PATIENCE WAS ALREADY WEARY OF LYING IN BED AFTER THE first day. Visits from people with nothing intelligent to say made her even wearier.

"I don't think there'll be a scar," said Lyra.

"I wouldn't mind if there were," said Patience.

"It was the bravest thing I ever saw."

"Not really," said Patience. "I knew I wouldn't die.

It was the only way to silence him."

"But what was he saying?"

Patience shook her head. "He wasn't the ideal husband for you, believe me."

Lyra looked profoundly worried. Well she should be, thought Patience. Maybe Lyra is realizing for the first time that her dynastic rights might be in danger from me, however loyal I try to be.

"Was he trying to-to arrange to-you know. With you."

Oh. Of course Lyra wouldn't have dynastic worries.

She had never been taught responsibility. "I can't talk about it," said Patience. She turned her face away, though, so Lyra would convince herself that the answer was yes.

"Right in front of me, wanting to-but why you? I know you're pretty, everyone says so, but I'm the Heptarch's daughter-and I'm not ugly, either. I'm really not. I'm very objective about that."

"The only men who wouldn't be glad to have you as their wife are the victims of terrible pelvic accidents," said Patience, smiling.

After a moment, Lyra understood and blushed. "You mustn't talk that way." But she was flattered. And now that Patience had succeeded in convincing her that she didn't owe some debt of guilt for Patience's wound, Lyra left.

At least I didn't come here yesterday as ignorant of the truth as Lyra still is. Someday, though, someone will tell her who I am, and why my father's ancient claim is seen by some as a bit more valid than Oruc's. Then she'll understand what was really going on today, and perhaps realize that it was my survival I was working for, not my death.

What worried her was not Lyra's reaction. It was King Oruc's. He was the only audience that Patience's performance was designed to please. If he saw her gesture as a desperate effort to prove her loyalty, then she would survive. But if he actually believed she was trying to kill herself, he would believe her insane and never trust her with anything. Her career would be over before it began.

The doctor had her wound clamped shut with the jaws of hundreds of tiny earwigs. "Not like regular earwigs, though," the doctor said. "These were bred to provide a powerful and continuous pincer movement until I squeeze their abdomens in a certain way. They respond to the flexing of your skin and promote the healing process. Without excessive scar tissue."

"Very clever," murmured Patience. Everyone assumed she didn't want a scar. But she wasn't sure. It wouldn't hurt to have a visible reminder, every time people saw her, of how loyal she was to King Oruc. She was tempted to squeeze off the earwigs herself, or readjust their position so the scar would dimple and twist. But no, it would be too obvious if she deliberately left a scar herself. It would diminish some of the power of her act.

For it was a powerful act. Oruc gave her a room of honor in Heptagon House during her convalescence, and many adults stopped to wish her well. Few of them were skilled at the diplomatic arts, and so she could easily see that most of them were at once drawn to and repelled by who she was. She was a young girl, after all, with only the first bloom of womanhood on her, of an age that often caused wistfulness in adults who ache for their youth and beauty, even though they know perfectly well that they were never really as young and beautiful as she.

She was also the true Heptarch's daughter, the legendary seventh seventh seventh daughter of the Starship Captain.

Until now, they could never openly seek her out, for fear of arousing King Oruc's suspicions. But who could criticize them for paying their respects to a young girl who had performed heroic service for the King's daughter?

So she received them as they visited in ones and twos, to say a few words, touch her hand. Many of them tried to touch her with gestures of respect that properly belonged only to the Heptarch's family; she rejected those gestures by subtly replacing them with her own. Always she explicitly honored her visitor as being someone far superior to her in rank. Some saw this as a clever disguise; others as true humility; to Patience, it was survival.

For she noticed that Angel did not come to visit her, and that Father did not seem to be hurrying home. It was unthinkable that they would not come to her if they could. Therefore someone must be forbidding them to come. And the only one who could do that was King Oruc. Something in her performance had bothered him.

He still wasn't sure of her.

At last the stream of visitors stopped. The doctor came with two orderlies. Gently they lifted her into a litter.

They did not have to tell her where she was going. When Oruc summons, there is no need for discussion in Heptagon House. One simply goes.

They set down the litter in Oruc's chamber. His Consort wasn't there, but three unfamiliar heads were. She did not recognize them. And she had spent enough time in Slaves' Hall to know all the faces there. So either these were not former ministers of state, or they were so important to King Oruc that he kept them out of Slaves'

Hall, so no one else could talk to them. Each head's canister rested on its own table, with a dwelf seated behind it to pump the air bladder.

"So that's the girl," one of them murmured when she came in. Because the dwelfs weren't pumping right then, he did not make a sound, but she saw his lips move. And though she wasn't sure, another might have mouthed her true name, "Agaranthemem Heptek."

The doctor fussed and preened, showing off his excellent skill at healing her wound. Without, of course, a scar.

"Very good, Doctor," said Oruc. "But then, I expect my technicians to perform their tasks well."

The doctor was miffed at being called a mere technician, but of course he tried to conceal his annoyance.

"Thank you, Lord Heptarch."

"No scar," said Oruc. He peered at her neck critically.

"None at all."

"But a string of bugs around her neck. I think it would be a hard choice, between a scar and a necklace of earwigs."

"Oh, no," said the doctor. "The earwigs will come off very soon. Now, if they displease you, sir."

Oruc looked weary. "What you heard. Doctor, was not my stupidity, but my sense of humor."

"Oh, of course, I'm such a fool, forgive me, I'm a bit tense, I-" and then, realizing his talking was making things worse, the doctor burst into artificial laughter.

"Enough. Fine work. I commend you. Go away."

The doctor scurried out the door.

Oruc exhaled wearily. "Surely there has been a decline in the quality of court life since the Flight of the Wise."

"I wouldn't know, sir," said Patience. "I wasn't born then. I've never known any of the Wise."

Oruc raised an eyebrow. "By heaven, neither have I."

Then he shook his head. "No, it's not true to say that.

I've known some Wise among the dead." He did not need to glance back at the three heads behind him. "And one wise man among the living, one man among all my ministers who gives me counsel worth hearing, who cares as much for Korfu as I do."

"My father," she whispered.

"A most unlucky situation, isn't it?" said Oruc. "Even the wisest King needs good advice, and there's little of that left in the world. I would give half my kingdom to know what became of the Wise when they left here, and how to bring them back."

One of the heads behind him spoke up. Apparently the dwelfs were pumping again. "Oruc, you're likely to lose half your kingdom because you don't know."