“Thank you—Kosta?”
“Yes, sera.” His grin widened. “Terakian-Cibo, but you don’t need to remember that part. Just call me Kosta; everyone else does.”
The terminology of seatings and rotations meant nothing to her: was second rotation like the second watch? Instead of asking, she followed the boy to the mess hall. Mess on a civilian trader looked nothing like either enlisted mess or officers’ wardroom aboard ship . . . more like a small restaurant along some shopping concourse. The compartment was just big enough for eight four-person tables: thirty-two per seating? Why, then, the need for more than one seating per rotation?
“There aren’t really assigned seats,” Kosta said. “You could sit with us—” He pointed to a table where two other youngsters were just sliding into their chairs and unloading trays onto the table. “If you want to,” he added, in a tone that tried, and failed, to be welcoming.
She wasn’t really eager to sit with a group of youngsters anyway. “Thanks, but it looks like there are plenty of empty places,” Esmay said. “If you don’t mind . . .”
“No, sera . . . I could use the time to review for the test this afternoon, if it’s all right. Do you think you can find your way back?”
“I hope so,” Esmay said. “I guess I’ll just have to ask someone if I can’t.”
“Anyone will help you,” Kosta said. “Just remember C-23, that’s your number.” Esmay headed for the serving line across the room. The food smelled spicy and good; she took a bowl of some stew-like dish, and a couple of warm rolls. She put her tray down on one of the empty tables, and sat down. The condiment containers in front of her held things she’d never heard of, except for the basic salt and pepper. Some of the labels were in languages she hadn’t seen either.
“That goolgi is good with khungi sauce,” someone said. Esmay looked up. A curvaceous woman with red-brown hair tipped her head toward the table. “May I?”
“Of course,” Esmay said. “I’m Esmay Suiza.”
“Ah. I’m Betharnya Vi Negaro. You must be the passenger.”
“I’m a passenger, yes. And you? You’re not a Terakian?”
“Not everyone is a Terakian,” the woman said. She too had a bowl of the stew; she uncapped the bottle with a picture of galloping bulls on the label and shook a large dollop of a thick, slightly lumpy, brown sauce into the bowl. “You don’t like khungi sauce?”
“I’ve never had it. I’ve never had this kind of stew—goolgi?—either.” Esmay tried a spoonful of the goolgi and a warm glow filled her mouth. Peppers. It must have quite a bit of some pepper in it—
“Too bland, the way they make it here,” the woman said. “Khungi gives it a bit of life—”
The warm glow was turning into a miniature furnace; Esmay knew that symptom of old, and reached for her water glass. “I think it’s lively enough,” she said, after a swallow.
“Khungi doesn’t make it hotter,” Betharnya said. “Just more—robust, perhaps. You ought to try at least a dab.”
She might as well find out. Esmay shook out a small blob of the brown sauce and mixed it with a portion of goolgi. The resulting bite almost took the top of her head off, but after a moment the head-on collision of flavors worked. Either alone was too strong; together they set up a sort of olfactory countercurrent.
“Could you explain this rotation and seating thing?” Esmay said.
“Of course.” Betharnya took a last bite of the goolgi and wiped her mouth. “Thing is, we’re somewhat overcrewed right now, moving people from one place to another. So the onshift crew has first seating at each meal period—to be sure they can eat quickly and get back to work. Offshift crew has second seating—they sit the boards while the onshift crew eats. Sleepshift crew can come eat if they want to—if they’re awake and hungry—but they get third seating. It’s particularly important in port, when most of the crew are off duty anyway.”
“Makes sense,” Esmay said. “I’ve never been on a trader before.”
“It works for us,” Betharnya said. “I don’t know anything about how other traders do it.”
“How long are you usually away from your homeworld? Or do you live mostly in space?”
“It varies . . . I haven’t seen my homeworld for three or four standard years, but some people go home every year. And we don’t usually have small children out in space; our ships are too small to allow sufficient romping space.” She grinned. “I sometimes wonder about the junior apprentices in that regard. They can get a bit boisterous.” She cocked her head at Esmay. “Now it’s your turn. Tell me about yourself.”
“I was a Regular Space Service officer—left my homeworld for the prep school, then the Academy, and then went into Fleet. I’ve only been home twice since then.”
“Are you going home now that you’ve left Fleet?”
“I . . . don’t know.” She did not want to talk about this with everyone on the ship. “Right now I’m headed for Castle Rock.”
“Ah, so are we. By a roundabout route, but we’ll get there.” Betharnya glanced away, and her expression changed. “Ah—if you’ll excuse me, sera, I should get back—”
Esmay followed her gaze and saw a handsome blonde woman and an even more handsome man at the mess hall entrance. It was amazing how many good-looking people were in this crew . . . she hadn’t expected them all to look like actors.
Lady Cecelia de Marktos woke early and headed for the stables, even though it wasn’t hunting season. The best cure for an unquiet mind—at least, her unquiet mind—was a few hours spent with animals that could not lie. She felt better with every stride away from the house where Miranda had—perhaps by accident—killed Pedar Orregiemos.
Neil, who had been running the horse operation for at least thirty years, grinned when he saw her coming through the arched gateway.
“I heard you were here, Lady Cecelia,” Neil said. “How’s her ladyship?”
“It was a tragedy,” Cecelia said. His face didn’t twitch. She hadn’t expected it to.
“She’ll be leaving soon?” he asked. “Going back to deal with the inheritance?”
“No, I don’t think so,” Cecelia said. “Harlis . . . has other problems.” She wasn’t sure how much to say or not say. Sirialis had its own customs, its own networks.
“That’s good, then. You just tell her I said we did fix that bit she was working on.”
“Bit?”
“Yes . . . she was down here a few nights ago, working on a broken bit, back in the old forge.”
A chill ran down Cecelia’s back. She could not imagine Miranda trying to mend a bit herself.
“I’ve never seen the old forge,” she said casually. “Where is it?”
“Back along there,” he pointed. Was that tension in his throat? “It’s just a workroom now. I reckon she came down just to get some peace, like, with that fellow in the house.”
Peace, thought Cecelia, was exactly what Miranda had been after.
The old forge, when she looked into it, had the tidy look of any well-maintained metal shop. Neat rows of tools, a couple of small brazing cones, a shelf of labelled bottles. She leaned forward to look at them . . . chemical labels. Most were unfamiliar. She looked along the workbench . . . someone was working on a pair of spurs, set up in a vise, and there was a can with tongueless buckles of various sizes and beside it a can of straight tongue blanks. Heavier round stock, shaped into hoofpicks, and a tub of bone and antler roughs for handles. A bowl of scrap bits of this and that . . . Cecelia stirred it with her finger, not at all sure what she’d expected to find. A rough edge caught at her finger; she looked at it . . . a small curved scrap of pierced metal that looked somehow older than the rest.
Cecelia wondered what it had been. It didn’t look like any metal from horse tack. Something tickled her memory, but withdrew. It was like a fragment of shell from a very large egg, with little holes . . . a colander, for straining a mash? She put it in her pocket and wandered back to the main square, where two of the hunters were being exercised on the longe line. Neil watched, eyes narrowed at the chestnut. Cecelia watched too, and saw the same slightly uneven stretch of the off fore. He signalled the groom, and when the horse stopped, he bent over that front leg. Cecelia watched the bay, as always soothed by the sight of a good horse moving well.