Elizabeth Moon - Sporting Chance

Cecelia didn’t even ask questions. “Quite all right. Whatever you want. This time let’s do it all, so there’s nothing to worry about for years .”

Heris wondered if she’d gotten a refund from Diklos & Sons—or would it be the insurance? She wasn’t sure just how the refitters would be made to pay for that fraudulent, almost-fatal job they didn’t do, but Cecelia could get solid credits out of them if anyone could. She somehow didn’t believe in the dividend payout—not at this odd time of year. Cecelia probably didn’t realize that midlevel officers could have investment experience too. When Cecelia cut the link, Heris turned to Petris and Oblo.

“You heard that. You know what we need. Go find me the best deals on it, will you? I spent too much of her money buying those small arms on Sirialis.”

“Good weapons, though,” Petris said. He had, of course, tried them out. “Fancied up, but quality.”

“Well, now I want quality without any fancying up. Whatever’s legal—”

“Legal!” That was Oblo, of course. Then he sobered. “You mean, not stolen?”

“I mean legal, as in ‘will pass inspection.’” Heris found she could not maintain the severity she wanted. A grin puckered the corner of her mouth. “All right . . . you know what I mean. Don’t cause us trouble, but get us what we need.”

“Yes, sir.” Oblo saluted in the old way, and retreated from her office. Petris stayed.

“Is Lady Cecelia all right?” he asked.

“I hope so. I don’t think she half understands the danger she could be in.” Heris’s uneasiness had not faded, despite Cecelia’s assurances.

“Of course,” the Crown Minister said, “if someone had to notice, Lady Cecelia de Marktos is the safest . . . she’s not a gossip like most of them.”

His sister, demure in her long brocaded gown, said nothing. True, Lady Cecelia was not a gossip. Her danger lay in other directions. Perhaps Piercy would figure it out for himself.

“It’s a nuisance, though. If she did take it into her head to mention it to someone, they might pay attention, precisely because she’s known to be no gossip.” Ah. He had realized the danger. “I wonder if that scamp Ronnie knows. The king didn’t say—”

“If Ronnie knew, Cecelia would have told the king,” his sister said. Always argue the point you oppose; people believe what they think up for themselves.

“I suppose. He might not have told me, though. And the idiot—” Only here, in this carefully shielded study, did the Crown Minister allow himself to speak of the king this way. Here it had begun to seem increasingly natural; his sister radiated neither approval nor disapproval, merely acceptance. “That idiot didn’t even record the conversation. Said it would have been a breach of manners and trust. Said of course Lady Cecelia was loyal. And she is, I’ve no doubt.” But people said “I’ve no doubt” when their doubts were just surfacing. He knew that now. His sister had taught him, gently, over the years.

“It must have been upsetting for her, and yet exciting in a way,” she said. At his quizzical expression, she explained, her delicate voice never rising. “Of course she worried—she has a warm heart under her gruff manner, as we all know. Look at the way she took on young Ronnie after his . . . troubles. But at the same time . . . she’s always thrived on excitement. To be the one who brings important news—even bad news—must have made her feel important. And it’s been so long since she won any of those horse trials.”

“Well, but Lorenza, she’s over eighty. And she won’t take rejuvenation.”

“Quite so.” Lorenza studied her fingernails, exquisitely patterned in the latest marbleized silver and pale pink. Piercy would, in time, realize the problem and its necessary solution. He wasn’t stupid; he just had the soft heart of a man whose every comfort had been arranged for years by a loving and very efficient sister.

Ordinarily, she never intervened; she felt it was important for him to feel, as well as appear, independent of any influence from his family.

She had her own life, her own social activities, which kept her out and about. But in this instance, she might do him a favor, indulge his softheartedness by taking on the task—not in this instance unpleasant at all—of removing the threat of Lady Cecelia de Marktos and her unbridled tongue.

You stupid old bitch , she thought, making sure to smile as she thought it. I always knew the time would come . . . and now you’re mine . Still smiling, still silent, she poured Piercy a cup of tea and admired the translucency of the cup, the aroma, the grace of her own hand.

“Here you are,” she said, handing it to him. He smiled at her, approving. He had never seen her contempt for him; he never would. If necessary he would die, but he would die still believing in her absolute devotion. That small kindness she had promised him. She promised none to Cecelia. Already her mind lingered on possibilities . . . which would be best for her? Which would be worst for that arrogant loud-mouthed old bitch who had humiliated her all those years ago?

“I can’t believe you’re not taking this more seriously,” Piercy said, reaching for a sandwich from the tray.

“Oh, I do, Piercy. But I know you and the king are quite competent to deal with any problems that might arise. Although, perhaps—I could keep my ear to the ground, among the ladies?”

“Bless you, Lorenza.” He smiled at her. “If there’s any gossip, you’ll hear it.”

There won’t be, she thought. Until they’re all talking about what happened to poor dear Cecelia.

“I want you to meet my captain, Heris Serrano,” Lady Cecelia said. She wore tawny silk, a flowing gown with a flared collar, low boots, and jewels Heris hadn’t seen before. She had arrived at the shuttleport in high good humor, and insisted that they go straight to the most prestigious of the yacht refitters. The woman behind the desk of Spacenhance flicked Heris a glance.

“Pleased, Captain Serrano.”

“She’s my agent for this project,” Lady Cecelia said. “I have too much business groundside to be on call for the questions that always come up.” Her puckish grin took the sting out of that. “I’ve told her what I want, and she knows the ship’s capacity. You two settle everything, and let me know when it’s done.”

“Very well, milady,” the woman said. “But we must have your authorization for credit—”

“Of course.” Cecelia handed over her cube. “Heris has my power of attorney if you need more.”

Heris tried not to stare . . . power of attorney? What was Cecelia up to? Or did rich people typically give power of attorney to ship captains when they didn’t want to be bothered?

“Well, then,” the woman said. “You’re fortunate that you called when you did . . . we happen to have a slot open at the moment. Bay 458-E, North Concourse. Do you have a storage company in mind, Captain Serrano, or shall I schedule removal and storage with one of our regulars?”

Heris had no idea which storage company was reputable; she wished Cecelia had given her more warning of what to expect. “Schedule it, please; if you would just tell me what you require—”

“It’s in our brochure. We do ask specifically that the owner remove all valuables, organic and inorganic, under private seal. We ourselves seal all electronics components. Depending on the owner’s decisions, some service areas may be sealed off and left intact. Quite often owners choose to leave the galley and food-storage bays the same.”

Heris took the datacards, the hardcopies (the cover of one, she noted, showed the Sweet Delight ’s earlier redecoration, unless teal and lavender and spiky metal sculptures were everyone’s taste).