At least the lavender plush was about to disappear. Heris wondered if they’d roll it up and sell it to someone else. Perhaps that’s why they’d tried to argue Cecelia into yet another color scheme she didn’t like. It would save energy and resources to reuse all that material. She led the crew to the access tube and looked around for the decorator’s representative.
The decorator’s dockside looked nothing like the luxurious offices in which Cecelia had made her choices of color and texture. A vast noisy space, in which rows of shipping containers looked like children’s blocks on the floor of a large room, gaped around them. Machinery clanked and grumbled; something smelled oily and slightly stale. A crew in blue-striped uniforms, presumably from the moving and storage company, lounged near the shipping containers.
“Ah . . . Captain Serrano.” That was a tall, gangling man in a formal gray suit. “Are we ready to get started?”
“Quite,” said Heris. He had an ID tag dangling from his lapel, with the firm’s logo in purple on peach. Typical, she thought. He turned and waved to the moving and storage crew.
“You do understand that everything must be removed or sealed? Not that there’s any question of contamination . . .” He laughed, three very artificial ha-ha-has, and Heris wondered what ailed him. “But we want no questions. I am Ser Schwerd, by the way, the director on this project. I suppose the owner is still determined on that . . . unfortunate color scheme?”
“If you mean green and white, yes.”
“Pity. We can do so much more when given a free hand. Really, if clients would only realize that we know much more about decorating than they do. However, the client’s satisfaction is more important than any other consideration, though if we could strike a blow for artistic integrity—”
“Lady Cecelia,” Heris said, “is quite sure what she wants.”
He sighed. “They always are, Captain Serrano. All these old ladies are sure they know what they want, and really they have no idea. But let’s not waste our time lamenting what can’t be changed. Always think positively, that’s my motto. If the lady is unsatisfied with this redecoration, perhaps next time she’ll trust the judgment of someone with real expertise.”
Heris managed not to laugh at him. Anyone who knew Lady Cecelia knew that she had no doubts about her own desires; she would not likely change her mind because someone else claimed to have better taste. Ser Schwerd introduced the movers’ supervisor, a thickset bald man with twinkling brown eyes.
“Gunson,” he said. “Quite reliable.” Gunson’s expression said he could prove that without Schwerd’s commentary. Heris liked him at once, and they exchanged handshakes.
A steady stream of packers and movers moved through the ship. Cecelia’s belongings disappeared into padded containers, which then fit into the larger storage/shipping containers. With all the crew to help, the inventory checkoffs went more quickly than usual—according to Gunson. Cecelia’s own quarters, the guest quarters, the public areas of the ship, crew quarters. Furniture, the contents of built-in storage, clothing, decorations—everything.
“What about this?” Gunson asked, opening the galley door.
“Nothing—seal it off,” Heris said. Schwerd grimaced.
“It needs something—”
“No . . . Lady Cecelia has a very exacting cook. He’s got it just the way he wants it, and if you’ll look at the contract, it specifies absolutely no change in the galley or pantries.”
“But foodstuff should be removed—”
“Why?” Heris asked, surprised. “These are staples; they won’t deteriorate in the few weeks you’ll be working. If the galley’s sealed, there’s no danger of contamination from any paint fumes or whatever. Besides, we were told initially that there was no need to remove anything from compartments that could be sealed and were not to be worked on.”
He looked unhappy, but nodded. The decorators had provided coded seals for compartments not part of the contract. Heris had her crew seal the hatches under his supervision; she wasn’t sure she trusted the decorators not to try something fancy where it wasn’t wanted. The bridge, for example, and the ships’ systems compartments. The garden sections of hydroponics were all empty now, but the gas-exchange tanks remained operational, the bacterial cultures on maintenance nutrients. She didn’t want to take the time to recharge them all later.
At last everything was off the ship, and all the crew had their personal gear loaded on carryalls. Heris sent them ahead to the lodgings she’d arranged. She and Ser Schwerd had to do the final inspection, checking both the seals to areas not being worked on and the areas that were supposed to be clear.
“Someone always leaves something,” Schwerd said. “Always. Sometimes it’s valuable—once, I recall, a distinguished lady’s diamond—and-ruby brooch, lying there in the middle of the owner’s stateroom. Why someone hadn’t stepped on it and broken it, I never knew. More often it’s some little thing the movers can’t believe is important, but it has sentimental value. A child’s soft toy, an unimportant trophy.” He strode through the passages with an expression of distaste, glancing quickly into each compartment.
“Ah . . .” This was in Cecelia’s quarters, the study which looked so different with its antique books and artwork removed. Sure enough, a squashed and dusty arrangement of faded ribbons, which Heris realized, after Schwerd smoothed it with his hands, had once been a rosette of some sort. “One of Lady Cecelia’s earlier triumphs, I would say.” He held it out; Heris could just make out “ . . . hunter pony . . .” in flaking black letters on the purplish ribbon. “It would have been a first place blue,” Schwerd said. “Those letters were originally gold or silver ink. And I’m sure she’d notice if it were gone.” He handed it to Heris, ceremoniously, and she brushed off the rest of the dust, folded it, and tucked it into her jacket. Perhaps Cecelia would notice, perhaps not, but she would keep it safe.
Back at the hostel, Heris checked on her crew. Transient crew housing had few amenities; the ship had been far more comfortable. But they had settled in, having arranged adjoining cubicles. She had decided to stay here, with them, rather than at the Captains’ Guild. She worried about the next few weeks—how to keep them busy and out of trouble until they could go back aboard. With the Compassionate Hand looking for revenge—and despite the militia’s assurances, she knew they would be looking for revenge—all were in danger until something else distracted that organization. Perhaps she could schedule some training in civilian procedures.
Petris signalled her with raised eyebrows. Did she want to—? Of course, though she’d like to have a long uninterrupted sleep first. With the ship now the responsibility of the decorating firm, she could reasonably sleep late into the next shift. Surely her crew could cope by themselves for a day. She posted a crew meeting far enough in the future that she knew she couldn’t sleep that long, no matter what, and nodded to Petris.
“Dinner first?” he asked. Heris yawned and shook her head.
“If you’re hungry, go ahead—I’m more tired than anything.”
“Umm. Perhaps my suggestion was premature?”
“No. I’ve missed you. It’s amazing how few times we’ve managed to be together. Something always happens. I’m beginning to feel like the heroine in a farce.”
“Don’t say that.” He made a mock-angry face at her. “You’ll bring the bad luck down on us.”
“Not this time,” she said. “The ship’s safe, and Sirkin’s safe with Meharry in the same section. If the rest of them go wandering, they’ll be a match for anything. Besides, they’re too tired right now, just like I am. Maybe I’ll nap a bit, and then—we’ll finally have time to enjoy ourselves.”
In the quiet dark of her quarters, she lay against his warm length and felt her muscles unkinking, strand by strand. This was, indeed, better than dinner . . . she dozed off, aware of his hand tracing patterns on her back but unable to stay awake to appreciate them fully. They had time . . . she needed just a little sleep . . .