She would like to have Luci for a friend as well as a business partner, Luci who now looked up to her, as she could not recall anyone in the family looking up to her before.
“It’s not fair,” she said to the trees and the slopes and the gurgling water. An icy breeze slid down the creek bed and chilled her. Stupid complaint; life was not about fairness. “He lied to me!” she screamed suddenly. The horse threw up its head, ears pointed at her; somewhere upstream jays squalled and battered their way through thickset twigs.
Then it was quiet again. The horse still watched her with the suspicion of the edible for the eater, but the jays had flown away, their scolding voices diminishing. The water gurgled as before; the breeze failed and came again like the breath of some vast being larger than mountains. Esmay felt her rage draining away with it, not really gone but its immediate pressure eased.
She spent another hour wandering around the glade, drifting in and out of moods like the clouds drifting in and out of sight above the slopes. Sweet memories of her childhood trips—of learning to climb on the boulders at the foot of the cliff, of the time she found a rare fire-tailed salamander under the ledge of the creek’s largest pool—swept over and under the other memories, the bad ones. She thought about climbing the cliff again, but she had not brought any climbing gear, and her legs were already stiff and sore from riding.
Finally, as the afternoon shadows began to climb the boulders, she caught and saddled the horse again. She found herself wondering if her father had told Papa Stefan . . . or only Great-grandmother. She wanted to be furious with Great-grandmother for not overruling her father, but she had used up her store of anger on her father. And besides—when she’d come back from the hospital, her great-grandmother had not been in the house at all. Was that why she had moved away—or been sent away?
“I am still an idiot child,” she said to the horse, as she unlooped the hobbles and prepared to mount. The horse eyed her and flicked an ear. “Yes, and I scared you out of your wits, didn’t I? You’re not used to that kind of behavior from Suizas.”
She rode down the shadowy trail beside the stream deep in thought. How many of the family knew the truth, or had known it? Whom, besides Luci, could she trust?
The upper pastures, when she came to them, were still in sunlight, out of the shadow of the mountains. Far away to the south, she saw a drift of cattle moving slowly. In the distance, the buildings of the estancia were nested in green trees like little toys, bright-painted. For some reason she felt a rush of joy; it passed through her to the horse, which broke into a trot. She didn’t feel her stiffness; without realizing she was going to, she legged the horse into a canter, and then let it extend into a gallop. Wind burned in her face; her hair streamed back; she could feel each separate tug on her scalp and the power of the galloping animal beneath her lifted her beyond fear or anger.
She walked the last mile in, as she had been trained to do, and grinned at Luci who was just coming in from polo practice when they met in the lane.
“A good ride?” asked Luci. “Was that you we saw galloping in the upper fields?”
“Yes,” Esmay said. “I think I’ve remembered how to ride.”
Luci looked worried, and Esmay laughed.
“The deal is good, Luci—I’m going back to Fleet. But I’d forgotten how much fun it can be.”
“You . . . haven’t seemed very happy.”
“No. I haven’t been, but I will be. My place is out there, as yours is here.”
They rode in together; Esmay did not have to say more, because Luci was ready to talk for hours about the brown mare’s talents and her own ambitions.
Chapter Seven
The team from Special Materials Analysis came off the commercial line at Comus along with all the other passengers, some hundred and thirty. Here, in the interior of the Familias, the customs checks were perfunctory. A glance at the ID, a glance at the luggage . . . their matching briefcases, matching duffels, all with the company logo.
“Consultants, eh?” said the customs inspector, clearly proud of his guess.
“That’s right.” Gori smiled at the man, that friendly open smile which was just a bit too memorable sometimes. Arhos wondered if he should have let Gori come—but Gori was the best with such devices, faster by thirty seconds than anyone else. He would edge their profit up on the Fleet contract, too—thirty seconds a hundred times a day was fifty minutes off the top.
“What a life,” the customs man said. “Wish I could be a consultant—” He passed them through.
“They always think it’s glamorous,” Losa grumbled, audibly enough. “If they had to be on the road all the time, hear the complaints at home—”
“You didn’t have to marry that loser,” Pratt said. This was an old script, one they could improvise around for an hour.
“He’s not a loser, he’s just . . . sensitive.”
“Artists,” Gori said. “I don’t know why intelligent women always fall for losers who claim they’re creative—”
Losa huffed, something she did well. “He’s not a loser! He’s sold three works—”
“In how long?” asked Gori.
“Stop it,” Arhos said, as any manager would. “It’s not important—Gori, let her alone. She’s right; people think our job is glamorous, and if they knew what it’s really like, on the road all the time, working long hours for people who are already angry they had to hire us, they’d know better. But no more personal problems on this trip, all right? We’re going to be stuck out here long enough without making it seem longer.”
“All right,” Gori said, with a sidelong look at Losa.
“I need to stop in here,” Losa said, ducking into a ladies’ without looking at Gori at all. Arhos glared at Gori, who shrugged. Pratt shook his head. The two junior women, technicians newly hired from a large firm which hadn’t offered them enough challenge, glanced at each other, and made a tentative move toward the ladies’.
“Go on,” Arhos said. “We’ve got enough time.”
“She’s the sensitive one,” Pratt said, continuing the argument even without Losa.
“Stop it. It doesn’t help, and we can’t run her life.” The rest of the team caught up with them, and formed a clot in the passage until Losa and the other women reappeared. Then, not speaking, they moved on to the gate that divided Fleet space from civilian space. Here, instead of a bored civilian customs inspector, they faced a cluster of alert, edgy, military guards.
“Arhos Asperson, Special Materials Analysis Consulting,” Arhos said, handing over his ID case. “And this is the contract—” A data cube, embossed with Fleet’s own insignia on one side, and an elaborate marbled etching on the others. It had taken them two years to develop a duplicate of Fleet’s equipment, so that they could fabricate their own cubes rather than having to steal and reprogram them. Then they’d gotten this perfectly legitimate contract, and hadn’t needed to use their fake.
“Yes, sir,” the first guard said. “And how many in your group?”
“Seven,” Arhos said. He stood aside, while the second guard collected everyone’s ID cases. He would have worried, on Sierra Station, even with a real Fleet cube. . . . though they had used the faked Fleet cubes before, and faked ID before, Fleet was unusually alert, thanks to the repercussions from Xavier. Here, he expected no trouble—and in fact the cube reader had already accepted, then spat out, the fake cube.
“All clear, sir,” the guard said. “We’ll have to check all the luggage, of course.”
“Of course.” He handed over his own duffel and briefcase. Standard civilian electronics: datapads, cube reader, cubes, portable computers in all sizes from pocket to briefing, communications access sets, data probe wands . . .