Her captain smiled, as if glad to be asked the question. "Yes—you remember that I authorized Velarsin and Co. to exchange all damaged units from the environmental system, rather than repairing them in place?"
"Of course," Cecelia said.
"That was for reasons of both time and safety. You may recall that I also had Mr. Brynear document the condition of those components, to back up your damage claim on Diklos and Sons." When Cecelia nodded, she went on. "Some components could be repaired, and we were to get a refund on those. In the process of examining the components removed, Mr. Brynear's technicians found items secreted in several. Most suggestively, in the scrubber which we were going to examine when Iklind was killed because he didn't have his suit on."
Cecelia felt only confusion. "What does that have to do with it?" Before Serrano could answer, Cecelia realized. "Oh—he knew something was there? Something you'd find?"
"We can't know, Lady Cecelia." Heris glanced at Files, who clearly wished she wouldn't explain more, but she went on. "There's a chain of occurrences that makes me suspicious of Iklind and possibly others formerly or presently in the crew. The system flush and recharge that Diklos and Sons didn't do. The curiously inefficient course your former captain set on the way to Court, which made you late. Iklind's apparent haste to get to that scrubber before I did—at the cost of his own life."
"You think he was smuggling something. Iklind and . . . and Captain Olin?" First came anger: how dare he? And then fear . . . how had she not known what was happening on her ship? How were the smuggled items transferred if they were? Would Olin have opened the ship to boarders?
"It's possible, madam," said Files, with a sharp glance at Heris. "Ship's crews have been known to do so, without an owner's knowledge. Of course, sometimes the owner is also involved."
"Surely you jest." That was all she could say. The impertinence of the man!
"Are you suggesting the Lady Cecelia was involved in any putative illegal act?" asked Ser Granzia. "Remember—"
"I remember the Sihil-Tomaso ruling, Ser Granzia," said Files. "I made no accusation; I merely answered what seemed to be Lady Cecelia's question." His smile was more of a smirk, she decided. He went on. "Now: procedurally, we must impound the evidence, which includes the location in which it was found; I'm afraid your ship is that location—" Cecelia could hardly believe her ears. Was everything against her?
"Not so, Mr. Files." Her captain's crisp voice interrupted Files. "The scrubbers were not in the ship when the items were found. They had already been removed. All environmental system components are dockside; what's in the Sweet Delight is new and empty."
"But that's where they were," Files said. "On that ship with the contraband in them. There may be more, hidden somewhere else. It doesn't matter where the scrubbers were when the evidence was actually found—"
"On the contrary." Ser Granzia's honey-smooth voice had an edge to it now. "According to the rules of evidence in a list of rulings going back to Essex versus Jovian Mining Ltd., impoundment of the container does not include impoundment of the vessel in which that container was transported, if the discovery occurred while the container was not aboard."
"But we know the contraband was aboard," Files said, more loudly.
"But it doesn't matter, Mr. Files." Ser Granzia did not raise his voice, but Cecelia saw the other man wilt. "The rulings are all clear, and all in favor of my client. I will be glad to get a local ruling, of course, but I'm sure it will uphold my client's position. Now—shall we contact Fleet? I believe it is better for us to do this together."
Files looked angry, but nodded; Ser Granzia turned to Eniso Desin, the senior partner of Velarsin and Co. "May we use your equipment?"
"Of course, Ser Granzia. But I am afraid that we cannot give Lady Cecelia full credit for the reparable elements of the system until they are released from official custody. . . . I am sorry, but—"
"I quite understand," Ser Granzia said. "Indeed, it would be unfair, and my client will be satisfied if you keep account of what was impounded; if it should be released, and still worth repair, perhaps you will bid on it?"
"Oh, certainly," Desin said. "Mr. Brynear assures me that at least sixty percent of the components would be worth working on."
"Excellent." Cecelia wondered if she, too, should say something, but Ser Granzia rolled on. "Now—it seems to me, Mr. Files, that the discovery of items secreted in the scrubber suggests a motive for Iklind to attempt removal at risk of his life. In fact, it strongly suggests his complicity in some illegal activity, and Captain Serrano's innocence. I would suggest that a search warrant, limited to Iklind's personal items and storage spaces, might prove fruitful."
"But—!" Cecelia got that much out before his hand clamped on her wrist.
"It need not," he went on, "inconvenience Lady Cecelia or interfere with her schedule, provided that you act in a timely manner."
"Right." Files seemed sapped of energy. Cecelia wondered if Ser Granzia's voice had a hypnotic overlay. "I'll—get that done as soon as we've contacted the military."
Before she knew how it happened, Cecelia found herself sitting across a table from Heris Serrano in Desin's private office, with a tray of hot pastries and a variety of drinks before her. Ser Granzia was still in conference with Mr. Files and Desin; Desin's assistant had brought the refreshments and now left them alone. Cecelia watched her captain pour herself a cup of something hot from a fluted pot. The woman had a quality Cecelia had not yet defined, but found attractive. She never fidgeted, never seemed divided against herself. Yet she did not seem insensitive . . . someone who had read and enjoyed Siilvaas could not be insensitive.
"You may win our wager, milady," she said now. She offered the steaming cup to Cecelia, who shook her head. She wanted something cold, and chose a bottle of fruit juice from an ice bucket.
"Circumstances have changed," Cecelia said. "Perhaps I should withdraw?"
"No—a wager's a wager." Serrano's short black hair actually moved when she shook her head; Cecelia had begun to wonder if it was a wig. "I shall look forward to my lessons on your mechanical horse." She had an engaging grin, Cecelia decided, which made her look years younger.
"Ummm. I still think the interruption of officialdom makes it unfair: suppose I exchange honors and let you teach me more about my ship? I'm now convinced my own ignorance is both inconvenient and culpable."
The dark eyes measured her; Cecelia felt suddenly as if she had become a novice rider, facing a stern judge in her first event. Why had a woman with such a gift of command given up her commission? Cecelia could not believe it was anything dishonorable . . . not with those eyes. A mistake? A quarrel? She had not seemed quarrelsome so far, even when confronted with Ronnie's rudeness.
"If it is your pleasure," Serrano said. "Then I will be very glad to show you over your ship. But I cannot consider it as your obligation under our wager unless I actually win . . . and despite the best your legal firm can do, I expect we will be late leaving."
Cecelia snorted. "I'm beginning to think this year's season is jinxed. Here I was invited for the opening day—planned to be early for once, planned to attend the first ball, even. Then Olin got me to Court late, and I had young Ronnie foisted on me, and now this. If I'm not careful I'll break a leg or something and miss hunting altogether."
"How long does it last? If it's more than a few days, we should be there for some of it."
The ignorance surprised her again, but she reminded herself that even among her class, not everyone knew much about fox hunting. "The season is just that," she said gently. "A whole season—in this case, a planetary quartile. Ideally, fox hunting is done when it is cool enough so that the horses don't overheat in the long chase, damp enough for hounds to pick up the scent."
"Then—"
"Oh, we'll arrive before it's over, if something else doesn't happen. But it's the opening—the first day—that excitement—" Cecelia stared out the window at the view without seeing it. "You can't under
stand; you haven't been there. I love it anyway, wet days and dry; I'm one of the last to leave. It's just different, that's all."
"Did you ever do any sailing?" Serrano asked.
"Sailing? You mean on water?" When Serrano nodded, Cecelia went on. "Yes, a little. Bunny has lodges on island groups; I remember sailing little boats, hardly more than floatboards, one afternoon. Why?"
"Because what you describe for hunting reminds me of racing season at my grandparents' place on Lowein. There again there's a season, a weather pattern, that fits the sport, and on the first day all the boats, from the little sailboards up to square-riggers, parade along the coast. Everyone wants to be there."
Cecelia recognized the note of longing. "Did you race sailboats?"
Serrano smiled. "A cousin and I did, before we went in the Academy—it was a Rix-class, which wouldn't mean anything to you, any more than horse terms do to me. And I crewed on a larger yacht one summer."
"And will you do that when you retire? Go back there and sail?"
Serrano's face seemed to close into an impenetrable shell. "No, milady. Lowein is where Fleet officers retire. . . . I wouldn't fit in there, and I've no desire to embarrass my family."
"I hardly think you'd embarrass anyone," Cecelia said. "Is it such a disgrace to captain my yacht?" She was surprised herself at how angry she felt at that thought.
"No—not at all." The voice carried no conviction, though. "Nothing to do with that—this—at all." Serrano managed a forced smile. "Never mind—my retirement plans are far away, and we have a present problem: how to get you to your hunt on time. I'll check with Sirkin, and see if we can't cut some corners."
"With your concern for my safety?" That was meant as a joke, but came out sharper than she had intended.
"Yes—with due concern for your safety." Serrano was serious again. "There's another matter, milady. It's about your crew."
"What—do you think they're all smugglers?" Again, a lightness she couldn't sustain. Cecelia shook her head. "I'm sorry: I am trying to be funny and it's not working."
"No wonder," Serrano said. "You have had your schedule disrupted; you have lost a crewman through a dangerous accident; you have nearly been accused of smuggling; and you had to spend several days of uncomfortable travel under emergency restrictions. Frankly, I think you're holding up surprisingly well."
"You do?"
"Yes. Nonetheless, I must bother you about the crew." Serrano paused to sip from her cup and take a bite of pastry. Cecelia noticed again the dark smudges under her eyes—had she slept enough? Or was it worry? She picked up a pastry herself, and tried it. Leathery, compared to those her own cook turned out. "You hired your crew from one employment agency," Serrano said. "Who recommended that agency to you?"
"I hired you from the same agency," Cecelia said. "What difference does that make?"
"It's a bit of embarrassment, but . . . they don't send you their best. They admitted that to me, when I asked them to forward some information on the crew."
"But—but I'm a Bellinveau!" Cecelia's voice rose. "Surely they wouldn't—"
"What they said," Serrano broke in, "was that you did not need the level of expertise that a large ship did. Their top people go to big shipping and passenger lines, where they have a chance to move up—"
"I pay very high salaries," Cecelia said. "That ought to mean something, if my name doesn't." She didn't like being interrupted, and she didn't like the implication that her ship was unimportant compared to a commercial liner.
"It means you get greedy incompetents." Serrano stared her down; Cecelia felt again the power of that dark gaze. Then her face relaxed and she grinned. "Except me, of course. I wasn't so much greedy as desperate to get a civilian job. But they did not recommend me for a commercial ship because of my background—the big corporations like to train their own people their own way, and find a military background a hindrance. You've got a very good navigator in Sirkin—she topped her exams, and I'm very satisfied with her work." Cecelia had the feeling that "very satisfied" from Captain Serrano would have been a dozen flowery adjectives from someone else. "But the others, milady, looked on your yacht as a cushy berth where they would be well paid for doing little, and your previous captains seem to have concurred."
"But everything seemed to run smoothly," Cecelia said, trying to remember if she'd ever noticed anything. Not really. As long as she arrived where she wanted to, when she wanted to, she had assumed the ship was fine. It certainly cost enough. "And I had the regular maintenance and inspections—I don't know what more I could have done." Even as she said it, she realized how she'd feel if someone said that about a stable in which they boarded their horses. She had had contempt for owners who didn't know, who didn't seem to care, about the details of stable management. Apparently she had made the same error with her own ship.
Serrano did not seem surprised, but didn't dwell on the point. "You paid for them, you mean. You had to trust your crew, because you didn't know yourself what to look for. And I think that for some years you had honest, if less than superb, crew members who did their duties fairly well. A good captain would have been enough, to provide the initiative and discipline for crew who were competent but uninspired. But in Massimir Olin, you did not have a good captain. I don't know with any certainty, but I suspect that he was looking for exactly such a ship, a small but fast vessel belonging to someone with no knowledge of ships or space, a vessel whose owner might be expected to visit places closed to commercial trade. You let him choose replacement crew, of course, and when old Titinka had that heart attack, he hired Iklind—from the same agency as the rest."
"But it's quite reputable," Cecelia said. Her mind whirled. She had never thought of herself—independent to the point of eccentricity and with no romantic susceptibilities—as anyone's natural prey. The image of herself as a fat sheep which a wolf might stalk seemed both ridiculous and disgusting. "It's the top agency in its field." Implicit in that was the assumption that no Bellinveau would use less.
"It is reputable," said Serrano. "But no agency is immune from penetration. Where there is blood, the blood-suckers gather: where there is wealth . . ."
"I know the saying," Cecelia said. "But I never expected it to apply to me—I'm old, unattached and intend to remain that way, my money will revert to the family when I die—"
"You are free transportation for your crew," Serrano said. "You pay well enough that they know you must have more—you have everything done by top firms. But I think for Olin it was the places you could go without comment—the places he wanted to go, which you could take him to."
Cecelia thought about that, and set it aside. What Olin's motives had been did not concern her now. "You had a point to make about the crew?" she asked. Serrano's twinkle rewarded her for coming back to that point.
"Yes, I did. I had intended to suggest some replacements of the least effective after your season of hunting; considering what's happened, I think you have both cause and justification for making some changes now. Assuming you don't want to start with me."
"Don't be silly!" Cecelia said. "I don't blame you for any of this."
Serrano shrugged. "You might well have. Good captains don't let such accidents happen. Anyway, you need a replacement for Iklind. I'm seriously concerned about the entire environmental department, and would suggest you also drop the new juniors, retaining only the survivor of the accident. Mr. Gavin I believe to be honest, though totally devoid of initiative, and I think he can be salvaged by some good training. Your pilot . . . actually, besides his manner, I have no complaint of his performance. But he strongly defended Olin's choice of course, in the face of a possible course that would have had you on your schedule. I suspect his complicity. We could do without a pilot, I am licensed for that duty, a separate qualification, and the expense of this refitting would explain your dropping him entirely."
"But can we find good crew out here?" Cecelia asked.
"Yes—in fact I've asked Mr. Brynear about
that already. As this is a major repair facility, there are always crews coming through. Someone is sick, and stays behind; someone is unhappy and jumps ship—not that we want that sort. Velarsin and Co., and other firms, hire these temporaries, and their work records here give us something to go on. Also there are people who start in refitting who want to work aboard a ship; if they've taken their exams, and we interview their supervisors, we can find some good ones. But it's up to you, milady."
Exactly what she didn't want, on her ship. She wanted it to function perfectly without her having to make any decisions at all. Just transportation . . . but of course, there were people who looked at horses as just transportation, and she knew what she thought of them. "I've always left it up to my captains," Cecelia said slowly. "Are you asking me to interview with you, or—"