“The honor is mine, Warlord. I regret to inform you that Precentor Phud has been called to other duties.” The Precentor paused for a moment, a look of formal sadness on his face. “He had reported to the First Circuit that his relationship with you was smooth and beneficial to all concerned. That is a pattern I believe to be worth preserving.
“I am Alexandre Kalafon, his replacement. I have come to establish my credentials. All the proper documents are contained in the weekly message pouch that my secretary is holding in the outer office.”
“Surely you have another reason for your visit?”
The Precentor smiled blandly at what they both knew was a statement of the obvious.
“Is this man to be present?” Kalafon said. His eyes never left Samsonov and he made no motion, but there was no doubt he was referring to Akuma, who still lounged near the door.
“Certainly. He has earned my trust many times over in loyal and discreet service.”
“As you wish, Warlord. I am sure you are a good judge of your men. One who enjoys your trust would never need to fear the punishments House Kurita reserves for those who betray its secrets.” On that ominous note, the Precentor began to speak of the rigors of his journey to Galedon and his pleasure at the mild weather that met his arrival.
Samsonov knew that the man was filling the air with nonsense in the approved Kurita fashion of chitchat before business. Samsonov also knew that the first to get to business lost face, according to Kurita custom. It was another of the nuisances he faced every day. Unlike many in the Combine's power structure, he did not feel himself bound by formal ritual and notions of honor. Such things were only of use to him when they could advance his cause or trip up a rival. The Precentor was not of House Kurita and he wasannoying. The sooner the man was gone the better.
“You must be a very busy man, Precentor,” Samsonov interrupted. “As am I. Let us dispense with the formalities and speak as old friends do, without preamble and going directly to the business at hand.” The Warlord leaned forward and said earnestly, “What do you want?”
“It shall be as you wish, Warlord,” Kalafon agreed.
Samsonov could detect no sign that the Precentor was disturbed by the Warlord's breach of etiquette. Perhaps this was a man with whom one could do business.
“I fear that you misunderstand the purpose of my visit,” Kalafon continued placidly. “I want nothing from you. Rather, I have something to offer to you.” He paused and smiled benignly. “I have by chance come into possession of information that may be of value to certain of your current undertakings.”
Samsonov's suspicions were immediately roused. What did this old man know about his “undertakings?” The Warlord's eyes narrowed. “What kind of information?”
“Let me tell you about a soldier. A ‘Mech Warrior by the name of Fadre Singh.”
“I'm not in the habit of buying soldiers, Precentor,” Samsonov snapped. “I thought you had information.”
“MechWarrior Singh is a most interesting fellow, Warlord. Do you know his recent history?”
“No,” Samsonov grunted in irritation. The Precentor was not responding to intimidation and seemed determined to run the conversation his own way. So much for him being a likely business partner. The sooner the old man finished with his prepared babble, the sooner he would leave. “I am sure you can tell me all about it.”
“To some degree I can,” Kalafon replied, his tone still placid. “Singh's most recent success was with Wolf's Dragoons. He produced a brilliant performance in the Hoff raid of 3023—one worthy of a Kurita samurai. I am told that he led a charge from which his superior quailed and thus turned the tide of the battle. The raid on Hoff ended well for the Combine, did it not?”
Samsonov was silent. He let Kalafon take the silence as assent and confirmation of his sources.
The Precentor continued, “Alas, the unfortunate Singh was ill-treated. The embarrassment he had created for his commander seemed to weigh more heavily than his military success. The jealous officer had poor Singh disgraced and dismissed from the unit.
“His next assignment was a lonely outpost on Misery. It is a bleak world, cold and unforgiving over most of the continents, but hot and vile in the active volcanic zones. It was a virtual exile, totally unsuited to a hero.
“On Misery, he met a fellow ‘MechWarrior. A mercenary, I think. She was sympathetic and greatly soothed his mind. It was from this wandering Samaritan that I learned of the unfortunate Singh's plight.”
Kalafon stopped, waiting.
Samsonov took time to consider just how a disaffected Dragoon could be useful. This was bait, he decided. Still, a smart fish can steal the bait and leave the hook untouched. “So, this Singh is unhappy with the Dragoons,” he said.
“That is what I have been given to understand,” Kalafon replied noncommittally.
“Why should I be interested?”
“Ah, of course. You do not buy soldiers. Forgive my failing memory. There was something else.
“Once of a long, dark night on Misery, ‘MechWarrior Singh had a lengthy talk with his friend. In the course of it, he mentioned something to this lady, something he called the Hegira Plan. He claimed that this plan involved a full-scale exodus of Wolf's Dragoons from Kurita space. Would that be of any interest to you, Warlord?”
“That is a foolish question and you are not a fool, Precentor. What's the price?”
“Do not speak of price, Warlord.” Kalafon spread his hands in a gesture of openness. A smile emphasized the wrinkles in his face. “I cannot sell you anything. I merely offer a gift out of good will.”
“Good will is maintained through further good will, isn't it?” Samsonov said, staring into Kalafon's dark eyes, which shone with cool and calculating intelligence. There is a dangerous man behind this well-mannered facade,Samsonov told himself. Caution and circumspection would be required.
“I am pleased to see that you are as wise as I have been told, Warlord.”
“Wisdom is slow in coming sometimes,” Samsonov said, joining the game of politeness and euphemism. “You must let me meditate on this ‘MechWarrior's sad story. Perhaps I can find a way to ease his burden.”
“The Blessed Blake looks kindly on generosity.” Kalafon rose. “I shall leave you now, Warlord. There is much to be put in order at our compound. You may, of course, reach me there. The blessings of Blake, my son.”
With that formality, the Precentor moved toward the door, which Akuma opened for him. The ComStar official strode past Akuma, ignoring the Sworder's open stare.
“A most interesting man, Warlord,” Akuma offered. “He shall be much more entertaining than Phud.”
“More dangerous, too.”
“That's what will make it interesting.” Samsonov searched his aide's face and found nothing but confidence. “You'll stick your hand into the fire too long someday, Akuma.”
Akuma's eyes glittered. “I assure you that I am always careful when I play with fire.”
Akuma's words set Samsonov to considering what he knew really of his aide. The man had first come to his attention after he'd requested a transfer into the Eighth Sword of Light Regiment. There had been a rumor of reprisals being planned against the young officer because of his small part in the disgrace of a commanding officer. Normally, that would mark him as a dangerous subordinate, but the ISF had assured Samsonov of Akuma's devotion to the Combine. They attributed the problem to Akuma's rejection of the hard-line code of bushido.Now, that was an attitude Samsonov understood. He considered that outmoded code and its devotees to be so many nuisances. They got in the way of business. If Akuma shared that attitude, a man who understood business could be useful.
Besides, Akuma had disgraced one of Warlord Yorioshi's officers, and the disgrace of the subordinate had reflected on the superior. Samsonov had decided to reward Akuma for his inadvertent aid. He had approved the transfer to the Eighth Sword of Light.
Once on Galedon, the Sworder had shown traits that reminded Samsonov of himself in younger days. Akuma was efficient, smart, and ambitious, and his only scruple was a sense of debt. He repaid those who touched his life, for good or ill. Such a man is a boon to one who has earned his gratitude, and so the Warlord arranged for Akuma to be grateful to him.