Pawns

Hira, January 4995 A.D.

True to military traditions that were old when human beings first ventured into space, the briefing had dragged out hours longer than anticipated, and the Marquesa, one Claudia Hephaesta Castenda de Thierry, felt quite certain she would go mad before it ended.

     Between the insufferable heat of the fetid jungle outside, and the equally insufferable droning of that pompous fool Baron Lázaro, her patience had worn thin. Thin? As an adjective, that term was woefully inadequate. Nothing more than a filmy gauze of self control was left to restrain the ire which had earned her a reputation for a short fuse—even among the notoriously hot-blooded Hazat.

     At the moment the Baron was detailing the strategic goals attained in the last week's fighting, standing before before the magnificent mahogany table at which most of the staff were seated. Claudia was likewise on her feet, too ennervated to remain seated. Leaving only her lovely profile revealed to those at the conference table, she ran her fingers over the pieces of an ancient chess set; one of the spoils of war taken along with the rest of the furnishings within the airy chambers of this manse, its pieces were midnight-black jet and ruddy-hued crimson coral, clearly carved by the hand of a master artisan. Exquisite in the realistic detail of their exotic armors and weapons, one might almost imagine the figures to have been modeled on actual people—perhaps inhabitants of Hira, now centuries dead. She plucked a pawn from his place at the front rank of the red army and peered into the face visible below his peaked helm. A soldier who fought and died for some Kurgan master, both long since dust? A subtle reminder that all things die, even the suns themselves. Once the suns had faded to cinders, would her army's victories on Hira matter to anyone?

     Baron Lázaro's voice rose in volume, penetrating her morbid musings, and her irritation rose along with it. He had raised his voice intentionally, no doubt—a pointed indictment of her apparent inattention. Restoring the pawn to his place, the Marquesa stalked away from the chess board with sulky grace and began to pace around the table, circling with the restless energy of a hungry black panther.

     In spite of the impatient air she affected, Claudia did keep an ear attuned to the Baron's report. She was Hazat, after all, and it was the victories of her army that he tallied, albeit reduced to mere numbers and names now, lists of miles gained and villages occupied—stripped of the glory attained in the moment of victory itself. Like many of her martial house, it was for this state of transcendence, this elusive epiphany called glory, that she lived. To feel the pounding of the blood rushing through her veins—blood heady with a stew of adrenaline and endorphins—as an enemy lay broken and beaten at her feet after a long, desperate battle. There was no greater pleasure.

     It was better even than sex.

     Yet she was stuck here, miles from the front lines, little better than a bureaucrat armed with a sabre, as her soldiers struck blow after blow in the service of the Talon. Her soldiers. She longed to be with them, striving side by side with them as they wrested Hira from the grip of the Kurgan infidels. It was not to be. Someone had to stay behind and direct the battles from afar, keeping the larger picture in sight so that the end objectives were not lost in the passionate haze of battle-fervor. This task fell to a handful of the Hazat's best field commanders, a worthy company among whom she herself numbered. The Marquesa had demonstrated her innate grasp of strategy time and again during the Emperor Wars, at first in the defense of her native Sutek. Later, she took part in the short-lived Hazat occupation of Byzantium Secundus, and a brief campaign in support of the Decados on distant Cadiz. Among her peers she was hailed as a brilliant tactician and strategist, but the price for this fame was that she had come to be regarded as a resource too valuable to be placed in jeopardy on the battlefield. This was a source of considerable frustration.

     Claudia's restless pacing took her near the balcony, and she paused there to look out over the town that served as temporary headquarters for the legion under her command. An island of domed clay structures, beehive-like in appearance, huddled at the heart of cleared fields in the midst of the rainforest. Looking more like the nests of giant insects than the abode of men, this community had been liberated from the Caliphate mere weeks ago. The front had moved on as the Hazat pressed forward with their advance into the continent of Juruta, and the town now lay far behind the lines. Here they were safe from ground assault, although the Kurgans still carried out occasional bombing raids with their ever dwindling air force. These were little more than futile gestures, for the Caliph's forces had no more hope of ousting the Hazat from Hira now than . . . well, than the Hazat did of seizing the throne from Alexius Hawkwood. At the moment there were few Hazat bold enough to more than whisper of that mind-numbing defeat which loomed on the horizon, as inevitable as the fading of the suns.

     That defeat had been sealed at Jericho, the moon that now served as an airless tomb for the Hazat legionnaires sent to reconquer Byzantium Secundus—slaughtered in a blaze of light alongside their Decados allies when the moon's fusion generators detonated. That satellite might well have been Claudia's tomb as well, for her troops had been scheduled to take part in that invasion. At the last minute her legion had been diverted to Hira to hold the Kurgans at bay.

     A scowl twisted Claudia's refined visage, and her dark-eyed gaze flicked toward Lázaro in irritation. Now the fool was blathering on about the need to win the populace to the Hazat cause, through acts of mercy and goodwill. With a snort of contempt she stalked back to the great mahogany table, her boots ringing on the tile floor, and the eyes of every Hazat seated there turned toward her. She was accustomed to such attention; tall, athletic of build, with the copper-kissed hair often seen among the Hazat of Sutek and a complexion as pale and smooth as heavy cream, the Marquesa was a woman few would have the temerity to ignore even were they ignorant of her reputation. The tight-fitting sable garb she favored, black silks and leathers tailored to emphasize her sculpted physique, greatly enhanced the effect of her presence—although there were no few who muttered behind her back of unseemly Decados influence evident in her choice of fashion.

     "We cannot afford to waste our time with such meaningless gestures," she snapped at the Baron. "The Kurgans flee before us, yielding ground by the day. We must not allow them time to regroup their forces and counterattack; we will press forward until they are broken."

     The eyes of the Hazat at the table swung toward the Baron, eager now to see how he would receive this rebuke. Lázaro merely stood there calmly, the expression on his dusky face one of long-suffering patience. "Your Excellency," he offered evenly in reply, "we run the risk of overextending ourselves, and leaving our lines of supply vulnerable to attack by Kurgan infiltrators or even native insurgents. Is it not better that we show the people a measure of honor, that they might show us honor in turn? If the Hirans believe we have taken their welfare to heart, they will be less inclined to support saboteurs in their midst. Already have we won many valuable allies to our cause here, among the kingdoms disaffected with Kurgan rule. With each one that joins us the day that Hira will be ours draws immeasurably closer."

     The Baron's argument was a persuasive one, and Claudia could see its effect in the eyes of her older commanders. This came as no surprise; Lázaro likewise had a long and proud military record, having served honorably—some might even say heroically—in numerous battles during the course of the Emperor Wars. Tall, lean, and hard, with wise gray eyes, weathered brown skin, and raven hair streaked with gray, he seemed the very model of a Hazat noble—a warrior born and bred. It was only natural for his peers to look upon him with respect.

     Though the Marquesa looked to be the Baron's junior, she was in fact a decade older than he; in concession to her vanity, she had taken steps to preserve her youthful appearance, to sustain the beauty that had turned heads since she the day she first appeared at the court of then-Duchess Amanda Sorel Victoriana Castenda de Sutek. Claudia had employed her physical charms to good effect, to win favors and friends, and she now wielded them to sway her younger officers.

     Her dark eyes swept over the faces of these brash, ambitious knights, meeting the gaze of each in turn as mocking laughter pealed from her lips. "Honor, my lord Baron?" she cooed impishly, her lithe body swaying provocatively as she sashayed around the table. "Why, you sound more Dulcinea than Castenda. Are you sure your mother identified your father correctly?"

     Lázaro stiffened at that slight, those sage eyes narrowing dangerously. Aha! So, there were chinks in the Baron's vaunted calm after all. There was a moment of tense silence at the table as the nobles gathered there waited to see if the gauntlet would be thrown down over these words, yet Claudia broke the silence herself, neatly forestalling such an outcome.

     "I jest, of course, my Lord," she said quickly, flashing a charming smile as she offered a gracious dip of her head toward the Baron. "Merely injecting a measure of levity to lighten the mood here. Forgive me for doing so at your expense?" After an almost imperceptible hesitation, the Baron offered a grudging nod. The tense expectation in the air dissipated quickly, mere smoke dispelled by a breath of fresh wind. Yet in no few of the eyes watching her Claudia noted a certain disappointment; the Hazat do so love their duels.

     Moving to stand beside the Baron now, the Marquesa let her gaze wander over the faces of her commanders. "We stand on the brink, victory almost within our grasp," she asserted, her words ringing with confidence. "We must sustain our resolve, and press forward to seize the glory that awaits us. We win allies among the Hirans not through mercy or generosity, but through our unswerving commitment to victory, at any cost. They see that through such discipline we will capture this world, in the end, and they flock to the winning side." She looked then to Lázaro, an earnest gleam flashing in her dark eyes. "It is discipline that will carry the day, not kindness."

     Baron Lázaro offered another grudging nod to her words, though from the corner of her eye Claudia could see that the reactions of her commanders—especially the youngest ones—were far more enthusiastic. One of them in particular, a dusky young knight of comely visage, stared at her with unabashed admiration in his black eyes. She rewarded this loyalty by meeting his gaze for a moment, her full lips curved with a seductive little smile that seemed to promise . . . something. As the knight averted his gaze, a faint blush coloring his dark cheeks, Claudia's eyes moved on to another officer, and she was likewise favored with that provocative smile which might, in fact, portend nothing at all. Claudia did not notice the disapproving glare that Lázaro cast behind her back at the blushing knight.

The meeting reached its conclusion once the last of the week's casualty reports had been read aloud. A somber note on which to close, but one demanded by tradition; the proud soldiers who sacrificed their lives in the service of the Hazat must always be honored. As often occurred in the wake of this solemn homage, the officers lingered for a time to share a few minutes of fellowship, to reaffirm life and light in the midst of death—even honored death. Most were gathered in small knots of two or three, conversing quietly as they sipped from the Marquesa's stock of golden Sutekan wine, but those held in thrall to the Marquesa's charisma huddled close around her. Satellites basking in the warmth of a sun that had yet to fade like so many others.

     These adoring fans were, notably, the youngest of Claudia's officers, those most eager to win titles, fame, and land, most eager to savor the sweet taste of glory. Among these was the blushing knight whom she had favored with a smile, listening now with rapt attention as she recounted the sack of Byzantium Secundus early in the Wars. The way he hung upon her every word, one might imagine them pearls of wisdom delivered from the Empyrean itself.

     Claudia did not recognize him at first—after all, there were many knights under her command. As his admiration became impossible to ignore, however, she began to favor him with particular attention, meeting his gaze often as she spoke, twice more blessing him with the gift of that devastating smile. The result was predictable, and no less satisfying for the fact that she had worked this magic countless times before; through her charm she bound the knight to her, more effectively than any oath of fealty could ever accomplish.

     ". . . but the combined fleet arrayed against us was too great," Claudia was saying. "We left the throneworld with what plunder our ships could carry, final victory snatched from our grasp." She bit her lip to stifle a frustrated sigh. Even now, fifteen years later, the memory chafed. She had been among the handful who argued vehemently in favor of holding Byzantium Secundus at any cost; the full might of the Hazat army and navy, thrown into an all or nothing battle, a desperate throw of the dice. In the end, they had left the planet as no better than barbarian raiders, with only a little booty to sweeten the bitterness of the setback. Oh, and one other thing . . . "Yet we had secured vengeance for Baron Miguel Amahedra Rolas, lest anyone forget that the price for murdering a Hazat must be paid in blood."

     Solemn nods of affirmation were offered by those in the circle around her, and by no few of the senior Hazat within earshot—the subtle sarcasm of her tone had apparently gone unnoticed. Into the respectful silence that followed, the blushing knight spoke at last, his accent clearly of Aragon.

     "Had we managed to hold Byzantium," he mused aloud, "we could have denied Alexius the slender foothold by which he laid claim to the throne. That might well have been worth the further investment of Hazat blood."

     This comment elicited uncomfortable shuffling among those close enough to hear, and a few irritable scowls. It cut too close to the bone, with implications of cowardice, or lack of resolve—no Hazat worthy of her bloodline would care to admit to either failing. Claudia's gaze, however, was speculative, as she reappraised this young knight. Perhaps he had merely researched his commander well, and thus ventured an opinion he knew would find favor with her—yet she sensed that he sincerely held this belief. Impressive.

     A sly, engaging smile curved her lips as she met the knight's gaze. "It is heartening to learn that there are still Hazat who remember what it is to be Hazat," she murmured approvingly.

     She did not need to look to know that the critics among her staff now directed their scowls at her; they knew full well toward whom this subtle gibe was directed. She could see Baron Lázaro's reaction, however, for he was in her line of sight. The particular contempt revealed in his dark glare was quite refreshing; she had scored another mark against the arrogant fool today.

     Yet Claudia did not savor this petty victory for long. The door to her sleeping chambers opened and a slender figure emerged, moving with fluid grace as he adopted a posture of patient waiting beside the doorway. Pale of skin, dark of hair, garbed in flowing black silks—Madi, her personal bodyservant. His appearance was a cue all present had come to recognize, and the staff officers began to file out, offering salutes and words of parting as they took leave of their commander. The blushing knight tarried longest, favoring her with an especially deep bow before slipping out in the wake of his colleagues.

     Once the door to the outer hall was closed, a low growl sounded in Claudia's throat—perhaps a stifled scream. "Light! These briefings grow more tiresome with each passing week!" she complained petulantly, turning toward Madi. He was already in motion, moving toward a locked cabinet across the chamber. The Marquesa watched with sharp attention as he unlocked the door and began to retrieve several items from within. She hugged her arms around herself and waited, one toe tapping impatiently on the floor.

     Madi remained respectfully silent as he placed the items upon a small table nearby. Among them was a slender-stemmed pipe of darkest Severan ebony; taking the pipe in hand, he began to fill its bowl from the contents of an exquisite silver box, using a tiny spoon. Claudia's eyes followed the movements of that spoon, to the exclusion of all else. "Perhaps," Madi ventured at last, turning to carry the pipe toward her, "Mistress misses the excitement of experiencing combat firsthand. Might I humbly suggest that you take part in the next battle yourself, over the objections of your staff?"

     Claudia could not help but smile; dear Madi, he knew her so well. As he arrived at her side she reached out with trembling hands to take the pipe, and placed the stem between her lips. A lit match appeared in Madi's fingers, and he dipped it into the bowl as she drew breath through it, at first with a hint of urgency . . . but later with more cautious, contented puffs.

     The lingering tensions of the meeting began to ebb, and with them her irritation toward that arrogant twit Lázaro. She was still bored, but it did not quite seem to matter as much now.

     As Madi returned the tin to its niche in the cabinet his voice drifted back to her over his shoulder, caressing each word with languid, silken smoothness. "I met with our Shelit friend today, Mistress," he murmured off-handedly, as if commenting on a passing encounter with a casual acquaintance.

     Yet no meeting with Lord Ryn was ever casual. Claudia allowed blue-gray smoke to curl lazily from her nostrils, pondering for a moment before she replied. "Did he offer any sage morsels from the vaunted store of Shelit wisdom?"

     "One item of particular interest," Madi answered with that same honeyed, indolent tone. "He brought to my attention the existence of a bunker dating back to the Second Republic era, hidden in the depths of the jungle."

     This news penetrated the pleasant warmth in which the Marquesa's mind now basked, and she drew closer to Madi as he stepped toward the map table. "Go on," she uttered thickly. "You have my full attention."

     Pausing beside the table, Madi gazed down at the maps of Hira strewn across its surface. "The bunker was part of an ancient Hazat military complex," he continued ponderously, "abandoned when Hira's jumpgate was sealed during the Fall. The Hazat of that era stored a cache of weapons there, to keep them from falling into the hands of the Kurgan fanatics who had sealed the gate . . ."

     "What kind of weapons?" Claudia pressed urgently, greed cutting through the languorous haze in which her mind swam.

     "Two hundred fusion rifles," her faithful servant answered obediently.

     Fusion rifles! One of the fabled super-weapons of the Second Republic, rumored to be so powerful it could make ceramsteel run like butter under a hot sun. Armed with a fusion rifle, a lone infantryman was almost a match for a battle tank. "A company of my troops, equipped with these weapons, could spearhead a final assault that would leave this entire continent in our hands! The Kurgans would fall before us as ripe wheat before a scythe, and I would be one step closer to . . ."

     One step closer to her dream, though even here, in privacy, she hesitated to speak it aloud; Duchess of Hira was the honor she would claim, once this world had been brought to heel. The Empire be damned—the battle for the throne was lost, and only the ignorant refused to admit so. It was time to think of the future, of personal ambitions in the postwar universe.

     "The Shelit have known of this cache for quite some time," Madi interjected, blithely interrupting his mistress' musings. "Yet they lacked the resources to retrieve the guns. The bunker lies here." He stabbed a finger toward an area of the map some five hundred kilometers to the northeast of their current position.

     "Behind enemy lines," Claudia murmured hollowly, disappointment swelling into black despair within a matter of seconds. "The Kurgans have two full regiments deployed there, and dug in—we could not hope to reach the cache without a full-scale assault, committing troops that are needed to press forward our advance here . . ." A tired sigh escaped her lips, and she turned away to suck upon the stem of her pipe for a few seconds before speaking again. "The cache must wait until the front has passed it by."

     Madi's shoulders rose and fell in a graceful shrug. "Perhaps . . . or perhaps not. Mistress, you think in terms of a broadsword, hacking through an opponent's armor, when what is required here is a rapier, to slip past his guard ere he knows what has happened." The Marquesa's eyes snapped toward Madi's face, anger flashing in their depths—the servant met this furious glare calmly, as always. "A company of Rangers equipped with blur suits could infiltrate behind the lines to retrieve the cache, and the Kurgans would be none the wiser."

     Claudia blinked for a moment as she considered this, puffing again on her pipe, her anger dissolving into the soothing fog that floated through her thoughts. "There is only one such unit under my command," she answered at last. "I highly doubt that Baron Lázaro will lend me his precious Rangers for such a personal venture . . ." She barked a sharp, bitter laugh. "And even if he did, he would demand that I turn the rifles over to the Prince, to be deployed in a last, futile effort against the Hawkwood pretender."

     A delicate sigh escaped Madi's lips as he nodded in grudging agreement. "All too true, Mistress. A pity the Baron is not as amenable to your needs as is his son . . ."

     "His . . . son?" she echoed in bemusement, blinking slowly again.

     "The young knight who was so taken with your charms today, Mistress," Madi offered by way of explanation. "He is Baron Lázaro's son—and heir. I am told that his admiration for you runs quite deep."

     Madi was driving at something, this much Claudia could grasp even through the blissful lethargy that clutched so eagerly at her faculties. "Were the Baron to expire," she uttered carefully, struggling not to slur her words, "this son would inherit control of his household troops. Where the father resists me at every turn . . . the son would bend knee to me willingly?"

     A cold, cruel little smile curved the pale servant's lips—but just for a moment, before the bland mask of indifference settled over his visage again. "Were the Baron to meet with an unfortunate end, a thorn that has long worried your side would no longer trouble you, Mistress. And you would gain a loyal servitor in the bargain."

     In Claudia's eyes a predatory gleam flashed, anticipation of a kill too long held in abeyance. Yet then her lips pursed in a pout, petulance flashing instead in those lovely eyes. "I cannot simply challenge him to a duel, though; the son would then have cause to declare vendetta upon me, and the Rangers would remain beyond my reach."

     "Here, Mistress," Madi murmured, one slender hand moving toward the map again. His finger touched a small round dot near the battle lines, a dot marked with the name 'Darjeela'. "Our Shelit friend informs me that the inhabitants of this town despise their old Kurgan overlords, and would gladly commit themselves to the Hazat cause . . . if a suitable gesture were made. Surely Baron Lázaro could find no objection were you to order him there to back up his words with action, and woo the Darjeelans to our side." He paused to let this suggestion sink in, his words hanging provocatively in the air. "Of course, his escort should be small—no more than a squad. Anything larger might give the appearance that the Hazat come to Darjeela as conquerors, rather than prospective allies."

     The Marquesa's eyes narrowed as they fixed upon that small spot on the map. For a long time she did not speak, a bemused frown working furrows across her pretty brow. Her pipe had gone out, but she paid it no further heed. "According to the latest intelligence reports," she finally observed, her tone cautious, tentative, "that town is occupied by a full company of Kurgan regulars . . . supported by a platoon of their damnable Shariah dervishes. A single squad would be slaughtered if cast into such a nest of vipers."

     Madi offered a subdued nod, then slowly produced from the silken folds of his robe a document—the very missive that had advised Claudia of the Kurgan presence in Darjeela. He held it near the tongue of fire that danced above the oil lamp, almost near enough to singe the paper as he casually turned it one way, then the other. "How unfortunate that the report never reached your eyes, Mistress," he murmured, followed by a fluid, languorous shrug. "An inexcusable breakdown in the lines of communication."

     Claudia's tongue darted out to moisten suddenly dry lips as her eyes fixed upon that report in Madi's hand. Within those dark eyes a quiet war raged, as honor and glory vied for dominance of her heart, her soul. The victor emerged quickly, and in truth the contest had been decided long ago. Averting her eyes from the damning scrap of paper, she dipped her head slightly, a nod so subtle it was almost imperceptible, and sauntered slowly toward the table where the chessboard was displayed. Behind her back, Madi extended the report toward the waiting flame, which licked eagerly at the paper and began to consume it. Within minutes the document had been reduced to fine gray ash, which Madi brushed away with a flick of his hand. Would that the burden upon her conscience could be dispelled so easily.

     She gazed down at the chess pieces arrayed in their precise ranks, one hand clutching her now-cold pipe—the other reached down to pluck a pawn from the board. The same pawn she had examined earlier. "Madi, draw up those new orders for Baron Lázaro," she murmured softly, never doubting that the servant's preternaturally sharp hearing would pick up her words even from afar. She smiled then, a lazy smile of anticipation as she fondled the chesspiece—the smile with which a cat regards its prey. "And send a note to the Baron's son, informing him that his commander extends a heartfelt invitation to share a nightcap in her quarters this evening."

A week later, the blushing knight stood before her in the briefing chamber—but he was not blushing now. Eyes ashimmer with unshed tears, dusky visage drawn tight with grief, he averted his face from Claudia as she relayed the sad news of his father's death at the hands of the infidel.

     "He fought bravely," she assured him earnestly, stepping in closer to place a slender hand upon his broad shoulder. "As would be expected of a Hazat of his station. He and his troops carried on until they were overwhelmed. The odds against them were simply too great."

     "There is no hope then?" the knight uttered past clenched teeth, clinging to self control with every last shred of his discipline. "No chance that any escaped?"

     Claudia shook her head solemnly. "When your father failed to return as scheduled, a reconnaissance flitter overflew the town." She hesitated, then gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze. "The barbarians have placed the bodies of your father and his soldiers on display in the marketplace—grisly examples to the local populace of what reward resistance earns, no doubt. The observer clearly recognized the Baron's body among them. It seems the Kurgans had . . . desecrated the corpses."

     A subtle tremor passed through the shoulder under her hand, but then the knight steadied, and lifted his head. "I will avenge him," he muttered hoarsely, his eyes ablaze with hatred.

     "He will be avenged," Claudia assured him, her fingers pressing deeper into his shoulder. "The infidel who slew him will drown in their own blood one day—this I promise." She paused and stepped around in front of him, to meet his gaze. "Until that day, you can best honor your father's memory by living up to the ideals that he stood for . . . my lord Baron."

     The young nobleman blinked twice, eyes widening, then shook his head quickly in negation. "M'Lady, 'tis not seemly," he demurred. "The Prince has yet to confirm me in my inheritance." Just the answer that decorum would require—yet he seemed sincere.

     "A mere formality," Claudia asserted with a dismissive wave of her free hand—the other remained upon his shoulder, the gentle weight of her fingers a subtle intrusion into his personal space. "A warrior who has served the Hazat with such honor and bravery will surely be rewarded with his due." She hesitated a moment, head tilting to one side as she studied his face shrewdly. "What's more, there is the command of your father's troops to consider; they will need leadership, now more than ever."

     A deep furrow creased the young lord's brow as he considered these words—the surest path to a Hazat's heart is through his soldiers, for their well-being matters more to him than his own. "I must call the battalion together, and make a formal announcement," he murmured absently. "They will want to offer tribute to his memory . . ."

     "Yes, there are solemn duties to perform," she agreed earnestly. Then she leaned closer a moment, her fingers pressing deep into the toned muscle of his shoulder. "I will confirm you in leadership of your father's battalion, under my authority as commander of the Twenty-First Legion." Releasing his arm, she turned to step quickly to a writing table where paper and pen awaited. "There will be no confusion then regarding the transfer of command."

     The Baron-to-be looked on mutely as the Marquesa prepared the official orders, the pen in her grip moving fluidly across the paper. "There is another way in which you may honor your father's memory," she uttered with a misleading air of indifference, the words drifting over her shoulder to hang expectantly.

     A storm of suppressed emotions still raged in the dusky noble's eyes—grief and despair arrayed against anger and fierce resolve. Yet her words reached through this tumult to seize his curiosity. "What way would this be, m'Lady?"

     "There was a mission dear to your father's heart," Claudia continued, finishing her signature with a flourish. She tipped the heated jar of sealing wax, allowing a few crimson drops to fall onto the bottom of the page, then pressed into it the seal of the Twenty-First Legion. Lifting the document, she pursed her lips and blew onto the wax to cool it, conscious of the nobleman's attention upon her. "A mission to acquire resources vital to the Hazat war effort . . ." Turning her head, she met his gaze, a hint of challenge in her dark eyes. "I am certain your father would want you to complete this mission, for the greater glory of the Hazat."

     The young lord frowned again, considering this proposition, and approached Claudia as she stepped toward the map table. "My Lady," he returned after a moment's hesitation, "if my father believed this mission critical to Hazat interests, then you may also count upon my full support." So quick to leap into the unknown, trusting to fortune and daring to carry him through . . . he was so very Hazat.

     "First, I must warn you that this matter is of the utmost secrecy," she affirmed soberly. "You may speak of it to no one. Is this understood?" At his earnest nod, she turned to one of the maps, and indicated the region where the bunker lay hidden. "In the jungle here is a cache of Second Republic armaments—two hundred fusion rifles that have lain preserved in silica gel for almost a thousand years."

     A sly smile tugged at Claudia's lips as she saw the interest spark in his eyes; the second most effective way to capture a Hazat's attention was through mention of arms. "That position lies well behind enemy lines, m'Lady," he pointed out quietly, just a slight edge of excitement to his voice. "How do you propose to recover the weapons? It will not be an easy task."

     Composing her features to a solemn mask as the knight looked back to her, she offered a curt nod. "Indeed, reaching the cache will require cunning and stealth on our part. Here is the plan I—and your father—devised. Two weeks hence, five of our best battalions will strike the enemy positions here, near the town of Najar . . ." The lord stepped closer as she pointed toward another area of the map, along the front lines. She leaned into him, brushing against his chest with her shoulder as if by chance. "The Kurgan defenses there are weak, and they will redeploy their forces to shore up the lines. The only place from which they can draw reinforcements is here . . ."

     He nodded in understanding, a faint flush coloring his cheeks as the scent of jasmine wafted up from her hair to envelope him. Yet he did not step away. "This will reduce the concentration of enemy troops along the corridor to the cache," he affirmed, his voice perhaps a little hoarse. "Yet sufficient strength will remain there to hold back any force we send in after the rifles."

     "That is where your father's Rangers come in," Claudia answered confidently. Then she turned, looking deep into his eyes. "Your Rangers, now." He did not flinch from her gaze, although the blush deepened beneath his dusky skin. "As the Kurgans are distracted by our feint at Najar," she continued, "you and the Rangers will . . . penetrate their lines, secure the objective, then withdraw."

     Drawing a deep breath, the knight looked away, lowering his eyes to the map, and cleared his throat. "This plan is a master stroke, m'Lady," he murmured approvingly. "I can see why my father held your tactical expertise in such high regard."

     Claudia did flinch, then, averting her gaze lest the knight look up and spy the glimmer of guilt in her dark eyes. "Your father . . . he spoke well of my leadership?" she ventured quietly.

     He hesitated a moment, then offered a cautious nod. "The Baron did not always agree with your pacification policies, m'Lady—but of your skill as a field commander he offered only the highest praise."

     "I see," she breathed softly, wrestling down her conscience as it struggled to rise from its long slumber. Fortunately, Madi saved her by appearing, as always, just when she needed him most. In his hands be bore a tray upon which stood a decanter of brandy and two snifters. "Excuse me," she murmured to the knight, and stepped forward to intercept the servant.

     Madi waited patiently as Claudia drew near, and lowered his head meekly as she reached out to take the tray from him. "You may retire now, Madi—I have no further need of you this evening," she whispered, glancing back at the still-blushing lord as he bent over the map table again. "The new Baron will require considerable . . . consoling, in this time of mourning."

     With an obedient bow, Madi backed away, then turned to slip out the doors to leave his mistress her privacy. As they closed behind him, he allowed himself a sly smile of triumph.

Fortune favors those who seize the bull by the horns, and delivers a swift kick to those who cower at its tail . . .

     The Marquesa reflected upon this old cliché, which she had heard her grandmother utter countless times during her childhood at the family demesne on Sutek. In this case the saying was borne out, for the operation had proven to be an unqualified success. The Kurgan defenses at Najar were even weaker than anticipated, and thus Hazat losses were comparatively light. Who could fault the loss of a few hundred Hazat soldiers, when two Kurgan regiments had been caught unawares and decimated—and two hundred fusion rifles had been won to boot?

     The anticipation was almost too much to bear as she awaited the arrival of the young Baron—the Baron who had been made by her own hand, through actions conceived and set in motion in this very room. When at last he arrived, the sight of the bundle clutched under his arm sent an eager shiver down her spine. He was still clad in a blur suit, the pearlescent material shimmering slightly in the light of the oil lamps.

     "Show me," she commanded, nearly forgetting to return his salute. Yet the lord's smile was indulgent, understanding, as he placed the package upon the table and began to remove its makeshift linen wrapping. Once the fusion rifle was revealed he stepped back, and the Marquesa moved forward to take his place. Her slender hands reached out to caress the weapon, so sleek, black, and deadly; size for size, no tool of destruction forged in the Dark Ages could hope to match the sheer annihilation housed within the smooth, compact casing of this rifle.

     "There are two hundred twenty-four others just like it, m'Lady," the dusky lord reported with a winsome grin. "Each of us carried two rifles on our backs—some three—but the return trek was remarkably quiet. Your assault on Najar left the Kurgans in complete disarray."

     Claudia nodded absently, her attention still fixed upon the exquisite weapon before her. With this rifle she could level the mansion in which she stood, and she now had over two hundred like it at her disposal. Such power in so small a package—perhaps the Church was right to deem such tech inherently sinful. Just touching the rifle's casing was enough to send her ambitions soaring to previously unimagined heights; if this was not hubris, then what was?

     At last she looked up to meet the young lord's eager gaze, and favored him with the most radiant of the smiles in her arsenal. "My Lord, by your actions you have done your part to seal our victory on this benighted planet," she asserted with a dazzling display of sincerity. "With such resources as this in the hands of the Hazat, it is only a matter of time before the accursed Caliphate is driven once and for all from Hira, so that we may guide her people back into the Light as our loyal vassals."

     Upon receiving these words of praise the Baron stood so straight and tall one might imagine his spine would snap in two from the strain. Yet he managed to bend without breaking—sketching a deep bow as Claudia offered him a formal salute. Right fist clenched to her bosom, Iron Claw touching Heart of Fire, in homage to all the Hazat stood for.

     Straightening at last, he cleared his throat gently, and his smile took on a note of regret. "If I may have your leave, m'Lady, I should oversee the placement of the weapons in your armory."

     "Of course," she replied with nod, her smile dawning anew. "Once the task is complete, return to my chambers so that we may properly celebrate our triumph."

     That delicious blush rising to color his cheeks again, the Baron dipped his head in acquiescence, then turned and slipped out to the corridor.

     Alone now with the rifle, Claudia could not resist the temptation to hold it; she hefted the weapon in her hands, and marveled at its perfect balance. The Second Republic may have been corrupt and wicked, but its weaponsmiths knew their art well. The door to her sleeping chamber opened and Madi emerged, stepping quietly to her side. "It is even more exquisite than I dreamed," she breathed in exultation. "If the legends are true, the power of these rifles will lay waste to the accursed Kurgans . . . and any others foolish enough to oppose me."

     "Perhaps, Mistress," Madi conceded softly. "If you are allowed the chance to employ them."

     These words pierced the bubble of her delight, and she cast a sharp, suspicious glance at the pale servant. "What mean you by this?" Claudia demanded.

     "As you are aware, Mistress," he answered ponderously, "the Temple Avesti has taken considerable interest in Hira . . . so many lost souls to bring back into the Light . . . so many heretics to punish with fire." The Marquesa's face paled slightly; no one takes the Temple Avesti lightly. Not unless they want to find themselves facing the business end of a flamegun. "While I am certain the Avestites would applaud your commitment to destroy the heathen Kurgans, they might question your application of weapons of such dubious technological sophistication."

     An uncertain frown marred Claudia's features as she looked down to the rifle she still held in her hands. "Surely the use of these rifles would be protected under the Doctrine of the Privileges of Martyrs," she countered, although the hesitance in her tone was unmistakable.

     "Assuredly, Mistress," Madi concurred. "I am certain that the Avestites will be satisfied as to your piety, once they have subjected your command—and yourself—to meticulous scrutiny."

     Her lips curled with a silent snarl. His point was well taken; only a fool would draw the attention of the Temple to her affairs. Claudia held the rifle a moment longer, then, with a hiss of frustration, replaced it in its nest of linen atop the table and began to pace. This was a complication she had not anticipated. Where the Avestites tread, all too often the Inquisition soon follows.

     Madi's voice, honey and silk, intruded gently upon her worries. "There is an alternative, Mistress . . ." She stopped pacing and turned to look at him expectantly. "I have certain acquaintances among the Scravers, who would pay handsomely for the privilege of taking the rifles off your hands. The price these weapons command on the open market in the Known Worlds is . . . truly impressive."

     A covetous gleam lit Claudia's eyes as they flicked back to that sleek, black rifle. It was every soldier's dream, to have such destructive power at her command—how could she hand this prize over to another, after investing so much to acquire it? So absorbed was she in these thoughts, she almost missed Madi's next words.

     "With the profits accrued from the sale of these rifles, you could outfit an entire regiment with more conventional weapons . . . or outfit a company of battle main tanks."

     This gave her pause. Lips pursed in concentration, she allowed her fingers to caress the rifle's smooth casing again. Impressive destructive power, indeed, yet the true power to destroy lay not in the weapon, but in the hands that wielded it. Two hundred fusion rifles, weighed against the thousand or more soldiers she could train and equip with the proceeds of their sale. She reached a decision quickly, and moved forward without regrets, as was her way.

     "Contact your Scraver friends," she muttered over her shoulder, striding quickly toward her bedroom. "Make whatever arrangements are necessary. Right now, I must make arrangements for the young Baron's reward." She paused at the doorway, and flashed an impish smile as she glanced back at Madi. "He is enthusiastic, and energetic, Madi—I will grant him that. With the proper training he might prove an interesting diversion . . . for awhile."

     Once the Marquesa was gone, Madi began to rewrap the rifle in its linen shroud, pausing only a moment to run his fingers across the midnight blackness of its surface. A mysterious little smile appeared on his lips, and in his eyes was a cunning gleam he never allowed his mistress to see.

     He would contact his Scraver associates before the night was done, and set the transaction in motion. Of course, the fusion rifles would never reach a buyer in the Known Worlds. Madi had arranged, through a series of middlemen virtually impossible to trace, for the weapons to be sold to the Kurgans—who would no doubt employ them to good effect against the Hazat.

     The Kurgans were fierce warriors, he would credit them with that much—but they had been woefully unprepared for the Hazat invasion of Hira, and were now paying a heavy price for their inattention. The Caliphate was learning, as many in the Known Worlds had long ago, that in matters martial the Hazat had few equals. The gains the Hazat had made since Hira's gate reopened seven years ago were nothing less than astounding. Why, the top intelligence analysts of House Decados even projected that the Hazat might well control Hira within a matter of months.

     Madi's duty as a Jakovian agent was to insure that this did not come to pass . . . at least not too soon.

     The Hazat had been useful allies in the quest for the imperial throne, but that battle was clearly lost. The Decados leaders had acknowledged this among themselves already, and all too soon Prince Hyram would announce his concession to Alexius. This was not a defeat, merely a setback. It was time for a new strategy to be employed, one that would achieve through stealth the goal that force of arms had failed to attain.

     It was not in the interests of the Mantis for the Hazat to conquer Hira too soon, or at too little cost, for once they had added this world to their possessions they might well turn their attention back toward the throne. This would place Alexius on guard, and complicate the already complex machinations the Decados planned to set in motion. Better for the Hazat to remain distracted by their little war on the sidelines, so that Alexius could grow complacent beneath the weight of his crown. The Mantis would bide its time, a viper waiting for the right moment to strike.

     That was the Decados way.

     Madi glanced down at the chess board with its exquisitely carved pieces of jet and red coral. On a whim, he reached down to pluck the red queen from her square and studied her tiny visage for a moment. So lovely—the workmanship was truly exceptional. With a soft chuckle, he placed the piece on its side at the center of the board and strolled away to prepare the Marquesa's weekly dose of selchakah.

[Copyright 2000, William R. Rector]