Cynara was acutely aware of Ronan’s proximity when they settled in the passenger seat. She tested the mental void between them as if it were an aching tooth. His mind was sealed shut, but he appeared as relaxed as a hunting cat capable of snapping into killing mode at the tap of a dandy’s heel.
God forbid that any of the Council should provoke him beyond his control. She had already come very close.
The ornate building that housed the Trade Council chambers had been constructed to celebrate the discovery of the slingshot drive and the subsequent launch of the Pegasus. The average Dharman had no idea that the Pegasus was anything more than one of the planet’s tiny fleet of trade vessels, albeit an extraordinarily lucky one.
Someday the slingshot drive would become public knowledge—once the Allied fleet was constructed and ready to confront the shaauri on a grand scale. Until then, the secret hid in plain sight, contained in a few minds and locked vaults.
But no one had foreseen the possibility that a Kinsman agent might penetrate the Alliance disguised as a refugee. More than Ronan’s future depended upon what the Council decided today. If the Council had any doubts about him, they would not only hold him captive but ground Cynara as well.
Perhaps Ronan would have understood her position more clearly if she’d admitted how much she, too, had to lose. But pride and common sense forbade any such admission.
And so they rode together in silence while Cynara clung to her composure by a cat’s whisker. The driver let them out at the high, golden doors of the Council building, but an aide met them at a small side entrance and ushered them into the frescoed hall. As Cynara had expected, the entire building was all but deserted.
A pair of discreetly armed guards accompanied Cynara and Ronan past murals representing the Nine Worlds and into the tiny waiting room reserved for the subjects of confidential debriefings. Cynara had come prepared for a wait, and she was not disappointed. She and Ronan were left to cool their heels, always in clear view of the uniformed guards.
Ronan looked neither to the right nor left, as smooth as Tarsian glass. There was nothing more Cynara could tell him. Either he would pass this test and be set free, or he would prove her judgment as flawed as her soul.
An hour passed, and then another. The guards began to look bored. It was only when Ronan turned his head toward the door that Cynara realized someone was approaching.
The guards stepped out into the hall, and after a few minutes of hushed conversation Kord strode into the room, his face set in the unreadable expression that always meant trouble. He stopped and saluted without a glance at Ronan.
“Captain,” he said. “I was told I would find you here. I have an urgent message regarding the Pegasus.”
“Urgent” from Kord could never be taken lightly. If he had come all the way here to find her, the message must be important indeed. And most definitely not for other ears.
Cynara glanced at the guards. They had no reason to suspect either her or Kord of anything remotely treasonous, but they’d undoubtedly been ordered to keep a very careful eye on Ronan.
“Gentlemen,” Cynara said, rising to face the guards. “My weapons officer and I have Fleet business to discuss. If you will allow us to step outside for a few moments, I’m sure it can be dispatched efficiently.”
The guards, men sophisticated enough to accept her rank with good grace, exchanged glances. The senior nodded. “Five minutes, Captain,” he said. Ronan made no attempt to follow when she and Kord left the room.
“Your uncle sent me,” Kord said as soon as they were alone. “He’s with the Council now and couldn’t approach you directly, but he managed to get a message to me at the ship. He said he’d delay them as long as possible. I wasn’t sure I would make it before they called you in.”
“What is the message?”
“The Council has taken Janek’s advice to have Ronan deep-probed. They’ve convinced Magnus Vidar Larsen to do it.”