“Ser Bryn?” She stood and extended her hand. He shook hers; she did not let herself glance down to see if he had the telltale tattoo on the thumb web. He wouldn’t, not in this position. If he’d ever had it, it would have been redone in flesh tones when he was chosen for a position on Rockhouse.
“What can we do for you, Captain?” he asked, his voice cordial and his eyes guarded.
Heris smiled at him. “I needed to speak to you about Lady Cecelia’s former employees.” His eyes flickered; he didn’t like the sound of that. And, of course, with the security measures on the Royal Docks, he wouldn’t have heard about the new crew. “It’s rather a long story,” she said. “Perhaps we could discuss it privately?” The lounge where she’d been waiting had no one else in it, but she knew it would have full monitoring.
“Ah . . . yes, Captain. Do come along to my . . . er . . . private office.” He led the way into a spacious, luxurious office, where Heris suspected wealthy clients gave their requirements for employees. It didn’t look anything like the office where she’d been interviewed.
“I brought along a data cube with their records and my reports on them,” she said. “But for the obvious reasons there are some details which I’d prefer not to have on cube, and which you need to know.”
“Ah.” That seemed to be his favorite response to possibly upsetting news. Safe enough.
“As you may or may not know, Ser Bryn, before I departed, I asked this office for any additional details on the qualifications of Lady Cecelia’s existing crew. I was told there were none, and furthermore I was told that private employers such as Lady Cecelia were furnished with—I won’t say dregs, because that would be insulting—but let’s say with less qualified personnel than, for example, a major commercial employer. The reasons I understood, if I didn’t approve them.” She paused to see if he had any response. Beyond a tightening around his eyes, he gave none. She continued.
“With that, I had to be content. Unfortunately, events on the voyage revealed how . . . imprudent . . . that policy was. You may have heard from Takomin Roads about the death of one environmental tech, Iklind?” At this he nodded, but still said nothing. “Presumably you also heard that Iklind was considered to be responsible for the contraband found on the ship. I myself am not sure that he alone was responsible. Surely Captain Olin knew that the maintenance had not been performed; I had intended to pursue his responsibility, but the Guild tells me he’s dead.”
“Er . . . yes. Random assault, the militia said.”
“Perhaps.” Heris steepled her fingers and waited for the twitch of muscles beside his mouth before she went on. “At Takomin Roads, I found it necessary to relieve the pilot of his duties—no great hardship, since a ship that size doesn’t require one, if the captain is qualified.” She let that sink in, too—she knew that the agency’s recommendation on crewing had cost Lady Cecelia at least two extra salaries. “You, of course, are not responsible for the crew’s astonishing lack of training or fitness—that would be the captain’s responsibility, and the captain involved is dead. But at Sirialis, most of the remaining employees tried to stage a mutiny.”
“What!” That got a reaction. “What did you do to them?”
“I did nothing. They chose not to return to the ship after spending time at Hospitality Bay—need I explain Hospitality Bay?” He shook his head; as she expected, such an elite agency would know all about the amenities of Bunny’s planet. “They didn’t want to work with an ex-military captain; they felt my precautions were excessive—and this after the death of one crew member and the near death of another. You are probably not aware that a simultaneous crisis on Sirialis made Lord Thornbuckle suspect that they might be politically motivated. Lady Cecelia accepted their applications to terminate employment and they are currently in custody on Sirialis, where they will be tried for conspiracy.”
“But—but who’s crewing the ship now?” She could see the flicker of greed in his eyes. Surely she’d need more crew, and if she didn’t get it here, she would enrich some other employment agency.
“I should mention,” she went on, “that I’m extremely pleased with one former employee, Brigdis Sirkin. That young woman has what I consider adequate qualifications, and to the extent that Lady Cecelia wishes to make crew changes, that is the level of qualification I shall insist on.” She waited until she saw that take effect, and then answered his question. “Presently, the crew consists of former R.S.S. personnel . . . I am not at liberty to discuss the exact way they . . . er . . . became employed. Only that it has both Fleet and Crown approval. However—none of them presently have civilian licenses. I shall be sending them here, where you can arrange for the transfer of skills registration and the appropriate civilian licensure into specialties . . . for your standard fee, of course. Unless you have some objection?”
Ser Bryn gulped. Her meaning was clear to both of them. He could get his firm the minimal profit involved in transferring registered military skills to civilian ones—the paper pushers’ fees—in return for a chance to regain some chance of providing Lady Cecelia with employees later. Or, he could be difficult, and see that influence vanish—and possibly, considering who she was, more business vanish at the same time. Heris watched the glisten of perspiration on his forehead.
“We . . . we are always glad to help Lady Cecelia in any way we can,” he said finally. “I hope, Captain Serrano, that you do not think we had any suspicion whatsoever that any persons we supplied would become involved in . . . er . . . illegal acts of any nature. We do our best to supply only the most qualified and responsible personnel.”
Heris gave him her best grin, and watched him flinch from it. “I’m sure you didn’t,” she said. “But from this time, Lady Cecelia will be understandably more . . . selective . . . in her dealings with you. She may be only one old lady, on one small yacht, but she pays well and deserves to have the best crew. So I’ve explained to her.” She gave a short nod and turned to her second topic. “Now. Do you have a young woman named Yrilan—Amalie Yrilan—registered with the firm?”
“Just a moment.” He slid out a drawer that Heris assumed contained a deskcomp link and poked at it. His next glance at her showed honest confusion. “Yrilan—yes, but—but she’s not what you’re looking for—not if what you just said—”
Heris turned her hands over. “Ser Bryn, even for me there are occasional personal matters that impinge on business. I assume from your statements that she is not as supremely qualified as, say, Sirkin?”
“By no means,” he said.
“Would you have sent her to Lady Cecelia a year ago?”
“Well . . .” He had the grace to flush. “We might have. As an entry-level tech. It’s not a demanding job, after all—” Not with the ship heavily overcrewed and underutilized.
“Then send me her application file, and send her for an interview. To the ship. I meant what I said, and I doubt I’ll hire her if she’s not up to my standards, but I might hear of another slot . . . and of course I would inform you, first.” That got a nod of understanding and approval. “Thank you, then, Ser Bryn. I’ll have the military personnel report to your office next mainshift—is that convenient?”