“You have ruined the effect,” half the ladies cried.
“I’ve given it its crowning glory,” Vicky snapped back. “And speaking of crowning glory, what about my hair?”
“We have several wigs,” the senior lady said through a bit of a pout.
“Wigs?” Vicky said.
“Wigs, of course,” the senior lady said.
“Kit, Kat, you’ve got thirty minutes to make my hair presentable. Ladies, thank you for your efforts, I believe we are done here. I suspect I will see you tomorrow.”
“But of course, Your Grace, you will want us to help you out of the dress tonight, unless you have a man whom you think will be taking care of you. And please, Your Grace, most men hardly know how to raise our skirts, much less undo a bodice. You will need us.”
“Kit and Kat will do quite fine tonight. Now, ladies, the door is that way. If you need help opening it, I’m sure my body servants can assist you.”
The look on both Kit’s and Kat’s faces was pure murder.
The ladies-in-waiting went off to wait somewhere else.
The door closed, Vicky turned to the assassins. “First thing you do is loosen up the laces on this damn contraption.” That took five minutes, but the two young women knew well what to do with Vicky’s hair, and they were ready a good five minutes before the good captain arrived.
CHAPTER 20
“YOUR dress looks . . . ah, expensive,” Captain Morgan said, as Vicky greeted him and offered her cheek to kiss.
“My father, the Emperor, picked it out.”
“Oh, well, no doubt you chose the scarf, and it looks very fetching.”
“For that, you get an ‘atta boy’ and may peck my cheek a second time, Captain.”
He gave her a delicious grin, and did before offering her an arm. “Well, shall we go? Once more, into the breach and all that.”
“Is an Imperial dinner that bad?” Vicky asked as the Marines formed up behind them as they turned down the hall.
“I’m told that dying of boredom is more painful than dying under an artillery barrage,” the Marine said.
“Not having any experience at dying, not for the lack of someone’s trying, I really don’t have an opinion. By the way, Captain, were you warned that serving as my social escort qualifies you for combat pay?”
Lieutenant Heinbock had moved well ahead of them, black box in open evidence.
“The admiral did mention something along those lines. Surely he jests.”
“Surely he does not. There have been two tries just today. Seven all told although one of them might have been aimed at Kris Longknife.”
“I understand she leads a charmed life.”
“I bought my charms from the same place she gets hers,” Vicky said.
“Certainly you are more charming than any Longknife whelp.”
“Oh, you say the nicest things,” Vicky said, and gave the young officer a peck on the cheek for his efforts.
“That will certainly inspire my poor battle-rattled brain to greater efforts.”
Vicky felt her smile evaporate on her face. “The intramural things we have going on here hardly qualify when you’ve seen the real thing,” she muttered.
“So it was bad, huh?”
“Battleships vanishing in the blink of an eye kind of bad,” Vicky said, then tried to chase her smile back onto her face. “But we don’t think of things like that on a night like this. Certainly not in the Imperial Palace, where it is officially proclaimed that it is irrelevant.”
“We wear the uniform, Your Grace. We know what’s real and what isn’t.”
Vicky forced her smile into line. “But tonight is tonight, and we are here, right?”
“Right, Your Grace.”
They arrived at the banquet hall with no casualties other than Vicky’s once turning her ankle in her high heels. “I’ve been wearing Navy footwear for a long time,” she said by way of explanation.
“That’s what my arm is here for.”
Vicky wasn’t sure what to expect at the banquet. She remembered her first time in the hall. There had been a receiving line. She was all of eight, everyone complimented her on how cute she looked in her new dress. Dad actually seemed to notice her that night. Brother stepped down hard on her foot, but she managed not to cry out. She did shed a few tears.
When Father asked why she cried, she knew better than to tell him the truth. “I bit my tongue,” she claimed.
“Be more careful, little girl,” Dad had said, before turning to talk to a woman in a stunning gown that was hardly there.
Yes. Vicky remembered this room all too well.
Tonight, there was no receiving line. Indeed, there seemed to be little order at all. She and Captain Morgan were met at the door by a captain of the Imperial Guard who led them to a table in one corner of the room. It slowly filled with minor functionaries and their wives or dates. The wives wore dresses with ruffles and bustles and high collars. The dates wore hoopskirts with bodices cut low or lower.
They all made chitchat about the weather and how the palace construction was going so quickly and the Empire desperately needed the added offices for the efficient rule of the realm.
Vicky was bored.
A fanfare brought everyone to their feet. To the new Imperial March blaring forth from trumpets, the Imperial couple processed in, Stepmom resplendent in gold and ermine on Father’s arm. They took their place at the head table as the last strains of the anthem came to an end.
And Vicky realized she was about as far from the high table as she could get and not be in the kitchen.
“One would almost think someone didn’t expect you to make it,” the captain whispered softly in Vicky’s ear.
“Poor coordination, no doubt,” Vicky said, and left it to the listener to determine whether she referred to coordination on the seating arrangement or between bomber and the Empress.
Canapés were served first. Vicky passed on them but the captain helped himself to one of each.
“Did you miss lunch?” Vicky asked.
“And breakfast. The admiral is a harsh taskmaster.”
“Thanks for the warning, as one JO to another.”
The Marine chuckled. “Grand Duchess, junior grade, huh?”
“Grand Duchess full on and get out of our way, always,” Vicky growled. “Now, the lieutenant is a bit more humble and mission oriented.”
“Good luck on that.”
“You’re not going to help me?”
The captain fingered the scar on his cheek. Whoever had been wielding the blade had come close to taking the eye out as well. “We all have our crosses to bear, as my grandmother would tell me.”
The soup arrived, a delicious seafood chowder in a clear base. Vicky let herself enjoy half of it before she continued her exploration of her dinner partner.
“So, tell me, is one of your little crosses to bear being surrounded by young women with no underwear?”
“So you found out about that, huh?”
“My ladies-in-waiting couldn’t wait to let me in on their new freedom. How does it work out in the garden on moonlit nights?”
“Very well, I am told.”
“Told?” Vicky said, raising an eyebrow.
“Maybe you haven’t heard the admiral’s lecture about the dangers of being assigned to the palace. Not yet?”
Vicky shook her head.
“Well, we boys get a long lecture about not letting our little head run away with our big one. ‘Think up here,’” he said, waving a finger at his head, “‘not down there.’ One sure way to get a reassignment is to be found out in the gardens, flagrantly delectable with some hoopskirt.”
“Puritanical,” Vicky said.
“Practical,” the captain corrected. “It’s not the women getting their claws into us that the admiral fears, but those who are running the women like bait. Once you take the bait, you’re worthless to the Navy here.”
“Thanks for the warning,” Vicky said. “And no
, the admiral hasn’t given me the lecture. You may tell him that you did pass the word along to me when you get a chance.”
The fish arrived, a baked salmon, and Vicky began to thank any heaven listening that she had the girls loosen her corset by two or three centimeters. She left most of the fish on the plate. Still, it was getting pretty stuffed in there, and the dinner didn’t look even close to over.
She got the captain talking about his tour on Palau, avoiding the scar issue, and he got her talking about how she’d helped take down Port Royal. “Though Kris Longknife had all the real fun.”
“The hog.”
“Did you see the video of her panic party?”
“Hasn’t everyone?” the captain laughed. “At least anyone who cares about those types of things. Imagine, taking on a man with a knife with nothing at hand but a mop. That girl has balls.”
The last had grown loud and drew looks from the others at the table.
The captain covered his mouth with his napkin. “Sometimes I miss talking to real people who understand the real things of life,” he whispered to Vicky.
“I know very much what you mean,” she whispered back.
The rest at the table turned back to their own conversations, leaving Vicky and her Marine to themselves through the next two courses. Vicky noticed that even the captain was slowing up on the chicken and the roast leg of lamb with mint sauce.
The Roman punch was served in small glasses, and one taste told Vicky why. She was tempted to down it in one gulp and wave for more, but her stepmom was casting the occasional glance her way, and Vicky decided against leaving herself open for any new attacks tonight.
Twice in one day was quite enough.
She passed entirely on the beans in a cold sauce, pâté de foie gras, and peaches in some sort of brandy sauce.
It was just as well. Once dinner was finished, a string band struck up a jaunty waltz, and the Emperor and his Empress took to the dance floor.
No one had made to join them by the time the song was about a quarter done. Vicky nudged her captain, and whispered, “Once more, into the breach.”
He grinned, stood up, and began to lead her to the floor.
“No.” “You can’t!” and “It just isn’t done,” along with other whispered admonishments trailed behind them as they made their way through the tables to the floor and joined the other couple.
CHAPTER 21
VICKY drew a smile from her father the first time the dance brought him in view.
The daggers from her stepmother’s eyes might have left her bleeding out on the dance floor if the captain hadn’t swirled himself into the line of fire.
A few at a time, other couples began to join them on the floor. One was the admiral. Resplendent in white dinner jacket and blue trousers himself, his partner wore a lovely blue silk gown of a classic cut.
And his partner was his wife, as he was quick to point out when the dance swept them close. “Mrs. Waller, the only one,” he said.
“Of course I am,” she said. “How could an old hag like myself get such a dashing man on the dance floor with me if I hadn’t caught him years ago?”
“You are still lovely,” the admiral said, clearly no less in love than he had been when he was “caught” years ago.
The music swirled them away. When the music ended, the admiral changed places with the Marine captain, and Vicky shared a waltz with him.
“Thank you, Lieutenant. I had a visit from the steward of the palace this afternoon. I am told that my facilities will be adjusted first thing tomorrow.”
“The lieutenant had nothing to do with it, sir. It was all the Grand Duchess’s doing.”
“The Grand Duchess knows how to throw her weight around, does she?”
“Apparently she is a superb thrower of weights,” Vicky admitted. “Hopefully, she will figure out how to play the Grand Duchess’s cards without becoming an insubordinate lieutenant. I am only too aware that human space can only bear one Kris Longknife. Still, I hope you will permit the lieutenant a few freebie screwups in the next week or so as I figure out how to coordinate my different roles.”
“Thanks for the heads-up. I will endeavor to not take the lieutenant’s head off when she fails to fulfill the proper role of a junior officer. By the way, aren’t you about due for lieutenant commander?”
“In four or five years, sir.”
“Some years are fuller than others and count for more. We really should have fleeted you up before we sent a mere lieutenant to stand toe-to-toe with Lieutenant Commander Kris Longknife.”
“No one stands toe-to-toe with that woman, sir.”
“But we must all do what we are called to do, and any woman who can get the palace factotums and dogsbodies moving with the speed you have has fine qualities and should be allowed to exercise them and grow.”
The dance ended, and someone whom Vicky didn’t recognize but who assured her that he knew her well in her youth cut in. He even hinted that they had been lovers.
That ended when the loyal Marine captain cut in. There might have been a debate over that, but Captain Morgan had his hand resting purposefully on his sword hilt.
The interloper’s eyes grew wide, and his mouth grew shut.
Vicky and Captain Morgan danced away, leaving him stranded in the middle of the other dancers.
Vicky thought she heard a low titter, but she left that behind her. She hadn’t come to the palace to provide low humor to girls of questionable values.
For the next hour, the Emperor and Empress danced every dance, so Vicky and her captain did the same. The orchestra began to mix up the dances, passing from classic waltz to quick steps and even a few sambas, cha-chas, and jive.
Vicky found she’d gotten a workout, and was also working up a sweat. She surrendered the floor to her elders and asked Captain Morgan to lead her outside.
“It is getting rather hot in here.”
“In several ways,” the captain agreed.
Outside, Vicky glanced around. The patio was softly lit, but the formal Italian gardens below were in shadows. There were several chairs and a couple of stone benches. “How does a girl sit in this contraption?”
“I am told that originally, they had stools available, so a young woman could sit demurely while the hoopskirts covered both limbs and stool,” he said as he led Vicky to a stone bench.
“Limbs?” she said, carefully lifting her skirts up so that she could sit down without showing too much.
“Yes. Way back in the day, a proper young lady or her matronly mother would never say ‘legs.’ That might imply an animal body. The word was ‘limbs.’”
“And did the boys have axes to trim those limbs?” Vicky said, patting the bench beside her and offering a seat to the Marine.
“That was not covered in the social histories I stumbled across,” the captain said, taking the offered seat. “This Imperial decision to resurrect old Imperial times on Earth has a lot of people reading up on their history. Some of us actually read histories. Others seem to be satisfied with creative works of fiction rather than the hard stuff.”
“And you, being a Marine and a scholar, do the hard stuff.”
“Shush. Calling a Marine a scholar is worse than calling him a jarhead, you squid.”
“Squid! Now that’s a word that has come a long way. You Marines and your buzz cuts, I can see the jarhead reference. What’s a squid?”
“A fish, ranging from tiny to huge, with eight legs and other bad habits.”
“Kind of like an Iteeche, huh?”
“I think they were referred to as such.”
“And you say you’re not a scholar.”
“Certified,” he said, waving at the scar on his face. “I was dumb enough to let someone get this close to me with sharp steel. Proof I can’t be a man of any smarts.”
“You may fool some people, Captain, but you’re not fooling me.”
From the garden below came a giggle, and other sounds of pleasant company. Vick
y found herself counting the days since she’d had some pleasant company and decided it had been too long.
“We should be going back in,” the captain said. “No doubt the admiral or his senior staff will have started a stopwatch when we left.”
“Is it that bad?” Vicky said, not making any effort to get to her feet. Her rump had just gotten the stone seat warm.
“I don’t mind the admiral’s keeping count. It’s the other side’s counting the seconds and drawing the evil conclusions they are wont to do that bothers me. You don’t have to sin to be blackmailed around the palace. Just the appearance can lead to a quiet talk in a corner. If you’re smart, you report the talk and take your reassignment. If you’re dumb, you don’t, and the admiral finds out anyway.”
Vicky rose, again careful to keep her hoops about her. If the captain was right, she was likely being filmed from the roof of the palace.
“Then let us give no one fodder for scandal, shall we?”
“Yes, let’s.”
“Tell me, Captain Morgan, how long have you survived in this den of iniquity?”
“Six months. I think I hold some sort of record for a man of my age.”
“You aren’t by any chance gay, are you?”
“Regretfully, I am only too subject to the allure of all the soft female flesh laid out before me,” he said with a sigh of proper Irish proportion.
“You’re not blind.”
“Self-control, Your Grace. Self-control and long, cold showers.”
“I like long hot showers, myself.”
“I must ask the admiral tomorrow if you are as off-limits as the rest of the ladies of the court,” the Marine said with an imp’s grin.
“Yes, you must. And let me know his answer. I have a very large bed if he’s a mind to let you share it.”
“You are horrible,” the captain said in a strangled voice.
“I’ve been told that many times.”
They danced for the next hour under the watchful gaze of the court.
Vicky Peterwald: Target Page 15
