Nimisha's Ship (10 page)

“I concur. Would she have left them in her residence?”

“I dislike intruding on Lady Rezalla . . .” Rustin said, shaking his head.

“So would I,” the admiral replied with much feeling in his voice, “but the concern is not frivolous. And you have been welcomed at the Boynton-Chonderlee House, have you not? Even since Lady Nimisha’s disappearance?”

“No problem there . . .” This was true enough, even if he had rarely seen Lady Rezalla. It was Cuiva whose company he sought, taking the girl on outings with Belac, who had similar interests in “designing things.” He always made a point of asking the Residence Manager to convey his respects to Lady Rezalla and usually brought some small token for her—a delicate blossom, a rare fruit, or the sweets of which Lady Rezalla was inordinately fond. There was always a brief note of thanks for him at his next visit, handwritten in an unusually bold forward stroke. A penned note was such a treasure that he kept them all, filed in a lacquered box, as examples of a lost art. However, asking could he find a secreted file in the Boynton Family Residence was another matter entirely. “I could ask.”

“That is all you can do, Commander,” the admiral said with a snort, understanding both the etiquette and the audacious course of action he was asking his subordinate to undertake.
He
wouldn’t have dared, but he was not on such terms with the Family as Rustin was. And he very much wanted to commission this prototype for Fleet use—once it had proved itself on trial runs. To have stumbled into a wormhole was a wretched piece of misfortune and not to be considered the fault of the pilot, much less the vessel.

Trying very hard not to show how ill at ease he was, Lt. Commander Caleb Rustin appeared at the door to the Boynton-Chonderlee House, a baroque creation of outstanding elegance and beauty in the Old Quarter of Acclarke City, at precisely one minute before the appointment received from Lady Rezalla.

It wasn’t, however, the Residence Manager (one of the latest Class T AI’s) but Lady Cuiva herself who opened the door.

“I heard Grandam say you were coming today,” she said, slipping outside.

Caleb smiled down at the girl’s anxious expression, and since they were not in a public spot, he gave her a quick hug. That was when he realized that she had both hands clasped behind her back.

“You don’t happen to have news about my mother?” she asked so plaintively that Caleb wanted more than ever to have good news for her.

He shook his head, stroking the silky hair that hung loose down her back. Nimi’s hair . . . He broke off that thought.

“Jeska says they can’t go any further with the Mark Five; you need to find my mother.” Her tone was interrogatory as she tilted her head up at him.

He took two steps downward so they were at eye-level. “That’s true enough. I’m here to . . .”

Her hands came from behind her back and, with one, she seized his much bigger hand and closed his fingers around what she put in the palm.

“My birth-mother would want you to have these now, then.” She stepped back, holding her lips closed, but her eyes watered.

Rustin closed his fingers about the round circles: six of them, a full stack and exactly what he had come about.

“You had them?” he whispered in astonishment.

She nodded and then, with a lift to her chin and in a louder voice, said, “My grandam is expecting you, Commander Rustin. If you will be pleased to enter . . .”

“Mimicking the RM is not done, Lady Cuiva,” he said, grinning as he followed her into the impressive foyer with its ancient Terran marble floor in alternating black and white squares. There were fine statues in the many niches, all artfully restored to the condition in which they had left their sculptors’ yards. The flowery Acaderillus shrub filled the room with a delicate odor. It was the only indigenous Vegan object in the Residence entrance hall.

Cuiva slipped over to the stationary RM and flicked it back on.

“That’s all right, RM,” she said. “Commander Rustin is expected. You may conduct him to my grandam.” With that and a saucy wink at Caleb, she glided over to the door into her quarters and was gone.

“I will conduct you to Lady Rezalla directly, Commander.” The RM turned and started up the left-hand side of the double staircase, also of priceless Terran marble. It moved with the dignity befitting its occupation. Rustin followed, wishing he could have followed Cuiva instead as he slipped the data circles into his tunic pocket.

With his errand accomplished, what excuse could he give Lady Rezalla as the purpose for this visit? And how like Nimisha to have entrusted the data files to her daughter, rather than her mother! Who would have thought it? Well,
he
should have. But one simply didn’t go about asking underage children if they just happened to have been entrusted with irreplaceable documents. What to say to Lady Rezalla? She must be thinking he was the bearer of tidings.

He could be! His hand brushed the data disks. He could well be. The Fleet already had permission of Lady Rezalla to take the finished hull out of the Yard. Yes, that was why he was requesting this interview. To inform her that the removal would occur shortly—as soon as he had added to the ship the special adjustments he now had deposited safely in a uniform pocket.

Though Lady Rezalla’s quick and piercing glance begged for news of another kind, she did not refer to her missing daughter when Caleb explained the purpose of his visit. He deeply wished he could relieve her fears with some sort of reassurance. No news was still, in its own way, good news.

“And you feel
safe
,” she asked, pausing on the word, “taking out the Prototype Five, Commander?”

“It has passed every single test the Fleet can give it, Lady Rezalla,” he said quite truthfully. “I have no hesitation at all in putting it through the most grueling maneuvers.”

“Except those that would take you down the maw of a wormhole, I trust,” she said drolly.

“Indeed, Lady Rezalla. I shall avoid them as I would a black hole.”

“Do.” And she inclined her head graciously.

As a little present for her courtesy in receiving him, he presented her with the latest “book” of scents—fine sheets of paper, no longer than the palm of his hand, each impregnated with a different aroma—from the parfumeries of the Outer City, famed for their exquisite fragrances.

“How charming,” she said with a delighted smile. “You are much too good to me, Commander.”

“Nothing can be too good for a lady of your charm and eminence,” he replied in words formulaic but delivered sincerely.

She opened the first sheet, inhaling delicately. “Oh, like roses. Terran roses. Attar made from them was supposed to be the most seductive fragrance of all.”

She passed the tiny sheet to him and he inhaled obediently without informing her that his nose was woefully inept at distinguishing “pleasant” smells. The funk of recycled air he knew; florals, he did not.

“Elegant. Truly elegant.”

“I’d term it dainty, Commander, but then”—she smiled winsomely at him, cocking her head in such a way that he wished she was neither a First Family Lady nor related to the woman he did love—“this scent was contrived for feminine, not masculine, tastes.”

“Indeed.” He inclined his head, smiling in such a way as to thank her for her discreet flirtatiousness. “I would also like your permission to bring Lady Cuiva to see how we are progressing with her mother’s design.”

Lady Rezalla gave him a long, almost acid look. Then she made a graceful gesture with her lovely hand. “Forgive me, but I could wish that my granddaughter was not quite so fascinated by her mother’s profession.” Caleb made a small bow of comprehension. “She has lately insisted that she be tutored in space navigation . . . and doubtless the anomalies that are . . . hazards.” Her mouth closed firmly for a moment as she took a deep breath before continuing. “However, the child’s loyalty and dedication must be considered. I shall not have it said that I denied her.”

“Never, Lady Rezalla,” Caleb protested.

The long hand was lifted again, forestalling further reassurances. “You may have heard rumors about the machinations of that young . . . young . . .”A proper term seemed to escape her.

“Scut, milady?”

She gave him a stern look but her eyes twinkled. “That will do until I can think of something more thoroughly derogatory. That scut Vestrin.”

“He can’t still be pursuing a court action on the grounds that his father made the bequest to Lady Nimisha?”

She nodded, smiling with a wicked and determined gleam in her gentian-blue eyes—so like her daughter’s. “As well we were forewarned by you, Commander, for, of course, my body-heir had made a will prior to her departure and, in it, bequeaths all her estate and assets to Lady Cuiva. You will shortly meet Perdimia, who will accompany Lady Cuiva wherever she may go.”

“Oh! Yes, I see. Sensible precaution. But surely not even Lord Vestrin would attempt to . . . harm a child. A First Family child wearing such a prestigious tattoo.”

“Cuiva is not yet Necklaced in her minor majority, Commander. I would not put anything past that—no, ‘scut’ is not appropriate. He may not
be
a bastard”—Lady Rezalla spat the epithet—“but roué he most certainly is. I would put nothing past a creature of so little honor and such great greed. He has laughed . . .
laughed
 . . .” she paused again, “at public functions over my body-heir’s disappearance.” She drew in a deep breath, her nostrils pinched by her wrath.

“You may be sure that I would protect Lady Cuiva with my life,” Caleb said, bowing again and feeling almost sick with a combination of anxiety for the child and animosity toward Lord Vestrin.

“I know that, Commander, but you will double whatever precautions you have previously used in any excursions on which she accompanies you.” Now she rose, extending her hand in gracious dismissal.

“I shall keep you informed of the progress. You will attend the commissioning?” Caleb asked, hastily adding, “A formality which you, as Owner-Representative, should attend—if you can fit such an engagement in your calendar?”

“I wouldn’t miss that for the worlds,” she said, again in a droll tone. She always managed to astonish him, despite her adherence to the conventions of Family.

He bowed over her hand and was honored when her fingers pressed his with far more strength than he would have expected from her. But then, Cuiva often mentioned that she took physical exercise every morning with her grandmother. Lord Vestrin would not get past Lady Rezalla if he made an attempt on Cuiva in the older woman’s presence.

Rezalla accompanied him to the door, and when it opened for them, she turned to the waiting RM. “Escort the commander to Lady Cuiva’s apartment. You may tender your invitation personally. She has missed your company. You may make whatever arrangements for the visit are required.”

Caleb said all that was suitable for such gracious condescension and then, pivoting smartly, followed the RM. In the hall, and unobserved, he patted the disks in his pocket. He would have preferred racing back to the Yard to see what they contained, but he was concerned enough about Cuiva to want a word with her—to bawl her out for stepping outside the front door without this new bodyguard. What had she been thinking about?

Although the RM opened the door, a woman quickly inserted herself between Caleb and the room.

“This is Commander Caleb Rustin, Miz Perdimia,” the Residence Manager said with just the slightest hint of remonstrance, as if the woman should have known who he was.

She stepped back. She was short in stature but wide in body, as if her legs did not balance her torso in length. Her hazel eyes were keen, and from the way she stood, Caleb had no doubts of alertness, even with the RM presenting him to Cuiva’s door. He also noticed, and saw that she caught his swift glance over her person, the knife sheaths in her boot and on her left forearm, and the strap of the one that probably hung down her back as Jeska’s had.

“I’d like a word with Lady Cuiva, Miz Perdimia. Lady Rezalla said I should invite her myself.”

“Cal?” Cuiva cried, hearing his voice and rushing into the room.

“Lady Cuiva . . . what have we been talking about just this morning?” Perdimia’s face was expressionless as she turned to the girl.

Cuiva went from a dead run to a solemn walk between steps. Her face reflected that she did indeed remember what had been said “just this morning.”

“Not rushing here and there,” she murmured and then brightened as Caleb stepped past the bodyguard and held out his hand to her. She went up on the balls of her feet to rush to him and, sighing, came forward at a sedate pace, but she clung to his hand with both of hers. He could feel her trembling, and when her fingers squeezed, he knew that he wouldn’t say anything about their clandestine meeting on the front steps. Not in front of Perdimia and certainly not after a recent schooling on the same peril.

“Indeed, my young friend,” Caleb said, shaking her hands to make her contact his eyes. “How will you ever learn the decorum a Necklaced minor major must have if you don’t start practicing . . . right now!” He stared at her to emphasize the final two words and she flushed, but then recovered her ebullience and swung on his arm, nearly pulling him off balance. “I have your grandam’s permission to show you the Fiver we’ve been completing.” He looked squarely at Perdimia. “I invite you, Miz Perdimia, in your own right as well as in your role as Lady Cuiva’s companion.”

“Sir, that’s real nice of you.” Perdimia’s face relaxed.

He had a good notion that she quite probably came from a service family and, like Jeska, had not measured up to the height requirement. She had the required background and was making good use of it. More important, she took her job seriously, which reassured Caleb in light of what Lady Rezalla had confided to him.

“When? When, Cal, when?” Cuiva said, swinging on his arm. She saw Perdimia’s expression. “Oh, Cal doesn’t mind, Perdimia. We’re old friends,” she went on, standing upright again and affecting a very mature stance, obviously copied from her grandam. “I used to go out to the Yard all the time with my mother and we even—”