"The Western Territories?"
"How did you guess?"
"Even Barholm isn't crazy enough to try conquering the Colony. Yet."
"Yes." Raj nodded and ran a hand through his hair. "The problem is, he's probably too suspicious to give me enough men to actually do it."
Thom blinked again. Raj has changed, he thought. The young man he had known had been ambitious-dreaming of beating back a major raid from the Colony, say, out on the eastern frontier. This weathered young-old commander was casually confident of overrunning the second most powerful realm on the Middle Sea, given adequate backing. The Brigade had held the Western Territories for nearly six hundred years. They were almost civilized. . for barbarians. Odd to think that they were descendants of Federation troops stranded in the Base Area after the Fall.
"Barholm," Raj went on with clinical detachment-sounding almost like Center, for a moment-"thinks that either I'll fail-"
observe, Center said.
* * *
Dead men gaped around a smashed cannon. The Starburst banner of the Civil Government of Holy Federation draped over some of the bodies, mercifully. Raj crawled forward, the stump of his left arm tattered and red, still dribbling blood despite the improvised tourniquet. His right just touched the grip of his revolver as the Brigade warrior reined in his riding dog and stood in the stirrups to jam the lance downward into his back. Again, and again. .
* * *
"— or I'll succeed, and he can deal with me then."
observe, Center said.
* * *
Raj Whitehall stood by the punchbowl at a reception; Thom Poplanich recognized the Upper Promenade of the palace by the tall windows and the checkerboard pavement of the terrace beyond. Brilliant gaslight shone on couples swirling below the chandeliers in the formal patters of court dance; on bright uniforms and decorations, on the ladies' gowns and jewelry. He could almost smell the scents of perfume and pomade and sweat. Off to one side the orchestra played, the soft rhythm of the steel drums cutting through the mellow brass of trumpets and the rattle of marachaz. Silence spread like a ripple through the crowd as the Gubernatorial Guard troopers clanked into the room. Their black-and-silver uniforms and nickel-plated breastplates shone, but the rifles in their hands were very functional. The officer leading them bowed stiffly before Raj.
"General Whitehall-" he began, holding up a letter sealed with the purple-and-gold of a Governor's Warrant.
* * *
"Barholm doesn't deserve to have a man like you serving him," Thom burst out.
"Oh, I agree," Raj said. For a moment his rueful grin made him seem boyish again, all but the eyes.
"Then stay here," Thom urged. "Center could hold you in stasis, like me, until long after Barholm is dust. And while we wait, we can be learning everything. All the knowledge in the human universe. Center's been teaching me things. . things you couldn't imagine."
"The problem is, Thom, I'm serving the Spirit of Man of the Stars. Whose Viceregent on Earth-"
bellevue, Center said.
"— Viceregent on Bellevue happens to be Barholm Clerett. Besides the fact that my wife and friends are waiting for me; and frankly, I wouldn't want my troops in anyone else's hands right now, either." He sighed. "Most of all. . well, you always were a scholar, Thom. I'm a soldier; and the Spirit has called me to serve as a soldier. If I die, that goes with the profession. And all men die, in the end."
essentially correct, Center noted, its machine-voice more somber than usual. restoring interstellar civilization on bellevue and to humanity in general is an aim worth more than any single life. A pause, more than any million lives.
Raj nodded. "And besides. . in a year, I may die. Or Barholm may die. Or the dog may learn how to sing."
They made the embrhazo of close friends, touching each cheek. Thom froze again; Raj swallowed and looked away. He had seen many men die. Too many to count, over the last few years, and he saw them again in his dreams far more often than he wished. This frozen un-death disturbed him in a way the windrows of corpses after a battle did not. No breath, no heartbeat, the chill of a corpse-yet Thom lived. Lived, and did not age.
He stepped out of the doorway that appeared silently in the mirrored sphere, into the tunnel with its carpet of bones-the bones of those Center had rejected over the years as it waited for the man who would be its sword in the world.
Then again, he thought, stasis isn't so bad, when you consider the alternatives.
* * *
"Bloody hell," Major Ehwardo Poplanich said, sotto voce. "How long is this going to take? If I'd wanted to sit on my butt and be bored, I would have stayed home on the estate." He ran a hand over his thinning brown hair.
He was part of the reason that Raj Whitehall and his dozen Companions had plenty of space to themselves on the padded sofa-bench that ran down the side of the anteroom. Nobody at Court wanted to stand too close to a close relation of the last Poplanich Governor. Quite a few wondered why Poplanich was with Raj; Thom Poplanich had disappeared in Raj's company years before, and Thom's brother Des had died when Raj put down a bungled coup attempt against Governor Barholm.
Another part of the reason the courtiers avoided them was doubt about exactly how Raj stood with the Chair, of course.
The rest of it was the other Companions, the dozen or so close followers Raj had collected in his first campaign on the eastern frontier or in the Southern Territories. Many of the courtiers had spent their adult lives in the Palace, waiting in corridors like this. The Companions seemed part of the scene at first, in dress or walking-out uniforms like many of the men not in Court robes or religious vestments. Until you came closer and saw the scars, and the eyes.
"We'll wait as long as His Supremacy wants us to, Ehwardo," Colonel Gerrin Staenbridge said, swinging one elegantly booted foot over his knee. He looked to be exactly what he was: a stylish, handsome professional soldier from a noble family of moderate wealth, a man of wit and learning, and a merciless killer. "Consider yourself lucky to have an estate in a county that's boring; back home in Descott County-"
"— bandits come down the chimney once a week on Starday," Ehwardo finished. "Isn't that right, M'lewis?"
"I wouldna know, ser," the rat-faced little man said virtuously.
The Companions were unarmed, despite their dress uniforms-the Life Guard troopers at the doors and intervals along the corridor were fully equipped-but Raj suspected that the captain of the 5th Descott's Scout Troop had something up his sleeve.
Probably a wire garrote, he thought. M'lewis had enlisted one step ahead of the noose, having made Bufford Parish-the most lawless part of not-very-lawful Descott County-too hot for comfort. Raj had found his talents useful enough to warrant promotion to commissioned rank, after nearly flogging the man himself at their first meeting-a matter of a farmer's pig lifted as the troops went past. The Scout Troop was full of M'lewis's friends, relatives and neighbors; it was also known to the rest of the 5th as the Forty Thieves, not without reason.
Captain Bartin Foley looked up from sharpening the inner curve of the hook that had replaced his left hand. His face had been boyishly pretty when Raj first saw him, four years before. Officially he'd been an aide to Gerrin Staenbridge, unofficially a boyfriend-in-residence. He'd had both hands, then, too.
"Why don't you?" he asked M'lewis. "Know about bandits coming down the chimney, that is."