Serpent's Reach by C. J. Cherryh Read Free Book Online Page A

Del Hald, who heaved his own bulk about from the table to rebuke his grandnephew.
    Meth-marens and Raids: that hate was old and deep, and lately aggravated. Pol’s act was that of a clown, a mime, pricking at Family pomposities, more actor than the azi-performers. The poised hand flourished a retraction, buried itself beneath a folded arm. Sorry , the lips shaped, elaborate mockery.
    Tel a Ruil was hard-breathing, face flushed. Ren-barant calmed him too, a slight touch, a warning. Tand Hald and Pol’s cousin Morn both looked aside, embarrassed and wishing to disassociate themselves. Eron scanned the lot of them, smiled in his best manner, leaned back. Tel a Ruil relaxed with a similar effort. The small knot of oldest Houses at the end of the table was a skittish group, apt to bolt; those faces did not relax.
    Eron relaxed entirely, and kept smiling, all cordiality. “We’ve begun a smooth transition. That has its difficulties, to be sere, but the advantages of keeping to a quiet schedule are obvious. There is the absolute necessity of keeping a calm face toward the betas and toward the Outside. You understand that. You understand what benefits there are for all of us. We have energies that are only grief to us, so long as we’re pent within these outmoded limits. Those talents can be of service. Is there any debate on agenda issues?
    “Are we agreed without it, then?”
    Heads nodded, even those at the end of the table.
    “Why don’t we,” Eron suggested then, “move on into the bar, and handle this in a more…informal atmosphere. Take your drinks with you if you like. We’ll talk there…about issues.”
    There was a relieved muttering, ready agreement. The air held a slightly easier feeling, and chairs went back, men and women moving out in twos and threes, talking in low voices—avoiding the majat Warrior, whose head rotated slightly, betraying life.
    Eron cast an urgent scowl at Del Hald, and a grimmer one at Pol and his two companions, who tarried in the seats against the wall, no more anxious to quit the room than their elders. Ros Hald and his several daughters delayed too, the whole clutch of Halds banded for defense.
    But Del wilted under Eron’s steady gaze, turned to Pol as he rose and caught at Pol’s arm. Pal evaded his hand, cast his great-uncle a mocking look…son of a third niece to Del and Ros, was Pol: orphan from early years, Del’s fosterling, and willing enough to put Del in command of Hald—but Del could not control him, had never controlled him. Pol was an irritant the Family bore and generally laughed at, for his irritation was to the Halds as often as any…and others enjoyed that.
    Pol rose, with his cousins.
    “The essence of humour,” said Eron coldly, “is subtlety.”
    “Why, then, you are very serious, cousin.” And seizing young Tand by the arm, Pol left for the bar, self-pleased, laughing. Morn followed in their wake, his grim face once turned back to Eron with no pleasure at all.
    Eron expelled a short breath and looked on Del. The eldest Hald’s lips were set in a thin line. “He’s a hazard,” Eron said “Someone has to make sure of him. He can do us hurt.”
    “He should go somewhere,” Yls said softly to Del, “where be can find full occupation for his humour. Meron, perhaps. Wouldn’t that satisfy him?”
    “He goes,” the Hald said in a thin voice. “Morn goes with him. I understand you.”
    “A temporary matter,” Eron said, and clapped his hand to the Hald’s shoulder, pressed it as they walked toward the bar, Ros and his daughters trailing them. “My affection for the fellow. You understand. I don’t want trouble right now. We can’t afford it. Older heads have to manage this.”
    And when matters were more settled, Eron thought, Pal might come to some distant and inconspicuous end. Pol’s wit was not all turned to humour…a child of the last great purge, Pol a Ren hant Hald, and participant in a more recent one, when Meth-marens had done