"...So the contracts should be in our hands by the end of the week, Your Grace."
Richard Maxwell, Honor's personal Manticoran attorney and acting solicitor general for the Duchy of Harrington, punched the forward button on his memo pad. A new page displayed itself, and he studied it for a moment, then gave a small, satisfied nod.
"That's just about it, Your Grace," he said.
"An excellent brief, Richard," Honor approved. "I'm particularly pleased with the progress on the lodge agreements."
"I'm still not as good at contract law as Willard," Maxwell pointed out, "but that wasn't really a problem in this case. That whole area is absolutely prime ski territory, and the access to the coast offers a year-round recreational possibility for the operators. They were eager to close, and they were willing to pay a considerably higher premium for the rights to build there than we'd anticipated, especially now that the cessation of hostilities has given the civilian economy a push forward again. Willard was right about Odom, too; he's almost as sharp a negotiator as Willard himself. He knew exactly when to push at the final session, and at the expense of possible immodesty, I think I've been getting better at this whole commercial law business, too. And I have to admit that having Clarise Childers available as backup hasn't hurt a bit."
"I've been very satisfied with Merlin," Honor agreed. "And I've noticed Clarise always lends a certain . . . presence to any meeting. Whether she's actually there or not."
She smiled at Maxwell, and he grinned back at the studied understatement of her remark.
Merlin Odom was Willard Neufsteiller's handpicked deputy on Manticore, managing the operations of the steadily growing Harrington financial empire in the Star Kingdom in accordance with Neufsteiller's general directives from Grayson. At forty-two, he was much younger than Willard, and even less inclined to get out of the office in the name of heathen exercise. But the heavy-set lawyer with the brown hair, blue eyes, and startlingly red goatee was already demonstrating similar instincts. With a few more decades of experience, he would be more than ready to take over when Willard finally retired, which was a very high compliment indeed.
As for Childers, the mere fact that everyone knew her services were available to Honor at need was an asset beyond price. Not only was she one of the most capable attorneys in the Star Kingdom in her own right, but her firm's short—very short—client list loomed large in the mind of any commercial negotiator. Honor herself had become one of the richest individuals in the Star Kingdom over the past decade and a half, and her Sky Domes of Grayson was firmly established among the Kingdom Five Hundred list of top corporations. But Childers worked directly for Klaus Hauptman, whose personal and corporate wealth was at least equal to the combined assets of his half dozen closest competitors. Clarise Childers was the president and senior partner of the enormous law firm of Childers, Strauslund, Goldman, and Wu, whose sole clients were the Hauptman Cartel (which headed the Kingdom Five Hundred by a wide margin), the Hauptman family . . . and, on occasion, Honor Harrington.
"With the commercial side of things under control for the moment, Your Grace," Maxwell went on, his pleasantly ugly face thoughtful, "what I'd like to do next would be to spend some time setting up the Harrington judiciary."
"Do we really have to do that this quickly?" Honor asked with a small grimace. "It's not like we have anything approaching a true population in the duchy yet!"
"Your Grace," Maxwell said a bit sternly, "if anyone in the Star Kingdom should know better than that, it's you. You've already been through setting up a new steading on Grayson, after all."
"But I left most of that to Howard Clinkscales," Honor pointed out. "All I really did was sign off on the decisions he'd already reached."
"I happen to know from private correspondence with Lord Clinkscales that you were considerably more involved in the process than that, Your Grace," Maxwell disagreed respectfully. "And even if you hadn't been, you've had plenty of time to see how badly a well-organized infrastructure is needed in situations like this."
"The cases aren't parallel," Honor objected. "As a steadholder, I hold the powers of high, middle, and low justice in Harrington. I don't want them, mind you, and any steadholder's power of arbitrary decision has been steadily reduced by precedents over the last few centuries. Not to mention what the Sword's done to subordinate steading law codes to the planetary Constitution since the 'Mayhew Restoration.' But Steadholder Harrington is still a head of state in her own right, with all of the legal prerogatives and responsibilities that entails. Duchess Harrington is only an administrator—a Crown governor, basically."
"And, like a governor, the Duchess holds the powers of judicial review and commutation," Maxwell pointed out in turn. "And, like a governor, she's effectively the chief magistrate of her duchy. Which means she needs a functioning system of courts and law enforcement in place."
"To enforce it against whom?" Honor asked plaintively. "The total population of the duchy is—what? Clear up to two thousand now? Scattered over how many thousands of square kilometers?"
"The actual number is a bit higher than that," Maxwell told her. "Not a lot, I'll admit, but higher. And it's about to get a lot higher than it is, for another reason with which your Grayson experience with Sky Domes should make you familiar. Once the survey and construction crews for the ski lodges move in, the current population is going to go up by at least a factor of five. And once the lodges and resorts start attracting tourists and the permanent population to service them, the number will skyrocket."
"All right, all right," Honor sighed. "I surrender. Pull together a proposal for me by next Wednesday, and I promise to get back to you on it as soon as I can."
"Hear that, Nimitz?" the attorney said over his shoulder, to the cream and gray 'cat sprawled comfortably on the custom-made perch beside his smaller, dappled brown and cream mate. Nimitz pricked up his ears, and Maxwell chuckled. "I expect you to keep an eye on her and see to it that she really does pay attention to my memos," he said.
Nimitz considered him for a moment, then rose to a half-sitting position on the perch, and raised his true-hands. He placed the right true-hand, fingers together and palm facing to the left, on the upturned palm of his left true-hand, which pointed away from his body. The right true-hand slid out along the left palm, over the left fingers, and stopped with its heel resting on the left fingertips.
"Traitor," Honor muttered darkly as she read the sign for "Okay," and Nimitz bleeked a laugh and started signing again.
<Not my fault you need a keeper,> the flashing fingers said. <Besides, he brings celery.>
"To think your loyalty can be bought so cheaply," Honor told him, shaking her head sorrowfully.
<Not loyalty,> Nimitz's true-hands replied. <Just cooperation.>
"Right," Honor snorted. Then she looked back at Maxwell. "Well, now that you've recruited your furry minion, I suppose I really don't have any choice but to read your memo. Although, exactly where you expect me to fit it into my schedule is beyond me."
"I'm sure that between them Mac and Miranda can find somewhere to steal an hour or two for you to spend reading. I promise I'll make it as concise as I can, too. But before you approve any plans, you really do need to read more than just the digest and the section heads, Your Grace. I'm flattered that you trust me, but the ultimate decisions and the consequences they may have are up to you."
"I know," she said more seriously, and tapped a command into the terminal at her desk. She studied the display for a few seconds, and then entered a brief note.
"I just picked Wednesday out of a hat," she admitted, "but it looks like it will actually work anyway. And it's a good thing, too, because I've got an exam at Saganami Island that afternoon. I'm going to be swamped grading papers in my copious free time at least through the weekend. So if you can get it to me by Wednesday morning, or even better, by Tuesday evening, I'll fit it in somehow before I get buried under papers."
"I'm glad to hear it, Your Grace," Maxwell told her, "but don't you have a session in the Lords Wednesday, as well? I thought I saw a notice that the Government intended to move its new budget this week, and even though this is important, I wouldn't want it to interfere with any preparations for that."
"No," Honor said with another, more heartfelt grimace. "It's been moved to next Wednesday. I'm not sure why, but the Government notified us day before yesterday that they were moving the debate back a week. And there won't be a lot of preparation to do, either. High Ridge will say exactly the same things he's been saying for the last three T-years, and Earl White Haven and I will say exactly the same things we've been saying for the last three years. Then the House will vote—narrowly, of course—to draft the budget the Government wants, the Commons will move amendments to change it, the Lords will strip them back out again, and absolutely nothing will change."
Maxwell looked at her, wondering if she realized just how bitter (and exhausted) she sounded at that instant. Not that he was surprised to hear it.
The House of Lord's power to initiate finance bills was only part of its advantage in controlling the power of the purse in the Star Kingdom. In addition, any bill which actually passed had to pass in the final form approved by the Lords. That meant that, as Honor had just complained, the Lords could effectively strip out any Commons-sponsored amendment of which it disapproved and require a straight up-or-down vote on its own version of any financial bill. Under normal circumstances, the Commons still had quite a lot of say-so, since it could always refuse to approve the Lords' final version and—especially—refuse approval for any extraordinary funding measures required to support the Lords' budgets. But these circumstances weren't normal. The "extraordinary funding measures" were already in place, and the authority the Lords also enjoyed to pass special financial enabling authority for core government services on an emergency basis even without the Commons' approval in the event of a budgetary standoff was the icing on the cake.
Of course, prudent prime ministers were usually careful not to overstrain their weapons. For the Lords to ride roughshod over the Commons required a situation in which a sufficiently sizable piece of the electorate would be prepared to blame the Commons for failure to achieve compromise. Under those circumstances, the house which had to stand for reelection faced a fatal disadvantage, but if the Lords had been foolish enough to court situations in which they would be blamed for the ensuing shutdown of most government services, the long-term resentment might have allowed the Crown to strip the senior house of the power of the purse long ago.
That was precisely why the High Ridge Government had been so assiduously attempting to buy public support . . . and what had made Duchess Harrington and Earl White Haven so valuable as the Opposition's spokespeople in the House of Lords. Where the naval budgets, in particular, were concerned, their voices carried a great deal of weight with the electorate.
And it was also why High Ridge and his allies wanted so desperately to reduce their effectiveness by any means possible,
The members of the Government themselves had to be extremely careful about seeming to pick personal quarrels with the two most famous heroes of the war against the Peeps. But that only required them to be more inventive and delegate attacks to suitably distanced henchmen. Nor did it do a thing to restrain the Government-sponsored "commentators" and 'faxes or the idiots who actually believed them, and Lady Harrington's cumulative exhaustion was beginning to show.
Of course, it wasn't as if she hadn't had more than her fair share of experience with partisan press coverage, both in the Star Kingdom and on Grayson, and she handled it with a degree of outward calm Maxwell was privately certain was mostly mask. He'd come to know her well enough over the past few T-years to recognize that for all her ability to project serenity and calm, her temper was probably at least as dangerous as that of the Queen herself. It seemed to be more difficult to make her lose it, but he would have been very hesitant to suggest that anything at all was beyond her once she did . . . as the ghosts of Pavel Young and Denver Summervale could have attested.
In a way, it was even worse for her than for either of the Alexander brothers, Maxwell reflected. At least High Ridge and his cronies regarded them as representing only a single dangerous opponent, whereas it was no secret at all that Lady Harrington's contributions to debates in the Lords represented the views of Protector Benjamin, as well as those of Elizabeth III.
Neither of whom gave a thimble of spit in a blast furnace for Baron High Ridge and his ministerial colleagues.
The attorney started to say something, then changed his mind. He could hardly tell her anything she didn't already know. And even if he could have, it really wasn't his place to offer her unsolicited political advice or confidences, whatever rumors he might have been picking up.
Besides, he reflected, there's a better way to do it . . . assuming I decide I have any business sticking my oar into her private life, that is. I won't have to tell her a thing; I'll just have to have a word with Miranda or Mac. Let them figure out how to bring it up with her.
"Lord Alexander and Earl White Haven have arrived, Your Grace."
"Thank you, Mac. Ask them to come straight in, would you please?"
"Of course, Your Grace."
Honor put her reader on hold, freezing it on the third page of Midshipwoman Zilwicki's analysis of the Battle of Cape St. Vincent, and looked up with a smile. James MacGuiness, the only steward in the entire Royal Manticoran Navy who wasn't actually in the Navy, smiled back at her, and then bent his head in an almost-bow before he withdrew from her study. She watched him go fondly, fully aware of how critical to the smooth functioning of her life he'd become over the past twenty T-years.
She glanced across at Nimitz, draped in splendid isolation across the double perch he normally shared with his mate. It was Thursday, and Samantha was absent, accompanying Miranda and Farragut to the Andreas Venizelos Academy, the orphanage and private school Honor had endowed for the children of war dead, Manticoran and Grayson alike. AVA had campuses in both the Star Kingdom and Yeltsin, and Miranda, as Honor's chief of staff, deputized for her regularly, since the press of other duties consumed more and more of her own time. The kids idolized Nimitz, Samantha, Farragut, and treecats in general, and all 'cats loved to spend time with children, whether they had four limbs or six. It was a treat all of the 'cats looked forward to, and Nimitz often went with the others even when Honor couldn't. But not when something like today's meeting was on his person's schedule.
She looked past the 'cat and caught a glimpse of LaFollet, outside the study door standing his post even here, before it closed behind MacGuiness. Then she pushed herself up out of her chair and crossed to stand in the enlarged bay window that overhung her mansion's landscaped grounds like a sort of hanging turret. The window's outer, floor-to-ceiling crystoplast wall looked out over the bright blue beauty of Jason Bay, and she allowed herself a moment to enjoy the view afresh, then turned back to face the door once more and twitched her Grayson-style gown and vest straight.
Over the years, she'd become completely accustomed to the traditional Grayson garments. She still considered them thoroughly useless for anything except looking ornamental, but she'd been forced to admit that looking ornamental wasn't necessarily a bad thing. And there was another reason to wear them almost constantly here in the Star Kingdom, when she wasn't in uniform, at least. They helped remind everyone, including herself, of who else she was . . . and of how much the Star Kingdom and the entire Manticoran Alliance owed the people of her adoptive planet.
Yet another point that ass High Ridge seems able to effortlessly ignore . . . or worse, she thought bitterly, then brushed the familiar surge of anger aside. This wasn't the time for her to be storing up still more mental reasons to go for the Prime Minister's throat.
MacGuiness returned a very few moments later with Hamish and William Alexander.
"Earl White Haven and Lord Alexander, Your Grace," Honor's steward and majordomo murmured, and withdrew, closing the polished wooden doors quietly behind him.
"Hamish. Willie."
Honor crossed the room to them, holding out her hand in welcome, and it no longer seemed odd to her to greet them so informally. Every once in a while she experienced a sudden sense of unreality when she heard herself addressing her Queen or Benjamin Mayhew by their given names, but even those moments were becoming fewer and further between. In an odd sort of way, she remained fully aware of who she was and where she'd come from even as she found herself moving more and more naturally at the very pinnacle of political power in two separate star nations. She seldom thought consciously about it, but when the realization crossed her awareness, she recognized the way in which her belated admission to the innermost councils of her two nations shaped her perspective.
She was an outsider who'd been elevated to the status of one of the most powerful of all insiders. Because of that, she saw things through different eyes, from what she knew her allies sometimes regarded as an almost ingenuous viewpoint. The degree of sophisticated, vicious, endlessly polite (outwardly, at least) political infighting they took so much for granted, even when they deplored it, was alien to her both by nature and by experience. In some ways, her Grayson and Manticoran friends understood one another far better than she understood either of them, yet she'd come to realize that her very sense of detachment from the partisan bloodletting about her was a sort of armor. Her adversaries and allies alike regarded her as deplorably unsophisticated and direct, unwilling—or unable—to "play the game" by the rules they all understood so well. And that made her an unknown, unpredictable quantity, especially for her opponents. They knew all about the subtle shadings of position, of advantage and opportunity, which guided their own decisions and tactical maneuvers, but they found the simplicity and directness of her positions curiously baffling. It was as if they couldn't quite believe she was exactly who she said she was, that she truly believed exactly the things she said she did, because they were so unlike that themselves. So they persisted in regarding her with nervous wariness, perpetually waiting for the instant in which she finally revealed her "true" nature.
That could be a useful thing where enemies were concerned, but it had its downside, as well. Even her closest allies—particularly the aristocratic ones, she reflected, tasting the emotions of her guests—sometimes failed to realize there was nothing to reveal. They might have come to recognize that intellectually, but the Star Kingdom's peers were too much a part of the world to which they'd been born to be able to truly divorce themselves from it, even if they'd wanted to. They didn't, of course, and why should they? It was their world, and Honor was honest enough to admit that it had at least as many positive aspects as negative ones. But even the best of them—even a man like Hamish Alexander, who'd spent seven or eight decades as a Queen's officer—could never quite free themselves from the dance whose measures they'd trod since childhood.
She brushed the thought aside as she shook hands with each of the Alexanders in turn, and then waved them towards their customary chairs with a smile. It was a warm, welcoming smile, and she was no longer aware of how much warmer it became when her eyes met White Haven's.
William Alexander, on the other hand, certainly was aware of it. He'd been aware of the habitual warmth with which she greeted his brother for quite some time, actually, although he hadn't realized he was. Just as he hadn't noticed all the private, intimate little conversations, or the way Hamish inevitably seemed to find some reason to remain behind for some last-minute private discussion of the details with her after one of their three-cornered strategy sessions. Now he uneasily watched her smile, and his uneasiness grew as Hamish returned it.
"Thank you for inviting us over, Honor," White Haven said, holding onto her hand for perhaps a heartbeat longer than simple courtesy required.
"As if I haven't been inviting both of you over before each of High Ridge's little soirees for years now," Honor replied with a snort.
"Yes, you have," White Haven agreed. "But I wouldn't want you to think we were starting to take you for granted, Your Grace," he added with a lurking smile.
"Hardly," Honor said dryly. "The three of us have made ourselves sufficiently unpopular with the Government for me to doubt that any of us is likely to take either of the other two 'for granted.' "
"Not unless we want to prove the validity of that fellow from Old Earth," William put in. "You know, what's his name. Hancock? Arnold?" He shook his head. "One of those ancient American guys." He looked at his brother. "You're the historian of the family, Hamish. Who am I thinking of?"
"Unless I'm very much mistaken," White Haven replied, "the man whose name you're fumbling so ineptly for was Benjamin Franklin. He was the one who advised his fellow rebels that they must all hang together unless they wanted to be hanged separately, although it astonishes me that a historical illiterate like yourself could even dredge up the reference."
"Given the number of years that have flowed under the bridge since your precious Franklin, I think anyone who doesn't have more than a trace of anal retentiveness in his nature is doing remarkably well to remember him at all," William told him. "Of course, I was quite confident that you'd be able to give me chapter and verse on him."
"Before you pursue that thought any further, Willie," Honor warned him, "I should probably mention that I'm fairly familiar with Franklin and his period myself."
"Oh. Well, in that case, of course, my exquisite natural courtesy precludes any further consideration of—Well, you know."
"I do, indeed," Honor told him ominously, and they both chuckled.
A soft knock sounded from the direction of the study door, and then it opened once again to readmit MacGuiness. He wheeled in a cart of refreshments prepared by Mistress Thorne, Honor's Grayson cook, and parked it at the end of her desk. It was no longer necessary for him to ask her guests what they preferred, and he poured a stein of Old Tillman for White Haven before he drew the cork from a bottle of Sphinx burgundy and offered it for Lord Alexander's inspection. Honor and Hamish grinned at one another as William carefully examined the cork and sniffed delicately before nodding his gracious approval of the offering. Then MacGuiness poured a second Old Tillman for Honor. She took it and smiled at him as he withdrew, and then she and Hamish raised their foamy, condensation-dewed steins to one another in a beer-drinkers' salute, pointedly excluding the hopelessly effete wine-snob in their midst.
"I must say, Honor," Hamish said with a sigh of pleasure as he lowered his stein once more, "that I'm much more partial to your taste in refreshments than I ever was to the sorts of things you encounter at most of Willie's political get-togethers."
"That's because you're attending the wrong sorts of get-togethers," Honor suggested with a twinkle. "Far be it from me to suggest that blue-blooded, natural born aristocrats like your honorable brother are a bit isolated from the simpler pleasures of life, but one thing I was always delighted about on Grayson is that even the snobbiest of steadholders isn't ashamed to admit he likes an occasional beer."
"The supposed virtues of a taste for beer are grossly exaggerated by those unfortunate souls blind to the superior virtues of a decent vintage," William informed them both. "I don't mind an occasional beer, myself. It certainly beats water. But why settle for second-best when a superior alternative is available?"
"We didn't," his brother replied. "We were wondering why you did."
"Behave yourselves, children," Honor scolded, feeling briefly more like their nanny than their political colleague, despite the fact that even the younger Alexander was well over twenty T-years older than she. "We have other things to discuss before we settle down to letting you two insult one another properly."
"Aye, aye, Ma'am," White Haven said with a broad grin, and she shook her head fondly at him.
"Actually," William said, his tone suddenly much more serious, "you're quite right, Honor. We do have several things to discuss, including one concern I really wish didn't have to be brought up."
Honor sat back in her chair, eyes narrowing as she tasted his emotions. Despite the customary banter between the brothers, both of them radiated an underlying sense of tension frosted with anger. That much she was accustomed to; it was an inevitable consequence of the political situation they'd come to discuss. But she'd never before sensed anything quite like the level of . . . anxiety she was picking up from William at the moment. There was something new and especially pointed about his emotions, a sense of focused urgency. More than that, he seemed to be trying to suppress whatever it was—or at least to feel a hesitance about admitting its source which surprised her after all of the crises they'd weathered together by now.
"And what would that be?" she asked cautiously.
"Well . . ." William looked at her for a moment, then glanced at his brother and visibly drew a steadying breath.
"According to my sources," he said in the voice of a man determined to get through difficult ground and setting up the groundwork for the journey, "we're about to be hit with fresh naval reductions in the new budget. The new estimates are in, and it's pretty clear that the termination of the Emergency Income Tax Act is about to start cutting into their slush funds and pork barrel pretty badly. They don't like that one bit, but they're not stupid enough to try to renew it. Not when they know we'll kill it in the Commons and use the opportunity to both advertise their real spending priorities and simultaneously deprive them of the ability to go on blaming us for all of the Kingdom's fiscal woes. So instead, Janacek is going to recommend cutting our active duty ships of the wall by about twenty percent to free up funds from the other 'wartime taxes.' He's also planning to suspend construction on virtually all the incomplete SD(P)s for the same reason, and High Ridge thinks he's found a way to neutralize you and Hamish when the new cuts are debated in the Lords."
"Fresh reductions?!" Hamish repeated, then muttered something vicious under his breath which Honor was just as happy not to have heard clearly.
"How can they possibly justify cutting the Fleet even further?" she asked William, and she was more than a little surprised that she sounded so calm herself. "We're already down to a lower number of hulls than we had before the war started," she pointed out. "And as they're fond of reminding people, the war still isn't over."
"Not officially, anyway," Hamish growled.
"They plan to justify it exactly the way they've justified all the other reductions," William replied to Honor's question. "By pointing to how much of the naval budget they can save through the increased effectiveness and combat power of the new types. They don't need all those 'obsolescent' older ships getting in the way of the new, lean, efficient Navy Janacek has single-handedly created."
Despite her own total agreement with William's opinion of High Ridge and Sir Edward Janacek, Honor winced at the ferocious sarcasm in his bitter voice. His brother, on the other hand, was too furious to pay it much attention.
"That's the biggest load of bullshit I've heard in months," Hamish grated. "Even for them, it sets some new record!"
"It's a logical progression from everything else they've done, Hamish," Honor observed. Her voice was by far the most serene one in the room, but there was nothing particularly serene about her agate-hard eyes. "Still, I'm a bit surprised at the size of this reduction. They've already cut away every bit of fat and muscle; now they're working on the bones."
"That's a depressingly accurate analysis," William agreed. "And you're right, this is a direct, straight-line extension of the same justification they've used every step of the way. The new ship types are more powerful, more survivable, and less manpower intensive, and with the demise of the income tax, their budget is suddenly so tight something has to give."
" 'Give,' is it?" Hamish repeated savagely. "I'll give that lying, conniving, pigheaded idiot Janacek something! In fact, I'll—"
"Calm down, Hamish," Honor said, never looking away from William . . . and not even thinking about how casually she'd addressed White Haven. "We already knew they regard the Navy budget as some kind of piggy bank they can keep raiding forever for their precious 'peace dividend.' Losing our tempers and frothing at the mouth while we chew pieces off of them in debate the way they deserve is only going to make us look like we're overreacting. Which will only make them look more reasonable. However stupid their policy may be, we have to stick together and sound calm and rational when we oppose it. That's especially true for the two of us, and you know it."
"You're right," he said, after another brief, fulminating pause. Then he drew a deep breath. "So they're going to reduce our combat power even further, are they?" he said. His brother nodded, and Hamish snorted. "And I suppose Jurgensen and his pet analysts at ONI are going to back Janacek up?"
"Of course they are," William replied, and it was Honor's turn to snort bitterly.
It hadn't surprised anyone when Janacek began his second tenure as First Lord of Admiralty by placing Hamish Alexander on inactive, half-pay status. The Earl of White Haven's war record had been brilliant, but the combined reincarnation of Horatio Nelson, Togo Heimachoro, Raymond Spruance, Gustav Anderman, and Edward Saganami couldn't have been brilliant enough to outweigh the bitter, personal animosity between himself and Sir Edward Janacek.
That much, at least, had been expected, however petty and vindictive it might have been. But Honor suspected that the rest of the Navy had been as surprised and dismayed as she had when Janacek decided Sir Thomas Caparelli and Patricia Givens also "deserved a rest."
Actually, she reflected, Caparelli might truly have needed the break, after the massive strain of acting as the Star Kingdom's senior uniformed commander for over a decade. Unfortunately, that hadn't been the real reason for his relief. She'd come to know the former First Space Lord fairly well following her return from Cerberus, and one thing Thomas Caparelli would never be was any political appointee's yes-man. His integrity would never have permitted him to assist in Janacek's downsizing of the Navy when the Government had simultaneously declined to bring the war against the Peeps to a true conclusion. And so, like White Haven, although for different reasons, he'd had to go.
Admiral Givens had gone for largely the same reasons as Caparelli, despite her phenomenally successful record as Director of the Office of Naval Intelligence. Her loyalty to and close working relationship with Caparelli would probably have required her dismissal in Janacek's eyes as part of his "clean broom" theory of personnel management under any circumstances. There were also rumors about fundamental disagreements between her and Janacek over his plans to restructure the Navy's intelligence priorities, but her greatest sin had been her refusal to slant her analyses at ONI to say what her civilian superiors wanted them to say. So, she too, had found herself on half-pay as her reward for helping to preserve the Star Kingdom.
One thing of which no one would ever be able to accuse her replacement was excessive independence. Admiral Francis Jurgensen had become something of an anachronism in the war-fighting Royal Navy: a flag officer who owed his exalted rank far more to political patronage than to any personal ability. Such officers had been depressingly common before the war, although they'd been weeded out ruthlessly since, usually by Caparelli, but far too often (and painfully) by enemy action. Unfortunately, they were making a comeback under the Admiralty's new management. However disgusting she might find that, Honor supposed it was inevitable. After all, Sir Edward Janacek had been exactly that sort of officer throughout his own career.
What mattered in Jurgensen's case, however, was that he understood precisely what Janacek and his political superiors wanted to hear. Honor wasn't prepared to accuse him of actually falsifying evidence, although she was far from certain he would refuse to do so. But it was widely known within the Service, and especially within the Intelligence community, that Jurgensen had a long history of interpreting evidence to suit his superiors' requirements.
"Well, I suppose it was inevitable," White Haven said, frowning at his brother. "They have to free up the cash to pay for their vote-buying schemes somehow."
"No," William agreed, "something like it probably was inevitable, and to be candid, it doesn't really surprise me. In fact, to be completely honest, what did surprise—and dismay me—was the other thing my sources have reported to me."
"Other thing?" Honor looked at him sharply, puzzled once again by the curious spikes of uncertainty and unhappiness radiating from him. One of the frustrating things about her ability to sense emotions was her inability to sense the thoughts behind them. As in this case. She was reasonably certain that the unmistakable anger threaded through William's emotions wasn't directed specifically at her, yet she was obviously a factor in his distress, and whatever had angered him was tied directly up with her somehow.
"Yes." William looked away for a moment, gazing at the life-sized portrait of Paul Tankersley Michelle Henke had commissioned for Honor's last birthday. It hung facing Honor's desk and work station, and he let his eyes rest on that smiling face for just a second. Then he drew a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and turned to look at both Honor and White Haven simultaneously.
"According to my sources, High Ridge and his allies feel confident that they've found a way to severely damage your and Hamish's credibility, Honor. It's as obvious to them as it is to us that you two would be our most effective spokesmen against this insanity, but they believe they've come up with a way to largely neutralize you by . . . diverting you from the topic."
"It'll be a cold day in Hell first!" White Haven snarled, but Honor felt her belly tighten as the emotions behind William's blue eyes washed through her.
"Drop the shoe, Willie," she told him quietly, and he sighed.
"Tomorrow morning," he told her in a flattened voice, "Solomon Hayes' column will carry a report that you and Hamish are lovers."
Honor felt the blood drain from her face, but even her own shock paled beside the sudden, white-hot spike of fury she tasted from White Haven. William lacked her own empathic sense, but he didn't need it, and his face was a mask and his voice flatter than ever as he continued.
"You both know how Hayes works. He won't come right out and say so unequivocally or name names to support his allegations, but the message will be completely clear. He's going to suggest that you've been lovers for over two T-years now . . . and High Ridge's pet columnists are already drafting op-ed pieces designed to fan the flames. That's apparently the real reason High Ridge rescheduled the opening debate in the Lords—to give the lynch mob time to get a good start. They'll be careful to project an image of fair-mindedness and insist your personal lives should have absolutely no bearing on matters of public policy, but they know exactly how crippling such charges will be to both of you. And the public's admiration for you both, as individuals as well as naval heroes, will make the backlash even worse, especially since there won't be any way to disprove Hayes' story."
He barked a laugh which contained no humor at all.
"At best," he went on harshly, "it will be your word against his . . . and a carefully orchestrated background chorus designed to drown out anything you say. And to be honest, the two of you have spent so much time together, both publicly and in private, and worked so closely with one another that it's going to be impossible to refute the inevitable allegations that you obviously had ample opportunity for it!"
"Refute?" White Haven sounded strangled, but Honor could only sit in paralyzed shock. Behind her, she heard the soft thud as Nimitz leapt from his perch to her desk. She felt the 'cat reaching out to her, felt him trying to insert himself between her and her pain as he'd done so often before, even before he vaulted over her shoulder and landed in her lap. She scooped him into her arms without even turning her chair and held him tightly, pressing her face into his silky fur while he crooned to her, but this time no one could protect her from the pain. Not even Nimitz.
For the most part, Manticoran social mores were far more relaxed than those of Grayson. Indeed, those of the capital planet itself were more liberal than those of Honor's native Sphinx. Normally, the idea that an affair between two consenting adults was the business of anyone besides the two adults concerned would have been laughable. Normally.
But not in this case. Not for Steadholder Harrington, who also had to concern herself with the sensibilities of her Grayson subjects and how Grayson public opinion would rebound against her. And through her, against Protector Benjamin and his beleaguered efforts to maintain Grayson's military preparedness in the face of the Star Kingdom's effective abandonment of the Manticoran Alliance. Her earlier relationship with Paul had been hard enough for Grayson to swallow, but at least if they'd never married, neither of them had been married to someone else, either.
White Haven was, and that was the second prong of the threat, for Lady Emily Alexander, Countess White Haven, was one of the most beloved public figures in the entire Star Kingdom.
Once one of Manticore's most beautiful and talented HD actresses, she'd been confined to a life support chair following an air car accident since before Honor's third standard birthday, yet Emily Alexander had refused to let her life end. The accident had crippled her physically, but the damage hadn't affected the brilliance of mind and strength of will which had propelled her to the very top of her vocation. The surgeons had managed to salvage enough of her motor control centers to give her almost full use of one hand and arm and almost normal speech, although the regulation of her involuntary muscles depended entirely upon her life support chair. It wasn't much. Indeed, it was pathetically little, but small as it was, she had made it enough.
Unable to take the stage again, she'd become a producer and writer, a poet who was also a brilliant historian and the semi-official biographer of the House of Winton. And along with her stature as the great tragic heroine of Manticore, the beloved example who challenged and inspired an entire kingdom with the proof of how much could be overcome by sheer, dauntless courage, had come the great romantic story of her marriage to Hamish Alexander. Of the devotion and love which had survived almost six T-decades of confinement to her chair. Many men would have sought the dissolution of their marriages, however gently and on however generous terms, so that they could remarry, but Hamish had rejected any suggestion that he might have done so.
There'd been whispers of occasional discreet liaisons between him and registered courtesans, over the years, but such relationships were fully accepted—even regarded as therapeutic—on Manticore. Gryphon and Sphinx were less convinced of that, each for its own reasons, but the capital planet was far more . . . sophisticated in that regard.
Yet there was a universe of difference between occasionally patronizing a registered professional courtesan, particularly when one's spouse was a complete invalid, and entering upon an affair with a nonprofessional. And that was especially true for Hamish and Emily Alexander, who were Second Reformation Roman Catholics and who'd married monogamously, for better or for worse, until death parted them. Both of them took their marriage vows seriously, and even if they hadn't, the depth of Hamish Alexander's love for his wife was something not even his most bitter personal or political enemy would have dared to doubt.
Until now. Until Honor.
She raised her face from Nimitz's fur and stared at William, unable even to look at Hamish, and her pain only grew as she realized at last what William had been thinking. He'd been wondering if the story Hayes was about to publish might be true, and she knew why.
Because it should have been. Because if she'd had the courage to tell Hamish what she felt, they would have become lovers. Whether that would have constituted a betrayal in Lady Emily's eyes or not, Honor didn't know . . . and it wouldn't have mattered. And that, she realized, was the true reason she'd politely declined every invitation to visit the Alexander family seat at White Haven, despite the closeness of their working political relationship. Because that was Emily's place, the home she never left. The place where she belonged with Hamish, and which Honor's very presence would somehow have violated. And because as long as she'd never herself met Emily, Honor could pretend she had never transgressed against her, even in her heart of hearts.
And that was the most bitter irony of all. She had no idea if the people who'd fed Hayes the story for his savage gossip column in the Landing Tattler believed their allegations. But while there'd been no physical violation of Hamish's marriage to Emily, she knew both of them had wanted there to be one. Neither would ever have admitted it to the other, but now they would stand accused of the very thing both had been determined would never happen, and any effort to refute the allegations would only make it worse.
It was absurd, a tiny corner of her brain told her. Every right of privacy should have protected her and Hamish, even if they had been lovers. And it didn't matter. Even here in the Star Kingdom, no more damaging scandal could have been devised, not given the iconic stature of Lady Emily and her husband, because William was right. The very people most likely to share Honor's personal values and support her political views would be the ones most revolted by her "betrayal" of such a beloved public figure, and what made it damaging in Manticore would make it devastating on Grayson.
The fact that their personal lives had nothing to do with their accomplishments or judgement as naval officers would mean nothing. The idea that their feelings for one another did somehow prejudice their thinking would be suggested, however indirectly, by someone. She knew it would. And ridiculous as the charge would be, it would stick. But that wasn't the real purpose of the attack. The real purpose was to divert the debate from a discussion of the dangers of Janacek's proposals to the personal character of the man and woman who had become his most effective naval critics. The Government wouldn't have to refute their arguments this time. Not if it could force them to expend all of their energy and moral capital defending themselves against such sensational charges.
And if High Ridge and his cronies could discredit them on this issue, they could be discredited on any issue. . . .
"Who passed the rumors to Hayes?" she asked, and the levelness of her voice astonished her.
"Does it matter?" William replied.
"Yes," she said, and her voice was no longer merely level and the soft, sibilant snarl of Nimitz's fury sounded behind it. "It does."
William looked at her in alarm, and what he saw in her chocolate-dark eyes turned alarm to fear.
"I don't know for certain," he told her after a moment. "And if I did, I don't think I'd tell you."
"I can find out for myself." Her tone was a soprano dagger, and she felt an icy purpose sweep through her. "I found out who bought Paul Tankersley's murder," she told the brother of the man she loved. "And I can find the scum responsible for this."
"No, you can't," William said urgently, then shook his head sharply. "I mean, of course you can, but what good would it do?" He stared at her in raw appeal. "Your duel with Young almost destroyed you, Honor! If you found out who was behind this, and you challenged him, it would be ten times worse—far more destructive than the rumors themselves! You'd be finished as a political figure here in the Star Kingdom, whatever happened. And that doesn't even consider the question of how many people would believe the stories had to be true for you to take such action."
"He's right." Hamish Alexander's voice was grating iron, and she turned to look at him at last. He made himself meet her eyes levelly, and she realized that for the first time he knew. He knew what a part of him must have suspected with growing strength for years now—that she'd always known what he felt for her, and that she'd felt the same thing.
"He's right," White Haven repeated. "Neither one of us can afford to give the story that much credibility. Especially," he turned to glare at his brother, "when there isn't a shred of truth in it."
William returned his ferocious glare levelly, as aware as Honor that most of that fury was directed somewhere else.
"I believe you," he said with quiet sincerity. "But the problem is proving it."
"Proving it!" White Haven snarled.
"I know. I know!" William shook his head again, his expression almost as angry as his brother's. "You shouldn't have to prove a damned thing, either of you! But you know as well as I do that that isn't how it works against character assassination like this, and there isn't any way to prove a negative. Particularly not when the two of you have worked so closely together. We—all of us—have overspent the political capital your accomplishments have generated. We've deliberately thrown you together, focused the public's perception on the two of you as a team. That's the way the voters think of you now, and that's actually going to make it easier for them to believe this crap. Especially when someone starts talking about how much time you've spent alone with each other."
"Alone?" Both Alexanders turned back to Honor at her one-word question. "I'm a steadholder, Willie. I never go anywhere without my armsmen—I can't, under Grayson law! When have the two of us ever really had a chance to be 'alone' together?"
"You know better than that, Honor," William said almost compassionately. "First, no one would believe you couldn't have slipped away, even from Andrew, if you truly wanted to. And they wouldn't believe it because you know as well as I do that they'd be right; you could have. And second, even if that weren't true, do you think anyone would doubt for a moment that every one of your armsmen would lie the Devil out of Hell if you asked him to?"
It was her turn to glare back at him, but then she felt her shoulders sag, because he was right. Of course he was, and she'd known it before she even opened her mouth. It was only a drowning woman searching frantically for any straw to grasp.
"So what do we do now?" she asked bitterly. "Can they really get away with reducing the fight for political control of the entire Star Kingdom to something as petty and poisonous as an invented rumor of infidelity?"
"No," William replied. "They can't reduce the entire fight to something like that, Honor. But that isn't really what you were asking, and the truth is that you and Hamish have been two of our most potent weapons . . . and they can destroy our ability to use either of you against them effectively. It's stupid and vicious and small minded, but that doesn't mean it won't work. At the very least, it's almost certain to cripple you two while they drive through the naval cuts and the budget, but I'm sure they're hoping for a much longer-term effect, as well. And the beauty of it, from their perspective, is that the more vehemently you or any of your friends and allies deny it, the more surely a certain percentage of the electorate will believe it must be true."
Honor stared at him, then looked back at Hamish and saw the matching anguish in his eyes. His emotions were too painful for her to endure, and so she closed her empathic sense down until she felt only Nimitz, only his love and concern . . . and his helpless inability to fight this foe for her. She pulled her eyes away from Hamish, returning them to William, and fought to keep her shoulders from sagging still further.
"So what do we do?" she asked him softly.
"I don't know, Honor," he told her. "I just don't know."