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  Sheida frowned and then shrugged, drawing a smidgeon of power and running a lie detector test on the surface of the inspector's thoughts. There was no indication that he had any reservations about his story. He had some personal problems that were beating at him, though.

  "What's wrong?" Sheida asked. "You're calm on the surface but you're not so calm underneath."

  "It is . . . personal, ma'am," the inspector said, then sighed. "My wife and daughter are missing. I'm aware that most families were broken by the Fall, ma'am, but it doesn't make me any happier. Now that I'm back in contact with higher, I am hoping that I can search records to try to find them. The problem is . . . as far as I knew, my wife was in the Briton Isles at the Fall. What is worse, my daughter was in Ropasa visiting friends." He paused and then shrugged again. "Frankly, ma'am, I'm afraid that if New Destiny finds out who they are, and that I'm working for you, they will use it as a hold on me. If they do so . . ." He paused, his face hard. "I will be in a very uncomfortable position."

  "An uncomfortable position indeed," Sheida frowned. "For reasons that I'll get into in a moment, don't discuss that with anyone except myself. If you encounter anyone who knew you before the Fall, tell them that you have definite proof that both of them died during the Fall."

  "Yes, ma'am," Travante said, his face hard. "They might have."

  "I hope not," Sheida replied. "We have very few assets in Ropasa or the Briton Isles. I think it unwise, furthermore, to put out any sort of feelers about your wife and daughter. Our intelligence assets have been being . . . 'rolled up' is the term, compromised and just as often interrogated and then Changed, with unfortunate regularity."

  "In that case, ma'am," the inspector said, "please do not put out any feelers."

  "The unfortunate regularity is what I wish to discuss with you," Sheida said. "I'm beginning to suspect that while we have not been able to get much intelligence out of New Destiny's areas, the reverse is not the case." She summoned a holographic representation of Norau and pointed to a series of red dots.

  "While we can prevent Paul's associates from teleporting into our territory, we cannot prevent communications or avatars," she said. "But by the same token, since we've locked out virtually all programs under pass codes, we can detect when non-Coalition pass codes are being used, and non-Coalition avatars or projections are entering our territory. These are records of all such transmissions over the last six months."

  "That's . . . bad," Travante said, looking at the traces. They dotted the map like pustulant sores and were found wherever there were latter day concentrations of survivors. "This is just the last six months?"

  "Yes," Sheida frowned. "Some of them might be avatars appearing for a look at some occurrence. Paul still has a slight surplus of energy over ours and he is apparently using it for the development of intelligence."

  "Wise of him," Travante said. "Trying to throw it at your shields, unless it's extremely high power, would be a waste of assets."

  "But the problem is that we're losing agents," Sheida frowned. "And bleeding information to the enemy. You're not the first inspector to turn up, although you're the first Special. And I've set most of them on this problem. Eventually, I want you to have a close look at . . . possible problems in our higher command."

  "You mean in the Council?" Travante frowned.

  "No, I'm sure of all of our council members," Sheida replied. "I'd like you to investigate other possibilities. But before you do that . . . are you up for a long ride again?"

  "At your command, ma'am," the inspector said.

  "I want you to go back to Newfell Base," Sheida replied. "There's a mission being prepared there. We're definitely losing data from Newfell. There is probably more than one source. But I want you to insinuate yourself into the mission, probably as a sailor on the ship given your recent experience, and try to determine if there is an agent or agents amongst the crew. When you return from that mission, you'll probably stay at Newfell, or in the Fleet, pending the outcome of the investigation."

  "Yes, ma'am," the inspector said.

  "Just that?" Sheida smiled. "Back on horses and stagecoaches, all the way across the continent?"

  "How do I contact you, ma'am?" was all Travante asked.

  "Hold out your left wrist, face up," Sheida said. When he did she waved her fingers over his wrist and, for a moment, a picture of an eagle was superimposed on it as if by a tattoo, then faded.

  "If you need to contact me, touch the eagle and say or think my name," Sheida replied. "Sheida, Sheida Ghorbani, whatever. Just think of me. Edmund Talbot, who is a long-term friend and as trustworthy as they come, is going to be on the mission. If you need assistance, contact him. He will be informed that there is an agent of mine present. Try not to step on each other's toes."

  "I won't, ma'am," the agent said, rubbing his wrist. There had been no feeling to the invisible tattoo, but there was a psychosomatic tingle left behind.

  "As it turns out, you won't have to take the coaches back," Sheida said with a smile. "Although you might prefer it. There's a dragon, a wyvern rather, that is headed that way. He'll take you to Washan. You'll need to hop once you get there to make it to Fleet headquarters before the mission leaves."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "I will keep an inquiry out in my own awareness for your wife and daughter," Sheida said. "If I find any information about either of them, I will contact you."

  "Thank you," Travante said.

  "Harry will give you your traveling money and brief you on how to get more," Sheida said. "He's not aware of your mission; you're only going to be sent as far as Washan. Make the rest of the journey on your own."

  "Yes, ma'am," Travante said, standing up. "By your leave."

  "Good luck, Inspector," Sheida replied, standing up and touching his shoulder as she led him to the door. "I will pray for, and search for, your family."

  "And I will pray for you and yours," Travante said, his face changing into a mask of amiable competence as the door opened.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The walk to Duke Edmund's was mercifully uninterrupted. Herzer couldn't figure out, for most of the walk, what was wrong. He knew that he was feeling intensively antisocial but it was more than that. Raven's Mill was the town where, in many ways, he had grown up. Admittedly he spent less than a year in the town after the Fall, but he should have felt at home upon his return. God knew he'd thought longingly of getting back half the damned time he'd been at Harzburg.

  But for some reason "good feeling" just wouldn't come. For some reason the town felt like his uniform: Just a little too loose. Little changes, like a new sign over Tarmac's tavern, stood out and left him feeling even more irritable.

  Just as he reached the town hall he started to get a handle on the problem. Part of it was uncertainty about his future. The plans that had been sent to him during most of the Harzburg mission had spoken of bringing him back as a trainer. Not one of the sadistic madmen who ran the first phase—Herzer understood the importance of running the trainees into the ground while having no desire to perform the job himself—but as an instructor in the forming Officer Basic course. He was, in his opinion, more suited to taking the course, but the pool of trained officers was so small he could understand the need to throw him into the breach.

  However, the peremptory "return at earliest possible moment" did not bode well for a routine training assignment. What he particularly did not want was to run into someone who might ask him why he was back so soon. And be in the position of being able to satisfy neither their curiosity nor his own.

  As he approached the entrance to the town hall the two guards at the door braced to attention. Gone were the days of half-awake guardsmen with rusting weapons leaning up against the wall. The guards were permanent members drawn from the militia and trained with the Blood Lords. Just enough to know they didn't want to be Blood Lords was the joke. Blood Lord training and "winnowing" was merciless and even after a recruit passed the tests to join the fraternity, tra
ining continued unabated. Running up and down Raven Hill in full rucksacks was just the start of a daily regimen that was brutal to the point of sadism.

  But that, and a belief in teamwork that went all the way to the bone, meant that Blood Lords could outfight and, often more important, outmaneuver enemies that were their numerical superior. "Fight until you die and drop" was just one of their unofficial mottoes. And nobody fought like Blood Lords.

  He walked inside and took the left turn to Edmund's office but was stopped almost at the door by a secretary. That was another new iteration.

  "Can I help you?" the woman asked. She was faintly familiar but Herzer couldn't quite place her. Dark hair, just below median female height . . . nope, wasn't coming.

  "Herzer Herrick," Herzer replied. "I'm under orders to see Duke Edmund 'at the earliest possible moment.' "

  "He's very busy," the woman said with a sniff. Whoever she was, she didn't appear to recognize him either. "Why don't you just take a seat?"

  Herzer didn't bother to smile; he just took a parade rest position, hands behind his back, legs spread shoulder width apart, and simply looked at her.

  "Why don't you go tell Duke Edmund that I'm out here," he said in a totally neutral voice. He let his eyes do the rest. "Now."

  It was a technique he'd picked up from Gunny and as usual it worked. The woman was more than willing to pass the buck to someone who, she clearly hoped, might put him in his place. It wasn't the most politic way to deal with a petty-power-hungry functionary, but it tended to work.

  In this case the woman looked at him poisonously for a moment, then got up and knocked on the door.

  "Duke Edmund," she said, opening the door without a word from the interior, "a Herzer Herrick insists on seeing you immediately."

  "That's because I told him to, Crystal," Edmund replied, mildly. "Send him in."

  As Herzer walked through the door he remembered where he had met her before.

  "Nice to see you again, Crystal," he oozed insincerely as he stepped through the door. "How's Morgen?"

  He carefully shut the door behind him and then saluted with right fist to left breast.

  "Lieutenant Herrick reporting," he said neatly.

  "Can it, Herzer," Edmund growled, standing up and stepping to a cupboard. "Care to cut the trail dust?"

  "If you please, sir," Herzer replied. "What's with the Cerberus at the gates?"

  "She's anything but a dog," Edmund replied. "But whether she knows it or not, she's temporary. I had a protégée of June's holding down the desk but she's on maternity leave." He handed the lieutenant a glass dark with liquor. "Salut!"

  "Blood and steel," Herzer replied, taking a sip. "Very mellow."

  "Laid it down nearly thirty years ago," Edmund replied. "It should be."

  Herzer observed Sir the Honorable General Edmund Talbot, duke of Overjay, carefully but could see little sign of change in the last year. The duke was heavy-set with a full beard and a shaved head. He was wearing gray linen trousers and a blue tunic of a fine woolen material, the edging of which was embroidered in yellow. The clothing was worn smooth from use but had the look of being comfortable clothing rather than old. He could have been anything from a hundred to two hundred years old, judging by the fine lines on his face and the flaccid skin on his forearms, but Herzer knew he was closer to three hundred. He had a solid, calm look that he somehow projected to those around him. Wherever the duke went, even if it was in the middle of a battle, chaos lessened and order followed. It was another trick, like his ability to pitch his voice to be heard above a battle and the knack of always knowing where to be, that Herzer was desperately trying to figure out.

  "You're wondering why I called you in so abruptly but we really should wait until . . ." the duke said, then paused as the door opened.

  "It's fine, we know him," Daneh Ghorbani said as she stepped through the door. "I sleep with him every night, he won't mind me barging in."

  Doctor Ghorbani was middle tall for a female, perhaps a meter and three quarters, with long red hair that was currently braided down her back. She was heavily bosomed and inclining to a plumpness that was decidedly odd in the post-Fall society. Prior to the Fall human genetics had been tinkered with to such an extent that all but minimum fashionable body fat tended not to form. She wasn't fat; the term "padded" came to mind, and on her it looked good. She, like her paramour Edmund, seemed to project a field of calmness around her, even when putting down annoying underlings. And she looked well, which Herzer found, to his surprise, was of sudden immense importance.

  She was followed by what could have been her younger sister but was in fact her daughter. Unlike her mother, Rachel Ghorbani was anything but calm.

  "Father, you have to get rid of that insufferable woman," she said hotly as soon as the door was closed.

  "So I've been told," Edmund replied with a smile. "Daneh? A glass of wine?"

  "Isn't it a little early?" Dr. Ghorbani asked, glancing at the drinks in their hands.

  "I'm sure the sun is over the yardarm somewhere in the world," Duke Edmund replied, pouring a glass of wine that caught the light through the window like a ruby.

  "Yes, thank you, Father, I will have some," Rachel said, acerbically.

  "Of course." Edmund chuckled, pouring another glass and handing them to the women. "A toast: to a smooth sea and a fair journey."

  "What journey?" Rachel blurted out.

  "The one that Herzer and I, at a minimum, are going to be taking."

  * * *

  Chansa snarled and shook his head as the modeling projection completed its run. No matter how many times he ran the model, the current projections made invasion of Norau impossible.

  The room that he worked in was low and cramped for his huge bulk, a subbasement under the council chambers that had only recently been found and reopened. It wasn't that he'd been relegated to a subbasement, it was simply that lately it fit his mood. Let Celine scamper about her laboratories and Paul create his insane workrooms to "do the work of the people." This tiny room controlled more raw power than any other room on earth. But with all that power, he still couldn't make the impossible possible.

  It wasn't a matter of forces. The implementation of the Change program, while hampered by the various program lock-outs that bitch Sheida had started, was continuing apace. And the Changed males made more than adequate soldiers, while their females were sturdy enough to do most of the drudgery of food supplying. And arms were not an issue, either. Not only did Ropasa have supplies of them for historical reasons, inserting the same sort of training as the combat and farming training of the Changed was not difficult. A special class of Changed had been created that made excellent artisans.

  No, the problem was logistics.

  Lifting his entire force would leave Ropasa stripped of garrisons. Not only did that mean that Coalition forces could make strikes against them, it also meant being unable to prevent internal revolt, which was a very real problem among the Unchanged. Second of all, supplying that entire force over nearly two thousand kilometers of ocean was chancy at best. Impossible if there was any coherent resistance. And the likelihood of such resistance was high.

  So any invasion would have to be attempted with less than his full force. Since projections showed that less than the full force would be inadequate to destroy current Norau forces, something had to be done.

  Thus far the attempts to weaken the United Free States had been failures. If anything they had left them stronger. First the disaster with Dionys, which still left him cringing, then other attempts to take over territory had been stymied. There were neutrals in Norau, groups resisting integration to the UFS, but by the same token they also resisted aligning themselves with New Destiny. And projections showed that at the current rate of UFS increases in manpower and military buffering there was no point at which an invasion had better than a fifty-fifty chance of succeeding.

  It was maddening.

  He looked up as an avatar of the Demon appeare
d, and tried not to grimace. Just what he needed.

  "Yes, Lord Demon?" he asked. The Demon was, like his namesake, a fairly chaotic entity. It always paid to stay on his good side, such as there was.

  "I understand you suffered another setback in Norau?" the Demon rumbled. It was impossible to tell what the actual person looked like under the black armor, other than being an outsized humanoid. The armor was full articulated plate from the horns on the helmet, through the tusks, down to the talons on the boots. The rumor was that the being underneath was simply a smaller version. "Would you care to detail it?"

  "Not particularly," Chansa said bitterly, then shrugged. "Harzburg is a town with some strategic importance to one scenario of an invasion of Norau. I attempted to take over the town using proxies. I supplied them with a small amount of power and some arms as well as guidance. They attempted to take over the town. They failed."

  "Edmund Talbot again?" the Demon said, soothingly.

  "He sent one, one damned Blood Lord, and a year's work went down the drain!"

  "The man is incorrigible," the Demon replied. "But he does train good subordinates. I have always found that choice of subordinates is important in any endeavor. The Council, for all its strengths, has been a group that had little in the way, or need, of subordinates, so it is not surprising that you have less . . . experience with the handling of them. In that regard," he continued, gesturing in the air as another avatar appeared, "might I commend the services of my protégé, Brother Conner."

  "You do me great honor in the term, lord," the man said. He was tall but apparently entirely unChanged with a lean, ascetic look and less than his first century in age. Dark hair fell to midshoulder length. He was almost normal until you looked at his eyes, the irises of which were almost perfectly white. His pupils were tiny black dots in the middle of them.

  "You are too kind, Lord Demon," Chansa said after a moment. "But I'm not sure what to do with him."

  "I would suggest that you do what you do best, prepare the armies of New Destiny for the invasion," the Demon replied acerbically. "And let Conner handle the destabilization. He has . . . experience in these matters."