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Alarms clanged in her brain. Now, she’s coming right now! Chi
A flash of insight: She expects me to pull back. So Chi
Got to get out of here. They were in taiatari, blades locked, the most dangerous position in which two swordsmen could find themselves. Chi
And then Katana let go.
Startled, Chi
The Old Master shouted at the last possible second. “Yame!”
Katana froze, and Chi
Opening her eyes, Chi
For a moment, Katana did not reply, and then Chi
“Killed you? No,” said Katana. Then she moved closer, and in the next instant Chi
Katana took Chi
5
Imperial City, Luthien
Pesht Military District, Draconis Combine
15 December 3134
Vincent Kurita ceased speaking, and the resulting silence in the Black Room was so complete that it was almost a sound itself. ISF Director Ramadeep Bhatia was aware of the rush of his breath whistling through his nostrils, the creak of a leather boot as an aide shifted uneasily. Yet silence was also valuable, a tool that was as useful and potentially lethal as the most accurate assassin if one knew how to use it, when to exploit it. Bhatia did, and silence was, he decided, one of Vincent Kurita’s few talents—such as they were.
Bhatia looked through his lashes, his coal black eyes sliding round to the others gathered at the table, the warlords he could observe with relative ease because they sat directly opposite, ranged down the long axis of the smoky glass-topped table. (There were also three irrelevant aides hugging the far wall, one for each tai-shu.) One warlord who had not been the target of the coordinator’s pointed remarks—Pesht’s Doppo Saito—looked decidedly uncomfortable, even a little frightened, and this was probably a good thing because a frightened man was easily tamed. Saito might not be a weakling but he was a worm nonetheless, corrupted by luxury: a florid, doughy man, with puffy cheeks and stubby, bejeweled fingers, fat around as sausages and dimpled at the joints.
By contrast, Bhatia thought that New Samarkand’s Tai-shu Matsuhari Toranaga looked hungry. Solidly built, of above-average height, Toranaga had a square face lit by glittering black eyes. More and more, he always wants more, though his territory is the largest and borders on the Federated Suns. Highly intelligent and motivated by a boundless avarice for more and more power, yet able to bide his time, Toranaga was, Bhatia thought, just the man he might require.
Might. Bhatia’s eyes slid to the third man, a bull: Mits-ura Sakamoto, Warlord of Benjamin, descendant of Ta-hara Sakamoto of the First Sword of Light… and a damnable hothead. If he wasn’t so valuable, I’d leave Sakamoto to his wine and women and focus on Toranaga, and what my spies tell me is a rather interesting wild card. But not just yet.
The silence was broken when Sakamoto swallowed hard. “Tono, I must protest. I have nothing to apologize for, and even less to explain.”
And let us see how the Peacock handles that. Bhatia kept his eyes averted, as custom and ma
“No?” Kurita’s tone was mild, and Bhatia strained to detect any undercurrents—of displeasure or malice—and found none. Bhatia suppressed a sigh. And just what will shake this man from his complacency? He looked up, already knowing what he would see: a broad smooth brow surmounted by raven-black hair coiffed into a high powder puff like a storm cloud (more tinsel and glitter: Bhatia knew that Kurita’s real hair was white as spun sugar); hazel eyes set in an oval, delicate, slightly feminine face just begi
Kurita steepled his delicate, manicured fingers. “You deliberately cross the border into Prefecture I; not once, not twice, but a dozen times? You risk good men and valuable materiel? For what purpose?”