The Queen clapped her hands, gaily. "Another beachcomber, is it? That was just what I told—"
She broke off, her mouth open with surprise, and stared at Honor. "Is that the third message you referred to? A message to Anton Zilwicki?"
Honor nodded. "Yes. Who else are you going to use as your political agent on the spot, Elizabeth? Countess Fraser? Hardly. Nor can Oversteegen serve the purpose, given the limits of his position. And while I share Willie's assessment of the judgment of your niece and the Zilwicki girl, they are still very young women. One of them's literally a teenager. I don't care how bright they are, a youngster is still a youngster. I've met Anton Zilwicki personally several times, you know, to discuss that information about Mesa he, ah... happened across on Old Earth. And the contact I've had with him, like everything else I've ever heard about the man, suggests that he's as canny as they come."
Honor started to add something more, then decided against it. There was no need to burden the Queen with just how closely she, Zilwicki, and her senior armsman Andrew LaFollet, had discussed the information Zilwicki—and Catherine Montaigne—hadn't gotten around to handing to the Crown officially, for some reason.
The Queen was back to glowering, however. "If he's so canny, why did he disappear?"
But the glower was gone by the time she finished the sentence. "Hm. Actually, now that I think about it, that is an interesting question. Why did the man hare off to Smoking Frog? Captain Oversteegen's report gave no explanation, and Ruth's version was so murky it would put High Ridge to shame."
By now, Elizabeth was actually smiling. "Hm. Hm. Well, now that I've calmed down... I'll make you all a bet. I've met the man, too, you know. So I think we'll eventually find he had a good reason to do so. One which probably bodes ill for someone I'd very much enjoy seeing experience some ill-boding. Whoever that may turn out to be."
The Queen looked to each of her human guests, in turn. "We're all agreed, then? I'll send private messages to the girls, Captain Oversteegen, and Anton Zilwicki. Assuring them all of my private support and my confidence in their judgment."
Five heads nodded. Judith added: "And Michael and I will want to include a private message to our daughter." Tears still glimmered behind her eyes, but her voice was clear and strong. "Telling her how much we love her—and how proud of her we are."
"Indeed," Michael chimed in, his own voice husky.
Elizabeth eyed them for a moment. "You are aware, I suppose, that such a message from you, on top of the one from me, will make it impossible to restrain her from further adventures. She'll insist on accompanying the expedition to Congo."
"Of course," Michael rasped. He reached out a hand and squeezed his wife's. "And so what? She's a Winton, Elizabeth, doing her service. If she were regular Navy, she'd be getting ready for her middie cruise by now, so how is this any different? And after all these centuries, I see absolutely no reason why we should suddenly begin shielding the scions of our dynasty from the risks of such duty."
There was no answer, beyond a nod.
A few minutes later, the audience broke up. The Queen asked the Alexander brothers to remain behind, to discuss the newsfaxes' latest reports of the Pritchart Administration's increasingly harsh rhetoric, and Honor found herself walking down the corridor, Nimitz on her shoulder, with Michael and Judith Winton.
She could taste their deep concern, and she tried to think of something reassuring to say to the parents of a twenty-three-year-old woman who had been—and would be soon again going into—harm's way. Alas, she could think of nothing. Honor had been in harm's way herself far too often to have any illusions. Royal blood meant precious little, matched against the vagaries of fate and chance.
But she was spared the necessity of scraping up some ridiculous platitude. As it turned out, Michael had a purpose of his own in choosing to walk with her.
"There is one thing, Admiral Harrington," he said, with unusual formality, "which I will ask you to remember in the years ahead. In case my daughter does not survive."
He stopped, and Honor faced him squarely. "Yes, Your Grace?" she asked with matching formality,
Michael's voice was hard and low. "My sister, as much as I love and respect her, is not entirely rational on the subject of the Republic of Haven." He held up a hand. "Don't say anything, Honor. I don't expect you to agree with me—certainly not to say so aloud. But I'll tell you that it's true. And the day may come when the damage that irrationality will do to our people needs to be contained, as best as possible."
Honor didn't know what to say. How to say it to the Queen's brother, rather. But she understood what Michael was saying. Had understood it for some time now.
She decided a nod was enough. It could be a nod of agreement—or simply one which acknowledged that the duke had spoken.
Michael smiled thinly. "You've gotten so much better at diplomacy, Honor. Have I mentioned that to you lately?"
Thin to begin with, the smile faded almost at once. "Just remember this, Admiral. If and when that day ever comes, the existence of a neutral planet where Manticore and Haven have been able to maintain informal liaisons may save a lot of lives. Even if creating such a planet came at the cost of our daughter's life."
Honor heard Judith inhale sharply as her husband said the words. Not in surprise, or even disagreement, Honor knew. The woman who'd led an entire shipload of women to escape their hellish existence on Masada when she was younger than her daughter was now would never flinch from confronting such a bitter prospect. But that didn't mean she was able to blind herself to the very real risks that daughter had already run... or the ones yet to come.
"I understand, Your Grace." Honor said quietly, meeting Winton-Serisburg's eyes levelly and speaking in the tone of someone swearing a formal oath. Which she was, she realized. "And I won't forget."
Michael nodded. Then, he and Judith turned and walked away, holding hands, leaving Honor standing alone with Nimitz.
It was all she could do, as she watched them leave, not to call out some stupid, idiotic reassurance.
I'm sure she'll be fine! Honestly!
But, she managed to retain her dignity and theirs. Seconds later, the royal couple rounded a bend and were gone from sight. Honor took a deep breath and let it out.
"Oh, sure," she muttered. " 'She'll be fine.' Maybe—and maybe not. A pulser dart is no respecter of persons."
Nimitz made a soft sound on her shoulder, and she looked at him. His grass-green eyes were dark with shared memory of the hard lessons which had taught them both that bitter fact. But she tasted his support and love... and his acceptance of the harsh truth that sometimes one had no choice but to surrender hostages to fortune. It came with the responsibility not to stand cravenly by, like a High Ridge or a Fraser, and do nothing in hopes that the blame for whatever disaster ensued fell elsewhere.
She shook her head and resumed walking. Striding, rather, because she had a lot of work to finish in a very short time. Her task force was scheduled to leave orbit for Sidemore in three days, and there were always a million details to crowd a departure date. Especially under the Janacek Admiralty.
Honor would be long gone from Manticore by the time the next reports came back from Erewhon, and there was nothing further she could do about that situation anyway. So she put it out of her mind, after taking a brief moment for a private salutation.