Wolf took Dechan's response as a cue and continued his pleasantries in Japanese. He was quite fluent and his standard remarks sounded more sincere. Dechan poured tea for himself and his guest. They spoke of the weather and Wolf's trip, but a disquiet underlay the formal conversation. Finally Wolf broke off the polite noise and said, "Will Jenette be here soon?"

  "Hai. I would have expected her to be here already."

  "Good. I wanted to talk to the both of you."

  Seemingly satisfied, Wolf said nothing more. Dechan sat in the awkward silence, old pain gnawing at the shield of politeness. He reached for the kettle to refill his cup and misjudged. When his skin touched hot metal, he snatched his hand back. He wanted to suck on the burn, to cool it, but refused to show weakness before this man. Not now. Not after so long. Pent-up frustration burst forth in words.

  "Why now? I had expected to hear something when you were last on Luthien."

  If Wolf was surprised by the outburst, he didn't show it. Placing his cup carefully on the tray, he said, "We hadn't come to end the feud."

  "But you fought for Kurita," Dechan accused.

  "We were under contract to Davion."

  Dechan shook his head in disbelief. "So a contract was more important than a blood feud."

  "A contract is a sworn bond."

  "More important than your sworn vow?"

  "At the time," Wolf said quietly.

  Dechan sneered. "Very convenient."

  Wolf took a sip of his tea and returned the cup to the tray. The action placed Dechan's comment at a distance.

  "You're not talking about our fighting for Kurita, are you?"

  "Yes, I am. But you're right—there is more to it than that." Wolf waited.

  If Wolf was willing to take it, Dechan was ready to give it to him. "Like a lot of Dragoons, I idolized you. I thought you knew all there was to know about the mercenary business. Everyone believed that you were a man of honor. I'd have given my life for you. Hellfire, I did. I gave my life to Kurita to be a good little spy for you. To what end, Jaime Wolf? Are you a man to whom a handful of C-bills outweighs an honorable vow?"

  "No one forced you."

  "I was on Misery, remember? I saw the Dragoon dead. The sight cut to my soul the way the cold wind of that hellhole never could. I remember. I've heard the voices of the dead every day I stood before the Ryuken trainees, every time I led a Kuritan unit into battle. A lot of people died on Misery and not just Dragoons. Remember the Iron Man?"

  "Yes."

  "Well, I can't forget him. When we worked with the Ryuken, I admired him. No one could match his dedication, courage, and skill. Except you, or so I thought. On Misery the Dragoons fought the Ryuken and nearly lost. In the end, I fought him and watched him kill my lancemates. I thought it was the proudest day of my life when I brought his Dragon down. I was a kid. I didn't really understand the honor of observing his seppuku ceremony, but years of living in his world have taught me. Has the money washed your memories clean of Tetsuhara, too?"

  Looking down at his teacup, Wolf said nothing.

  "Well?"

  Wolf remained silent.

  "I thought you were an honorable man."

  Fire flashed in Wolf's eyes and his expression hardened. "I acted as I thought best. I was commander."

  "Is that your excuse?"

  "It's all the reason there is. I thought we needed someone close to Kurita who could warn us."

  "But then you beat up everything Takashi sent at you and got a whole world from Davion for your very own. Safe and sound. You didn't need to worry about old safeguards. You didn't have to; you could safely forget them."

  "You weren't forgotten. It wasn't safe to communicate."

  "Safe?" Dechan chuckled bitterly. "We used your Wolfnet codes, but we stopped getting answers. We were abandoned."

  "You weren't."

  "Weren't!" Dechan rocked to his feet. He jostled the tray as he rose and his teacup tipped over the edge, shattering on the hardwood floor. "Then why'd you send Lang to Theodore? Jenette and I were supposed to be in his inner circle. Why not tell us to get him to Outreach?"

  "There were other considerations. I didn't think it was a good time to expose you. If the leaders of the Inner Sphere didn't agree to work together, we might still have needed you undercover. If Kurita had refused to cooperate, you could have been exposed to danger."

  "Might have. Could have. You could have told us what you had in mind instead of letting us stumble along, never hearing from the Dragoons."

  "It would have jeopardized you," Wolf said. He began to pick up the pieces of the broken cup.

  "And your coming here isn't going to do that?"

  "Not anymore." Wolf placed the shards on the tray. "It's not general knowledge yet, but there is something you should know. Takashi Kurita is dead."

  Dechan thought of the much-publicized duel. "You killed him?"

  With a shake of his head, Wolf said, "The duel never took place."

  Takashi dead, and not in a duel with Wolf. It was not an outcome that Dechan had considered. "Then Theodore is Coordinator."

  Wolf nodded. "There's no more need for you here."

  "No need? I've served Theodore and the Ryuken longer than I did the Dragoons. No Dragoon need, you mean."

  Wolf sighed and slowly got to his feet. "I understand."

  "Do you?"

  "Let me say that I was proud of your service with the Dragoons. I was prouder still when you agreed to go undercover with Kurita. I know what you gave up."

  Dechan didn't believe it. "How could you?"

  "I left my home once to live a lie. I lived my lie longer than you have yours."

  "My apologies. I should have known that the great Jaime Wolf was better at anything I could do."

  Wolf looked taken aback. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it that way."

  Dechan's ready retort was cut off by the slam of a door. Jenette rushed in from the entry, slinging off her uniform jacket as she came.

  "Dechan, have you heard? Takashi's dead!"

  She faltered as she noticed the visitor. The jacket dropped to the floor and she bowed quickly. "I'm sorry, I didn't realize—Colonel Wolf!"

  She snapped to attention and saluted.

  "This is informal, Jenette," he said.

  Her eyes round with surprise, she asked, "Why are you here?"

  Wolf glanced quickly at Dechan, then smiled for her. "I am here to ask you both to come home."

  "Home?" Her expression was puzzled.

  "Yes. To Outreach. There are places for both of you waiting in the Dragoons."

  "There was no place for us at the siege of Luthien," Dechan said, still bitter.

  "The times have been changing, and I have altered my view of certain issues since then."

  "Oh? A new contract?"

  "Dechan?" Unaware of the earlier conversation, Jenette was clearly confused by the harshness in Dechan's tone.

  "It's all right, Jenette," Wolf said.

  "No, it's not," she said. "He's being rude."

  "Fair, by his lights."

  "How kind of you," Dechan drawled.

  "Dechan!"

  "It's all right, Jenette. Dechan and I are not seeing eye to eye," Wolf said, putting a polite face on the disagreement. "I've made the offer, and I'm sure you two have a lot to talk about. I'm just getting in the way. If you want to come home, you can. You'll be welcome. If not, I'll understand. I would appreciate an answer, whatever you decide. The Chieftain is at the palace spaceport and I'll be staying aboard. We lift in a week, after the funeral."

  "We'll—"

  "We'll give it some thought," Dechan said, restraining Jenette with a hand on her arm. "Meshitsu-kai! Show Colonel Wolf out."

  The servant came in a flurry of polite bows. Wolf followed him out of the room. Jenette waited until she heard the outer door close before rounding on her husband. Her face was flushed with anger.

  "What was that all about?"

  "I don't like being an untrustworthy cog in somebody's deep plans. Wolf said he couldn't trust us to know what was happening on Outreach."

  "He didn't," she said in disbelief.

  "He did. We gave him our lives and it's all been for nothing. He's just calling us back to ease his conscience."

  Frowning, she said, "I'm sure that the Colonel did what he thought was necessary. It's not us that he didn't trust. The ISF has always watched us. A message, or even a messenger, might have been intercepted. Contact wouldn't have been safe."

  "There are ways. He's found them before when he thought it was important."

  She spun away and faced the wall. "You're overreacting."

  "And you're defending him," he said just as harshly. Her back was rigid, full of defiance. He took a deep breath. They had been each other's only true friend for years, but now he saw her pulling away. He remembered all too keenly that she was one of the original Dragoons, a child who had come with them from the Clans. Fearing that her heritage was stronger than the love they shared, he turned away from her. Head hanging, he moved toward the door that led to the inner mansion, but then found himself unwilling to leave the room. He stopped in the doorway. His anger and sense of betrayal urged him on, but his love wouldn't let him walk away. He stood locked in his inner struggle.

  He felt her hand tentatively touch his back. When he didn't shrug her off, she slid her arms around him and hugged him close. She was warm and shaking slightly. He felt a drop of wetness on the back of his neck.

  "Dechan, I want to go home."

  He turned to face her and put his right arm around her. With his left hand he raised her chin until her eyes met his.

  "And if I don't want to go?"

  "Don't ask me to make that choice."

  "You're asking me to make the same sort of choice."

  She buried her head in his shoulder and hugged him fiercely. He knew what his decision would be. She was more important to him than anything Wolf or Theodore could offer. They would go.

  But he didn't have to be a Dragoon.

  Part 3

  CRUCIBLE

  32

  "Michi–sama!" The path back from the edge of the abyss was long. "Michi-sama!"

  Insistent and demanding, the familiar voice burrowed through to Michi Noketsuna's awareness. There was no physical contact. There wouldn't be. For all his impropriety, the caller knew better.

  "Michi-sama!"

  Letting go of the cold embrace of the dark, Michi opened his eyes. Head bowed, his gaze fell naturally upon the honor sword on the ground before him. The gleam of its half-unsheathed blade promised release from the voice, from the burdens of the world, but for as yet unknowable reasons, he had taken a step back from the edge.

  He raised his head, composing himself before bowing an apology to the memorial tablet. He thought to see the other sword of the pair held in the firm grip of a tall black man, but the katana lay where he had placed it, the gentle curve of its scuffed black scabbard stark against the sand. There was no samurai there, only the dull white stone. Absurdly, Michi was both surprised and relieved.

  It is your son who calls, Minobu-sensei, but is it your voice I hear?

  "Michi-sama?"

  "Hai, Kiyomasa-san. I hear you."

  "I was afraid I would be too late." Kiyomasa Tetsuhara stepped closer, moving around to face Michi. The young man wore a Kurita Mech Warrior's dark gray uniform, the heavyweight material that served to protect him from the chill of the cavern making him look stout and clumsy. Despite the cold, sweat beaded on his smooth black skin. "I thought you would take this path, and I wanted to talk you out of it."

  "Did you expect to have more luck with me than I had with your father?"

  "I hoped to."

  A smile flashed on Kiyomasa's face. With its easy promise of familiarity, that grin had undoubtedly made the young man many friends. Michi looked past it to the child he had known and, further, to the long-dead father of the child. Minobu's smiles had been rare. Shrugging off the memories, Michi spoke.

  "Did you think they would help your argument?"

  Kiyomasa's startled eyes flicked over Michi's shoulder, darting to those who had accompanied him. They offered him no verbal encouragement, but Michi sensed their agitation.

  Nervous, Kiyomasa wet his lips and said, "I persuaded them that there are alternatives. So the least you could do is give us a chance. Talk with us. If we can't make you see that this is not the course for you, we will not interfere. Any one of us would be honored to be your kaishaku-nin."

  "Very well."

  Michi settled himself, drawing on his ki to strengthen himself for this last trial. Standing, he turned to face the small crowd whose breaths steamed in the frigid air. He bowed to them.

  "Konichiwa."

  The group's return greeting was ragged, in keeping with their nature. Most wore Kurita military uniforms, although there was a wide array of unit patches. A few wore the uniforms of mercenaries, and one the white uniform of a ComStar Guardsman. The rest wore bits and pieces of military gear with no obvious antecedents.

  They were of all ages. Some were young, too young to have been a part of the old battles. They would be the newest generation of warriors, raised on the tales of Theodore's revitalized Combine army. Others he recognized from his time in Dieron. Still others from the old Ryuken. He bowed to one of those.

  "Kumban-san."

  "Michi-sama." The man took a step forward and returned his bow. "I saw the stone for the old man. You?"

  "Hai."

  "He cannot thank you, so I will."

  "Unnecessary. I was honored."

  Kumban bowed again and retreated a step.

  "You are the one we honor, Michi-sama," Kiyomasa said. "We know of your vendetta and what you did to uphold the honor of my father. Lord Takashi is dead, freeing us from our oaths. Before we could be bound to another Kurita, we decided to come to you. If you permit, we will join you. You are a man of great honor; we want you to lead us in what it means to be honorable warriors."

  Michi gazed at the gathered Kuritans. He saw hope and fear and eagerness for glory in their eyes. His heightened senses let him feel the color of their ki. They were warriors, all of them, and embarked on a bold and daring course. Steeling themselves against the scorn of their fellows, they had run off to join a half-mad vagabond, no doubt believing him to be some sort of warrior saint. Yet they remained restive, troubled.

  The great cavern and its eerie echoes was an unnerving place, but it should not cause a true warrior's heart to flutter. He considered the possibility that he was the cause of their nervousness.

  He realized that he must present an appearance in accord with such fantasies. Like some ascetic defying the elements, he wore only a light kimono against the cold, and it was white, the color of death. The robe hung loosely on him and its open front and short sleeves showed the scars of a lifetime. The dead white, orb that was his left eye made many of the younger ones unable to meet his gaze for longer than a moment. Even some of those who had known him before flinched as he turned his stare on them, each in turn.

  There was no doubt that his physical appearance affected them, but the flavor of their agitation could not solely be accounted for by the reality of confronting their dreams in the flesh. Something else stirred them to apprehension. Michi extended his senses, searching for the source of the disturbance and found that among those present were others who represented another factor in the Kuritans' plans for the future. The presence of these others had been masked from his ki by the Kuritans' agitation, just as their bodies had blocked Michi's sight. Once alerted to their presence, Michi could only wonder how he had missed it at the start. They were not Kuritan, but they were strong. He recognized the fit of the pattern.

  Michi nodded and said, "You may come forward, Colonel Wolf."

  The Kuritans parted to let the three Dragoons pass through their midst. Jaime Wolf was flanked on the right by Hans Vordel. The bodyguard's years had etched deeper lines into his hangdog face and whitened some hairs, but had not weakened his warrior tread. The Dragoon on the left looked like a frozen moment from the past. He appeared to be William Cameron, Wolf's communications specialist, but he was not. Cameron had died on Crossing. This must be a son.

  Wolf was smiling, as if amused at some joke. "Who told you I was here?"

  "Your ki is strong."

  Wolf's smile vanished and he looked toward the memorial tablet. "He said much the same thing when we first met. If you keep it up, you may yet persuade me about Kuritan mysticism."

  "You will believe as you believe, whatever I do or say."

  "Maybe so."

  Michi lifted an arm and waved it to encompass the rows of memorial tablets. Each was a plain white stone, engraved with the formal characters of a warrior's name and rank. "Harumito Shumagawa is responsible for this. He was the officer in command of the forces remaining here when Warlord Samsonov ordered the Dragoon dead disinterred. Samsonov wanted the bodies left to the ravages of this planet's weather, to obliterate their presence. Samsonov said the Ryuken had failed, that their dead were not to be honored. Had he been more confident in his power, he might have ordered the same fate for their bodies as he had for the Dragoons, but he commanded only that their graves go unmarked. Those orders were among the last he gave before he fled. Shumagawa had survived the battle here; he only lost a leg. He knew what had happened.

  "Minobu-sensei taught us that a warrior was to be honored; the warrior's gender, the color of his skin, or the uniform he wore didn't matter. Shumagawa felt dishonored by the warlord's order but, as a samurai, he was obliged to obey. Or at least appear to. He ordered a select group of his men to move the remains of the dead, Ryuken and Dragoon, to this cavern and then he swore them to secrecy. They were all Ryuken veterans; they understood. He could not let courage and valor go unremembered. After reporting the completion of his task to the warlord, he resigned his commission. His veterans dispersed among the Draconis Combine Mustered Soldiery while he came to live in this cavern and began to engrave these tablets. It took him twenty years. He died here by his own hand, atoning for his lie to the warlord.

 

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