Fortress of Lies

“I’ve hired this fellow, Ozark Kinston. You know him?”

“‘O’? Certainly. We move in much the same circles here.”

“Do you think he knows his stuff?”

“I believe he does. He has a good reputation among the Senators. I will warn you of one thing though.” She leaned toward him, narrowed her eyes and whispered conspiratorially, “He has two left feet.”

They laughed together.

“Commander,” interrupted the driver, “we’re approaching the address.”

Erik tore his gaze away from Elsa to look out through the windows. The rain had stopped, leaving slick pavement on the steep, winding, tree-lined street. The houses were large, and widely spaced. The streetlights were mounted in filigreed housings, atop slender columns. Ahead, one house in particular was brightly lit, and he could see a large number of people inside.

“Fashionably late,” said Elsa.

Erik smiled. “The better to make an entrance,” he said.

The car pulled to a stop under a temporary awning, set up to protect arriving guests from the intermittent rain. An attendant opened the door, and Erik stepped past Elsa to exit first. He then took her hand and led her from the car. They climbed a short run of red-carpeted steps and passed through an open set of French doors. Ahead, he could hear live music.

A tuxedoed butler stood at the door, a storklike guardian with his pointed nose. He glanced at a computer pad. “Ah, Commander. Good evening, Miss Harrad—always a pleasure.”

“Thank you, Carlos. Would you be so good as to a

“But of course.”

She leaned in close to his ear. “You did want an entrance.”

The butler placed his pad on a podium and stepped through the i

Erik took Elsa on his arm, and they swept through the door. People looked and whispered. He felt splendid, and he had certainly made his grand entrance. Dignified old men fell over each other to be the first to greet Elsa, and she addressed each and every one by name. She also skillfully disengaged herself from each—shedding them as easily as a duck sheds water, and leading Erik through the crowd to the bar. Whatever else she is, she’s a smooth social operator, and I can use that.

The bartender walked over, and Erik turned to Elsa. “I had a local dark whiskey a few days ago. A nice smoky bite, but I don’t remember the name.”

She glanced at the bartender. “He’ll have a Malvern Black, on the rocks. I’ll have a Firestarter.”

Erik chuckled. “Are you sure? That’s a MechWarrior’s drink.”

“I can handle it,” she said. “I have a stomach made of armor. It’s part of what’s kept me from embarrassing myself at these things over the years.”

He took a proffered tumbler, with its cubes of ice and deep amber whiskey. He held it under his nose, enjoying the woody aroma, then sipped, feeling it burn smoothly down his throat. Either this whiskey was even better than he remembered, or it was a better brand of the same stuff.

He watched as the bartender mixed two kinds of transparent fluids, followed by a shot of red liquor, and shook the combination before pouring the result into a cocktail glass and garnishing it with a slice of green pepper. He handed it to Elsa, who took a deep sip, licked her upper lip in a way that made him quiver, then smiled. “I will say this for the Hereditar-ies, they do have the best-stocked bars.”

“Commander!”

Erik turned in response to the voice, and spotted Ozark Kinston moving toward him from across the room. “I’m glad you could make it”—he glanced at Elsa and smiled—“and I see you arranged for your own escort.”

“A very fortunate and timely encounter,” he explained.

“Well,” said Kinston, “indeed. You’re already being seen, mingling, that’s good. Don’t plan on leaving early. I’ll come around later and bring you into a few backroom gatherings. That’s where much of the real business gets done, you know.”

He looked around the room. “Meanwhile, circulate. You couldn’t have a better guide than Elsa. I have to go set things up.” He took Elsa’s hand and bowed. “I hope you’ll save me a dance for later, my dear.”

She smiled graciously. “I wouldn’t miss it, O.”

They watched as he walked away.

“So,” said Erik, “you’re a diplomat, too?”

“Many skills are necessary on this battlefield, Erik.”

Well, now there’s an opening. “Really? I’d like to hear more about that.”

The band struck up a slow number. Elsa took his hand. “And I’d like to find out how many left feet you have.”

He smiled. Skillfully dodged. “I’m told I can make a fifty-ton ’Mech seem light on its feet.”

“It’s your feet I’m more concerned about.”

“I rarely get to use them. Shall we see what happens?”

They stepped onto the dance floor and he put his hand around her small waist, feeling the delicate curve of her back through the thin material of the dress. She stepped in close to him, and at the gentle urging of the music, they moved as one.

For Erik, the evening seemed to fly by. They danced until they were too tired to stand, found quiet corners to talk, then danced again. She was intensely curious about him, especially his most recent adventures. He told her of his defeat on Mara, and how he’d redeemed the situation on Achernar, and of his victories on New Aragon.

He was careful not to say anything that a spy—or even an interested citizen—might not pick up from other sources, or to provide any current information of strategic value. Yet he found that he enjoyed talking with her. She showed eager interest in his stories of battle and adventure. Though she didn’t say so, he felt she’d lived a safe life—perhaps too safe for her taste.

He imagined her, pampered and coddled, never really tasting the spice that made life worth living—now off on her own for the first time. What lengths might such a person go to in order to experience danger and intrigue? He’d known soldiers like that—lesser nobles, trained by the finest teachers in the martial arts, seasoned from hundreds of hours in a ’Mech simulator, and yet having no comprehension of what real adversity was like—real danger. He knew to watch those soldiers closely, because for each of them would come a moment when they realized they were far too deep in danger, and that it was no simulation, no fantasy, no game. Elsa reminded him of those officers—of someone who was just starting to realize the reality of the situation they’d put themselves in.

Though he told her freely about his own family and background, he seemed to learn very little about her personally, which bothered him. Not that he hadn’t expected her to be evasive. Soldiers were about the only people in Erik’s day-to-day life who ever spoke the unadulterated truth, and then only because they sometimes couldn’t help it. With nobles, politicians, and diplomats, what came out was shades of deception. He was entirely used to that.

It was the nature of her evasiveness that both intrigued and frustrated him. Hers was not the calculated evasion of someone seeking advantage or clouding the truth, it was the withdrawal of someone hiding painful emotions. She was, despite her smooth exterior, very human, very vulnerable. He found himself wanting to protect her, and having no idea how. He wanted to know about her. Everything about her.

Suddenly, he found himself telling her about his troubles with his uncle. It wasn’t a calculated effort to draw her out, it just happened. He reproached himself even as he started. His family problems were of strategic and political value—the sort of thing that could, at the very least, give encouragement and comfort to their enemies.

Yet, it was liberating, intoxicating—perhaps not in spite of the danger, but because of it—and all the more so because he knew his uncle would be outraged if he knew. But he wasn’t there, wasn’t calling the shots, and Erik needed a confidante.