Because of the Chamberlain’s studied unconcern about the vehicle beside him, he was the first of the welcoming party to notice Lady Miriam striding toward Grant’s tank, holding her skirts clear of the ground with dainty, bejeweled hands. Wolfitz turned to the Baron, now leaning gingerly against the curve of the turret so that he could look through the hatch while the lieutenant gestured from the other side. The Chamberlain’s mouth opened to speak, then closed again deliberately.
There were matters in which he too knew better than to become involved.
One of the soldiers yelped when Lady Miriam began to mount the nearer tank. She loosed her dress in order to take the hand which Grant extended to her. The Baron glanced around and snarled an inarticulate syllable. His wife gave him a look as composed as his was suffused with rage. “After all, my dear,” said the Lady Miriam coolly, “our lives are in the hands of these brave men and their amazing vehicles. Of course I must see how they are arranged.”
She was the King’s third daughter, and she spoke now as if she were herself the monarch.
“That’s right, milady,” said Sergeant Grant. Instead of pointing through the hatch, he slid back into the interior of his vehicle with a murmur to the Lady.
She began to follow.
I think Lady Miriam and I, alone of those on the estate, were not nervous about the tanks for their size and power. I loved them as shimmering beasts, whom no one could strike in safety. The Lady’s love was saved for other subjects.
“Grant, that won’t be necessary,” the lieutenant called sharply—but he spoke in our language, not his own, so he must have known the words would have little effect on his subordinate.
The Baron bellowed, “Mir—” before his voice caught. He was not an ungovernable man, only one whose usual companions were men and women who lived or died as the Baron willed. The Lady squeezed flat the flounces of her skirt and swung her legs within the hatch ring.
“Murphy,” called the Baron to his chief of soldiers. “Get up there with her.” The Baron roared more often than he spoke quietly. This time his voice was not loud, but he would have shot Murphy where he stood if the soldier had hesitated before clambering up the bow of the tank.
“Vision blocks in both the turret and the driver’s compartment,” said Lieutenant Kiley, pointing within his tank, “give a three-sixty-degree view at any wavelength you want to punch in.”
Murphy, a grizzled man who had been with the Baron a dozen years, leaned against the turret and looked down into the hatch. Past him, I could see the combs and lace of Lady Miriam’s elaborate coiffure. I would have given everything I owned to be there within the tank myself—and I owned nothing but my life.
The hatch slid shut. Murphy yelped and snatched his fingers clear.
Atop the second tank, the Baron froze and his flushed cheeks turned slatey. The mercenary lieutenant touched a switch on his helmet and spoke too softly for anything but the integral microphone to hear the words.
The order must have been effective, because the hatch opened as abruptly as it had closed—startling Murphy again.
Lady Miriam rose from the turret on what must have been a power lift. Her posture was in awkward contrast to the smooth ascent, but her face was composed. The tank and its apparatus were new to the Lady, but anything that could have gone on within the shelter of the turret was a familiar experience to her.
“We have seen enough of your equipment,” said the Baron to Lieutenant Kiley in the same controlled voice with which he had directed Murphy. “Rooms have been prepared for you—the guest apartments alongside mine in the East Wing, not the barracks below. Dinner will be announced—” he glanced at the sky. The sun was low enough that only the height of the tank’s deck permitted the Baron to see the orb above the courtyard wall “—in two hours. Make yourselves welcome.”
Lady Miriam turned and backed her way to the ground again. Only then did Sergeant Grant follow her out of the turret. The two of them were as powerful as they were arrogant—but neither a king’s daughter nor a tank lord is immortal.