her old home much, or her family. He might have been able to pull up a few names from her stories, but they were probably all dead now, except for Rosalor. Aunt Rosalor, he corrected himself. Mother had dismissed her as the old maid of the family, with a few disparaging remarks on how boring she was. Basil knew his mother though, knew how little such comments from her meant.

Hell, he didn't even know much about the lossy planet itself. He had history, encyclopedia-style descriptions, and the family trade records, but not much else. He'd been appalled to learn that the Mederes traders didn't even go to Aquila itself; they operated at a one-system remove, sending
and receiving through the Kalkan shuttle.

With that thought, he found his impatience twitching and he left his cramped quarters, moving through the now very familiar corridors of the Mederes Swan, heading for the bridge. As usual, Shakes was the only one there, staring steadily at the banks of instruments. "How long until we get to where I transfer to the shuttle?"

Shakes looked morosely at him (but then, he always looked morose). "Twenty minutes. ETA remains unchanged." Basil tried very hard not to look at the constantly twitching left eye, or the vicious scar along the left temple. Shakes wouldn't talk about them, but Basil had poked around and found out something about a botched implant operation.

"Hmm. Do you know the pilot of this shuttle? What're they like?"

"Met her. Competent enough, bit bored. I don't ask many questions." His expression didn't change, but it seemed reproachful now, and Basil felt himself flushing a bit. He looked over the instruments, though he knew only a minimal amount about what they could tell him. It startled him when Shakes spoke again. "Going to wear that all the way to Aquila?"

Basil looked down at himself. Burgundy silk, black leather and denim. "What? This is my best shirt, and the pants go with them."

Shakes just looked at him for several moments, his eye twitching. "They look like you've been sleeping in them already, especially with that greatcoat."

Basil made a mostly futile effort to straighten up. "Well, I'll probably get a chance to spruce up before I meet with anyone. And what's wrong with the coat?"

"Just looks like you're expecting a storm." Twitching.

Basil stood up very straight. "Well, it's out on a planet, you know. It's not like a station or ship. I'll need protection from the weather. Plus it's got lots of pockets for my notes and such."

Shakes looked at him again. "You packed?"

"Yes, yes...oh. My notes!" He had a sudden flash of his quarters as he'd left them, papers and disks scattered all around. He ran off down the corridor.

Thirty minutes later, he stood on the threshold of the airlock, myriad pockets bulging. "You'll be bringing the Swan to Aquila as soon as the paperwork for the route change goes through, right?"

Shakes twisted his head slightly, his version of a nod. (I've _got_ to track down where that's from, Basil thought.)

Basil took a deep breath. I've taken a new name, it's almost like I've gotten married. And now I'm about to leave the family ship; it feels like I'm stepping into the honeymoon suite. New life, opportunity, here I come. He crossed into the shuttle.

"Well then tell him to try a bit harder, you dundering idiot! If this deal shatters because Cornavon has his thumb up his ass he can forget ~any~ stake in the Hemden-Dnieo merger," he screamed into an open channel. "What kind of miscreants do I have working for me?" he muttered under his breath when the line closed.

He swivelled round in his chair and picked up beeping pad, scrolling swiftly through it until he found the right file. Michael smiled. Excellent. "Jane," he called.

"Yes, Mr Caedelle?" came the instant reply from the wallscreen he'd just turned his back on.

"Can you reschedule my oh-nine-hundred with Mr Rysche for twelve hundred, send him a case of champagne and some flowers for his wife."

"Yes, sir."

Opening another channel, he called Don Porvich. "Hello, there. You seem to be having fun..."

The Porvich pushed the woman that he was interfering with out of the picture and pulled on a bath-robe. "This had better be-"

"Shut up," Michael said efficiently. "Gyleo's planning to sweep your organisation out from under your feet. I suggest you have someone deal with him in the very near future."

The man raised an eyebrow and looked suspiciously at him. "Forgive me, Michael, but the Brilliant Bastard is not known for his generosity... You'll be wanting something in exchange for this information."

"Of course," Michael said with narrowed eyes. "I want shares totalling thirty-six percent of your business to be put into my name in the next twenty-four hours."

"This is an-" The Don thundered.

"Make that thirty-seven percent. Keep arguing if you want me to tell your brother you've been screwing his wife. Twenty-four hours. Oh, and Porvich?"

"What?" the Don snapped.

"Refer to me as the Brilliant Bastard again, and I'll personally demonstrate the meaning of the word 'discomfort'. Goodbye."

He smiled and adjusted his tie as the door swooshed open.

"Mr Ream-Caedelle, your limosine is ready to take you to the press- conference." The man that spoke was roughly six foot six, dressed in a crisp black suit and wore the expression of a man that would brook no foolishness.

"Singular, Tyle. I'm assuming that White is already there?"

"Of course."

"Singular. Truly singular."

End of Chapter 1