Elizabeth Moon - Hunting Party

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.”