Against the Odds Page 7

  "Not by myself," Esmay said. "Any of it. And where did you hear about the Kos?"

  "Not much we don't hear, independent merchanters," Basil said.

  "Quit it, Bas. You sound like a third-rate actor in a spy thriller. Seriously, Lieutenant—sera—we do pick up a lot of dockside talk, mostly wrong. Now, I figure the family owes you, for your part in getting Hazel out. But we aren't a passenger line; we're mixed cargo."

  "But you said you had passengers . . ." At the sudden change of expression, Esmay stopped.

  "Well, that's done it," Basil said, this time with no expression on his face at all. "And you the cautious one."

  "What?"

  "Sometimes we carry passengers. Not usually. We've . . . er . . . had some recently."

  "Then could I—I mean, for a fare, of course. I don't know much about it—"

  "We owe you, as I said, but we really do not have passenger quarters fit for you."

  "I'm not used to luxury," Esmay said.

  "I suppose not." He chewed his lip. "Well . . . if you can share a small space, and sleep in rotation, we can take you. But where do you want to go?"

  "Castle Rock," Esmay said. She was fairly, reasonably, almost sure that Brun would be there. She could see Brun privately, without involving Fleet. And perhaps Brun would be able to find out what, if anything, she could do to get back into Fleet even in spite of the powerful Admiral Serrano.

  "Not Altiplano?"

  "Not yet," Esmay said. Not ever, she hoped. Goonar nodded.

  "Well, then—you're probably not aware of civilian regulations, but we need to list you as a passenger on the manifest. Do you have civilian ID?"

  "Of sorts," Esmay said. "If discharge chips are sufficient."

  "Let me see." Goonar reached out and Esmay handed over the flat cardlike discharge certification she'd been handed. Goonar reached under the low table and pulled up an ID scanner. He ran it over the card. "Yes . . . it has everything required—name, retinal and finger scan patterns, planet of origin, employment record. You left home young, didn't you?"

  "Yes," Esmay said. "I was space-struck early."

  "Our kids start early too—actually earlier than that, but of course their families are in space." He handed the chip back. "There. You want to travel under your own name, don't you?"

  "Yes—my unmarried name; there hasn't been time to get it changed."

  "Fine. I've entered you in our log. Now—about luggage—"

  "I don't have much," Esmay said. "They said the rest of my things would be sent to me . . . they're somewhere between the ship I left before going on leave and the one I was supposed to be assigned to."

  "Do you have what you need? We can send someone for anything missing . . ."

  "I'll be all right," Esmay said. She had only a few civilian outfits, but she didn't want to go shopping here—or have someone doing it for her.

  "Good. Then you can go aboard now, since you don't want to be seen on station. We're not ready to strike our tents yet; we're in the queue for two days from now and I prefer—" he paused, and looked not at Esmay but at Basil, "—not to make sudden departures from ports unless it's absolutely necessary."

  "It was," muttered Basil. Esmay sensed an old quarrel.

  "Will that be satisfactory, sera?"

  "I'm very grateful," Esmay said. "Now about the fare—"

  Goonar waved his hand. "Forget the fare. I'm telling the Stationmaster that we're not a passenger ship, but we're not about to leave the hero of Xavier in the lurch—or charge for it, either. That clears our honor, both ways."

  Esmay couldn't follow all of that, but the master and second in command of Terakian Fortune seemed almost smug about something. Basil, as cargomaster, took her through to another room, this one filled with electronics gear, and then through the docking tube of the ship.

  A civilian merchant ship, she found, had its own ceremonies, however unlike these were to the austere formalities of the Regular Space Service. A trim youngster in a green tunic led her to the tiny compartment that she would occupy during her sleep shift, and pointed out the small cubby where she could stow a few toiletries. Her clothes would have to go across the passage, in a locker already stuffed with carryons. The boy seemed far too young to be working aboard ship, and Esmay wondered briefly about child piracy, until she remembered that Hazel, too, had been very young. Apparently civilian merchants took their children with them.

  "Are you the captain's son?" she asked.

  He gave her a startled look. "Me, sera? Captain Goonar's—? No, sera. Goonar, he's not got any children; they all died. I'm Kosta Terakian-Cibo, Ser Basil's aunt's son on his mother's side. It's my first trip as full crew, sera. So even though I still have classes, I'm getting paid full wage." He grinned proudly. Esmay congratulated him, and he nodded. "Only problem is, the Fathers insist that we juniors can't have all our money to spend. It's going to take me the whole voyage to save up for the new cube player I want. . . ."

  "And a good thing, too." Basil emerged from a cross-corridor, and glared at the boy. "We'd just have to confiscate it to keep you from deafening everyone on the ship. Go on, now, Kosta, and let the lady alone. Have you done the rotational analysis yet?"

  "Yes, Ser Basil." The boy whipped out a pocket display and flicked it on. "The sera's luggage here, and the moment here, and—"

  "Good. And did you give her the ship's books?"

  "No . . . I wasn't sure—"

  "Yes, of course she needs them." Basil looked at Esmay. "Why don't you come along to the bursar's, and we'll get you started. Unfortunately, we don't mount cube readers in all the compartments, so you'll have to read the hardcopy—"

  "Fine," said Esmay. She followed him down one corridor, then another, mapping automatically. The bursar's was a medium-sized compartment, full of desks and files, with office machines around the edges.

  Basil turned to a stack of shelving and pulled out two well-thumbed manuals, one of which described the ship's layout, and the other the emergency procedures.

  Terakian Fortune, she recognized, was roughly equivalent to a smallish cruiser in tonnage, but organized very differently. Unlike the big spherical container ships, Fortune's cargo holds were crew-accessible—everything loaded and unloaded through the shuttle bay, though this was big enough to take the standard orbit-to-surface containers as well as the cargo shuttles themselves. The space taken up on a cruiser by weapons and ammunition storage could be stuffed with cargo here—as could the crew space required for the much larger military crews. Only twenty personnel per watch—Esmay could hardly believe anyone could run a ship with so few, and yet—as she read through the manuals—the essentials were covered, with adequate redundancy.

  She hoped. The knowledge that the Fortune had no serious offensive armament, and shields only moderately better than a private yacht left her feeling vulnerable. The single weapon was clearly intended for scaring minimally armed raiders . . . someone had rigged duplicator lines intended to show up on inferior scans as multiple armaments.

  A tap on the door; she opened it to find the same boy who had led her there. Kosta, was it? "The sera's temporarily assigned to the second rotation, which means the third seating today," the boy said. "Uncle—Captain Terakian dines ashore while we're in port. Second seating is finishing lunch now, and I'm to take you to the mess."

  "Thank you—Kosta?"

  "Yes, sera." His grin widened. "Terakian-Cibo, but you don't need to remember that part. Just call me Kosta; everyone else does."

  The terminology of seatings and rotations meant nothing to her: was second rotation like the second watch? Instead of asking, she followed the boy to the mess hall. Mess on a civilian trader looked nothing like either enlisted mess or officers' wardroom aboard ship . . . more like a small restaurant along some shopping concourse. The compartment was just big enough for eight four-person tables: thirty-two per seating? Why, then, the need for more than one seating per rotation?

  "There aren't really assigned seats," Kosta
said. "You could sit with us—" He pointed to a table where two other youngsters were just sliding into their chairs and unloading trays onto the table. "If you want to," he added, in a tone that tried, and failed, to be welcoming.

  She wasn't really eager to sit with a group of youngsters anyway. "Thanks, but it looks like there are plenty of empty places," Esmay said. "If you don't mind . . ."

  "No, sera . . . I could use the time to review for the test this afternoon, if it's all right. Do you think you can find your way back?"

  "I hope so," Esmay said. "I guess I'll just have to ask someone if I can't."

  "Anyone will help you," Kosta said. "Just remember C-23, that's your number." Esmay headed for the serving line across the room. The food smelled spicy and good; she took a bowl of some stew-like dish, and a couple of warm rolls. She put her tray down on one of the empty tables, and sat down. The condiment containers in front of her held things she'd never heard of, except for the basic salt and pepper. Some of the labels were in languages she hadn't seen either.

  "That goolgi is good with khungi sauce," someone said. Esmay looked up. A curvaceous woman with red-brown hair tipped her head toward the table. "May I?"

  "Of course," Esmay said. "I'm Esmay Suiza."

  "Ah. I'm Betharnya Vi Negaro. You must be the passenger."

  "I'm a passenger, yes. And you? You're not a Terakian?"

  "Not everyone is a Terakian," the woman said. She too had a bowl of the stew; she uncapped the bottle with a picture of galloping bulls on the label and shook a large dollop of a thick, slightly lumpy, brown sauce into the bowl. "You don't like khungi sauce?"

  "I've never had it. I've never had this kind of stew—goolgi?—either." Esmay tried a spoonful of the goolgi and a warm glow filled her mouth. Peppers. It must have quite a bit of some pepper in it—

  "Too bland, the way they make it here," the woman said. "Khungi gives it a bit of life—"

  The warm glow was turning into a miniature furnace; Esmay knew that symptom of old, and reached for her water glass. "I think it's lively enough," she said, after a swallow.

  "Khungi doesn't make it hotter," Betharnya said. "Just more—robust, perhaps. You ought to try at least a dab."

  She might as well find out. Esmay shook out a small blob of the brown sauce and mixed it with a portion of goolgi. The resulting bite almost took the top of her head off, but after a moment the head-on collision of flavors worked. Either alone was too strong; together they set up a sort of olfactory countercurrent.

  "Could you explain this rotation and seating thing?" Esmay said.

  "Of course." Betharnya took a last bite of the goolgi and wiped her mouth. "Thing is, we're somewhat overcrewed right now, moving people from one place to another. So the onshift crew has first seating at each meal period—to be sure they can eat quickly and get back to work. Offshift crew has second seating—they sit the boards while the onshift crew eats. Sleepshift crew can come eat if they want to—if they're awake and hungry—but they get third seating. It's particularly important in port, when most of the crew are off duty anyway."

  "Makes sense," Esmay said. "I've never been on a trader before."

  "It works for us," Betharnya said. "I don't know anything about how other traders do it."

  "How long are you usually away from your homeworld? Or do you live mostly in space?"

  "It varies . . . I haven't seen my homeworld for three or four standard years, but some people go home every year. And we don't usually have small children out in space; our ships are too small to allow sufficient romping space." She grinned. "I sometimes wonder about the junior apprentices in that regard. They can get a bit boisterous." She cocked her head at Esmay. "Now it's your turn. Tell me about yourself."

  "I was a Regular Space Service officer—left my homeworld for the prep school, then the Academy, and then went into Fleet. I've only been home twice since then."

  "Are you going home now that you've left Fleet?"

  "I . . . don't know." She did not want to talk about this with everyone on the ship. "Right now I'm headed for Castle Rock."

  "Ah, so are we. By a roundabout route, but we'll get there." Betharnya glanced away, and her expression changed. "Ah—if you'll excuse me, sera, I should get back—"

  Esmay followed her gaze and saw a handsome blonde woman and an even more handsome man at the mess hall entrance. It was amazing how many good-looking people were in this crew . . . she hadn't expected them all to look like actors.

  * * *

  Sirialis

  * * *

  Lady Cecelia de Marktos woke early and headed for the stables, even though it wasn't hunting season. The best cure for an unquiet mind—at least, her unquiet mind—was a few hours spent with animals that could not lie. She felt better with every stride away from the house where Miranda had—perhaps by accident—killed Pedar Orregiemos.

  Neil, who had been running the horse operation for at least thirty years, grinned when he saw her coming through the arched gateway.

  "I heard you were here, Lady Cecelia," Neil said. "How's her ladyship?"

  "It was a tragedy," Cecelia said. His face didn't twitch. She hadn't expected it to.

  "She'll be leaving soon?" he asked. "Going back to deal with the inheritance?"

  "No, I don't think so," Cecelia said. "Harlis . . . has other problems." She wasn't sure how much to say or not say. Sirialis had its own customs, its own networks.

  "That's good, then. You just tell her I said we did fix that bit she was working on."

  "Bit?"

  "Yes . . . she was down here a few nights ago, working on a broken bit, back in the old forge."

  A chill ran down Cecelia's back. She could not imagine Miranda trying to mend a bit herself.

  "I've never seen the old forge," she said casually. "Where is it?"

  "Back along there," he pointed. Was that tension in his throat? "It's just a workroom now. I reckon she came down just to get some peace, like, with that fellow in the house."

  Peace, thought Cecelia, was exactly what Miranda had been after.

  The old forge, when she looked into it, had the tidy look of any well-maintained metal shop. Neat rows of tools, a couple of small brazing cones, a shelf of labelled bottles. She leaned forward to look at them . . . chemical labels. Most were unfamiliar. She looked along the workbench . . . someone was working on a pair of spurs, set up in a vise, and there was a can with tongueless buckles of various sizes and beside it a can of straight tongue blanks. Heavier round stock, shaped into hoofpicks, and a tub of bone and antler roughs for handles. A bowl of scrap bits of this and that . . . Cecelia stirred it with her finger, not at all sure what she'd expected to find. A rough edge caught at her finger; she looked at it . . . a small curved scrap of pierced metal that looked somehow older than the rest.

  Cecelia wondered what it had been. It didn't look like any metal from horse tack. Something tickled her memory, but withdrew. It was like a fragment of shell from a very large egg, with little holes . . . a colander, for straining a mash? She put it in her pocket and wandered back to the main square, where two of the hunters were being exercised on the longe line. Neil watched, eyes narrowed at the chestnut. Cecelia watched too, and saw the same slightly uneven stretch of the off fore. He signalled the groom, and when the horse stopped, he bent over that front leg. Cecelia watched the bay, as always soothed by the sight of a good horse moving well.

  "There you are!" Miranda, in spotless breeches and a pale blue shirt, came through the archway. In the cool morning, she had color in her cheeks again and looked very much the poised, elegant lady of the manor. "I should have known you'd come down here before breakfast."

  "Habit," Cecelia said. "But of course it's not the season, and no one expected me to ride this early . . ."

  "Ah," Miranda said. "So . . . are you just pottering around petting horses, or would you like something to eat?"

  "I was . . . Neil said you'd been in the old forge a few days ago . . ."

  "Oh yes?"
Miranda's eyes were on the chestnut.

  "I'd never seen it before," Cecelia said. She saw the sudden tension in Miranda's neck. "It's a nice little workshop."

  "Yes, it is," Miranda said. "We use it for mending tack now."

  "That's what Neil said. I've never done that myself . . . well, except for leather. He said you'd been working on a bit, and they finished it. All I saw was this—" She held it out.

  "My . . . I wonder what that is." Miranda's voice was breathless. "Quite old, it looks like."

  "Not like tack," Cecelia said. "Some kind of strainer, maybe." She put it back in her pocket. "How are you feeling this morning?"

  "Shaky," Miranda said. "I can't—it's too much, too fast. I can't believe it all really happened."

  Breakfast, with obligatory small talk, was excruciating. Cecelia picked at her eggs and ham; Miranda nibbled a bowl of mixed grain flakes. At last the maid took the dishes away.

  "I must meet with that militia officer again," Miranda said. "I have no idea what to do, and with Kevil out of commission—"

  "Miranda . . . you have to come to grips with it."

  "How?" The blue eyes clouded with tears. "How am I supposed to come to grips with Bunny dying, and Harlis trying to cheat us, and Pedar . . ."

  Tell the truth, Cecelia thought but did not say. She was reserving that for later. She followed Miranda down the long corridor, its walls hung with pictures, past the case from which the antique weapons had been taken—she stopped abruptly. The case was partly empty now, of course—the weapons and masks Miranda and Pedar had used had been taken away. But seeing the faint discoloration outlininga where they had been, Cecelia visualized it as if it were still there.

  The solid metal helm. The pierced metal mask. Pierced just like the fragment in her pocket—her hand clenched on it.

  "What?" Miranda said, from two strides down the hall. "What is it?"

  She had known, and not known—she had not wanted to know. She had wanted to believe it impossible, so she would have nothing to do, no responsibility.