“There will be no talks today,” announced Sebhat, unable to hide the glee in his voice. “There will be no talks at all.”
Like a skilled actor, Aaron kept absolute control of his public self—every gesture, every expression. He leaned back, giving the appearance of being calm, and placed the fingertips of both hands together in front of him. He waited. Sebhat smiled. Obviously, Aaron was expected to make the next move.
“May I ask why?”
“We will not be joining your coalition, if indeed any such entity comes to pass, as Lord Governor Golan has just signed a nonaggression pact with House Liao.”
Sebhat seemed startled when Aaron began to laugh. Not a polite chuckle, but an honest belly laugh that had him slapping his thigh. A minute or more passed before the laughter faded, and Aaron wiped a bit of moisture from his right eye. “A nonaggression pact? And what concessions did you make in order to secure this valuable piece of paper?”
Sebhat’s smile was gone. He looked down his nose at Aaron, seeming, if anything, slightly offended. “There were no concessions.”
Aaron laughed again, but in a more controlled manner this time. “House Liao agreed to bypass your fat, juicy, under-defended little Prefecture out of the goodness of their hearts? I don’t believe for a second they’d even pretend to make such an agreement without some major tribute thrown their way.
“What was it? Bases on New Canton? Maybe”—he grinned in a manner calculated to provoke—“the Lord Governor’s virgin daughter?”
“That’s enough.” Sebhat was close to shouting as he stood, pushing his heavy chair back so that it almost toppled over. His hands flared out at his sides, like a fictional frontiersman reaching for his pistols. Aaron wondered if the nickel-plated monstrosity of an automatic in his holster was even loaded, and if Sebhat could hit the broad side of a DropShip if it was.
“I was just asking,” said Aaron, his voice even.
Sebhat’s eye twitched. He let out a deep breath, air whistling through his nose. “If you must know, the Lord Governor has gifted the Capellans with the worlds of Second Try and Yunnah, a small concession to avoid open warfare on the capital world.”
Aaron snorted. “If you met a wolf, Sebhat, would you try to placate him by hacking off pieces of your own flesh? You’re only delaying the inevitable, and saving Chancellor Daoshen the trouble of crushing your inferior forces before rolling past. They’ll be back, and you’ll be licking the Chancellor’s boots by December.”
“You’re a fine one to talk, Sandoval. House Liao has won battle after battle, world after world. You expect us to rally round the banner of House Davion, or whoever you really serve, after one victory?”
Aaron maintained his best poker face when Sebhat mentioned House Davion, but he was surprised. If Sebhat knew, or even suspected, that Aaron was no longer loyal to The Republic, so might others. It was inevitable that it would eventually become common knowledge, but Aaron had hoped to control that. Perhaps he had waited too long.
Sebhat sneered. “You’re a fool, Sandoval. You’re finished, and you don’t even know it yet.” He drew himself up to his full height, tugging at his uniform coat to straighten it. “You have one hour’s safe passage to have your DropShip clear of New Canton soil. After that time, you will be considered an unwelcome hostile and held for collection by House Liao.”
It was Aaron’s turn to look indignant. He stood and leaned forward on the table with both hands, feeling a slight slick of sweat between his palms and the cool glass. “That’s barely time to get through traffic to the spaceport, much less pack.”
“One hour. This is more courtesy than you deserve. Your DropShip has already been notified to make ready for takeoff upon your arrival.”
The Duke felt Paxton’s powerful hand on his shoulder. “My Lord, we should leave.”
Aaron turned and nodded to his bodyguard, then glanced back at Sebhat. “You’re the Capellans’ lapdog now, Sebhat. I hope they at least feed you well.”
Paxton’s hand tightened slightly, giving the distinct impression that its full force could break bones. “My Lord.”
“Fifty-nine minutes, Sandoval.”
Aaron allowed Paxton to push him toward the door. He noticed that Paxton shielded him with his body from behind, then at the moment they reached the door, brushed past him to move through first. Suddenly clarity returned, and he remembered why he’d hired Paxton, and why he dreaded the thought of losing such a skilled protector.
They rushed down the palace’s corridors, Aaron close to the wall, Paxton looming over him like an umbrella, whispering instructions into a hidden microphone in his sleeve, watching every doorway and potential hiding place with professional suspicion.
Aaron felt himself relax, becoming no more than a parcel in Paxton’s capable care. Whatever happened next, it was out of his hands. That realization freed part of his mind to review those last moments in the meeting room.
He cursed his own weakness. He’d allowed emotion to get the best of him, lost control in his desire to get the last word. It was beneath him to covet such a meaningless gesture. Sebhat’s day would come very soon, he knew. He’d make sure of it.
They turned a corner, and Deena Onan fell in with them, a small leather overnight bag clutched in her hands. Doubtless she had scooped up a few of his personal belongings from the palace guest suite, those items with some sentimental or historic value that could not easily be replaced. To Aaron’s recollection, he had arrived at the palace with two steamer trunks, four suitcases, and probably a half-dozen smaller cases and portable items, not counting Onan’s or Paxton’s personal luggage. He added those items to the mental ledger sheet that he was tallying against New Canton.
Paxton pushed him firmly through the two-story lobby attached to the side entrance. A ground limousine waited outside. Paxton pushed Aaron against a door pillar before stepping outside briefly to assess the situation. Then he pulled them out into the open air. Aaron could smell apple blossoms and hear motor traffic beyond the palace walls. The sky was a cloudless blue-green, and New Canton’s largest moon was a ghostly crescent just above the gates.
Paxton put his hand on Aaron’s head, pushing him down into the car. Paxton was next, holding Deena’s hand as he pulled her in after him. She slipped into the seat next to Aaron, and Paxton lighted—he wasn’t settled enough to call it sitting—on the jump seat across from Aaron. He half-turned and tapped on the ferro-glass that separated them from the driver. The ground car lurched out of the portico with a screech of rubber, whipped up the curved drive, and rushed through the gates while they were still opening.
The car merged into heavy morning traffic, moving rapidly, but boxed in on all sides. Paxton glanced at his watch, then gestured at the seat belts. “Fasten yourselves in. This could get exciting.”
Brakes squealed as they cut off another car getting on the expressway. There was a crunch and the sound of breaking glass behind them as the swerving car struck another in the next lane. Their limousine smoothly accelerated away from the accident.
“Do tell,” said Aaron.
The glacial lake was breathtakingly beautiful, surrounded by towering walls of striated rock as raw and jagged as though they had been thrown out of the ground only yesterday. The water was still and dark—a mirror that reflected the cloudless sky, making the ’Mech-sized icebergs look as if they were floating in air.
Erik Sandoval was not here to sightsee. Recon patrols had found fresh ’Mech tracks in the high mountain valley below here. There was reason to believe a few isolated Capellan units, separated from their column during the previous day’s fighting in the pass a thousand feet below them, had retreated into this frigid wasteland.