“Repair what you can,” the Countess said to Colonel Ballantrae, first thing on entering. “We’ll need to fight again today. Reload. And Captain Bishop has some news.”

Bishop knew a cue when she heard one. “The mercenaries are refusing to join our fight against the Steel Wolves,” she said. “They say that they’re doing it—or rather, not doing it—on the orders of Paladin Crow.”

The Countess added, thin-lipped, “Which raises the question: Where is Crow?”

“I’ve been asking that same thing ever since you left,” Ballantrae said. “I have a sighting from very early this morning, the blocking force in the center. He passed through the lines toward the DropPort, in his Blade. He hasn’t come back or been seen since.”

“So he’s gone over to the Steel Wolves,” Captain Bishop said. “Who’d have thought it?”

Ballantrae shook his head. “Maybe. Or maybe not. A civilian DropShip lifted from the port around forty-five minutes later.”

The Countess of Northwind’s lips curled back in a snarl. “Running away. Leaving us to our fate, after first making sure that we couldn’t win.”

“It’s always possible that he left Northwind in order to bring help,” Bishop said, in the interest of fairness. “With the HPG net down, we can’t just send out a message calling for aid. Somebody has to go look for it in person.”

“Stop making excuses for the man,” the Countess said. “You yourself told me that he’d ordered Farrell’s men to fight against us.”

“We don’t know for certain that he gave those orders,” Bishop said. “Just that Jack Farrell said he did.”

“And Ezekiel Crow hired Jack Farrell. The mercenaries were his idea from the beginning.”

“The devil take him, then,” said Colonel Ballantrae. “Him and The Republic of the Sphere. If this is how they treat their friends, we’re better off without both of them.”

“Northwind against all?” The Countess’s voice was bitter. “What makes us better than the Steel Wolves then?”

“Damn,” said the Colonel, with feeling.

“We’re going to catch up with Ezekiel Crow,” the Countess promised. “When we do, he and I will discuss the matter. And after our discussion, there’ll be need for only one cup and saucer at teatime.” She drew a deep breath, and Captain Bishop could sense her resolve to consider the subject closed. “On to other matters, then. What about General Griffin?”

“He’s signaled that he’s rolling,” Colonel Ballantrae said. “With everything that he’s got, or at least, everything that he can send.”

“How much?”

“Without the gear that’s too heavy for air transport—not enough for a pitched battle against the mercs and the Wolves, out in the open.”

“Not enough to save the city, then,” the Countess said. “But enough to break us out, maybe, and let us hole up in the Rockspires until the Highlanders offworld can launch a counterattack.”

“Any reports yet of attacks from Farrell’s mercs?” Bishop asked Colonel Ballantrae.

The Colonel shook his head. “That’s a negative.”

“When will Griffin be here?” the Countess asked.

“Twelve hours.”

“I once asked him for a day,” she said. “Now it’s time for me to give him that day back.”

“What do you mean?” Bishop asked.

“I’m going to talk to Anastasia Kerensky, woman to woman,” the Countess said. “Send her the message. Ask for a parley.”

45

Steel Wolf Field HQ

Tara DropPort

Tara

Northwind

February 3134; local winter

So far, Ian Murchison had spent the battle for Tara in the sick bay on Anastasia Kerensky’s DropShip, talking shop with the Steel Wolf medics to keep his mind off what was going down outside, and helping with the casualties as they came in. That much, at least, he could do without a conflict of loyalties—injured flesh was injured flesh, no matter which side it belonged to. So far, casualties had been light. The Steel Wolf medics didn’t say, but Murchison understood enough to know that this meant only that the big push into the city was yet to come.

He was assisting a Steel Wolf medic named Barden in the messy job of inserting a tube into a sucking chest wound when Anastasia Kerensky strode into the sickbay. He didn’t register her appearance until they had finished punching through the patient’s chest wall and inserting the tube. Then he looked up and saw her standing in the doorway, her arms crossed, glaring at them impatiently.

Barden sketched a salute—not even a Steel Wolf Clansman was foolish enough to give the full thing when his latex-gloved hand was still slick with blood and other bodily substances. Murchison, for his part, gave the curt but respectful nod he’d come around to using in lieu of anything more formal and military.

As usual, it seemed to satisfy her. “Bondsman Murchison.”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Make yourself presentable. The Countess of Northwind summons me to parley, and I want you standing with me when she comes.”

“Stage-dressing, ma’am?”

Across the examining table from him, Barden looked shocked. Murchison, however, had come to understand that the only way to keep Anastasia Kerensky’s respect—and her respect, so far as he could tell, was all that had kept him alive in the first place—was to push back as hard and as often as custom and the broad gap between their ranks allowed.

“An object lesson, Bondsman. Get moving—we have not got much time.”

Anastasia’s impatience was enough for Barden to let Murchison clean up and change in the sick bay locker room, and to bring him clean clothes to replace the bloodstained scrubs that he’d been wearing when she arrived. His hair was still damp from the shower when he joined her outside the sickbay door, but she only flicked her gaze up and down him once and said, “You will do. Come.”

The parley turned out not to be live and face-to-face at all, but done over real-time tri-vid link—neither commander, it seemed, was willing to leave her own territory, and the streets of the city did not offer much in the way of open neutral ground. Despite Anastasia’s impatience, the setup took time. The Steel Wolf technicians set up their tri-vid cameras and sound equipment in her field headquarters out on the DropPort landing field, with a full-size display unit that looked too big to have come with the DropShips at all—Murchison suspected that the techs had appropriated it from one of the passenger waiting lounges in the captured DropPort concourse.

Finally, the prep work was finished. Anastasia Kerensky took her position standing on an X that the Steel Wolf technicians had marked on the landing field tarmac, with Murchison standing a little behind her and to the right.

The Steel Wolf technician in charge said something in a low tone over her headset voice pickup—presumably to her Highlander opposite number—and then, more loudly, “On the air in three. Three… two… one… time.”

The display unit clouded, swirled, and cleared to show the Countess of Northwind and another officer—some kind of aide, Murchison supposed—standing in an impressive stone-and-wood great hall that matched pictures Murchison had seen of the Fort at Tara. The Steel Wolf tech fiddled with her controls and brought the image up closer, until Anastasia and the Countess might have been standing only feet apart.

Anastasia Kerensky said, “Countess.”

“Galaxy Commander.” Tara Campbell’s voice and expression gave away nothing; Murchison couldn’t tell from her demeanor whether the day was going well or ill for the Highlanders in the city.

“You called for this parley. Say what you have to say—we waste time, otherwise.”

At this, Tara Campbell gave a grim smile. “I wasn’t born yesterday, Galaxy Commander. Your troops will appreciate the breathing space as much as mine. And we can always go back to killing each other when we’re done.” She seemed at this point to notice Ian Murchison for the first time, and spoke to him directly. “You’re no Steel Wolf, man—not with that Northwind face on you. What’s your name?”