Phelan stood over him and sucked at his bruised knuckles. "Sorry, Lajos, but the ilKhan did say the battle was joined when we left the elevators. I would fight you straight up, but not with the way you are hurting. Bloodright contest or not, I do not have to baptize it with blood every step of the way."

* * *

Phelan shuddered as he studied the datascreen again. Pale lines of green scrolled up over his face as his eyes darted from line to line in a vain search for anything that would prove him wrong. This cannot be. It is impossible.

Phelan had set out carefully to pierce the mystery of the Precentor Martial's identity. He wrote out all he knew for certain about the man, then ranked the information according to its veritableness and the strength of the sources. Anything he knew from the Precentor Martial himself, Phelan rated highly, though he reserved final judgment until he knew whether the man might have been lying for his own purposes.

He resolved to apply Occam's Razor: the simplest solution to the problem would most likely be correct. Phelan discovered quickly, however, that the problem had no simple solution or, at least, no simple solution he could accept and turn over to the ilKhan. The easiest answer was, of course, that Focht had been raised and educated by ComStar for his position, and that anything he had said about his past was a cover story to hide the fact that ComStar had been training warriors for a long time.

The door to Phelan's chamber opened and Ulric entered, appearing ghostlike in the circle of light cast by Phelan's desk lamp. "I have just come from the infirmary," the ilKhan said. "Lajos is chagrined at his defeat, but I think he is pleased to still be alive. I also spoke with the doctors about Glynis, who they say may have turned the corner. She is still in a coma, but her body is healing."

Phelan smiled. "I am pleased they will live. My thanks for the news."

The ilKhan smiled politely. "I am glad if it eases your mind. Of course, Conal Ward accuses you of treachery in winning the last fight the way you did. He wanted me to bring it to the adjudication of the Clan Council, but I overruled him. I pointed out that you had the choice of style in the decision, and that you acted within the letter of the law surrounding Bloodright contests."

The younger MechWarrior sighed. "So Conal has branded me a cheat as well as a freebirth? I suppose he wanted me killed and Lajos placed in the contest in my stead? Is he so worried that Vlad may not be able to beat me?"

The ilKhan suppressed a grin. "Conal has been most vocal about your perfidy, but Lajos is in no condition to fight. I told Conal that someone from House Ward would certainly nominate Lajos in the next Bloodright for a Ward Bloodname, so he has not been damaged."

"As for Conal being worried about Vlad, I would not place too much stock in that idea." Ulric stoked his goatee. "The two people fighting for the chance to oppose Vlad in the next round have managed to kill each other, so he has a bye. As of now, Vlad is in the final battle, barring death or injury on the battlefield."

"That will never happen." Phelan shook his head. "My luck is not that good."

"No, indeed." The ilKhan pointed at the computer on Phelan's desk. "Now, what is this about a possible solution to the mystery of Anastasius Focht? Tell me everything so I can follow your reasoning."

The young MechWarrior glanced down at his notes, taking a moment to mentally compose what he was going to say. "The way I began was with the base Gus Michaels created before you sent him off to Alyina. From that, Focht would be, at most, one hundred years old. He seems obviously male, but the possibility of a sex-change was not discounted. The lost eye is a possible battle injury. Though it would have ended his career as a fighting soldier, he could still continue in a command capacity. We also know that he first surfaced in ComStar a dozen years ago, speaks German like a native of the Lyran Commonwealth, and that he may have spent some time at the Nagelring. Focht also told me he met my father once."

"Not much to go on," Ulric said quietly.

"True, but it was enough to get started. Knowing Focht is an alias, or at least operating from that assumption, I ran the records for every cadet and graduate of the Nagelring from the last eighty years. Screening them for height and other Bertillon measurements, that brought me down to just over a thousand candidates."

The ilKhan leaned forward with interest, clasping his hands around one knee. "You cross-referenced thos& individuals with their careers to see who had lived or died in combat, quiaff?"

"Aff, my Khan. We included those listed as missing in action, even if they were lost in skirmishes well before the Fourth Succession War. The Fourth War cost us all but a few candidates, and follow-up on those individuals led to a dead end. Nothing."

Phelan tapped the computer screen with a knuckle. "That made me wonder about the search parameters we'd put into the program-sifting data. I ran up another set of search parameters to check for a known quantity: me. I had the computer search for me in the same way it looked for whoever Focht might be."

"And?"

"It came up blank!" Phelan's smile broadened. "I enlarged the search parameters by deleting the Bertillon stuff and adding the Kell surname. It came up with my father, but ignored me and my uncle Patrick. That was because, according to the ComStar and Lyrcom data sets we're using, Patrick and I are dead."

"But you are alive. So, it would appear, is the Precentor Martial." Ulric tugged reflectively on his goatee. "You changed the search parameters, quiaff?"

"Aff. I stayed with our core of a thousand candidates and started filtering for wild cards. Focht once mentioned staying at the Lestrade estate on Summer, so I sorted for individuals who had served in units stationed on Summer or folks connected in some way with Aldo Lestrade. That cut our pool by half."

Phelan counted down on his fingers. "A comment Focht once made led me to believe he'd lost his eye in the Fourth Succession War. As I'd already checked all the people who had survived the war, I concentrated on the dead and missing from that war. I also tried to cross-correlate into the equation any contacts with my father or joint service with him. By mistake, I also included social contacts in that latter line of code—I'd copied it from the Lestrade parameters and just changed the name—and got a most interesting narrowing of candidates.

"Significantly, all were listed as either dead or missing in action."

The ilKhan leaned forward as Phelan's story unfolded. "You worked to verify the deaths of those on the list, quiaff?"

The MechWarrior nodded. "Death certificates, autopsy reports, gravestones, whatever. The genealogical data base we picked up from Domain helped enormously. While looking through it, I found a nice little memorial marker for myself on Arc-Royal."

Though Phelan tried to make the comment come off irreverently, the words caught in his throat. It wasn't being thought dead that bothered him so much as the thought of the grief it must be causing his family. The Wolf Clan had very much become his new family, but he still loved his blood relations and regretted any pain they suffered on his account.

"I cannot imagine that was a pleasant experience, Phelan."

"It was not, ilKhan, but fortunately, it sparked a memory." Phelan punched a request for data into the computer and the image of a great marble and granite mausoleum appeared on the screen. Carved into the black marble and outlined with gold leaf was the word "Steiner."