The Rise of Earth (16 page)

“If your waiter can't tell you what's in a dish, you can of course politely decline it,” Hastings said. “Now, why don't we move on? Above and to the left of your service plate—”

“What's this blasted extra fork and spoon up here for?” Huff asked Diocletia in a whisper that could be heard halfway down the table.

“I have no idea, Dad,” Diocletia said.

“Yeh don't know?” Huff asked, looking surprised. “After all them governesses I got for yeh an' yer sister?”

“They ran off with pirates.”

Hastings had stopped her lesson and was waiting for the discussion to cease.

“
All
of 'em ran off with pirates?” Huff asked in shock.

“Or Mother got rid of them.”

“Huh. Deuced waste of livres, that.”

“The spoon and fork above your plate are for dessert, Grandfather,” interjected Carlo.

“That's correct,” Hastings said gratefully. “And the small plate to the left of them is for bread—you'll find your bread knife atop it.”

“If yeh need to stab someone, don't use that one—it
won't do nothin' unless yeh get 'em right between the ribs,” Huff said. “Picked up the wrong knife once in a dustup at Hygiea. Embarrassin', that.”

“Don't stab anyone with any utensil!” gasped a suddenly pale Hastings.

“Well, of course not,” grunted Sanco Paz, Canaan Bickerstaff's grizzled first mate. “Stabbin' people ain't proper company manners.”

Several privateers grunted their assent to this.

“Well said, sir,” Hastings said. “Now then, let's consider glassware. Who knows what this largest glass is for?”

“Grog!” declared a member of Dmitra's crew. “With any luck, they're all for grog!”

Several privateers cheered, and a couple raised their empty glasses and clinked them in mock toasts. Tycho heard glass break somewhere at the far end of the table. Hastings winced.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please! The largest glass is not for alcohol, but for water.”

The privateers began to boo.

“This next glass is for red wine, and this one is for white wine,” Hastings said, raising her voice. “And then this flute is for champagne, and this smallest glass is for sherry.”

“What's sherry?” Tycho asked his father, as the privateers debated how many of those beverages counted as grog.

“It's for cooking,” Yana said. “Mr. Speirdyke always
has a bottle of it open in the galley.”

“Oh dear,” Mavry said.

Karst Widderich raised a hand—or rather, the stump of one.

“Begging pardon, ma'am, but where do you extinguish a cheroot?”

“That one's easy—in the water glass,” said his brother, Baltazar. “Ain't you got no manners, you bilge-born cur?”

“Duty compels me to correct you—” began Hastings.

“I didn't know, Balty, which is why I was asking,” Karst told his brother in a wounded voice. “So can the water glass be used as a spittoon too? Or is that another glass?”

Dmitra brayed laughter. “You nitwit. You really would spit in your own water glass, wouldn't you?”

“SHUT UP!” Hastings bellowed. “ALL OF YOU! THIS INSTANT!”

The privateers looked at the assistant secretary in shock.

“
No
glass should be used as a spittoon! Or for extinguishing smoking materials! Neither activity is permitted at tonight's banquet!”

“All these glasses and not one of 'em's a spittoon?” muttered Karst Widderich. “That ain't proper planning.”

Hastings breathed deeply and closed her eyes, then opened them and attempted a smile.

“You will all receive place cards when you enter the banquet hall,” she said in a voice that now sounded only
slightly strained. “You'll find your table assignments on them. Please do not rearrange the cards or engage in disputes over them.”

“That means no stabbin' people, you lot,” Huff said, gesturing emphatically with his forearm cannon.

“I believe we have covered the etiquette of stabbing. Now, with each course you should alternate whom you speak with at the table—the person on your left and then the person on your right.”

“First port and then starboard,” Dmitra growled as Karst Widderich regarded his hands.

The privateers looked left and then right, shrugging agreeably.

“As this is a diplomatic event, I have some subjects I suggest you avoid with your tablemates. Politics, for one. As well as piracy and privateering.”

“These options do not leave much about which to converse,” observed Zhi Ning.

“There's grog,” Canaan Bickerstaff said.

“And weapons,” said Kanoji Ali. “Can we talk about them things, ma'am?”

Hastings sighed. “I suppose so. Grog and weapons it is.”

Vass whispered in her ear and Hastings nodded.

“I have an idea,” she said, smiling brightly. “Perhaps we could speak to our hosts about an alternate seating arrangement. How many of you would prefer the company of your fellow privateers at this banquet?”

Most of the privateers put up their hands—or in
some cases, lifted forearm cannons and other artificial appendages. Mavry raised his hand, only to have Diocletia haul it back down and shake her head warningly at Tycho and Yana.

“Very well, I shall see about the arrangements,” Hastings said. “I . . . look forward to seeing you all shortly for what I'm certain will be a memorable evening.”

And with that the assistant secretary fled, leaving the privateers arguing about points of etiquette.

“I think that went well,” Mavry said.

The banquet was held at the pinnacle of the pressure dome sheltering the Well, which meant the Jovian officials and privateers had to wait patiently for room in the lone elevator serving the consulate.

Tycho had noticed that Huff's indicators were flashing yellow and decided to make sure his grandfather was monitoring his power levels—he occasionally got too excited to pay attention. Tycho waved for the rest of the Hashoones to go ahead and pushed his way back to where the privateers were laughing about old times.

“Arrr, yer a good lad, Tyke,” Huff said, ruffling Tycho's hair affectionately with his artificial hand. “Brought along a spare power pack, so don't yeh worry about me.”

Tycho nodded and tried not to wince as his grandfather patted him on the head again—Huff's artificial hand didn't provide much in the way of feedback, so the pats were more like slaps. He squeezed into the elevator with Huff and several other privateers, winding up with
his nose wedged in Canaan Bickerstaff's armpit.

“You ever see so many rich prizes around one rock?” Canaan asked Huff as the doors closed.

“Not since the old days. There's enough livres in orbit for the whole lot of us to spend the rest of our days sleepin' soft an' eatin' dainty. Blasted shame we can't scoop 'em up.”

“And who says we cain't?” asked Baltazar Widderich from the back of the elevator.

“Yeah, who says we cain't?” his brother, Karst, echoed.

“You boys ain't too clear on what a letter of marque means, I'm guessin',” Bickerstaff said with a grin.

“It's clear enough,” Baltazar replied, sounding offended. “Jes' ain't never cared much about papers and lawyers. The pirate trade was a fair sight better without them.”

“Arrr, ain't that the truth,” Huff said.

The doors opened and Tycho extracted himself, a bit woozily, from the sweaty privateer and then the elevator. They were above the rim of the Well, looking out at the starships surrounding Cybele, the bulk of Attis looming overhead, and the infinite stars.

“Now that's a view,” Huff breathed appreciatively as they joined the end of a long line of privateers and officials. “But what's this holdup, then?”

“I heard no weapons,” said Slack Robin, a cadaverous privateer who served with one of the Widderiches. “They'll stow them for us, but you can't take them into dinner.”

“Arrr, that's why I don't like formal affairs—too stuffy,” Huff said, tugging at his tie. “Yeh go ahead, lad—no sense waitin' for me.”

“I'll stay, Grandfather,” Tycho said, then hesitated. “Did you hear who we ran into beyond the Westwell?”

“No one tells me nothin' no more,” Huff said, and then the living half of his face darkened. “Yeh better not mean crimps.”

“No. Well, yes. But that wasn't what I meant. We ran the crimps off.”

Huff peered at him, curious.

“Elfrieda's here on Cybele, Grandpa. Running a shop in a pressure dome called Bazaar.”

“Is she now? Wondered where she'd taken herself off to.”

Tycho tried to figure out what his grandfather was thinking. He couldn't tell, but Huff didn't seem upset.

“She said you should come by for a nip.”

“Arrr, p'raps I will. Thankee, lad. Be good to see yer grandmother again. Though I'd keep her an' yer mother separated, for both their sakes.”

Ahead, four Cybelean constables flanked the double doors to the banquet hall, eyeing the readout on a weapons detector, while a young man and woman in black uniforms waited behind a table, handing the privateers tickets for their carbines and sidearms.

“Anything to declare, sir?” the young woman asked Huff, retreating a step as his forearm cannon squealed.
“Oh my. We'll definitely need to ask you to check that.”

“Yeh take good care of me persuader now,” Huff said, unstrapping the cannon and setting it on the table. “That baby's let me end more'n a few unpleasant conversations.”

“We'll keep it for you in a secure locker,” the woman promised, handing Huff a ticket and delicately hefting the cannon.

“Jes' a minute, lassie,” Huff said, noticing the weapons detector. “There's a couple more.”

He opened his coat and extracted the carbines he'd lent to Tycho and Yana, thumping them down on the table. Then he bent to unbuckle the sword on his hip.

“Uh, I'll get some more claim checks,” the woman said.

Huff held up a finger, fumbling in his jacket. He extracted a small but deadly-looking pistol, then frowned and reached behind his back, his artificial hand emerging with a punch dagger of black ceramic.

“All right, this will take me a couple of trips,” the woman said.

“Hang fire a moment, girlie. Oh, that's right.”

He touched the middle two fingers of his artificial hand to its thumb and twisted his wrist. A hidden hatch opened in his palm and a small baton slid out.

“What's that one do, Huff?” said a privateer whose name Tycho remembered as al-Adabi.

“Sonic emitter,” Huff said with a grin. “Look here,
Hasan—I touch that button three times and there wouldn't be an intact eardrum within ten meters of here.”

“Wouldn't that include you?”

“Arrr, ain't had natural eardrums for near on forty years. Delicate little blighters—the Almighty weren't thinkin' on space battles when he created 'em.”

“Sure you ain't got a bow chaser tucked somewhere in that metal carcass of yours, Huff?” asked Dmitra Barnacus with a grin.

“Not yet. Arrr, if a body's still kickin' after that lot, I reckon I can chomp 'em.”

He clacked his jaws together a couple of times and departed, a sheaf of tickets jammed in his metal fist.

They passed through the weapons detector without incident and into the banquet hall, where waiters were rushing about with trays of drinks and finger food.

“Arrr, first place I've been on this miserable rock what's warm,” Huff muttered.

In the center of the room was a small stage where four musicians were playing—Tycho spotted what he thought were three violins and a larger instrument he'd never seen before. No one was seated yet; Tycho saw naval uniforms of both Earth and the Jovian Union next to the formal black suits of ministers and functionaries and the cheerful riot of clothes worn by privateers.

The Cybeleans were easy to spot. They wore luxuriant-looking furs or velvet in deep, rich colors.
Their fingers and ears glittered and sparkled with rings, and a number of them wore gravity-defying hats. And they were beaming and gesturing grandly.

It's their party and they want to impress all of us
, Tycho thought.

“Now don't let the Earthfolk intimidate yeh, Tyke,” Huff said in his ear as they scanned the front table for their place cards. “Ain't no shame growin' up under a dome instead of breathin' air. Can't nobody pick where they're born or who they're born to—it's what yeh do with the life yer given that counts.”

“I know, Grandpa,” Tycho said with a smile, reaching for what he thought was his place card. His name was written with so many flourishes and curlicues that he had to look twice to make sure it was his.

“Are you Huff Hashoone, from Callisto?” a gruff voice behind them asked as the musicians began to play.

The empty socket of Huff's forearm cannon squealed and twitched. Tycho and his grandfather turned and saw an older man standing behind them, wearing a dark-blue tunic, red vest, and a ruffled orange shirt.

“That's me, sure enough,” Huff said. “An' whom am I addressin'?”

“Ripton Ferdinando Zombro, captain of the
Argent Raptor
,” the man said stiffly. “Operating under letter of marque granted by His Majesty, the emperor of Earth.”

“I've heard of 'im,” Huff said, eyeing the Earthman. “This here is my grandson Tycho Hashoone, midshipman
aboard the
Shadow Comet
.”

Captain Zombro nodded at Tycho and offered him a small bow.

“Your grandfather doesn't remember my name, but he ought to remember my old command in His Majesty's navy. Back in the seventies I was captain of the HMS
Perseus
. We fought an engagement once, above—”

“—above 43 Ariadne, in the Floras,” Huff said. “That was seventy-four—I remember it well. We'd boarded a bulk freighter through the starboard docking ring. An' yer crew—”