“Now,” said Master Sergeant ap Rhys. “Raise your right hand and repeat after me: I, state your name, do solemnly swear—”

“I, William Alan Elliot, do solemnly swear—”

“That I will support and defend The Republic of the Sphere—”

“That I will support and defend The Republic of the Sphere,” Will echoed.

“And I will obey the orders of the Exarch and the orders of the officers appointed over me, according to law and regulations.”

Will experienced a sudden desire to put down his hand and run from the office. He fought it off and continued, somewhat shakily, “And I will obey the orders of the Exarch and the orders of the officers appointed over me, according to law and regulations.”

“Now the Regiment owns your sorry ass for the next four years,” said Master Sergeant Dylan ap Rhys. “On your feet, soldier, and go out through the other door—you have some tests to take.”

The Fort

City of Tara, Northwind

December, 3132; local winter

Colonel Michael Griffin arrived at the Fort shortly after dark on the night of the Regimental reception for Paladin Ezekiel Crow. As he approached the main entrance to the complex, he could not help but feel a certain amount of pride in a job well done. In the short time available, the Northwind Highlanders had pulled together an impressive display in honor of their distinguished guest. Colored lights played over the structure’s rugged exterior, bathing it in festive splashes of blue and red and green. The windows, high up on the massive walls, shone yellow with the light from inside.

A steady stream of vehicles came and went at the front gate, dropping off prominent politicians, high-ranking Regimental officers, prominent offworlders resident on Northwind, and representatives of the planet’s most prominent families and most important business interests: Everyone, in short, who merited an introduction to the newly arrived Paladin, or who—regardless of merit—might consider himself fatally insulted without one. Security would be unobtrusive but omnipresent. The dress-uniformed soldiers standing guard at the entrance would not be so crass as to demand identification of the arriving guests, but no one who lacked an invitation would be admitted to the festivities. Those invitations—as Griffin, who’d assisted with their design, had good reason to know—were as individualized and personal as an ID card and a great deal harder to forge.

He showed his own invitation to the guards, exchanged salutes with them, and made his way up through all the levels of the Fort to the grand reception hall. At one end of the long, high-ceilinged room, a chamber orchestra played music from the prespaceflight days of Terra. The soft chords and rippling arpeggios ran like a melodious undercurrent through the murmur of conversation. Behind a long table at the other end of the hall, and at smaller tables placed at intervals along both sides, caterers in formal dress stood ready to serve the guests with food and drink. The long table had a towering ice sculpture of a Blade BattleMech for a centerpiece. Griffin gave the caterers points for quick and thorough intelligence gathering if not for subtlety: Ezekiel Crow had brought a Blade with him to Northwind.

The Paladin himself stood with Tara Campbell at the base of one of the hall’s tall lancet windows, far enough from the music that his conversation with those who were introduced to him would not be overpowered. The window was also far enough from any of the refreshment tables that those guests who had come specifically to meet Ezekiel Crow would not be jostled by all the other guests who had come to fulfill an obligation to be present and who—having been counted among those attending—now desired only to sample the decorative pastries and the sparkling punch, and go home.

Years of attending regimental and diplomatic bun-fights all over Northwind and most of Prefecture III had made Griffin an expert in the art of juggling cup, napkin, and plate of small edible objects without risk to his dress uniform. Secure in the knowledge that one more regimental officer with his hands full of refreshments would not draw anyone’s attention, he withdrew to one side of the reception hall and watched the Countess and the Paladin from a discreet distance.

Griffin had seen numerous photographic images and tri-vid clips of Ezekiel Crow, but this reception marked the first time he’d had an opportunity to observe the man in person. Crow was not a physically imposing man. Like most of those who successfully trained as MechWarrior, he was of little more than average height, but he had an undeniable presence. His dark brown hair and reserved demeanor made him an effective foil to the Countess’s platinum-haired ebullience, and to Griffin’s trained eye he carried himself as a man schooled to fight in numerous disciplines.

Tara Campbell stood in vibrant contrast to the more somber Paladin. She’d chosen to wear formal civilian garb tonight, a long, full-skirted gown of rich black velvet and a tartan sash pinned at her shoulder with a massive amber brooch, and she’d done something to her short blond hair—Griffin couldn’t tell what—that had smoothed out its aggressive spikiness into a gleaming helmet that emphasized the elegant lines of her neck. Dressed so, she looked very much like the Countess of Northwind, and very little like the battle-tested MechWarrior, heroine of the campaign against the Black Dragon pirates on Sadalbari.

Griffin reminded himself that appearances could be deceiving, and that the petite porcelain Countess had been the martial-arts champion of the Northwind Military Academy during her student days. Her gown’s long sleeves and full skirts would be hiding not soft flesh but firm muscle, and her grace of movement was a fighter’s grace.

He had watched the Paladin and the Countess long enough, he decided. It was time to make his official appearance and pay his respects. He set his empty glass and plate aside on one of the side trays provided for the purpose, and moved to join the small throng of guests waiting their turn for a minute or two of talk with the reception’s guest of honor.

When Tara Campbell saw him, she gave him a smile of genuine recognition and not mere practiced politeness, then turned, still smiling, to Ezekiel Crow.

“My lord, you really must meet the man who helped plan so much of this evening,” she said to the Paladin. “Paladin Ezekiel Crow, may I present Colonel Michael Griffin of the First Gurkhas?”

Crow was in uniform, as was Griffin, and the two men exchanged salutes. From this closer vantage point, Griffin saw that Crow’s eyes were not brown or hazel, as the color of his hair might have indicated. They were, in fact, dark blue. Griffin found the mismatch subtly off-putting, for reasons that he could not clearly articulate. Tara Campbell also had blue eyes, but her fair complexion and platinum hair gave them a more appropriate setting.

“Colonel Griffin,” Crow said. His voice was low-pitched, and free of any planetary accent that Griffin could identify. Maybe such blandness was a requirement for anyone who intended to play Republic politics at the Paladin level, but Griffin couldn’t help thinking that he’d prefer to hear an honest touch of local patois in a man’s voice. “It’s an honor to meet you tonight.”

“I’m equally honored, my lord,” said Griffin. “Under the present circumstances, it takes a brave and committed man to risk travel to another planet for the sake of nothing but the chance of danger and hard work.”

“I go where The Republic of the Sphere sees fit to send me,” Crow replied. “Which, for now, is Northwind.”

Tara Campbell gave Crow another smile. To Griffin’s eyes her expression appeared slightly apologetic, as if she might be remembering her earlier ambivalence about the Paladin and his mission to Prefecture III.