She found Cecelia almost dressed, and fiddling with the amber necklace she favored. A flounce of ivory lace refused to lie properly beneath it.
"I need to talk to you about the ship," Heris said.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong. . . ."
"So what is it now?"
"Some changes will have to be made." Heris watched Cecelia as she said it. The older woman had looked tired for the last week, and claimed it had nothing to do with the ship. The Minister? Mr. Smith? The Service?
"Such as?" Cecelia's voice was tart. "Oh—I suppose we'll have to have another environmental system, to take care of the extra people?"
"Not really." Heris ignored the tartness, and went on. "You have four crew who have asked for separation. Three want to stay here, and have applied for employment with Lord Thornbuckle's personnel. The other wants to leave at the next major Roads. Then there's a member of your house staff who got pregnant in Hospitality Bay—Bates says he is sure of intent, in this case, because she had pursued even him. And one of your undergardeners—so you see, we won't be overloaded."
"What changes then?"
Heris met the problem head-on. "Weapons," she said. And as Cecelia stared, her mouth opening, she talked on. "You are a very wealthy woman in a very luxurious and capable ship. Remember that you've already been used by smugglers. What if they want their cargo? What if they want the whole ship? What if they want you? The places you like to travel are not exactly the safest corners of the universe. We need proper armament—"
"Now that you have gunners, you have to have guns." So, Cecelia had understood—or found someone to translate—the military specialty codes her new crew members carried. Heris cocked her head; Cecelia could hardly claim to be a philosophical pacifist, not after having shot someone herself.
"What's the matter, milady? Do you think I'll deliberately lead you into danger?" Of course, she had done just that, but it was for a good reason.
"No. I don't know." Cecelia moved restlessly, her long fingers tangled together. "Things have changed. Before, I knew what I was doing—yes, I was just cruising around having fun, but I knew that was it. Now . . . when I think of leaving here and going off to Roledre for the qualifying trials, or on to Kabrice for the finals, it's—it's not that interesting."
Heris smothered a grin. Better than she'd hoped for. "If it's bothering you, milady, I'm sure we can find something to do with this ship."
Cecelia's eyes narrowed. "Something? You mean you still consider me an idle old lady?"
"You said it; I didn't. But think; you are healthy and tough, and yet you had smugglers using your ship. Don't you have friends, equally old and wealthy—"
"Not really," muttered Cecelia. Heris ignored that.
"—who might have worse parasites aboard than even your Captain Olin? There are," Heris said, thinking of it in that moment, "other things to hunt besides foxes, and other mounts besides horses."
"Which prey is beneath the notice of the Regular Fleet?"
"Or too elusive for the less agile. Consider—"
"How many guns, Heris? What size? And do I get to mention cost?"
"No more than we need, no bigger than we need, and I will respect your resources only less than your life." She didn't remind Cecelia about the weapons already purchased.
"As you did at Takomin Roads—no, don't defend yourself; I knew what you were doing and agreed. But from now on, I want to be a member of the hunt staff, not just the owner who pays the fees. You'll have to keep teaching me about my ship, and let me be part of your plans."
"You have earned that, and more," Heris said, and meant it. Cecelia grinned back at her.
"Then let us go down and dazzle the Hunt Dinner, and dance the night away," she said. "And as for the future . . . a hunting we shall go. . . ." And she grabbed Heris's arm and led her down the corridor to the main staircase, where Petris, correct in formal dinner attire, waited below. Heris saw his expression shift from surprise through amusement to admiration as she and Cecelia came down arm in arm, singing. "Tan-tivvy, tan-tivvy, tan-tivvy—a hunting we shall go . . ."
"Ladies, ladies! Such unseemly levity!" But his lips twitched. He offered an arm to each, and cocked an eyebrow at Heris. "You settled it, I gather?"
"She was never a military officer, Petris," Cecelia said with a sweet smile. "She was born to be a pirate. Look at her."
"I'll do more than look," Petris said into Heris's ear. "Later . . ."
But the tumult of the others interrupted whatever Heris might have said. Already the tall rooms rang with many voices, and more and more men and women in their formal best came down the stairs. Bunny, looking as foolish tonight as he had at first, chatted with one group after another. Then he caught sight of Cecelia, and came over without obvious haste.
"So glad you could stay for the Ball," he said, including Petris in the greeting with a nod. "We may have a slight inconvenience. . . ."
"Oh?" Cecelia's brows raised.
"Mr. Smith. He's eluded the Minister's manservant again."
Again? Heris stared; she hadn't realized Mr. Smith had been loose before.
"Declared he wasn't going to be sent home like a naughty schoolboy, in an old lady's yacht with a battleaxe for a captain." Bunny's mouth smiled, as if they discussed the day's run, but his eyes were cold and angry. "As you know the Minister had refused to let me place him under a proper guard . . . but as the Minister does not know, I put a tracer-tag on him. He dashed off to the woods, silly twit. Captain Sigind will bring him in, but I'd like to sedate him and send him up in a shuttle right away, if you don't mind. I can isolate him in the Station sickbay—"
Cecelia's expression hardened. "You've got every right to lock him in your local jail. On bread and water. Stupid boy!"
"Since there's a standing watch aboard, milady," Heris said, "we can have him aboard your yacht straight from the shuttle. Fewer eyes to see, fewer mouths to talk."
"Fine. Do it." Cecelia looked angrier than before; Heris couldn't understand why. Then she changed expression, to astonishment and relief. Heris looked over and saw Ronnie, George, Bubbles, and Raffa. With them was a heavier man whose resemblance to George lay more in manner than in feature. Bunny turned, and waved them over.
"Good to see you up and about," he said. And to the older man, "And you, of course, Ser Mahoney."
"I have no quarrel with you, Bunny," the older man said. "Don't go formal on me, or I'll have to start wondering if I should."
"All right, Kevil. Just so you know I took this very seriously indeed."
"I can see George, and I know what happened; that tells me you took it seriously. Your lovely daughter was in it too, I understand." He patted Bubbles on the shoulder; Heris was surprised at the expression on the girl's face. She had changed, Heris thought, in some way that none of them yet knew—perhaps not even the girl herself. "And of course Cece's nephew. Those two have never been in trouble alone, or out of it together." Kevil Mahoney had a trained voice that could carry conflicting messages with ease; Heris watched both George and Ronnie flush, then subside without saying a word. He leaned closer to Bunny, and let that voice carry another weight of meaning with little volume. "And Mr. Smith? How is that estimable young man?"
"He will go home shortly," Bunny said. His eyelids lowered. "Transportation has already been arranged."
"Ah. Well, to be honest, Mr. Smith's travel arrangements do not concern me, at least not this evening. I'm simply delighted to be here for the festive occasion, with both lads out of the hospital and able to enjoy it." Kevil Mahoney smiled, bowed slightly, and walked off, leaving the young people behind. They heard him call out to someone he knew, and then he had disappeared in the crowd.
"I promised," George said, looking anxious, "but did my father?"
"Enough," Bunny said. "It's almost time for the dinner, and I will not have it ruined by speculation. Captain Serrano, if I might have the honor of your company?"
Heris had not expected this
. She glanced at Cecelia, who after all ranked her in every conceivable way these people calculated rank, but Cecelia now looked more relaxed, and simply smiled and nodded. Petris, after one startled look, offered his arm to Cecelia, who accepted it with another smile.
Heris took Bunny's arm and hoped she did not look as confused as she felt. He led her through the crowd, and she could hear the subdued murmurs that must be comments on this unusual occurrence. Just as they reached the entrance to the dining room, a fanfare rang out. Heris jumped, and Bunny chuckled. Under cover of the music, he murmured, "Didn't mean to alarm you, Captain, but this is traditional."
His wife, Heris noted, was standing with Buttons. As they made their way into the dining room, she realized that the participants in the recent adventures had been provided with partners that justified their being seated at the head table. Bunny's wife with Buttons, and George with Bubbles, and Ronnie with an elderly lady, and Raffa with an elderly man of the same vintage.
"That's my aunt Trema," Bunny said, "and my wife's uncle. They're both quite deaf, and they've refused implants. They love coming to a couple of Hunt Dinners a year; they sit together at the ball afterwards and write each other saucy notes on their compads. Eccentric, but harmless." Petris, with Lady Cecelia, certainly had a place at the family table. George's father sat at the far end, with another elderly relation on one side, and one of the gawky cousins on the other.
"You see the advantages," Bunny went on, with a slight smile, "of a reputation for eccentricity and archaicisms?"
"Indeed yes," Heris said. She looked down the long dining hall, to the trumpeters in their beribboned tunics who were ready to lead in the feast. Most of the guests had found their places, but Bunny waited until even the clumsy soul who overturned his chair had safely reseated himself. Then he nodded at the trumpeters, who lifted their instruments once more.
To the blare of trumpets and the shrill wailing of pipes, the feast came in. Cecelia reached around Petris to say, "It's about as authentic as the foxes, but it's fun." Bunny winked at her, and Heris began to relax. It could be worse . . . would have been worse, if Cecelia hadn't told her, if they hadn't told Bunny, if she and Cecelia both had not been good shots. They could all have been dead.
She pulled her mind away from that with an effort, and made herself enjoy the spectacle. Serving trays loaded with exotic foods whose origin she couldn't even guess. Servants in colorful livery. And the music. The food, when she tasted it, drove the last grim thought from her mind.
"I hadn't had a chance to thank you," Bunny said, somewhere between the soup and fish. "It's been hectic since you got back."
"I didn't realize Mr. Smith had been giving trouble," Heris said.
"Mmm. Although that's not the reason I asked you to come in with me, it may prove convenient to have you here when he's found. If you're sure the transfer to Lady Cecelia's yacht poses no problem."
"Not if I have a direct line up."
"Of course. My debt to you continues to grow. I don't know if you actually enjoyed the sport, but please consider yourself welcome here anytime." Under the pleasant tone, the calm expression, Heris sensed tension and even savagery. They ate in silence for some minutes, as the fish course came and went, and slices of roast appeared. Bunny sighed, and resumed as if he had not paused. "Bubbles—says she wants to talk to you."
"To me?"
"An experience like that would change anyone; I understand. But she's been the youngest, the wildest—so of course her change had to be greater."
Heris eyed her host. "Did she tell you about it?"
"Some. Not all. She thinks you—because you were military—will understand her better."
Heris could think of nothing socially acceptable to say. She could imagine the sort of thing Bubbles would think she could understand—and she did understand, but not in the way Bubbles would want. Nor did she wish to interfere in this family, especially not now. "She's almost certainly wrong about that," Heris said. "But of course I'll listen to her."
"I must admit," he went on, cutting a slice of roast into matching slivers, "that before I knew you better, you would not have been my choice of confidante for my daughter."
"The military woman?" Heris asked, lightly.
"Not exactly. The Serrano Admiralty is well known . . ." His voice trailed away, and his gaze slid sideways to meet hers. Heris was surprised, and probably looked it.
"My family? They think I'm the disgrace—why should you object to them?"
"I prefer you," Bunny said, and did not answer the rest of the question. He pushed the slivers of meat aside. Something bleeped, beside his plate, and he picked up a silvery button and clipped it to his ear. Moments later, his jaw bunched. Heris tried not to stare, and made inroads on her dinner. Beside her, Petris was chatting with Cecelia, almost pointedly ignoring her. Cecelia winked past him—so she had explained. Or so Heris hoped.
Bunny touched her wrist lightly, and she turned back to him. "We may have a problem," he said. "Mr. Smith divested himself of the tagger. Captain Sigind found it, but not the . . . Mr. Smith. He's already sealed the flitter hangars and other sources of transport, but Mr. Smith is a skilled rider."
Heris spoke before her tact caught up with her tongue: "We are not going out looking for that scamp on horseback in the dark!"
"No. You're right, we aren't. The militia are, and if he founders that mare he stole, I will have his hide on my wall. I don't know how a Registered Embryo could end up this stupid."
"He'll come here," Heris said softly, thinking it through. "He wants in on the fun, that's all. There's a party; he wants to play. He's like Ronnie was before. He'll think of a disguise, or something from—"
A crash from outside the hall interrupted, followed by the obvious clattering of hoofs on a hard floor. Before anyone could get up to investigate, someone outside flung the doors open. There stood a masked man in a costume more bizarre than any in the room. Puffed breeches under a loud tartan kilt, white hose, buckled shoes, a doublet, a wide-sleeved shirt, a short cape, and a curious pile of velvet and feathers on his head: it looked as if he had ransacked a costume shop. He held the reins of a skittish horse, and brandished a sword. Someone whooped nervously; Bunny sat rigid. From the far end of the table, the elderly lady Ronnie had partnered stood up abruptly.
"Now this is ridiculous. Disgraceful mixing of periods. Not one of these young people has any respect for historical reproduction. Imagine wearing a kilt over breeches! Just what century does he think he is, anyway?" She had the loud, off-pitch voice of someone who has not heard herself speak for years. She glared at Bunny. "If this is your surprise, young Branthcome, it is singularly unamusing."
For once Bunny had nothing to say. Heris stared at the masked man with instant certainty. No one else on the planet would do something like this. Were those moustaches sticking out from behind the mask? And what should she do? They had to capture him, but also conceal him. Some of the people here must have met the prince face-to-face. Could she and Petris subdue him without displacing his mask? She caught a glimpse of a servant behind the horse, trying to edge nearer, but the frightened animal plunged and kicked, and the servant retreated.
"It is traditional, I believe, to have a masked stranger make away with a beautiful woman at affairs like this. . . ." The man's voice certainly matched that of Mr. Smith. Heris looked around the room. The Crown Minister had turned white, but most people were amused, interested . . . already the hum of conversation had returned. The servant Heris had first seen came in sight again; the masked man turned and handed him the reins. "Here—hold my mount, please." Wide-eyed, the servant did so. Then the masked man strode into the dining hall, up the length to the family's table, and grabbed Raffaele firmly by one wrist. With a bow to Ronnie, he said, "You stole a singer from me; I but return the compliment—"
"Imposter!" Ronnie leapt to his feet and yanked the mask from the man's face and the sword from his hand. Heris heard the startled gasps. Mr. Smith, without a doubt. But Ro
nnie's furious stare down the table denied it. "You would have us think you're the prince, because everyone knows I quarrelled with the prince . . . but you're only a common mechanic."
"Let go of my arm," Raffaele said, in the tone she would have used to a social inferior. Mr. Smith complied, looking confused.
"But I am the prince—"
"You're a . . . a mole," Ronnie said. Raffaele rubbed her wrist and looked away, pointedly ignoring the intruder. Heris suddenly realized where Ronnie was going with this, and could hardly believe he had thought so fast. She waited for the cue she was sure he would give. "Don't think I didn't see you ogling Raffa on my aunt's yacht. Just because you are fair-haired and tall, just because you know how to use makeup, you thought you could pass yourself off as the prince." He shook the man's shoulder. "Look at you! You're in a roomful of people who know the prince—didn't you think of that? Did you really expect to fool people by covering your face? Did you hear what Lord Thornbuckle's aunt said? We know how to dress in period costumes—this mess you have on is a—a travesty. Pitiful." He looked down the table at Heris. "I must complain, Captain Serrano, about the actions of your crewman."
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