War Of Honor

"Especially now," Honor said implacably, "it's particularly important that there not be any incidents. Or any indication that I distrust Herzog von Rabenstrange in any way. This subject is no longer open to debate, Andrew."

LaFollet had opened his mouth. Now, he shut it. His expression hovered somewhere between mulish and profoundly disapproving, but he recognized the end of the discussion. He and Spencer Hawke exchanged glances, and then he turned back to Honor.

"All right, My Lady," he half-sighed. "We'll do it your way."

"I know we will," she replied serenely.

The fregatten kapitan escorting Honor from the superdreadnought Campenhausen's boat bay was perfectly courteous, but he clearly had his reservations about this entire business. The fact that the holsters of her three accompanying armsmen were conspicuously empty had apparently reconciled him somewhat, but from the look he'd given Nimitz, the 'cat's reputation had preceded him. Apparently the fregatten kapitan wasn't any too certain that he shouldn't have been considered as much a weapon as the armsmen's pulsers. On the other hand, he obviously wasn't prepared to argue the point on his own authority.

The lift car delivered Honor's small party to the passage just outside Campenhausen's main flag briefing room. Two Andermani Marines stood guard at the hatch, accompanied by a full kapitan der sternen with the shoulder aiguillette of a staff officer.

"Duchess Harrington," the staffer said in precise, accented Standard English, with a small, formal bow.

"Yes," Honor acknowledged, and cocked an eyebrow. "And you are?"

"Kapitan der Sternen Zhenting Isenhoffer, Herzog Rabenstrange's chief of staff," the captain replied. "I am honored to meet you, My Lady."

"And I you," Honor said.

Isenhoffer glanced past her at her armsmen, and something suspiciously like a twinkle glimmered in his eye as he took in their expressions.

"Your Grace," he said, returning his attention fully to Honor, "I apologize for any unintended insult in our insistence that no weapons be brought into the Herzog's presence. The stipulation was not his to make. The Emperor has made himself most specific on this particular issue in the wake of the Hofschulte Incident. I am afraid that his instructions are nondiscretionary."

"I see." Honor considered him thoughtfully. Gustav Anderman had never been noted for his warm and trusting nature, but it was difficult to blame him for being even less so in this instance. Gregor Hofschulte had risen to the rank of lieutenant colonel in the Andermani Marines. A man of impeccable loyalty, who had served his Emperor well for almost thirty T-years. And a man who had, with absolutely no warning, drawn his sidearm and opened fire on Prince Huang, the Emperor's younger brother, and his family. The Prince and his wife had survived; one of their children had not.

Precisely why and how Hofschulte had done such a thing remained unknown, because the lieutenant colonel hadn't survived the attack. Prince Huang's bodyguards had reacted almost instantly, and Hofschulte's body had been very badly mangled by the fire that killed him. According to ONI, at least some members of the Andermani security services believed Hofschulte had been "adjusted" to carry out the attack. Which, in a way, worried them much more than the possibility that a man who had been considered completely loyal might have snapped "naturally" and gone berserk with no warning at all. The Andermani military, like the Manticoran military, was supposed to be protected against things like adjustment. If someone had managed to crack those safeguards once, there was no guarantee they couldn't do it twice. Which, in turn, undoubtedly explained Gustav's draconian, across-the-board prohibition on arms in the presence of any member of the Imperial Family.

"I assure you, Kapitan Isenhoffer, that I don't feel insulted in the least," she reassured the Andermani officer. "However, there is one small additional item I should deal with before meeting with the Herzog. Excuse me a moment."

Isenhoffer looked puzzled, but the confusion in his expression was nothing compared to LaFollet's expression as she urged Nimitz down from her shoulder and passed him to Simon Mattingly. Then she unsealed her uniform tunic and handed it to LaFollet. Her personal armsman gave her a very old-fashioned look, indeed, as he took the garment from her, and his look became even more old-fashioned as she rolled up the left cuff of her uniform blouse. The smile she gave him mingled impishness with just a hint of apology, and then she told her prosthetic hand to flex in a movement which should have brought the tip of her index finger into contact with the tip of her little finger. But the neural impulses which would have moved the fingers of her original hand in that pattern did something completely different now, and a rectangular patch of skin on the inside of her forearm, perhaps two centimeters long and one and a half across, suddenly folded back. A small compartment in the artificial limb opened, and as she closed her fist, a thirty-round pulser magazine ejected itself.

She caught it in midair with her right hand while LaFollet stared at her in disbelief, then smiled at Isenhoffer—who, if possible, looked even more astonished than her armsman.

"Forgive me, Kapitan," she said. "As you may know, I've experienced more than one assassination attempt of my own. When my father helped me design my prosthesis, he suggested a few small . . . improvements. This," she handed Isenhoffer the magazine, "was one of them."

She raised her hand between them and sent its artificial muscles another command. In response, her left index finger snapped abruptly and rigidly straight, and the hand's other fingers folded under, almost as if they were gripping the butt of a nonexistent pulser.

"I'm afraid I'd have to have the tip of the finger rebuilt if I ever used it," she told him with a whimsical smile. "But Daddy insisted that it would be worthwhile."

"I see," Isenhoffer said a bit blankly. Then he gave himself a shake. "I see," he repeated in more normal tones. "Your father would appear to be a man of rare foresight, Your Grace."

"I've always thought so," Honor replied, studiously ignoring the fulminating look Andrew LaFollet was busy sending in her direction.

"Yes. Well, if you're ready," the Andermani officer continued, sliding the pulser magazine into a pocket as Honor reclaimed her tunic and slipped back into it, "the Herzog is waiting."

"Of course," Honor murmured, and held out her arms to Nimitz. The treecat leapt lightly into them, and she followed Isenhoffer through the hatch into the briefing room. She had no doubt that surveillance systems had been watching her in the passage, and she hoped they would draw the proper conclusion from her surrender of the pulser magazine. She doubted very much that even Imperial Andermani security agents would have been able to spot the weapon built into her arm. She'd certainly paid enough to be certain no one could, at any rate! And she'd had Palace Security test it for her back on Manticore. So she'd just demonstrated that she could have brought a weapon into Rabenstrange's presence if she'd really wanted to . . . and that she took her solemn promise not to do any such thing seriously. And that she wanted Rabenstrange to know she'd done both of those things.

It was a small thing, perhaps. But small things were what trust and confidence were built upon, and she badly needed Chien-lu von Rabenstrange to trust her this afternoon as he never had before.

Her armsmen came with her, and she watched the eyes of the two bodyguards standing behind Rabenstrange. The woman she suspected was the senior of the two gave her a very sharp look, and Honor smiled mentally at the proof that she had indeed been under surveillance in the passage. But the woman only looked at her for a moment before her eyes joined her companion's in carefully examining LaFollet, Hawk, and Mattingly. The three Graysons returned the examination with equal professionalism, and Honor hid a bigger smile as she tasted the wary emotions on either side. But the stillborn smile was fleeting, and she turned her attention to the small man seated at the head of the briefing room table.