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terrain, over the synthetic recreation of the Alhurzian high forest toward
that part of the spectator area bordered by the golden rail.
Whether he saw any mark of favor from the line of barons' tables or not, he
made no acknowledgment, as he recentered his attention on the snorting
rhinoped.
Cling! Cling!
Thirty meters above the purple-veined replicas of Alhurzian morloch vines, the
copper-
haired woman with the flowing curls that glistened and the bright green eyes
that flashed with cold fire sat alone at the box rail table of a baron.
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That it was the box table of at least a baron of the Empire was clear because
only barons were permitted to purchase the inner line of tables along the high
rail overlooking the arena.
That she was recognized and belonged there was clear from the bowing and
scraping accorded her by the staff, the depth of whose genuflections tended to
be proportional to the wealth and position of those before whom they bowed.
That she was not the baroness herself was clear from the intensity in watching
the arena, for she had not yet acquired the refined indifferent cruelty born
of experience, though her carriage and manners were perfect in every
ostensible sense.
Three tables down, to the left, also against the railing, sat an
angular-featured young man, accompanied by a younger woman scarcely out of
girlhood, and by a silver-haired and slender baroness whose veiled eyes slowly
shifted from point to point, surveying everything but the action in the large
arena below.
Most of the baron's tables held one or two people, though each could
accommodate eight in grand style and up to twelve in a more intimate
arrangement.
In the fringe area to the left and right of the baron's tables, where the
status of the holders was in the undefined limbo of those greater than
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commercial magnates, but not officially recognized as barons, a black-haired,
black-eyed man dressed in black sat alone. His hair was short, but
tight-curled, and while his manners were almost indifferent, the staff tiptoed
nearly as deferentially to him as to any baron.
The table belonged to Fernand H'Llory, but the man who sat there was not
H'Llory, for
H'Llory had never attended the spectacles at the arena and had obtained the
table for the convenience of his wide range of guests and associates, all of
whom were at least the equal of commercial magnates, if not more. The
placement of the table afforded an accommodation between shades of status
satisfactory to all, particularly to H'Llory.
The man in black was obviously from the fringes of the Empire, for he wore the
black with absolute authority, certainly, and flair, defying the current
unspoken convention that while women might wear black, no man of worth would
do so, for black had been the color of the assassins, and they had been
broken, and those who remained and followed the profession independently were
obviously inferior.
The copper-haired woman clapped politely, as did most of the other Imperials,
as the red-
mailed man in the arena dispatched the three-meter horned rhinoped. The kill
had been serviceable, but little more. He had avoided injury, but taken more
than the pair of normal kill strokes required to destroy the twin hearts of
the beast.
The single woman let her eyes drift toward the man in black, who had not even
made a gesture toward applause. As her head turned, the angular-faced young
man's eyes followed hers, although he had to strain slightly to see her
actions from the three table distance.
"Who is he?" asked the angular-faced man's sister.
"I don't know. He was here last night. Black then, too."
"Gauche," the girl observed.
"By current standards," noted the baroness.
"You approve, Mother?"
A wry smile crossed the baroness's face. "Whether I approve or not will affect
society's judgments and fads little." She turned her head. "But the man is
handsome, rather, in a dark way."
The angular-faced young man frowned, his complexion paling a shade. His sister
touched his arm. He removed her fingers gently, but quickly.
"What can I do? Two agents missing, and that Commodore Gerswin has
disappeared, almost as if he knew they were after him. Helene has refused to
consider any contract or further contact
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but whoever her contract-mate is will have to clear that blot."
He watched as the copper-haired woman known as Helene summoned a towering
staffer in cold violet formal wear, watched as she instructed him or requested
something, and watched as the tall man stepped away.
He was still watching as the functionary appeared at the table where the man
in black sat.
The man in black inclined his head, then shook it firmly.
"She can't do that!" hissed the angular-faced man.
"He didn't accept, Duran," observed the sister.
"That will just intrigue her more."
"Of course."
"You are too eager, Duran, too intense, like your father, though he has come
to accept that failing in himself. Watch the next combat. It might be
interesting."
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Below, a man and a woman, each with a boar spear, bowed to the audience, which
responded with an applause mainly perfunctory.
"Do you want to wager on the outcome, or the time?"
"Neither," snapped Duran, forcing himself to avoid meeting the cool glance of
Helene, who had surveyed his table without seeing him or his sister and
mother. "Neither."
"There will be a dance tonight. Are you going?"
"I haven't decided."
"Well," added his sister with a smile that did not hide the cruelty, "Jaim
Daeris told
Forallie that Helene was going. Alone."
She refrained from saying more as the baroness's cold gray eyes caught hers.
"I haven't decided," Duran repeated. "I haven't decided."
LVIII
LYR D'MERYON MUMBLED under her breath, touched the screen controls, and
surveyed the information again.
"One thousand torps. That was bad enough."
Her finger jabbed at the console controls.
"Now he wants to know about surplus in-system relay stations and the
possibility of simplified designs for both torps and stations. What does he
want? His own private message delivery system?"
She brushed a strand of hair back off her forehead, wondering Why she had ever
even considered that her mysterious commander strange how she continued to
think of him as a commander-
would settle into a more regular pattern after he retired from the Service.
Settle down? Regular? Not only could she never find him in a hurry, but the
work load had more than tripled in the last ten years.
And the creds! Everything he touched seemed to generate money. The more he
spent, the more it created. Plus the funds from strange names and friends,
names and friends that were never explained.
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Was Shaik Corso an acquaintance or an alias? She suspected the latter, but the
documents were in order, and the foundation's records had to show the latter.
MacGregor Corson was so transparent, proper records or not, that she wasn't
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