Free Dead of Light by Chaz Brenchley Page B

more than one cousin’s curiosity.
    Benedict came , they’d be saying to each other over the sandwiches after. Didn’t you know? No, I didn’t see him, no one did. Not to talk to. Came late, slipped away early. Like a coward , they’d be saying, no doubt, like a thief. Which was more or less what I was, in their eyes: frightened of my rightful place in the world order, and consequently thief of the family honour.
    Ordinarily, I could live with that. But Laura was with me today and I didn’t want to score so poorly under her gaze, too scared to talk to my own relatives at a cousin’s funeral.
    Still, there wasn’t an option, actually. Which was how I liked it, cowardice made compulsory.
    â€œI’m not taking Laura into that,” I said, jerking my head towards a tight circle, Macallans all in orbit around Uncle James and his anger, his dead son.
    They’d both understand that, I thought, though they would understand different things by it. She’d think I meant only the raw emotional aura of a family in turmoil and distress; he’d know how much more I actually meant, how frightened I’d be for her in that company.
    â€œNo,” he said. “It’s all right, I’ll look after Laura. Go on, shouldn’t take you a minute.” They’re not going to want to talk.
    Laura nodded. “Go. We’ll be fine,” looking at Jamie with puzzlement and interest, mixed with sympathy. Her fingers would still be tingling, I guessed.
    And now there truly wasn’t an option. I nodded, turned away and left her; walked alone into the dangerous circle of my family, as dangerous to me, perhaps, as it would have been to her; found my sister there, of course, and my parents, and Uncle James swollen up by grief and anger, where most self-important men would have been reduced.
    And, important to us all, I found Uncle Allan there also.
    o0o
    Allan Macallan, head of the clan, didn’t seem so much at first sight. Line up the three brothers, my grandfather’s sons, and the eldest looked far the least of them. He was the shortest by some inches, and easily the lightest; where Uncle James was heavy with purpose and good living, where my father Charles was heavy with beer and inaction, Uncle Allan was lean as a whip. The family features, the nose and the hands looked utterly misplaced on such a small man. He resembled a steeplechase jockey more than a godfather.
    But the nightfire burned in his eyes even in daylight, when they were none of them strong. It wasn’t only birthright that held the family obedient under him, that gave such weight to his will. He might carry it modestly, but Uncle Allan had more talent to give away than Uncle James would ever possess. Talent was power; we Macallans always listened to talent, and the town listened to us, from long experience of the consequences of not listening. Which gave Uncle Allan more power locally than he wanted or knew what to do with.
    Luckily, he was wise as well as talented. I remembered Marty grumbling often when we were kids, grumbling in his father’s voice, saying that Allan used his power far more against his own family than in their support; and privately I always thought that was how it should be. Intellectual and constantly questioning, it was the theory of talent that fascinated him far more than its practice. The only time I’d ever seen him in his true light was once when he had to come down hard to contain one of his brother’s cruder schemes — a beacon Allan had been that night in his anger, his skin blazing; trees had died that night simply for his standing beside them — and thank God for someone who could do that, who could give the town at least a little protection. With no curbs at all, Uncle James’ greed backed by the strength and simple unconcern of my younger cousins could have built a tyrannical hell out of what was in any case an oligarchy of blood.
    Shuffling my way