Julian cleared the rope lines with only a cursory check of his identity, as he was well known to the security detail in charge of Harrison’s safety. From there, he forced himself to walk sedately. No matter how late. No matter the reason he had been held up at the palace. No one in Harrison’s inner circle should be caught hurrying and out of breath. The kind of rumor spreading out from such a sight could cause market futures to plummet.

Peace Park camped in the shadows of the magnificent Davion palace, rebuilt along with all of Avalon City after the Jihad. A favorite weekend picnic area where citizens explored the maze of paths that wound between meadows and monuments, soft creeks and sunlit sports fields.

Today, however, access had been restricted as two thousand New Avalon citizens—nobles and military men, and commoners drawn by lot—waited for the final ceremonies. The speech would be a short one, but no one minded. They were here to see and be seen, or to enjoy their fifteen minutes with the first prince. Noble finery and starched uniforms mingled with civilian Sunday-best suits and sundresses.

Julian moved among them, elbowing through tight knots and circling around the larger enclaves, always moving down into the amphitheater’s bowl. Only when he approached a cadre of military officers did a path magically open, the military men and women showing uncomfortable deference to the prince’s champion. To a civilian and to many nobles he was just one more man in uniform, thankfully. They tended to overlook him, which was useful. As he walked, Julian caught more than one concerned glance down into the amphitheater’s shallow depression.

Drawing closer, he soon saw why. Harrison. The first prince stood on the natural granite outcropping which had been shaped and polished into a low stage…

…waiting with Khan Sterling McKenna by his side.

Leader of the Raven Alliance, McKenna at least chose Inner Sphere style over Clan leathers, which was a small favor. Her tailored suit was fitting for the occasion if a bit flamboyant, done in the silver and blue of Alliance colors. Long, luxurious black hair pulled back into a severe ponytail, falling to her waist behind. A gunslinger’s stance. Her earrings dangled near to her shoulders, and Julian did not need to see them to know they were the Raven Alliance insignia. One would hardly call her subtle.

Then again, he had to admit that she was a good fit for the bear of a man who waited on stage next to her. Julian would have recognized the broad back and great fall of curly dark hair from a hundred meters easy.

McKenna spotted Julian first, her sharp eyes missing nothing. She leaned in to Harrison, and whispered. The first prince turned just as Julian gained the stage, leaping easily up onto the sharp lip of gray-speckled rock, and Harrison made a show of studying the timepiece on his wrist before stepping forward to grip his champion in a strong, viselike handshake.

His full beard showed gray on the underside of the chin and in the sideburns, and his eyes had permanent laugh lines in the corners. Other than that, the sixty-five-year-old leader was aging well. There was no doubting the strength of his grip, which had contributed to his nickname of “The Bear,” or the good humor behind those heavy brown eyes, a joy that had been missing for too many years before Sterling’s arrival at court.

“About time, nephew,” the larger man said, his voice gruff but warm. Cousins, actually, but Julian had forever known Harrison as Uncle. “Would have started without you, too much longer.”

With so many from the palace press corps so close by, Julian forced a smile at the old saw. It wasn’t too hard. “I see you’re still wearing your own clothes.”

It was a public joke, for which Harrison himself was responsible. The prince generally preferred paramilitary uniforms with a noble’s cape of rank. Or, at least, that was the way his valet dressed him in the morning. But in parades and public meetings, he was prone to trade a dress jacket and starched button-down for a colorful T-shirt that caught his eye or was handed to him as a gift.

It was one of his more endearing traits, so far as the public was concerned. The line of “Harry Bears” brought out every month by Excalibur Collectibles always featured the prince’s latest fashion travesty.

Harrison’s mouth opened, then clamped shut against laughter. The prince did not take laughter lightly. His laugh came from deep in his chest, full of humor, and it would not be appropriate today.

He pumped his champion’s hand again. A public relations aide waved frantically from near the front of the stage as Harrison threw the ceremony’s stringent timing off, but the prince took the extra few seconds. “Good to see you, Julian.”

Julian wished he could return the salute, but not replying was the best way to clue in the prince that there was a problem to discuss. And better now than having to force a word in after the ceremony, when the press and the people would throng the stage and give the security detail fits as everyone called for a moment or memento of their prince. Julian remained quiet, letting a touch of strain show on his face.

For all his bluff and bluster, Harrison was no fool. He barely missed a beat, slapping Julian’s back with good-natured strength and pulling him toward the podium where the prince would make his announcement very soon.

A sidelong glance that lasted a single heartbeat. That was all.

Julian nodded.

“My dear,” Harrison called Sterling McKenna to him. He handed Julian off to the Alliance leader. “Would you watch my nephew for me? Make certain he does not get lost again.”

McKenna attached herself to Julian’s arm, drawing him back to one side, leaving the leader of the Federated Suns alone at the podium.

One of the most dangerous moments in any leader’s life, Julian knew. Even in Peace Park, where access was controlled and attendees had been screened by the best security team in the Inner Sphere. But Victor’s recent death (by violence, according to theEYES ONLY version of the report he’d read) had Julian more nervous than usual.

Victor Steiner-Davion had deserved to die in his bed. It bothered Julian that the paladin had been robbed of that. He’d earned the privilege, one so many Inner Sphere leaders seemed denied. With life expectancy well over one hundred for the ordinary man and woman, it said something that lives of past rulers averaged out somewhere less than seventy.

Julian’s father had pointed that out to him once, when Julian returned from a day of secondary schooling and asked why the family did not take full advantage of its birthright.

“Seventy!” he’d said. “I would rather look forward to another forty years or more with my family.”

Julian had looked it up himself. Sure enough, his father had been right. Inner Sphere leaders and their progeny, it seemed, were wise to avoid space travel, public speeches and gifts from their peers. They should never turn their backs on sparring instructors, a prisoner, or men who had been lifelong friends, and should greatly fear any enemy thought already dead. Stairwells and street corners were also among the known hazards. And under no circumstance should the leader of a House venture forth onto the battlefield to lead his armies to victory.

It just wasn’t a good idea.

So the prince’s champion scanned the crowds beyond the stage and the ropes, beyond the line of security service personnel who formed a living wall between their charge and the adoring public.

While Harrison stepped up to the forward edge of the podium, and clasped his hands behind his back.

“Thirty days,” he said without preamble, no doubt trying to make up for his late start. The soft buzz of quiet conversations fell away into total silence. “Thirty days of mourning for one of our own. And Victor Steiner-Davion was one of our own.”