Lt. Leary, Commanding by David Drake

“Nor would I expect you to, mistress,” Deirdre said, as little moved by Adele’s anger as granite is by the rain. “But I am pledging my personal honor to you that no ill would result to my brother as a result of any dealings he might have with the S&M.”

This woman has as much stiff-necked pride as a Mundy! Which was no surprise, because the families had been poured from the same crucible of Cinnabar politics.

“I noted when I reviewed your file,” Deirdre said, looking off at an angle, “the irregular way that a portion of your family properties were restored after the Edict of Reconciliation. I suspect there was collusion between the court and the cousin claiming to be the closest surviving relative. Such a miscarriage of justice could be righted even now.”

Adele smiled faintly and extended her hand. “Good day, mistress,” she said. “I believe that the past is often better forgotten, however I’ll keep that information on hand against later need.”

She walked out of the bank; beside the building was a stop for the east-west loop of a car line. She’d go back to her apartment and from that privacy assemble the information she’d need. The first sweep, that is, to enable her to focus more accurately for the next pass.

She wouldn’t say anything to Daniel about her meeting today; either meeting. It would merely make him uncomfortable to know about Mistress Sand, and as for his sister—

Adele wasn’t going to mention Deirdre until she herself had a better notion of what to think.

* * *

Daniel Leary sat at the civilian desk, furnished when he rented the apartment, and switched off the phone on which he’d called Lt. Mon. The view from his window looked down the hillside over three- and four-story apartment houses similar to his own. Because most of them had roof gardens, the effect was more similar to Bantry, the Leary country estate, than a major city.

Hogg came in with a flimsy in one hand and a bleak scowl on his face. “Your new Dress Whites aren’t going to be ready inside a week unless I squeeze Sadlack harder than I’ve done so far,” he said. “Have we got a week, do you figure?”

Hogg was shortish, plumpish, and balding, although he was only in his forties. He was neither a gentleman’s valet nor the typical naval servant, an enlisted crewmen who looked after one of the officers for an additional stipend paid from the officer’s purse.

“A week?” Daniel repeated. Ordinarily it might take a week or even longer for sailing orders to make their labyrinthine way through the Navy Office, but the brusque certainty of Daniel’s own appointment suggested there was nothing ordinary about this business. “Not a chance, Hogg. I’ve just told Mon to have the Sissie ready for liftoff in six hours if possible. It’ll take two days to gather a crew, but that’s the only delay I expect. I suppose I’ll have to make do with my grays.”

Hogg had watched over Daniel while he was growing up on Bantry. Nurses and tutors had come and gone. Mother was a gentle presence in the background, and Corder Leary made flying visits from the city to dispense commands, punishment, and occasional praise before returning to the things he found important.

Hogg was always there, teaching what he knew: about wildlife and women and cards, about how to hold your liquor and when to hold your tongue; about loyalty and courage and the history of the Learys of Bantry. As much as anyone can teach another, Hogg had taught Daniel how to be a man.

“Naw, I’ll just lean on the snooty bastard a little harder,” Hogg said, sounding more pleased than not. He was a countryman who’d learned city ways well enough to profit by them—in Hell, Hogg would probably win all the pitchforks with the three-card trick—but who would never lose his distaste for tradesmen with polished accents. “You’ll not be going out on your first permanent command without a dress uniform, Master Daniel.”

Daniel wondered exactly what “lean harder” meant in this context. He decided he didn’t want to know. He needed Dress Whites to replace the set he’d lost on Kostroma—and he too had found Sadlack, Gentleman’s Outfitter, to be a snooty bastard. If the fellow was going to tailor 1st Class uniforms for officers of the RCN, then he could damned well work the way naval officers did: all the hours the clock had, until the task was accomplished.

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