Sporting Chance

Chapter Eighteen

“This Court is now ready to record the first session of the competency hearings of Lady Cecelia de Marktos, who is petitioning for the reversal of the Order of Guardianship imposed by the Crown Court after medical certification of irreversible coma. Present in the Court—” Present in the Court were local magistrates, attorneys Bunny had hired on Lady Cecelia’s behalf, her medical staff, and attorneys representing those who had originally instituted the Order of Guardianship: her family. Later, if this Court ruled in her favor, she would have to do the same things again, in another court, but for now Bunny thought it should be enough.

First her medical team instructed the Court in her signal system. The shoulder jerks, the knee movements, the hand clasps. They demonstrated the lapcomp she would use, and everyone present got to try it out. Thus her testimony couldn’t be programmed into the machine—not overtly, anyway. The synthesized voice had been shaped to sound like hers, from old tapes, but her attorneys recommended that she use both the body movements and the lapcomp, to provide additional evidence of her understanding and competency.

The session began with the same sorts of questions Dr. Czerda had asked months before on the yacht. Did she know her name? Was it Lady Cecelia—this time the magistrate asked using the entire formal string. Did she know the date, the place, the circumstances? She answered yes; she was able, with the lapcomp’s help, to give the date in both local and Universal calendars. Did she know the date of her injury, and had she been conscious continually since?

That was trickier. Brun had finally told her the date when she was supposed to have collapsed with the stroke: she could give that. But she had lost weeks in the first drug-induced coma. They had anticipated this question, and had decided that her struggle to answer it honestly, within the limits of her equipment, would stand her in good stead.

Her family’s attorney, evidently poorly briefed, seemed most determined to prove she was not Lady Cecelia, and then that she had been unduly influenced by Heris Serrano. Her medical team dealt with the first (at least to the satisfaction of that court) by providing the biochemical profile proving her identity. Since such profiles were the standard way of proving identity, the attorney was reduced to arguing that it might have been faked. His argument about Heris was harder to counter. Bunny’s attorneys led her through the questions.

No, Heris Serrano had not known about the bequest. No, she did not think leaving a yacht to a yacht captain was peculiar. The yacht represented only a small percentage of her total estate, and no interest in the businesses which provided the bulk of her—and her family’s—wealth. No, she did not think Heris Serrano had had anything to do with her accident. Her attorney spoke.

“Since we have established this lady’s identity and her mental alertness, despite a terrible ordeal, we ask a summary judgment in her favor, reversing the Order of Guardianship.” Cecelia heard the faint rustle as Bunny’s lawyer sat back down, the louder stir of others, the creak and rasp of the opposing lawyer standing, most likely to object.

“Just a moment,” the presiding magistrate said. Cecelia heard the hollow thock of the gavel. She wished she could see his face. He sounded reasonable, but she was used to judging people by a combination of their expressions and their actions. “All this court need consider is Lady Cecelia’s mental status. And on that point, I wish to state that I am now convinced that the individual seated there—” Cecelia assumed he pointed at her. “—and introduced in this court as Lady Cecelia is in fact Lady Cecelia. Clearly, Lady Cecelia is not comatose; she is oriented in time and place, and knows her own identity. But whether that constitutes adequate mental capacity to require that the guardianship be withdrawn, and her affairs returned to her sole control, remains in doubt—”

“Exactly what we said!” interrupted her family’s lawyer.

“It is not,” Bunny’s lawyer interrupted as quickly. “You claimed this wasn’t even Lady Cecelia.”

“It seemed reasonable to doubt the identity of someone appearing at so great a distance from Lady Cecelia’s last known location, when the management of great assets were at stake,” said her family’s lawyer frostily. “After Lady Cecelia’s disappearance, with all the publicity, anyone could have decided to claim to be her. Any lapses of memory could be attributed to the stroke or subsequent medication . . . it would be very hard to prove in the absence of definitive biochemical identification—”

“Which, Ser, was presented. Now, if you don’t mind—” Was that a crumb of humor in the magistrate’s voice? Cecelia hoped for it.

“Not at all.”

“Very well, then. I am going to address some questions to Lady Cecelia, and I wish you legal gentlemen to keep quiet, and not interfere. If I need interpretation of her signal system, I will ask her medical and rehabilitative staff to assist. But I want her answers, indicative of her understanding, unaffected by your comments. If you do interfere, I will consider that adversely in rendering my judgment. Do I make myself clear?” He had, of course, made himself very clear. Cecelia braced herself. Now it would come.

“Lady Cecelia . . .” The timbre of his voice changed; Cecelia groaned inwardly. A sort of spurious sweetness oozed from it, the tone of an adult who is trying to communicate with a child believed to be slightly dimwitted. “Let me explain the situation.” She already knew the situation; her lawyers had explained it in detail. “If you had come before the first competency hearing as you are now, I am certain that no Order of Guardianship would have been issued. However, you did not represent yourself, and no one challenged the presumption that your condition was completely disabling and permanent. Indeed, I cannot find a precedent for this situation in this jurisdiction’s records, and the only similar cases in the entire Familias Regnant are not, in fact, that similar.”

He paused. Cecelia realized he was planning to drag everyone through the entire legal history of competency hearings, Orders of Guardianship, and so on. How she wished she could say “Get on with it, dammit!”

“Reversing an Order of Guardianship requires some proof that you are capable of managing your affairs—at least choosing and designating an appropriate representative. Is that clear?”

“Yes.” Cecelia used the synthetic voice for that one, and she could tell by the indrawn breaths that it surprised more than one in the court.

“I want you to explain, as well as you are able, what you consider your main business interests,” the magistrate said. “Can you tell me something about your affairs, enough that I know you understand the extent of your holdings?”

This they had not expected. Cecelia could hear her lawyers shifting on their seats. She hoped they would keep quiet; she knew, if she could only figure out a way to communicate it. First the easy signal, the “yes” for “Yes, I understand.” Then—she formed the list in her mind, and began spelling them into the synthesizer input. “B.e.c.o.n. I.n.v.e.s.t.m.e.n.t.s.” Pause. “M.e.t.a.l.s. a.n.d. h.e.a.v.y. i.n.d.u.s.t.r.y.” Pause. “Forty-seven point six—” the synthesizer handled numbers more easily than spelled words. “p.e.r.c.e.n.t.” Pause. “E.q.w.i.n. f.o.u.n.d.a.t.i.o.n.” Pause. “Eighty-five p.e.r.c.e.n.t.” Pause. Laboriously, she spelled on and on, seeing in her mind’s eye the logos and prospectuses and annual reports of the various corporations, partnerships, limited and unlimited companies, in which she had once (and should still) have an interest.

“Excuse me, Lady Cecelia,” the magistrate interrupted, when she was halfway through trying to explain that she had an undivided fifth of an eighth part of the great mining venture on Castila. She stopped short, suddenly aware that her back ached, sweat had glued her blouse to her back, and she had no idea how long she’d been “talking.” His voice now held the respect she hoped for. “That’s enough; I can see that explaining this is a laborious process with the communication system you now have. Clearly, however, you do know your holdings; I’ve no doubt you could complete the list, but there’s no reason to put you through it.”

“Objection!” The opposing lawyer’s voice sounded more resigned than hopeful. “She might have been given the list to memorize; it could even have been programmed in . . .”

“Overruled. This court sees the effort Lady Cecelia is making; this court believes that effort is hers. I have only a few more questions, ma’am. For the record, I want to ask why you willed your yacht to your captain of a short time.”

“She . . . saved . . . my . . . life.” Those words were in the synthesizer; she had insisted on that phrase, but had chosen to leave it as separate words which she would have to call out one by one. “On . . . Sirialis.”

“Ah.” Under the magistrate’s satisfied word she heard a datacube clattering on the opposition’s table. She realized then that Heris must not have mentioned that little escapade. Some of her resentment vanished. If they thought it was just a whim . . . I have a right to my whims, she told herself. Still, whims could mean loss of judgment. With no reason given at all—and she had not wanted to embarrass her captain by mentioning the reason in the will—her family had had only the worst reasons to consider. Ronnie should have told them, but perhaps they hadn’t listened to the family scapegrace. “And I presume, Lady Cecelia, that you need access to your assets in part to pay for your rehabilitation and further treatment.”

“Yes.” And to return to her own life, and to control her world again, though she couldn’t say it. Yet.

“If you please—” That was her family’s lawyer; she recognized a last-ditch strain in his voice. “I’m sure Lady Cecelia’s family would be glad to pay whatever medical expenses she has incurred or may incur—”

“Objection!” Bunny’s lawyer. “Her family incarcerated Lady Cecelia in a long-term care facility where she was given no effective treatment—”

“They were told there was none!”

“Which turned out to be untrue, as you can see. Lady Cecelia must be free to choose her own treatment, since her choice has already been shown to be better than her family’s abuse and neglect.”

“Gentlemen!” The magistrate’s gavel, twice. “Enough squabbling. It is clear to this court that the individual seated here is in fact Lady Cecelia de Marktos, that she is not comatose, that she is in fact fully oriented as defined by law, that she is aware of her business interests, and capable of communicating her wishes and orders to her chosen agents, and that her medical status is not stable, but evolving toward increasing ability. Moreover, she is capable of giving rational explanations for her actions in the past and present. She is, quite certainly, legally competent. As you all know, in this very unusual circumstance, it is not possible to overturn an Order of Guardianship completely with one hearing. However, as of this date I order that Lady Cecelia’s Order be transferred to Court supervision, pending final revocation. Also as of this date, Lady Cecelia regains her access to all her accounts, wherever they are; I order that her family give this Court a complete listing of all such accounts by the end of this business day. Notification of financial institutions will begin immediately. Within thirty days, I expect a complete accounting of the Guardianship to date; at that time I confidently expect that a subsequent hearing will restore Lady Cecelia’s status in all respects. From this date, the family is not to make any decisions respecting Lady Cecelia’s holdings without her express permission, given through this court. I will expect Lady Cecelia to name a legal representative of her choice to whom she will assign power of attorney for the purpose of transacting business until her condition improves.”

Cecelia felt as if she could float out of her chair and up to the ceiling. Around her, rustles and scrapes and carefully muffled mutters indicated the legal actors reacting to the verdict. She pressed the keyboard and the synthesizer said, “Thank you, sir.”

“Now,” her lawyer said on the way back to the house, “Now you can start living again.”

Cecelia let herself sink into the cushioned seat. Living again? This was far better than a few months ago, but she’d hardly call it living.

“Of course there’s a lot of busywork stacked up,” he went on. She knew what that was—medical and legal bills, that Bunny had guaranteed for her, but that she would now need to authorize. “It won’t take too long,” he said, in the tone that business people used when they meant less than a week. “As soon as the accounts are accessible again—tomorrow, probably, for the local lines, and within a week for the others. I don’t expect the . . . other side . . . to make any trouble about it.” From a firm with long experience in dealing with prominent families, he was not about to bad-mouth her relatives, even now. It had all been a matter of business, he had assured her. Nothing personal, just the need to keep the family assets from evaporating in a crisis.

Now, with her credit restored, with the ability to pay her own bills, and choose her own medical care, she was surprised to find herself as angry with her family as ever. She still didn’t think it was only a matter of business; there had been some satisfaction at seeing the renegade brought low . . . and while Berenice and Gustav had not actually done the deed, they had consented to the humiliation she’d suffered far too easily. She longed to stride into Berenice’s parlor and tell her sister exactly what she thought.

With that thought, she realized that in restoring her legal competence, the magistrate had unwittingly told her attacker she was alive, dangerous, and—worst of all—where she was. Panic stiffened her; she fought to reach the keyboard which, in the car, was out of her reach.

“What? What’s wrong?” He was smart enough to hand it to her, and hit the power switch.

“L.o.r.e.n.z.a. w.i.l.l. k.n.o.w. I.D. w.i.l.l. g.o. a.c.t.i.v.e.”

“Oh . . . dear.” From the tone of his voice, he understood the problem. He should. “But—it’s automatic when legal status is restored. At least she won’t know where you are; that’s not part of the system . . .” She waited impatiently for him to figure it out. “Except—she knows your sister. No doubt your family told everyone about this hearing.” Yes, of course. And worse. She had respected the king’s desire for secrecy; she had not told anyone at all what she knew about the prince. She was now sure, though she had no proof, that Lorenza had provided whatever it was that made the prince stupid. If Lorenza panicked, and started picking off Cecelia’s relatives on the grounds she might have told them something, she might soon be the only person who knew about the prince.

It was going to be a working day, not a celebration, and she wasn’t going to waste time on busywork after all.

Heris approached the Rotterdam Station cautiously. She still didn’t think this was where Lady Cecelia had been taken, but just in case she didn’t want to blunder into any R.S.S. or law enforcement scrutiny. Oblo insisted that Sweet Delight’s latest identity would hold up to anyone’s checking, but she preferred not to test it if possible.

The Station itself had a scuffed old clunker of a freighter nuzzled into one docking station, and two small chartered passenger vessels spaced around the ring from it. The Stationmaster, who ran Traffic Control herself during mainshift, told Heris to dock four slots down from the freighter.

“That charter’s a bunch of high-powered lawyers,” she told Heris, while explaining which coupling protocol they used—Rotterdam Station had no tugs. “Couldn’t come on the same ship—not them. Ridiculous! Bet it comes out of our taxes, some way.”

Two ships full of lawyers? Heris suspected they’d found Cecelia, and so had someone else. Several someones else.

“And now you. We haven’t seen so much unexpected traffic in years. I don’t suppose you want to declare your business?”

“Bloodstock,” said Heris, inspired. After all, Cecelia was supposed to have had a training farm. “We hauled something for Lord Thornbuckle last year—” His children, when Cecelia was aboard, but the Stationmaster didn’t need to know that.

“Ah. You’re horse people?”

“Well . . . I’d hate to claim that; I’ve got no land of my own. I ride, of course.”

“Over fences?”

“To hounds,” Heris said, hoping this would work the miracle the doctor had mentioned.

“Mmm. Better come by my office, Captain.”

Heris left everyone aboard when they’d docked, and made her way alone to the Stationmaster’s office. There, she found a stout gray-haired woman with only one arm yelling into a vidcom.

“No, you may not preempt a scheduled shuttle flight, and I don’t care who your employer is! We got people downside depend on that shuttle, people that live here, and you can just wait your turn like anyone else.” She glanced at Heris, waved her out of pickup range, and continued the argument. “Or you can charter a plane, fly to the other shuttleport, and see if they’ve got room for you. Take your pick.” She cut off the complainer, and grinned at Heris.

“You know Lady Cecelia. You know Bunny . . . right?”

“Uh . . . yes, Stationmaster.”

“Forget that. M’name’s Annie. Who told you she was here?”

“Nobody—a doctor over in the Guerni Republic said to start looking here because this was where she’d had the training stable. Frankly, I thought that was too obvious . . .”

“But someone would’ve heard? Good thinking. Situation now is she just got her legal status back . . . those snobs I was arguing with were her family’s lawyers trying to keep her from it. Probably getting fat fees from managing her affairs.”

Heris blinked. Cecelia well enough to get a competency hearing and reverse the earlier ruling? Perhaps she didn’t need any more medical treatment . . . but surely she’d need her own transportation.

“By the way,” the Stationmaster said, “you might want to avoid those lawyers. First thing they did when they arrived is show a holo of you all over this Station asking if anyone had seen you.” She grinned. “Of course we hadn’t, and we haven’t now. You didn’t tell me your name was Heris Serrano, and that ship out there isn’t the Sweet Delight, or even that other name—what was it?—Better Luck. Where’d you get the new beacon, Miskrei Refitters over at Golan?”

Heris had to laugh. “Annie, you’d make a good match for one of my crew. Any way I can get transport down without running into those lawyers coming up?”

“Why do you think I told them they couldn’t charter a special run of the shuttle? Down shuttle leaves in half an hour; they’ve found out its return run is fully booked, and with any luck they’ll all be on their way over to Suuinen to catch the other one.”

“Is there a young woman named Brun with Lady Cecelia?” She hoped so; maybe Brun could figure out what was going wrong with Sirkin.

“That blonde girl? Bunny’s daughter, isn’t she? No, she took off for Rockhouse a while back with Cory—well, you don’t know him.”

Heris wondered what that was about, but she had a shuttle to catch. “My second-in-command’s Kennvinard Petris, and the other seniors . . .” She gave the Stationmaster the names. She almost named Oblo instead of Sirkin, but that would insult the girl, and besides she had an awful vision of what Oblo and the Stationmaster could do in the way of mischief if they put their heads together. She would not be responsible for that—not until she needed it. “None of my people should come onto the Station except Skoterin; the others were known to be part of my crew back at Rockhouse Major. I’ll tell them, too.” She called the ship, and explained quickly. Skoterin, and only Skoterin, could leave the ship for anything the others wanted or needed.

The down shuttle had only two other passengers, both obviously Station personnel on regular business. Heris tried to relax—the shuttle’s battered interior did nothing to promote its passengers’ confidence—and endured the rough ride silently. Sure enough, the shuttle station onplanet was almost empty; the clerk ignored her request for a communications console, and simply led her out the door. A big green truck huffed clouds of smelly exhaust at her, and a thin dark-haired girl leaned out the window. “You for the stable? The . . . uh . . . captain?”

“Right.” If the girl didn’t say her name, she wouldn’t, though she could see no watchers. The girl pushed open the other door, and Heris climbed up. Amazing. She had seen no sign of customs checks. Did they let anyone on and off the planet without even checking identification?

“Lady Cecelia’s really glad you’re here,” the girl said, as the truck lurched off in a series of slightly controlled leaps. “Sorry about that—Cory was supposed to have fixed the transmission. It’s the road, really. It shakes everything loose.” She was already driving at a speed that made Heris nervous, ignoring the warning signs as she approached the road beyond the shuttleport. The truck leaped forward, into a gap between another truck loaded with square bales of hay, and one hauling livestock. Heris didn’t recognize the animals: dark, large, and hairy.

“I’m Driw,” the girl continued, as if she hadn’t heard the squeal of brakes and tires, the bellows of rage from the other drivers. “I’m one of the grooms, and I always get stuck with the driving.” The truck swayed as she put on speed, and overtook the hay truck ahead. Heris found herself staring fixedly out the side window; she didn’t want to know about oncoming traffic. “Because I’m safe,” Driw said, taking a sharp curve on fewer wheels than the vehicle possessed. Heris could hear its frame protesting. “Everyone else has wrecked the truck at least twice, and Merry—that’s Meredith Lunn, Lady Cecelia’s partner—said I was to do all the driving.” She laughed, the easy laugh of someone who finds it natural, and Heris tried to unclench her own hands from the seat.

“Don’t worry,” Driw said. “We’ve got a load of feed back there; it’ll keep us on the road.”

Heris had a vision of the feedsacks reaching down grainy fingers to grip the road—or perhaps it was molasses in sweet feed—and felt herself relaxing. If she died in a feed truck driven by a crazed groom, it would at least be unique. No Serrano she’d ever heard of had done that. She began to notice the countryside—the gently rolling terrain, the trees edging fields fenced for horses, the horses themselves.

“How is she?” she asked.

“Lady Cecelia? Better . . . when she got here, she couldn’t do more than lie in the bed and twitch. Now . . . she can walk a little, with supports. She can spell things out on a keyboard, and there’s a voice synthesizer. She’s ridden again—”

“Ridden?”

“Well . . . riding therapy, not real riding. On a horse, though. They tried to fit her with some kind of artificial vision things—looked like something out of a monster-adventure entertainment cube, metal contact lenses. She can feed herself, and things like that . . . ’course, I haven’t seen all this, it’s what I hear. You taking her away?”

“Whatever she wants,” Heris said. “If she still needs medical care—”

“She needs to kill the bitch who did it to her,” Driw said coldly. Heris was startled. Aside from her driving, she had seemed like such a nice girl, not at all violent. “There we are—see the gates?” Heris didn’t pick out the gates, surrounded by a thicker clump of trees, until Driw swerved through them. Heris barely grabbed hold in time, but Driw seemed to think the turn routine.

On the gravelled road, or drive, beyond the gates, Driw slowed down a little and grinned at Heris. “You didn’t squeak once—most outsiders do. That girl Brun, for instance.”

“Were you testing me, or just being efficient?” Heris asked.

“A little of both,” Driw said. “We’re very fond of Lady Cecelia. Wanted to know if her friends were tough enough to do her any good. There’s the place.” The place: brick house and brick—and-stone stable yard. Heris recognized it from the holo in Cecelia’s study aboard the yacht. Here, the horses were real, black and bay and chestnut and gray . . . here the stable cat lounged on a pile of saddle pads waiting to be washed; a dog sprawled in the sun. Someone waved to the truck and pointed. Driw swung away from the stable gate to follow a track around one side. “They want the feed in the old barn,” she explained. “Won’t take but a few minutes. You can walk through to the house.”

Heris felt scared, and angry with herself for that. She did not want to see the ruin of the woman she had come to respect and even love. She reminded herself that Cecelia, locked in the dark in a helpless body, must have been more terrified, with more reason.

She felt her hands cramping and tried to unclench them. Cecelia was better; she’d been told Cecelia was better. But that single image she’d seen, of the motionless body, the expressionless face, stayed in her mind’s eye. She could imagine nothing between that and Cecelia well . . . and Cecelia was a long way from well.

She walked through the stable yard, the forecourt, up to the graceful little porch on the big house. She felt she knew it; Cecelia had talked about it enough. But inside, it looked more like a medical center. Parallel bars and weight machines surrounded by colored mats to the right. Massive gray cabinets that might house anything at all to the left. Ahead were the stairs—and coming down, step by careful step, the tall, lean figure she had been afraid to see lying flat, helpless.

Over and under her loose shirt and slacks, Heris could see tubes and wires, the structure and electronic connections that let her walk. One hand clamped to the rail, and the other lay atop a boxlike machine attached to the wide belt around her waist. Her eyes looked odd . . . some kind of contact lenses, Heris decided, though they looked opaque. A headband flickered, red and green. What was that? Beside her, but not touching her, was a competent-looking woman with dark hair in a thick braid. She looked up and smiled at Heris.

“You must be Captain Serrano—we heard Driw’s truck go by.”

“Yes—I am.” For an instant, she didn’t know whether to speak to Cecelia or not; manners won out. “I’m glad to see you up again, milady,” Heris said. Cecelia smiled. Clearly it was a struggle to smile; the movement of her face was deliberate. Her left hand moved over the top of the box at her waist.

“I’m glad to see you.” A synthesized voice, only vaguely like Cecelia’s, came from the box. “I heard you driving in.”

Heris couldn’t think what to say. She wanted to stare, to figure out what each blinking light, tube, and cable was for, but she didn’t want to embarrass Cecelia.

“How . . . is . . . my . . . ship?” asked Cecelia. The voice still didn’t sound like her, but Heris accepted it as her speech.

“She’s . . . a mess, frankly.” Heris shook herself. She could certainly talk about the ship. “I don’t know how much you’ve heard . . . we had to yank her out of the decorators, bare naked, and make a run for it.” How much to explain? “The king—asked a favor of me. It was hinted that my taking it would ensure your safety.”

“And . . . you . . . did . . . it?”

“I’m working on it. Perhaps you’d like to sit down?” That ungainly figure poised on the stairs made her nervous.

“I . . . want . . . to . . . go.” Go? Heris scowled, uncertain what Cecelia meant and unwilling to ask. The other woman on the stairs touched Cecelia’s arm lightly.

“May I explain? You said it was urgent.”

“Yes.” Cecelia continued her slow, difficult progress on down the stairs. The other woman moved with her, but spoke to Heris.

“Lady Cecelia’s competency hearing ended yesterday. She has recovered her memory of the incident that started all this some weeks ago, including who administered the drug, but she hasn’t told the court yet. She didn’t want that person to know she had the memory, because it imperiled her family.”

“Back on Rockhouse,” said Heris. “Where’s Brun?”

“She sent Brun, as soon as she recovered the memory, to warn her family—discreetly—against the individual. Anyway, because of the competency hearing, the person who injured her now knows where she is, and because the magistrates ruled in her favor, her ID is now flagged active on the universal datanets. She has to presume the individual knows that, and will take action. None of us feel that Rotterdam is safe for her anymore. Passenger service is infrequent, and in her condition she still needs medical attendants. We had thought of sending her off on the same ship that carried her lawyers, but that ship is known—”

“That’s easy,” Heris said. “The yacht looks terrible right now, but it’s roomy and safe—and we’re not using its original ID beacon. How many people will she need along?”

“But if they’ve seen you—at the spaceport—”

“The Stationmaster saw to it that no one did. The only one of my crew who has permission to leave the ship is a woman who joined us the day we left Rockhouse—they won’t associate her with me or Lady Cecelia. Let’s get things packed and on the way.”

“Lady Cecelia,” the other woman said. Cecelia had made it to the bottom stair, and the chair beside it. “How soon could you be ready to leave?”

“Now.” The synthesized voice had no tone for humor, but Heris was sure Cecelia intended it. “Go . . . pack. Let . . . me . . . talk . . . to . . . Heris.”

“We’ll need comfort items,” Heris said, as the other woman started away. “We have only minimal bedding—you might want to load that sort of thing.”

“She told me her yacht had had a swimming pool—is that operational?”

“Yes, though again the walls in the gym are bare. We had the pool filled in the Golan Republic—and that’s what I wanted to tell you, milady. The doctors believe that the neurochemical assault you suffered is very similar to what was done to the prince. If so, it may be reversible. However, they will need a detailed history, and your own tissues to work on. I can take you there, if you want to risk it.”

“Yes. I . . . trust . . . you . . .” Cecelia said.

The big sprawling house that had seemed to be dozing in the afternoon sun erupted like a kicked anthill. Heris crouched on the bottom step of the stairs, holding Cecelia’s hands in hers, until someone fetched another chair for her. Four or five women in blue tunics bustled in and out, up and down stairs. Boxes and suitcases began to accumulate in the front hall, as the sun slanted farther and farther through the windows into the room.

“I . . . knew . . . you . . . would . . . come . . .” Cecelia said. Her hand squeezed Heris’s. “Brun . . . knew . . . you . . . had . . . to . . . leave . . .”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t get you out right away,” Heris said. “Your family blamed me—and I didn’t even know about the bequest.”

“No. It’s . . . all . . . right . . .”

The lift whirred, and out came two women, a hoverchair, and another stack of boxes. Two men came in from outside and began carrying the growing pile out to the driveway. Heris heard a truck motor grinding up from the stable, and winced at the thought of Cecelia at the mercy of Driw’s driving. The lift came down again, this time with what looked like a hospital bed folded up. A woman in a big apron appeared at their side with trays.

“Milady—time for your snack.” Heris watched as Cecelia managed to find the food on her plate and get it into her mouth without incident.

“Milady, I’m sorry, but . . . are those artificial eyes?”

“No . . . not . . . exactly. Ask . . . medical.” Cecelia went on eating; Heris was suddenly ravenous and found herself engulfing one thick sandwich after another. Where, and how, had Cecelia found another great cook?

“I should see about the shuttle schedule,” Heris said finally, around a last bite of fresh bread stuffed with something delicious. She was sure it had celery and herbs and cheese in it, but what else?

“Don’t worry about that,” said the cheerful woman she had first met on the stairs. “I called Annie, and she’ll make sure we’ve got one. She thinks we should wait until the opposition lawyers have left.”

Shadows chased the sun across the driveway, and up the front of the house, leaving the windows clear to a distant blaze of sunset behind trees. Heris stood up to stretch, and walked outside. Fine brushes of cloud high overhead; the sound of buckets and boots and water faucets from the stable yard. A shaggy dog stood up to look at her, then shook itself and wandered away, tail wagging gently. So peaceful here—she wanted to stretch out and sleep the night away.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” said someone behind her, and she shifted aside. The folded bed was coming down the front steps, a mattress balanced atop and almost hiding the men carrying it.

The caravan started for the shuttleport well after dark. Heris, breathing in the fresh damp air, found herself wishing she could stay longer. She rode with Cecelia, two of her medical team, and a lawyer, in a real car; Driw drove the truck with supplies and equipment; another car carried the rest of the medical team. And the cook.

The lawyer had kept Cecelia busy all evening. They could not risk alienating the magistrates with her disappearance; calls and letters had been necessary. Now he was taking notes on her orders for the next few months—who could vote which stock in which company, what to do if Berenice and Gustav tried to interfere further in the recovery of her competent status.

Heris marveled at Cecelia’s energy. She looked . . . old, sick, exhausted. But she pushed herself, kept going, stayed alert. Heris dozed, half ashamed of that, but knowing she had a long watch ahead when she must be alert.