“IT WAS MEANT FOR me,” I said, eying the ruined device on the conference table.

“That is the high probability,” said Tor Varro, arms folded.

Otavia Corvo frowned and stared down at the weapon from beneath her floating cloud of hair. “I’ve no idea how it got aboard,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” I said.

“It’s mine,” Crim said, “noyn jitat, some security officer I turned out to be.”

It was, as Crim had said, a knife-missile. Such a small thing, no larger than one of my pencils. Someone had smashed it, snapped it in half, and it was held together by a pair of glass wires, with a fuel cell at one end and a vicious spike on the other.

“Which of the batmen saved her?” I asked. Valka was in medica with Doctor Okoyo, injured but alive. The doctor had given her something to help her sleep while the correctives did their work stitching her wounds. I was headed up there right after this meeting.

“Martin,” Crim said. “Good lad. Others all liked him.”

“Family?” I asked. I knew the fellow, if not well. I had a staff of batmen who rotated service in and out of fugue, who kept my schedule and ensured that Valka and I were taken care of. Martin and the rest of his shift had come out of the ice only with the return to Forum; before that—except for the business with Iubalu and the hunt, I suppose—he had been frozen for decades.

“A sister, I think,” Crim said, “but that was before he signed on. Reckon she’s long gone.”

Not taking my eyes from the weapon, I said, “Find out. If he has any surviving relatives, I want them paid his stipend and told he died saving her. Have his effects posted to them.”

“Aye, my lord,” Crim said.

“The doctor was lucky he got there when he did,” Varro said. “His entrance confused the missile’s routing circuits, else she’d been done for.”

“Who smashed it?” I asked. I’d forbidden security cameras from my apartments, jealous of mine and Valka’s privacy. In that moment, I wondered if that had been a mistake. Not only could I not see the attack as I might like, but we’d have no footage to review and determine when the knife was placed in my chambers, and by whom.

Varro answered, “She did. Caught it after it stabbed Martin and broke it on the bulkhead.”

That’s my lady, I thought, still unable to calm myself. I should have been there, not gallivanting about the Royal Forest with Princess Selene.

“I assume you’ve already swept the ship for stowaways,” I said, turning my full attention on Crim. The security officer was still pale, his burgundy uniform and dark hair rumpled.

He swallowed. “Aye. There was no one. Nothing.”

“Then how did it get aboard?” I asked, looking round at everyone gathered in that conference chamber. “And how did it get into my apartments?”

“We’re still running over sec footage,” Crim answered, not looking me in the eye. “One of our people must have smuggled it in.” I was shaking my head, but Crim carried on. “No one else has had access to the ship, much less your apartments, lord—outside a few delivery personnel, but they never leave the cargo bays before turning round.”

“I don’t suppose it’s possible the knife-missile was piloted remotely? Steered through the halls?”

“Possible, but not likely.” Varro narrowed his eyes. “That’s an Akateko model. Heat-seeking, motion-sensing. No transmitter. Unless they’ve refitted it. They’re meant to be untraceable.”

Still looking pointedly at the table in front of him, Crim said, “I’ll review all the footage we have. Everyone coming and going. Who had access to your apartments.”

“Should check scans on inbound cargo,” Corvo suggested. “It might have come up on one of the supply runs. Something we missed.”

Lorian Aristedes cleared his throat, looking up from a methodical examination of his hands. “I don’t suppose the batman himself might be our man?”

“And killed himself on purpose?” Crim almost sneered. The security officer was clearly unbalanced by the episode, embarrassed the missile had slipped by him unnoticed.

Aristedes shrugged, but did not stop his careful knuckle cracking. “You’re suggesting one of our own people had reason for wanting Marlowe and the doctor dead . . . in which case you’d have to explain who and why. Far more likely one of our people was paid off.”

“In which case you’d have to explain who’s paying,” Crim said acidly, “and why they want our boy dead.”

With languid slowness, Lorian looked up at other officer, pale eyes in bloodless face. He smiled. “I appreciate your difficulties, Lieutenant Commander, but it strikes me as far more likely that Sir Hadrian has some political enemy than that one of our own has a grudge.”

Into the stiff air following this riposte, I said, “The Emperor has offered me Princess Selene’s hand in marriage.”

Silence ruled the conference chamber. I looked at no one, not at Crim or Varro, nor at Corvo or Aristedes. The knife lay before me, its pointed end angled nearly at my heart, the glass wires spilled like innards.

“Ah,” Varro said at last. Was that surprise in the scholiast’s voice? “That would explain it.”

“That’s bound to make some enemies,” Corvo allowed, crossing her arms. “Why weren’t we told?”

Eyebrow cocked, I said, “Because the Emperor hadn’t cleared it for public disclosure.”

“That explains the horseback riding,” Crim said.

“Horseback riding?” Corvo made a face.

A brief bout of nervous laughter sounded from the end of the table, and turning I saw Lorian covering his mouth. “Oh, that is going to make you enemies. The old blood’s not going to like that at all.”

“No, they won’t,” I said.

“Hohenzollern, Mahidol, and Bourbon all refused to lower their banners at your triumph,” Aristedes said, flexing his overlong fingers. “It could be any of them.”

I started, looking round at the small officer. “You noticed that?”

“It was hard to miss.” He pressed his lips together. “Bold move, that was. Almost too bold. They’d have done as well to mail you a bloodstained silk glove like the old days . . . with their names embroidered on.” Lorian drummed his fingers as if pressing the keys of some unseen console. “Though I suppose we should thank them. It’s given us a start on our list of suspects.”

Corvo swore. “I hope that’s the end of it.”

Both hands raised to his eyes to hide his tiredness, Tor Varro said, “We should hope it is not even the start of it. We can’t hope to win an assassins’ war with the great houses.”

“Well, we are in an assassins’ war with someone, counselor,” I said, and snatched the knife-missile from the tabletop. Someone had cleaned it, for neither Valka’s blood nor the blood of the batman, Martin, was upon it. “Poine,” I said, using the old word. A blood feud. They had tried to kill me, whoever they were. They had nearly killed Valka—had killed one of my men.

It was war.

“We cannot afford to discount other possibilities,” I said. “House Bourbon means the War Ministry, which means Legion Intelligence, and I’ve never been popular with the Chantry.” I swept my gaze over them. “We cannot let it get out how close they came to succeeding. We cannot let them know they got to Valka. In fact, delay sending word to M. Martin’s family. Burn the body, store the ashes, but mark him as in fugue. And put the guards, the medical staff, anyone who handled the cleanup back on ice. Anyone nonessential. We need Okoyo, obviously, but she’s loyal. We cannot have the details leak.”

Varro raised a hand to object. “My lord, word is all over the ship already.”

“Word, yes,” I said, “and Princess Selene knows something is wrong. She was there when Crim found me.” I glanced at the security officer. It was another way the man had failed me. At least he’d had the good sense not to charge in shouting about it. “Word is fine. The story can leak as it likes, it’s the facts I want controlled.”

Aristedes was grinning ear to ear. “In a fortnight all the Eternal City will be saying the Halfmortal survived an attack from a Mandari assassin.”

“In a fortnight I will have been variously shot, stabbed, strangled, poisoned, burned alive, and blown out the airlock,” I said soberly. “Let them all be true.” All the lies would clog the air like smoke. “I want no report filed below. They’re bound to send someone once the rumors start. Who that is will tell us something.”

Otavia had not uncrossed her arms, but took a step in from where she leaned against the bulkhead. “In the meantime, you shouldn’t leave the ship.”

“On the contrary,” I said, turning the knife over in my hands, careful not to break the glass wires, “I need to act like nothing has happened at all.”

“I’m not letting you out there without a guard,” Otavia said.

“Captain, nothing happened to me out there,” I said, and winced internally, realizing that statement doubtless seemed a rebuke. “At any rate, I cannot ignore a summons if one comes—and what summons will come will tell us something, too.”

The Chalcenterite leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling as though entranced by the light there, or as if staring into the top of his skull. “There is one thing that bothers me.” Everyone turned to look at him, and even Aristedes ceased his fidgeting. Certain he had the floor, the scholiast said, “It is likely whoever planned this attack knew you’d left the ship. Why plant the weapon in such a way as to practically guarantee it would be, ah . . . activated before your return?”

Something cold formed in the pit of my stomach, and I felt my eyes grow narrow. “You think that Valka was the target?”

“Not necessarily,” Varro said. “But it is well known you share a bed. There was a possibility the doctor would return to the chamber before you did. Those Akateko models are indiscriminate. After all, it attacked poor Martin before it had even finished with the doctor. Sorry.” Something must have showed on my face, for the scholiast ducked his head at the sight of me.

Lorian answered him. “It is . . . possible that this plot was not meant to succeed.” He aimed one bony finger at the knife in my hands. “There’s our bloodstained glove.”

I set the weapon back on the table. A declaration of war. I caught myself nodding along with the both of them. “Varro, once you have analyzed the weapon to its fullest, destroy it. Do it yourself. Once this story gets out—in whatever form—the Emperor will send an inspector, possibly an Inquisitor. I do not want them prying through that thing’s memory and discovering it made it into my chambers. If the Inquisitor asks to see the weapon, tell them we destroyed it as a matter of safety.” I glanced up at the cameras that monitored the room. I’d ordered them stopped, but there was no harm in being sure. “This meeting did not happen. Otavia, you will make sure the sec footage backs that up?”

“Certainly.”

“Generate false footage if you have to, and freeze any of the techs you use. Alter the fugue charts. They were never awake. I don’t think they’ll be looking too closely at us—we were the victims here—but it’s possible whoever sent the thing will have access to whatever report the Inquisition might file. And one other thing . . .” I hesitated, recalling both Selene and the Emperor’s words on the matter and the looks on their faces. “We must add Prince Alexander to this list of enemies.”

“What?” half the table shouted in unison, though for Varro and Aristedes the effect was limited to a raised eyebrow and a feral smile.

“I paid him a grievous insult the night of the triumph. He overheard me talking to Valka.”

“I remember that!” Lorian said. “You went looking for her.”

A terrible thought occurred to me. “I think you’re right, Varro. I think Valka was the target. She started the talk on Alexander . . . I only agreed with her.” I laid my hands on the table before me, framing the knife-missile between them. “I hope I’m wrong.”

“If it is the prince,” Crim said, speaking for the first time in minutes, “there’s nothing we can do.”

“I need to speak to him.” I flicked the knife away, watched it grind to a halt before it reached the other side of the wide conference table. “No getting around it.” Rage flared white behind my eyes, and I pounded the metal surface. Snarling, I said, “Give me a straight fight any day.” Thinking of Valka, I blinked back tears. “I need to be with her. Gentlemen, captain, excuse me.”

---

“Hadrian, wait!”

I looked back at the sound of my name, halfway along the hall to the tram that would carry me down and back along the Tamerlane’s equator toward medica and Valka’s bedside. Crim was already kneeling. I should have found that strange from a Norman, but the man was Jaddian-born, and so the custom was perhaps not so unusual. He looked up at me with glazed eyes, but if he expected me to speak first, he was disappointed.

One hand grasping the hilt of his long knife in its sheath, he ducked his head. “I am sorry. None of this would have happened if I had done my job properly. I will figure out how the weapon got aboard. You have my word.”

“Your word, soldier?” I repeated, not using his name to reassert the distance between us. I wasn’t being fair. We had no notion of how the weapon had gotten aboard the ship yet. There might have been no way for Crim to know. And yet I could not stop thinking about Valka lying in her cot in medica. Still, I shut my eyes, murmured an old aphorism to quiet my nerves and calm the brewing fury. This was Crim, and not my enemy. In a voice pressed flat of emotion by sheer will, I said, “Very good.”

“I won’t fail you again.”

“See that you don’t,” I said, and turning left him without another word.