Hunting Party

by Elizabeth Moon

  “But what about the horses? Have they always had horses here?”

  “Probably. Colonial worlds usually have horses; they’re cheap local transportation, self-replacing. Horse-based agriculture, too. Have you visited many worlds in the early stages of settlement?”

  “No, not on the surface. Except for leave, I’ve spent my time in ships or offices.”

  “Mmm. Well, most import draft animals. Which ones depends in part on the world itself, and in part on the settlers. The dominant draft animal can be equine, bovine, or camelid.”

  “Camels?” asked Heris. She was not sure she knew what a camel looked like.

  “And llamas,” Cecelia said. “Have you ever seen camels?”

  “No.” This time she didn’t explain.

  “I haven’t either, except in illustrations. One early Old-Earth breed of horse was used in the same culture that also had camels. Ugly beasts, with humped backs. It was said that they could be ridden, but I don’t see how.” Heris didn’t even want to think how. Tomorrow morning, she would be hunting again. She was sure Heris would graduate into a hunt soon, and perhaps into the greens in a week or so, but for now all she wanted to think about was tomorrow morning.

  * * *

  If it wasn’t Opening Day, with its farcical reproductions of ancient ceremonies via Surtees and Kipling, it was a hunting dawn. Cecelia put her head out the window and breathed deeply. Yes. Cool enough, crisp and dry, and she would have a new mount today. A Buccinator son. Sometimes the gods rewarded you for virtues unknown.

  Bunny’s staff served impeccable, lavish hunt breakfasts—and she enjoyed food—but today she hardly noticed either the traditional dishes or the taste. The green hunt, composed of the most experienced and best riders, talked little at breakfast this early in the season. Later, perhaps. Now they all wanted but one thing—the horses, the cold air, the speed, the chase. They recognized this in each other; glance met glance over the clattering silverware.

  Outside, with the low sun gilding the stones, Cecelia walked down to the stable block as happy as she had felt since leaving competition. This is what life was about: a hot breakfast comfortable in one’s stomach, and the prospect of a good horse to ride over open country until the day ended. In her saddlebag was her personal choice for a lunch snack—on this, Bunny made no attempt to enforce the more foolish tradition: if you wanted a thermpak of shrimp-in-sweet-sauce, you could have it. Cecelia favored a hot turkey sandwich, pickles and cheese, and hot coffee.

  Buccinator’s son, powerful and alert, stood waiting, held by a groom. She mounted, picked up her reins, nodded to the groom, and set off at a walk to quarter the yard. Then out the great stone arch to the front of the Main House, where Bunny and the huntsmen would have brought the pack by now. Hooves rang on the stones, riders began to talk, once mounted, in the quiet tones of those who expect to be listened to.

  She came around the side of the house. . . . There, in the sunlight, were the hounds, sterns wagging as they swirled in controlled chaos around the hunt staff in scarlet. Bunny grinned as she rode up to him. “You like him, do you?”

  “You stinker—you might have let me see him last year.”

  “He wasn’t ready. But you’re first to take him into the field; he’s been schooled but never hunted.”

  “You are most generous.” And he was. To let a guest take a green horse into the field—with the green hunt, over the most demanding country—she was not sure she would have done it, had it been her horse and her country.

  “He couldn’t be in better hands,” Bunny said. “One concession—we’re going to start with the Long Tor foxes today.” Which meant less woods riding, more in the open, but the fences were stone walls, unforgiving of mistakes, and in the open they’d be riding faster.

  “Sounds like fun,” Cecelia said. Other riders came up then, paying their respects to the master, and she circled away.

  * * *

  The Long Tor foxes cooperated by leading a long, circuitous chase across the open slopes, in and out of difficult ravines, back up and around almost to their beginning. The Buccinator son proved himself, maturing at every wall and ditch, the scope and speed of Buccinator bloodlines keeping him out of trouble and well up. Cecelia didn’t push him. There was no reason to race; everyone knew how she could ride, and everyone knew the horse was green. Far more important to give him a good day’s work, and the confidence to go on another time. They rode back in a golden afternoon, the young horse still with power to spare, and Neil gave her a thumbs-up when she came through the arch.

  “Cool and quiet, and not a mark on him . . . and you’re happy with him?”

  “He’s all you promised. Never shirked, never tried to turn away from anything. He’d have gone faster if I’d asked—actually, I had to hold him back at first.”

  “Good. That’s what I hoped for. He should be ready day after tomorrow; you can have old Gossip tomorrow, if you want.”

  “Give him two days off,” Cecelia said. “It’s his first season. Flat work tomorrow, and the day after I’ll come do a little schooling on him when I get back from the hunt—”

  “You think you’ll have the energy?”

  Cecelia gave him a mock glare. He was always trying to suggest she was too old, but they both knew it was a joke. “I could school three horses now, as you well know—shall I prove it?”

  “No . . . just give Gossip a run tomorrow. I let Cal have him for Opening Day, and he bucked over the first ten fences, Cal said. Your friend Captain Serrano’s doing well; I’m going to put her in the blues, for her first run.”

  Cecelia came back to the house thoroughly satisfied. Now if Heris and young Ronnie would only realize how much fun this was.

  * * *

  Heris had spent several hours riding to Neil’s exacting standard, on the flat and over the fences of the outside course. His announcement that she would ride in the blues was, she knew, a reward, though she would just as soon have had something more tangible and immediate. She came back to the house stiff but not really sore, ready for a hot bath, but the house itself fascinated her.

  The big stone building was huge, an institution rather than a dwelling place. It had four levels aboveground and one below, and an astounding number of rooms, corridors, staircases, arches, ramps, lifts, balconies, and other architectural bits for which Heris had no name. On the ground floor were rooms devoted to reading, sitting, talking, dancing, dining, lunching, breakfasting, and playing games of chance or billiards. High ceilings and large rooms made Heris think of an overdecorated flight deck on her cruiser. Most of the guest rooms were on the second floor, along with another library and a “withdrawing room” for women, which overlooked a rose garden. The third floor, Cecelia said, had both guest rooms and family suites, while the fourth was (traditionally) the servants’ quarters.

  Heris had a bedroom the size of her entire suite on the yacht, with a bathroom almost as large as the bedroom. Two windows opened to the east, with a view across a lower roof to scattered buildings on green fields beyond. A white vase filled with fragrant roses stood on the black polished bureau; a deskcomp stood beside it. The bathroom amazed her even more. As big as most rooms, it had every luxury fixture she’d heard of, and two she hadn’t. She eyed the nozzles with suspicion and left them alone. She bathed, relaxed for a time in swirling hot water, and dried her hair, half amused at herself for taking so long. It was a very unmilitary situation.

  The same dress she had worn that first night at Takomin Roads would do, Cecelia had said, for dinner. She added a simple but elegant silver necklace, then made her way through the maze of corridors to the main stair, and descended its graceful curves. Voices rose toward her; she felt as shy as she had the first night on a new ship, coming to the wardroom.

  Cecelia waited at the foot of the stairs, her short hair lifted into a graceful wave of silver and auburn. She wore the amber necklace Heris had admired, and a long, beaded tunic in bronze and ochre over a flowing copper-colored skirt. It was ha
rd to believe she was an old woman, and had spent all day on a horse. She smiled.

  “I thought you might like a few introductions.”

  “Thank you,” Heris said. She had tried to form no expectations, but she was surprised. All the men in traditional black and white, all the women in long gowns, looked more like athletes than wealthy layabouts. Yet the surroundings, and the clothes, and the jewelry, were straight out of caricature. She managed not to stare as a dark-haired beauty undulated by in a rustle of silvery silk, its folds seemingly held to her by affection alone.

  “That’s the Contessa,” Cecelia said. Her eyes twinkled. “That’s what she likes to be called, rather. It’s all a sort of game . . . being a character out of history, or rather out of a story about history. They’ve read all the fiction of the period, and they take parts. Not formally, in the evenings, but one is expected to recognize a good version of a familiar character.”

  “Books . . . like the Surtees and Kipling you loaned me?”

  “That’s a beginning. You’ll have to look into Bunny’s library. Come along—you need to meet him.”

  Heris tried to suppress her curiosity in the presence of her host, Lord Thornbuckle. Was he, too, taking a character to portray? Was that long, foolish face his by nature or by design? He murmured a greeting to her, a longer and warmer one to Lady Cecelia, along with his regrets that she had not made the Opening Day.

  “We had some delays,” Cecelia said.

  “So I understand from the children,” he said. “How nice of you to have brought them along. Sorry—let’s talk after dinner—” And he turned to greet someone else, with a faint shrug that made clear to Heris he’d rather talk to Cecelia.

  “And you must meet Miranda,” Cecelia said. “His wife, Buttons and Bubbles’s mother, though it’s hard to believe. She takes rejuv like kittens take cream.”

  And in fact Heris would not have suspected the sweet-faced blonde to be old enough to have children Bubbles’s age . . . let alone older ones. Miranda murmured polite nothings to them, and introduced them to a Colonel Barksly, who eyed Heris warily before wandering off to get something to drink—or so he said. Heris suspected he would go straight to a comp and start looking her up in some index of officers somewhere. She wished him luck. Miranda confided to Cecelia that they were having trouble again with “that Consuela woman” and Cecelia made appropriate sympathetic noises before excusing herself to “introduce Captain Serrano around a bit.”

  Heris had never been fond of the predinner social hour anyway, and this one seemed to last forever. She felt out of place in these tall, cold rooms with their consciously ancient decorations, surrounded by people whose gowns had cost more than her Fleet salary. But just as she thought how much she would prefer a snack in her room, a sweet-toned bell rang and someone (she couldn’t see who) announced dinner. A flurry of movement; she found herself provided with a dinner partner (and felt fortunate to have read the Kipling) and soon sat at the long, polished table beneath the pseudobaronial banners.

  Her partner, it seemed, was one of Bunny’s distant cousins, and “desperately keen to hunt.” Heris had no trouble with the conversation. The cousin wanted only a listener for his tale of the Opening Day hunt, today’s hunt, the performance of his horse, the beauty of the weather, the cunning of the fox, and the inept handling of the hounds by the new huntsman.

  “—wouldn’t pay him any mind at all, and worse all day. Bunny should never have let Cockran retire.”

  “Nonsense!” huffed a husky man from across the table. “Cockran hasn’t been well the last two seasons, and he’s due for rejuv. Bunny had no choice. Besides, Drew wasn’t that bad. That couple of pups gave him trouble, but the good old ’uns stayed true. And that last run—”

  “Well, but you weren’t up where you could see the cast in that wood—”

  The food that came and went through all this was ample and hearty, not nearly as elegant as the meals Cecelia had served her, but more filling. Heris wondered if Bunny’s household adhered to the custom of women leaving the table early, or to the more modern format where the heavy drinkers dispersed to one room, and those preferring stimulants to another. The latter, she found; she went into the “coffee-room” with some relief, for the long-winded cousin had chosen to drown his bruises in brandy.

  “You’re ex-military aren’t you?” asked someone at her elbow. The colonel she’d been introduced to earlier, in fact. Barksly, that was his name. Heris repressed a sigh. Two bores in one evening? But the colonel’s brown eyes twinkled at her. “You deserve a medal for that—Laurence Boniface has rarely had such a patient listener; most of the ladies gather their conversational reins at the beginning and try to make a race of it.”

  “The food was too good,” Heris said demurely. He laughed.

  “And I thought it was recognition of a hopeless cause. Tell me, though: royals, regulars, or ground forces?” He was not one to give up an inquiry.

  “Regulars.” She would make it short and firm; would he take the hint?

  “Ah,” he said. She could almost hear the gears twitching in his brain. “I met an Admiral Serrano once, at an embassy do on Seychartin.”

  “If he was two meters tall, with a scar from his left ear across his cheek, that was my uncle Sabado. If she was my height, with lots of braids, it was my aunt Vida.” Actually there had been eight Admiral Serranos in the past fifteen years, but only two that she knew of had served on Seychartin while holding that rank.

  “Your aunt, then. There’s a strong family resemblance.”

  “So I’ve been told,” said Heris. She braced herself for more questions; she knew he was asking them in his mind. But his next words left the questions untouched.

  “It’s unusual for Regular Fleet officers to have riding as a hobby,” he said.

  “Lady Cecelia would convert anyone,” Heris said, relieved. Maybe she was safe, now, although this sort of colonel had a habit of making oblique attacks later in an acquaintance. “We had a wager, which she won; the forfeit was that I would take instruction from her. In the process, I discovered an interest.”

  “Ah,” he said, this time in a different tone. “Do you know, years ago when I was a small boy, I happened to see her ride, one of her professional events. It was cold and wet, I remember, a nasty blowing mizzling rain that went right through whatever you wore. I had been bored, even though I rather liked horses, because I couldn’t see over the grownups. I would see the top of someone’s cap flash by, and that was it. People would groan or cheer, and I didn’t know why. My feet were cold, my neck was wet; I’d have gone home if I could. Then everyone was saying ‘Here she comes!’ and someone—I never even knew the man—set me up on his shoulders, and out of the murk came this huge horse with a red-headed woman on it, and they jumped something that looked to my child’s eyes to be four meters high and every bit that wide. Of course it wasn’t, but I was impressed anyway. For a whole term I wanted to be an event rider.”

  “Were you ever?” asked Heris. She found she really cared; he had a gift for storytelling that Bunny’s poor cousin utterly lacked.

  “Oh, no. I was too young to be faithful to dreams; the next thing I wanted to do was play a very rough ball game popular at our school, and since it was available and good horses were not, I learned to play that, and liked it. Real riding came later, and by then I knew I wanted a career in the military or possibly security forces.”

  “I wish I’d seen her,” Heris said. “She’s shown me the cubes, of course, but now that I’ve ridden a real horse I can imagine that the effect is very different if you’re actually there, seeing it.”

  “Magnificent,” he said, smiling. “But do you have your hunt assignment yet?”

  “Blue,” said Heris. “Day after tomorrow, Neil said; tomorrow I’m to have another session over fences.”

  “Good for you. If he’s scheduled you into the blue, you’re doing well. Let me introduce you to some of the other blue hunt members.” He led her to a cluster of peo
ple who were all talking about the day’s chase. Heris wondered which hunt he rode with. Cecelia had explained the system, but it still seemed odd. . . . For one thing, she didn’t understand why the hunt levels didn’t have names taken from the books, instead of colors. If they were all so interested in reproducing history . . .

  “Ah,” said a tall lanky blond man. “Captain Serrano, Lady Cecelia’s new friend—we’ve heard about you.” Heris had no chance to wonder what he meant, for he went on. “Neil’s bragging to everyone—of course, she’s his pet example of what we should all aspire to, and now as a teacher as well as rider. Is it really true that you had never mounted a live horse until today?”

  Heris allowed herself a slow smile. “Not at all. But it’s true I had ridden little, many years ago, and hadn’t been on a horse since I was . . . oh . . . perhaps twenty-three.”

  “You’d never jumped?”

  “No.”

  “I told you, Stef, Lady Cecelia’s simulator is legendary.” That was a red-haired woman about Heris’s height, who wore a gown of mossy green with wide sleeves. . . . Heris realized why, when she saw the wrist brace.

  “It must be.” Stef, the tall man, shook his head. “Maybe it would help me. It took me five seasons to work up from the red hunt to the blue, and I’ve been stuck in blue for ten.” Others chuckled; the red-haired woman turned to Heris.

  “Tell me—did you find real horses easy after the simulator?”

  “Not exactly easy, but much easier than I would have without it. And after the second ride, it was almost the same, a continuation of the same training.”