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Then Jonathan stopped, listened to Worridge, then Katana—and then that man, a voice he knew…
“My God!” It was the Hatchetman’s pilot. “That’s Theodore Kurita!”
“Well, what do you know?” Jonathan said. A quick flick of his eyes told him his IFF was still, sadly, on the fritz. Pivoting, he brought his missiles to bear.
“Just in the nick of time,” he said, and fired.
37
Imperial City, Luthien
Pesht Military District, Draconis Combine
30 November 3135
Well? Katana thought as she stood in the massive, silent hall. Now what? She turned in a slow circle, taking in the immense space of the Throne Room, acutely aware of the way her clothes rustled, the slight scuff of her feet against polished hardwood and her eyes kept returning to the Dragon Throne upon its dais: a powerful presence even in the absence of the coordinator. She’d seen the throne in a documentary done back in thirty-three as part of a series called Touring the Stars. Now, staring up at those swirling dragons and the mural immediately behind, Katana was awed to immobility.
A voice, just behind her: “Beautiful, isn’t it?”
Startled, Katana turned, gawped, then blinked. He’d come up on soundless, stockinged feet: Vincent Kurita in the flesh, resplendent in a kimono of peacock blue with chrysanthemums and five-clawed dragons done in gold embroidery and bound at the waist with a gold obi sash. Hastily, she bowed. “Forgive me, Tono. I was unaware of your presence.”
“Oh, but you were,” said Kurita. He had a pleasing voice, soft and full, and his hazel eyes were clear. Kurita gestured at the throne and the dragon mural just behind. “When you gaze upon the Combine, you look upon us. To be aware of the vastness of the Combine is to open your mind to the corners of the known universe we inhabit and those we have yet to conquer. But,” he said, laugh lines appearing at the corners of his eyes, “we asked whether you thought it was beautiful.”
“Hai,” Katana said, without hesitation. “Beautiful when it was made, Tono. But more beautiful now.”
“Ah?” Kurita’s coal black eyebrows arched. “And how so?”
Katana gestured at the mural. “The worlds the Combine lost when The Republic was born have been returned. What Tai-sho Sakamoto began, your son ended. Saffel has been conquered, as have Styx, Athenry and Pike IV.” She paused, thinking back to the campaign in which she, Worridge and Theodore Kurita had fought side by side before Kurita had called a halt shy of Dieron, a move she’d opposed, and demanded her swords. She eyed the coordinator. Well, and if he hears this as criticism, so be it. “But the Combine isn’t complete, not yet. Dieron waits on its coordinator.”
“Ah. And what about you?”
“I have no regrets. What I did, I did for the Dragon.”
“Without our consent.”
“Or dissent. I acted on your silence.”
“Indeed,” said Kurita, and his benevolent ma
Katana frowned. “Tono?”
“You forget that a coordinator is the null space within the wheel. Without a hub, there is no wheel. The Combine turns, but it does so firmly anchored to the gap that is our silence. Do you think we have neither eyes nor ears? Of course we followed your course; we were heartened when you stood for your Dragon’s Fury, and more so when you declared for our cause. Once we divined Sakamoto’s true intent, we made sure that our heir was behind him at nearly every step. So, do you truly believe that our heir would’ve let you live without our consent?”
“Ie, Tono,” said Katana, but she was confused and this upset her. Hadn’t this been precisely what she’d been working for over these many months? And yet, Katana understood now that the coordinator had never been asleep; the coordinator was the unseen master pulling the strings of his many puppets. “So you tasked me.”
“And you did not disappoint. Else…” Kurita let his voice trail away, leaving the threat unspoken: Else we would have had your head.
“I am not my father’s daughter, and would never desert the Combine.”
“Really?” Kurita’s eyebrows wriggled in a display of mischief that was reflected by the sudden sparkle in his eyes. “You were governor, duchess, prefect. So many Republican honors the Combine never sanctioned. And as for your father, do not deceive yourself that he acted without the coordinator’s consent.”
“Consent? My father lost everything. He turned his back on the Combine. He was a governor!”
“So? Despite your trappings, you never lost the honor that resides in the heart, and whatever else your father lost, he was never stripped of his.”
Why they were talking about her father at all was a mystery. “I still have my honor, Tono, and am ready for whatever my Coordinator wishes. Command me. If you wish my death for my disobedience, I only ask to choose my kaishakunin so that I may be sure he will strike cleanly.”
For a moment, the coordinator’s face was deathly still, and she steeled herself, only hoping that the Old Master struck well. An irony, that: that her father should have been kaishakunin to the man whose brother would behead the father’s daughter.
Then she saw a change come over the coordinator’s features. His mouth twitched. His eyes narrowed. And then he laughed: a rich, warm, full-throated bellow that was astonishing, if only because, a few seconds before, Katana was convinced she would die.
“Katana Tormark.” Tears of mirth squeezed from the corners of the coordinator’s eyes, and he wiped them away with both thumbs. “If we’d wanted you dead, you’d be dead already.” Kurita broke off, flipped open the case of his finger watch and tut-tutted. “Look at the time. How late it is!”
He clapped three times. Instantly, a shoji slid open and two palace guards appeared. Spying them, Katana’s legs went a little numb. She didn’t know why she felt surprise; clearly, disarming her had been the coordinator’s plan. Now, they’d take her into custody, to prison and then…
What the coordinator said next stu
The coordinator gave her an expectant look. But, at first, Katana just stared, unable to comprehend what Kurita meant. Then a surge of astonishment swept her from tip to toe, and suddenly, everything came clear: the coordinator’s allowing Sakamoto to show his true colors; the latitude he’d given her to demonstrate where she stood. But this last, what could it mean? Wasn’t it far more, well, expedient to name her as Benjamin’s Tai-shu? Then, in the next instant, she saw why Kurita could not.
Because there are the other warlords; they’d never stomach this, and besides, they’d get the wrong idea: that knocking each other off is how you rise in the ranks. But giving me Dieron means he’s still testing me, seeing if I can pull this off…
She saw that Kurita was still waiting, and the wordless look they exchanged told her: He knew her thoughts, and she was correct. She finally said, “Tono, I… I don’t know what to say…”
“Yes would be a start. There is work still to be done, Katana, and we do hate loose ends. And Tai-shu Tormark”—Vincent’s features creased in a smile—“we dine at eight.”