A chill traveled down his spine.
• • •
Päl and Khim stood in the dinner reception line for nearly half an hour, greeting guest upon guest. Faces blurred with names and Päl felt a dull pain creep along the base of his skull. The muscles around his mouth ached and he worked his jaw back and forth as he preceded his parents into the dining room.
Most of the conversation centered around the transfer of power to Tancred Sandoval, who had declined tonight’s invitation, begging pardon and needing to attend to his own family.
Several guests asked him on occasion to retell the battle of Ashio—some wanting the bloody details of the Ranger’s retreat while they ate. But the young MechWarrior wasn’t ready to recount to strangers some of the more painful events of his life, and bowed out with grace and politeness most becoming a Baron’s son.
As the meal ended he excused himself, pleading a headache, which was the truth. The Baron escorted Khim toward the veranda where he and the Baroness had planned an extravaganza of fireworks.
Päl went down into the kitchens in search of Chauncy. The house Mistress claimed no knowledge of where his nanny had gone. Remembering aspirin in the medicine cabinet of his and Khim’s apartments, the Baron’s son took the steps two at time, pausing only briefly at the top to cast a glance at the door of his father’s study.
So much of what he’d heard earlier jumbled about in his head. He suspected his father had lied to those family members—for he doubted Tancred would have agreed to work with Theodore Kurita if he suspected sabotage. And Päl believed the lie was meant to turn their family’s support away from Victor.
Political intrigue and posturing was what had killed Arthur. Päl wanted no part of it. In the field there was no place for such games, but here within the walls of the Sandoval family, that was all that seemed to exist.
Once inside his darkened bedroom, Päl pulled his sword from its sheath and set it on his bed. With a sigh he tucked his gloves into his belt and strode into the bathroom where he turned on a single light. Ignoring his tired reflection in the mirror, he found the aspirin and swallowed several without water.
An old familiar noise, one he’d not heard since childhood, came from the bedroom. It was the sound of the old service door beside his and Khim’s bed. As a small boy Päl had often hidden inside that door, and sometimes traveled the tunnels behind it for adventure. But he’d sealed the door years ago.
He looked from the bathroom to his bedroom. He saw nothing at first and he feared the events of the day—especially spying the intruder earlier—had him jumping at shadows. But since caution had often saved him in battle, he turned the bathroom’s light off to shroud himself in darkness and then crouched behind the door’s frame to peer out at the bedroom.
Light from the hall gave subtle illumination to a movement in the wall to the right of their bed. As he suspected, someone was opening the hidden door. From the secret entrance came a dark-clad figure that crouched once it gained admittance. The door closed with an audible click.
Päl couldn’t be sure if this was the intruder from before. He couldn’t see the figure’s detail in the shadowy light. The figure stood and pulled something from within the folds of his garment.
Light glinted off metal. Recognition gave him pause. He had a Nakjima pistol.
An assassin.
Päl’s sword lay on the bed, between himself and the intruder. His knives lay nestled within the drawer of his nightstand. He had no weapon readily available to him.
From the assassin’s movements he read that his presence was still unknown. It was best to remain hidden, and to watch. The dark-clad figure crept to the bedroom door. With his free hand on the frame, he looked from the left to the right, as if checking for someone.
Once he was gone, Päl ran to the bed, grabbed his sword. He then pulled his knives from the drawer and tucked them, unsheathed, into the belt of his dress uniform. He then moved to the door and peered cautiously around. There was no sign of the assassin.
With the sword ready, Päl moved to the stairs and caught the fleeting glimpse of dark robes at the foot of the stairs as the figure turned to the right in the direction of the ballroom.
Once at the foot of the stairs, Päl told a guard of the intruder. “Gather the others and find him.”
The guard gave the Baron’s son a quick nod, then turned just as Päl’s father and mother approached from the other direction.
“Päl, where have you—”
He put up a hand to silence Marquin. “I believe an assassin has entered the estate from the old door of my bedroom. I’ve alerted the guards.”
“An assassin?” Marquin Wyndham-Sandoval’s usually ruddy expression had gone quite pale. “In my home?”
“Where is Khim? I need you to take her out of here but don’t panic the guests. I’ll find him.” He turned to go.
The Baroness pulled on Päl’s arm as her son turned away. “Päl—Khim went to look in on your son. She’s gone to the open nursery.” The open nursery was on this floor—opposite the ballroom.
My son.
Päl ran as fast as he could toward the nursery wing. His feet pounded against the tiled floor as guests yelled after him, curious as to his alarm. He hoped none would follow. When he entered, the room was dark. Autumn moonlight filtered in through the open windows, casting shadows over the bed and crib. Päl held his sword ready. The light flashed off his blade as he crouched low and looked into the bed where his son should be sleeping.
It was empty.
In the dark he heard the familiar sound of a weapon powering up. He moved out of the way as
