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unpredictable … man.”
    “You use the term loosely, Sire.”
    “Nevertheless, beneath that metal carapace, he is nothing but a man. And men have particular … wants.”
    Dalin’s face clouded, and Erik waited a moment before speaking.
    “You are thinking of Tabrel Kris?”
    “She is never out of my thoughts. But that must remain secondary, for now. I have a world to take care of.”
    “Our spies tell us she is safe.”
    “But their reports are scanty, and few and far between.” Sudden anger made him strike his palm with his fist. “If only there was something I could do!” His fury slowly drained, and he repeated, “But as I said, duties …”
    Erik paused, then said, “What are we to do if Prime Cornelian strikes before we are ready?”
    “We must make him think that we will never be ready.”
    Erik’s eyebrows rose in question.
    Dalin gave him a quick look and then laughed grimly. “I have a plan!”
    “Ah …” Erik said, and then the two of them laughed.
     

Chapter 5
     
    I t was the highest tower in the former High Prefect of Mars’ residence. Just above its domed ceiling was mounted the iron sickle in a circle of iron, the symbol of Martian solidarity and militarism. The weight of it could almost be felt through the gentle curve of the room’s dome shape—as if the weight of Mars bore down on the beauty of the room.
    And beautifully it had been appointed. Tapestries salvaged from Titan before its expulsion from the Solar System graced the walls; silken curtains, also from late Titan, caressed the round windows set with cut stained glass also from Titan. The windows, four of them at the compass points, let in dancing rose light from the outside no matter what time of day. At night the glass turned transparent, letting in starlight and the mild reflected flash of the passing Martian moons, Phobos and Deimos.
    The floors of the Cupola Room were covered in the finest woven rugs from Earth, taken in trade instead of booty, a rarity anywhere on Mars these days. Their colors complemented the delicate rose lighting in the room. There was furniture from all of the worlds, rare woods and fine filigreed ironwork pieces from Mars itself. There were tasseled cushions at every sitting area, and paintings from Old Earth masters and the finest new masters that Prime Cornelian’s plunderers could obtain. There were statues and holo pieces, and the scant bare portions of the walls had been frescoed by artisans at the High Leader’s request.
    There was a bed: wide and tall and four-postered, again of curving Martian filigree ironwork. The canopy was of rose silk, tasseled like the pillows. The mattress was thick with plundered fowl down, comfortable as a soft palm, covered with thick comforters, warm. In it, gently laid but not asleep, pinioned by the containment field that bathed the bed invisibly and restrained her, was Tabrel Kris, furious.
    Prime Cornelian regarded her with interest from a respectful distance; he had never looked so much like a mantis, with his head canted curiously to one side.
    “You make a pretty picture, Tabrel,” he said in a low voice.
    “If I could spit at you, I would!” Tabrel hissed, unable even to sit up in the bed; the field kept her pinned as if asleep on her side, and she had to fight to keep her furious glance on the High Leader.
    “Perhaps later,” Cornelian said; and then he backed away exactly like an insect would and adjusted the containment field control on the wall near the front entrance.
    “Shall I modify the temperature in the room while I’m here?” he asked mildly.
    Tabrel, finding herself partially loosened, pushed herself up on her elbows; she found quickly, though, that the field still surrounded her, as if she were trapped in a can barely larger than her body.
    “You’re a coward, Cornelian.”
    “Hardly that,” the High Leader answered. “I’m something much worse than a coward—I’m successful.”
    “But for how long?”
    To Tabrel’s