“No,” Tara admitted, taking an appetizer off a passing try. The men joined her. “The senators left on-world seem comfortable, at the moment, to wait us out. It’s what is happening out in The Republic that worries me. We had two senators go native after the Confederation invaded. I’m afraid the exarch’s decree to disband the Senate will cause more such defections.”
Julian tasted the appetizer—two pepper-stuffed olives on a silver skewer—and enjoyed the hot, salty flavor, especially the way it burned pleasantly up into his sinuses. “You believe the exarch should have waited?”
“Or did he wait too long?” Lars asked, preempting Tara’s reply. “When Clan Ghost Bear merged with the Free Rasalhague Republic, we faced similar challenges among some of the older noble families. The strategy of leaving off until tomorrow never worked.”
“I guess we will have to wait and see how it turns out,” Tara said, obviously hesitant to second-guess her exarch. But she unbent enough to admit, “With House Liao now pressing us in Prefecture V, and the Jade Falcons holding onto their captured territory with a steel grip, it does seem as if Exarch Levin has opened up a third front at home that we can hardly afford.”
“It was already a live battlefield,” Jasek said, returning with Sandra on his arm. He handed her off to Julian with an affable nod. “At least now you have some forces on the ground.” The man’s dark blue eyes—nearly indigo—and his dusky skin gave him an exotic look. His accent, though, was pure Skye aristocrat, with a touch of Old Mediterranean.
With a strange mixture of embarrassment and pleasure, Tara made the needed introductions. Lars and Jasek shook hands. Now it was the five of them holding court, with Tara Campbell presiding only by a few years seniority and her higher noble title.
There was also Tara’s mantle as a media icon, a role, Julian felt certain, to which she’d been born.
Not that he minded the opportunity to step back with Sandra at his side and observe. The floor, after all, was getting rather crowded with faces he recognized from the many intelligence briefings Harrison had insisted Julian attend. By some hidden signal, or possibly just following a law of mutual fascination, the southeast stage had become a lodestone to attract the younger crowd. Paladin Gareth Sinclair showed up with Dame Christine Sandoval on his arm. Some cousin of Erik Sandoval-Groell, if Julian remembered correctly, but not a friend of the Swordsworn officer. Anson Marik’s son, Kenyan, patrolled the area like a shark scenting blood. Alone. Always ready to strike. Even Caleb ended up on the southeast stage, eventually, having made rounds with some of the Inner Sphere leaders for his father or on his own behalf.
Most of the young scions circled around and by each other with careful conversation and wary eyes. Conditioned by intelligence operatives to give nothing away. Counseled by cultural experts to offer no offense. But not everyone worried about such caution. Caleb’s arrival, in fact, coincided with the sonorous voice of a herald rolling over the music and low buzz of a hundred conversations to announce the arrival of the evening’s third captain-general. This one of the Regulan Fiefs.
Caleb laughed openly, not bothering to hide his disdain. “How many captains-general does it take to put a broken lightbulb back together?”
“Only one,” a new voice said over Caleb’s shoulder, drawing glances. She had dark reddish hair and bright jade eyes, whose gleam matched the sheen on her modestly cut gown. She joined the growing knot of young nobles. “But first they have to decide which one owns all the parts.”
Given that Nikol Marik, daughter of Captain-General Jessica Marik, had stolen the punch line, Julian and most of the others chuckled out of politeness. Caleb gave back only a wounded silence, and the others sent uncomfortable glances his direction.
“I’m sorry to interrupt. I recognized Countess Campbell, and I’ve always wanted to make her acquaintance.” She smiled at Caleb and rested her hand lightly on his arm in an attempt to thaw his frosty demeanor. “That joke is one of my favorites,” she said.
Irritation and superiority warred on Caleb’s face, then he smiled in return, which went a long way toward restoring the group’s bonhomie. A passing server lowered a tray near the group, and hands reached for champagne or brandy. Lars Magnusson ordered a Timbiqui dark ale. Julian accepted a sparkling water.
Sandra Fenlon laughed around the rim of her champagne flute when it arrived. “Always the steadfast, Julian.”
“When I see the prince relax with a drink,” Julian said, “I’ll consider it.” The comment caught Caleb trading his emptied brandy snifter for a fresh glass from a passing tray. His cousin started guiltily, then glared sharp daggers.
But Julian hadn’t been upbraiding Caleb. He’d simply been pointing out that the prince’s champion was always on duty. At least, so long as the prince was. Tara Campbell, playing the conciliator, invited Nikol Marik to remain while she stole Caleb away for a waltz.
Sandra chided Julian with a nudge in the ribs. “I doubt we’ll be attacked by an armored column tonight. Enjoy yourself a bit.”
Which was a perfect point in the conversation for Callandre to arrive. Resplendent in a black gown with wide red stripes plunging into a “V” at her navel and matching highlights in the hazelnut hair she’d pinned up for the evening, she returned with the Clan Wolf warrior and in the company of another couple they’d captured on the way back from the serving tables. Callandre had hooked her free arm through the other woman’s, pulling her along almost against her will.
It was the young Combine officer Julian had seen the week before in the company of Vincent Kurita and Warlord Toranaga.
Her escort wore a Nova Cat uniform, curiously devoid of any rank or rate symbol. A mystery.
“Jules used to have nightmares of being attacked by an armored column,” Callandre confided to her new friends. Loudly.
“Only because you gave them to me.”
Why not wave a red flag in front of a Smolensk bull while he was at it?
She smiled slyly. “He’s still bitter because I skewed the bell curve on the JES scores in our third quarter.” Seeing a few puzzled frowns, she explained. “Joint Exercise Simulations at the Nagelring. Armored vehicles versus BattleMechs. My Destroyer took down an entire lance. Julian rated a distant second with five tank kills.”
Julian sipped at his fizzing beverage. It tickled his nose, and loosened his tongue. “You cheated, Callandre,” he said. Then, to be fair: “Well, maybe not. But it was damned unconventional.”
“Wait a minute,” Jasek said. “I heard about that from some friends on Hesperus II who were alumni of the Nagelring.” He stared from Callandre to Julian and back. “You’re Calamity Kell,” he said.
Callandre fumed and Julian laughed at his friend’s discomfiture. It didn’t often happen that way.
To cover her momentary loss of composure, Callandre introduced her new companions. Besides Alaric Wolf, who skulked at the back of the crowd and had accompanied Callandre to the floor nearly under duress, she had returned with Tai-sa Yori Sakamoto and Mech Warrior Kisho of Clan Nova Cat. Julian wondered if he were the only one who caught the cautious glances that passed between the two Combine warriors as they were introduced.
“Quite the enclave,” Nikol Marik offered, looking around. “All we’re missing is a Jade Falcon and a janshi from House Liao, and we’ll have representation from the entire Inner Sphere.” She laughed brightly. “We could convene our own Star League council.”
Having studied the history of the ancient Star League as well as the neo-Star League convened to end the threat of the Clans, Julian did not think they missed much. “I would hope the Inner Sphere is beyond the need for such a governing body, which always seemed to create more trouble than it solved.” The Reunificaiton War. The Amaris coup. Even the Steiner-Davion civil war and the Word of Blake Jihad. All based on the power struggles and intrigues that accompanied the concept of an all-encompassing power.
“Still,” Julian said. He let his gaze wander the lower floor, and the opposite stages. “I
haven’t heard much of the Falcons.”
“You aren’t missing anything,” Callandre said with real ice in her voice. And both Tara and Jasek frowned at mention of the Clan.
Julian couldn’t blame them. According to the reports he’d read, The Republic’s forces in Prefecture IX, aided by Jasek’s Stormhammers and Lyran regular forces, had been fighting off a Falcon offensive, and losing, for the better part of a year.
“The Jade Falcons will not send anyone,” Jasek said. “House Liao, because of their recent aggression, will be announced last.”
“After the Hell’s Horses, even?” Lars asked, hearing the name of Khan Gottfried Amirault announced next. He whistled. Winked at Alaric Wolf as if inviting him to share a joke.
Alaric shrugged. His new Clan leathers squeaked with protest. “They hardly merited an invitation in the first place,” he said with no diplomacy whatsoever. Shifting from one foot to the other under everyone’s attention, he continued. “Though I heard their arrival yesterday came complete with a fighter escort and a small parade through the streets of Geneva they put together themselves.” He shook his head. “Still looking for validation. It is almost embarrassing for the rest of us.”
With such strong opinions, Julian wondered if Alaric had been feigning his reluctance. He looked sidelong at the Wolf, offered an amused smile. “I thought all Clans stood on equal footing?”
There was no humor in the Wolf warrior’s glacial blue eyes. Like dead ice. Alaric’s smile came slow and confident, and the crescent scar on the outside of his left eye puckered, only making it seem like he winked in jest.
“Some,” the young Wolf said, “are more equal than others.”
It was certainly a sentiment Caleb Hasek-Sandoval-Davion understood, overhearing it as he and the Countess Northwind rejoined the party.
“And is Clan Wolf more equal than the other Clans?” he asked, thinking to put the young warrior back in his place. Never believing the younger man would have so much brass to openly admit it.
“More than most, aff,” Alaric boasted.
But he lapsed back into silence under Lars Magnusson’s glare, and Caleb retook the spotlight at the center of the small gathering. The Davion heir wasn’t surprised to see Alaric fold so easily, having already sized him up. Ten years Caleb’s junior, though he looked to have had a rougher time of life with his hard face and rough, scarred knuckles, Caleb easily dismissed the younger man as a boisterous warrior.
Instead, he focused his real attention on the newest arrivals. Two military officers from House Kurita’s Draconis Combine.
Members of the delegation that had so blatantly insulted Caleb’s father, and with him the entirety of the Federated Suns!
Callandre Kell noticed him staring, and offered introductions.
“Tai-sa Yori Sakamoto and Kisho Nova Cat, this is Caleb Davion. Son of Prince Harrison.”
Hasek-Sandoval-Davion. Duke of Taygeta, commander (honorary) of the Syrtis Avengers, heir to the throne of the Federated Suns! Julian’s Lyran trull couldn’t even handle a proper introduction. Rather than offering their names to him, as would have been more appropriate, she gave his name to this Yori Sakamoto and Kisho of Clan Nova Cat. Caleb had already put his time in this evening as low man among the real Inner Sphere powers—being seen with his father, briefly, then spending time talking up Exarch Levin and Anson Marik and Trillian Steiner. Comparing notes with Mason, later, would be interesting. Mason had talked quite at length about Trillian Steiner.
Caleb had also spent some political capital on Khans Dalia Bekker and Seth Ward. He didn’t care for the elitist Clansmen, but he’d given them fair measure out of diplomatic politeness. He had not been forced into the company of Vincent Kurita again, studiously avoiding the coordinator of the Draconis Combine when he could and gazing through him when the press of dignitaries and diplomats forced the two into close proximity.
Only one time had the coordinator intentionally veered his direction.
Caleb quickly found business to discuss with the legate of New Home.
So to find the Dracs here, now, offering no apology for their earlier attitude and Callandre Kell simply granting them a familiarity they had not earned made Caleb flush warm with a stir of anger.
Anger he had to set aside as he lost his audience of young scions to the herald finally announcing Daoshen Liao’s arrival, and his sister, Ilsa Centrella (Liao), ruler of the Magistracy of Canopus.
It often surprised Caleb, the strength of a herald’s voice to lift above the din of music and conversation, reaching even this far corner of the ballroom. In this case, however, the announcement grew louder and more distinct as the herald continued with full titles, and a stunned silence swept the room at Daoshen’s audacity. The arrival of the man responsible for the first real war in two generations, like a raven plucking at the eyes of a blinded Inner Sphere? To actually set foot on Terra while his army continued to pound away at Republic defenses?
No wonder the Capellan people all but revered him as a god.
The Duke of Sian and Chancellor of the Confederation swept down from the northwest stage, followed by a small retinue of proud nobles and officers in their finest dress uniforms. Daoshen was easy to follow as he approached Exarch Levin and traded shallow bows with The Republic’s leader. More than two meters tall and skeletally thin, the chancellor stood a head and shoulders above most men. He also wore a bright, golden suit of Mandarin style, like a small sun adrift in the room.
It was no coincidence, certainly, that the outside display of fireworks quieted for Liao’s arrival. Or that the overhead holographic presentation strolled aimlessly among barren, icy worlds, lacking the grandeur of its earlier composition. The changes weren’t particularly subtle, yet Caleb thought them rather effective.
Though perhaps not in the exarch’s best interest. The downside was that more people watched Daoshen Liao’s arrival, and followed his progress as he led the Capellan delegation in a slow tour of the grand hall.
Caleb sipped at a new brandy, enjoying the hard bite and smooth, silky aftertaste. Watching the procession with clinical interest.
“His wife?” Nikol Marik asked aloud, jade eyes on the woman of poise and mature beauty who all but floated at Daoshen’s side. The woman’s dress had a flowing train that brushed the floor and hid her footsteps.
“Sister,” Caleb instructed the Oriente heir. An honest mistake, perhaps. Daoshen stroked the back of Ilsa Centrella’s hand as they walked, and gazed more often at her profile than bestowing his favor on the people around him. But how could one not recognize the leader of an Inner Sphere realm?
“So that’s how it is in their family,” Jasek said in a whispered breath.
There were chuckles, a few sounds of disgust, and one outright laugh. Callandre, of course. “Behave,” she mock-scolded the Stormhammer leader. A word Caleb had not been certain she knew. “What happens on Canopus, stays on Canopus.”
A play on the latest advertising blitz for the Canopian pleasure circuses, Ilsa Centrella’s most profitable “export.” Which showed a greater wit to Callandre than Caleb had originally—no!
“She’s here,” the Davion heir said. Pleasantly stunned and yet scandalized at the same time. “Mason . . .” He looked first for his friend, to point her out, but Caleb’s traveling companion had disappeared again. Instead, he grabbed his cousin’s arm. “Julian, she came.”
“Who?” Julian asked.
“Danai.” The woman Caleb had spiraled around Terra with, like two fire-moths avoiding the other’s flame. Her hair was fanned up in an avant-garde style, and she had accented her eyes with long, trailing slashes of eyeliner, but it was her. He counted. “Second . . . third from the end. On the arm of the Capellan sang-shao. The colonel!”
Staying at the Capellan cultural center . . . but an escort among Daoshen Liao’s royal party? Caleb’s head spun, knowing he had surrendered a few points in their game. Not yet realizing he had all but lost it.
“Caleb!” Julian
gripped Caleb’s elbow. “That is Danai Centrella-Liao.”
Nikol Marik craned forward. “Danai? Didn’t she win the Ishiyama Open on Solaris two years back?”
“And was last year’s favorite for Grand Champion,” Callandre volunteered. “But she withdrew from competition because of the war.”
A Solaris champion? A MechWarrior icon? Caleb had pegged her for a media figure, recognizing her ease with the high-profile lifestyle. But not this. Never this.
Julian pulled his cousin back, fingers pressing painfully into the joint, breath a hot whisper in Caleb’s ear. “You mean to tell me that your mystery woman is Sun-Tzu’s youngest child? The chancellor’s sister? Have you . . . has your security team been that lax?” Julian’s fear was almost tangible. “Tell me you two haven’t—”
“We haven’t!” Caleb broke away from his cousin with a violent shrug. They hadn’t! Though not for his lack of trying. He took a healthy swallow of strong brandy, letting it burn up into his sinuses. Daoshen’s baby sister?
A Liao!
No! No . . . no . . . no . . .
Julian was still staring at him. “We haven’t,” he hissed. “You can ask Mason.”
“Mason? Who is—”
Caleb cut him off. “It’s been”—What? Innocent? Hardly—“casual.”
Most of the young group had missed Julian’s reaction, though a few stared over quizzically. Countess Campbell. Alaric Wolf. Caleb felt a sudden need to wash, as if caught at a high social function with mud caked beneath his fingernails.
Sandra Fenlon continued to watch the chancellor’s progress as he detoured by their southeast stage. She shuddered. “I hear that Capellan forces have struck as far forward as Tikonov. Into Prefecture IV.”
Caleb had heard the same rumors, though not bothered to follow up on them. Julian likely knew for certain. Countess Campbell, perhaps. “What should that mean to us?” he asked, dismissing her concern with a careful sneer. Trying to get his feet back under him.
Sword of Sedition Page 22
