Many of the great houses had their own tramcars which teams of servants set on the rail when their master or mistress chose to go out. Adele had a respectable nest egg in the form of prize money gathered while under the command of Lieutenant Leary, but she couldn’t have afforded such an establishment even if she’d seen any use for it.
She’d gotten used to taking care of herself; she preferred it that way now. She had Tovera, of course, but it was easy to forget that Tovera was human.
A footman ran ahead to engage the tram that’d just stopped, saving Adele the delay before another car arrived in answer to the call button in the kiosk. At this time of day that might be as much as half an hour. The funeral was being held at a chapel near Harbor Three, the great naval base on the northern outskirts of Xenos. Adele had allowed enough time—of course—but she preferred to be a trifle early than to miss the start of the rites because of a run of bad luck.
Adele Mundy had seen a great deal of luck in her 32 years. Quite a lot of it had been bad.
The man who got off the tram wore a hard-used, one might almost say ragged, RCN 2nd class uniform, gray with black piping. It was the minimum standard of dress required for off-duty officers in public, though given its condition—there were oil stains on the left cuff and a mended tear on the right pants leg—the powers that be in the Navy Office might have been better served had the fellow donned clean fatigues instead.
The recent armistice between Cinnabar and the Alliance of Free Stars had led to the decommissioning of many ships and the consequent relegation of officers to half-pay status. For those who didn’t have private means, half-pay was a sentence of destitution. This was obviously an unfortunate who couldn’t afford to maintain his wardrobe—
“That’s Lieutenant Mon,” Tovera murmured in her ear.
“Good God, it is,” Adele blurted under her breath. She’d unconsciously averted her eyes in embarrassment; poor herself for most of her adult life, she had no desire to wallow in the poverty of others.
Such concerns didn’t touch Tovera any more than love or hate did. The man coming toward them was a potential enemy—everyone was a potential enemy to Tovera—so she’d looked carefully and thus recognized Daniel’s first lieutenant.
“Good afternoon, Mon!” Adele called, stepping through the line of footmen who’d deliberately placed themselves between her and the disreputable-looking stranger. “What are you doing here? Have you completed the Princess Cecile’s repairs already?”
“Mundy?” said Lieutenant Mon. “Thank God I found you. Is Captain Leary here as well? I need to see him soonest. I must see him!”
Mon was a dark, close-coupled, morose officer in his early thirties. His technical skills were above the high average of RCN officers, and his doggedness made up for his lack of brilliance. Mon had neither family wealth nor the interest of senior officers to aid him, so his advancement in the service had been embitteringly slow.
Adele respected Mon but she didn’t particularly like him. She doubted that many people regarded him as a friend.
Mon’s saving grace was the way he’d reacted when Daniel Leary gave him his first taste of honor and prize money. There were officers—many officers—who’d have been envious of the lucky younger superior who swept from success to success while they plodded in his wake. Mon by contrast had shown only gratitude and utter loyalty.
“Daniel’s at the Stanislas Chapel,” Adele said. “Commander Bergen died, and Daniel’s in charge of the arrangements. We’re headed there now, but, ah . . .”
The tramcar began to chime in mindless irritation at being held at the stop. Adele glanced at the vehicle but held her tongue; her frustration was with the situation, not one more noise in a city that was full of them.
Mon glanced down at his uniform. “Oh, this?” he said, flicking the stained cuff. “Oh, that’s all right. I’ve got my Whites in storage at Fastinelli’s. I’ll pick them up and go straight to the chapel—it’s only a stop or two away from Stanislas.”