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# Chapter Fifty-One

"I wish we had some damned idea where they've gone," Alistair McKeon growled. He reclined in a deplorably unmilitary sprawl in his chair, tipped back with one heel resting on the beaten copper coffee table in Honor's day cabin. His uniform tunic hung untidily across the back of his chair, which constituted a substantial concession on James MacGuiness's part. He didn't allow just anyone to clutter up his admiral's quarters.

Alice Truman, on the other hand, was her neat, tidy self as she sat in the chair facing McKeon across the coffee table. Where McKeon nursed a stein of Honor's beer, Truman contented herself with a steaming cup of coffee and a small plate of flaky croissants.

Alfredo Yu, for his part, had seated himself at the writing desk and was idly doodling on a sheet of paper with an old-fashioned stylus, while Honor sat sideways on her comfortable couch. Her long legs were stretched out before her, lengthwise across its cushions, with Nimitz curled comfortably across her thighs, while she leaned her back against the armrest. A plate on the coffee table, within easy reach for a treecat, still held two uneaten stalks of celery, and Honor stroked the half-asleep treecat gently with her right hand while her left managed her cocoa mug.

It was all a very comfortable, domestic scene, she thought, regarding her three senior subordinates. Unfortunately, there was a decided air of the lull before the storm about it, and Alistair's question underscored that sense of tense anticipation altogether too well.

"We all wish we knew where they were, Alistair," Truman told him. "But we don't."

"We may not know where they are," Yu put in, "but I'm afraid we know where they're going to be once they get their orders."

The ex-Peep obviously didn't care a great deal for his own conclusion, but that didn't invalidate it, Honor thought moodily.

"Do you think the Andies know Haven is sticking a thumb into the Silesian pie?" McKeon asked.

"I don't see how they could," Honor replied after a moment. "We only know about them because Captain Bachfisch told us. Unless they've been a lot sloppier somewhere else, I can't quite imagine their letting the Andies get a peek at them."

"I don't know," McKeon half-argued. "Pirates' Bane spotted their destroyers in Zoraster, and we know Andie naval intelligence is pretty damned good. I'd think there was at least a chance that they'd notice a pair of brand-new Peep destroyers hanging around here in Silesia."

"If they can pick them out of the clutter of all of the older Havenite designs that've gone rogue out here," Yu responded sourly. "Remember, Admiral Bachfisch only noticed them because he realized they were new-build ships."

"Even if they noticed them," Truman observed, "they probably wouldn't guess the reason they were there. I mean, on the face of it, the whole idea is pretty absurd. I doubt that something so preposterous would occur to any rational analyst."

"Not 'preposterous,' " Honor corrected. " 'Audacious' would be closer to it."

" 'Lunacy' would be even better!" Yu shot back. "Or maybe it would be even more accurate to call it 'delusions of grandeur.' " He shook his head. "I hate thinking that Tom Theisman could become as guilty of strategic overreach as this looks like."

"It's only overreach if they don't actually have the combat power to pull it off," Truman pointed out.

"Alice is right, Alfredo," Honor said. "In fact, that's what worries me the most about it. I don't know Theisman as well as you do, of course, but what I do know of him suggests that he's not very likely to succumb to the temptations of overreaching. That's what I keep coming back to. He wouldn't have sent this force all the way out here if he hadn't thought he was retaining sufficient strength closer to home when he did."

"I know," Yu agreed. "Maybe I'm just trying to give myself some sort of false courage by convincing myself that Tom has screwed up by the numbers this time. But I guess what really bothers me the most about it is that Tom Theisman is the last person in the galaxy I would have expected to want to go back to war with the Star Kingdom. My God! Look at what the man's accomplished. Why in Heaven's name would he risk throwing that away when the diplomats are still talking?"

"It may not have been his idea," Honor said almost soothingly. "There are other decision-makers involved, you know. And, I hate to say it, but the situation may very well look different from his side of the line. As you say, the diplomats are still talking, but how long has it been since they actually said anything to one another? Or, at least," she corrected herself bitterly, "since High Ridge and Descroix have shown any sign of really wanting a treaty?"

"I hope you and Alfredo won't take this wrongly," McKeon said, "but the bottom line from our perspective out here is that it doesn't really matter why Theisman might have decided to send his 'Second Fleet' out to Silesia. Other than the fact that it's obviously here to attack someone, I mean." Honor and Yu looked at him, and he shrugged without straightening up in his chair. "I liked Theisman when I met him at Yeltsin's Star, too. And I wouldn't have picked him for the heavy in this piece, either. But whatever his motives, and however justified they may have been by the admitted stupidity of our own beloved Prime Minister, what we really need to consider right now are the consequences. And the consequences are that there's a Havenite fleet, of unknown size and strength, at a currently unknown position, for the purposes of carrying out a mission whose objectives I think we can all guess with a fair degree of accuracy. Which brings me back to my original point. I wish we had some damned idea where the hell they are!"

"Well, at least we know where they aren't," Truman said sourly. "Or, at least we know one star system where they aren't anymore."

"Yes, we do," Honor said, and Truman looked at her. So did Yu, and McKeon turned his head to give her a very sharp glance indeed as the thoughtful edge to her tone registered. The three of them gazed at her for several seconds, then looked at one another.

"And?" McKeon prompted after a moment.

"Um?" Honor shook herself. "I mean, what did you say, Alistair?"

"We all know that tone, Honor," he told her. "There's something going on inside your head, and I just wondered if you'd care to share it with the rest of us mere mortals."

He grinned impudently at her, and she shook her head.

"There will come a time, Alistair McKeon, when lese majesty will come home to haunt you. And if there is any justice in the universe, I'll be there to see it!"

"No doubt. In the meantime, you're still not sharing."

"All right," she conceded. "I was thinking about something—something you brought up earlier, in fact."

"Something I brought up?"

"When you were wondering whether or not the Andies knew the Republic was fooling around out here."

"What about it?" McKeon asked, cocking his head and frowning in thought.

"Well, it's just that if I were the Andies, I wouldn't be very happy about their presence. Especially not given how unhappy the Empire already seems to be about our presence out here."

"Forgive me, My Lady," Yu objected mildly, "but if I were the Andies, I might not be very upset at all by the prospect of having the Republic attack the people I'm already trying to squeeze out of Silesia. Worst-case scenario, either we beat them, or they beat us, and the winner is much weaker than he was before the engagement. Which means the Andies can basically either simply order the 'victor' out of the region, or move in with the virtual certainty that they can take whatever he has left."

"That's all true enough," Honor agreed. "But hasn't it occurred to you, Alfredo, that whatever the Andies are up to in Silesia may be the result of an error on their part."

"What error?" Truman asked. Honor looked at her, and the golden-haired admiral shrugged. "I can think of several errors they could have made. Which one did you have in mind?"

"The same mistake High Ridge and Descroix have been making for years, in a sense," Honor told her. "Maybe they've been assuming the war between us and the Republic was effectively over, as well."

"If they ever thought that in the first place, surely they realized when Theisman announced the existence of his new navy that all bets were off," McKeon protested.

"Maybe not," Honor said. "We keep thinking about how good Andie naval intelligence is, but there are limits in all things. And even if their intelligence people got all the available information straight, it doesn't necessarily follow that the Emperor and his advisors drew the right conclusions."

"With all due respect, why should they care whether or not the war is over?" Truman inquired. "The new management in Nouveau Paris doesn't seem especially interested in conquering the known galaxy, and the Empire is all the way on the far side of the Manticoran Alliance from Haven. Under the circumstances, I don't see Gustav and his advisors considering the Republic much of a threat to the Empire, whatever happens to the Star Kingdom. In fact, they'd probably be just as happy to see us involved in a shooting war with Haven again, because it would prevent us from reinforcing against them out here. For that matter, that's what the mere threat of renewed hostilities with Haven is already doing!"

"I understand all of that," Honor said. "And you may very well be right, Alice. But if Thomas Theisman is prepared to go back to war with the Star Kingdom under any circumstances, or for any reason, then he and Shannon Foraker between them must have done a lot more to equalize our technology advantage than anybody in Jurgensen's ONI is prepared to admit they could have. And if that's the case, then whatever balance of power equation Gustav may have been contemplating is probably pretty badly out of date. And whatever the new management in the Republic might really want, Gustav Anderman is not the sort of ruler to rely on the good intentions of a powerful neighbor. Especially not a powerful neighbor which, up to four or five T-years ago was into the conquest game in a really big way."

"And," Yu observed in a suddenly thoughtful tone, "a powerful neighbor he can't be certain will remain under the present management."

"Exactly," Honor agreed. "Historically, the Andermani haven't been big believers in the value of republican forms of government. They don't like them, and they don't really trust them. They were probably more comfortable with the Legislaturalists than with the Committee of Public Safety, but I wouldn't be very surprised if they were more comfortable with the Committee than they are with the Republic. They regard elective forms of government as dangerously changeable and unpredictable at the best of times."

"So what you're suggesting," McKeon said slowly, "is that if they thought that the Republic was really powerful enough to have a realistic chance of defeating the Star Kingdom, they wouldn't care for it very much."

"The Empire is a great believer in playing the balance of power game as the best long-term way to promote its own security," Honor said. "But if the Republic, which is already so much larger than the Star Kingdom, succeeds in destroying or at least seriously crippling the Manticoran Alliance, there is no balance of power. And the star nation which would suddenly emerge—or reemerge, perhaps—as the premier military power in this entire region would be governed by a system an Andermani monarch would be naturally inclined to distrust and fear."

"And one which had yet to demonstrate that it has the legs to last," Yu agreed.

"You may be onto something," Truman said. "But even if you are, I'm afraid it's too late for your insight to change anything. Whatever Theisman and Pritchart may be up to, Gustav is obviously planning on devouring the choicer bits and pieces of Silesia. And our own brilliant leaders haven't done a thing to seriously dissuade him. Except, of course, for hanging this task force out to dry. It's a bit late in the day to expect the current government to do anything more serious than that, however accurate your analysis may be. Assuming, of course, that anyone in Landing was inclined to listen to anything that came from you or Earl White Haven, anyway."

"Yeah, sure!" McKeon grimaced. "I can just see High Ridge or Descroix changing their foreign policy on the basis of anything you suggested, Honor!"

"I wasn't necessarily thinking about them," Honor said very slowly.

"What?" McKeon set up straight so that he could swivel his chair to face her directly, and his expression could only have been called a scowl. "Just who were you thinking about, then?" he inquired in tones of profound suspicion.

"Come, now, Alistair!" she chided. "If I'm not thinking about anyone on our side, then who else could I be thinking about?"

"And what makes you think Admiral Rabenstrange would believe any message you sent him about this putative 'Second Fleet' we've never even been able to find?" McKeon demanded. "Hell, for that matter what makes you even think he'd read it?!"

"Who said anything about sending him a message?" Honor asked, and suddenly all three of her subordinates were staring at her in disbelief.

* * *

"It's what?"

Chien-lu von Rabenstrange looked at his chief of staff in complete and total disbelief.

"According to Perimeter Security, Sir," Kapitän der Sternen Isenhoffer said in the tone of a man who wasn't quite certain he believed his own report, "it's a single Manticoran ship of the wall. She's identified herself as HMS Troubadour, one of their Medusa-class SD(P)s. According to our current Intelligence appreciations, Troubadour is the flagship of their Rear Admiral McKeon."

"And this ship has arrived here at Sachsen all by herself?"

"As nearly as Perimeter Security can tell," Isenhoffer confirmed, and Rabenstrange frowned in thought. Sachsen's passive sensor arrays might not be as exquisitely sensitive as those which protected a system like New Berlin, but they would certainly have detected the transit footprints of any other ships which might have accompanied Troubadour out of hyper.

"And has this ship said anything beyond identifying herself?" he asked after a moment.

"As a matter of fact, Herr Herzog, she has," Isenhoffer said.

"Well, please don't make me drag each word out of you one at a time," Rabenstrange said tartly.

"Forgive me, Sir," Isenhoffer said. "It's just that, on the face of it, it's so absurd that—" He stopped and seemed to give himself a mental shake. "Sir," he said, "according to Troubadour, she has Duchess Harrington aboard. And the Duchess has formally requested to speak personally to you."

"To me?" Rabenstrange repeated carefully. "Duchess Harrington herself?"

"That's what Troubadour says, Sir," Isenhoffer replied.

"I see."

"With all due respect, Sir," Isenhoffer said, "I would advise against allowing Troubadour to come any further in-system." Rabenstrange looked a question at him, and the chief of staff shrugged. "Duchess Harrington's request, even if it's sincere, is ridiculous. There are proper channels for one fleet commander to contact another through."

"And why do you think the Duchess failed to avail herself of those other channels?"

"I suppose it's possible that this represents some dramatic attempt on her part to find a peaceful resolution to the tension between her command and yours," Isenhoffer said carefully. As Rabenstrange's chief of staff, he knew how strongly the herzog had argued against the Empire's current policy in Silesia. He also knew exactly what Rabenstrange had said to Sternhafen before that admiral had been sent home in disgrace. Perhaps even more significantly at this particular moment, Isenhoffer was also aware of the respect in which Rabenstrange held Honor Harrington.

"From your tone," the herzog observed now, "although you may suppose it's possible, you don't find it very likely."

"Frankly, Sir, I don't," Isenhoffer acknowledged. "And, again with all due respect, even if that's what this is, surely she must realize that by now it's too late."

"I don't recall having issued any orders to attack Sidemore Station," Rabenstrange said in a suddenly chill voice.

"Of course not, Sir!" Isenhoffer spoke quickly, yet there was an edge of diffident stubbornness in his reply. Chien-lu Rabenstrange hadn't picked a chief of staff he expected to be a yes-man or a weakling. "I didn't mean to imply that you had. But Duchess Harrington must be aware by this time that His Imperial Majesty fully intends to secure our strategic frontiers here in Silesia. I would submit to you, Sir, that, that being the case, the only thing she could say to you which would resolve the tension between our two forces would be a concession on her part of our territorial demands. And if she were prepared to make such a concession, it would undoubtedly represent instructions from her government at home, which would have been communicated to us through normal channels."

"Which brings us back to the question of why she didn't use those channels in the first place, does it not?" Rabenstrange asked, and Isenhoffer nodded. "Well, if you don't believe she's here to propose some sort of diplomatic resolution, then why do you think she's here?"

"I think, perhaps, for two reasons, Sir," Isenhoffer replied. "First, I would not be surprised to discover that she's here on her own authority in an effort to at least delay the inevitable. She may propose some sort of stand-down while she requests additional instructions from her government, but I would be somewhat suspicious of any such proposal. The delay involved might well permit the Star Kingdom to transfer additional reinforcements to Sidemore.

"Secondly, Sir, I can think of very few ways in which she could acquire a more precise estimate of our current strength here in Sachsen than by bringing a ship of the wall, with its sensor suite, right into the heart of the star system. I don't say that that would be her primary objective, but it would almost certainly be an inevitable consequence if we permit her to enter the system."

"You may be correct," Rabenstrange said after a moment. "On the other hand, unlike you, I've met the lady. When she speaks, it's usually worth taking the time to listen. And the one thing she doesn't do—or, at least, will never do well—is lie.

"As for what Troubadour's sensors might be able to tell her about our strength, my concerns are strictly limited. In fact, in some respects, I'd prefer for her to have an accurate appreciation of our strength. The sorts of 'mistakes' which have plagued us since that idiot Gortz got himself killed in Zoraster are dangerous, Zhenting. And more than just in terms of the additional people they've already killed.

"The Emperor may fully intend to secure our frontiers, and he may even be willing to go to war with the Star Kingdom in order to accomplish that if he must, but that doesn't mean he wouldn't prefer to do it without any more bloodshed. Nor do I care to be responsible for any more deaths that can possibly be avoided. Let her deliver whatever message she wishes me to have. And let her see what strength we have. If there is some way we can prevent further loss of life, then by all means let us explore the possibilities. And if knowing how powerful our forces are makes her more cautious or encourages her to press her own superiors for authority to concede the Emperor's demands, so much the better."

"But, Herr Herzog," Isenhoffer protested, "she's a Grayson steadholder. She'll insist upon bringing her armsmen to any meeting, and you know what the Emperor's feelings about anything like that have been since the Hofschulte affair."

"I do, indeed." Rabenstrange frowned again. Then he shrugged. "Explain the Emperor's conditions to her, Zhenting. If she can't accept them, then we'll be limited to an electronic meeting."

* * *

"I don't like it, My Lady," Andrew LaFollet said stubbornly.

"And I'm afraid I don't recall asking you if you liked it," Honor replied, and her voice was considerably tarter than usual.

"But especially now," LaFollet began, "with tensions so high, it's—"

"Especially now," Honor said implacably, "it's particularly important that there not be any incidents. Or any indication that I distrust Herzog von Rabenstrange in any way. This subject is no longer open to debate, Andrew."

LaFollet had opened his mouth. Now, he shut it. His expression hovered somewhere between mulish and profoundly disapproving, but he recognized the end of the discussion. He and Spencer Hawke exchanged glances, and then he turned back to Honor.

"All right, My Lady," he half-sighed. "We'll do it your way."

"I know we will," she replied serenely.

* * *

The fregatten kapitän escorting Honor from the superdreadnought Campenhausen's boat bay was perfectly courteous, but he clearly had his reservations about this entire business. The fact that the holsters of her three accompanying armsmen were conspicuously empty had apparently reconciled him somewhat, but from the look he'd given Nimitz, the 'cat's reputation had preceded him. Apparently the fregatten kapitän wasn't any too certain that he shouldn't have been considered as much a weapon as the armsmen's pulsers. On the other hand, he obviously wasn't prepared to argue the point on his own authority.

The lift car delivered Honor's small party to the passage just outside Campenhausen's main flag briefing room. Two Andermani Marines stood guard at the hatch, accompanied by a full kapitän der sternen with the shoulder aiguillette of a staff officer.

"Duchess Harrington," the staffer said in precise, accented Standard English, with a small, formal bow.

"Yes," Honor acknowledged, and cocked an eyebrow. "And you are?"

"Kapitän der Sternen Zhenting Isenhoffer, Herzog Rabenstrange's chief of staff," the captain replied. "I am honored to meet you, My Lady."

"And I you," Honor said.

Isenhoffer glanced past her at her armsmen, and something suspiciously like a twinkle glimmered in his eye as he took in their expressions.

"Your Grace," he said, returning his attention fully to Honor, "I apologize for any unintended insult in our insistence that no weapons be brought into the Herzog's presence. The stipulation was not his to make. The Emperor has made himself most specific on this particular issue in the wake of the Hofschulte Incident. I am afraid that his instructions are nondiscretionary."

"I see." Honor considered him thoughtfully. Gustav Anderman had never been noted for his warm and trusting nature, but it was difficult to blame him for being even less so in this instance. Gregor Hofschulte had risen to the rank of lieutenant colonel in the Andermani Marines. A man of impeccable loyalty, who had served his Emperor well for almost thirty T-years. And a man who had, with absolutely no warning, drawn his sidearm and opened fire on Prince Huang, the Emperor's younger brother, and his family. The Prince and his wife had survived; one of their children had not.

Precisely why and how Hofschulte had done such a thing remained unknown, because the lieutenant colonel hadn't survived the attack. Prince Huang's bodyguards had reacted almost instantly, and Hofschulte's body had been very badly mangled by the fire that killed him. According to ONI, at least some members of the Andermani security services believed Hofschulte had been "adjusted" to carry out the attack. Which, in a way, worried them much more than the possibility that a man who had been considered completely loyal might have snapped "naturally" and gone berserk with no warning at all. The Andermani military, like the Manticoran military, was supposed to be protected against things like adjustment. If someone had managed to crack those safeguards once, there was no guarantee they couldn't do it twice. Which, in turn, undoubtedly explained Gustav's draconian, across-the-board prohibition on arms in the presence of any member of the Imperial Family.

"I assure you, Kapitän Isenhoffer, that I don't feel insulted in the least," she reassured the Andermani officer. "However, there is one small additional item I should deal with before meeting with the Herzog. Excuse me a moment."

Isenhoffer looked puzzled, but the confusion in his expression was nothing compared to LaFollet's expression as she urged Nimitz down from her shoulder and passed him to Simon Mattingly. Then she unsealed her uniform tunic and handed it to LaFollet. Her personal armsman gave her a very old-fashioned look, indeed, as he took the garment from her, and his look became even more old-fashioned as she rolled up the left cuff of her uniform blouse. The smile she gave him mingled impishness with just a hint of apology, and then she told her prosthetic hand to flex in a movement which should have brought the tip of her index finger into contact with the tip of her little finger. But the neural impulses which would have moved the fingers of her original hand in that pattern did something completely different now, and a rectangular patch of skin on the inside of her forearm, perhaps two centimeters long and one and a half across, suddenly folded back. A small compartment in the artificial limb opened, and as she closed her fist, a thirty-round pulser magazine ejected itself.

She caught it in midair with her right hand while LaFollet stared at her in disbelief, then smiled at Isenhoffer—who, if possible, looked even more astonished than her armsman.

"Forgive me, Kapitän," she said. "As you may know, I've experienced more than one assassination attempt of my own. When my father helped me design my prosthesis, he suggested a few small . . . improvements. This," she handed Isenhoffer the magazine, "was one of them."

She raised her hand between them and sent its artificial muscles another command. In response, her left index finger snapped abruptly and rigidly straight, and the hand's other fingers folded under, almost as if they were gripping the butt of a nonexistent pulser.

"I'm afraid I'd have to have the tip of the finger rebuilt if I ever used it," she told him with a whimsical smile. "But Daddy insisted that it would be worthwhile."

"I see," Isenhoffer said a bit blankly. Then he gave himself a shake. "I see," he repeated in more normal tones. "Your father would appear to be a man of rare foresight, Your Grace."

"I've always thought so," Honor replied, studiously ignoring the fulminating look Andrew LaFollet was busy sending in her direction.

"Yes. Well, if you're ready," the Andermani officer continued, sliding the pulser magazine into a pocket as Honor reclaimed her tunic and slipped back into it, "the Herzog is waiting."

"Of course," Honor murmured, and held out her arms to Nimitz. The treecat leapt lightly into them, and she followed Isenhoffer through the hatch into the briefing room. She had no doubt that surveillance systems had been watching her in the passage, and she hoped they would draw the proper conclusion from her surrender of the pulser magazine. She doubted very much that even Imperial Andermani security agents would have been able to spot the weapon built into her arm. She'd certainly paid enough to be certain no one could, at any rate! And she'd had Palace Security test it for her back on Manticore. So she'd just demonstrated that she could have brought a weapon into Rabenstrange's presence if she'd really wanted to . . . and that she took her solemn promise not to do any such thing seriously. And that she wanted Rabenstrange to know she'd done both of those things.

It was a small thing, perhaps. But small things were what trust and confidence were built upon, and she badly needed Chien-lu von Rabenstrange to trust her this afternoon as he never had before.

Her armsmen came with her, and she watched the eyes of the two bodyguards standing behind Rabenstrange. The woman she suspected was the senior of the two gave her a very sharp look, and Honor smiled mentally at the proof that she had indeed been under surveillance in the passage. But the woman only looked at her for a moment before her eyes joined her companion's in carefully examining LaFollet, Hawk, and Mattingly. The three Graysons returned the examination with equal professionalism, and Honor hid a bigger smile as she tasted the wary emotions on either side. But the stillborn smile was fleeting, and she turned her attention to the small man seated at the head of the briefing room table.

"Welcome aboard Campenhausen, Your Grace," Chien-lu Rabenstrange said.

"Thank you, Your Grace," Honor replied, and Rabenstrange smiled ever so slightly. She could taste the caution of his emotions, but she also tasted curiosity. And, even more important, she did taste something very like trust. She'd hoped she would, but she hadn't allowed herself to count on it. Still, she and Rabenstrange had established a certain personal empathy which extended beyond their purely professional relationship during her last assignment to Silesia. Apparently, it was still there. He was obviously aware of the tension inherent in their meeting, under the circumstances, but he trusted her personal integrity. At least far enough for him to have agreed to meet with her in the first place, at least.

"I must confess," he told her, "to being somewhat . . . surprised by your presence here, Your Grace. Under the circumstances, given the tension and recent unfortunate events between our two commands, I would not have anticipated a direct contact at this level."

"I'll confess that I was rather counting on that, actually, Your Grace," she responded. He cocked his head questioningly, and she smiled. "I have something a bit unusual to discuss with you," she told him, "and I felt that this might be the most effective way to get your attention."

"Did you?" he murmured, and it was his turn to smile. "Well, Your Grace, I certainly can't guarantee that I'll find myself in agreement with whatever brings you here. But I will confess, that you have piqued my curiosity! So, why don't you begin?"

He waved gracefully at the chair at the foot of the conference table, and Honor seated herself in it and collected Nimitz in her lap.

"Certainly, Your Grace," she told him. "Now, I realize that tensions between the Empire and the Star Kingdom are running high at the moment. And I don't propose attempting to magically sort things out between the two of us. That, obviously, is something which ultimately will have to be accomplished at a higher level. In the meantime, however, I've recently become aware of certain information which I believe ought properly to be shared with a representative of the Empire. Information which might have a certain bearing on the deployment of both of our forces."

"Information?"

"Yes, Your Grace. You see . . ."

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