“Ummm. You would prefer to discuss this someplace else?”
“I would, but it is clearly a matter for law enforcement. Mr. Brynear has documented the discovery.” Which meant law enforcement had already been summoned. What, she wondered, could Captain Olin have been up to? Smuggling? But what? She realized she had no idea how large a “scrubber” was, or what would fit into it. But she couldn’t ask over an unsecured com line.
“It seems I have a good chance to win our wager,” Cecelia said. “Where shall I meet you? I have legal advice with me.”
“We could all come there, or you could come to the refitters. . . . Your counsel should know. . . .”
“We’ll come.” She felt she had to have some refuge from conflict; she would meet trouble elsewhere. In a few brief phrases she explained the little she understood to the young man, who gulped and asked permission to call back to his office. “While I change,” she said, and headed for the bedroom and Myrtis. What did one wear when one’s crewman had died of an accident that might be related to smuggling, and the goods—whatever they were—had been found aboard one’s yacht? What could convey innocence, outrage, and the determination to be a good citizen? She had never been skilled at this sort of thing. . . . Berenice would have known instantly which scarf or pin, which pair of shoes, would give the right impression. Cecelia opted for formal and dark, with a hat, which hid the unruly lock of hair that wanted to stand straight up from her head.
When she emerged, the young man explained that a senior partner would meet her at the refitter’s . . . he would escort her there, and hand over the case papers. Cecelia smiled at him, and raged inwardly. They should have sent a senior partner in the first place . . . no doubt they were billing the family at the senior partner’s rate.
Chapter Six
“Ah . . . Lady Cecelia?” The gray-haired man flicked a glance at the younger one that made him hand over his briefcomp and then leave.
“Yes, and you’re—?”
“Ser Granzia, and you’re quite right that we should not have sent a junior partner.” He offered his arm; she took it. “We should have known that you would not call in legal help for a minor problem, and the . . . individual who made that decision has been so informed.”
“Ah. I had wondered.” Cecelia let herself be guided into the front office of the refitters. A respectful secretary murmured that Mr. Desin and Chief Brynear were waiting for them in the conference room. Ser Granzia, it seemed, knew the way; his guidance was subtle but unmistakable. Cecelia noticed that the flat gray tweed carpet of the front office gave way to a flat utilitarian surface dully reflecting the overhead lights. On either side, small offices stood open, cluttered with terminals, parts, schematics. She didn’t recognize any of it. Around a corner, carpet reappeared, this time a rich green, much softer. Double doors at the end of the corridor led into a spacious conference room with a wide window to the same sort of view her hotel suite provided. Four people waited there, a tall man in conventional business attire, a shorter one in a rumpled coverall, a nondescript person no doubt representing law and order, and Captain Serrano. On the wide polished table that Cecelia recognized as brasilwood lay a small packet, something lumpy encased in a bag or sack.
“The owner, I presume?” said the tall man. “I’m Eniso Desin, madam. And this is Chief Brynear, the individual in charge of your refitting, and Mr. Files, the local investigator for CenCom.”
“Lady Cecelia de Marktos a Bellinveau,” said Ser Granzia. Cecelia had not heard herself introduced formally for some time; now she remembered why she disliked it so. It sounded silly. “Of the Aranlake Sept, fides de Barraclough.” It could also go on another five lines or so, if she didn’t stop him. The complete formality gave the genetic makeup, political affiliations, and social standing of the male and female lines for six generations . . . but was usually reserved for those assumed to be ignorant of it, and in need of awe.
“And yes, I’m the owner,” she said, when Granzia paused for breath.
“The ship’s registry,” Files said, “lists you as Lady Cecelia Marktos. I presume that’s equivalent?”
“Yes,” Cecelia said. “The registry doesn’t have room on the owner’s line for all of it. I asked, and they said it would be adequate.”
“And you are the same Lady Cecelia to whom the yacht designated SY-00021-38-HOX was originally registered?”
“Yes, of course I am.” Who else, her tone said.
His gaze flicked from her to Captain Serrano and back. “Then I regret to inform you that your vessel has apparently been involved in illegal activities of a criminal nature.” Cecelia wondered what illegal activities of a non-criminal nature would be, but didn’t ask. “How long has this . . . Captain Serrano . . . been your commanding officer?”
“Since I left the Court. I dismissed my former captain for incompetence and refusal to follow my orders, and Captain Serrano had just resigned from the Regular Space Service. She had signed with the employment agency I use and they recommended her highly.”
“And that agency is?”
“I don’t see what this has to do with anything,” Cecelia said, beginning to feel grumpy. Whatever was going on, she was sure Captain Serrano hadn’t been involved. The woman might be a stiff-necked military prig, but she wasn’t any kind of a criminal. “Perhaps you would be kind enough to explain just what sort of illegal activity you are talking about.”
“Do you know what that is?” Files pointed to the packet on the table.
“No.” She felt her brows rising, as much irritation as ignorance. She didn’t like people playing games with her. “I suppose you are going to explain?”
“In good time, madam. You’re sure you’ve never seen it before?”
“I told you—” she began in an exasperated voice; Ser Granzia intervened.
“Excuse me, but if you are contemplating criminal charges against Lady Cecelia, or her captain, you surely remember that you must inform them.”
“I know that,” Files said. “But if the lady had nothing to do with it, her answer might help—”
“I think she will answer no further questions until you have explained, to my satisfaction, what you think it is.” Ser Granzia’s voice, mellow and lush though it was, contained no hint of yielding.
“We believe it to be smuggled goods. It has not yet been subjected to forensic examination, but just glancing at it my guess is proprietary data.” From Files’s expression, he hoped she wouldn’t understand.
“You mean—trade secrets? Something an—an industrial spy might have made off with?”
“Possibly. Because proprietary data is secret—”
“Are secret,” Cecelia murmured. She might not know much about industry, but she knew data was a plural noun. Files grimaced.
“Whatever you say, madam. Are secret—anyway, theft is not reported. It may not be known. It’s not like jewels in a vault.”
“Could it be military?” That from Heris Serrano. Cecelia looked at her captain who looked back with dark, inscrutable eyes.
“Possibly,” Files said. “Forensics will tell us.” Clearly he had no intention of sharing his turf with anyone. “Then, if it is—”
“Fleet should know.” Not even a ridiculous purple uniform could make Heris Serrano look unimportant. Cecelia tried to imagine her former captain in the same garb, and realized that he’d have looked like a purple blimp straining at its tether. This woman, in his black, would have looked dangerous. “Fleet forensics could assist.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” Files said. Ser Granzia stirred at Cecelia’s side; Files shot him a glance. “Did you have legal advice, Ser Granzia?”
“That if it is possibly a military secret, the captain is correct: some representative should be present when it is examined in any detail. Otherwise we may all find ourselves compromised. You remember, no doubt, the decision of Army versus Stillinbagh?”
“Very well.” Files looked angry. “I will inform the local military atta
ché.”
“Perhaps,” Ser Granzia said, “we could wait while you did so?”
Cecelia wondered if she was imagining the threat in his tone. Files flushed, asked for a comlink, and spoke into it. He set it back down with care, as if he really wanted to throw it through the wall, and said the attaché would be along shortly. Cecelia was in no mood to wait for more information. “Captain Serrano,” she began, bypassing Files, “can you tell me how this was found?”
Her captain smiled, as if glad to be asked the question. “Yes—you remember that I authorized Velarsin and Co. to exchange all damaged units from the environmental system, rather than repairing them in place?”
“Of course,” Cecelia said.
“That was for reasons of both time and safety. You may recall that I also had Mr. Brynear document the condition of those components, to back up your damage claim on Diklos and Sons.” When Cecelia nodded, she went on. “Some components could be repaired, and we were to get a refund on those. In the process of examining the components removed, Mr. Brynear’s technicians found items secreted in several. Most suggestively, in the scrubber which we were going to examine when Iklind was killed because he didn’t have his suit on.”
Cecelia felt only confusion. “What does that have to do with it?” Before Serrano could answer, Cecelia realized. “Oh—he knew something was there? Something you’d find?”
“We can’t know, Lady Cecelia.” Heris glanced at Files, who clearly wished she wouldn’t explain more, but she went on. “There’s a chain of occurrences that makes me suspicious of Iklind and possibly others formerly or presently in the crew. The system flush and recharge that Diklos and Sons didn’t do. The curiously inefficient course your former captain set on the way to Court, which made you late. Iklind’s apparent haste to get to that scrubber before I did—at the cost of his own life.”
“You think he was smuggling something. Iklind and . . . and Captain Olin?” First came anger: how dare he? And then fear . . . how had she not known what was happening on her ship? How were the smuggled items transferred if they were? Would Olin have opened the ship to boarders?
“It’s possible, madam,” said Files, with a sharp glance at Heris. “Ship’s crews have been known to do so, without an owner’s knowledge. Of course, sometimes the owner is also involved.”
“Surely you jest.” That was all she could say. The impertinence of the man!
“Are you suggesting the Lady Cecelia was involved in any putative illegal act?” asked Ser Granzia. “Remember—”
“I remember the Sihil-Tomaso ruling, Ser Granzia,” said Files. “I made no accusation; I merely answered what seemed to be Lady Cecelia’s question.” His smile was more of a smirk, she decided. He went on. “Now: procedurally, we must impound the evidence, which includes the location in which it was found; I’m afraid your ship is that location—” Cecelia could hardly believe her ears. Was everything against her?
“Not so, Mr. Files.” Her captain’s crisp voice interrupted Files. “The scrubbers were not in the ship when the items were found. They had already been removed. All environmental system components are dockside; what’s in the Sweet Delight is new and empty.”
“But that’s where they were,” Files said. “On that ship with the contraband in them. There may be more, hidden somewhere else. It doesn’t matter where the scrubbers were when the evidence was actually found—”
“On the contrary.” Ser Granzia’s honey-smooth voice had an edge to it now. “According to the rules of evidence in a list of rulings going back to Essex versus Jovian Mining Ltd., impoundment of the container does not include impoundment of the vessel in which that container was transported, if the discovery occurred while the container was not aboard.”
“But we know the contraband was aboard,” Files said, more loudly.
“But it doesn’t matter, Mr. Files.” Ser Granzia did not raise his voice, but Cecelia saw the other man wilt. “The rulings are all clear, and all in favor of my client. I will be glad to get a local ruling, of course, but I’m sure it will uphold my client’s position. Now—shall we contact Fleet? I believe it is better for us to do this together.”
Files looked angry, but nodded; Ser Granzia turned to Eniso Desin, the senior partner of Velarsin and Co. “May we use your equipment?”
“Of course, Ser Granzia. But I am afraid that we cannot give Lady Cecelia full credit for the reparable elements of the system until they are released from official custody. . . . I am sorry, but—”
“I quite understand,” Ser Granzia said. “Indeed, it would be unfair, and my client will be satisfied if you keep account of what was impounded; if it should be released, and still worth repair, perhaps you will bid on it?”
“Oh, certainly,” Desin said. “Mr. Brynear assures me that at least sixty percent of the components would be worth working on.”
“Excellent.” Cecelia wondered if she, too, should say something, but Ser Granzia rolled on. “Now—it seems to me, Mr. Files, that the discovery of items secreted in the scrubber suggests a motive for Iklind to attempt removal at risk of his life. In fact, it strongly suggests his complicity in some illegal activity, and Captain Serrano’s innocence. I would suggest that a search warrant, limited to Iklind’s personal items and storage spaces, might prove fruitful.”
“But—!” Cecelia got that much out before his hand clamped on her wrist.
“It need not,” he went on, “inconvenience Lady Cecelia or interfere with her schedule, provided that you act in a timely manner.”
“Right.” Files seemed sapped of energy. Cecelia wondered if Ser Granzia’s voice had a hypnotic overlay. “I’ll—get that done as soon as we’ve contacted the military.”
Before she knew how it happened, Cecelia found herself sitting across a table from Heris Serrano in Desin’s private office, with a tray of hot pastries and a variety of drinks before her. Ser Granzia was still in conference with Mr. Files and Desin; Desin’s assistant had brought the refreshments and now left them alone. Cecelia watched her captain pour herself a cup of something hot from a fluted pot. The woman had a quality Cecelia had not yet defined, but found attractive. She never fidgeted, never seemed divided against herself. Yet she did not seem insensitive . . . someone who had read and enjoyed Siilvaas could not be insensitive.
“You may win our wager, milady,” she said now. She offered the steaming cup to Cecelia, who shook her head. She wanted something cold, and chose a bottle of fruit juice from an ice bucket.
“Circumstances have changed,” Cecelia said. “Perhaps I should withdraw?”
“No—a wager’s a wager.” Serrano’s short black hair actually moved when she shook her head; Cecelia had begun to wonder if it was a wig. “I shall look forward to my lessons on your mechanical horse.” She had an engaging grin, Cecelia decided, which made her look years younger.
“Ummm. I still think the interruption of officialdom makes it unfair: suppose I exchange honors and let you teach me more about my ship? I’m now convinced my own ignorance is both inconvenient and culpable.”
The dark eyes measured her; Cecelia felt suddenly as if she had become a novice rider, facing a stern judge in her first event. Why had a woman with such a gift of command given up her commission? Cecelia could not believe it was anything dishonorable . . . not with those eyes. A mistake? A quarrel? She had not seemed quarrelsome so far, even when confronted with Ronnie’s rudeness.
“If it is your pleasure,” Serrano said. “Then I will be very glad to show you over your ship. But I cannot consider it as your obligation under our wager unless I actually win . . . and despite the best your legal firm can do, I expect we will be late leaving.”
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 a
ltogether.”
“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.
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