Sakamoto turned his gaze back to Kurita, clearly the easier target, and when he spoke it was with less heat. “Now is our opportunity to strike. Why do you hesitate? The Republic’s forces are thin as tissue paper, and the miserable excuses they have for their planetary militias—bah! A lowly farmer with a scythe or pike would make for a better adversary. Every moment you delay heightens the perception of our weakness. Look at the Capellans; they’re scum, and yet they honor their dead chancellor as a god and have struck the first blow, driving into the heart of Prefecture V and securing Liao. A prefecture capital! We haven’t slipped a toe across any border since last year!”

“Not counting your unauthorized, illegal forays into Prefecture I,” said Kurita, “no, we haven’t.”

The warning was clear, but Bhatia saw that Sakamoto was too carried away by his own arguments to hear. “Your ancestor ceded valuable lands and planets to a Republic built upon a house of cards that has now begun to topple. They are weak ; they will not act, and we must. And what about Tormark? Her family’s disgraced, their lands confiscated, their status worse than beggars, and yet you allow that little girl to use your name!”

Careful. Much as Bhatia admired the man’s tenacity—Sakamoto was like a pit bull that way—first the swipe at him, then Hohiro and now this insult… Bhatia’s eyes swiveled to gauge the reactions of the others. Saito was, predictably, nibbling the cuticle of one pudgy thumb; Toranaga’s eyes were hooded in calculation. Perchance a very useful man if Sakamoto fails. And what of our noble heir? Bhatia saw that Theodore was thin-lipped; his cheeks ruddy with anger and… was that shame? Bhatia’s eyes narrowed. Yes, he could see it: the quick tick of Theodore’s eyes to his father and then to scrutiny of a spot on the glass table that seemed to be of intense interest. He is ashamed because in his heart he agrees.

Kurita was unruffled. “We remind you that this little girl, as you call her, has managed, with few resources and sheer charisma, to conquer worlds and sway others.”

“Which she has claimed in the name of Dragon’s Fury,” said Sakamoto.

“And which she has now ceded to us,” Kurita corrected. “A little late in coming, and a bit roundabout. The fact that she claims worlds for the Combine reveals our strength, not our weakness.”

“Listen to yourself!” Sakamoto threw up his hands in disgust. “All the more reason to act! First, it was Dragon’s Fury; now she says she battles in the name of the Dragon! Don’t you see, Tono? The people will not care. All they will know is that you sit in your palace day after day, swathed in luxury and decked out in finery, while a female from a dishonored family is the one who gets dirt beneath her nails and blood on her sword. You… must… act,” said Sakamoto, emphasizing every word. “You. Must.”

“Or what?” Kurita’s hazel eyes were mere slivers now, and when he spoke there was a subdued yet discernible hiss, like the whisperings of a snake. “Do you have other plans for yourself? For us? A replacement, perhaps? If so, then please, share this with us for we are most anxious to know your mind.” He paused, then added as if in afterthought, “Our Tai-shu.”

His meaning was clear: You serve at my pleasure. Nothing less, and certainly not more. And as the mortified Sakamoto stammered out an apology and the coordinator gave orders that there were to be no more unauthorized forays into Republic space, Bhatia had to admit that the man still had a vestige of the old Kurita spark, that fire of history and myth.

A pity that, in Bhatia’s opinion, the flame wasn’t quite bright enough.

6

Imperial City, Luthien

24 December 3134

The teacup was immensely old; stippled brown with smooth, teal enamel. As fingers of scented steam caressed his face, Vincent Kurita inhaled, held the breath, then let go with a sigh. Then he took a small sip, the delicate flavors of frothy green tea exploding on his tongue. The taste conjured memories of laughter and his wife and their three children, before things got so… grim.

Grim, yes. Vincent eyed Theodore, who knelt upon his tatami and gazed into the middle distance. The balcony overlooked the palace gardens—mossy green hummocks and still pools festooned with green saucers of lotus. Vincent said, “You are very quiet, my son.” They were at their ease, so Vincent felt no imperative to employ the royal we ; an affectation that was amazingly effective.

Theodore flinched out of his reverie. “I apologize, Father. It’s just”—and now he turned his blue eyes to Vincent—“maybe Sakamoto has a good point.”

“Indeed? Tell me.” And then, as he saw Theodore hesitate, Vincent said gently, “I am no Takashi. I am secure in your love, my son.” He was rewarded by seeing the tension drain from Theodore’s features.

“I understand your concerns completely, Father. But Sakamoto’s right and you know he’s right. The Republic thinks it’s invincible, with Terra at its center and the prefectures ringing round. But they’re wrong. Devlin Stone’s gone, and whatever he is, Levin’s no substitute. Without something to bind the prefectures together, the core rots, and the tree dies.” He leaned forward, earnestly. “You are the core of the tree that is the Draconis Combine, Father. The Kuritas are the sap running through its veins. But we’ve lost the throne before and might again if you remain silent.”

“Just as I am not Takashi, I am not Robert Kurita either. And who would be my Nihongi Von Rohrs? Sakamoto? I think not. He’s a bully, and his ego drives him to assume too much.”

“Then why allow him to continue as warlord?”

Vincent gave a careless shrug. “Because he serves my purpose. When he no longer does, he won’t be in a position to argue the point.”

“And Katana Tormark?”

“What about her?”

“Father, she’s out there seizing planets in the Combine’s name…”

“A recent development, as Sakamoto so indelicately pointed out. Good thing, too; she had me worried for a while.”

“Father, this is serious! Katana’s family was disgraced, their assets seized after Akira took his O5P cell and defected to Devlin Stone’s cause! Your inaction is an endorsement that this daughter of a disgraced Combine lord speaks for you! Father, she’s challenged you to a duel, to come out of hiding. Why don’t you?”

Well spoken, well reasoned. Vincent was impressed yet again with how astute his son was. He will be a fine ruler some day. Then, on the heels of that thought, a darker one, edged with sadness: But will House Kurita survive if Theodore cannot escape the curse that swims in our blood? Vincent clamped down on the path where that thought would lead. He stalled, choosing a pastry from a platter and popping it into his mouth. The sweet, rich bean paste melted into a taste like nuts and honey. Just as one does not cry over the sweetness of candy, so I shall not grieve now. He swallowed and said, “What I do, I do. We will not engage The Republic, and we will not directly interfere with Katana Tormark.”

Theodore missed the emphasis. “Even if that threatens the Combine.”

“I am the Combine. So… yes.” Vincent waited a beat. “Should I be concerned about you?”

Theodore blinked, and Vincent saw a wash of first astonishment then anger flood across his son’s face. “You know I stand with you, Father.”

“But someday you must be coordinator, and that may mean, for the good of the Combine, you might have to depose me.”

Theodore’s Adam’s apple bobbled in a hard swallow. “I will succeed you, Father—never depose or replace you.”