Mission of Honor

bottomless, brooding grief. A sense of failure that fully matched her own, and something else, even darker and more personal. Less corrosive than her own guilt—though she knew he shared that, as well—but colder and even more crushing.

No sign of those emotions was permitted to show as he formally requested the boat bay officer of the deck's permission to board the ship. Then he was through the formalities, past the sideboys, past Captain Cardones, with Tobias Stimson, his own armsman at his heels. Sergeant Stimson was as alert and professional looking as always, the perfect example of a Grayson armsman, yet when she looked at him, she tasted his own dark night of the soul, like a mirror of Hamish's and Samantha's.

Concern for both of them—all three of them—flared through her, but then Hamish was there, holding out his hand to her.

She took it in the formal handshake to which they were always careful to restrict themselves on official occasions, and she felt a fresh stab of concern as she realized his fingers were actually trembling slightly with exhaustion and the terrible, midnight-black grief that rode his shoulders like some hunched, ravenous beast. She stood there, looking into his eyes for a heartbeat which seemed to last forever, seeing that beast's shadows in those blue depths, and then she let go of his hand. Before even she realized what she was doing, her arms went about him, instead, and she closed her own eyes, leaning forward to rest her cheek on his shoulder.

For just an instant, he stiffened as she abruptly abandoned formality. But only for an instant, and then his arms tightened around her, hugging her while Samantha and Nimitz crooned to one another.

'Welcome home,' he whispered in her ear. 'Oh, God—welcome home , Honor.'

* * *

'Well,' Honor said in a determinedly light tone as the lift carried them towards her quarters, 'we've just put naval discipline back a century or so.'

'Frankly,' Hamish said, one arm still around her, 'I'm not too worried about the precedent. After all, how many fleet commanders are going to be married to first lords?'

'Not many, I suppose,' she conceded, but she tasted the determination with which he sought to match her own light tone and knew how hard he found it.

The lift car stopped, the doors opened, and she, Hamish, Nimitz, Samantha, Hawke, and Stimson headed down the passage to her quarters. Clifford McGraw had the duty outside her door, and he came to attention, saluted her and Hamish, then nodded to Stimson and Hawke and hit the door button.

The panel slid aside, and Honor and Hamish stepped through it. Somewhat to her surprise, neither Hawke nor Stimson made any move to follow them. She stopped and looked back over her shoulder, and her eyebrows rose in even greater surprise, for Stimson had his hand on Hawke's shoulder. Even among the personal armsmen of a Garsyon steaholder, noncoms didn't usually physically stop one of their officers in the pursuit of his duty, and she looked a question at both of them. She more than half expected an explanation, but instead, Hawke only shook his head, nodded in Hamish's direction, and then closed the door behind them.

'My God,' Honor said. 'I can't believe all three of them are just going to stand out there in the hall without at least making sure there are no ruthless assassins hiding in the sleeping cabin! I don't suppose you had anything to do with Toby's little contribution to Spencer's decision?'

'Not me,' Hamish replied, and shrugged with a strained smile. 'They're probably just giving us a little privacy.' There was something odd about his tone, she thought, but before she had time to consider it he went on. 'And, frankly, if that's what Toby was thinking, it was a damned good idea. Lord knows we can use it.'

'Amen to that,' she said fervently, and walked back into his arms.

They stood that way for quite some time, with Nimitz leaning forward from Honor's shoulder to rub his cheek against Samantha's. Then Honor straightened and stepped back with a ghost of a smile.

'It's all right, Mac,' she called out, raising her voice slightly. 'You can come out now.'

Hamish made a sound which might someday turn into a chuckle again as James MacGuiness poked his head through the hatch from his steward's pantry.

'Hello, Mac,' the earl said.

'Good afternoon, Milord,' MacGuiness replied with all of his customary aplomb. 'Might I offer you a little something?'

'Actually, you can offer me a glass of whiskey,' Hamish said. 'A rather large one. Some of Her Grace's Glenlivet Grand Reserve. And don't contaminate it with ice.'

'Of course, Milord. And for you, Your Grace?'

'I think it's still a little early for me to start in on the whiskey,' Honor said, with a thoughtful glance at Hamish. 'Make it an Old Tilman, please.'

MacGuiness bowed slightly and vanished back into his pantry, but only for a few seconds. How he got the specified beverages into their glasses that quickly, with a perfect head on her stein of beer, was simply fresh proof of his magical abilities, in Honor's opinion.

She took the beer with a small smile of thanks, and he smiled back, handed Hamish his whiskey, and disappeared once more. This time, the door closed quietly behind him.

Honor looked at Hamish, then waved her beer at the couch facing her coffee table. Hamish nodded in silent agreement, then sat, and she settled herself beside him. His arm went back around her, and he took a deep swallow from his glass before he leaned back, closed his eyes, and exhaled in a long, ragged sound of weariness she knew he would never have let anyone else hear.

Nimitz and Samantha had flowed onto the other end of the couch, where they were curled tightly together with Samantha's muzzle buried against Nimitz while he crooned to her and his true-hands caressed her long, silken coat.

The four of them sat that way for a time which could not possibly have been as long as it seemed, simply absorbing the comfort of the others' presence. But for all her joy at seeing him again, the dark thunderhead of his mind glow—and Samantha's—hammered at her empathic sense like a hurricane just beyond the horizon. The minutes stretched out, and then, finally, he took another pull at his drink and opened his eyes again.

'I need this,' he said softly, and she knew he wasn't talking about the whiskey. 'I can't believe how badly I need this. And Emily is going to need it, too, as soon as you can get dirtside on Manticore.'

'I want to see her, too,' Honor told him equally quietly. 'But I don't think it's going to happen soon.' He looked at her, and her smile was more crooked than usual. 'Hamish, we're already taking advantage of our positions, just sitting here. I don't think anybody's going to complain, and I'm pretty sure we've got enough official business to discharge to keep us from feeling too guilty. But I'm not going to abuse my authority by cutting myself orders to Manticore or Sphinx to see my family when the rest of the people under my command can't do the same thing.'

The darkness flared within him as she spoke. For a moment, she thought it was anger at her refusal to abuse the privileges of her rank, but its taste wasn't quite right for that. She was still trying to parse his emotions out when he shook his head.

'You won't have to cut yourself any orders, Honor,' he said. 'And it won't be a case of favoritism, either. Trust me, Elizabeth's going to want you on Manticore as fast as you can get there. She's going to want to hear how Pritchart and her people reacted to all this. And she's going to want your reaction to it, as well.'

She started to object, then changed her mind. He was undoubtedly right, after all.

'I suppose that's fairly inevitable,' she admitted instead, and he snorted.

'You can leave out the 'fairly,'' he told her, and she smiled briefly. But then her smile faded, and she set her untasted beer on the coffee table and reached out with her flesh-and-blood hand to touch the side of his face.

'All right,' she said. 'I take your point. And I won't even try to pretend I don't want to see Emily as badly as she wants to see me. Or as badly as I want to see the kids, for that matter. But I think you're forgetting I can taste mind glows, Hamish.'

His eyes darkened, as if shutters had just come down behind them, and her fingers stroked his cheek gently.

'Whatever it is, you can't protect me from it forever,' she said very softly.