“Just thinking,” Heris said, pulling her mind back onto the designated track. It was crazy, she thought again, almost as crazy as the orders she had refused to obey. She and Cecelia had no idea what was going on over there, she knew Lepescu was dangerous in any context, and yet they were preparing to fly off as if it were an afternoon picnic. As if they were safe, protected by the social conventions of Bunny’s crowd. But Lepescu wasn’t part of Bunny’s crowd. Why was he here? What was he doing, and what would he do when he saw her? How many unauthorized visitors were on this island, and why hadn’t Ronnie and Bubbles called in?
“At worst,” Cecelia said, interrupting her thoughts again, “I suppose we’ll find the crashed flitter and they’ll all be dead. Otherwise they’d have called in, if they needed help.” She didn’t sound certain of that.
“Um.” Heris dug through her daypouch for the notepad and stylus she carried out of habit. “We need to do a little planning here. Worst case—all dead. Next worst—injured, needing evacuation. We really should bring some help. The local security force, a medic or two—”
Cecelia looked stubborn. “I don’t want to. It’s my nephew, after all. If I can get him out of this without Bunny’s knowledge, keep it in the family—”
“Have you considered violence?” asked Heris. At Cecelia’s bewildered expression, she explained. “I told you about Lepescu. If he’s here, uninvited, I would expect some kind of nastiness going on. There are stories about him and his cronies—” She could feel her lip curling.
“But what could he be doing?” asked Cecelia. “He doesn’t have any troops to command here—wait—you don’t think he’s trying to invade or something? Take over Bunny’s holdings?” She looked frightened.
“No . . . I don’t think so.” It did not make sense that a mid-list admiral would alienate so powerful a family; besides, he could not invade without troops, and one shuttle load would hardly be enough. Heris thought for a moment. “Wait—remember that Kettlegrave woman?”
“The one blathering on about blood-sports?”
“Yes. She said something—about fox hunting leading to other things, those who would hunt innocent animals being just as willing to hunt people—”
“Ridiculous!” Cecelia sniffed. “Bunny’s as gentle as his nickname—”
“Bunny is. But Lepescu is most definitely not. What if there’s some kind of illicit hunting—no, not people of course, but something else, that Bunny wouldn’t like, with the fox hunting season as cover—” Even as she said it, she remembered that Lepescu belonged to a semi-secret officers’ club. She had not been invited to join, but Perin Sothanous had. He’d refused, and kept his oath not to talk of what he’d learned . . . but she had heard him say it was “—really sick—they think the only true blood-sport is war.”
“You have a wicked mind,” Cecelia said.
“I know. But it makes sense. You told me that Bunny has some rare and valuable animals that are practically pets. What if they’re being hunted? We’ll go armed, and expect trouble: it’s the only sensible way.”
“Armed?”
“Of course. Lepescu is dangerous, and he’s not alone. We don’t know what those youngsters have gotten into, and we have to be able to get them and ourselves out.” Even as she said it, she knew they couldn’t possibly do this alone. It was stupid. Militarily, it was suicide. A flitter held eight easily, ten if cramped—could they squeeze in some muscle on the way out? No—she could not command any of Bunny’s staff, and she wouldn’t trust them anyway. She ached for her lost crew, for Oblo and Petris who would have stood behind her in anything. Except the trial, her mind reminded her. She argued back to her memory: They would have, but I wouldn’t put them through it.
She shook herself physically, as well as mentally, and signed off with Sirkin, giving the few final orders. She would have to do this alone, because there was no other way. At least she could prepare Cecelia for what they might face.
“Rifles,” she said. “At a minimum, and if you can use a bow—”
“Of course,” Cecelia said, still looking shocked. “But why—”
“It’s quieter.” Heris had pulled out her notepad again, and was figuring on it. Supplies: they’d have to assume they couldn’t use Bandon, so they’d need food, medical supplies, ammunition for the weapons she intended to take, protective gear, whatever communications and electronic gear she could lay her hands on—she looked at the wall chronometer—in half a standard hour. They’d need to leave before the day’s hunt gathered. It was crazy. They should tell Bunny; they should use his staff for this.
“Should we take something larger than a standard flitter?” Cecelia asked.
“Hmm? What else?” Heris computed cubage and mass on her notepad and entered the total. They would have to change from hunting clothes, too, or take along something more suitable and change en route.
“A supply flitter, I was thinking. We could take more supplies, and if one of them is injured . . .”
“Good idea. Will they sign one out to you?”
Cecelia looked affronted. “I’ve been a family friend for years—of course they will. Michaels will be glad someone’s checking on the young people.”
“Fine. Then get this list”—Heris handed it to her—“loaded as soon as you can. I’ll pack my kit, and what else we need.”
“The weapons.” Cecelia scowled.
“Yes. The weapons.” The weapons were going to be a problem, any way she went at it. Personal weapons were common enough, but Cecelia, as a dedicated fox hunter, had brought none with her, and Heris’s own small handgun would not be enough.
That morning the green hunt gathered at Stone Lodge, so the house staff at the Main House seemed less rushed. The housekeeper’s eyebrows went up slightly when Heris mentioned weapons, but the brief explanation that Lady Cecelia wanted to find her nephew brought them back down, as if Lady Cecelia could be expected to take after her relatives with firepower.
“Senedor and Clio have a shop here during the season,” the housekeeper said, mentioning a firm of weapons dealers as famous in their way as the great fashion houses. “I imagine they would have anything Lady Cecelia might want.”
“Thank you,” Heris said; once she’d heard the name, she remembered seeing the S&C logo outside one of the little stone buildings that made up the commercial row: saddlers, bootmakers, tailors and bloodstock agents.
Senedor & Clio’s local representative welcomed her with a wink and a smile. “Lady Cecelia, eh? What’s she doing now, deciding to turn elphoose hunter? You’re her captain. . . . You look like regular military.”
“I was.” Heris did not elaborate. She had thought of a good story on the way over. “Look—I’m buying two lots—they’ll need separate accounting. Lady Cecelia’s yacht is woefully undergunned; the crew’s arms are pitiful.” In fact, the crew had no weapons at all. “I finally convinced her that in some of the places she wants to travel, she needs to arm the crew with something more advanced than muzzle-loaders from the family museum.”
The man chuckled. “A lot of these aristocrats are like that—they don’t expect to need real protection.”
“And most of them probably don’t,” Heris conceded. “The ones who make a safe round from hunting here to deep-sea fishing on Fandro and back to court for the season . . . but you know Lady Cecelia isn’t like that.” The man nodded. “So . . . I’m going to do my job and see that she isn’t hijacked somewhere.”
“Umm. We don’t carry many of that sort of thing down here,” he said. “But let’s see . . . here.” The holo catalog showed something that looked like the landing troops’ rifles and submachine guns. Exactly what Heris had been hoping for. “These are made by Zechard, who as you know supply the fleet marines. Ours, of course, go through additional testing from the factory. We have a gross of each model up at Home Station, and we could deliver anything up to that quantity direct to Lady Cecelia’s yacht. The Sweet Delight, isn’t it?”