'Why not come and work with me, at Imperial News?' said Toby. 'The rebellion showed how much influence a truly free press can have. The news matters these days, and you could be a part of that.'
'Yes,' said Clarissa, smiling even more widely at him. 'I think I'd like that.'
And then Toby's comm implant chimed imperiously in his ear, and he listened for a long moment, frowning fiercely, before rising abruptly to his feet. 'Sorry, Clarissa, Auntie, but Flynn and I have to go, right now. Word is coming in that Robert Campbell has given up his Captaincy, resigned from the Fleet, and come home to Golgotha to reestablish his Clan. He's due to arrive at the starport here anytime now, and every news station in the city will be there to cover it. I've got a couple of stringers in place to represent us just in case he gets in early, but this is something I really should be covering myself. If anyone can make the Campbells big again, it's a war hero like Robert. Come on, Flynn. Clarissa, I'll call you later.'
'But I've just poured tea!' said Grace.
'Oh, dear,' said Toby. 'What a pity.'
Robert Campbell stood very still in front of the full-length mirror and sighed deeply. He'd forgotten what a pain civilian clothes could be. The tailor fussed around him with a mouthful of pins, tugging here and adjusting there with just a little more familiarity than Robert felt was strictly called for. Of course, a computer could have measured him and run up as many sets of clothes as he wanted, but in Society it was considered essential that such things were done by hand, so as to allow for artistic insight on matters of taste. Fashion was far too important to be left to machines.
So Robert kept his opinions to himself, sighed a lot, and let them get on with it. Things had been very different in the Fleet. One uniform, another for spare, and a dress uniform for special occasions would see you through your entire career. But now he was a civilian and a Campbell again, he'd already been fitted for twelve different outfits, and they hadn't even got to evening wear yet.
'Is all this really necessary?' he appealed plaintively to the servant he'd taken on to advise him in such things.
'It is a matter of fashion, sir,' said the butler, Baxter, entirely unmoved. 'And therefore a matter of utmost necessity. If you wish to be taken seriously as head of your Clan, it is imperative that you look the part.'
'My Clan currently consists of a few dozen cousins and a handful of blood relatives. Barely enough for a decent soccer match, never mind a Clan.'
'All the more important, then, that you look the part, sir. Society will take its cue from you. The more impressive you are, the more they will respect your Clan. Rebuilding your Family will be possible only with the support of the other Clans, and that will happen only if they see you as an equal. Try not to stand quite so stiffly, sir. The clothes need to hang naturally for the best effect.'
Robert did his best to fall out of parade rest. It wasn't easy. None of it was easy. He'd taken pride in being a military man, and had given up his Navy career with only the greatest reluctance, after General Beckett had personally contacted him to make it clear Robert couldn't be loyal to both his Family and the Fleet. He would have to make a choice, a commitment to one or the other. And in the end Robert knew his duty had to be to his Clan and his blood, and centuries of Family tradition. To think otherwise would mean the rest of his Family had died for nothing. So he had resigned from the Fleet and come home to Golgotha to be the Campbell.
And silently cursed his duty and his Clan, all the way down to the planet's surface, where he found a crowd of baying reporters waiting for him. Cameras shot back and forth around him at dizzying speeds, jostling each other for the best angles, and the reporters yelled out questions faster than he could answer them. Clan Campbell had been one of the main movers and shakers in the old Empire, till it was decimated and scattered by Clan Wolfe, and its potential reemergence was apparently big news. Robert had done his best to answer all questions, comments, and insinuations with monosyllabic grunts, all the time pushing steadily forward through the crowd. Partly because he knew how reporters could twist even the most innocent remarks, and partly because he really didn't have anything to say. He was out of touch with current politics and Family intrigues, and didn't want to say anything that might commit him to anything just yet.
He especially didn't want to have to admit that he didn't have a clue as to just how he was going to rebuild Clan Campbell.
At the time he'd thought wistfully of Owen Deathstalker and Hazel d'Ark. Say what you might about them, and there was a lot that could be said, they at least knew how to deal with the press. Some reporters apparently demanded combat pay just to interview them. But those two could get away with things like that. Mere mortals like Robert Campbell, who might yet need the support of the press in the future, had a harder road to follow.
So the first thing he'd done, after he'd shaken off the news pack, had been to contact a service agency and hire the most experienced butler they had on their books. A quiet, unassuming, but surprisingly firm man in his late fifties, Baxter was more than just a butler. He was a personal servant, a gentleman's gentleman, and privy to all the arcane secrets and rituals of aristocratic behavior. Even though he'd been in the Navy boy and man, Robert had still visited enough with his Family to know the basics, but the everyday minutia, by which proper behavior and social standing were judged, mutated faster than any outsider could hope to follow. Which was of course the point. High Society was meant to be elitist, complex, and mysterious. How else could you tell who was in and who was out? Half the fun of being in was turning up your nose at those who weren't. Robert the military man saw the whole business as desperately childish, but he was still enough of an aristocrat to understand how seriously everyone else took it. He was the Campbell now, and he had to play the game. It was expected of him.
The role of the Families might have been altered by the rebellion, but some things never changed.
So he listened patiently while Baxter lectured him on etiquette and style and the correct way of shooting one's cuffs, on the latest dances and the latest gossip, and who might be expected to support or oppose him. If Clan Campbell really was on the way up again, there were a great many people who saw advantages to be gained by striking deals while the Campbell was still weak. There were just as many more who might do anything up to and including assassination attempts to prevent his rise and preserve the status quo. Just by becoming the Campbell, Robert was inheriting centuries of intrigues and feuds, old allies and enemies. In the Families no one forgot or forgave. Unless it was expedient.
Robert closed his eyes for a moment. He was deathly tired. Yesterday he'd been a Captain in the Imperial Fleet, with a glorious career in front of him. Now he'd given it all up, to become something he despised, because of his duty to a Family that had never really wanted him. Someone was going to pay for what he was going through, and it sure as hell wasn't going to be him. He'd play their bloody game, but he'd play it his way, by his rules, and the good God help anyone who got in his way. He realized Baxter had stopped talking, and looked around sharply.
'Sorry, I was just resting my eyes. What is it? Did I miss something?
'I was inquiring about the small portrait to your right, sir,' said Baxter. 'It is the only portrait you brought with you. A most lovely young lady. Is she who I think she is?'
'Yes,' said Robert. 'That's her. That's Letitia.' He stared expressionlessly at the portrait in its silver frame, one of the few personal possessions he'd brought with him. All that was left from the last time the Family had intruded into his life. 'She was very lovely. I suppose everyone knows the story. It was a big enough scandal in its day. I almost married her. An arranged marriage, but I was fond of her. Given time, I might even have loved her. But at our wedding it emerged she was already pregnant, by one of her guards. And Gregor Shreck murdered her rather than let the wedding go ahead and dishonor his Family. I would have saved her, but my Family held me back. I think that was when I learned to hate the Families. All of them.'
'Family honor is… a tricky business, sir. It is often difficult to know what to do for the best.'
'Gregor killed her right in front of me. I would have killed him then if I could. I may still.'
'Then I fear you'll have to stand in line, sir. Gregor Shreck is not the most popular member of Society just now. In fact, I would venture to suggest that genital warts are probably more popular than he is.'
Robert had to laugh. 'Good to see some things never change. And I suppose a Society that hates Gregor Shreck can't be all bad. He can wait. Rebuilding the Clan has to come first. That is why I came home.'
'Indeed, sir. And if I may be so bold, I am sure there are many young ladies of good standing who would be only too happy to make a contract with a rising young gentleman and war hero such as yourself, sir.'
'No,' said Robert sharply. 'No more arranged marriages.'
'Pardon me, sir, I quite understand your feelings in this matter, but if you are to lead your Clan, it will be necessary for you to marry at some point, to produce heirs to carry on your line.'
