“That aide was Matsuhari Toranaga, Warlord of New Samarkand. If your father had acted upon the insult, and forced Vincent Kurita to address it for propriety’s sake, it would have given Toranaga the chance to directly flaunt the coordinator’s will in public. And Vincent Kurita sits uneasy on the throne as it is.”
Hindsight twenty-twenty. Erik wished he had put his political acumen to the task earlier, before nearly making a fool of himself. Think first—act second! Hadn’t Aaron been trying to school him in that for the past two years?
“So to appease Vincent Kurita, and help him in looking less weak, the Davion prince abases himself and so looks weaker in return?” Caleb looked ready to spit. “I would not have allowed the Dragon so easy a victory.”
Erik shrugged uneasily. Wondering how far he could push this topic with Caleb, absent his uncle’s guidance. Then again, what Aaron did not know . . . “Nor would I,” Erik said. “Perhaps it is time to show the Draconis Combine just how weak they really are. And how strong is House Davion.”
Caleb smiled. Just a slight grin that peeked through his dark eyes. “Perhaps it is,” the Davion heir agreed. “Perhaps I’ll mention that to my father. Thank you.”
Recognizing a dismissal when he heard it, Erik knew he had pushed his own agenda far enough for one day. A more satisfying meeting than he’d had with the prince’s champion. He bowed lightly and stepped back, ceding the floor to Caleb, who moved off to find his father’s side in the viewing line. Harrison made his way forward quickly, assisted by security agents and a Cathedral priest who politely asked others to step aside for the royal delegation. Most did. A few of the lesser dignitaries lingered to make the prince’s acquaintance, slowing the party, letting a few last well-wishers pay their final respects to Victor Steiner-Davion.
Erik had already walked through the viewing line on a previous day. He’d gazed through the frosted glass at the well-maintained face of an Inner Sphere legend. Even in death, Victor had looked both sincere and magnanimous. Or maybe that was what Erik brought with him to the small dais and the marble sarcophagus. Not all Sandovals treated Victor so kindly, but Erik remembered his Aunt Dorann had never said an unkind word about the prince-turned-paladin. That alone would have colored his perception.
Everyone brought some kind of personal baggage along on such an event. The old veterans who left medals in a neat and orderly line at the foot of the tomb. Men and women who saluted Victor with pride. A few who did so mockingly. Most gazed quietly, whispered a word or two, and left just as simply.
Erik, hovering at near the corner of the dais, behind the stand of flags, heard a few of the parting comments.
Fairly dull, most of them, especially out of context. A withered man wearing a ComGuards pin on his dark suit and old enough to be a contemporary of the deceased complained jokingly about the size of his children. He also laid a medal in the growing rank and file order. “Good men did something, Victor. You did.”
A middle-aged couple, dressed richly, who “came all the way from York. Thank you, Sire.”
Others. Everyone today a member of the privileged who could command some part of the time reserved for diplomats and family and long-time associates.
“For the memory of my grandfather, who served.”
“For Tikonov.”
“. . . wish you could have met him, Victor. Just once. Then everything would be complete.”
So familiar to the onetime prince and paladin, and yet so cold. Erik had been about to skirt the room again, to wait for his uncle and Prince Harrison near the exit. But the old woman in her black-laced dress and veil caught his attention.
As did the young man escorting her, letting her grip his arm for support. He wore a simple-cut black suit, appropriate for the circumstance, but his bearing and confident, steady gaze spoke of military. The scar at the outside of his left eye gave him a dangerous cast, though right now he remained very composed.
What he whispered, bending over to stare deeply through the ferroglass, was lost under his breath.
They, too, finally stepped aside. And when he escorted the woman past the lower flags, Erik caught a glimpse behind the veil and adjusted his estimate. Not an old woman, then. But not young, either. Beautiful, but frail, and a striking contrast to the roughly handsome man who held her arm.
Erik had followed them halfway around the room, then paused to stare back at the entombed paladin. “So many lives,” he whispered. Victor had reached and affected so many people in his hundred and five years, was it any wonder that the tributes went on, and on, and on?
Perhaps not.
Tara Campbell waited on the Cathedral steps. Patient. Confident. In full view of the press, who had their own island roped off across the street, where they could monitor the comings and goings of all important personages.
She could have stepped inside for a moment of peace. But she’d had her moment in Victor’s presence. And Exarch Levin wanted her in the camera’s eye as much as possible now that The Republic push against Senate loyalists had begun. If she wasn’t in a ’Mech, she was to be concerned with high-profile charity-relief efforts or championing the ad hoc summit of Inner Sphere leaders in any way she could.
Today, it was taking charge of the Davion security escort.
Tomorrow it might be arranging a second funeral service, if the dark, glowering faces on the exiting Kurita entourage were read correctly.
Warlord Toranaga led the way, his hand always gripped tight around the katana he habitually carried. Coordinator Kurita followed at a more leisurely pace, but there was no mistaking his hard scowl or the dark moods of his samurai escorts. True, she had rarely seen Combine nobility who did not look as if they had just found half a slug in their naranji, but that rarely caused white-knuckle grips on the hilts or scabbards of swords. Or the hard-bitten glares that stabbed her direction.
Those would play well on the evening newsvids.
Still, Tara brazened it out, still playing her part for The Republic. She waited as members of her party began to drift back out of the Cathedral. Duchess Amanda Hasek and Sandra Fenlon were first, and passed more time staring at the nearby architecture. Tara considered joining them. The Duchess was a bit standoffish, but Sandra was approachable and, all considered, things could be worse.
“Hello, Tara.” From behind, hands settled comfortably at her waist.
Like this.
She recognized his voice, of course. She’d memorized it during their first meeting on Skye. Jasek Kelswa-Steiner was not a man you forgot easily, if at all. His warm voice, with just a touch of “Skye Italian” to color it, was comfortable in intimate settings and strongly confident on the battlefield. He had a panther’s grace, dusky, exotic features, and blue eyes so dark they bordered on indigo.
And he held her for the cameras on what would soon be interplanetary news.
Tara turned inside his grip but then stepped back sharply, breaking away. He hooked his thumbs into the front pockets on his Stormhammer’s uniform, while she clasped her hands behind her back. Formal. Distant.
“Jasek. What are you doing here?”
“Come to find you,” he said with a hesitant smile. “Callandre Kell told me that you would be escorting the Davions to the viewing.” He shrugged. “It’s been awhile since Nusakan, and I was wondering how you were. If you’d changed your mind.”
She hoped that the news journalists across the street did not have long-range directional audio as well. They likely did.
“I mean, what are you doing here? Paris? The Stormhammer leader on Terra?”
“On Tara?” he said, an impish grin teasing her. His tone suggestive.
“On Terra!”
The man could be so infuriating. And it didn’t help that he had cost The Republic the world of Skye, and nearly the entirety of Prefecture IX. She still wasn’t certain how much she approved of his ultimate plans against Clan Jade Falcon. Their history was brief, volatile, and a mixed bag of emotions that she had yet to fully sort through.
<
br /> “Even your father declined to visit while his Prefecture is under siege.”
Jasek nodded. His dusky skin was flawless, and his teeth a bright, bright white. She was sure now, that his smile was as much for the nearby cameras as it was for her. He was enjoying this!
“I came as a part of the Lyran Commonwealth’s representatives, and under special dispensation from your exarch. Didn’t Paladin McKinnon tell you that he escorted us here?” Obviously not. Which made Jasek smile all the wider. “I believe Jonah Levin thinks to repair some of the damage between my father and I. As if that might help solve The Republic’s problem.”
“The Republic has many problems right now,” she said softly, fouling any chance for a directional microphone to seize on her words. She hoped. “I’m personally involved with at least three of them. I have no time for your games.”
Jasek affected a wounded air. But not for long. “Not even at the Grand Ball next week?” he asked. The formal reception being held for visiting dignitaries. A night of politics and parties, neither of which Tara planned to enjoy. “And do not tell me that you won’t be there. The exarch will make sure of it. All the cameras. And you clean up too nicely for an officer. Countess.”
Which Tara could easily read as Jasek trying to broach the subject of solidarity among the nobility. Trying to drive a small wedge into Levin’s plans.
Or perhaps he was simply working his charms on her. For personal reasons.
She pulled further away, angling back toward her charges. Duchess Hasek and the Lady Fenlon had been joined by Julian and Callandre . . . and now Erik Sandoval. “Don’t presume too much, Jasek. Not ever.”
“You’ll be there,” he said, watching her walk off. “And I’ll find you.” It was offered as a simple statement of fact.
As self-confident as ever, and Tara had to admit that it was one of his many qualities that drew her to him, no matter how much she struggled to stay away. And she never lied to herself. She felt better, knowing that he hadn’t forgotten her. And that he had come to Tara—
Terra!
22
Invitations are at a premium, I can tell you. A who’s who of The Republic’s political, economic and military leaders, not to mention the visiting royalty from nearly every ruling government in the Inner Sphere. Geneva is on high alert and the exarch has commanded a no-fly zone of 200 kilometers for this evening. A wise precaution . . .
—Chris O’Reilly of HardFire, “The Big Night,” Terra, 9 May 3135
Terra
Republic of the Sphere
9 May 3135
With the final arrivals now on planet, The Republic’s formal reception and Exarch’s Ball for all visiting dignitaries was held at the Geneva palace. A night of dinner and dance, with nothing on the political agenda.
Julian Davion did not believe that for an instant.
Large enough to hangar a Leopard-class DropShip, the ballroom rivaled the best facilities of the Davion palace, in his opinion. At least in presentation. Each of the ballroom’s four corners was its own stage, raised above the main floor by soft, carpeted stairs. Each stage had its own bar and a small host of servers carrying about trays of champagne flutes, brandy snifters, aperitif thimbles, and spreads of exotic hors d’oeuvres.
A forty-two-piece orchestra arrangement dominated the south end of the hall, seated between two stages and halfway up the wall in a band shell formed—Julian noticed at once—in the shape of an Atlas’ head. Light strains of a neo-Bach revised cantata floated through the room. Good for dancing, and with just enough of a march beat to keep the exarch’s receiving line moving and his heralds at the northeast and northwest stage busy announcing the next guest.
Guests filed in through large doors at either of the north-facing corners, foreign delegates through one door, domestic the other. Nobles, politicians, military officers—most wearing multiple hats—spread down the stairs to the main floor where they were formally met by Exarch Jonah Levin and his wife. A brief handshake and a word or two as the exarch greeted both lines, made quick introductions, and then passed mixed parties to the main floor where they could mingle, eat, dance, or—as Jonah Levin certainly planned—just talk.
An efficient and strategically sound plan. Harrison Davion nodded his own approval when Julian quietly pointed it out.
“This is about more than Victor,” he said.
Then the prince allowed the world governor of Yangtze to pull him and Sterling McKenna aside for more introductions, eventually hooking Julian into the conversation as well with quick introductions and a hand on the younger man’s shoulder.
Harrison, also, was here for more than honoring the paladin’s memory.
Julian followed his prince’s lead for the better part of an hour. At times he felt more like he was standing in for Caleb, who always seemed to be off on his own agenda, rather than being simply the prince’s nephew and current champion. Harrison made a point of inviting Julian’s opinion, and more than once left him in the company of a Republic representative too minor for the prince’s time yet still too important for an easy brush-off.
But there were duties, and then there were duties. All too quickly—implied by Harrison’s pointed stare—Duchess Hasek came to claim Julian on Sandra’s behalf. Under her anxious and encouraging stare, Julian escorted Sandra Fenlon onto the ballroom’s main floor. Sandra’s ash-blond hair, pinned to one side, fell in a broken waterfall over her left shoulder, and Julian’s gold tux-style jacket was a perfect complement to her golden-bronze gown. Their secret smiles could have been fondness or budding love, and not the charade two friends played for Amanda Hasek’s benefit.
The main floor was immense, large enough for several dance areas separated by strolling lanes and table seating for conversation, drinks and eating. It was also, Julian discovered, inlaid with a stellar map mosaic. Every star in The Republic burned in cold tile. Common, yellow suns. Red dwarfs. Binary systems. Habitable planets surrounded the stars, each wrapped in atmospheres of blues, green, yellows, reds. Each named in a delicate scroll that circled the planet. Julian and Sandra waltzed among the stars of Vega and Moor and Styx. In the vicinity of Northwind they met Countess Tara Campbell talking to Callandre Kell and Jasek Kelswa-Steiner, also from the Lyran delegation. As a group, they strolled past Liao and Gan Singh (now under the aegis of the Capellan Confederation) and left the main floor by way of New Aragon, The Republic’s stronghold in Prefecture V.
Spreading up the stairs on the southeast stage, the young nobles had an excellent view of the entire hall. “Impressive,” Julian whispered to Sandra.
And it was. An entire wall of flawless ferroglass, three stories high, looked out over greensward and a private section of Magnum Park. Fireworks had begun shortly after the Davion contingent’s arrival, lighting up Terra’s twilight sky in a riot of color that caught and danced inside the glass. Along the opposite wall were set the serving stations for those wishing to sample fare from all across the Inner Sphere. The “wall,” Julian noticed, was actually a holographic projection. Servers walked right through it, appearing as ghosts within the golden shimmer, then stepping into the hall to deposit laden trays on the long tables shrouded in linens of white and gold.
Sandra caught Julian’s hand and pointed overhead, where more holographic projectors suddenly filled the ballroom’s pristine dome with a display of stellar phenomena to rival the outside fireworks. Red-hot nebulae boiled away into the dark reaches of space. Comets with long icy tails showered overhead, followed by the Slow Birth of a World as composed by renowned graphic artist Jai Yuen Kanto.
It was better, Julian was forced to admit privately, than anything they had at home.
Meanwhile, Callandre Kell, always eager to set the standard, had found a young, dangerous-looking man in Clan leathers and was walking him through an easy minuet on the lower floor. Sandra escorted Jasek away for the remainder of the dance, leaving Julian in the company of Tara and, strolling up, Lars Magnusson, whom Julian had met during the tour of Ath
ens.
A Ghost Bear crest tattoo centered on Lars’ right temple and covered part of his face, so there was no denying the young man’s heritage, though he wore a nobleman’s robes rather than his military uniform. A trueborn of the Rasalhague Dominion and of royal blood as well, Lars was one of few Clan warriors allowed outside Geneva’s “neutral grounds,” because he made such distinctions. For this journey, he’d explained to Julian, he had set aside his rank and codex. He had no standing as a warrior, which did not sit well with others from the Dominion.
“On your own again?” Julian asked. He quickly explained Lars’ voluntary discommendation to Tara.
Lars combed fingers back through unruly, ash white hair. “My companions stormed the southwest stage.” He nodded across the way, where Khan Dalia Bekker stood at the top of the stairs as if she presided over the Exarch’s Ball, surrounded by a coterie of warriors. Obviously, more than one with Elemental blood. Huge, hulking brutes. “I was not bid into the Khan’s escort.”
“Their loss is our gain,” Tara welcomed the Clan patriot. She, too, had eschewed military dress, trading her Highlander’s uniform for a red-sequined gown that slimmed her figure and drew attention.
Small talk, however, was beyond them. Conversation quickly turned to troubles within The Republic, and throughout the entire Inner Sphere.
“No more problems out of Germany?” Julian asked.
Having kept abreast of the situation between Republic forces and those who had gone over to the ex-patriot senators, he knew Tara and Paladin Heather GioAvanti had retaken Stuttgart but also that ex-Knight Conner Rhys-Monroe had organized a firm defense in Mannheim and Essen.
“At this point,” Tara said, “I have to think that your local intelligence assets are beating even Terra’s free press corps in acquiring facts and distilling them into full reports.
Neither man admitted to anything, though Julian felt his own face harden slightly, which in itself was a tell.
Sword of Sedition Page 21
