“I was surprised that you backed away from it,” Cecelia said, even more quietly. “Bunny would have let you—”
Heris shook her head vigorously. “It wouldn’t work. These aren’t my people; they don’t know me, and I don’t know the local situation well enough. The person who doesn’t fit in, who doesn’t know the people or the terrain, is going to get someone killed. Other people killed. I’m old enough to let someone else do the job for which they’re trained, and simply chew my nails until it’s over.”
“Umm.” Cecelia looked out the canopy, and then back. “A point where riders differ from soldiers, I suppose. I’ve taken on someone else’s mount if they were injured. If you’re a good enough—”
“That’s different. But I’ll bet you didn’t drag some first-timer off her horse just because you thought you could ride it better.” Cecelia turned red. Heris looked at her. “You did?”
“I didn’t think of it that way, but—” She shifted in her seat, and looked away. “Money and influence are another way of dragging someone off a horse—with the coach convinced Ivan would never do for that horse what I could, and the All-Union Challenge coming up in six months—”
Heris knew her expression had said what she thought before she could hide it. Cecelia, still red, did not try to excuse her younger self.
“I shouldn’t have done it—and even at the time, I felt a bit guilty. It wasn’t until much later that I realized how much even the best riders—even I—depended on finding an outstanding horse; I thought Ivan’s failure to stay in the senior circuit after that reflected his ability. Justified the coach’s decision, and my . . . influence.”
“Was that your . . . your best horse?” Heris hoped not. She wanted to think better of Cecelia.
“No. It was a horse I thought might replace my best horse. A big piebald from Luminaire, that Ivan found on a farm, and bought literally out of harness. Ivan had done all his early work, but I thought—we all thought—the horse was such a natural anyone could have made an eventer out of him. What he needed was a better rider, we thought. After I got him, he slammed his stupid hoof into a stall partition while being shipped to the Challenge, and ripped his leg up. Never jumped sound again. I had another mount qualified, and you’ll probably think it justice that she dumped me headfirst in the water—along with the minicam on my helmet.”
Heris struggled not to laugh. “A cube they never made, eh?”
“Oh, they made it. You can buy my dive into the water along with a number of other embarrassing incidents, and since it was full-sim pickup, you can program your own simulator to take the same bounce and see if you can stay on. Sometimes I can.” She sighed. “It was a stupid mistake—and to be honest, I’ve never quite forgiven myself for it. It was just the sort of thing I hated to see, and never meant to do. Yet I could never go back and apologize to Ivan—and a few years later, he was killed in a slideway accident, nothing to do with horses at all.”
Ahead, Heris saw the lead carriers spread out. She knew—they had been kind enough to tell her—that they planned to land two on Bandon proper, to secure the island, and two on the island where the flitter had crashed. The supply flitter would land on Bandon behind the others. She could see the smudges of islands ahead, distorted by the curve of the canopy, but she couldn’t recognize them. Cecelia prodded her side, and pointed. Sunlight glinted off something large and shiny on one of the islands.
“Shuttle on the field,” said one of the medics. Their squad leader spoke into his com, then turned to glance at Heris.
“Shuttle’s not primed for takeoff; there’s nothing on the field with a hot signature. Captain’s got the satellite data, and thinks there’s fewer than a dozen people on Bandon proper, maybe less.”
“Thanks.” Heris managed that much before her throat closed. She didn’t want to sit back here with Cecelia; she wanted to be up there—not even in this flitter, but the lead one. The flitter droned on; the medics, after a long glance out the canopy, went back to checking their gear, over and over. The squad leader stared ahead, not speaking. Ahead, the islands rose out of the sea, by ones and twos, their forest-clad flanks showing dark against glistening beaches and the glowing blue sea.
Chapter Sixteen
“We’re in luck,” Raffa murmured. Even that soft voice woke complex echoes from the water surface, the stone spaces in the cave. Bubbles inched backwards around the corner, fighting her terror of the blackness.
“Light,” said Raffa. It flared too brightly in the dark goggles; Bubbles tore them away and stared. Raffa had found an old-fashioned candle lantern, and the striker to light it. Without the goggles, it lit the space around them only dimly, yet it felt so much better . . . that warm flame the color of afternoon sunlight. Bubbles tried to breathe slowly and calmly, and felt her body gradually relax. They were hidden . . . they had light . . . they were, after all, alive.
“D’you think it’s safe?” she asked, hoping for reassurance.
“In daylight, certainly—they can’t see a little light like this around the corner, not after being out in real daylight. At night—they’d still have to put their heads through that vine curtain, and maybe see sparkles on the water.” Raffa put the lantern back on the stone shelf it had come from. Bubbles saw there the other evidence of Kell’s occupation: his initials, carved into the stone above the ledge, a row of seashells and colored stones, a tangle of wire leaders, coils of fishing line and some fish hooks, and a pile of wooden blocks, all daubed with white painted numbers, and lengths of twine with lead weights attached.
“I wonder what that’s all about,” Bubbles said. “They look like bobbers, for fishing, but why so many? And why numbered?” Raffa meanwhile was exploring the space below.
“Look at this—a sleeping bag or something—soft, anyway. My aching bones will appreciate that.”
“I wish I knew if the water was safe,” Bubbles said. “We still have some, but—”
“We could look for dead fish.” Raffa picked up the candle lantern again, and carried it to the water’s edge. When she held it low, Bubbles could see how clear the water was, how pale and unappealing the bottom. Something almost colorless fled through the edge of the light. “Fish,” said Raffa, as if she were sure. “My aunt’s caves had some pools with fish like this. No color, shy of light.”
“So it’s probably not poisoned. If these fish are susceptible to the same poison.”
Raffa laughed, softly. “So you do pay attention in class sometimes. Maris claimed she had to spoon-feed you all your answers to the exams.”
Bubbles snorted. “Maris couldn’t tell the truth if she were being interrogated under truth serum by the Imperium. I didn’t mind learning things but you know how it is—”
Raffa nodded. “Never show how smart you are, dears, or someone will envy you. And then we’re supposed to show how rich and prominent our families are, as if no one would envy that.” In the faint glow of the lantern, Bubbles could not quite read the expression that Raffa turned to her. “D’you mind if I ask something?”
“No . . . while we’re hiding in a cave from people who want to kill us, I think your questions are not going to be that threatening.” Nonetheless, Bubbles felt a twinge of anxiety. Surely Raffa wouldn’t ask about Cecely’s infamous birthday party. . . . She didn’t want any more lies between her and death.
“Why do you let them call you Bubbles?” The very unexpectedness of it made Bubbles laugh aloud; the cave’s echoes laughed back, hollowly. She choked the laughter down.
“That—I’m sorry—that’s a long story, well suited to this place, I guess. You have brothers and cousins, though—you’ll understand.” Raffa gave a soothing murmur that might have been anything. “The fashion for Old-Earth, North-European great names was at its height. . . . You know we’re all stuck with things like Cicely and Marilys and Gwenivere—your Raffaele is actually pretty, but some of them—”