But however stupid the Manties might've been, Theisman doubted the Graysons shared their opinion. No, if Harrington was in Yeltsin, the GSN had offered her a commission. And given Grayson’s need for experienced officers, she'd probably been bumped even higher in rank than he had, as well.

Of course, if Stalking Horse had succeeded, she was also sitting there in Casca along with all of Grayson's ships of the wall. But if it hadn't succeeded, there was a chance he might find himself facing her once more, this time with an SD or two in her kit bag, and wouldn't that be fun? For all his ambition and planning ability, Alexander Thurston was no match for Honor Harrington once the shit began to fly. And while Theisman himself had scored off her once, he was only too well aware of the fluke circumstances which had let him. If she happened to be in command in Grayson and had any capital ships at all to work with, TF Fourteen was going to get hurt.

But even if they did, they could still pull it off, he told himself. However good she was, thirty-six battleships would be ample to handle the two or three SDs Grayson might have retained for local defense.

He nodded to himself, amused, in a grim sort of way, by his own near-superstitious respect for her, and settled himself in his command chair. One way or the other, it would all be over within the next four days.

"That bitch!" Lord Burdette slammed his fists on his desk, then flung himself up out of his chair. "That cunning whore of Satan! How? How did she do this?"

Edmond Marchant made himself as small and inoffensive-looking as possible while his Steadholder stormed about his office like a caged beast. Burdette’s normally handsome face was ugly with fury, and fear, and the cleric felt an icy fist about his own heart as he contemplated the news from his Steadholder’s Justice Ministry contacts.

The most infuriating, and frightening, thing about that news was that it was fragmentary. Aaron Sidemore had done his job of replacing Burdette loyalists well, and none of the handful of remaining bureaucrats still mindful of past obligations to the Steadholder were members of the small, tight task force the Councilman had established. All they had was bits and pieces, but what they did know was bad enough, and Marchant’s brain echoed his Steadholder’s impassioned question.

How had they done it? How had Sky Domes reconstructed events when they'd been completely barred from the site? Marchant had personally recruited the engineers who'd planned the operation. Those men had been given exact copies of the original plans, and they'd sworn to him, sworn on their own souls, that their sabotage would be almost impossible to detect even from direct, on-site examination. So how had Sky Domes even realized it had been deliberate, far less how it had been done, all the way from Harrington? Satan. It had to be direct, demonic intervention. The icy fist squeezed tighter about his heart at the thought. He'd known the Devil would fight to preserve his tools, but how had even he managed this? Were not his Steadholder and he God's champions? Would God permit Satan to defeat them? No! The Lord would never let that happen! There was, must be, a way yet, if only he could meet the Test of finding it. But what was it? He closed his eyes in prayer, begging God to show him the answer even as his mind churned back over the maddening bits and pieces they knew. Gerrick, he thought. Adam Gerrick, Sky Domes' chief engineer. Lord Burdette’s Justice sources all agreed that whatever was happening had started with him, and Harrington had him safely tucked away aboard her flagship, so...

Wait! Why was he in hiding on Harrington's ship? If his was the guiding hand behind the investigation, why did she have him hidden rather than down on Grayson leading Justices hounds along Marchant's trail? There had to be a reason, the cleric told himself fiercely. There had to be! But what was it? What, what, what?

And then he realized. Justice was beginning an investigation. That meant they didn't know anything yet, didn't it? If they'd really known what had happened, that heretic Mayhew would already have taken formal steps against Lord Burdette, and he hadn't. Instead, he'd summoned a closed session of the Keys. That must mean he intended to lay the story before the steadholders before Justice had investigated, and that made sense, didn't it? The public's hatred for Harrington was rising to levels higher than Marchant had dared let himself hope for, so it followed that the Protector was desperate to quell the mounting fury before it reached a stage at which not even proof the Mueller dome had been sabotaged could repair public confidence in her.

Of course it did! Marchant nodded to himself, and his eyes screwed even more tightly shut as his brain raced through the possibilities.

If Justice hadn't yet amassed any hard evidence, and they couldn't have without Lord Mueller's warning them Justice inspectors were examining the site, then Mayhew's only "proof" was Sky Domes' unsupported allegations. Even if Gerrick had figured out everything, only he and his staff knew the truth. That was why Harrington had him aboard her ship. She was protecting him against any possible danger from the godly until she trotted him out for the Keys.

And if that was so, if he was Mayhew's star witness, she was wise to do just that. Much as Marchant hated her, his humiliation in their public confrontation had cured him of any tendency to underestimate her, and he nodded in sour acknowledgement of her cunning. If the godly could only get to Gerrick, silence him, buy even a few more days for the public’s hatred to build, not even a full dress Justice investigation could...

His eyes popped open. Of course! That was it, the answer he'd begged God to show him! How could he have missed seeing it from the outset?

"...that whore! That scheming, fornicating, rutting bitch! I'll kill her, kill her with my own two hands! I'll..."

"My Lord!" Marchant spoke loudly to break into his Steadholder's furious monologue, and Burdette whirled. His blue eyes were furnaces, so hot the cleric quailed inwardly, but he dared not falter. He was God's servant, and he knew the answer now.

"What?" Burdette snapped in a hard, savage voice he'd never before used to his chaplain, and Marchant forced his own words to come out calmly and reasonably.

"My Lord, I know what we must do," he said quietly.

"Do? What can we do?"

"We can still assure God's triumph, My Lord."

"How?" Rage still choked William Fitzclarence, but the cleric's calm tone was having its effect. He shook himself, and his voice was almost normal when he repeated the question. "How, Edmond? If they know what happened..."

"But they don't, My Lord. Not yet. So far all they can possibly have is conjecture, Sky Domes' conjecture."

"What?" Burdette looked puzzled, and Marchant leaned forward.

"My Lord, if they had real evidence, would Mayhew and his sycophants hesitate one moment before making public charges against you?"

"But what if that's precisely what he does intend to do at this cursed secret session of his?!"

"If he meant to do that, he wouldn't have asked for a secret session, My Lord. Don't you see? That proves he has only a theory. The hatred against Harrington is so intense now that he would never delay any public statement which could defuse it, so he must intend to lay Sky Domes' theories, theories, My Lord, before the Keys."

"He..." Burdette paused with an arrested expression. "Yes," he murmured. "Yes, that would make sense, wouldn't it? He has no proof, but he hopes to buy time, postpone the harlot's impeachment."