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 understand; 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—”