Dark Space - Marianne de Pierres [41]
‘It is most serious, Baronessa,’ said Seb swinging his legs up to rest on a pearl table.
‘On what charge do you propose to detain her? What has she done?’ Faja stood, hands clasped as if one restrained the other.
Trin shifted in his chair, wishing he was somewhere else. Was it possible that Faja Fedor knew nothing of Franco’s declaration? Had word not filtered through to her of his intention?
‘It is what she has not done. She has been ordered to surrender her Inborn Talent to the Principe. Instead she has chosen to evade his direct request. Your sorella is a runaway, Faja Fedor,’ said Seb.
Faja unclasped her hands and curled them into two fists. Her voice trembled. ‘You would steal her genetic right? How is that possible?’
‘The Principe has technology that can make it so.’ Malocchi was enjoying himself.
‘Then that would be the crime, signor. Should I see my sister, I would praise her for fleeing from such a transgression of justice.’
Seb Malocchi leaped to his feet in a lightning movement. ‘What would a woman know to speak of justice, Baronessa? Should I inform the Principe that you contest his judgement?’
Trinder saw Faja teeter on the brink of a dangerous retort—one that might see her arrested. The Carabinere provoked her with a practised tongue.
Instinctively he intervened on the woman’s behalf. ‘Have you seen or heard from Mira Fedor, Baronessa? That is all we would know from you.’
Faja sagged back down onto her chair, visibly fatigued. ‘My pardon, Don Pellegrini. I am shocked, as you can see. The answer to your question is no, I have not seen or heard from mia sorella.’
Trin stared at Seb Malocchi. ‘I am satisfied with this.’ He glanced to the corridor. ‘Where is Vespa?’
Seb sat down again and reached for the plate of biscuits. ‘Searching the villa, Pellegrini. Join him if you like. I am sure Baronessa Fedor will entertain me.’
* * * *
Trin escaped from the parlour into a cool, dark corridor that ran the length of the villa. But it did not deliver him from his discomfort. Fedor ancestors gazed down upon him with as much accusation in their faces as Faja. In the wavering pixel of each Pilot First’s depiction he recognised the same thin, strained appearance that Mira had inherited.
Of the women, though, he saw only the traditional robust Latino figures and fleshy faces. Mira Fedor truly was a genetic peccadillo. More reason not to have her DNA mingled with mine. What miserable providence has brought me to her home—as if I was complicit in Franco’s plan?
Noise spilled from a partially open door further along the corridor. In what should have been the villa’s formal dining area, two pale-skinned young humanesques played with shuttles, while others sprawled casually on the old-wood table. In one corner a large scaled creature with a birdlike head squatted, chewing rhythmically. They glanced at Trin briefly, but with little interest. Vespa Malocchi had spoken of Faja Fedor’s penchant for taking in aliens and bambini. ‘Ginko lover,’ Vespa had called her. Then he had spat on the floor.
Trin followed the corridor through the villa to the rear coldlock. He let himself out to the portico. He had not the taste for Seb and Vespa Malocchi’s bullying game—the stifling heat was preferable company He would wait there until the Carabinere had finished their dealings.
But the view onto Villa Fedor’s dry-garden disturbed him more: thorn bushes, a flaking-dry algae pit and irregular tufts of dried red Lostol grasses leading to a squat, dust-stained outhouse. Trin craved for the sight of the Menagerie’s controlled environment, its lush vine-growths, mauve faux-trees, and the idiotic purr-cocks that he hunted for sport when he was bored.
Discontentment took hold of him and dark thoughts shadowed the ungovernable brilliance of the day. He left the shade of the portico without sealing his hood. If he perished in the sun, perhaps that would be deliverance of a sort. His mother would weep for him—but she would be