chair itself, sensing his muscular tension, began a motorized massage of his shoulders and upper back.
The riot coverage faded, replaced by a bust of Skye’s late chief minister. Apparently, the stress of readying Skye to defend itself against horrible odds had caused the great man to break down, the female newsreader said in a plum-mily regretful voiceover: he had been found dead in his apartment after the battle, an apparent suicide.
The Duke muted the soundAh, Augustus , he thought,at least you were considerate enough to spare the world you betrayed the agony of a public trial. Although it was a damned shame, Duke Gregory felt, to be cheated of the subsequent public execution. The Duke would havepaid for ringside tickets when his former chief minister— and friend—went to the wall.
But Augustus Solvaig had stolen a march on the firing party, vaporizing the upper half of his balding head with a laser pistol.
He had left behind abundant evidence, at his flat and in his palace office, that he was a mole planted in the Duke’s cabinet by the Marik-Stewart Commonwealth branch of SAFE, the former FWL intel service. A dispatch not yet encrypted for sending off-world told how he had done what he could to weaken Skye’s defenses against the Jade Falcons. He believed that a successful Clan invasion of The Republic through Steiner space could greatly aid both resistance against the aggression SAFE knew the Lyrans planned against Marik-Stewart domains, and future Marik-Stewart efforts to reclaim territory from The Republic itself.
Nothing he left gave a clue, however, as to why he’d blown his head off at the very moment his schemes were being consummated. Forensic pathologists judged that he had died sometime around the battle’s height, when a Falcon victory seemed all but certain.
Duke Gregory lowered his hands to his lap. He wore a heavy burgundy robe over a pair of light blue silk pajamas. It was late in the day for him to be lounging about watching videos, and duty would soon enough draw him out of his warm, dark office into the cool light of day. But for now—this was what he paid his staff for, dammit.
Jasek, he thought unbidden. The boy never liked Augustus a damn . The lad had just been entering adolescence, head swimming with lurid tales of the glories of House Steiner, when Augustus Solvaig had appeared from the obscurity of the planetary government’s bureaucracy and begun his rise to prominence—and increasing access to the innermost councils of the Governor of Skye and ruler of Prefecture IX. Jasek thought Solvaig was a rodent, and said so, in that forthright way of his.
He was in many ways a reflection of his old man, Jasek was—and the reflection was not to the father’s discredit. The boy had passion, after all, and the courage of his convictions, and the wherewithal to act upon them. That counted for something, even if he had turned his back on his own father and The Republic which both had sworn to serve.
His defection had left the planet cruelly exposed. No denying it. Yet Skye had pulled through.
Much as the Duke resented Tara Campbell and her Highlanders as interlopers when they first arrived, they saved Skye. In post-battle interviews, Countess Northwind had lavished most of the credit upon
The Republic Skye Militia, and the Duke himself.
Well, if I’m going to admit I was wrong, I might as well make a habit of it,Duke Gregory thought. Within reasonable limits, of course.
He rubbed thoughtfully at his bearded chin. Sometime after the battle, the Countess had mentioned to him in passing that she doubted House Steiner had designs upon either Prefecture IX or Skye. That seemed confirmed by Solvaig’s report to his secret masters: they planned to jump the Mariks. No skin off of any portion of Duke Gregory’s anatomy, withal.
The Stormhammers, the army Jasek had ... extracted from Skye’s armed forces, based themselves upon Nusakan, Terra-wards from Skye—not far from Falcon-held Zebebelgenubi, in fact. Perhaps, the Duke thought, he could get discreet word to the boy, make overtures toward reopening communications.
Falcon captives, holding themselves bondsmen and women, had explained the scheme to grab a foothold in The Republic, in hope of a follow-up by the whole FalconTouman. They may not have Skye, the Duke thought,but they have themselves a foothold, and no mistake . The Falcons still held worlds in Prefectures VIII and IX, and even Chaffee in the Commonwealth.
The Republic had not heard the last of Clan Jade Falcon. When they heard more, it would be well to have Jasek Kelswa-Steiner standing at his father’s shoulder against them.
The Duke made mental note to order that planning for certain contingencies cease at once—and that all evidence of that planning be destroyed.
For some reason his mind went back to the police, and later intelligence, reports from the scene of Augustus Solvaig’s demise. It seemed that, on the bureau in his bedroom, near where the body lay, a single playing card had been discovered. No one had any idea what it meant. No decks of cards were found among the chief minister’s effects. So far as the Duke knew, Solvaig didn’town a pack of cards. He was not given to games of chance. Except, perhaps, the ultimate one.
It was a false note, a loose end, and Duke Gregory vigorously detested both. Still, the universe was full of questions he was never going to learn the answer to, no matter how that vexed him. The card was doubtless of no significance whatever; perhaps it had been left there by some fool of a patrol policeman early on the scene.
He picked up the remote control. Surely, there was time to watch the crowds busting Arminius von Herrmann’s windows once more before duty dragged him back to the weary business of helping his world recover from the invasion.
“Countess Campbell?”
In an airy hospital corridor, well lighted by tall windows along one wall, Tara Campbell, walking with her head down in thought, paused and turned to see Legate Stanford Eckard overtaking her.
“Legate,” she said with a smile. “Good day to you.”
“And to you, Countess. I am pleased to find you here.”
She made an agreeable noise. She was still distracted: thinking about Paul. How he happened to materialize on the battlefield just in time to save her was as big and apparently unsolveable a mystery as
how he happened to know how to pilot a Clan BattleMech—or how he’d got hold of one in the first place.
They had grown close, these last few weeks, very close. He was the first man the Countess had let anywhere near, emotionally since .. . since Northwind. Now he was dead, in saving her, and she mourned for him.
And for what might have been.
She shook off her grief. “How may I help you, Legate?” she asked.
He smiled. “You have helped more than words can possibly express already. I have thanked you before for saving Skye; I do so now, and intend to do yet again.”
His manner grew grave. “I have received a report from Republican intelligence. With matters as up-in-the-air as they are, I am not sure it would reach you through normal channels, although doubtless it is intended to.”
He handed her a flimsy piece of paper, pale yellow. With a quizzical glance at him she held it up and read.
Her eyes skipped quickly over EYES ONLY and TOP SECRET and various routing codes and time/rate stamps, and got right to the meat: a warning that an operative of Loki, the terrorist branch of House Steiner’s intelligence service, might be en route to or have arrived on Skye. His mission was unknown. Threat-assessment was low: House Steiner maintained a neutral-to-friendly stance toward The Republic, blah, blah. But alertness was in order, since Loki had been known to have its own agenda.
Although his actual identity was unknown, this operator was familiar to counterintelligence agencies throughout the Inner Sphere as the Knave of Hearts. Some Republican security experts, the report indicated, doubted his very existence, believing him to be pure Lyran Intelligence Corps disinformation, a bogeyman to frighten the Liao, the Mar-iks and of course the Davies. But several sightings deemed moderately reliable indicated his appearance was that of an ethnic-Asian male in his thirties, medium height and athletic build, no other distinguishing characteristics....
“Countess?” The Legate’s own Asian face mirrored the perplexity in his voice. “Are you quite all right?” She raised her face to his. She blinked her eyes at sudden moisture. But her mouth smiled.
“It’s nothing, Legate Eckard,” she said. “Just emotional aftershocks from yesterday.”
Legate Eckard nodded. “I see,” he said. Plainly he didn’t.
She remembered, of a sudden, forensic reports from Solvaig’s residence, and the unexplained presence of a
