Adam-Troy Castro - The Third Claw of God

Before Jelaine left so I could shower I insisted on being shown to my satchel, which had been segregated in a separate closet as if out of fear that the grubby detritus of my pre-Bettelhine life might somehow contaminate the finery of my existence among the exalted.

I’d forgo the usual severe black suit and dress like the locals this one time, but I’d be damned if I was going to go anywhere without my spare Dip Corps insignia unless I was the one who decided that it was no longer a part of my life.

After the shower, which was steaming and luxurious and scented and wet and everything that the dry pulsed sonics I was used to at home were not, came the nightmare of picking out something to wear. I was accustomed to donning variations of the same black suit every day to remove the necessity of that choice from my daily life. But Jelaine had advised me that this would be off-putting on a family occasion, so I let her pick an appropriate outfit out of all the others that now belonged to me: a ridiculous, asymmetrical, but important-looking thing with flared shoulders, one bared arm and one padded wrist-length sleeve. I considered myself lucky that the same strategy hadn’t been applied to the pants, which were so loose-fitting that they brushed my legs as I wanted, but at least covered both to an equal length. The entire getup had golden buttons that didn’t fasten to anything and false pockets that didn’t seem intended to carry anything. Don’t get me started on the shoes. I’ve never understood why any woman would subject herself to the discomfort of elevated heels unless she was ashamed of her height or being tortured for state secrets, but Jelaine assured me that the pair she’d picked out for me went with everything else and I acquiesed out of sheer sensory overload.

The skimmer flight to Main Estate at about eight hundred kilometers away, a thirty-minute trip, was another issue. I’ve never liked heights or planets in general all that much, but Jelaine kept pointing out landmarks of interest along the way, from the snowy mountain range she identified as Xana’s tallest and most treacherous to the verdant rain forest that took over as the land became a vast plain only twenty seconds of flight time away. She pointed out half a dozen smaller estates, some of them perched in improbable places that seemed unforgivably harsh choices for a family whose members got to decide what they saw when they looked out their windows every morning; there was, for instance, a desert about as topographically interesting as a bootprint occupied by some addled Bettelhine who insisted on subjecting himself and his fifty retainers to life in canvas tents. Still, I began to see what Jelaine meant when she said that I could claim an estate in any ecosystem I desired. I found myself wondering whether Xana had an orbital wheelworld or undersea facility, thinking that I’d take corridors and canned air if it could be all mine.

Two minutes from the end of the flight, over a region of green hills dotted here and there with white patches from a recent snowfall, we started seeing small groups of houses, which Jelaine identified as the homes of workers assigned to Main Estate but not senior enough to live on the grounds. She cut our speed and lowered our altitude to just above the treetop level as we drew closer, so she could point out more areas of interest: a hill taller than most that she identified as camouflaged servants’ quarters, gardens, a personal zoo, and stables for horses of not only the terrestrial variety but, she said, several alien and engineered variants from the gigantic to the winged. I spotted one lumbering gray creature, with a nose like some kind of serpent, wandering around sans human supervision. We were well past it and within sight of the mansion itself before it occurred to me that I had just seen my first elephant.

Now, that’s just showing off. And it was. That’s exactly what it was. That’s exactly what Jelaine was doing.

And it was working too. From time to time I found myself beaming. I even laughed once or twice at jokes she made. I think I may have made one of my own, though that was a genuine stretch and any laughter coming from her might have been politeness on her part.

It didn’t matter.

What mattered was how I felt.

I belonged here.

I won’t describe my first sight of the mansion itself, with its ten wings and its hundreds of windows and the two rows of towering spear-shaped trees providing a sort of arboreal honor guard for any visitor intent on approaching the colossal front doors on foot. It was a castle, pure and simple, and every brick in the entire edifice was a tribute to the magnificence of any who dwelled within. Nor will I describe the bowing and scraping of the dozens of servants who had come out to greet us—I actually do mean us, as their awe was directed not just at Jelaine but at me as well, the most discomfiting of the sensations this day had shown me yet—as we approached those doors and they drew open to reveal a marbled hall that disgorged three tiny figures I recognized as Hans, Philip, and Jason Bettelhine, all three grinning at us as if we’d been missing and presumed dead for years.

Hans strode forward, ahead of the two brothers, and bowed as he grasped my hand in both of his. “Andrea. This is a historic moment. Your first visit to the great house.”

“A big house, anyway.”

He chuckled at that. “I was warned about your brutal honesty. I must confess that I’ve been looking forward to seeing it in action.”

Philip rubbed his jaw. “It’s an acquired taste, Father—Hello, Andrea. I suppose I may call you that now, and not Counselor?”

I wasn’t sure at the moment whether anybody would call me Counselor ever again. “That’s…” What was it? All right? I might have been weakening from the assault of Jelaine Bettelhine’s charm, but did that mean I had to like Philip as well? “That’s fine.”

Hans Bettelhine took the moment’s hesitation as reticence. “I know how overwhelming this has been, Andrea. And I understand that you would have mixed feelings about your lineage, given your vocal sentiments about our family’s history. I can only assure you that I intend to make this a brand-new day, and that I’ll live to hear you tell me that you don’t regret walking through this door with an open mind.” He offered his arm. “Will you sit next to me? I look forward to telling you everything I remember about your mother’s youth.”

Surprising myself, I took him up on it. “All right.”

And that’s how it would have gone, for the rest of the night. In another few minutes I would have been taken to a luxurious dining room and treated to the best meal the best chefs on Xana could provide. I would have been told again how important I was and how loved I could be and all the opportunities that life as a Bettelhine could provide. I would have been tempted and I would have surrendered.

It would have been easy.

Juje help me. I wanted it.

But as the two of us, Hans Bettelhine and his prodigal niece, walked arm-in-arm through the door, following the laughing figures of Jason and his no-longer estranged brother, Philip…as we entered the vast entrance hall with its chandelier larger than some entire apartment blocks I’ve lived in and its tapestries so huge that the historical landscapes depicted there may have been larger than life-size…as the two rows of uniformed servants positioned along both sides of the wall prevented us, their masters, from ever walking more than five paces without assurance that they would always be available to see to our every need…

…as we walked past all that, heading toward another pair of opulent doors, which a pair of white-gloved servants were already opening to reveal a formal dining room with a roaring fireplace at the distant end…