Then Pritchart cleared her throat.
"As I say, we're aware of your record. Given the fact that you come from good yeoman stock and earned all of those decadent titles the hard way, we're prepared to use them as a gesture of respect."
"I see."
Honor gazed at the platinum-haired woman. Pritchart was an even more impressive presence face-to-face than she'd anticipated, even after Michelle Henke's reports of her own conversations with the president. The woman carried herself with the assurance of someone who knew exactly who she was, and her emotions—what the treecats called her "mind glow"—were those of someone who'd learned that lesson the hard way, paid an enormous price for what her beliefs demanded. Yet despite the humor in her voice, it was clear she truly did cherish some apprehension about her question, and Honor wondered why.
She used Mike's title as Countess Gold Peak . . . but only after she'd decided to send Mike home as her envoy. Did she do that as a courtesy, or to specifically emphasize Mike's proximity to the throne? An emphasis she wanted enough to use a title she personally despised?
Or is the problem someone else in her Cabinet whose reaction she's concerned about?Or could it be she's already looking forward to the press releases? To how they're going to address me for public consumption?
"Under the circumstances," Honor said after a moment, "if you'd be more comfortable with plain old 'Admiral Alexander-Harrington,' I'm sure I could put up with that."
"Thank you." Pritchart gave her another smile, this one somewhat broader. "To be perfectly honest, I suspect some of my more aggressively egalitarian Cabinet members might be genuinely uncomfortable using one of your other titles."
She's fishing with that one, Honor decided. Most people wouldn't have suspected anything of the sort, given Pritchart's obvious assurance, but Honor had certain unfair advantages. She wants an indication of whether I want to speak to her in private or whether whatever Beth sent me to say is intended for her entire Cabinet .
"If it would make them feel uncomfortable, then of course we can dispense with it," she assured the president, and suppressed an urge to chuckle as she tasted Pritchart's carefully concealed spike of frustration when her probe was effortlessly—and apparently unknowingly—deflected.
"That's very gracious—and understanding—of you," the Havenite head of state said out loud as the lift slid to a halt and the doors opened. She waved one hand in graceful invitation, and she and Honor started down a tastefully furnished hallway, trailed by two satellite-like clumps of bodyguards. Honor could feel the president turning something over in her mind as they walked. Pritchart didn't seem the sort to dither over decisions, and before they'd gone more than a few meters, she glanced at the tall, black-haired woman who was obviously the senior member of her own security team.
"Sheila, please inform the Secretary of State and the other members of the Cabinet that I believe it will be best if Admiral Alexander-Harrington and I take the opportunity for a little private conversation before we invite anyone else in." Her nostrils flared, and Honor tasted the amusement threaded through her undeniable anxiety and the fragile undertone of hope. "Given the Admiral's dramatic midnight arrival, I'm sure whatever she has to say will be important enough for all of us to discuss eventually, but tell them I want to get my own toes wet first."
"Of course, Madam President," the bodyguard said, and began speaking very quietly into her personal com.
"I trust that arrangement will be satisfactory to you, Admiral?" Pritchart continued, glancing up at Honor.
"Certainly," Honor replied with imperturbable courtesy, but the twinkle of amusement in her own eyes obviously gave her away, and the president snorted again—more loudly—and shook her head.
Whatever she'd been about to say (assuming she'd intended to say anything) stayed unspoken, however, as they reached the end of the hall and a powered door slid open. Pritchart gave another of those graceful waves, and Honor stepped obediently through the door first.
The office was smaller than she'd anticipated. Despite its obviously expensive and luxurious furnishings, despite the old-fashioned paintings on the walls and the freestanding sculpture in one corner, it had an undeniably intimate air. And it was obviously a working office, not just someplace to receive and impress foreign envoys, as the well-used workstation at the antique wooden desk made evident.
Given its limited size, it would have been uncomfortably crowded if Pritchart had invited her entire cabinet in. In fact, Honor doubted she could have squeezed that many people into the available space, although the president's decision against inviting even her secretary of state had come as something of a surprise.
"Please, have a seat, Admiral," Pritchart invited, indicating the comfortable armchairs arranged around a largish coffee-table before a huge crystoplast window—one entire wall of the office, actually—that gave a magnificent view of downtown Nouveau Paris.
Honor accepted the invitation, choosing a chair which let her look out at that dramatic vista. She settled into it, lifting Nimitz down from her shoulder to her lap, and despite the tension of the moment and the millions of deaths which had brought her here, she felt an ungrudging admiration for what the people of this planet had accomplished. She knew all about the crumbling infrastructure and ramshackle lack of maintenance this city had suffered under the Legislaturalists. And she knew about the riots which had erupted in its canyon-like streets following the Pierre coup. She knew about the airstrikes Esther McQueen—"Admiral Cluster Bomb"—had called in to suppress the Levelers, and about the hidden nuclear warhead Oscar Saint-Just had detonated under the old Octagon to defeat McQueen's own coup attempt. This city had seen literally millions of its citizens die over the last two T-decades—suffered more civilian fatalities than the number of military personnel who'd died aboard all of the Havenite ships destroyed in the Battle of Manticore combined—yet it had survived. Not simply survived, but risen with restored, phoenix-like beauty from the debris of neglect and the wreckage of combat.
Now, as she gazed out at the gleaming fireflies of air cars zipping busily past even at this hour—at those stupendous towers, at the lit windows, the fairy-dusting of air traffic warning lights—she saw the resurgence of the entire Republic of Haven. Recognized the stupendous changes that resurgence had made in virtually every aspect of the lives of the men, women, and children of the Republic. And much of that resurgence, that rebirth of hope and pride and purpose, was the work of the platinum-haired woman settling into a facing armchair while their bodyguards, in turn, settled into wary watchfulness around them.
Yes, a lot of it was her work , Honor reminded herself, one hand stroking Nimitz's fluffy pelt while the reassuring buzz of his almost subsonic purr vibrated into her. But she's also the one who declared war this time around. The one who launched Thunderbolt as a "sneak attack." And the one who sent Tourville and Chin off to attack the home system. Admire her all you want, Honor, but never forget this is a dangerous, dangerous woman. And don't let your own hopes lead you into any overly optimistic assumptions about her or what she truly wants, either .