Sporting Chance

Chapter Twenty-two

Cecelia had had reports sent up to Heris—encouraging reports, on the whole. Heris didn’t entirely understand the medical terminology—she skipped whole paragraphs of multisyllabic gibberish and tried to figure out the “prognosis” sections. Here she hoped the percentages referred to functions recovered, and not permanently lost—87% this, and 79% that, and 93% the other thing. Livadhi’s medical teams might have helped interpret, except that they were spending all their time in the station hospital. She would do better, she decided, to go down and find out in person.

The receptionist recognized her now, and gave her Cecelia’s room number. When she came out of the lift on that floor, Meharry was stretched out in the visitors’ lounge.

“How is she?”

“Better you should see her,” Meharry said gruffly. “We’re taking alternate shifts now; Arkady’s in the visitors’ hostel.”

“Sirkin’s doing well,” Heris said, anticipating Meharry’s question. “She’s staying with us.”

“She’s a sweet kid,” Meharry said. “Almost too sweet for her own good. I think that’s what made me so mad—I liked her so much, and she was so good, and then—you know, if Skoterin had been anything but a bland nothing, I’d have figured it out.”

“So we look out for bland nothings,” Heris said. “See you after I talk to Lady Cecelia.”

“You’ll be surprised,” Meharry said. It was an odd tone of voice, not at all encouraging, and Heris worried all the way down the corridor. The bright floral prints and soft carpet did nothing to reassure her.

She found the number and knocked lightly.

“Come in.” It didn’t sound like Cecelia; perhaps a nurse was with her. Even more worried, Heris pushed the door open.

The large room opened onto an atrium filled with flowering plants and ferns. Across an expanse of apricot carpet, a woman in a green silk robe stood by a table set for a meal.

The woman couldn’t be Cecelia, Heris realized after a startled glance. She was only in her forties, and although she was tall and lean, she had not a single strand of gray in her red hair. It must be the wrong room. Heris turned to look at the room number, and the woman chuckled. Heris felt that chuckle as a blow to the heart.

“It is—but how—?”

“Do come in and shut the door. That’s better.” Cecelia gestured to the chairs by the table. “Here—sit down; you look as if you’d seen a ghost.”

“I—I’m not sure—”

“Vanity has its uses, you know.” Cecelia sat down herself, and grinned at Heris. “I decided to take advantage of it.”

“But you—you said you’d never go through rejuv.”

“If you’d asked me, I’d have said I’d never be poisoned by that wretched Lorenza. Here, have a cup of broth. They have quite good food here.”

Heris opened her mouth to say she wasn’t hungry, and realized she was. And her employer was looking at her with a wicked gleam in her eyes. She sipped the broth.

“It was vanity that saved me, actually,” Cecelia said. “And now I’ll have to confess it, and you’ll laugh at me—”

“No, I won’t. I’m too glad to have you alive—and by the way, thanks for saving us from that mess on the ship.”

“I only wish I’d done a better job of it. But—let me tell you. You remember how smug I was about taking no medicines and refusing rejuv?”

“Yes,” Heris said cautiously.

“Well, I was lying. To everyone and to myself. There was this . . . this preparation. Herbal stuff. Lots of women used it, and none of us considered it medicinal exactly. Or cosmetic, exactly. I thought of it as a kind of tonic . . . of course I knew my skin was smoother, and I felt better, but I didn’t consider what it really was.”

A pause followed; since a comment seemed to be required, Heris said “And it was . . . ?”

Cecelia laughed. “I was so arrogant about drugs, it never occurred to me that many of them come from herbs—plants. That I was taking quite a solid dose of bioactive chemicals that functioned in some ways like the rejuvenation chemicals.” She shook her head. “So there I was, smugly certain that I wasn’t like those others—the ones I despised—and in fact I was. I must have known—I didn’t tell anyone I took it, not even my maid, and certainly not anyone medical. My doctor just thought I had naturally good genes. Which I do, but not that good.” She paused and drank a few swallows of broth herself.

“So when Lorenza poisoned me, she used a dose based on my supposed drug-free biochemistry. It worked, but the damage was not as complete. It required more maintenance drug than expected, which meant that when I came off the maintenance drugs, I could recover with therapy . . . and it also meant that a complete rejuvenation treatment would reverse all the damage.”

“And so you thought if vanity had saved you so far, you’d go the whole way?”

“That, and the fact that nothing but rejuv would give me natural eyesight again. That visual prosthesis is good enough for walking around without bumping into things, but it doesn’t begin to substitute for real sight.” Cecelia looked out at the atrium. “The colors . . . the textures . . . oh, Heris, I thought I would go mad, locked away in that darkness, motionless, helpless.”

Heris reached to touch her hand. “Cecelia—milady—I don’t know how you did it, but it took incredible courage.”

Cecelia gave a harsh laugh, almost a croak. “No—not courage. Pigheaded stubbornness. I simply would not give up. And the advantage of being over eighty when something like that happens is that you have a lot of experience to remember. Not enough—it’s never enough—but a lot.”

“Do you think this person—Lorenza—intended to kill you?”

“Oh, no. She intended exactly what happened. She used to come visit, you know, and sit by my bed and whisper into my ear. ‘I did it,’ she would say. She never gave her name, and at that time I couldn’t figure out who it was . . . but it told me that someone had done it, and that—that helped. It gave me a target. I didn’t remember—the drug I was given was supposed to knock out short-term memory for the event—until one day after a long ride in therapy. I was suddenly there, where it happened, in Berenice’s drawing room, with Lorenza handing me a glass of fruit juice.” Cecelia stared at the ferns and flowers a long moment before going on. “She said that once, too: You’ll never ride again, Cecelia. You’ll never feel the wind in your face, never smell the flowers.”

Heris shivered in spite of herself. “She must be a terrible woman.”

“She’s the main reason I refused rejuvenation so long. We knew each other as children . . . and she began to have rejuv early, and often. She was obsessed with her appearance—and I admit, she’s a beauty, and always was. But the last time I saw her . . . that smooth young skin and glossy hair, and those ancient, evil eyes . . . I didn’t want to become that sort of person.”

“You couldn’t,” Heris said.

Cecelia smiled at her. “Heris, I love your loyalty, but one thing I have learned in my long eventful life is that anyone can change into anything. It takes only carelessness. My mistake was in confusing surface behaviors with the reasons behind them. It wasn’t rejuv that made Lorenza what she is—what she is propelled her to that many rejuv procedures.”

“Still, you would never—”

“I hope not. Certainly nothing that cruel. But if you put Lorenza and me in the same room? I could kill her. You know I can kill.”

Remembering Cecelia as she had been on Sirialis, when she shot the man who would have killed them both, Heris nodded. “For cause, you could. Maybe even in vengeance. But you would not ever torment someone as she tormented you—that I’m sure of.”

“Good. So far I feel no temptation that way, though I do have a strong urge to pull her blonde hair out by the roots.”

Heris had to laugh then. “So—when do we do just that?”

“I have one more round of neurological testing, and we want to be sure Sirkin’s fully recovered . . .”

“She’s younger than both of us, and recovers faster even without rejuv—”

“Good, then. Let’s go back and . . . er . . . clean house, shall we?”

Heris said, “There is the problem of the prince and his clone, or the clones and no prince. I accepted a mission from the king, as I explained to you—”

Cecelia scowled. “The medical reports haven’t straightened anything out?”

“Not really. All the tissue samples are identical. The clones believe—they told me—that they carry markers somewhere. But if these doctors can’t find them, who can? As for the mental limitations, both these clones perform at normal levels on tests. Not as high as you’d expect from a Registered Embryo, but not as low as you’d expect from the prince, judging by what we saw on the way back from Sirialis.”

“What do the clones say now? Have you talked to them since you got back?”

“No—have you?”

“Once, yes. Heris, I believe in my heart that the young man with us—Gerald A., as you called him—was the real prince. Their prime. I can’t give you any reason that would make sense except an old woman’s intuition. But remember how he and Ronnie both fell on that gas grenade?”

“If that was the prince.”

“It was. Everything that’s happened since proves it. Neither the king—nor Lorenza, I believe—would go so far to protect a mere clone; if a clone fails, you get rid of it. My point is that along with Gerel’s undeniable witlessness he had great and generous gallantry. A meaner boy, stupid or bright, would not have done what he did. And when Skoterin threatened Sirkin—the moment the weapon swung toward her and away from me—Gerald A. did the same thing. In the same style. Generous, brave, and incredibly stupid. It provoked her to shoot; she might not have fired, and your Petris might have killed her before anyone else got hurt. I think that was no clone; I think that was the prince himself.”

“But he had seemed more sensible at times . . . on the voyage with the others.”

“Think, Heris. If they were protecting him, if they knew his problem, they would shift about, so that you could not be sure which one you spoke to—you’d have to ask. Couldn’t that be it? Or perhaps all that time without the drug began to reverse the dullness.”

“But if that’s true, then I’ve failed in the mission the king gave me. And what do we do with the clones?”

“I’ll tell you what we don’t do. We don’t take them back to be discarded or killed by someone who would let his own son be ruined. Go talk to them. I told them what I thought; they didn’t say much. They may to you. If they are the clones, and Gerel is dead, I will not let you take them on my ship. I don’t want their ruin on my conscience.”

Brun had no intention of staying safely at home on the family’s estates. They knew who had poisoned Lady Cecelia; they had figured out that the prince had also been slowly poisoned, and that the same method had been used on George for a short time. She and Ronnie and George were ready, the moment Buttons and Sarah arrived, to do battle with the minions of evil.

“Whoa,” Buttons said. “You haven’t thought it all out.”

“What’s to think?” George said. “The woman’s a menace: she poisoned me, and then the prince, and then Lady Cecelia, and maybe a dozen others—”

“Why?”

“Why? I suppose . . . I guess . . . she likes poisoning people.”

“George, you’re sounding about as intelligent as you did in your bad term. I have some missing links you’d better add to your chain of evidence. You mentioned Gerel being excited after visits from his brothers . . . do you remember any more?”

“No.” George sounded grumpy. He hated being interrupted.

“I do.” Buttons stood and paced around the big library. “It annoys all of you when I remind you I’m older . . . but it matters. You were in school with each other and Gerel; I was in school with Gerel’s older brother, Nadrel.”

“Who was killed in a duel; we know that.”

“Shut up, Ronnie. That’s only part of it. Because I was his friend, I got to know the oldest, and don’t bother to tell me you know Jared had been accepted as Successor by the Grand Council. That happened our last year in school; it was terribly exciting, and I got to attend, with Nadrel. But what I didn’t know—because Jared had said I was too stuffy and priggish and would spill the beans—was that Jared had been groomed by some of the Familias to head a rebellion. Nadrel knew, of course . . . and they dragged in poor young Gerel, who worshipped his oldest brother. And it was Gerel who spilled the beans . . . to you, George.”

“I—I don’t remember.” George looked stunned, as if a rock had landed on his head.

“No—you wouldn’t, if they drugged you. I don’t suppose you told anyone intentionally—you had a certain innate cunning even then—but your father got wind of it, and he told the king. That assassination—”

“The king killed his own son?”

“No. Nor ordered it . . . but one of the other Familias felt it had to be done. No one knew how far the plot had gone; the military was on alert for months. Nadrel . . . Nadrel was a problem, bitter and violent; I couldn’t swear his duel was spontaneous.”

“And Gerel—?”

Buttons shrugged. “I would guess—I knew nothing about it, until you told me this—I would guess the king wanted to be sure Gerel could not be the same kind of threat. Perhaps you, George, were the experimental subject, to prove the effects reversible. Then Gerel—I would like to believe the king meant no harm by it.”

“No harm!” Brun was so angry she felt her hair must be bristling. “Poor Gerel, everyone thinking him a fool—and then Lady Cecelia being poisoned—and Sarah shot—”

“I didn’t say there was no harm, only that he may not have intended it. If Lorenza was the king’s arm in this, she may have done more than he knew.”

“Then it’s Lorenza we have to stop. Now.” Ronnie was on his feet now. “What if she attacks my mother, thinking I might have said something to her? Or George’s parents?”

“Ronnie, we can’t simply walk in and seize her. She’s a Crown Minister’s sister—another complication, because I for one have no idea how much influence she has with him—or he with the king, for that matter. She’s got a vote in the Grand Council in her own right. We have no legal standing—”

“Tell my father,” George said. “I’ll call him—”

“George, will you listen! Your father’s already involved—so is ours. They’ve filed a Question. But none of us can grab Lorenza; we have no evidence. We need Lady Cecelia alive and well, her competency completely restored so that she can testify; we need the prince alive and well—and both of them are a long way away with a lot of things that can go wrong. Less will go wrong if we all act discreetly.”

“Then you didn’t need my warning at all—you already knew about Lorenza, and I could have stayed with Lady Cecelia—” Brun felt tired and grumpy.

“No—we didn’t know about Lorenza. We knew it had to be someone, but we didn’t know who—and that’s important. But we can’t afford to lose anyone, so I want you all to agree to stay calm and follow orders.”

“Whose?” Ronnie asked bluntly.

“Mine, for now, and Dad’s when he gets here. George’s father will tell him the same. Now will you use sense and act like the adults you are?”

Cecelia looked around the main lounge of her yacht with distaste. “I thought the lavender plush was bad, but I have to admit this is worse.” Then she grinned. “Though I must say I’m glad to see it—really see it. Show me everything.” Heris glanced at Petris, now their new environmental section head and assistant. “Everything, milady?”

“Every bit of it. I’ll be thinking how lovely it will look when Spacenhance has finished with it.” She looked from one to the other of them. “Come on! What are you waiting for?”

“Well, we have this little problem,” Heris said, leading her down the streaked grayish walls, wondering how Cecelia was going to react when she saw them. She opened the door to the ’ponics section: stacks of mesh cages held an ever-increasing number of cockroaches, filling the air in that compartment with an odd, heavy smell. “This.”

“What on—they’re alive.”

“Yes . . . and I don’t want you mentioning this to the medical teams, either.”

“Where did they come from?”

“Spacenhance,” Heris said.

“The decorators? They put cockroaches on my ship? On my ship?” Outrage made her voice spike up; Heris grinned.

“We think they put cockroaches on everyone’s ship, to eat the old wallcovering and carpeting, and the adhesives. Illegal, of course. A trade secret, no doubt. We thought we might need to deal in trade secrets, so we trapped the ones we found and let them breed.”

“But what did they do with the cockroaches after they ate the stuff?” Cecelia leaned forward to look at the nearest cage.

“We think . . . mind, this is only our speculation . . . that they converted the cockroaches into a sort of organic slurry, which could then be extruded into fiber or other shapes . . . to make carpets or wallcoverings—”

“You mean they put ground-up cockroaches on people’s floors? Walls? You mean that horrible lavender plush was really nothing but ground-up cockroaches?”

“Quite possibly,” Heris said, enjoying Cecelia’s reaction. “Of course, they would have dyed them—that’s why they’re white, I’m sure—and they may have added other materials.”

Cecelia stepped back. “I have never even imagined anything so . . . so disgusting.”

Heris grinned at Petris. “There is something worse . . .”

“What?”

“When they’re loose and you haven’t noticed them in the sheets.” She and Petris both started laughing, and Cecelia glared at them.

“It’s not funny. Or—I suppose it is, but—oh, my, have we got a whip hand here.”

“That’s what I thought,” Heris said. “Of course, we’re now in violation of half a dozen regulations ourselves, but we’ve been careful. I would prefer, however, that Commander Livadhi’s people not know about the live ones.”

“Oh, absolutely,” said Cecelia, beginning to smile. “But I suspect that restocking my solarium with miniatures will be well within my budget.”

From that beginning, the trip back to Rockhouse Major went smoothly. Heris made the rendezvous with Livadhi’s Martine Scolare, and his pinnace picked up the medical teams. Heris had braced herself for questions about the clones, but the medical teams were so excited about the new technologies they’d discovered in those few days on the Station that they could talk of nothing else. Livadhi asked, of course, and Heris gave the answer she and Cecelia had worked out. It was not exactly a lie.

“I left the clones behind; neither of them was the prince. As you know, one was killed in the shooting, and tissue analysis at autopsy could neither prove nor disprove that that one was the prince. Perhaps postmortem degradation . . .”

“Or perhaps he’s off in a bar somewhere making an idiot of himself,” Livadhi said. “I wonder if the king knows how many doubles he had?”

“We may never know,” Heris said cautiously. “What’s the latest on the uproar?”

“Not quite civil war,” Livadhi said. “Fleet’s on standby, all the Family Delegates are gathering for an emergency session, and rumor has it the king is considering abdication. The Benignity has filed complaints, and threatens to take action if we don’t pay reparations for their two cruisers, which have somehow grown to dreadnoughts; Aethar’s World decided this was a great time to try a little piracy . . . oh, yes, and the Stationmaster at Rotterdam says to tell Lady Cecelia that the black mare has foaled. Anything else?”

“No—thank you. What about the Fleet and us?”

“You personally, or you in Lady Cecelia’s yacht?”

“Either or both.”

“Well, I’ve had strong representations from senior Familias that my neck is in the noose if Lady Cecelia doesn’t get back safely—how is she, by the way?”

“Quite able to take up her duties,” Heris said.

“Good. And I’ve had strong pressure from some . . . er . . . elements in the Fleet that your permanent disappearance would just about guarantee my first star. While others say the opposite. I would suggest the fastest possible course, and I suggest you allow me to escort you in.”

“I accept both suggestions.” She was not entirely sure of him in all respects, but if he wanted her dead, it would have been easy enough to leave her in Compassionate Hand space without help.

The Familias Grand Council met in a domed hall. High above, painted stars on pale blue echoed the carpet of deep blue patterned with gold stars. Each Family had its Table; each voting member had his or her Chair. On the north wall, opposite the entrance doors, the Speaker’s Bench had become the king’s throne, and the king, wearing his usual black suit, sat there behind a desk with its crystal pitcher of water, its goblets, its display screens, and the gold-rimmed gavel.

For an hour now, the Members had streamed in past uniformed guards and weapons checks and more guards and more weapons checks. The lines extended across the lobby, out the tall front doors, down the steps, to the sidewalk where yet more limousines disgorged yet more Members. A light rain brushed the steps with one slick layer after another, and those who had not expected a wait got damp and grumpy.

Cecelia watched her sister and brother-in-law climb up the steps. She, Heris, Meharry, and Ginese were part of a thin crowd held back by a chain attached to a movable post. From the chain a little tin sign dangled, with the words “Members Only Past This Point.” Across from them, on the far side of the entrance steps, another such chain restrained another small clump of observers.

“When are you going?” Heris asked.

“After Lorenza. I want to be sure she’s here.”

“What if she doesn’t attend?”

“Oh, she will. She may not take her own Chair, but she always attends her brother. There—that’s theirs—” Cecelia started to look down, then remembered she didn’t look anything like the Cecelia Lorenza would recognize. They had docked the yacht over on Rockhouse Minor, where Bunny’s shuttle retrieved them. There would have been gossip, of course, but Livadhi, at Heris’s suggestion, had docked at the Fleet terminal at Rockhouse Major, and complained loudly to his fellow officers that “that bitch Serrano” had disappeared again.

Cecelia watched as the portly Crown Minister—when had Piercy gained all that weight?—climbed out and offered his arm to Lorenza. She, at least, had prepared for a wait, in a pretty ice-blue raincoat. Piercy had an umbrella; Cecelia felt her lip curling. If you couldn’t stand a bit of rain, then carry a personal shield, not an ostentatious umbrella. That was carrying the fashion for antiquity too far. Piercy held the umbrella over Lorenza’s head; she looked out from under it with catlike smugness. Cecelia realized she was trembling only when Heris touched her hand. Rage filled her; she could hear that voice whispering in her ear . . . how had she not known who it was? How could she not leap over the chain and strangle that smug little tramp?

Lorenza looked around, as if for admiration. Cecelia stood straight, watching her; their eyes met. Lorenza frowned a little, shook her head minutely, and went on up the steps to the tail of the line. Half a dozen more Members got in line; Cecelia shifted her feet.

“Let’s go.”

“It’s too close,” Meharry said. “She’ll see you—she’ll start trying to remember—”

“Let her!” Cecelia was breathing deeply as if before a race. Heris gripped her hand.

“Milady, we’re with you. You have allies; you know that. Don’t let her shake your resolution. Even if she does look like the worst insipid tea biscuit I ever saw.”

That got a grim chuckle; Cecelia felt her tension ease. “All right. But not much longer.”

“No, not much longer.” They waited until Lorenza and her brother were near the top of the steps, when the guards at the door recognized them and swept them inside ahead of the others. “Now,” Heris said. They stepped around the barrier, and Cecelia clipped her Member badge to her coat. The others put on the ID tags Bunny had arranged; Members could bring their personal assistants, as long as none carried weapons. Heris wasn’t worried; Meharry and Ginese were weapons.

Most of the delegates had arrived; the line moved faster. At the door, Cecelia moved into the Members Booth for an ID check. The others, with staff IDs, went through without incident. Cecelia came out of the booth and found them waiting. Now, in the lobby, out of the rain, she could hear the steady sound of all those people talking. She felt weak at the knees. She had been alone so long . . . and then with a few friends . . . and now, to face that crowd . . . she had always hated public speaking. She felt the others close in.

“All right, milady?” Heris asked.

“All right. I just—I’m fine.” The line they were in snaked slowly forward. She could see in the door at last . . . it had been decades since she’d attended a Grand Council. When she’d been a young woman, first eligible for a Chair, it had been a thrill . . . later a bore . . . later something she delegated to a proxy without a second thought. Now that earlier awe struck her again. That tall dome spangled with stars, those dark polished Tables, each with its Chairs of red leather, all symbols of power that had kept her safe and wealthy all these years, and then had nearly killed her. Across the chamber, as she came to the door, she saw the king on his throne. He stared out, seeming to see no one.

Her family Table had moved since the last time she’d attended; Tables were drawn by lot every other Council. Now it was midway down the right side of the left aisle, almost directly across from the Speaker’s Table. A page led them to it, and checked Cecelia’s ID again before handing her to her Chair. The Chair itself required her to insert her Member card . . . a precaution resulting from the behavior of a speedy young man who had once managed to vote two Chairs by flitting from one to another while a long roll-call vote dragged on. With the card in place, the screen before her lit. Only then did she look around. Her sister Berenice, two Chairs down, stared at her, white-faced, then glanced at her companions and turned even whiter. Ronnie, at the foot of the Table, started and then grinned happily. Gustav would be at his family’s Table; Cecelia had no idea where it was now.

“Good to see you again,” Cecelia said. They had not told Berenice; they had not told anyone. Berenice’s shock was almost vengeance enough for her treatment of Heris.

“You’re—you had—”

“Rejuv, yes. Just as you did.” Cecelia smiled. “Where’s Abelard?”

“Probably having a last drink,” Berenice said. Abelard, their oldest surviving brother, always came late. Ronnie looked as if he were bursting with glee and news both. Cecelia gave him a look she hoped would quell him. They already knew what he knew; Bunny had told her. She looked around. Kevil Mahoney was in his Chair, with George beside him. Bunny, his brothers, and his sons were already seated; Brun, a year too young for her own Chair, crouched beside her mother at another Table. She was scanning the chamber, looking . . . and she saw Cecelia. A grin spread over her face; Cecelia gave a little nod. Now . . . to find Lorenza. The Crown Ministers sat together, at two Tables to either side of the throne . . . but when she found Piercy, leaning back to hand a file to a page, she did not see Lorenza’s gold head anywhere near. She let her eyes rove the chamber, but it was Meharry who spotted her.

A nudge—Cecelia leaned over and Meharry murmured, “Top tier, near the right aisle.” Cecelia turned casually. There. The ice-blue raincoat had been slung carelessly over the back of a neighboring Chair—unlike the precise Lorenza. But there she was, leaning over to talk to someone else Cecelia couldn’t see. Whose Family was that? Not Lorenza’s certainly . . . Lorenza’s mother had been a Sturinscough, and her aunt Lucrezia should be heading that Table. So she was, an upright old tyrant in black lace whom no amount of rejuvenation could soften . . . maybe, thought Cecelia, it runs in the family.

So why was Lorenza back with the Buccleigh-Vandormers? True, people sometimes got permission to sit in other Chairs—if they had physical problems, if they planned to leave early—ah. Cecelia felt her smile widening to a dangerous grin. Let her leave . . . let her try to escape. It wouldn’t do her any good.

Chimes rang out, and the bustle in the chamber quieted. A last few Members came scurrying in, swiping at their wet clothes. The chimes rang again, and the king picked up the gavel. Grand Council was about to begin.

The king had not recognized Lady Cecelia in the lithe redhead who stalked down the aisle as if she owned it. Not until she sat at that Table, in that Chair, not until her name lit on his screen of Members Present. Then, as if his vision had suddenly cleared, he recognized Heris Serrano with her. Where was the prince? Panic gripped him suddenly; icy sweat broke out all over him; he felt himself trembling. If the prince were alive, she would have brought him; the conclusion was inescapable. Dead.

He could see, as if part of his brain had turned into a tiny viewscreen, the concatenation of errors that had led him to this place. One time after another, he had done the convenient thing, the expedient thing; he had let himself be led from one folly to the next. Jared’s assassination, Nadrel’s duel, Gerel’s drugs, the clones, the secrets and countersecrets, the lies and evasions. He had lost his power; he had lost his sons; worst of all, he had lost the respect of those two women and everyone like them, all the decent men and women in the realm. His former allies would certainly disown him and his policies now, even as they scrambled to save their influence. He had thought Cecelia immature, with her strong enthusiasms, her blunt honesty. Now that immaturity seemed far wiser than the sly counsels he’d convinced himself represented maturity.

He wanted to break into tears; he wanted to throw his gavel down and leave. Tears would not help; he had nowhere to go. If Gerel had come back, he might have stood against the Question already before the meeting, but no longer. He knew what he had to do.

Lorenza could not shake the uneasiness that had become her constant companion. That stupid goon on Rockhouse Major had attacked the wrong girl, and thereby raised suspicion. No one had seen Thornbuckle’s daughter; no one had seen Lady Cecelia. Berenice had complained that Ronnie was spending all his time with his regiment; he had run out on the opera party over some ridiculous little chit of a girl, and now he never came home. She knew that George, too, had not been home for weeks. The men she hired could not locate them anywhere.

Piercy had come home with vague stories of great unrest here and there. The Benignity was upset, Aethar’s World . . . she had tried to listen, but all she could think of was Lady Cecelia. Lady Cecelia awake, alert, able to walk and see and speak . . . worst of all, Lady Cecelia able to remember. She wasn’t supposed to be able to remember, but then she wasn’t supposed to be able to achieve legal competency, either. Lorenza found herself seeing Lady Cecelia everywhere when she went out. None of them were, of course. The tall woman in the store had had the wrong face when she turned around; the woman with the short graying-reddish hair had been too short when she stood up at the reception. It was just nerves, she told herself. If she comes, then she comes, and then . . . and then kill her. She began carrying a weapon, a tiny thing that fired darts tipped with poison.

Yet no sign of Lady Cecelia—the real Lady Cecelia—showed up before the Grand Council meeting. One informant tried to tell her that Lady Cecelia’s yacht had come into Rockhouse Minor—but the database had an entirely different listing, and a more reliable source on Rockhouse Major reported a conversation between Arash Livadhi and another R.S.S. officer, one known to be hostile to Serrano. She had that recording. It could be, she thought wistfully, that Lady Cecelia was afraid to come, that she and that renegade captain had gone off together somewhere.

She didn’t believe that for a moment. She had dressed that morning as if for her last appearance; she had her jewel case hidden in her raincoat; she had her pearls under her dress. If she had to flee, if she couldn’t use her credit cubes, she would have something . . .

For a moment, just after getting out of the limousine, she had been sure Cecelia was near. She had looked around, at the little clumps of people who wished they were rich enough to be Familias, to have Chairs and votes. In the rain, it was hard to tell . . . one tall woman with red hair reminded her of Cecelia, but she was forty years younger, at least. And she was prettier than Cecelia had ever been.

Lorenza took precautions anyway. She would sit with the Buccleigh-Vandormers, to whom she was distantly related, claiming an upset stomach. She could leave quickly if she had to; she had a reservation on the noon shuttle to Rockhouse Major under another name, and she knew the number to call when she got there. They owed her plenty of favors.

Even with all her caution, she did not see Lady Cecelia until the king struck for order with his gavel. Her eyes checked the tables: there was Piercy, looking stuffy. There was Abelard, and Berenice, and . . . the back of a red head, a tall woman. The woman turned, and looked her in the eye . . . and smiled, a slow smile of absolute delight. Lorenza almost fainted; her fists clenched on the table before her. Cecelia. The bitch was not only recovered but rejuvenated . . . and she remembered.

She forgot the weapon she carried. She heard nothing the king was saying; in a scramble she grabbed her raincoat and rushed the door, pushing past the row of pages. “Madam!” she heard behind her; she shoved the tall door open and strode across the wide lobby, trying not to run. Behind her she heard the roar of upraised voices, cut off by the closing door. The guards, alert to stop intruders, did not move as she went out the glass doors of the building, down the rain-wet steps. She was on the street, drenched, before she remembered she was carrying a raincoat. She dragged it on over her wet dress and looked for the nearest transportation.

Cecelia half-rose when she saw Lorenza bolt; Heris grabbed her wrist. “Not now—she won’t escape.” Between Livadhi and Bunny, Lorenza would find no transportation farther than the stations. If she bolted that far, they might find out who her allies were.

“Right.” The king was speaking, his voice sounding flat and tired. The ritual welcome, to which he had given some grace and humor in years past, sounded as stilted as it actually was. Piercy, at the Crown Ministers’ Table, was staring at the door through which Lorenza had left with a worried expression. The moment the welcome ended, Bunny stood for recognition. He was very much Lord Thornbuckle in his formal suit.

“If you’ll wait a moment,” the king said. It was more plea than direction, and that lack of control released a buzzing hum of conversation.

“There is a Question before the floor,” Bunny said.

“I know that,” the king said. “But I have a preemptive announcement.”

“May I request the floor when you have made it?” That was not so much question as command; the king nodded. Bunny sat down, stiffly.

“Members of Familias,” the king said. A long pause, during which curiosity rose again, expressed as a crisp ruffle of subdued talk. “I wish to announce . . .” another pause. “My resignation. Abdication. I . . . am not able to continue.”

“Why?” bellowed someone from the far right corner. “We don’t want that.”

“Yes, we do!” yelled someone else. Other voices rose, louder and louder, in argument. The king banged his gavel, and the noise subsided.

“I cannot—I have reason to believe . . . my last son is dead. In my grief—I am aware of failings that—” He laid the gavel down, shook his head, then put it down on his desk. Profound silence filled the chamber; Cecelia saw puzzlement, anger, and fear on the faces around her. Bunny stood again.

“I was promised the floor to address the Question, which all of you have been sent. The king has indeed preempted that Question, which called for his resignation. I move we accept it, without further inquiry.”

“How can we vote, without a Chair?” someone asked.

Cecelia spoke up, without having meant to. “By putting your finger on the little button, the way you always do,” she said loudly. A ripple of nervous laughter followed, circled the chamber, and returned. She pushed the voting button on her screen; others followed. The vote carried. She felt a sudden burst of compassion for the king. Had he meant any of the harm he had brought to pass? Probably not. She had not meant him any harm either, but she had been the means of destroying his reign.

After the vote, a long silence, and then confusion. The king—no longer the king, but a man whose Familia name nearly all had forgotten—sat immobile, staring at the desk in front of him. Cecelia watched the Crown Ministers’ heads swaying from side to side as they whispered among themselves, exactly like pigeons on a roost. The sound of many voices rose, filling the chamber as if a vast river roared through it. Finally Bunny went to the Ministers’ Tables and leaned over to speak to them. One of them rose and approached the ex-king. He looked up, then, and in his expression Cecelia saw a new resolution form. Stillness came as swiftly as the earlier noise. He stood.

“I yield the floor,” Kemtre said. “To Lord Thornbuckle.” He held out the gavel. And Bunny, grave, unsmiling, took the few steps necessary. The gavel passed between them, and Kemtre stepped down to meet Bunny on the level below the throne. Though his voice was quiet, unaugmented by the sound system, most heard what he said next. “I’m going back for Velosia. If she waits. Then home—” That would be the Familia estates, not the Crown ones. “I’m sorry, Bunny—I hope you have better luck. At least this gives you a chance—”

Then he came up the steps toward Cecelia; she felt Meharry and Heris tense on either side of her. “It’s all right,” she muttered; she might as well have tried to calm a pair of eager hounds with the game in view. If he meant her any harm, he was a dead man.

“I’m sorry, Cecelia,” he said to her. “I cannot say how happy I am to see you recovered; it was not my plan, but I’m sure it was, in some way, my fault. You did me a good service and I did you a bad one.”

Cecelia thought of the suffering of the months—almost two years, in local time—and gave him a stare that made him flush, then pale. “I can forgive you for myself,” she said then, into the hushed silence of the chamber. “But the boys? I was never a mother, Kemtre, but I could not have done to anyone’s child what you did to your own. How could you?” Before he could answer, her gaze swept the Tables. “Still—I don’t blame you as much as Lorenza.” Below her, Piercy flinched. “She’s the one who poisoned me; I daresay she’s poisoned others. She’s the one I want.”

That brought another uproar. Lorenza’s aunt Lucrezia gave Cecelia a glare that should have ignited asbestos at a hundred paces. Bunny gavelled the noise down, and called Kevil Mahoney forward. “The king has resigned; we need not fall into disorder for that, Chairholders. We had a government before we had a king; we can have one now, with or without a king. Ser Mahoney has legal advice for us all; I ask your attention.” As Kevil’s practiced voice compelled the others to listen, Kemtre looked past Cecelia to Heris. She shook her head, offering no details; all he really needed to know was in that negation. Kemtre seemed to sag on his bones, and then turned away. Cecelia returned her attention to Mahoney, but Heris watched the former king climb slowly to the exit. No one greeted him; no one stretched out a hand to comfort him. She was not sure what she felt; she was only sure it was neither triumph nor pity.

The meeting went on for hours, never quite erupting into complete disorder. Piercy resigned. Two other Crown Ministers resigned. Cecelia’s brother Abelard proposed a vote to restore the Speaker’s position; Cecelia had not imagined he had that much initiative. The vote passed, which surprised her even more. She stayed, when she would rather have pursued Lorenza, caught up despite herself in the excitement, until at last the meeting adjourned for the day. She went home with Bunny, despite Berenice’s plea . . . she wasn’t ready to forgive Berenice yet, not until she’d had her vengeance on Lorenza.

No one on the noon shuttle paid any attention to Lorenza; their attention was on the news being shown on the forward viewscreen. The king’s abdication, the surprise vote to abolish the monarchy and restore the Speaker’s position, was enough to hold even the most jaded. Lorenza ignored it; she was fingering the pearls hidden beneath her dress and wondering how far they would take her. Although the Benignity owed her favors for her many useful acts, she had no illusions about them. They would do more for pearls or the other jewels than for old times’ sake. She slipped into an uneasy doze, missing the interview with Lady Cecelia de Marktos, famous horsewoman and prominent member of her Family, whose miraculous recovery from a coma provided the news program’s obligatory “good news” spot.

Rockhouse Major bubbled with rumors and excitement when she arrived. Lorenza put on her most demure expression and made her way to the office whose location she had long ago memorized but had never visited. A lady of her standing did not visit the kind of therapist employed to counsel criminals. Now . . . now she needed to contact the Benignity’s senior agent on the station.

She did not like the tall, handsome, self-assured woman in the pale-yellow silk suit. Liking didn’t matter, of course, but she felt abraded by the woman’s appraising eye, as if she could see through the rejuvenations to her real age, through her carefully groomed exterior to her inner self. She introduced herself with the code words she’d been given long ago. The woman smiled.

“Of course. We’ll have to hide you until a suitable ship comes. Come with me, please.” She had no choice, really. “Do you have any luggage? Any—I presume you don’t want to use your credit cubes—anything to contribute toward expenses?” Lorenza didn’t protest.

“Only this.” She started to open the jewel case, but the woman took it from her, then smiled.

“You needn’t worry—the Benignity is scrupulously honest.”

Of course, but why not let her carry her own jewel case? Lorenza had no time to think about it; she was being hurried through back passages, past little cubicles with chairs and mirrors in them, like changing rooms at dress shops.

“This one,” the woman said, opening a door at the end of the row. “No one will bother you here. I’ll get you something less conspicuous to wear. You might want to take off that raincoat—you must have been seen in it.” Under the raincoat, her dress was still damp from the rain. The woman clucked sympathetically. “Get that wet thing off before you catch a chill; I’ll get you a warm robe.” She went out, the raincoat over her arm, and shut the little door behind her.

Lorenza looked at herself in the mirror: damp, haggard, her gold hair rumpled to one side by that nap on the shuttle. Terrible. She raked at her hair with her fingers. A draft brushed her damp shoulder; she looked up and realized that the walls in this little cubicle went all the way to the ceiling. There shouldn’t be any draft . . . but there was, with a whiff of something acrid in it. She grabbed the door handle; it came off in her hand, leaving a slick metal panel. The mirror—as she looked, the upper half blurred, no longer reflective. An image formed; the therapist, with a handful of Lorenza’s jewels.

“You ruined it, Lorenza,” the woman said, shaking her head. “The Benignity is scrupulously honest, but it doesn’t tolerate mistakes.”

Lorenza gasped, finding it difficult. “I—please—I still have these—” and she tore at her dress, pulling out the pearls. Their lustrous surface turned a dirty green; she could feel them crumbling.

“Damn!” said the woman. “You had pearls, too! That gas ruins pearls.”

“I’m terribly afraid we may have damaged some of your . . . er . . . property,” Heris said. She had had no trouble getting an appointment with Spacenhance; at the moment, anything Lady Cecelia wanted was hers to command.

The senior partner looked as if something were crawling over his skin. “Yes . . . ?”

“Some . . . er . . . pets, I suppose.”

“Pets?”

“Yes. Unfortunately, they’ve been somewhat of an embarrassment to us. During a crisis, a medical team member spotted . . . well, let’s just say evidence of their presence. They recommended we contact Environmental Control to fumigate the ship—”

He paled; Heris was afraid he might faint. “You told them . . . ?”

“No . . . I decided they represented no present hazard. We could dispose of them appropriately.” So they had, she thought with wicked glee. Sirkin, Brun, Meharry, and Oblo had ensured a most unpleasant surprise for a certain therapist they blamed for Yrilan’s death. With any luck at all, the discovery of illegal biologicals in her possession would lead to full investigation of all her activities.

His flush was as pronounced as the pallor had been. “Ahhh . . . thank you, Captain.”

“No need. It would have benefited neither of us for Environmental Control to come down on you.” Heris smiled. From his expression, her smile was not reassuring; she hadn’t meant it to be.

“Benefited . . . ?”

“Come now—it’s clear to me what you do with those . . . er . . . insects. That is, I presume, an industrial secret of some worth to you. So the benefit to you of my silence is obvious. The benefit to me—” She leaned forward, savoring his uneasiness. “You know, the ship still needs redecorating. The deposit paid to you has been earning you interest all this time—I think you owe me—and Lady Cecelia—a very fast, very special redecoration.”

“But—but Captain Serrano—”

“Very fast,” Heris emphasized. Then she opened her hand, where an egg case lay. “Don’t you?”

He gave in, as she had known he would. “As planned before, or do you have something else in mind?”

“Here are the specifications,” Heris said, handing him a datacube. She and Cecelia and the crew had discussed it. “Except for one thing.” She dropped the egg case on his desk. “This time, make sure you get all the bugs out.”