“I promised,” George said, looking anxious, “but did my father?”
“Enough,” Bunny said. “It’s almost time for the dinner, and I will not have it ruined by speculation. Captain Serrano, if I might have the honor of your company?”
Heris had not expected this. She glanced at Cecelia, who after all ranked her in every conceivable way these people calculated rank, but Cecelia now looked more relaxed, and simply smiled and nodded. Petris, after one startled look, offered his arm to Cecelia, who accepted it with another smile.
Heris took Bunny’s arm and hoped she did not look as confused as she felt. He led her through the crowd, and she could hear the subdued murmurs that must be comments on this unusual occurrence. Just as they reached the entrance to the dining room, a fanfare rang out. Heris jumped, and Bunny chuckled. Under cover of the music, he murmured, “Didn’t mean to alarm you, Captain, but this is traditional.”
His wife, Heris noted, was standing with Buttons. As they made their way into the dining room, she realized that the participants in the recent adventures had been provided with partners that justified their being seated at the head table. Bunny’s wife with Buttons, and George with Bubbles, and Ronnie with an elderly lady, and Raffa with an elderly man of the same vintage.
“That’s my aunt Trema,” Bunny said, “and my wife’s uncle. They’re both quite deaf, and they’ve refused implants. They love coming to a couple of Hunt Dinners a year; they sit together at the ball afterwards and write each other saucy notes on their compads. Eccentric, but harmless.” Petris, with Lady Cecelia, certainly had a place at the family table. George’s father sat at the far end, with another elderly relation on one side, and one of the gawky cousins on the other.
“You see the advantages,” Bunny went on, with a slight smile, “of a reputation for eccentricity and archaicisms?”
“Indeed yes,” Heris said. She looked down the long dining hall, to the trumpeters in their beribboned tunics who were ready to lead in the feast. Most of the guests had found their places, but Bunny waited until even the clumsy soul who overturned his chair had safely reseated himself. Then he nodded at the trumpeters, who lifted their instruments once more.
To the blare of trumpets and the shrill wailing of pipes, the feast came in. Cecelia reached around Petris to say, “It’s about as authentic as the foxes, but it’s fun.” Bunny winked at her, and Heris began to relax. It could be worse . . . would have been worse, if Cecelia hadn’t told her, if they hadn’t told Bunny, if she and Cecelia both had not been good shots. They could all have been dead.
She pulled her mind away from that with an effort, and made herself enjoy the spectacle. Serving trays loaded with exotic foods whose origin she couldn’t even guess. Servants in colorful livery. And the music. The food, when she tasted it, drove the last grim thought from her mind.
“I hadn’t had a chance to thank you,” Bunny said, somewhere between the soup and fish. “It’s been hectic since you got back.”
“I didn’t realize Mr. Smith had been giving trouble,” Heris said.
“Mmm. Although that’s not the reason I asked you to come in with me, it may prove convenient to have you here when he’s found. If you’re sure the transfer to Lady Cecelia’s yacht poses no problem.”
“Not if I have a direct line up.”
“Of course. My debt to you continues to grow. I don’t know if you actually enjoyed the sport, but please consider yourself welcome here anytime.” Under the pleasant tone, the calm expression, Heris sensed tension and even savagery. They ate in silence for some minutes, as the fish course came and went, and slices of roast appeared. Bunny sighed, and resumed as if he had not paused. “Bubbles—says she wants to talk to you.”
“To me?”
“An experience like that would change anyone; I understand. But she’s been the youngest, the wildest—so of course her change had to be greater.”
Heris eyed her host. “Did she tell you about it?”
“Some. Not all. She thinks you—because you were military—will understand her better.”
Heris could think of nothing socially acceptable to say. She could imagine the sort of thing Bubbles would think she could understand—and she did understand, but not in the way Bubbles would want. Nor did she wish to interfere in this family, especially not now. “She’s almost certainly wrong about that,” Heris said. “But of course I’ll listen to her.”
“I must admit,” he went on, cutting a slice of roast into matching slivers, “that before I knew you better, you would not have been my choice of confidante for my daughter.”
“The military woman?” Heris asked, lightly.
“Not exactly. The Serrano Admiralty is well known . . .” His voice trailed away, and his gaze slid sideways to meet hers. Heris was surprised, and probably looked it.
“My family? They think I’m the disgrace—why should you object to them?”
“I prefer you,” Bunny said, and did not answer the rest of the question. He pushed the slivers of meat aside. Something bleeped, beside his plate, and he picked up a silvery button and clipped it to his ear. Moments later, his jaw bunched. Heris tried not to stare, and made inroads on her dinner. Beside her, Petris was chatting with Cecelia, almost pointedly ignoring her. Cecelia winked past him—so she had explained. Or so Heris hoped.
Bunny touched her wrist lightly, and she turned back to him. “We may have a problem,” he said. “Mr. Smith divested himself of the tagger. Captain Sigind found it, but not the . . . Mr. Smith. He’s already sealed the flitter hangars and other sources of transport, but Mr. Smith is a skilled rider.”
Heris spoke before her tact caught up with her tongue: “We are not going out looking for that scamp on horseback in the dark!”
“No. You’re right, we aren’t. The militia are, and if he founders that mare he stole, I will have his hide on my wall. I don’t know how a Registered Embryo could end up this stupid.”
“He’ll come here,” Heris said softly, thinking it through. “He wants in on the fun, that’s all. There’s a party; he wants to play. He’s like Ronnie was before. He’ll think of a disguise, or something from—”
A crash from outside the hall interrupted, followed by the obvious clattering of hoofs on a hard floor. Before anyone could get up to investigate, someone outside flung the doors open. There stood a masked man in a costume more bizarre than any in the room. Puffed breeches under a loud tartan kilt, white hose, buckled shoes, a doublet, a wide-sleeved shirt, a short cape, and a curious pile of velvet and feathers on his head: it looked as if he had ransacked a costume shop. He held the reins of a skittish horse, and brandished a sword. Someone whooped nervously; Bunny sat rigid. From the far end of the table, the elderly lady Ronnie had partnered stood up abruptly.
“Now this is ridiculous. Disgraceful mixing of periods. Not one of these young people has any respect for historical reproduction. Imagine wearing a kilt over breeches! Just what century does he think he is, anyway?” She had the loud, off-pitch voice of someone who has not heard herself speak for years. She glared at Bunny. “If this is your surprise, young Branthcome, it is singularly unamusing.”
For once Bunny had nothing to say. Heris stared at the masked man with instant certainty. No one else on the planet would do something like this. Were those moustaches sticking out from behind the mask? And what should she do? They had to capture him, but also conceal him. Some of the people here must have met the prince face-to-face. Could she and Petris subdue him without displacing his mask? She caught a glimpse of a servant behind the horse, trying to edge nearer, but the frightened animal plunged and kicked, and the servant retreated.