“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.
Chapter Nine
Heris explained the Crown mission with as little expression in her voice as possible. She had assembled the crew in a private lounge of a respectable hotel, as she’d done at weekly intervals all along, and Oblo had turned on one of his gadgets before she started to speak. Sirkin opened her mouth twice, but subsided. The rest of the crew stared at her without expression.
“You realize the whole thing is a trap.” Petris sounded almost angry. She wished he wouldn’t. Anger with him was next door to passion, and she had no time for that now.
“Of course,” she said. She could feel the additional tension. “But we don’t have to walk into the trap.”
“I thought we just did.” Oblo was giving her his look, the one which made ensigns pale and civilians switch to the other side of streets and slideways.
“So does the Crown,” Heris said, grinning. “Safer that way—what do you think they’d do if I refused the bait? Kill us off one by one, like Sirkin’s friend, and certainly finish Lady Cecelia. I don’t like that solution, but we’re vulnerable as long as we’re tied to a ship in dock, and weak if we separate. No, we’re going to take their bait—then we’re going to pick up the whole trap and walk off with it.”
“How?” Trust Oblo to get to the sticky bit and say it aloud. Petris, shaking his head, grinned at her.
“I don’t know yet. But that’s the plan.”
“All strategy, no tactics,” Petris said. Not an angry voice, but behind the neutrality was doubt. “Unless just staying out of whatever trap they’ve set is tactics.”
“I’ll work on it,” Heris said tartly. “And here’s what I need. You each have your list.” She handed out the handwritten notes. She sat back and watched their expressions. Oblo’s brows rose, and he looked up to give her a short nod. Yes. He’d figured it out.
“But the Crown gave us permission . . . why this?”
“It was indicated to me that they’d rather we looked like outlaws. I have . . . assurance . . . that it will be cleared up later.”
“Anything worthwhile?” asked Petris.
“Yes. And not going with us, though they don’t know that. I was given letters patent, empowering us to act as one of His Majesty’s Fleet in certain matters. To be presented to certain . . . ah . . . personages we are unlikely to find where I was told to meet them.”
“Because—?” began Sirkin. Petris gave her his best “civilians are idiots” look. Heris glared at him. Sirkin was their weak point—young, inexperienced, and emotionally vulnerable after Amalie’s death. She didn’t need any more pressure from any of them. Petris answered Sirkin in a very different tone than his first expression had promised.
“Because either they aren’t there, or the captain expects we won’t be, or both. And she’s not telling us now, because we shouldn’t know too much.”
“Those letters are staying behind, in what I devoutly hope are secure locations, which I will not divulge even to my crew,” Heris said. Kevil Starbridge Mahoney owed her favors; he could jolly well put some unopened documents in his own security files for her.
“Suppose . . . we actually find out who’s putting the pressure on the king, and take it off?” That was Sirkin again. Heris was glad Petris hadn’t yet squashed her initiative; the girl was young, but she had promise, and her unmilitary background gave her something the others didn’t share.
“Fine, if we can do it without having the same pressure land on us,” Heris said. “But it’s like maneuvers—getting the fire off someone else doesn’t make us safe. Our first priority is staying alive, uncaught by the trap we know about and any others.”
“And Lady Cecelia?” Sirkin asked. “I thought maybe we could . . .” Her voice trailed away as the others looked at her.
“We can’t help her,” Heris said firmly. “We’re the ones anyone would expect to do something, and for that very reason we can’t.”
“But someone has to—”
“Sirkin, we have enough to worry about as it is. Keeping the ship free, and whole, and ourselves alive, in the first place.” Heris signalled the others with her eyes. Time to leave, before Sirkin asked more questions Heris didn’t want to answer, especially since she could. They stood, and Sirkin followed, still looking stubborn. “That’s all . . . see you here next week as usual.” The weekly dinner meeting, which she hoped the watchers had given up worrying about. Oblo turned off his gadget, with a wink, and Heris went on without a pause. “The court’s agreed to hear the case, at least, which I—” She stopped suddenly, as if realizing the gadget was off. “Well, see you next week, if that stinking lawyer doesn’t come up with something to drag me downside.”
On her way out, she reserved the same room for the same time the following week, as she had from the beginning.
Sirkin agreed to pass along to Brun a message which made no sense to her, but would, Heris hoped, make sense to that inventive young lady. Brun’s answer, relayed through Sirkin, showed she had done her homework. She had also had her visit with Cecelia, and she believed Cecelia’s coma was not as deep as the medical records indicated.
“How did she get hold of the medical records?” Heris asked, then shook her head. “Never mind. If she says Lady Cecelia is still alive inside, I’ll believe it. And if she thinks she can arrange a rescue, we’ll get out of her way and let her at it.”
“But it’s dangerous.” Sirkin was looking better these days, and her sparkle had begun to come back. Heris wondered momentarily if it was just time, or if Brun had anything to do with it. She had to admit the two of them seemed to hit it off well. “If they catch her—” That meant Brun, of course.
“If they catch her, she’s young, rich, titled, and will have Kevil Mahoney on her side. I’d bet on her not to get caught, though. You didn’t see her on the island. I was impressed.”
“I wish I had,” Sirkin said. Admiration. And Brun wished she knew as much about ships. Heris wondered what would come of this—she hoped it wouldn’t cause them any trouble more serious than young people usually had.