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Minutes later, a quartet of Halbegardian elites marched into the chamber, a pilot in Cartann black between them. The pilot was a young man with an earnest expression and thick black hair.

With a start, Wedge realized that he knew the young man. He was Balass ke Rassa, a pilot who’d flown against Wedge in simulated combat.

Balass did not acknowledge Wedge or any of the others near the perator; he marched up to his father and halted military style before him.

The perator looked upon him, searching his features. Wedge wondered how long it had been since he’d seen his son—months? Years?

“You know why I’ve had you brought here,” the perator said.

Balass nodded.

“Will you accept?”

“If honor allows.” Balass turned to one of his guards. “But I cannot in my present state. My pistol.” He held out his hand and snapped his fingers, imperious.

The guard looked around, confused, then his gaze fell on Wedge.

Wedge nodded.

The guard pulled a small Adumari blaster pistol from beneath his coat and handed it to Balass. But the prince was not done; after he holstered the weapon, he said, “Blastsword.”

Wedge nodded again. But when the guard reached for the weapon at his side, Balass said, “And not one of your Halbegardian toys. A proper Cartann blastsword.”

Cheriss unbuckled the belt from her waist and put it around the prince. It barely fit, on the last notch, but he did not object. Cheriss stood back and away from him, her face solemn.

Balass turned again to his father. “Now I will accept.”

The perator nodded. “I, Pekaelic ke Teldan, renounce my claim to the throne of Cartann and all titles pertaining thereto, in favor of my eldest son, Balass ke Teldan, known these last two-and-twenty years as Balass ke Rassa.”

His son waited a beat, then said, “I, Balass ke Teldan, accept these rights and duties, and, though the circumstances be rushed and ceremony entirely absent, proclaim myself perator of Cartann.”

There was no applause; there were no cheers to mark the sudden transfer of power from one set of shoulders to another.

Escalion, from the flatscreen, said, “I congratulate you on your poise, Perator Balass. Now, can you do what your father could not? Can you end this conflict by honorable surrender?”

Balass turned to the screen and shook his head. “No,” he said. “We remain at war.”

Wedge heard startled exclamations from the people in the hall and from both flatscreens. The Halbegardian guards in the chamber trained their weapons on the new ruler. Balass seemed unaffected by all this; he just stared into Escalion’s flatscreen, or rather to the point at the top of the screen where its flatcam was installed, and kept a slight smile, possibly a mocking one, on his face.

“You understand,” Escalion said, “you doom your nation to further punishment if you persist in this arrogance.”

“I was about to say the same thing to you,” Balass said. “Only substituting ‘our world’ for ‘your nation.’ Now be quiet a bit while I talk. I’ll try to make you understand.”

Balass paced, talking as he did so, turning from time to time so that he divided his attention between the dignitaries on the two flatscreens and those standing before him. “You lot seem to have concentrated so hard on the tactical situation before you that you have forgotten the strategic. Whether I surrender or not, the Empire knows Adumar will not be allying itself with them willingly. Indeed, I’m told that their giant ship has already left orbit … not a good sign for us.

“If I surrender, the New Republic cannot bring in ships to aid us in the conflict yet to come. Well, they can eventually. But they can bring in no more ships except under flags of truce with us or flags of war against us. And we cannot offer flags of truce as a united world until all ramifications of Cartann’s surrender are explored. Which of Cartann’s protectorates will splinter away and declare independence? Which will cling to Cartann and transfer loyalty to the united Adumari force you represent? These questions will take time to resolve.”

Men and women, a few of them, were