In the working passengers' mess, the men had played the newsvid cube of the assassination and aftermath three times already without more than a few muttered cusswords. Then one of them, the oldest, shut off the player.

"So we're too late and somebody got 'im first, so what do we do?" His glance challenged them.

"Git the rest of 'em. If he's dead maybe they won't be watchin' so close. I could take that yellow- haired slut."

"I keep thinkin' about the chillen, Dan . . . by rights, they should be our'n."

"Ben's right," another said. "Somebody stomps the rattler's head, no matter how it thrashes around it's not gonna attack nobody. We don't need to be goin' around killin' people like criminals. But gettin' our chillen back, that's a good thing to do."

"But how're we gonna find 'em? Sposin' they've already been sent to new homes?"

Dan held up his hand. "We don't know that yet. First thing is, we'll look for 'em in a group.

Prob'ly we'll hear, if we keep our ears open. Every port we come to. Now mind-nobody gets drunk, like that idiot on Zenebra-" They all knew about that; a whole shipload had been captured. "No fights, no arguments. We have a mission-a new mission-and that's the rules. Got it?"

"Yessir."

The next day, the Jessy came into Goldwyn Station, and the working passengers debarked after checking off their assignments with the captain. For once, the captain thought, working passengers had actually worked-without complaint-and he added the optional minimal pay chit to their goodbye handshake. Whatever anyone said about fanatics, he always liked to hire the pious brotherhoods, because he could count on them to work hard and keep their fingers off the cargo.

The Goldwyn spacers services section, or S-3, offered a variety of cheap lodging, food, and drink.

This was an all-civilian station, rarely visited by R.S.S. ships, and the diversity of Familias spacefaring cultures showed up in decor and cuisine both. The men followed their noses to something with a familiar smoky-meat odor, and settled at one long table. On one wall, a newsvid showed scenes from some business meeting, but they didn't recognize any of the faces or references. Then a face they did recognize, a blonde woman with short curly hair.

"-Any comments on the outcome of the meeting, Sera Meager-Thornbuckle?" The announcer's accent was hard to follow.

"No . . . you realize our family is still in mourning . . ." The blonde woman's accent was, if possible, worse.

"Yes, Sera, but what do you think of a Conselline as Speaker?"

"Excuse me-" She turned away, and the camera followed, showing her getting into a long dark-maroon car.

"Damn," one of the men said. "It's her!"

"You men are all the same." That was a waitress in red checks and blue denim, slapping menus down in front of them. "Just because she's young and rich and pretty-"

"We'll have chili," Dan said. "All of us-a bowl of chili each, and some crackers." His glance silenced the others, who looked ready to say things they must not say.

"An' some beer?" the waitress asked.

"No . . . not yet, anyway." Not until they'd found out what they wanted, where the women and children were. If they could find them and bring them home-even some of them-they'd be honored among men, maybe even more than if they'd managed to kill the Speaker themselves. That would stop the Rangers of Texas True from saying they were nothing but a bunch of wifeless drifters causing trouble.

"Look-" Ben touched Dan's arm and nodded at the newsvid. There it was again, the picture that had infuriated them all-women and children in the traditional clothes walking down a corridor from a ship's hatch, guarded by battle-armored troops of the Familias Fleet.

Dan had trouble following the accent of the newsvid announcer, but he did understand Baskar Station. Was that where the women were in the picture, or where they were now? He didn't know, but they could always go and find out. Somewhere there'd be a bar, and men talking, and someone would know, if he asked the right questions.

CHAPTER NINE.

CASTLE ROCK, OLD PALACE.

Hobart Conselline ran his hand over the wide gleaming surface of the desk-his desk now, as it had been Bunny Thornbuckle's, and before that Kemtre Altmann's-and felt a glow of satisfaction. His Delphine now had the suite Miranda had occupied, and to him had come every perquisite he had once envied, from the skilled silent staff to the deference of those who had been his peers, and were now his subordinates.

He had worried, when he saw Brun and Buttons both at the Thornbuckle tables, but neither of them had offered to speak. And however they had voted, the count had gone his way. Their own uncle supported him-for a specific reason, but that didn't matter. He would have appointed new ministers for legal affairs and internal affairs anyway; he would have appointed new judges. There were certain legal actions in progress within his own sept which made that prudent. If Harlis benefitted, and assumed it was all for his own benefit, well-that was a cheap profit, and he had never scorned a cheap profit in his life.

He leaned back in the chair and gave himself up to reverie for a few minutes. He was relatively young, and with the aid of repeated rejuvenations he would remain young . . . and powerful. They had seen what happened with a succession of Speakers, generations back, and then what happened when they made leadership hereditary, with the Altmanns. Prosperity had followed prosperity, an upward trend with only minor adjustments. But no one had yet seen what he would show them: the stability and wealth that would come with one leader who would never fade into senility. Year after year, decade after decade, he would be there to serve and protect . . . to guide and lead. .

His desk chimed at him, and he sat up, scowling. That was the future, but now he had to deal with the problems his predecessors had left him.

"Milord, Colonel Bai-Darlin, head of the Special Security Unit, would like a meeting."

"Send him in." He would show them how hard a real leader worked. He would be tireless for the good of the realm, as he had always been tireless for the good of his Family, and his sept. And realistically speaking, given the importance of his sept in the economy of the realm, what was good for the Consellines could not help but be good for the rest-at least most of them.

Bai-Darlin came in with a crisp salute and heel-click that convinced Hobart the man was efficient.

But was he smart? Was he tireless?

"Milord, I thought you might like to be brought up to date on the investigation into the death of Lord Thornbuckle-"

"It was those NewTex terrorists," Hobart said. "I can't imagine why you haven't caught them yet."

"Milord, the preliminary investigations have found no trace of anyone from any of the worlds on which they operate being on Castle Rock since the Rangers were brought to this system for trial."

"Then the investigators are incompetent! What does it take, a bright red stripe painted on someone's head? They threatened to kill the Speaker, and the Speaker was shot. What more do you want?"

Bai-Darlin looked at him in a way that made Hobart feel uncomfortable. "Evidence, for a start."

"You have evidence; Lord Thornbuckle's dead body. The damage done to Ser Mahoney, to the vehicle."

"Yes, milord, but none of that points to the New Texas Godfearing Militia. We have no indication, on travel manifests, on hotel registers, that they were here."

"If they weren't here, they must have hired someone."

"According to our best sources, they do not hire criminals to work for them, and what we know about the types of weapons used does not fit with them either. They like direct confrontation; they would be far more likely to walk up to an intended victim on the street."

"Excuses," Hobart said firmly. "Although, if it wasn't the Militia, I can think of another disruptive element it might be."

"Yes, milord? Anything you could suggest-"

"Ageists," Hobart said. "Lord Thornbuckle was a Rejuvenant, and so was his wife, a multiple." Bai- Darlin's gaze shifted to Hobart's ear. Hobart shook his head. "These are jewelry, Colonel. I support rejuvenation, of course; any sensible man does. And a man in my position must wear his colors, so to speak. I will rejuvenate when I need to, in another ten years or so; I'm quite a bit younger than Lord Thornbuckle was. In the meantime, these rings-" He touched his ear-"These rings reassure the older rejuvenants that I am serious when I support their interests."

"I see, sir. And you think it possible that Ageists assassinated Lord Thornbuckle because he was rejuvenated? Does this mean that you think they will attack you?"

"I don't think it was Ageists-I think it was the NewTex Militia, as I told you. But if I'm wrong about that, I'd look at the Ageists next."

Bai-Darlin did not look convinced. "I was hoping, milord, that you might share some insights into possible elements among the Seated Families . . . perhaps Lord Thornbuckle had aroused a particular animosity there? He seemed a popular Speaker, but there's always someone . . ."

Hobart waved his hand. "Minor resentments perhaps. Certainly there were those who felt he misused Familias resources in going after his daughter the way he did. A number of us thought so, and expressed ourselves at the time. But I'm not aware-and I wouldn't be, necessarily, since I've little to do with the internal workings of Barraclough Sept-of anything serious enough to cause someone to kill him."

"Very good, sir. Thank you, milord, for your time."

"Catch those killers, Colonel, and I'll see you get a medal." Instead of the eager grin Hobart expected, Bai-Darlin gave him a dark, brooding look before turning away. Strange fellow. Perhaps not as efficient as he had seemed.