“That’s what bothers me,” Cecelia said. “I’ve always been rich; I’ve always known that my life wasn’t anything like the average. I’ve enjoyed my wealth, but felt that it was fair because I was going to die someday and someone else would have everything I had owned. True, most of it would go to other rich people—my family—but I wasn’t trying to hang on to it. From what Pedar said, I’d suspect that others are. Lorenza certainly was. And I feel my own ambition stirring, along with the changes in my body. I won the All-Union championship before; I could do it again.”
“How many times?” Heris asked.
“I don’t know. I never tired of it when I could still do it; the feel of riding a great course is like nothing else. Mind and body together—stupid riders, no matter how athletic, don’t survive, and clumsy smart ones don’t either. Yet, in the field I care most about, the prizes are limited. I’ve won Wherrin, I’ve won Scatlin, I’ve won Patchcock—”
“Patchcock!” Heris stared at her. Cecelia had not wanted her train of thought interrupted, and glared back.
“Yes, Patchcock. It’s not the equestrian center Wherrin is; it’s uglier, for one thing. Not really an ag world. But they have a circuit of five or six major events, in the uplands, and—”
“Patchcock is politically unstable,” Heris said.
“That’s since my time,” Cecelia said, and shrugged. She had not been back since winning the Patchcock Circuit Trophy twice in a row and then losing to Roddy Carnover, after the fall that broke her leg in several places. That had been . . . had been over forty years before. She took a breath and went on.
“My point is, I’ve achieved all the goals that attract event riders in the Familias. I could compete in the Guerni Republic, I suppose, or even beyond, though the travel times get to be fierce. But why? Suppose I did win the All-Union title forty years in a row—and then rejuved again and won it forty times more. I can’t see that, even though I love riding and want to keep doing it.”
“And this Pedar—”
“My goals,” Cecelia said, “have always been limited. I did learn to manage my own investments, after my parents died, but only so that I had plenty of money to pursue my real interest—the horses. I didn’t really care about gaining power in those organizations, running them—there’s not time, you see. And horse people have always had more contact with other social strata . . . you can’t compete with horses unless you’re active in the stable as well. Not mucking out all the stalls, no—again, there’s no time—but you aren’t likely to be stupidly contemptuous of those who do. Horses are natural levelers, and not only when they dump you in the mud.”
“But equestrians have always been rich. . . .” Heris said.
“Yes, and no. The really good ones from poor families get corporate sponsorship, just as really good singers and dancers and actors get sponsorship. While those of us who do it think of riding as recreational, its position in the economy is actually entertainment . . . the recreation of the audience, not the participant. So there’s been access for the equestrian with less talent.” Cecelia frowned, remembering that she had told Heris about her own misuse of power and money against a talented junior. Best get that over with. . . . “Of course there are abuses. I did it myself, as you know. But in general, there are openings.”
“Don’t you think the other Rejuvenants will get as tired of chasing their prizes as you say you will become of chasing eventing titles?”
“I’m not sure—I’m afraid not. By the nature of the system, an equestrian’s goals are limited. But someone whose joy is gaining economic or political power . . . what will stop him?”
“I . . . see.”
“Lorenza, for instance. Where would she have stopped? Had her ambition any limits? And the more benign Rejuvenant, someone like Pedar—” Though, even to herself, she had trouble with that label. Pedar benign? Better than Ross, but still.
“If the ambition has no natural saturation, then the split between generations gets worse. I see your point. The logical answer is expansion, opening new opportunities. . . .”
“And the Familias Regnant has never been an expansive system,” Cecelia said.
“No, but we both know who is.” Heris looked worried enough now. “Just how long do you suppose the Benignity has had this process? And did they think of the implications back at the first?”
“It’s like training,” Cecelia said. Heris looked confused. “The inexperienced or incompetent trainer attempts to control everything through the horse. The good trainer controls herself.”
“That sounds like something Admiral Feiruss used to say,” Heris said. “You can’t control anyone else until you can control yourself—”
“Not only until, but only by means of,” Cecelia said, glad to have found common ground at last. “It is your control of your own body that allows you to give the signals needed, and notice if they’re understood. The bad rider flounders around, blaming the horse that ‘isn’t paying attention’ when he’s given so many signals that the horse is confused.”
“I’ve had instructors like that,” Heris said with a grin. “I remember one—always yelling at us to pay attention to him, then telling us to concentrate on something else, then yelling again—I couldn’t tell if it was more important to watch him or the demonstration.”
“What I’m afraid of, with this group Pedar talks of, is that they’ll try to control everything else before themselves.” Cecelia wasn’t going to let Heris wander off on side roads of memory. “I don’t want to be around people like that.”
It had been easy to say that, but in real life—in practical terms—she wondered what difference it might make. Cecelia clipped the blue—and-silver ring to her ear and grimaced into the mirror. It felt like the first time she had worn a competition number, all those decades ago: she was declaring herself part of something she didn’t understand. Although she had a much better idea of what competitive riders were like than she had of her fellow Rejuvenants. She didn’t know what kind of reception she would get—if anyone else would notice.
“Ah . . . Lady Cecelia.” The bank officer’s gaze had snagged briefly on the ring; she noticed that he had two, one in each ear. “And how may we assist you today?”
“I’m going to be traveling to agricultural research worlds, picking up equine samples for my breeding farm on Rotterdam,” Cecelia said. “I may be out of touch for extended periods, and I wanted to be sure that there were no problems with my line of credit.”
“I wouldn’t expect any,” the man said. “So far the political situation has had no effect on commerce; certainly our institution is stable—”
“I wasn’t doubting it. Only my travel advisors pointed out that some of the worlds I want to visit are served only by ansible, for anything beyond a system transfer.”
“Ah . . . do you have a list of these worlds?”
“Yes—” Cecelia handed it over. “Ordinarily, I could deal with an agency that specializes in equine genetics, but I’m looking for something I can’t really define. I’ll know it when I see it—”
“Yes . . .” He didn’t sound interested; he probably wasn’t. Then he looked up. “I think the best thing would be a batch dump to the local systems’ registered financial institutions. That way, they’d have your references when you arrived, and your line of credit would be established at both ends. Can you estimate your needs?”
Cecelia had that information as well, and he fed it into his desktop. “We’re leaving Zenebra shortly,” she said, as she waited. “Can you give me an estimate of clearance times?”
“Unless your yacht is faster than anything I ever heard of, your local approvals will all be waiting days before you arrive, milady. And—may I say it’s good to see you back in competition. I hope you find the right mount for next year’s trials.”