War Of Honor

"Not to Austin City?" Honor asked in some surprise.

"No, Your Grace. High Admiral Matthews was called away to Blackbird this afternoon, and he won't be able to return until sometime late tomorrow morning. He and the Protector decided that it would make more sense for you to get yourself settled at home before any formal meetings. Your parents and the kids are waiting to have supper with you there, and I understand Lord Clinkscales and his wives will be joining you. Your mother said she ... ah, had a few things to discuss with you."

Honor's lips twitched in a mixture of humor and affectionate dread. It had gotten progressively more difficult to keep her mother here on Grayson and out of the fray on Manticore, yet the effort had become even more urgent once Lady Emily had knocked the scandal on its head. Allison Harrington was not noted for moderation where her family was concerned, and Honor could just imagine the smiling, merciless "I told you so" daggers she would have planted—as publicly as possible—in at least a dozen prominent Manticoran political figures.

"I think the Regent also has a little Steading business he needs to discuss with you while he has the opportunity," Brigham continued. And he probably wants to rip a few strips off various Manticoran politicos, too ... at least vicariously, since he can't get at them physically, Honor thought resignedly. "That's more than enough to keep you busy for your first evening on-planet, and you're scheduled for an informal private audience over lunch with the Protector tomorrow afternoon at the Palace. If it's convenient, we'll meet with the High Admiral afterwards."

"Of course it will be," Honor agreed, and glanced at LaFollet.

"I'm sure you want to check the car for possible assassins, Andrew," she told him with one of her slightly lopsided smiles.

"If Commodore Brigham is prepared to testify under oath that the car has never been out of her sight, then I'm prepared to forego my normal thoroughness, My Lady," LaFollet assured her with only the smallest gleam of humor, and she chuckled.

"In that case, we'd better go quickly, Mercedes—before he changes his mind!" she said, and Brigham laughed and fell into place a respectful half-step behind Honor as the armsmen spread out in their customary triangular formation about their lady and headed for the vehicle.

Honor climbed into the back seat of the luxurious, armored air limo and settled Nimitz in her lap, and Brigham followed her. LaFollet parked himself in the facing jump seat while Mattingly politely but firmly displaced the original driver and Hawke took the front passenger/EW operator's seat. Mattingly spent a moment or two familiarizing himself with the pre-filed flight plan, then lifted the vehicle smoothly into the air and headed for Harrington City. The inevitable stingships settled into their escort positions, even for this relatively short flight, and Honor turned toward Brigham.

"I almost didn't ask the High Admiral for your services, you know," she said. "Both because I know how much Alfredo depends on you in the Protector's Own, and because I hesitated to ask you to step down a grade, even temporarily."

"Much as I hate to say anything which might undermine your perception of my indispensability, Your Grace, the Admiral can get along without me if he really needs to," Brigham replied. "And given the fact that I never really expected to advance beyond lieutenant back when we first went out to Basilisk, commodore isn't too shabby. Besides, I seem to recall a few times you've stepped back and forth between navies yourself."

"I suppose you do," Honor acknowledged. "But I really do want you to know how much I appreciate your willingness to do it this time."

"Your Grace," and Brigham said frankly, "I was honored you chose to ask for me again. And it's not as if I'm the only person who's going to be looking at a drop in grade," she added in a darker tone.

"I know." Honor nodded, and Nimitz's ears flattened ever so slightly as he tasted her emotional response to Brigham's obvious reference to Dame Alice Truman.

Like Hamish Alexander, but with even less excuse, Truman had found herself a victim of the Janacek purges. Honor's contacts within the current Admiralty were much less extensive than they'd been when Baroness Mourncreek was First Lord, but there were rumors that Alice had stepped on someone's rather senior toes when she'd been captain of HMS Minotaur. That, coupled with the fact that the Trumans had served in the Royal Navy for almost as many generations as the Alexanders had, and that they were equally fervent members of the anti-Janacek faction, had consigned Alice to half-pay and cost her confirmation of her promotion to vice admiral.

Even Sir Edward Janacek and Jeanette Draskovic had found that one just a bit difficult to rationalize away, given the fact that Rear Admiral Truman, temporarily "frocked" to the acting rank of vice admiral, had commanded Eighth Fleet's CLACs throughout the campaign which had driven the People's Republic to its knees. Not that they'd allowed that to stand in their way, and Alice's obvious and none too private disagreement with current Admiralty policies had made it easier for them to justify it—or her lack of employment, at least—on the basis of irreconcilable policy differences. Which, as Honor had fully recognized, was yet another reason for Draskovic's pettiness over the slate of officers she'd requested.

"At any rate," Honor went on after a moment in a deliberately more cheerful tone, "your misfortune—and Alice's—is my good fortune. Janacek and Chakrabarti may not be able—or willing—to cough up the ship strength I think we're going to need, but at least we're going to have an excellent command team. So if I can't get the job done, we'll know whose fault it is, won't we?"

"I wouldn't put it quite that way myself, Your Grace. But I do agree that you seem to have pulled together a pretty good bunch. And I'm looking forward to seeing Rafe and Alistair again. And," she gri

"That was delicious." Honor sighed, and leaned back in her chair with a pleasant sense of repletion.

The picked-over rubble of lunch lay strewn across the table between her and Benjamin IX, Protector of Grayson. They sat on one of Protector's Palace's private, domed terraces, a continent away from Harrington Steading, but it was raining here, as well. Not the gentle, misty rain which had welcomed Honor, but a hard, driving fall downpour that pounded the overhead dome hard. The occasional rumble of thunder was clearly audible, and Honor glanced up as a fork of lightning split the charcoal overcast. The gray, water-soaked afternoon was dark, almost ominous, yet that only made the terrace's warm comfort even more welcoming.

They were alone, aside from Nimitz, LaFollet, and Benjamin's personal armsman and constant shadow, Major "Sparky" Rice, and the Protector chuckled at her comment as he reached for his wineglass.

"I'm glad you enjoyed it," he assured her. "My chef stole the stroganoff recipe from your father, and the fudge cake—of which, if memory serves, you had three slices—came directly from Mistress Thorne's recipe book."

"I thought they both tasted familiar. But Master Batson's added a little something to the stroganoff, hasn't he?"

"I'd be surprised if he hasn't," Benjamin agreed. "As to what it might have been, though—" He shrugged.

"Dill weed, I think," Honor said thoughtfully. "But there's something else, too . . ." She gazed thoughtfully up into the rainstorm, pondering, then shrugged. "Whatever it is, warn him that Daddy's going to be trying to steal it back from him."

"From something your mother said a couple of weeks ago, I think he already has," Benjamin said with a grin. "And I think Master Batson can't quite make up his mind whether to be outraged by the fact that a steadholder's father is raiding his recipe files, even in retaliation, or flattered by the competition!"