Cromarty inhaled deeply, then turned to face the mourners behind him at last. Queen Elizabeth headed them, with Prince Consort Justin, Crown Prince Roger and his sister, Princess Joanna, and Queen Mother Angelique. Elizabeth’s aunt, Duchess Caitrin Winton-Henke, and her husband Edward Henke, the Earl of Gold Peak, stood just behind them, flanked by their son Calvin and Elizabeth’s two uncles, Duke Aidan and Duke Jeptha, and Aidan’s wife Anna. Captain Michelle Henke joined her parents and older brother after surrendering the sword at the foot of the Cathedral’s steps, and the Queen’s immediate family was complete. Only her younger brother, Prince Michael, was absent, for he was a Navy commander, and his ship was currently stationed at Trevor’s Star.

Cromarty bowed to his monarch and swept one arm at the cathedral doors in formal invitation, and Elizabeth bent her own head in reply. Then she turned, and she and her husband led the glittering crowd of official mourners up the stairs and into the music behind the coffin.

“God, I hate funerals. Especially ones for people like Lady Harrington.” Cromarty looked up at Lord William Alexander’s quiet, bitter observation. The Chancellor of the Exchequer, the number-two man in Cromarty’s cabinet, stood holding a plate of hors d’ouerves while he surveyed the flow and eddy of people about them, and the corners of Cromarty’s mouth twitched. Now why, he wondered, was food always a part of any wake?

Could it be that the act of eating encourages us to believe life goes on? Is it really that simple?

He brushed the thought aside and glanced around. The protocolists’ official choreography for the funeral and its aftermath had run its course. For the first time in what seemed like days, and despite the crowd about them, he and Alexander actually had something approximating privacy. It wouldn’t last, of course. Someone would notice the two of them standing against the wall and come sweeping down on them to discuss some absolutely vital bit of politics or governmental business. But for now there were no eavesdropping ears to fear, and the Prime Minister allowed himself a weary sigh.

“I hate them, too,” he admitted, equally quietly. “I wonder how the one on Grayson went?”

“Probably a lot like ours… only more so,” Alexander replied.

In what was very possibly a first, the Protectorate of Grayson and the Star Kingdom of Manticore had orchestrated simultaneous state funerals for the same person. The concept of simultaneity might strike some as a bit pointless for planets thirty light-years apart, but Queen Elizabeth and Protector Benjamin had been adamant. And the fact that there was no body had actually simplified matters, for there had been no point in arguing over which of Honor Harrington’s home worlds she would be buried upon.

“I was surprised the Protector let us borrow the Harrington Sword for our funeral,” Cromarty said. “Grateful, of course, but surprised.”

“It wasn’t really his decision,” Alexander pointed out. As Cromarty’s political executive officer, he had been responsible for coordinating with Grayson through the Protector’s ambassador to Manticore, and he was much more conversant with the details than Cromarty had had time enough to make himself. “The sword belongs to Harrington Steading and Steadholder Harrington, which meant the decision was Lord Clinkscales’, not the Protector’s. Not that Clinkscales would have argued with Benjamin—especially with her parents signing off on the request. Besides, they would’ve had to use two swords if they’d kept hers.” Cromarty raised an eyebrow, and Alexander shrugged. “She was Benjamin’s Champion, as well, Allen. That made their Sword of State ‘hers,’ as well.”