“A Death Commando.” Jones shifted a few more centimeters toward the door as her brown eyes flashed dangerously toward the next room. She wasn’t afraid, Bannson realized. She was readying herself to attack.
The Death Commandos were Daoshen Liao’s private terrorist squad. As good as Jones was, Bannson would not want to bet on her being able to bring down such a fanatic.
“We should leave the mansion, Boss.” No pretty titles out of Ivan. No “sire” or even a “chief.” To the large man, Jacob Bannson was simply the boss.
Bannson forced himself to step forward. “No need. If Daoshen wanted me killed, I would already be dead.” Daoshen wanted him scared. That Bannson would not give the eccentric leader. “Ivan, please put away my rifle and bring us all drinks in the gallery.” He caught Jones’s suspicious glance. “You can look if you like, my dear, but I assure you that our visitor is quite absent.”
She apparently trusted his instincts, though the tense set of her shoulders said that she remained ready for nearly anything. “Whatever you say,” she replied.
Bannson picked up the small box. It weighed very little, and fit comfortably in two hands. About the size of a small cigar box, and the right weight too.
“After you.” He nodded toward Jones.
The foyer opened up into a long hall. The red-haired mercenary stalked down to a double-wide entryway. The downstairs library-study. Bannson followed, thinking about the gift and what it meant, coming now.
That Daoshen even knew of his visit to St. Andre bothered him. Bannson’s schedule was never published beforehand. Bannson Universal may have begun on this world, but it now stretched throughout Prefectures IV and V. He had specifically chosen a return to St. Andre because it did serve more as a retreat than a seat of power. The place he’d begun his new life, and where he returned for anonymity.
And it was far, far away from Terra.
Not that he worried overmuch. The assault on Terra had been a doomed venture from the start. Ezekiel Crow should have realized it much sooner. But he hadn’t, and Bannson had used the smokescreen of Crow’s treason to pay back a few debts of his own.
A Republic Senator who needed early retirement.
A military officer, who had grown resistant to being on Bannson’s payroll, lost in the chaos of battle.
Most other men in his position would have simply tipped off The Republic and gathered accolades after. Most other men did not play the long game. Besides, what had The Republic ever done for him except put a ceiling on his rise to power? So he had let the assault go forward, and slipped in to take care of his own business where he could. A good day’s work, even if it had cost him one of his most valuable hole cards. Ezekiel Crow. The fallen Paladin.
But Bannson did not casually throw away such a valuable asset, and had laid groundwork to salvage Crow. Such a card, played a second time, might trump almost anything. And the weaker The Republic became, the more chances for Bannson to advance his own agenda.
An agenda that included corporate interests in Prefecture III (next) and political interests here at home.
An agenda that would have to take into consideration Daoshen Liao’s interference.
Through the magnificent library, with its rolling ladders and tall cases full of books from every Republic world, Jones and Bannson walked to the gallery where he stored most of his locally gained art treasures. The gallery could be sealed behind a ferrosteel door resistant to most anything but platform-scale weapons. It was cold in the room, a chilly twenty-six Celsius, and dimly lit with spots showing off his most valuable prizes. There was also a small shelf in the room at which three people could comfortably stand. It was here he set the brightly wrapped package and began to carefully unwrap it.
The ribbon was secured with a bow knot that easily slipped loose. Bannson pocketed the death’s-head pin. The golden tissue folded back and away from the top. A promise of riches? Of Daoshen’s personal interest? The retreating folds uncovered a deep-grained lacquered box that glowed rich and red and reflected back a warped image of both Bannson and Jones.
“What is it?” the raider asked.
Bannson ran a finger along one edge, marveling in the perfection. “What does it look like?”
“Well, is it a cigar box?”
Her lack of imagination annoyed him, until he remembered how he had thought something similar. “I highly doubt it.” No, this was something much more. With nervous fingers, he flipped up the tiny golden clasp and lifted the lid.
It was empty.
“Empty?” Jones frowned, her eyes narrowing to dangerous slits as if she had missed the punch line of a joke and wondered if it were at her expense. Ivan came in carrying a silver salver just big enough to carry three brandy snifters. He set it on the edge of the shelf. “It’s empty,” Jones told him quickly, perhaps trying to get in on the joke.
But what was it empty of? Bannson sipped at his smoky liquor. He stared into the box’s velvet interior, reached in and traced the molded recess with one finger. Cylindrical. About twenty centimeters long and three centimeters wide. Soft, soft. The perfect rest for an important, and valuable, scroll.
What kind of scroll would Bannson find valuable? Only two men in the Inner Sphere likely knew that answer.
He had stood in Daoshen’s throne room barely two years before, and made it very clear that the cost of Bannson’s assistance was nothing less than “my appointment as a peer of your realm.”
There it was: Bannson laying his cards out for the first time in decades, and to the Chancellor of the Capellan Confederation. He’d never planned to go so far, even after accepting Daoshen Liao’s invitation to Sian. The tour of Zi-jin Chéng impressed him, certainly, especially the level of detail to which Confederation citizens had restored their capital to pre-Jihad quality. And the Celestial Palace itself was breathtaking, a mixture of modern materials and classic architecture outside, classic material with modern design inside.
What had changed Bannson’s mind, though, was the tribute paid to him by the Capellan leader. Daoshen had stated baldly that he intended to invade The Republic of the Sphere… a dangerous gamble to take with one of The Republic’s economic leaders. The Chancellor made no apologies for the situation in which he placed Bannson, or for his insulting assumption that the other man would be interested in committing treason. Nesting back into his magnificent throne, dark eyes nothing more than black pits seen through the haze of incense smoke, Daoshen offered his plans freely, and waited for an answer.
Which Bannson blurted out before he’d really thought it through. Very likely saving his own life.
Daoshen gave the merchant king time to begin fidgeting. Betrayals of nerves were rare, but then Bannson did not make a habit of keeping such exalted company. The Chancellor had even allowed him the dubious honor of sitting in His presence, ordering a simple chair brought into the room. Even years of training did not keep the surprise—or the quick flash of terror—from the faces of palace servants. Sitting in the incense-choked room had softened Bannson, allowing him to relax. And now he tapped nervously on the side of his leg, willing his hands to stillness and finally overcoming the natural need for movement. For flight.
“A noble,” Daoshen tasted the idea. “Subject to our laws and holding property at our whim.”
Bannson could not tell if Daoshen had made a switch to the royal possessive, or if the Chancellor now included himself among all of the ennobled landholders.
“The only coin I will take.” For that, Bannson offered to covertly support a Liao drive into Prefectures V and VI, and eventually through most of IV as well. Tikonov. Tigress. Ty-balt. Strong worlds in the chain of Bannson Universal Unlimited, and each one fixed in the eye of Daoshen Liao.