Heris Serrano (72 page)

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.