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 o
n 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 Ronnie’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.”
Heris stood smoothly. “You’re quite right. I regret that I didn’t recognize him in his disguise, but he is only the junior environmental tech, and I’ve never seen him in anything but a shipsuit. I take full responsibility. Petris—” Petris stood, as well. “We’ll make sure this—individual—” She could not think of a name to give him. Mr. Smith was too dangerous now. “—doesn’t intrude again, and I daresay his working papers will be cancelled permanently.”
“But I am—and this was all I could find—”
“Silence.” Bunny had found his voice at last; when he chose to be loud, he could be heard across an open field in a blowing wind. Here it silenced everyone, even the furtive whisperers in the corners. “I insist that my militia escort this individual to the shuttleport, and all the way into the custody of your yacht, Lady Cecelia. I believe I am correct in saying there may be charges beyond my jurisdiction, involving impersonation of a member of the Royal Family—?” He inclined his head to Kevil Mahoney, who nodded. “Then I would not have him on this planet one hour longer than necessary. Captain Serrano, if you will inform your standing watch?”
“With pleasure.”
Still protesting, but uselessly, Mr. Smith found himself overpowered and dragged away by militia, while Heris called the yacht and arranged for his confinement. Ronnie still stood at the end of the table, and when the room quieted, he looked to Bunny for permission to speak. Bunny nodded.
Ronnie rubbed his nose a moment, until he had everyone’s attention. “Most of you know that I was exiled for a year after the prince and I had a dispute. Some of you know more. But what you may not know is how I could be so sure the prince had not come here in some disguise or other. When I knew where my aunt was bringing me, I worried about that myself, and looked it up. The prince was posted to the Royal Aero-Space Service depot on Naverrn—” Ronnie was looking at the Crown Minister, who, Heris noted, suddenly looked very alert. “I’m sure any of you can check that posting, and confirm it. And this man—I don’t even know his name—caught my eye on the yacht because he did somewhat resemble the prince, and he was sneaking around Raffaele.”
“But are you sure it wasn’t the prince pretending to be an environmental tech?” asked a woman near one corner.
“Of course it wasn’t,” Ronnie said. “We had both sworn an oath to duel if we saw each other within the next year—do you think both of us would be coward enough to ignore that? That—that person didn’t even know how to use a sword.” He looked angry; Raffa patted his hand, and he sat down again.
Heris could almost hear the collective lurch with which everyone tried to return to the mood of a Hunt Dinner and Ball and ignore the interruption, as Bunny signalled and the servants brought in another course.
* * *
George leaned against the mirrored wall of the ballroom feeling sulky again. Ronnie and Raffa hardly seemed to notice the music, but flowed with it like leaves on a stream. Captain Serrano and Petris . . . he would like to have made a jest of them, but could not. They had gone through so much; they deserved their obvious happiness. If only Bubbles had not turned against him . . . they could have made another good match, he was sure. He liked her well enough, now that Raffa had turned to Ronnie. Blondes set off his own dark handsomeness.
It was unfair. He and the prince alone, out of all that crowd, could not enjoy the party. And while he was luckier than the prince, in being here and not under guard somewhere, he had no one to share his evening. He watched the whirling dancers idly for awhile, then stared. His father. His father and Ronnie’s aunt. Talking, laughing, obviously enjoying each other. . . . They danced by, and Lady Cecelia winked at him. His father, and that old . . . although she wasn’t all that bad, really. She danced remarkably well, in fact. He just didn’t want her as a stepmother, or aunt, or whatever she and his father might have in mind. The two of them together were definitely too smart for him; he and Ronnie would never enjoy more pranks. He turned away, ready to take a long walk somewhere, and almost fell over the girl coming his way. Her eyes widened. “You’re—you’re George Starbridge Mahoney, aren’t you? Kevil Mahoney’s son?” He knew what to do with that kind of look, and drew
himself up.
“Yes,” he said. “I am.”
“Somebody told me your nickname was Odious, but I don’t believe it. I think you’re nice.” She had hazel eyes and fluffy hair of a red-brown shade he couldn’t have put a name to. Something about her made him feel protective, something more than the slender wrists and hands, he was sure, or the somewhat pointy face. “You don’t know me,” she said, almost timidly. “I’m just one of the cousins; you’ve seen me out hunting, but usually covered with mud.”
“I should have seen beneath it,” he said gallantly. He liked being gallant. “Would you care to dance?” He led her onto the floor.
“I love Hunt Balls,” the girl said. They whirled around; she danced as lightly as a fox over a fence on its way to take a chicken from the coop. George drew back a moment, wondering. Was he the hunter, or was she? It didn’t matter, he decided; she couldn’t be that certain herself.
“So do I,” he said, and took her past his father and Ronnie’s aunt, enjoying their reaction. “So do I.”
Acknowledgments
Thanks to those who encourged this project: Alexis and Laurie, who began the chase by saying, “Why not fox hunting and spaceships?”; Margaret, who helped retrieve scattered bits after the great computer crash; the several patient friends who read drafts and pointed out logic problems; my husband Richard, who prefers new chapters to hot meals and a neat house; my son Michael, who has finally learned to leave me alone until the oven timer buzzes (as long as it’s not more than fifteen minutes). The good people at Vic’s Grocery—Vic, Martha, John, Debbie, and Penny—whose interest and support keep the absentminded writer from forgetting milk, bread, and other necessities of life—with special thanks this time to Vic Kysor, Jr., who in a conversation across the meat counter in his father’s grocery store created a character and solved a problem for me. Of course the remaining flaws are my fault—even the best helpers can’t do it all.
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