Sporting Chance

Chapter Eight

Meharry had returned to the crew quarters spitting fire against Brun for the benefit of anyone in the public lounge. When Sirkin went to lunch with Brun again the next day, and then to a concert, Meharry took it up with Heris in public.

“That spoiled kid is making a fool out of Sirkin—taking her out, buying her expensive presents. And poor Sirkin—she’s not over Amalie yet!”

“I know,” Heris said. “I don’t like her any better than you do, but we have no right to interfere. If it gets Sirkin’s mind off her grief, maybe—”

“It’s not healthy,” growled Meharry. “It’s not as if they could have a real relationship—not someone like that, daughter of some guy too rich to know how many planets he owns.”

“Now, wait a minute,” Heris said, conscious of all the listening ears. “That’s not fair; I met Lord Thornbuckle. He’s a friend of Lady Cecelia’s, our employer, you may recall. I’ll admit, this youngest daughter is something of a . . . problem . . . but she may grow out of it.”

“Might,” Meharry said, and subsided. “Does Sirkin talk to you about it?” she asked in a milder tone.

“No,” Heris admitted, “and I wish she did. You’re right; she could get in over her head; she’s had no experience with that sort of wealth and privilege. But I can’t stop her. Her free time is her own.”

Finally, after a whirlwind week, Brun went back downplanet. To Meharry’s expressed surprise, she kept up almost daily calls or correspondence with Sirkin.

“Could really be love,” said one of the men in the lounge one afternoon. He had heard more than he wanted of Meharry’s complaints about Brun, and thought he understood the reason behind them. “Maybe you’re just jealous.”

“The rich don’t love,” Meharry said. “They buy. ‘Course I’m not jealous; I’m too old for her and besides she’s not my type. I just don’t want to see her get hurt. She’s setting up for it.”

Sirkin had walked in on that—they had set up this conversation before but had no takers—and now she said, “I wish you’d mind your own business, Meharry. Just because you were nice to me after Amalie died doesn’t mean you own me now!” The man gave a satisfied grin as Sirkin stalked on out the door; Meharry cursed and returned to her quarters.

After several weeks, Heris got the first piece of solid news through her pipeline. Brun had permission to visit Cecelia, but it had taken a request from her father, back on Sirialis, to get it. Right now, Cecelia was being prepared for long-term care, which meant a series of small surgeries; she could not visit until Cecelia had been placed in the permanent care facility her family had chosen.

In the meantime, Cecelia’s family had begun the first moves against Heris herself. At the hearing to petition for an Order of Guardianship, Cecelia’s will had been formally read . . . and the bequest to Heris noted with dismay by those who hadn’t already heard. The first notice she got was a call from a court officer, who informed her that she was now the official owner of the Sweet Delight, and court documents to that effect were on the way. Scarcely two hours later, a Station militia officer (not the captain she knew from the murder investigation) showed up to question her about “circumstances pursuant to Lady Cecelia’s stroke.”

“I don’t know anything about it except what Ronnie told me—”

“You weren’t there?” He peered at a printout she couldn’t read upside down and backwards.

“No; I haven’t been downplanet since we came back to Rockhouse. Lady Cecelia has been back up only once, some days before her stroke. She seemed fine then.”

“Tell me about it.”

Heris explained about the redecoration of the yacht, about Cecelia’s ability to make quick, firm decisions on matters of color and style, about her cheerful mood.

“You don’t think having her yacht redone so soon—and in a style so different from what’s in fashion—reveals, perhaps, that her mind was already going?” Heris bit back a sharp retort. A stroke was not “a mind going” but a direct physical insult to the brain, with resulting cognitive problems.

“Not at all. Lady Cecelia was not your average old lady, but she seemed every bit as competent and alert as she was when she first hired me. She had never liked the colors her sister chose before; she’d decided to redo the yacht her way. She could afford it—why not?”

“Was she on any medication?”

“Not that I know of.”

“You don’t think her . . . er . . . euphoric mood might have been the result of some drug?”

“Hardly. It wasn’t euphoric, just happy. She didn’t use drugs for mood control; she felt that she was a happy, fit, healthy individual who didn’t need them.”

“She had refused rejuvenation,” the man said, as if that proved insanity. Heris explained Cecelia’s position.

“She told me that she thought people went into rejuvenation from either fear of death or vanity; she wasn’t afraid of death, and she thought vanity was a silly vice.” No need to mention that she didn’t agree about rejuvenation; it wouldn’t convince the man of her innocence or Cecelia’s wit.

His voice was disapproving. “She seems to have told you a lot; you hadn’t been working for her that long.”

“True, I hadn’t. But living alone on that yacht, as she did, perhaps she found another woman, younger but not juvenile, a comfortable companion. So it seemed.”

“I see. There’s been questions asked, I might as well tell you. Someone down there is setting up to make trouble for you. I hope you know what you’re doing.”

If there had been the least scrap of evidence that she had had any physical contact with Cecelia in the days before her stroke, or any way to get drugs to her, she would have been arrested for attempted murder. That became clear in the next few days, when the militia asked for repeated interviews, and Cecelia’s family’s lawyers and the court officers descended. Luckily, the medical evidence suggested that if (it could not be proven) Cecelia’s stroke had resulted from poison, the poison would have to have been administered shortly before her collapse. Repeated questioning of her maid and her sister revealed nothing into which Heris could have put such a drug—no medicines taken regularly, no foodstuffs brought down from the ship. Records at the Royal Docks access showed that Lady Cecelia had not even been to her ship on her last visit to the space station; Heris remembered her protest and wondered if Cecelia had had some sort of intuitive knowledge.

Against the animosity of Cecelia’s sister and the rest of the family, however, evidence meant little. They had petitioned the court at once to set aside the bequest to Heris on the grounds of undue influence. Perhaps they couldn’t prove an assault, but they were sure of the undue influence. Ronnie sent word through Brun that he dared not call Heris directly; they were already recommending treatment for him on the grounds that he, too, might have been under her supposed spell.

It would have been funny, in a story about someone else. Heris found it infuriating and painful. How could anyone think she would hurt Cecelia? She had begun to love the old woman as if she were her own aunt. No—as a friend. She felt hollow inside at the thought of losing her forever. She tried to explain to Petris.

“They think I did this to her,” Heris said, looking up from the cube reader with the latest communication from the family’s legal staff. “To get the ship. They think I influenced her to change her will—I didn’t even know she’d changed her will!”

“I know that. Don’t bristle at me.”

“They think that I did it all for the ship. Which is why they’re insisting that I can’t have it.”

“Well . . . screw the ship. We can go back to the Service—”

“I’m not so sure. We refused their kind invitation; they may not be willing to have us now. And to find a berth, all of us, somewhere else—” Heris shook her head. It had all seemed to be coming together, a new direction not only possible but rewarding, and now—!

“Well, we’re still Lady Cecelia’s employees,” Oblo put in. He was demonstrating one of his less social abilities with a sharp knife. “As long as we’re her employees, we have a right to work on her ship, eh?”

“That’s another thing.” Heris thumped the hardcopy on her desk. “Since she’s believed to be permanently impaired, they say there’s no reason to maintain an expensive and useless ship crew. When the yacht’s ownership has been determined in court, then it can be crewed with whomever the new owner wants. We’re supposed to get out and stay out.”

“But you’re the designated owner, aren’t you?”

“Were you listening, Oblo? The family’s petitioned the court to have that part of the will thrown out; Cecelia’s own attorney, who drew up the new will, argues that it is an unreasonable bequest to an employee so recent. Apparently all of them think I did something—what, they don’t say—to influence the bequest, and some of them think I then did whatever it was that’s happened to her.”

“Which we aren’t sure about,” murmured Petris, his gaze sombre.

“Which I am sure isn’t just a stroke,” Heris agreed. “I told her she was going into danger . . . but that’s beside the point. This letter says we’ll be paid through the end of that sixty days they first promised—be glad I got that in writing—and then we’re no longer her employees. They’re cancelling the redecoration, permanently. They want the ship in deep storage until final disposition. I’m supposed to present my own petition to the court, at my own expense, of course, if I want to contest the petition. They think I’ll walk away . . .”

“What else can you do?” Oblo said, eyeing her. “You don’t have the money for an attorney. We’ve been depending on your lady . . .”

“It will split us up,” Petris said. “That’s what they want—we’ll have to ship out separately, because no one hires ready-made crews, especially not us. I don’t like this.”

“It’s not fair,” Sirkin put in. Everyone looked at her.

“Fair?” Oblo raised one scarred eyebrow. “You’re a grownup now, Sirkin. Another voyage, and you’ll be almost family.”

“Except there isn’t going to be another voyage.” Heris felt her mind slumping even as she held her body erect. “We don’t have the resources. The family’s offered me a settlement, not to contest . . . it’s enough for a couple of months living on Rockhouse Minor, but not for all of us. Not nearly enough for a ship.”

“For tickets away?”

“Yes, but where? Besides, I don’t want to leave Cecelia down there until I know what happened. Maybe even more if I did know what happened.” She took another breath. “I have savings, of course. Investments. Maybe enough to contest it, but not if they bring criminal charges for whatever it was that happened to her. They’re powerful enough they might be able to do it even without evidence. Since she didn’t tell me about the bequest, I wasn’t prepared—I don’t even know why she did it.” She paused. “But I do have legal help. Remember that young man George?”

“Kevil Mahoney’s taking your case?” Petris asked, eyes wide.

“No, not himself, but he’s recommended someone, and the fee’s not as bad as it could be. The problem is, he thinks the settlement might be reasonable. And in any case, he says we must comply with the court order to vacate. I asked about that old ‘Possession is nine points—’ you always hear about, and he says it has never applied to space vessels. And of course we’re not actually in the yacht; she’s sitting over there in Spacenhance, empty.” With Spacenhance grumbling almost daily about having one of their slots tied up uselessly. If it hadn’t been for the Royal connection, they’d have insisted on having the ship moved long before.

“And it’ll cost us to live . . .”

“If we can’t get other work.”

“Like what? Dockside work on Rockhouse Major’s simply not available for ship-certified. They don’t want crews spending time here, for political reasons. Downside—who wants to work on a dirtball anyway?”

“You’re not looking at this as a tactical problem,” Arkady said. “Think of Lady Cecelia. We have to stay mobile if we’re to help her at all. If we’re trapped, whether it’s broke, or working for someone else, or in custody, we can’t help her.”

“You mean get her out?” Sirkin’s eyes sparkled. “I like that. We could get a shuttle, and—” Petris put a hand on hers, and she subsided. Heris shook her head, and explained.

“We don’t know for certain that she’s a prisoner . . . if she’s really had a massive stroke, if she’s really comatose, we can’t just snatch her away from medical care. But if she’s not—”

“If she’s been . . . disabled . . . ?”

“Yes. Then she needs allies who aren’t bound by . . . er . . . the usual considerations.”

“Rules,” Oblo said with satisfaction. “Laws. Even traditions . . .”

“We need a ship,” Petris said. Heris felt the challenge in his gaze. She grinned back at him.

“We have a ship.” She took a deep breath. “It is highly illegal, and we will be fugitive criminals, the lawful prey of every R.S.S. ship, every planetary militia . . . but we have a ship.”

“Not quite,” Oblo pointed out. “You haven’t forgotten she’s over in refitting, with all her pretty carpets and plush walls gutted?”

“And all her new weaponry aboard,” Heris said. “What do we care what the decks and bulkheads look like?”

“You’re actually going to do it,” Petris said. She had, she realized, surprised him. “You, Heris Serrano, are actually going to steal a yacht and set off to rescue a friend in peril. . . . Do you realize how theatrical this is?”

“It will be even more theatrical when the shooting starts,” Heris said. “And we can’t just leap into it. We need to know exactly what her condition is. Sweet Delight’s not a planetary shuttle; we can’t use it to snatch her, even if it’s safe to do so. We’ll have to find someone with a shuttle first.”

She remembered Ronnie saying that both his family and Lord Thornbuckle had private shuttles onplanet, but didn’t mention it to the crew. Not yet. She would have Sirkin check with Brun at their next encounter.

It’s not working, Cecelia thought in the worst moments. No one will ever come; no one will ever figure it out. If they were going to, they’d have gotten me out by now. And I can’t go on like this for years and years; it would be better to go mad and not know any more. She fought herself on that, in the motionless silence, screaming curses at her fears as she had never allowed herself to scream in real life. For a short time the discovery that she had remembered so many expletives that ladies were not supposed to notice amused her. A fine talent for curses, she thought. But it was useless. No one could hear them. She forced herself back to the dry bones of accounting (tons of hay, price of oats and bran, the cost of bits and saddles) as her hope dwindled. How long?

Then one wakening she found herself flooded with emotion. Not the usual fear, but joy so strong she could hardly believe she did not leap from the bed. What—? A smell, a rich, natural scent, overlay the room’s usual sterility. Leather, conditioning oil—not quite the smell of a saddle, but certainly one associated with riding. Horse and dog. Cautiously, afraid to respond now because someone might withdraw that aroma, Cecelia sniffed.

“It’s so sad to see her this way,” said a voice. A voice she knew from before; she struggled to put a name to it. Young, female, not family—who was this? “She loved the out-of-doors so—”

One of the voices she heard often. “I’m sure they did everything they could.”

“Oh, of course.” A pressure against her cheek, and the scent grew stronger. Her mind drank it in gratefully. Leather, oil, horse, dog, sweat: a hand that had been outdoors? No, a hand alone wouldn’t carry that scent. A glove would, she thought. A young woman wearing gloves? Why? Gloves weren’t in fashion, unless she’d been mired here so long that fashion had changed again. “But I don’t understand why I couldn’t bring flowers. She always loved flowers, especially the aromatic ones. It smells so—so sterile in here.”

“Strong scents interfere with the room monitoring,” the attendant said.

“Oh, dear.” The young woman’s voice sounded mischievous. “And here I came straight from the track. Should I have showered?”

“No, because you’re just visiting. The blowers will clear it out shortly. Now I’ll leave you—just a half hour, please, and check at the main desk on your way out.”

“Thank you.” As Cecelia listened to the familiar soft noises of the doors, the hand never left her cheek. Then, at the final distant click of the outer door, it did. Into her right ear, the same voice, softened to a murmur. “Cecelia, it’s Brun. Bunny’s daughter. Dad wanted me to visit you; he couldn’t believe what happened.”

Bubbles. Brun. For a moment her mind tangled the two names, then she remembered, with utter clarity, their last conversation.

“If you have anything left at all, it’s olfactory. I saw your nose flare with this—” The smell came back, and Cecelia rejoiced. “I’m going to try some things—smells—and see if you can respond. That was my glove—I rubbed it all over two horses and the stable dog today—”

I knew that, Cecelia thought. She could hardly focus on what Brun was saying; she wanted to cry, scream, and laugh all at once. The familiar beloved scents faded, replaced now by a fruity tang.

“Apple,” Brun said. “I’m not supposed to have food in here, I think it’s because they don’t want you to smell it. I think they know you can.” Cecelia struggled to move something, anything, and felt a firm pressure on her arm. “You twitched an eyelid,” Brun said. “If you can do it again, I’ll take that as a ‘Yes.’ ” Cecelia tried; she could not feel if she succeeded, but Brun gave her another squeeze. “Good. Now I’m going to pretend you can hear me, because my aunt said sometimes people in comas could hear—”

Of course I can hear, Cecelia thought angrily. I just did what you asked me to do! Then she realized that Brun might be dealing with another kind of monitoring. She had to make this look like an innocent visit.

“So,” Brun went on, “I’m going to tell you about the last hunt, after you left. You know, I’ve always wondered what it would be like to be the fox—” A sharp stink of fox entered Cecelia’s brain like a knife, clearing away the fog of anger. “Foxes are so cunning,” Brun continued. “Clever beasts—I’ll bet ours are smarter than Old Earth foxes ever were. But it must be scary. Down there in the dark holes, hearing the hounds coming out the gate—” This time a smell of dog, and another squeeze.

Cecelia struggled to comprehend. Brun was trying to tell her something, something important, but she was too old, too tired, too confused. Foxes? Hounds? Foxes in dark holes . . . like I am, she thought suddenly. With the hounds up there somewhere . . . she could almost feel her mind coming alive now, and hoped that no brainwave monitor was on her at this moment.

“Anyway, there was this kid who decided that the hunt was unfair to foxes. Too easy for us, too hard for them. His first season; he’s one of the Delstandon cousins, I think. So he decided to help the fox. He understood that hounds followed the scent, so he figured if he made a false trail, we’d waste our time and the foxes would have a day off.” The alternation of fox and dog scent fit with this story; Cecelia wondered where it would lead. “But to get the fox scent, he had to find foxes himself—a den—and you can imagine what happened when Dad’s huntsman found him lurking around a den.”

Cecelia couldn’t, but she concentrated on breaking Brun’s code. The huntsman had been signalled with the glove again; she recognized that particular mix now, as well as the constituent scents.

“I thought it was kind of funny, protecting the foxes from someone who wanted to protect them—” Again the stink of fox. “But I guess that happens sometimes.” Now a different smell, woodsy and soothing. Change of topic? “I was thinking back to the island—”

Yes. Change of topic indeed. Cecelia found her memory of the island fragmented; she hoped Brun wouldn’t depend on something no longer there.

“It was such fun camping there when I was a child. Now I don’t know if I’ll ever feel the same way about it.” This time the smell was oily, dangerous yet attractive. Not leather: metallic plus oil plus some chemical. Abruptly she recognized it. How had Brun smuggled a weapon in here? Or was it just a cloth saturated with the smell of gun oil and ammunition? It meant danger, she was sure of that.

As she realized that, she heard the door opening. “I wish I knew if she even heard me,” Brun said, in a different tone, almost petulant. “My aunt says sometimes they can, but she doesn’t do anything.”

“I need to check the monitors,” the attendant said. This was the one who liked to gossip.

“Do you think she hears anyone?” Brun asked.

“No, miss. The scans don’t show anything; the doctors think she’s completely comatose. I just need to check this—” Cecelia felt pressure on her head, then a sparkle ran through her brain, bringing up a vivid picture of her own gloved hands clasped on her knee. Someone was whistling “Showers of Orchids,” a song she had not heard or thought of in decades. Then it was gone, and the voice overhead said, “That’s all right then. The supervisor thought I’d better check.”

“What?” asked Brun.

“Well . . . I suspect it is all that smell of horse you brought in. It seems to have clogged the monitors or something.”

“Sorry,” said Brun, not at all contritely. “Mum said to come today, and I almost forgot. Didn’t have time to clean up first or anything.”

“You’re another horsewoman?”

“Not like her. To tell the truth, I’m fonder of the jockeys than the horses.” The attendant chortled. “But I always pat the horses; the trainers like that.”

“Well, your time’s almost up,” the attendant said. Cecelia wondered if he’d leave again, but he didn’t.

“I know,” Brun said. “I don’t suppose it matters, really. If she can’t hear me—and she certainly doesn’t respond—why should I stay the whole time anyway? Is her family visiting?”

“Yes, miss. Her sister and brother-in-law and nephew, every week. Each has a special day. If you’re going to visit regularly, you should put yourself on the weekly schedule—that way the receptionist will have your tag ready, and the gate guard will have you on the list—”

“Oh, I don’t think so.” Brun sounded casual. “I’ve known her all my life, of course, but she’s not my aunt. I mean, I care, but it’s not like—you know.”

“Yes, miss.” The satisfaction in the attendant’s voice was unmistakable.

“I mean, I might come again before we go back to Sirialis—I suppose I should—but not every week or anything.”

The wonderful smell of horse and dog and leather came back, as Brun laid her hand on Cecelia’s cheek again. “Goodbye, Lady Cecelia. I’m so sorry—but your friends haven’t forgotten you. You’ll always have a place in the hunt.” Cecelia felt Brun’s warm lips on her face—a goodbye kiss—and then she heard her footsteps leaving the room.

Someone knew, at last. Someone believed. Someone outside, someone free, knew she was still alive inside and would do something about it. What, she could not imagine, or how or when . . . but something. Cecelia wanted to laugh, to cry, to leap and shout for joy. Her immobility hurt worse then than it had for a long time. But hope always hurt, she remembered. Hope gave the chance of failure, as well as the chance of success.

She clung to that hope in the timeless dark that followed, as she replayed her memories again and again. Somewhere, sometime, someone would come and take her away from this, into the smell of horse and dog and fox, the real world.

Brun invited Sirkin to dinner; Sirkin wore—to Meharry’s voluble disapproval—an expensive outfit Brun had bought her. Heris paced in her own small room, waiting for Sirkin to return with some word of Cecelia’s condition.

“She’ll be late,” Petris said, lounging as usual on her bed. “We could improve the shining hour.”

“And be interrupted again? No, thank you. Afterward . . .”

Afterward didn’t happen; Sirkin didn’t come back until next Mainshift, arms laden with packages bearing the logos of expensive stores, and her expression clearly that of someone whose needs had been satisfied. Brun came with her, wearing matching earrings, and a smug look.

“Sirkin, you were supposed to be back last midshift,” Heris said. She’d begun to wonder if something had happened to them, and she felt almost as irritated as she sounded.

“It’s my fault,” Brun said airily. “I just—it was easier for her to spend the night, and then we overslept—”

“I see, miss.” Very formal, for all the ears and eyes. “Sirkin, if you could get yourself into uniform, we are having crew training this shift.”

“Yes, Captain.” Sirkin accepted a last squeeze from Brun, and went off to her quarters with the load of presents. Brun waved an irreverent goodbye to Heris.

“I hope,” Heris said, “you haven’t made promises you aren’t prepared to keep.”

“Not me,” Brun said over her shoulder. “I never make promises at all.”

Sirkin handed Heris the scrawled note later. Yes, she’s there. They won’t let you near her; I’ll work something out. Don’t worry. Brun.

Don’t worry? How could she not worry? Yet . . . if she herself couldn’t rescue Cecelia—and she had not been able to come up with a viable plan for getting her out of the nursing home and away from the planet—she would bet on Brun. They’d just have to figure out a way to have the ship where Brun needed it . . . if that meant stealing it and hiding out somewhere in the meantime.

The Crown summons arrived “by hand”—the hand being a member of the Household, in a formal uniform that no one could overlook. Heris took the summons warily—old-fashioned, imprinted paper, the strokes of a real pen having scored the thick, textured paper with black letters—and wondered what now.

Not that it mattered. A Crown summons had the force of law, although no legislation supported it—it was simply inconceivable that someone invited to an audience would refuse. She noted the time, and the clothing required. A shuttle awaited her. She could not help but think of Cecelia riding a royal shuttle down . . . and where Cecelia was now. She suspected she was meant to think of that.

The messenger waited in the private meeting room while she changed into her formal uniform . . . not as formal as the dress uniform of Fleet, but it would have to do . . . and told Petris where she was going and why. His brow furrowed.

“You might be going into trouble. One of us should come.”

“If there’s trouble that direction, one wouldn’t help. No, you stay free. Here’s the authorization codes for the bank, the lockboxes . . .” For every power she held that she could transfer that fast. “Take care of them,” she said as she left, and his hand lifted in the old salute. Make no promises you can’t keep. Keep the ones you make. The old words ran through her mind as she walked beside the messenger, and saw how passersby reacted.

“We have a problem,” the king said. He looked much like his son Gerel, only older. Was he as foolish? Heris could not let herself think so. If the king had also been damaged, she could see no hope for any but the conspirators who had done it. He paused, and she wasn’t sure if it was for her response, or a decision. “You have already, with Lady Cecelia, been of service to the Crown.” Considering that her entire adult life had been spent as a Fleet officer, this was, Heris thought, an understatement. “You know Gerel,” the king went on. “Both as himself and as Mr. Smith. You know the . . . er . . . problem he has developed.”

“Yes, sir,” Heris said. It was all she could say, really. She was glad that the Familias had never taken up the full formality of address of past historical periods.

“You are in a position to do the Crown, and the Familias Regnant, a great service, if you will.”

“Of course, sir; it would be a privilege.” Provided it didn’t take too long or take her away from Lady Cecelia. She was still determined to find a way to help.

“It is a very delicate matter, possibly quite dangerous. I would not consider asking you, were it not for your military background, your proven courage and discretion.” Which meant it was not just delicate and dangerous, but impossible. Others had been asked and refused, most likely. “And I will understand if you feel you cannot jeopardize your crew, or if the . . . er . . . legal difficulties you face require your immediate presence and participation.”

“Perhaps if you could tell me a bit more,” Heris murmured. She did not miss the flutter of his eyelid, the outward and visible sign of an inward and secretive nature.

“Let me be frank, Captain Serrano.” Which meant he would divulge as little as possible, she thought sourly. Politicians! “I know, of course, your situation vis—a-vis the Bellinveau-Barraclough family. Lady Cecelia left you her yacht in her will; her relatives contest her mental fitness at the time of the bequest, and have charged you with undue influence. They have sufficient standing that the court has agreed to deny you access to the ship while the matter is under adjudication. You turned out to have unexpected resources—though they should have realized that officers of your rank are rarely penniless spendthrifts—and unexpectedly good legal advice, thanks to the debt Kevil Mahoney owes you for the life of his son. You may win in the end, but in the meantime you will have, unless you find other employment, no income—nor will your crew.” All this, though Heris knew it, sounded grimmer from his mouth than she’d allowed herself to think.

“They think you’re a greedy, sly woman capable of insinuating yourself into the affections of an elderly spinster—and possibly capable of doing her actual harm, by precipitating a stroke.” He stared at her a long moment, then held up his hand when she opened her mouth. “No—don’t answer that. I disagree with them, in part because I’ve known Cece all my life, and when she came to talk to me about Gerel I got an earful about you as well. I’ve known Cece, as I said, and she’s never been taken in by anyone charming since she was sixteen or so. She’s a superb, if acerbic, judge of character; she’s located and remarked on all my failings. Cece thought you were a rare find, and I abide by her judgment. That’s another reason for my request.”

Heris tried not to shift about in her chair. She was glad to know the king trusted Cecelia’s judgment, but she wished he would get to the point. She distrusted easy compliments and indirection.

“Now—without going into all the historical tangles—we’ve got a mess, the entire Familias Regnant. You saw Gerel’s problem—” Heris wished she dared interrupt to say You mean his stupidity? but simply waited. “It’s not innate,” the king said. “I’m sure you know that many prominent people have doubles.”

That startled her, and she tried not to show it. “I . . . had heard of that, sir.” And what did that have to do with it?

“No one knows how many of the heads and heirs of prominent families have them, of course. In the military, except for covert operations, regulations prohibit them for any but flag officers in major military actions . . . otherwise, we’d be stumbling all over extra Lieutenants Smith and Brown whenever the real ones wanted to spend an extra thirty days on home leave. You can understand, I hope, that the royal family is well-supplied with doubles, both for convenience and security. In fact, that’s how Admiral Lepescu got Gerel away from Naverrn without anyone noticing. One of his doubles was there; we’re claiming that it was one of his doubles who went to Sirialis, although I’m afraid Bunny won’t believe it.”

“I . . . see.” Heris wondered for a moment if the foolish young man could have been the prince’s double. She didn’t know the prince, after all. And the Crown would have had to respond as if he were, even if he weren’t. In that case, maybe only the double was stupid. If the king was telling the truth. It shocked her to realize how she doubted him.

The king sighed, and steepled his hands. “Captain Serrano, I must admit—in confidence—that the person you met as Mr. Smith was in fact the prince. The real prince. He is now back on Naverrn, and his double is safely back in hiding. That’s not the problem. As I said, his infirmity is not natural—not inborn—and it was induced in much the same way as I think Cece’s stroke was induced. I knew about it, of course, from the beginning. It was the threat. They’d killed Jared, his oldest brother—” Heris remembered that, the assassination of the eldest prince, when she was serving aboard the Stella Maris. The whole Fleet had gone on alert, expecting some kind of rebellion, but nothing happened. “Until then I hadn’t used doubles much; certainly not for the children. After that—with Gerel—we switched him around quite a bit. They were proving they could still find him—and hurt him—without the public scandal of another death.”

“Do you know who?” Heris asked. The king shook his head.

“We have three or four major possibilities. You’re not a political fool; you can probably figure them out for yourself.”

“What do you want me to do?” asked Heris. She wasn’t about to speculate about politics; it wasn’t her field. Moreover, it was obvious that the king himself, or his faction, must be among the possibilities. Who else would have more opportunity, both for the act and its later concealment? Despite her distaste for the exercise, motives sprouted in her mind: fear, greed, lust for power.

“I daren’t trust any medical facility in the Familias,” the king said. “But beyond the Compassionate Hand, there’s the Guerni Republic. They have the best medical facilities in known space; they trade in biomedical knowledge and skill. I want you to take Gerel there, and see if his condition can be treated or reversed without killing him. I have his entire medical file—the people responsible actually gave me some of the details, to prove they’d done it. Our specialists say they can’t do anything without causing permanent damage, even death. I need you, because I dare not send him by Fleet or commercial vessel. Not only would his condition become known, but those responsible would surely intervene. I had planned to ask Cece if she’d be willing to do it, but then she had her stroke . . . if it was a stroke.”

Was that openness a sign that the king hadn’t done whatever was done to Cecelia? Or just an attempt to convince her? Heris chose her words with care. “You want me to steal the yacht out from under the noses of the family, against all law and regulation, and go to Naverrn and take the prince from there to the Guerni Republic—which is some dozen worlds around two or three stars, if I recall—to attempt a treatment you know nothing about? Begging your pardon, but that seems a . . . very strange proposal.”

“Of course it does,” the king said. “It is a strange proposal. Dangerous—”

“Suicidal,” Heris said. “We’ll be outlaws here, for having taken the ship when it was under legal dispute, and since we’ve taken it out of the system, the R.S.S. will be after us as well. It is essential for your plan that we not be known as your agents—and thus you cannot keep the wolves off our track. We can circumvent the Compassionate Hand—it just takes longer—but how are we supposed to pick up the prince when every ship will know we’re fugitives already?” Actually, that wasn’t such a problem; Oblo had already set up an alternate identity for the Sweet Delight. But the king needn’t know that. “As for the Guerni Republic . . . exactly where did you expect us to deliver the prince? And how long might the treatment take? And suppose it doesn’t work? What will happen then?” Before the king could answer any of this, Heris said, “And beyond all that, there’s Lady Cecelia. Why should I leave her in peril, among those I cannot trust?”

The king grimaced. “Your oath of service, I could have said once—but I see you do not feel bound at all by that anymore.” That stung; Heris felt her teeth grating, but said nothing. She had not broken that oath; others had broken their trust, had failed her. “If I swore to see that Lady Cecelia was protected? That no further harm came to her—assuming that harm has been done?”

“With all due respect, since I do not know what happened, I do not know whom to blame.” That came close to accusing the king. At his angry scowl, she added, “I’m sure you intended no harm in the first place, and yet it happened.”

“I see.” Heris could almost see the ideas shuffling through his head like a pack of cards. She wanted to tell him not to bother coming up with a good story, but one did not interrupt a monarch. It was an impossible mission, and she would be crazy to accept it—except what choice did she have? If she refused it and stayed here, the family would put the yacht in deep storage and her own savings would go to support her and as many of the crew as wanted to stay. She might get other employment, but not with her people, and rumors that she was responsible for Lady Cecelia’s condition might keep her unemployed the rest of her life. Without a shuttle—and not even Oblo had found a way to obtain a shuttle secretly—she couldn’t get Cecelia offplanet. A ship and a mission—even this mission—was better than nothing.

“You do realize that you cannot help Lady Cecelia yourself,” the king said. It was as much threat as bare statement of fact. “She is well-guarded against you in particular. If she has a chance for recovery, it would be with someone else.” Heris nodded, dry-mouthed. “If you were gone, perhaps the level of suspicion would drop. Not that that would help her physical condition, but like you I hate to think of her living the rest of her time in what must seem like confinement.” The look he gave her then had years of manipulation behind it: was she cowed enough? Had she taken the bait of that implied promise? Heris stared back at him, almost regretting those years of loyal service. But no: it meant something to her, something she still treasured. “I will give you letters patent,” the king said finally. “I believe I can trust you not to reveal them except in direst need.” When, thought Heris, they wouldn’t be worth the elegant old-fashioned paper they were written on, no matter its cost. She could just imagine a Compassionate Hand pirate-merchant holding its fire because of a piece of pressed slush-fiber with writing on it. This, like his assurance that he would protect Cecelia, could not be trusted. But her doubts would do her no good. She made herself smile at the king.

“Sir, I accept your mission.” At least it meant a ship, a chance, another short space of freedom. And she might—she would find some way to help Cecelia. Perhaps, as the king implied, if she were gone, the family would let down their guard . . . the first glimmer of an idea came to her, but she forced it back. She didn’t want anything to show in her face.

The king sat alone with his uncertainties. He would have liked to confide in that captain, explain all the knots in the tangled mess that had led to Gerel’s situation, and Cecelia’s. He had never meant it to turn out like this. It hadn’t been his idea anyway, not the clones or the drugs; he had only wanted to avert another disaster after the deaths of his two older sons. But it was far too late for easy honesty.