I WAS GROWING TIRED of standing on receiving platforms, and returning to the very spot where I’d awaited the arrival of the Grand Inquisitor and Sir Lorcan Breathnach filled me with the most unpleasant sense of déjà vu. But the ship that hung in the bay before the platform and the walkway was not the brutalist black monolith of a Chantry vessel, but a graceful, almost bird-like craft of snow-white tile and gold filigree, ostentatious in the best baroque fashion, with fan-like solar sails folded and sheathed.

Corvo stood by me again, First Officer Durand at her side.

“I wish she hadn’t insisted on coming here to see you,” the captain said. “I could do without the security detail turning my ship inside out.”

She meant the Martians, of course. A full century of the Martian Guard had arrived the previous morning and begun the work of making safe the Tamerlane for the princess’s visit. A full third of their number stood on the far side of the gangway.

“Can it,” Durand said, pushing his prop glasses up his nose with a finger. “Door’s opening.”

A cornicen emerged in white livery and winded his clarion. The sound echoed painfully in that harsh, metallic space, and a moment later cried out that the Princess Selene of the Aventine House had come.

She appeared a moment later, dressed in a gown to match the crimson of her hair, which she wore up in an intricate tangle of braids. Her handmaids Kiria and Bayara followed on, and another decade of Martians in red and white, blank-faced, their feathered crests standing tall.

Sensing my cue, I left Corvo and Durand and strode to meet the princess. I’d worn my best, the black, short-sleeved jacket over black tunic with silvered vambraces, my pitchfork and pentacle embroidered above the heart in crimson thread to match the crimson stripes along the outer seam of my trousers. And I’d donned again the long cape of white-on-white brocade I favored for public appearances, a badge and visible sign of my service to the Empire.

I knelt before Selene. She extended a hand. Her right hand. This gave me pause for only a moment. Her ring was on the left. To kiss her bare right hand was a far more familiar, far more personal gesture—a sign of friendship between us and, perhaps, of more. Our betrothal was not yet a matter of public record, and though Corvo and my officers knew full well, the Martians and my own legionnaires who stood by would notice and would talk.

Thinking of Valka, still asleep on ice several decks above our heads, I kissed Selene’s fingers.

“You honor us with your presence, Highness,” I said, and kept my head bowed.

“Please rise, sir. You need not kneel for me.” She touched my shoulder as she spoke, and I stood. Behind me, my officers and soldiers saluted with hands outstretched.

Offering the princess my arm—as was only proper—I led her to Corvo and Durand and introduced them, saying, “Princess Selene, here is my captain, Otavia Corvo, and her First Officer, Bastien Durand.”

Corvo dropped her salute and bowed awkwardly while Durand moved with smooth efficiency, precise in this as in everything else. Selene smiled up at Corvo, admiring. “We did not have a chance to meet at the triumph ball,” she glanced to Crim and Ilex where they stood at hand, “but you both I remember!” Turning back to Corvo, she said, “You are even taller than I expected . . .” Her words came out an awed whisper. Realizing this was perhaps an uncomfortable thing to say, the princess added, “Sir Hadrian speaks most of highly of you, captain.”

“I hope so,” Otavia said. “I’ve saved his life more times than I can remember.”

It was an astonishingly forward thing to say, and a very Norman answer. But the princess laughed. “Then I should thank you!”

Suddenly embarrassed, I tuned to Selene. “Shall I show you the ship, Highness?”

“In a moment. We’re not all off the ship yet. And I must meet the rest of your people!” she answered, and I led her, her handmaids, and her guards down the line. We hadn’t made it three paces when the figure at the end of my line of officers caught her eye. “You’re the one who caught Sir Lorcan Breathnach, aren’t you?”

Lorian Aristedes looked up—he’d been staring pointedly at his shoes the whole while—and bowed deeply. “Your Highness is most kind,” he said, not looking up. “I have that honor.” Beside him, Helmsman Koskinen stepped aside to give the small tac officer space.

“You’re very brave,” she said.

“Very foolish, ma’am,” Lorian replied, seemingly unable to stop himself.

This time the laughter did not escape Selene, though it shone in her eyes. “That may be, but my tutor always told me that all heroes are fools until victorious.”

Against my better judgment, I was growing to like Selene. Why could it not have been she whom the Emperor sent with me and not . . .

“Hadrian.”

“Alexander,” I said, turning.

“Prince Alexander,” he said, icily. The young man who had been my squire crossed his arms. Petulant? Defensive? He wore a white version of the Legion officer’s uniform: belted tunic with gold buttons, though he wore no device or insignia of any kind save a red half-toga pinned at the left shoulder. His short hair had grown in the months since our triumph, was brushed and oiled neatly to one side. He wore no sword—he was no knight—but he carried a long knife at his belt and an antique-looking plasma repeater. He looked like a man, or like a child playing at one.

Prince Alexander, I said to myself, then aloud: “If you like.”

Sensing the tension, Selene interposed herself. “I am sorry for the surprise. My brother asked me not to tell you.”

I laid a hand on hers where she gripped my arm and extricated myself from her grasp. Tossing my cape back over my right shoulder I said, “I’m glad you’re here.”

The prince angled his chin.

“Are you not going to kneel, sir knight?” Alexander asked.

That checked my advance. I glanced at Corvo and my other officers. Was Alexander trying to shame me in front of my men? All the paranoia, all the dread of the previous months came crashing back. Bourbon was still my enemy, that much was certain, but was he alone?

“Your father the Emperor has not dissolved our relationship, my Prince,” I said, cold matching the acid in Alexander’s voice. “You are still my squire.”

I did not bow.

Alexander twitched, and in a strained voice, answered, “Very well.”

But I had to do something. Whether or not the young prince was involved in Breathnach’s attempt on my life, this unpleasantness could not be allowed to continue. “Nevertheless, I am sorry you had to hear what you heard. I never wanted to be a teacher, but that is no excuse for what I said. My difficulties should not be yours.”

The prince snorted. “But you meant what you said.”

“That you’re difficult? Arrogant? Yes.” I ought not to do this here. Dressing the young man down in front of his sister was as bad as his attempt to shame me in front of my men. “I would be failing you as your teacher if I did not tell you this.”

The prince did not reply, only stood there, hands clenched at his sides. Tall as he was and noble, he looked almost shrunken standing behind the Martians at the end of the ramp, smaller somehow than even Lorian.

So I tipped my head and bowed, right hand on my heart. “I am sorry, Alexander. I have failed you as a teacher. I hope you can forgive me.” With those words, I handed the young man momentary power over me, and with it restored his dignity. I hoped the lessons I’d taught him—the lessons I’d learned on the streets and in Colosso about the ugliness of the world and about the nature of master as servant, of ruler as steward—had taken root enough that he might bury his animosity toward me.

He did not move for the space of several heartbeats. I am not sure he even blinked.

“Oh, do accept his apology, Alex!” Selene said, retaking my arm. “I would have you both be friends again!”

The young prince chewed his tongue, eyes flitting from my face to Selene’s and back again. “Fine then,” he said at last. “Friends.”

---

“Such a cold place,” Selene remarked as we walked along the ship’s equator, pausing to survey the Sparrowhawks where they sat in their bays below like Crim’s knives in their scabbards. “I can’t imagine living here, can you, Bayara?”

“I rather like it,” the dark lady said, tossing her red hair. “It’s so dangerous. So exciting. Don’t you think?”

Selene was shaking her head. “And everyone asleep. It must be lonely.”

“It can be,” I said. Why was I playing along? Indulging the girl’s romantic notions? “But you’re just as likely to get tired of everyone, day after day. In that respect, it’s no different than anywhere else.” I did not tell her about the way I would stay awake for a year or two at a time after all but the transit crew were sleeping, about the weeks that passed where I saw no one but myself and the bees who dwelt in the hydroponics section.

“How many people did you say lived here?” Selene asked.

“Over ninety thousand,” I answered her, then corrected myself. “Ninety-one, if you count the Irchtani.”

Captain Corvo spoke up. “There are fewer than a thousand of us on deck at present. After our trouble with the Inquisition, we thought it best to cut down to the essentials.”

The princess leaned out over the rail, peering down into the nearest Sparrowhawk launching tube. “I am sorry to hear about your lieutenant.”

“Casdon?” I asked.

“Casdon wasn’t one of mine,” Corvo cut in. “She was new. One of the officers LIO saddled us with after Aptucca.”

Confused silence greeted this declaration. “The core of the Red Company is made up of the Norman soldiers I hired on Pharos,” I said, though hired was a gross simplification. I’d paid for them in blood. My blood, and the blood of their tyrannical former commander, Emil Bordelon. “Plus a few centuries detached from the 437th Centaurine after the Vorgossos affair, and a few of my compatriots from Emesh. Most of the ship officers came out of these groups, but a number of the new officers and most of the enlisted men—especially in the lower echelons—were all pulled from the regular Legions. Any number of them might have been Breathnach’s agents.”

When Selene turned back to look at me, her face was white. “Are you getting rid of them? If any of them might turn assassin like this lieutenant . . .”

I raised both hands to forestall her questioning. “It’s a process, but we’re working on it. Although I understand I may not be leaving Forum at all.”

“Perhaps not!” Selene said, brightening. “Though your company will still need to be reformed.”

“And drilled and briefed and tested,” Corvo added. “It will be like starting over.”

“I hope this lieutenant will prove your only traitor,” Selene said. “And pray all this ugliness is behind you.”

Remembering my confrontation with Lord Bourbon a week before, I answered, “I hope so, too, Highness.”

“At any rate,” she said, resuming her walk along the broad corridor with her retainers, “I am glad you and my brother have made peace.”

Alexander was not present, had instead gone with Crim and a number of his Martian Guard to retrieve several of his possessions which had been left aboard the Tamerlane when we’d returned to Forum, possessions which the young prince had not returned for after the night of the ball.

“As am I,” I said, though privately I was certain the prince still resented me. I was surprised, however, to find that I no longer feared him. Let him resent me, so long as he understood his place as my pupil.

“He wanted me to invite you . . .” Selene began, glancing at Captain Corvo, a bit embarrassed to be asking in front of the officer, who I assumed was not invited. “The Colosso season is about to start. Our brother Aurelian hosts a party in our suite in the Grand Colosseum. He was hoping—we both were—that you might join us.” When I did not answer at once, she added, “There’s to be a naval combat in the opening ceremonies, Aurelian says. Old-fashioned longships with real oarsmen and all. Says they ram one another and try to sink each other. It sounds marvelous. And your doctor could come, your . . . Vala?”

“Valka,” I said reflexively. A shadow fell on me. Why should Selene—my betrothed, of all people—invite Valka to such a thing? To anything?

“The Tavrosi woman, yes!”

“Valka is in fugue.” I glanced at Corvo. I dared not tell Selene that Valka had been injured in Breathnach and Casdon’s attack. I grasped for an explanation, but nothing came.

Thank Earth or whatever gods may be for Otavia Corvo, who piped up. “She is Tavrosi, as you say. The Inquisition asked us to put her under the ice while they conducted their investigation. We’ve not been given permission to awaken her.”

It was half true, of course, but the other half was credible, and would spare Valka any humiliation at being asked to attend a party peopled entirely by Imperial princes and their friends.

“Oh,” Selene said. “Well, that’s disappointing. I’ve so wanted to meet her, you know. But do say you’ll come, Sir Hadrian.”

How could I refuse?