in the twenty-fifth—or even the twenty-second, when it had been built. Oh, the yellow and black tiles, laid in squares on the floor were probably dimatough, rather than marble. And the high vaulted ceiling overhead was probably poured dimatough rather than plaster, the same way that the massive chandelier hanging from the middle of it was probably transparent ceramite rather than crystal, but it was the sort of home that a well-to-do Englishman of the eighteenth century would have recognized.
Only even I had trouble recognizing my retainers. Not that they had changed. The two women hugging each other and looking at me as though I were holding burners to their heads were, I was fairly sure, the housekeeper and the second floor manager. The man with his mouth wide open and the sort of look like he expected me to pull out a weapon and mow him down, was the chef. Behind him, holding a rolling pin as a defensive weapon, was our baker. Other people in various positions of defense or incredulity were known to me as household personnel. The lanky blond man against the wall, turned pale as milk, with most of his fist crammed in his mouth was a total unknown, but—from his grey pants and shapeless grey tunic—was a secretary or clerk.
In the middle of all this, Samuel Remy looked odd by looking perfectly normal and perfectly calm. “Sir,” he said. “Welcome home. It is a relief to find you are alive and able to assume your place.”
“What if he isn’t?” the chef said.
“What?” Samuel asked, wheeling around on him.
“What if it isn’t him? They do wonderful things with surgery, you know? I wouldn’t put it past—”
Samuel inhaled, noisily, and I thought he was going to scream, but when he spoke, his voice was perfectly composed. “What test would satisfy you? I recognize Patrician Lucius, but if you don’t . . . I understand he’s much changed. So, what test would satisfy you? Would it be proven he’s himself if he can open the genlocks? As we know all males in the line have close enough DNA to do it.”
There were scattered nods of agreement, though the blond man by the wall scrabbled with his feet at the floor and managed to get yet more of his fist into his mouth, which didn’t stop something much like a shriek from escaping.
Samuel Remy looked at me, and I saw he was trying to phrase this as a polite request. I decided to make it easier for him. “I don’t mind, Sam,” I said. I’d never called him Sam, but my father had, and it seemed like I should. “Will my father’s office do? Is it locked?”
“Yes, sir.”
I turned to the third hallway on the left, figuring this was part of convincing them I was really myself, and walked down it. This floor was mostly service areas, offices, administrative rooms and public areas: the ball rooms, the dining room that got used only for official receptions and, at the far left, my father’s offices and those of the people who worked closest to him.
Walking down the high, ceilinged hallway, I felt my throat close. The holos on the walls were those my father had favored. For all I know those holos had been the ones that had hung on those walls since my first ancestor had taken possession of the house. They displayed peaceful meadows and the occasional flight of birds.
They should have soothed and comforted me. They should have. But they didn’t. Instead, I felt that this had all been a mistake, or perhaps a trap. My father had arranged for me to be given a doctored gem reader. I would walk up to his office and the door would open, and he’d emerge. And behind him would be guards, ready to drag me back to the lonely, antiseptic confines of Never-Never.
I don’t know if any of it showed, but I know I was holding myself steady and normal-seeming with all my will power. I suspect my step acquired a mechanical, artificial rhythm as I led the small throng of servants along the hallway, past various doors, to the last one. It was closed. Which meant, I
Only even I had trouble recognizing my retainers. Not that they had changed. The two women hugging each other and looking at me as though I were holding burners to their heads were, I was fairly sure, the housekeeper and the second floor manager. The man with his mouth wide open and the sort of look like he expected me to pull out a weapon and mow him down, was the chef. Behind him, holding a rolling pin as a defensive weapon, was our baker. Other people in various positions of defense or incredulity were known to me as household personnel. The lanky blond man against the wall, turned pale as milk, with most of his fist crammed in his mouth was a total unknown, but—from his grey pants and shapeless grey tunic—was a secretary or clerk.
In the middle of all this, Samuel Remy looked odd by looking perfectly normal and perfectly calm. “Sir,” he said. “Welcome home. It is a relief to find you are alive and able to assume your place.”
“What if he isn’t?” the chef said.
“What?” Samuel asked, wheeling around on him.
“What if it isn’t him? They do wonderful things with surgery, you know? I wouldn’t put it past—”
Samuel inhaled, noisily, and I thought he was going to scream, but when he spoke, his voice was perfectly composed. “What test would satisfy you? I recognize Patrician Lucius, but if you don’t . . . I understand he’s much changed. So, what test would satisfy you? Would it be proven he’s himself if he can open the genlocks? As we know all males in the line have close enough DNA to do it.”
There were scattered nods of agreement, though the blond man by the wall scrabbled with his feet at the floor and managed to get yet more of his fist into his mouth, which didn’t stop something much like a shriek from escaping.
Samuel Remy looked at me, and I saw he was trying to phrase this as a polite request. I decided to make it easier for him. “I don’t mind, Sam,” I said. I’d never called him Sam, but my father had, and it seemed like I should. “Will my father’s office do? Is it locked?”
“Yes, sir.”
I turned to the third hallway on the left, figuring this was part of convincing them I was really myself, and walked down it. This floor was mostly service areas, offices, administrative rooms and public areas: the ball rooms, the dining room that got used only for official receptions and, at the far left, my father’s offices and those of the people who worked closest to him.
Walking down the high, ceilinged hallway, I felt my throat close. The holos on the walls were those my father had favored. For all I know those holos had been the ones that had hung on those walls since my first ancestor had taken possession of the house. They displayed peaceful meadows and the occasional flight of birds.
They should have soothed and comforted me. They should have. But they didn’t. Instead, I felt that this had all been a mistake, or perhaps a trap. My father had arranged for me to be given a doctored gem reader. I would walk up to his office and the door would open, and he’d emerge. And behind him would be guards, ready to drag me back to the lonely, antiseptic confines of Never-Never.
I don’t know if any of it showed, but I know I was holding myself steady and normal-seeming with all my will power. I suspect my step acquired a mechanical, artificial rhythm as I led the small throng of servants along the hallway, past various doors, to the last one. It was closed. Which meant, I
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