Hunting Party

Chapter Twenty-one

Discretion must be served. Two by two, the former prey, Heris’s former crew members, left for the mainland hospital, where (Heris was assured) Bunny’s excellent medical staff would check them out, and where they would live in privacy and luxury until they decided what they wanted to do. She had spoken to each one, but they were too dazed to talk much. She understood; she felt that way herself. Too many emotions, too much turmoil. Finally, with the lodge empty, it was her turn. She and Cecelia and Petris had a luxurious flitter, with Michaels himself at the controls, for the flight back. No more clouds. . . . The wrinkled ocean lay blank and blue under a clear sky until they reached the mainland. Heris stared at it until she felt the pattern was imprinted forever on her retinas. She wondered why Petris was traveling with them, then wondered why she wondered. And why couldn’t they talk? After that first night, she had not expected the awkwardness of the days and nights since, when they could cling together . . . but not complete a sentence.

The flitter delivered them to the wide courtyard before the Main House rather than the flitter hangars. Here it was cold, with low clouds racing across the sky before a sharp wind. Heris sealed the jacket she had not needed on the island and shivered. She was glad she wouldn’t have to walk up the hill from the other end of the village. Inside, Petris looked up the great staircase that first time with an odd expression that mingled delight and apprehension.

“This is exactly how I thought a great lord’s house would look, and I don’t trust it,” he said finally. “It’s too perfectly what it is, like an entertainment-cube version of a fleet cruiser.”

“It’s intimidating,” said Heris. Now she could admit that. “I couldn’t believe anyone actually lived in it. But they do.” She wondered where the servants were; usually two or three at least were in the hall at this hour. But the one who had opened the door had vanished, leaving it to Cecelia to lead the way upstairs.

Petris, she found, had the room next to hers, where she remembered someone else having been, but she did not raise her brows to Cecelia, who already looked entirely too smug. How had Cecelia known that?

“Don’t forget,” Cecelia said, “that Petris will need to check in with Neil. I’ll let him know you’re coming, shall I?”

Heris looked at Petris. He had not had the benefit of Cecelia’s riding simulator. But he grinned. “I can hardly wait to see Heris on horseback, chasing a fox,” he said. “Although I’m not looking forward to those early starts.”

“Nonetheless. And of course I needn’t warn either of you about discussing all this—”

“Not at all.” Petris raised and lowered his brows at her, a clear dismissal.

“Dinner at eight,” Cecelia said. She strode off down the corridor.

“Your employer—” Petris began.

“Our employer,” Heris said. “Unless you change your mind.”

“I never change my mind,” Petris said. “Come in here—” He led her into his room, a twin of her own. “I don’t believe this, either!” He was staring at the furniture, the gleaming expanse of the bathroom and its glittering toys. He walked around the room, opening and closing the doors of wardrobes, looking into drawers in tall polished chests. Heris could see the racks of clothes, and wondered. “I’m sure these all fit—Lady Cecelia would have seen to it. I always knew there was a good reason to leave the onion farm.” Then he looked into the bathroom again. “Plenty of room, and warm towels. Shall I scrub your back, my love, or will you scrub mine?”

Ronnie was sure they were all making too much fuss about his condition. George had been shot; George might die. He still had that nagging headache, and a collection of bruises and scrapes, but after a night in the hospital he was ready to go back to hunting. Or at least, back to living in the far more comfortable quarters he had enjoyed before.

“Time enough,” the nurse said. “You’re not leaving until the doctor agrees, and your scans aren’t normal yet.” It wasn’t the same nurse as before, he thought, and wondered how often their shifts changed.

“Nothing’s broken,” Ronnie said. “You let that fellow in the other bed leave just twenty-four hours after a broken leg—”

“Bones aren’t brains,” the nurse said. Ronnie closed his eyes, feigning sleep, and was surprised to find dark outside his windows when he opened them again. The next morning (which morning?) he woke without a trace of the headache, and the awareness that he had not been clearheaded before.

“And you’re not yet,” the doctor said, when she arrived to talk to him before he left. “You think you are, but it’s like climbing out of a hole: it’s lighter where you are, but you’re still in shadow. I know this will disappoint you, but I’ve already notified Lord Thornbuckle’s head groom: you are not to ride for at least ten days, and you’ll have to be reevaluated then.”

“But I didn’t—” Ronnie began, but the doctor smiled and patted his knee as if he were a child. Considering her white hair and wrinkles, she probably thought of him that way. I didn’t want to ride, he said silently. And now I don’t have to. “What about George?” he asked. They had told him nothing so far except soothing murmurs. He braced himself to hear that George had died.

“That young man,” the doctor said. “Do I understand that everyone calls him the odious George?”

“Yes,” Ronnie said.

“I can see why,” she said. “He can have visitors—in fact, he has visitors all day, now. So if you want to know, just take the lift up one, and it’s the third door on the left. He’s still on the surgical floor, though really—” She shook her head without finishing that and left. Ronnie pulled on his clothes, hardly wondering where they’d come from, and went to see George.

George lay propped up in bed, looking like an advertisement for a hospital company: dark hair perfectly in place, fading bruises on his face suggesting courage without diminishing his good looks. Ronnie knew that on anyone else the yellow and green and dull purple would have looked hideous, but George’s luck seemed to hold.

“Ronnie!” His voice sounded the same, if not quite as loud as usual. “I wondered when you’d make it up here. You missed all the excitement.”

Ronnie stared at him. Missed all the excitement? Had no one told George about the admiral and the gas grenade, or the prince, or—

“My father’s on the way,” George said. He looked exactly as he had always looked, smug. Odious. Ronnie wanted to hit him, but you couldn’t hit someone in bed with a gunshot wound. He went in, nonetheless, holding a vague grudge but not sure how to let it go. Should he tell George about the prince? He thought he remembered it was supposed to be a secret.

George’s face changed, and his voice softened. “I—was really scared. You passed out on me, then they caught me, and those two—”

“Who?”

“The guards back on Bandon. I never saw the hunters at all, just these two men.”

“They’re the ones who shot you?”

“Oh, no. One of Bunny’s militia shot me, and it wasn’t an accident, either. I tried to tell Captain Serrano, but couldn’t get it across. . . . He was standing there, eyeing your aunt as if he’d like to kill her right then.”

“Did you tell Bunny? When you got back here?” Ronnie had an urge to leap up himself, right then, and go find his aunt.

“It’s all right. That’s part of what you missed. That’s the same man who tried to kill your aunt and Captain Serrano when they went to find you in the cave.”

“Oh.” Ronnie tried to remember if he’d heard about that man before. He remembered some things vividly: finding George unconscious, trying to build a litter, the storm, Raffa’s warmth against him in the cold, dark cave, that moment of sheer terror when he jumped for the gas grenade. But he had no clear mental map of the time . . . how long they’d been on the island, or whether they’d stayed on Bandon overnight or flown straight back.

“Your aunt plugged him,” George said, with relish. “He had the captain covered.”

“She would,” Ronnie said vaguely. He hated not remembering; it was like being very old, he thought. He had probably said things, and done things, without really knowing it. What if he had said something stupid? What if he had said something stupid to Raffa? Was that why he couldn’t remember seeing her in the hospital?

George sobered again. “It’s not that easy, being a hero. At least, it wasn’t for me. You—”

“Not for me, either. There’s a lot I can’t remember.”

“There’s a lot I wish I couldn’t remember.” George scowled. “I have never been so scared, so humiliated, in my life—not even that first term at school.” He sounded far more human than usual. “At least you didn’t have to scrub any toilets.”

“Not that again!” Raffa’s voice; Ronnie turned to look. She might never have been off the mainland; she looked like all the other polished young women who had come for the hunting party, and she looked like no one else in the universe. Bubbles, beside her, leaned against the door and grinned broadly.

“Now I can quit holding Raffa’s hand every night. You had us all scared, Ronnie.”

“Me? George is the one who got shot.”

“All George needed was a good surgeon, a day in the regen tank, and a personality transplant; my father could supply the first two, but not the last.”

“You’ll regret that, Bubbles—” George said, but it had no bite. “My reputation depends on being odious. And wrinkle-free.”

“Your reputation depends on your father,” Bubbles said. “Or someone would have beaten the odiousness out of you long before.”

“Unfair,” George said. Then he grinned. “Well—partly unfair. And I do resent the damage to my good trousers.”

“I assure you,” Bubbles said, in the same dry tone, “that you’ll be wrinkle-free and out of here in time for the Hunt Ball. If you promise to keep your mouth shut and cause no trouble about Mr. Smith.”

George made an innocent face that would not have fooled anyone. It certainly did not fool Ronnie or the girls.

“If you don’t promise—and keep that promise,” Bubbles went on, “I’ll make sure that someone slips the wrong stuff in the regen tank for your next treatment, and you’ll have wrinkles in places you don’t think wrinkles can form. Permanent wrinkles. Then you can stay in this room until you die of genuine old age.”

“And I,” Raffa said, coming over to take Ronnie’s hand, “will personally ruin every garment you own and send your tailor a certified letter giving your new measurements. Interesting new measurements.” She mimed the anguish of someone in trousers with a short rise, the problems of skimpy sleeves and a baggy, short jacket.

George rolled his eyes dramatically. “You might have trusted me. Lawyers’ sons learn some discretion.” The others snorted. He went on. “All right. I promise. No leading questions, no suggestive remarks, nothing about Mr. Smith or his . . . mmm . . . other identity. But how am I supposed to explain my disappearance from the noble sport of fox hunting?”

“We took the flitter to go picnicking, and we crashed, and you and Ronnie were hurt saving us. Very simple, very—”

“What about Lady Cecelia and Captain Serrano?”

“Unrelated, except that Lady Cecelia is the one who let Bunny know we were missing—just as it happened. We’re hoping to get past the Hunt Ball without the whole story coming out.”

Neil had pronounced Petris’s seat “untidy but effective,” and passed him into the blue hunt at once. Heris had little interest in riding to hounds any more, but also little choice; if she stayed home, it would be noticed, and tongues were already wagging. Cecelia, pleading age, could go out only twice a week; Heris had to ride five days out of seven. She knew Cecelia was up to something again—or still—because the Crown Minister stayed in the same days as Cecelia.

“I might just as well go back to the ship,” she argued with Cecelia one afternoon. Her horse had stumbled on landing from a wall, fallen heavily, and come up lame; Heris herself had bruised her shoulder. The fox—if there was a fox—had got clean away. She wanted to be back on a decent ship, where large heavy animals didn’t dump her off and then roll on her. Her leg wasn’t broken, but it felt reshaped.

“You should go by the hospital and spend a few hours in the tank,” Cecelia said. “You’ve had a hard fall, and you’re sore. It’ll heal.”

“We’ll have crew changes—”

“You can’t go until after the Hunt Dinner and Ball. We have to finish out this much of the season, or it will be suspicious. You notice that no one comments on what happened?”

“But—”

“But Mr. Smith is safely contained; I’ve offered to take him home since we already officially know. We’ll stay until the Hunt Dinner, and leave the next day. I always stay for the first Hunt Dinner.” Heris found this confusing, since in the books she’d read there was only one official Hunt Dinner per hunt club, but presumably Bunny did things his own way. And with such a long season, perhaps most people didn’t stay for the whole thing. Cecelia patted her shoulder; Heris tried not to wince. “Now go spend a few hours in the tank, and ask Sari to give you a good rubdown. Petris will be in the green hunt, Neil says, by the day after tomorrow, and you’ll feel much better by then.”

Heris didn’t want a rubdown from Sari; she wanted a pleasant night with Petris. But with her bruises, it wouldn’t be pleasant. “When is this Hunt Dinner?” she asked, resigned to a trip to the hospital. She would remember to look in on everyone.

“End of next week.” Cecelia took a few twirling steps that startled Heris. She flushed. “I may be old, and plain, but there’s no law that says I can’t dance.”

Dance. Heris thought of dancing with Petris, and felt her bones begin to melt. She would manage not to hunt in the next week; she didn’t want to risk missing that. It might even be worth the hours in the regen tank. She was in the tank, trying to relax as the technicians fussed over her bruised arm and leg, when one of the things Cecelia had said brought her bolt upright, splashing.

“Sorry,” she said, to the technician who had contained his own curse but not the expression on his face. “Bad memory.” The prince. Cecelia had said they were going to transport the prince home. That meant . . . she squeezed her eyes shut, and thought about it. Would Ronnie stay here? Surely she wouldn’t have that pair on her ship at the same time!

The last week passed in a flurry . . . cold blue days, icy nights, glorious rides across the open land the green hunt favored. Heris had come out of the tank with more than her bruises healed, and suspected Cecelia of telling someone to load her IV with mood elevators. Either that, or the old books were right when they described the glow of lovers riding stirrup to stirrup at a gallop.

“Gallop by day, and . . . other gaits by night,” Petris said, his arm under her head again. Heris didn’t answer, as the gait in question required concentration. They could talk again, she had discovered, but this was not the time. Later, he asked, “And what are you wearing to the ball tomorrow?”

“A dress,” Heris said. She could feel herself starting to chuckle in anticipation, a quiver that Petris must surely recognize. He tapped her nose with his finger.

“A dress. Amazing. I thought fox hunters wore skins and furs to a ball. Or horse hides or something equally barbaric. What are you laughing about? Are you wearing a fur dress?”

“No . . . but I won’t tell you. You’ll have to see it.” An extravagance, which she had not intended, but it had made an excuse to miss one day’s hunt. It made a sizeable hole in the salary Cecelia had yet to pay her. She could hardly wait to see Petris’s face when he saw her in it.

Heris had not meant to wait until the day of the Hunt Dinner to tackle Cecelia about the changes needed in the ship, but there never seemed to be time. But she had made promises to Petris and the others; she had to make sure Cecelia understood before they actually boarded. The argument (she was sure it would be an argument) must be private. She slithered into her own gown, and shook her head at the image in the mirror. The beaded bodice shifted color with every movement, shimmering; the soft pleats of the midnight-blue skirt were spangled with random beads, as if the bodice had dripped fire onto it. And she looked . . . very unmilitary, she decided. Very unmilitary.

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 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.”