The Kalifs War

IN A 48 MPH ZONE. A POLICE FLOATER WILL LAND BEHIND YOU.

With a disgusted curse, he obeyed. Two minutes later, a policeman stood beside his car. "Sorry, mlord," the man said, seeing the nobility mark on Veeri's forehead. "But I'll have to take a blood sample. Just a drop or two. It won't hurt a bit."

It didn't, but the results did. Veeri and Rami got into the police floater for a ride to the precinct station, while another officer brought in his new car, riding the system. Rami was questioned and released; Veeri gave her money for the cab. Then he was booked, and led to a small, but clean and reasonably comfortable cell.

"Just till tomorrow, m'lord," he was told. "Your alcohol level is illegal, but low enough that a first offence is a misdemeanor. You'll come before a magistrate in the morning, and when you've paid your fine, you'll be released. If it had been a felony-But I'm sure you'll be more careful the next time."

He'd just lain down when the realization struck him, hard enough that he sat up and slammed his fist into his palm. On Klestron, if a government employee was booked by the police for any infraction, even the most minor, a report was faxed to his supervisor. No doubt it was the same here. And if the report mentioned Rami…

Probably it wouldn't though, he told himself. She wasn't relevant to the infraction.

He lay back down, not fully reassured.

Thirty-nine

The young man heard almost all of it.

He'd come to present a petition to the Kalif's chief aide. Not his own petition; his employer's. He was administrative assistant to the managing editor of The Informer, a newszine charged with infringing on a government copyright, a technical but potentially troublesome charge. After giving his name to the exarch's secretary, the young man had sat down across the small waiting room from another man come to see the exarch.

The petition bearer had a quick and accurate memory, a very useful attribute in his job. A quick memory and a quick mind. Thus he recognized the other man from his picture as one of the Klestronu who'd arrived to brief His Reverence on the Confederation Army, eight or ten weeks earlier. It was his picture they'd featured in the news note, because he looked like a dashing marine combat officer should look: tall, handsome, and capable.

He should have stayed in the marines. He didn't appear as impressive in civilian clothes.

After a minute or so, a lesser prelate emerged from the exarch's office. Shortly afterward the secretary sent the Klestronit in, then said something into his commset and hurried out as if to the men's room.

"Colonel Thoglakaveera, you'd better have a good explanation for this."

The stern words, not loud but audible, startled the petition bearer. They came from the exarch's office. The door hadn't fully closed itself behind the Klestronit; it had caught on a wrinkle in the rug.

"You refer to the traffic violation, Lord Exarch?"

"Don't throw dust in my eyes, Colonel. What were you doing out with a young woman?"

"[Something something] party in the Anan Hills. There's nothing between us. There were [something something] there. [Name not clearly heard] can vouch for me."

"He'd better, because I intend to check this with him. I'm also going to check on the young woman; see what kind of reputation she has."

There was a pause. The continuation was stated mildly but firmly. "Now listen, and listen well, Colonel. The Kalif is a busy man with a great deal on his mind. He doesn't need this on his plate. So I'm going to do you a very large favor. I'm not going to report this unless I find you've lied to me. And you'd better hope I don't, because the Kalif will be quite upset if he thinks you've broken your agreement with him."

There was a long moment's silence then, as if the exarch were thinking, making a decision. "For the remainder of your probation-which has less than six weeks left to run now, remember-you're to abide scrupulously by the terms of your agreement. You'll be subject to surveillance from time to time, to ensure that you do so. And if you wish to be away from your lodgings beyond 10 P.M., call Mr. Arvadhoraji, giving him full and truthful particulars and obtaining his permission.

"Do I have your pledge?"

The eavesdropper couldn't make out the murmured reply.

"Good. I truly dislike requiring these further conditions of you. You are, after all, an officer, and a nobleman of excellent family. But you violated your agreement, and these conditions are less onerous than they might be, as I'm sure you appreciate.

"Do you have any questions or comments?"

There was another inaudible reply.

"Good. Then go with Kargh."

A moment later the Klestronit came out grim-faced, noticing neither that the door had been ajar nor that anyone was in the waiting room. He swept through and out, into the hall and gone.

The young editorial assistant contemplated what he'd heard. Interesting! Very interesting! It seemed that the colonel's principal violation was having an unknown young woman in his company. Perhaps in a vehicle; seemingly a traffic violation had been involved. And what about this would so greatly concern the Kalif? What was their agreement?

When he got back to the office, he was going to query the available data bases, see what he could learn about it and what might he beneath it. It had the smell of profit, not for The Informer, but for himself.

Forty

Major General Arbind Vrislakavaro, commanding officer of the Capital Division, gave his name to the sergeant and sat down. He wondered what the Chief of the Imperial General Staff had called him in for. Ordinarily, communication short of some major conference would have been handled via commset. And ordinarily, any order to come in would have included the purpose. This message had simply referred to "a brief meeting."

He'd been seated for less than a minute when the sergeant spoke again: "General, the general is ready to see you now."

The Chief of Staff got to his feet as the division commander entered. "Good to see you, Chesty," he said, and leaned across his desk to shake hands. "Have a chair." When his guest had sat down, the COS gestured at a gleaming silver pot. "Coffee?"

"Forty drops."

Bavaralaama knew the Vorgan idiom for "fill it up." Taking two tall clear insulglass mugs from a shelf, he drew them full. The coffee looked black as tar, but the aroma was excellent. "If that's more than forty drops," he chuckled, handing a mug to his guest, "just leave what you don't want. The Kalif's new orders haven't left us that short of money."

He sat down then, settled back and took a sip from his own mug. "You're wondering what this is about. First of all, nothing I'll say here is criticism. Certainly not of you. I'll simply be pointing out a situation.

"Officers have opinions. Sometimes strong opinions. And there's nothing wrong with that. Also they like to voice them to their fellow officers. Normally there's nothing wrong with that either, if they're not treasonous or grossly immoral.

"In the officers corps planet-wide-empire-wide, probably-there's a lot of sentiment in favor of the Kalif's proposed invasion of the Confederation of Worlds. Not surprisingly. And this sentiment has reached the ears of politicians, most of whom don't like the idea of invasion, don't like it at all."

He sipped his coffee without taking his eyes from the other man's. "They feel threatened that officers voice partisan feelings in its favor, even privately, let alone strongly partisan feelings. Not your officers specifically, but officers in general. What makes your division a particularly sensitive matter is that it's just forty miles from the Hall of the Estates. You see what I'm getting at?"

"You want me to put a gag order on my officers."

"Exactly. And send it to me so I can show it to the people who complained. I don't like the idea, but it's necessary.

"Now a related matter has come to me from Iron Jaw, up at 1st Corps. You know what he's like-what his family's like, and the kind of officers he surrounds himself with. He doesn't like the talk he's been hearing. Or maybe what he imagines he'd be hearing if his ears were bigger; he banned talk about an invasion early on."

He paused, grunted. "He has a point, though. Given the range of good and poor sense in the military, I'm sure that a few officers have actually said the sort of thing old Iron Jaw reports. He claims some of the talk has crossed the line into sedition: that some officers have said the army ought to take over the government and declare the Kalif dictator, so he can get the invasion launched."

The COS-the chief of staff-had watched for a reaction in the major general; the only one visible was a flash of irritation. "Any observations?" he asked. "Or other comments?"

"Yes. I've heard quite a bit of talk, a lot more than Iron Jaw lets himself hear, but nothing approaching sedition. If I had, even phrased just as 'ought to,' I'd have filed charges for insubordination. Or sedition, depending on how it was put.

"And I'd probably have heard." He paused. "Remember what you wrote, the last time you inspected my division?"

The older man grinned. "That was a 50-page report, not including the 200 pages of appendices. What are you referring to, specifically?"

"That the morale of my men-officers and ranks-and their loyalty to their division commander, was as high as you'd ever seen in any division. Or in any battalion for that matter.

"So. I'm now going to let you in on my secret. Besides the fact that the Capital division is elite, with all enlisted ranks made up of gentry."

The COS interrupted. "There are officers who claim that peasants are more loyal than gentry."

"There are officers who treat their gentry noncoms like peasants. So naturally they're resented. They'd do better to treat peasants like gentry, so far as practical. No, besides having good people-First, I'm a competent commander, and they know it. Second, I like and respect my people, and treat them justly, which they also know. And third-Third, I have informers. Five of them."

The COS's eyebrows arched. Historically it wasn't that rare to place informers in military units, in times of unrest against the government. But in more stable times…? "How do informers contribute to loyalty?" he asked. "Usually it works the other way."

"Not the kind I have. The army's got no halfway effective formal means for people to complain; to give their opinions. So I've given them an informal means; one they don't know about, so they can't fear or misuse it. I've got four particular platoon sergeants, men I especially respect, that let me know about anything of any consequence that's bothering their men. And if there's an injustice or stupidity underlying a complaint, I have it handled. Or at least eased.

"I also have an aide, a major named Tagurt Meksorli. An outstanding officer: intelligent, tough, honest-even about himself-and well liked. Ambitious, but not the kind to lie or backstab or cover up. I'll send you his career summary sometime; it's quite remarkable. He's someone you ought to be aware of.

"Within a month of coming on staff, Meksorli had not only demonstrated excellent efficiency, but finesse in handling men. Despite his origins, he'd become one of the better liked officers in Headquarters Regiment. Then he started holding weekly parties-bull sessions with refreshments-in his quarters. I asked a few careful questions and liked what I heard about them. A couple of months later he rented a house in the Anan Hills, apparently just for his parties. His family is Vartosu Metals, Intrasystem Transit, and Diamond Cruises, among other things. Enormously rich. And his parties got bigger."

The major general looked thoughtful as he talked. "They're parties not everyone would care for. He doesn't put out at lot of fancy food, doesn't put up with drunkenness or other misbehavior, and usually women aren't invited. As I said, mainly they're bull sessions. Sometimes he'll invite an outsider, from the fleet or some foreign embassy, something like that.

"I asked him to let me know what the principal gripes and likes are that he hears about. Naming no names unless he wants to. So I could handle the beefs and reinforce the good points wherever appropriate. That was a year ago. I didn't know him as well then, didn't know whether he'd say yes and then feed me some pap, or whether he'd come through for me. As it turns out, I've had some very valuable input from him.

"Among other things, I know where my officers stand on an invasion: not surprisingly, they're behind it, want to take part in it. Something very few of them have felt free to tell me. And I've heard of nothing even remotely seditious. But I'll ask him specifically. If there is anything, he'll tell me."

Hie COS had forgotten his coffee. Now he took another sip. "Hmh! Interesting. D'you ever go yourself?"

The major general shook his head. "Spoil the whole sense for freedom there. Besides, Sevenday evening is reserved for my family."

"Ah. Of course."

"One more thing. I'm not happy about issuing a gag order. The main results will be resentment and secrecy. It's the kind of order that Iron Jaw Songhidalarsa's people expect, but not mine. The only reason I'm not arguing is, I know you wouldn't ask it idly."

Lips pursed, the COS gazed at his coffee mug. "Maybe I wouldn't have, if I'd known about your informers." He looked again at the division commander. "Look, Chesty. Hold off on the gag order until you've asked Meksorli whether anyone's talked about taking over the government. Or making the Kalif a dictator. If not, I'll settle for an order that there must be no irresponsible talk, on pain of formal charges. How does that sound?"

"I feel better with that, sir. I'll let you know what I hear, and call in anything I write before I release it."

"Good. You just covered my next request. Go on back to your division, Chesty; I envy you a command like that."

When the Capital Division's commanding officer had left, the Chief of the Imperial General Staff considered what he'd learned. He wasn't entirely sure he liked what he'd heard about Meksorli. He tended to distrust such bald-faced ambition. But Chesty Vrislakavaro had always been an outstanding commander, alert and quick, and an excellent judge of character. And it wasn't wise to argue with superior performance or harass good men. Not without compelling cause.

Forty-one

More weeks passed. With work by Jilsomo, Alb Teevon came into line behind the Kalif, not with any great change of heart but because he respected Jilsomo's ethics and judgment. The Kalif also gained four probables in the House. If the straw poll was correct, that meant he had twenty-seven yeas, sixty percent exactly. Still well short of the needed seventy percent, but enough to ask for a ten percent increase in his contingency fund.

He got it. Actually he got thirty-one yeas. Two of his exarch opponents had backed him, no doubt on the principle that the Kalif should be supported whenever morally possible. Two of his noble opponents had also voted yes; either Thoga's straw poll had been conservative, or more likely they were softening, fudging. How many more might be?

And with fourteen yeas in the College, eighteen House yeas on invasion funding would give it approval!

Thus hope flared in the Kalif's chest when the last vote, a yea, was voiced. Perhaps the invasion would be funded this year.

Support was growing among the lesser nobles, and if the gentry had their way, he'd have his appropriation already. Patience seemed to be the key; patience, moderation, and ask for a vote on the last week of the session.

And if not this year, surely next.

Meanwhile, now he could afford to set SUMBAA to work producing all three new SUMBAAs. No doubt it had the construction plans ready. It was undoubtedly a matter of constructing modules that could be assembled aboard the selected ships.

Forty-two

The Year of The Prophet 4725

Prophet's Day marked the beginning of the year. It was also the major celebration of the year. The assigned anniversary of the Blessed Flenyaagor setting out on his wandering mission to make known the Truth of Kargh.

The actual date was only approximately known-the end of spring in The Prophet's native Arvendhi, the end of autumn at Ananporu, if one defines autumn astronomically instead of meteorologically. For of course, so near the equator there was no meteorological autumn. It was celebrated on the day following the solstice-in the more populous and culturally dominant southern hemisphere, the date when the sun began to return. Symbolically it was the beginning of recovery: in the one case of life and growth, in the other, humankind's intended spiritual recovery.

Popularly it was also a day of omens for the new year.

At Ananporu it fell within the major rainy season, but whether through the intervention of the deity or not, the great parade was usually completed without rain, or with only sprinkles. It was widely considered that a storm on the parade was an expression of Kargh's disapproval of the reigning Kalif. During the nine-year tenure of Kalif Gorsu Areknosaamos, the parade had been stormed on seven times, a percentage unmatched in the 1,490 years of the Kalifate, or so it was said. Kalif Coso Biilathkamoro had so far been in office for three Prophet's Days without a drop to spoil the event.

This year there were predictions both ways. The Forecast Office, releasing SUMBAA's evaluation, spoke of "scattered thundershowers, locally heavy." The Kalif's opponents forecast rain, feeling that if not Kargh, then the "law of averages," was bound to catch up with him; they'd be delighted to attribute it to Kargh's displeasure. Most of them, technically unsophisticated, were unfamiliar with the actual workings of probability.

The Kalif's supporters, on the other hand, said that if it stormed, it would be the Kalif's opposition who brought it on. This dodge had a feeble ring, being at odds with tradition.

Floats had never become part of Prophet's Day parades in Ananporu, perhaps because of the season and its storm threat. But there were marching bands from every world; teams bearing banners; open limousines bearing dignitaries; mounted formations, civilian, military, and police; gymnasts and clowns bounding and cavorting (along the margins, away from the horse droppings). And of course, there were the million or so spectators, far more than the city's population, who lined the right-of-way.

Normally the Kalif would ride a limousine, too, but almost no Kalifs had been active men in their mid-thirties. Paralleled by two mounted guardsmen, and a hundred feet above the avenue by watchful marksmen in open floaters, Kalif Coso rode a magnificent red stallion. He was preceded and followed by cheering that comprised a rolling roar of sound along the thoroughfare, a roar that could hardly be missed by the noble delegates following a little distance back in their limousines.

Well into the parade, thunder rumbled, with a few booms not far off, and once, for eight or ten seconds, great drops, hard and cold, spattered sparsely on the parade. Then the Kalif's opponents knew hope and joy. But it cut off as suddenly as it began, and while it rained hard half a mile north, and also two miles south, the parade went on unwetted. As if Kargh had changed his mind. Or perhaps he'd only wanted to remind the crowd of what he might have done.

When the last band had marched by, and only the sanitation crews were still to come, to clean up the final horse droppings, the crowds dispersed, to feast and party through the rest of the day and night.

The largest party of them all was the grand party in the Hall of the Estates. It was a very different kind of affair from the opening reception three months earlier. It was a gala, centered in the reception hall, and replete with noble ladies proudly dressed. There was dancing, too, in an adjacent ballroom, though most of the guests preferred to mix and talk.

The Kalif was there, with his kalifa.

He'd shown her the notorious book, as she'd asked, and she'd been hurt by it, though less than he'd feared. For two days she'd kept to their apartment, in a depression that, despite occasional silent tears, seemed to him more like despair than grief. It occurred to him that some of her mood might be due to her pregnancy, of which she'd shown few identifiable side-effects beyond a pair of nauseous mornings.

Mostly he'd tried to act as he normally would, but finally, thinking it might help if she talked about it, he'd asked her what troubled her most. She'd answered, that someone would so spitefully hurt and humiliate a person who hadn't harmed them, and whom they didn't know.

Then she'd wept in earnest, sobbing and hiccuping that she'd brought anger and hatred and opposition on him, and that she wished she'd been killed on Terfreya. He'd held her and let her cry, and when she'd finished, he'd kissed her, then kissed her some more, and unexpectedly they'd made love before going to sleep.

In the morning she'd seemed much happier, as if the weeping had helped.

In fact, her depression had passed, and her beautiful complexion bloomed to a newer glow, while her mood was more than happy. Often it was playful, which delighted him. It was as if the lingering disillusionment she'd felt with him, weeks earlier, had finally, totally passed.

So he was taken by surprise when she asked if she might skip the great party of Prophet's Day. She felt uncomfortable, she admitted, about being in a crowd some of whom-perhaps many of whom-had read the book.

He didn't urge, but pointed out that non-attendance would gratify those who'd hoped the book would lastingly wound and humiliate its targets. And minutes later she told him she wanted to go after all. Thus they were there together, she astonishingly beautiful in a sheer, light blue gown with white underlining. She had not swelled at all yet, that he could see. The only symptom was her glow. Within minutes she was swept away with pleasure at the attention she received. It seemed that almost everyone wanted to talk to her.

Large as it was, the great reception hall grew somewhat crowded, for no invitation was required. The mark of nobility was enough for admittance. Finally, the security chief, in his wisdom, decided the place held all the people it safely could. They lined the buffet; circulated with plates in their hands, talking; accepted drinks from waiters.

A surprising number of nobles, mostly strangers to him, came up to the Kalif and told him they approved his planned invasion. That it would be the stimulus the empire needed to reverse its long decline. Invariably the Kalif thanked them, and suggested they give their message to the delegates, who were recognizable by their capes. (It was not a "robed affair.")

It seemed to him that the numerous approvals constituted the kind of omen he could accept, one that reflected an identifiable reality.

Inevitably, of course, some of the crowd drank too much. But it was the tradition at official affairs that those who became conspicuously tight were handled by their friends. And occasionally someone would be helped to leave by one or two or three of the quiet security personnel in their colorful uniforms. But that was infrequent. If a noblewoman became troublesome, security kept hands off entirely. She was her husband's responsibility and embarrassment.

None within memory had made a scene like this one though. She was tall for a Vartosu woman, handsome, and much younger than her husband. Her condition hadn't been conspicuous until he asked if she might not like to meet the kalifa, who was talking with people a few yards away.

"The kalifa? That bitch in heat?" Her bugled scorn carried well through the hubbub of voices. "She's a slut! You men all act as if she's so beautiful! You'd all like to get in her pants! Yes! You, too!"

All eyes for a dozen yards around turned to the woman. Her husband was too stunned to act.

"She'd like it, too! Give her half a chance and she'd be in the nearest bedroom, with a line outside the door!"

Her husband pulled on her arm then, trying desperately to quiet her and rush her out, but his efforts made her louder. The crowd sounds died in a widening ring.

"Look at her!" She was actually yelling now. "The Sultan's Bride! The Kalif's Bride, but old Rashti fucked her, too! You can bet on that! What do you think she…"

It was the Kalif that cut her off. Within earshot at the start, he'd plowed through the crowd like an angry bull, and his hand gripped her shoulder from behind, fingers like hooks. Her yell changed to one of surprised pain as he turned her around, and she slapped his face, hard, would have slapped it again if he hadn't caught her hand.

For a long moment they matched glares. "You foul devil!" she shouted. "Get your filthy hands off me! I'm not your slutty wife that you can-"

He slapped her once, not as hard as he might have, but it snapped her head to one side, and she wilted, tears starting. Her husband stood as pale as a Vartosit could get.

"Sergeant!" The Kalif's voice was as cold as ice. "Get this excrement out of here. Into a cell. Tomorrow we'll see how she likes cleaning public latrines on her hands and knees."

"Your Reverence!" Her husband had reflexively stepped back when the Kalif had strode up. Now he stepped forward. "Please! She, she didn't know what she was doing. Now and again she…"

He stopped at the Kalif's cold gaze. "You would make excuses for the things she said?" The man was unable to answer, and the Kalif began to realize how out of control he'd been himself. "Well then. If she'll apologize." He turned his eyes back to her. "What do you have to say?"

She didn't straighten, but tipped her head sideways, looking at him as if from beneath something. Her voice was quiet now, but so was the room. "You are Shatim incarnate," she said, "and that-" She turned and spat phlegm toward Tain. "That is Shatim's bitch in heat."

The Kalif's eyes bulged, and he slapped her again, the sound like a gunshot, sending her sprawling, screaming. Her husband reacted like a spring uncoiling, starting at the Kalif, then somehow stopping in mid-move. Two bodyguards were on him in an instant, grabbing his arms, jerking him back.

The man sagged, and when he spoke, his voice was thick and hoarse. "I, Lord Siisru Parsavamaatu, demand satisfaction at arms for your attack upon my wife."

The challenge brought the Kalif out of his own brief psychotic break, and he looked at the man: perhaps fifty-five years old, not decrepit by any means but no longer fit, and undoubtedly no match for him. The challenge had been an act of despondency; the man fully expected to be killed.

And suddenly the Kalif felt very tired. "I do not wish to fight you, sir," he said. "Each of us has reacted badly to this-" He groped. "This occurrence."

The man's head slowly shook. "It's a matter of honor. You struck my wife, knocked her down. The challenge stands."

The Kalif exhaled audibly through rounded lips. "Well then. If it must be."

"Please! Coso!" Tain had come up, but though he heard her, he ignored her. "Please! Don't do it! She…"

He cut her short with a chopping motion. His eyes were not angry however, only bleak. "We have no choice," he told her, then turned back to Lord Siisru. "Who will be your second?"

"My cousin, Lord Gromindh Parsavamaatu." A man who'd come near stepped through the circle of watchers now, to stand waiting. "And yours?" Siisru asked.

Coso almost answered Jilsomo, but Jilsomo was not noble, would not have been acceptable. It would have been taken as an insult. It occurred to him that he had no real friends among the nobility, outside the College. "Alb Tariil," he found himself answering. "If he's here, and if he'll consent to. Otherwise, Lord Roonoa Hamaalo."

Tariil was either out of earshot, or reluctant, and it was the tall and powerful Maolaaro who came forward.

"It was my challenge," Siisru said. "What weapon would you use?"

The Kalif shrugged heavily. "Sabers."

Siisru nodded. "Sabers then. Where?"

"The choice is yours."

"I am not familiar with this locality. Name a place."

"The drill field in the Sreegana. The ground is bare there, and sandy. The footing is good."

"So be it."

"The location was mine," the Kalif said then, following the ritual. "Name the time."

"At once."

He nodded. "As you wish."

No one followed them except their seconds and the Kalif's two bodyguards; it would have been totally outside protocol. The square seemed huge, their crossing a slow movement through a dark, deserted, dismal space. At the great gate, the guards watched them approach with idle curiosity, then with silent foreboding as they saw their faces, and wondered what this was about.

While the duelists waited silently on the dark drill ground, the senior guard signed out two sabers, both honed razor sharp, and at the Kalif's order, offered Siisru his choice. The nobleman tested the balance and feel of both, shrugged and chose. The Kalif took the other.

He bowed then to Lord Siisru. "You issued your challenge in extreme circumstances. I wish it had not been given, and would gladly see it retracted."

"It stands. I have no honorable alternative."

The nobleman's words had neither force nor indignation. He sounded like a man already dead.

"And if I refuse to fight you?"

The answer came tiredly. "Then I will kill you, for you would never run."

"Very well. Are you ready?"

The man's sword came up. "Ready."

Both took the guard position. "Lord Gromindh," said the Kalif, "you may give the command."

After a long reluctant moment, Lord Gromindh croaked the word: "Begin!"

To the Kalif, the "duel" was a macabre mockery, for Siisru moved slowly, as if under water. Clearly the man had not invited him to fight, but had chosen this as a form of suicide. The Kalif himself fought listlessly, as if hoping for something-Kargh perhaps-to intervene before he had to kill the man.

Then Siisru stepped back, lowered his sword and waited for a stroke. After eight or ten ludicrous seconds of nothing happening, he suddenly set upon the Kalif with furious energy, not skillful but dangerous.

The Kalif fended his strokes with a certain sluggishness, till the man's blade sliced his swordarm. Abruptly he reacted, and in a moment Lord Siisru lay crumpled on the packed and sandy ground. The Kalif stepped back, gripped his arm to stanch the bleeding, and turned to Gromindh, Siisru's second.

"It is done," he said quietly. "You can tell them he died with honor, my blood on his sword."

Gromindh met his eyes. "Did he now?" he muttered, then half-turned to look at nothing.

"Sergeant," said the Kalif, "call your regimental surgeon for me. Tell him to come tend to Lord Siisru's body. And to arrange for a mortician. Lord Gromindh can inform him if he has any particular wishes. Lord Gromindh?"

The nobleman made no response, gave no sign that he'd heard. The Kalif shrugged and turned to the big Maolaaro. "Good Roonoa, I am going to my apartment. The kalifal physician will tend to me there. You will do me a favor if you return to the celebration and tell them what happened. Ask Jilsomo to bring the kalifa. Make sure she knows my injury is not dangerous."

Roonoa bowed slightly and left without answering.

The Kalif wondered, as he walked to his apartment with a single guardsman, what would grow out of this. Nothing good, he felt sure of that. Meanwhile, tomorrow he'd have to find out who, in Siisru's family, he needed to meet with regarding reparations. To negotiate directly with the widow was out of the question.

Forty-three

The Kalif's physician had been at the party, too, but he'd been in the ballroom, dancing, and hadn't learned of the affair in the reception hall till after the principals had left. As soon as he'd heard, he'd hurried to his clinic to wait for a call.

He was there when his commset trilled, listened to the Kalif's description of his wound, then grabbed his emergency kit and left trotting, his night-duty assistant following with a folded emergency table. That damnable, bullheaded Kalif had refused to be brought to the clinic where he could be treated under proper conditions; he wanted to be at home when his wife arrived!

The physician had just finished prepping the arm when the kalifa came in with Alb Jilsomo. She was whiter than anyone he'd ever imagined, her blue eyes huge at the sight of the five-inch gash in her husband's arm. It wasn't deep though, just enough that tonus made it gape; no separate bonding of individual blood vessels was necessary. They stood watching, she and the exarch, as he injected bonding fluid into the anesthetized cut, cross-banded it, then sprayed a transparent wrapping on it, to support it till the sides of the cut cohered. Finally he put the arm in a sling, immobilized it against the patient's torso, and left.

The kalifa hadn't said a word, but she hadn't fainted, either, although she had sat down.

When the physician left, Jilsomo left, too. The Kalif opened his mouth to call him back and question him-ask what had happened and been said at the party, after Siisru and himself had left. But he changed his mind. He'd hear all he needed to in the morning, and it was more important now to talk with Tain, if she wanted.

She didn't, though. She seemed dazed, shocked, and he decided to leave her be for now. When she wanted to talk, she would.

Gromindh left the Sreegana with Lord Roonoa. His mind seeming turgid, too full for active thought. He supposed he should see to his cousin's wife, though he'd as soon she hung herself. With luck she would.

Honor indeed.

Then it occurred to him what needed to be done first, before something even more unfortunate happened; he went at once to a public comm in the Hall of the Estates, to call Siisru's son. They needed to get together man to man, right now, tonight, so Vilyamo could hear all that had happened, all of it, by other than second hand.

The Kalif awoke from a feverish dream, with an arm that hurt savagely. Hurt so badly, he rolled out of bed in a daze, thinking to call Neftha and find out what was wrong.

Instead of calling, though, he stumbled out, mostly naked, into the garden, holding his injured arm, grinding his teeth. He'd probably been lying on it, he told himself. He couldn't believe how badly it hurt.

The dream came back to him. He'd been emperor-not a Kalif, apparently, but simply emperor-and one of his staff, a trusted man, had confronted him in anger. About something in an earlier dream, he thought. Had drawn a crystal knife from inside his jacket, a knife that became a saw-toothed sword, and had swung it at him. He'd fended it with his arm. Then a guard had shot the man with a beam gun, cut him into pieces that writhed on the floor.

The blood had been red; he remembered that clearly. He seldom dreamed in color.

Remembering the dream brought chills to replace the fever; or was it the cooling night breeze on his sweaty body? At any rate the pain had receded a bit. He walked still clutching the arm, aware now that he'd come out without a repellent-field generator; some mosquitoes had found him. He turned to go back, and there was Tain, following, pale in the darkness.

"Are you all right?" she asked.

"My arm. Nightmares."

Her face reflected her concern.

"I'm going back in," he added, and chuckled thickly without humor. "The mosquitoes will take more blood from me than good Siisru's sword."

They walked back to the apartment together, her repellent field driving the mosquitoes from him. He remembered the dream again. It was as if he'd watched the attack from an external viewpoint, and he, the emperor in the dream, had been fat. Not as big as Jilsomo, but fat. Back in the apartment, and again without talking, he and Tain had a drink of brandy together, his a large one, before going again to bed. By then the pain was just a heavy ache, and after a bit he drifted into a sleep with no dreams that he'd remember afterward.

Forty-four

Coso Biilathkamoro had known, the evening b. efore, that ill would grow out of his duel with Siisru. The next morning he began to learn the specifics. The newsfacs had kept carefully to the witnessed facts, and from them, from the one he read, he learned that Siisru Parsavamaatu had been a popular member of the Industrialist Party in Kalasoor State, a delegate to the party caucus there. And ironically, a supporter of the Kalif and his proposed invasion.

On the other hand, the newsletters faxed by the offices of the noble delegates were unhappy with him, at best. He forced himself to read them, to know what was said.

From one of these he learned that Siisru had a son, Vilyamo-and that Vilyamo was the commander of the Kalifal Guard!

How, he wondered, had he missed the surname?

He owed blood reparations to Vilyamo. Grimly he turned to his commset. The colonel's yeoman answered: The colonel was inspecting B Company's quarters; he'd send someone to find him right away. The Kalif left a message: he wanted to talk with the colonel at 1100 hours, in the private garden.

That left thirty-five minutes, allowing Vilyamo time to complete his inspection and arrive; given the circumstances, he would not rush the man.

It left him thirty-five minutes, too, half an hour he didn't know what to do with. It seemed doubtful he could concentrate. He opened a drawer, intending to take a stunner from it and clip it on his belt, for he would allow no bodyguard to overhear their conversation, and who could say what might happen?

Then slowly he closed the drawer without taking anything from it. This was something he would not go into armed, even with a stunner. Instead he picked up a report on Maolaaru fisheries and went into the garden to wait.

He'd overlooked the possibility that the kalifa might be there. She was sitting at one of the marble tables, beneath a large, colorful umbrella, with a folding library reader before her. He went to her.

"Good morning, darling," he said gravely. "I'm to meet someone here in half an hour. Would you leave before then? It must be just he and I; it's a very sensitive matter."

She looked questioningly at him, so he went on. "It's Lord Siisru's son. I've-taken his father from him, and need to discuss blood reparations."

She nodded, worry furrowing her forehead. Then her eyes moved to her husband's belt.

"Will there be no guard? You wear no weapon."

"Either would be inappropriate."

"But he might…"

He shook his head. "I think not. If he wishes to challenge me, of course, he may." And that would truly be a tragedy, he thought, for if he does, to deny him would be unthinkable, and I'll have to kill him. If I'm able.

The look Tain gave him was bleak, as if she'd read his mind. She folded her reader and went into the apartment, and he sat down where she had been. Unexpectedly the report he'd brought with him proved interesting. Commonly he merely scanned the lead abstracts of reports like this one. In this case, though, when he'd finished that, his quick eyes moved on through the pages, slowing here and there to digest a paragraph or table. If the empire was managed by the Maolaari , he told himself, we'd all be better off. Presumably they made more use of their SUMBAA, or better use, but that was obviously only a small part of it. They cooperated more, politicked less, and put far less value on prerogatives of class, family, and wealth.

It occurred to him to wonder how the Confederation regarded these things.

Suddenly he became aware that someone was there, waiting, and he looked up, then stood.

"Colonel," he said.

"Your Reverence."

The reply was stiff, with a stiffness that seemed not of hatred, the Kalif thought, but from awkwardness with the circumstances. There were dark semicircles beneath the colonel's eyes, suggesting he'd released his grief in private when he'd heard, probably the night before.

"You know what happened of course."

"My cousin told me. Last night. Lord Gromindh, my father's second."

"Ah." The air seemed full of some dark and sluggish energy, an energy that would not readily discharge. "I must begin by stating my profound regret. I wish it had not happened; I wished it then."

"My cousin said as much."

"I-" It was difficult to say it, but he had to. "I hope that your mother is not-"

Vilyamo's retort cut him short. "My mother died twelve years ago. The woman who so vilely slandered the kalifa was my father's second wife-may her soul wander endlessly in Hell!"

The unexpected bitterness startled the Kalif, though he did not show it. What followed explained even more.

"Perhaps he loved her," the colonel went on. "Although my sister and I have wondered if there might have been some other reason. After the first few visits, we rarely went home; Nertiilo made it impossible for us there. He'd stop to see me when he was here in Ananporu, unless she was with him. I'm told-I'm told she was not usually unpleasant to him when we weren't there."

The Kalif nodded slowly. What he'd heard weighted him, although it made his task easier. "I see. Well. Your stepmother has family, I presume. No doubt I'll hear from them. Are you to be your sister's agent in the matter of reparations?"

"Gromindh called her last night, and she called me this morning. She lives with her husband near Maldiro opal, our home city. Reparations were not mentioned. It was my father's challenge."

"True. Would a hundred thousand dromas constitute a suitable reparation?"

"That's 50,000 each," Vilyamo answered. "Considering whose the challenge was, that would be generous.'

The Kalif had had in mind 100,000 each, an amount that would drastically deplete his modest personal wealth. If 50,000 each would satisfy… There was, after all, the stepmother to deal with yet.

"And now, Your Reverence, I offer you my resignation from the Guard."

"Of course," the Kalif said. "If you're an only son, you'll need to manage the family enterprise."

"That's not it, Your Reverence. My brother-in-law is the man to manage it; he's been my father's administrative aide for years. But it seemed to me you might feel ill at ease, with me in command of your Guard."

"Um. You're sworn to defend my life. If that now seems unreasonable, or if you prefer not to be near me… Both are easily understood. But I'll be pleased if you stay."

The colonel nodded, a short head bow. "Then I will stay. Meanwhile I'll call my sister, telling her your reparation offer. If she wants another agent than myself, I'll let you know, and he can get in touch."

The two men parted and the Kalif went inside, his mind sorting impressions. Now, it seemed, he knew what Gromindh had meant by "did he now?", when he'd commented that Siisru had died with honor. What had it been like, married to that? Seemingly enough to drive someone to seek death.

Forty-five

The Diet took its regular eight-day break, which began on The Prophet's Day, but the College met on the third of them. The Kalif attended with his arm in a sling. The meeting was short, because there was no Diet business to prepare for and because no one wanted much to talk. But afterward, Jilsomo told him that a letter of deprecation had been circulated, a proposed collegial reprimand of the Kalif. It had come to Jilsomo last. Seven exarchs had signed it, including Alb Riisav, who'd drafted it. With less than a majority willing to sign, Riisav had then withdrawn it.

That even seven were willing jarred the Kalif. It was bad enough that it had been drafted and circulated at all. "I realized," he told Jilsomo thoughtfully, "that Riisav was no friend of mine, but I hadn't realized he was my active enemy."

"Your Reverence, he may possibly consider himself your enemy; to draft a letter of deprecation was a drastic step to take. But in fairness, your actions of the other night, which he enumerated in it and took exception to, are worth your review."

The Kalif's lips thinned. "My actions were well justified. I wish they hadn't been necessary, but… You were there. You heard."

"But they were not the only honorable actions available to you. And arguably not the wisest."

The Kalif's jaw set. Jilsomo continued.

"I took the liberty of copying his letter verbatim, adding my comments. I'll leave it with you, in case you care to look at it; it contains food for thought." He laid it on the Kalif's desk. "And now, by your leave, I'll return to my desk. It's amazing how much work there is on it, considering the Diet is on break and a third of the bureaucracy on leave."

He bowed slightly and left. The Kalif scowled, then picked up the sheets Jilsomo had left with him, his unfriendly eyes assaulting the contents. It was addressed to him, with LETTER OF DEPRECATION centered and capitalized at the head. After the stiffly formal Your Imperial Majesty, instead of simply Your Reverence, there was a list.

1. You engaged publicly in an unseemly verbal and physical brawl with a woman. [One who allows himself to become involved in excrement throwing must expect to get excrement on him.]

The bracketed comment, he decided, was Jilsomo's.

2. The woman was obviously not responsible for her actions. She was either crazy or drunk, and probably both. This was apparent to everyone who saw and heard her.

3. It was obvious that her husband was willing and eager to apologize for her as her agent. Clearly, insane as she was, she was unlikely to apologize for herself. You rejected harshly and with an abusive tone his attempt to conciliate, invited her further vituperation, and virtually forced her husband's challenge. [Here you let go your best opportunity to close the matter without killing.]

4. The law explicitly states that dueling is a felony unless the parties have met before a magistrate and possible alternatives thoroughly discussed. The magistrate must approve the duel. You totally omitted and ignored the law on this. [It has been argued repeatedly, by past Kalifs and their apologists, that a Kalif is above the law, except as stipulated by the Charter. Those who so acted, particularly those who so acted either openly or chronically, have left empire, government, and the people the worse for it.]

5. Accepting the duel without the proper legal steps was a serious transgression of law, but to then fight it on the Holy Day showed a serious disrespect for The Prophet. You should have insisted on a later date, by which time one might hope some alternative would have commended itself to you or to Lord Siisru.

The Kalif's scowl had moderated, become a frown, and he tapped the sheets on his desk. His deflating anger left him sitting heavily like a much older man. He punched a code on his commset, and after a moment spoke to it.

"Jilsomo, thank you for bringing this letter to me. I appreciate it… I have a question for you: Was Thoga one who signed it…? Ask him!" For just a moment anger flashed at Jilsomo's response; then it passed. "I will," he said thoughtfully, and disconnected.

A shame Jilsomo never married, he told himself wryly. He'd be an excellent father.

A question nudged him then: why had he asked Jilsomo about Thoga? He'd surprised himself with that. The reason struck him: Thoga's newly found courage and integrity. With Kargh's light, the little exarch had had the courage to examine and question his entire mode of life and thought, his very motives. And then had had the integrity to accept what he found. If Thoga had signed the letter, it would have been that much more damning.

Well, he would not ask Thoga. He'd ask Kargh, as Thoga had, and accept what Kargh showed him.

The Kalif left his bodyguards, forbidding them to follow, telling them he needed privacy, and walked alone across the grounds to the chapel. The Chapel of the Exarchs had a number of small private rooms, not much more than closets, each with its padded kneeling stool, and to one side, a narrow stained glass window that admitted a limited amount of colored light. He went into one of them, set the lock behind him, and knelt.

He prayed to Kargh to help him, then waited. Thoughts formed, proliferated, were banished. More came into being. After a little he itched. Despite the pads, his knees and shins began to hurt, not severely but enough to distract. Grimly he stayed, back straight, hands on thighs, in the prayer posture he'd been taught as a boy.

The light rays shifted with the wheeling of the sun, till finally, darkening, they spent themselves on the side of the stone window casing. Slowly, stiffly, the Kalif got to his feet. Kargh had not come to him, had not chosen to show him anything. Perhaps he'd been abandoned.

Unnoticed, he left the chapel. He'd have to do and see Right for himself as best he could. He remembered what SUMBAA had said about humankind having to solve its own major problems. Perhaps Kargh had placed the same responsibility on him.

At least Riisav and Jilsomo had cast light on his actions for him. Perhaps Kargh had had something to do with that. He decided, though, to give the credit to the two exarchs, whether or not they were tools of Kargh.

Forty-six

When the Diet met again, the Kalif was there, sitting among the exarchs and swept by the glances of the nobles, some of them hostile, some cold, some merely grim. Seemingly none were sympathetic toward him.

He wasn't there to promote his invasion or anything else. He'd come this day to face the fire.

It was Lord Agros, not Rothka, who proposed a formal denunciation of him-definitely not an encouraging sign. Agros had been against an invasion all along, but seemingly hadn't been hostile toward the Kalif himself. Now, thought the Kalif, it seemed he was. It was hard to know for sure, though. Agros was motivated far less by emotions than by practicality. Or more accurately, by principles which were limited and distorted by expediency and opportunity.

In the oratory-it was no debate-the points brought up by the House were much like those that Riisav had listed, but phrased and rephrased with greater animosity. And almost no one, nobles or exarchs, seemed prepared to argue with them. Only Roonoa Hamaalo spoke in the Kalif's behalf, pointing out his unwillingness to actually begin the fight, and once the fight began, his reluctance to end it with his challenger's death. Roonoa's words made little difference to what followed, however, merely gave the more hostile something further to fang and claw.

The delegates of the Pastorate had stayed out of it entirely, until their leader's hand went up. Alb Tariil, who was chairing the meeting, recognized him, and Dosu got to his feet.

He waited just long enough to draw their eyes, then began. "Your criticisms," he said, "have a certain validity. One might indeed have hoped for more composure, greater forbearance from the Successor to The Prophet. But no mention has been made of the extreme, the truly astonishing provocation he underwent." The old man looked around him. "Has everyone forgotten that old saw attributed to the wise man, Shamaragoopal? 'It is better to tell a man that his father mates with sheep than to tell him his wife's nose is too wide.' The shocking, indeed the stunning insults to the kalifa, shouted within the hearing of hundreds the other night, were far worse than that. They were public insults unprecedented in their coarseness."

Dosu paused to stare around as if challenging them to gainsay him. " Almost unprecedented. There has been one to equal it. A vile and evil precedent committed by a member, a late member, of the House of Nobles! I refer to the disgusting book of Lord Nathiir's, which also targeted the kalifa, and which served to greatly sensitize the Kalif, make him react more strongly to additional insults."

Again he paused, then shocked them further by shouting with a force incongruous to his aged frame. "An act which shamed the House of Nobles and threatened the very concept of nobility! Something that none of you seemed able or willing to recognize! Let alone publicly lament!"

Once more he paused, his sweeping gaze fierce, his old mouth clamped like the beak of a reef dragon. "All you could think of to do, that earlier time, was attack the Kalif for his unfortunate response. While today-today you've attacked him like a pack of wild dogs! In my youth in the pulpit, if one of my peasants had acted as shamelessly as most of you have, here today, I'd have laid a penance on him to bring tears to his eyes and a groan from his lips. I trust and recommend that your chaplain serve you similarly."

His voice shifted tone and volume, became less loud but scathingly sarcastic. "In case you have failed to notice, in your noble self-righteousness, this Kalif has been forebearing beyond most of his predecessors. Yet when Gorsu perpetrated his atrocities, there was no outpouring of indignation in this chamber, from either College or House. You lacked the courage, most of you who served here then! Your fear of impalement lent caution, if not cowardice, to your lips. But today your sense of justice has been totally inadequate to temper your words. The lesson seems to be that in your noble house, fear is more compelling than justice. Certainly integrity has been a virtual stranger among you today.

"You repay your Kalif's long record of civility with attacks you wouldn't dare make if he were truly what you accuse him of. With one exception, your performance here today has been without principle, without insight, without justice. Your hypocrisy is an embarrassment to the empire!"

Once more he paused, a pause that seemed to stem from tiredness, but when he spoke again, his voice was hard. "The people of every estate, when they hear of your poor display today, will judge you. They will judge you harshly. And who will suffer from it? This nation. This empire. Because their respect for you will have dropped-again. A process that can only go on so long before you are bankrupt with them."

His hand went to the mark of nobility on his own forehead. "I disdain you all!" he finished. "Except for Lord Roonoa. I can only hope that Kargh will open your eyes."

When he sat down, no one said a word for perhaps a long half minute.

Great Kargh but old Dosu's an orator! the Kalif told himself. I had no idea! In a way he was as stunned as the nobles, and not simply by the Elder's eloquence. Historically the Pastorate was-if not jealous of the Prelacy, at least touchy at the Prelacy's seniority, and of their own lack of a vote in the Diet. Too, they'd often proven bristly at the behavior of a Kalif.

As for himself, he'd tried always to treat their delegates with care and respect. It seemed to him that if the Kalif and the College acted as the mind of the Church, the Imperial Assembly of Elders spoke for its soul. And too few nobles, or Kalifs, had appreciated sufficiently the influence the Pastorate had on the people-both gentry and the nobility at large.

Roonoa stood. "I call for a roll-call vote on Lord Agros's proposal," he said.

Thoga seconded. Tariil called their names, one after another. Only six voices answered yea, four of them the delegates from the LRP. Agros voted against his own proposal. Riisav voted nay without hesitating.

The Kalif had intended that when the discussion was over-or perhaps when the vote was over, depending on how the discussion went-he'd apologize for his actions on that misbegotten night. But Dosu's sermon changed his mind. Self-flagellation was rarely a proper act-for a Kalif less than anyone. Certainly this wasn't the time for it.

Then it struck him with a sense of lightness and certainty: The time had come to do something else-something he'd had in mind three years earlier and lost sight of. In fact he was sure of it. It was risky, but what wasn't, in a universe full of surprises. And it would gain him very influential allies.

He'd try it on Jilsomo when they got out of here; see what he'd say.

Forty-seven

The Kalif had gone directly from the Diet to his office, Jilsomo following. When they'd sat down, the Kalif described his plan. His intention would be a better term: there was no plan behind it.

The exarch tried not to stare; to him it was unbelievable that the Kalif could be serious.

"Your Reverence," he said cautiously, "It sounds-unwise."

The Kalif looked troubled. Not angry, not stung, simply troubled. He'd begun to see the flaws himself, even as he described the idea. Jilsomo continued, moving to take advantage of what appeared to be uncertainty.

"Prior to the unfortunate events on The Prophet's Day, you'd made real gains toward the funding of your invasion. You pointed that out to me yourself. Then, when it seemed you'd had a major setback, a critical one, Elder Dosu's speech gained back much of the lost ground for you. Possibly all of it. True?"

Possibly. The Kalif nodded. He thought he could see where Jilsomo was going with this: Continue the successful actions he'd been pursuing before. Continue, then perhaps dicker when it came down to it, offering to accept a lower level of support than he'd heretofore talked about publicly. A level which SUMBAA still considered satisfactory. By next year at this time, preparations might well be for along, new divisions training, new ships under construction. Everyone would have jobs. Attention would be outward, not inward. Two years after that, the fleet would be on its way. It would amount to the birth of a new empire, a new people extroverted from old attitudes, old troubles-old traps. It made excellent sense, it seemed to him; much better than the idea he'd just described. Yet…

"To proclaim the Pastorate a voting estate will truly outrage the House," Jilsomo went on. "They'll never go along with it; they wouldn't even if they were in love with you. And you're talking about a change in the Charter of Establishment! With a vote of sixty percent of their own members, they can repudiate your proclamation without the College even having a vote on the issue! And the odds are, they'd be unanimous.

"Nor will they forgive you for it. Unlike the duel, and the killing of Nathiir, this would attack the very seat of their power. As a result, you'd have no chance at all with your invasion, or the legalization of loohio-or anything else you might espouse!"

The Kalif's mouth twisted liplessly in painful thought. Jilsomo continued.

"Beyond that, it will antagonize the College. Some of them because they'll like the idea no more than the House will, for much the same reasons: prejudice and the dilution of their power."

Halfheartedly the Kalif tried to muster a defense. "The dilution would not be great," he said. "I'm only proposing to give the Assembly five votes. Five, which the twelve can elect to cast as a block or distribute as they see fit. The House has twenty-seven and the College eighteen."

"You'd undertake to give them five; they'd get none of them." Jilsomo paused. "Why not try to give them twelve? One per delegate? It would hardly anger the House more than five. And the result would be the same: No votes for the Pastorate-and no votes for anything else you wanted. You'll be fortunate to escape impeachment! Or perhaps unfortunate to escape it."

The Kalif groped. Why had the idea seemed so brilliant when it came to him? There had to be a reason behind it somewhere. Jilsomo kept relentlessly on.

"And suppose, through some miracle, they let your proclamation stand. Five votes. What assurance would there be that the Pastorate would vote with you on invasion? They'd hardly vote with you on loohio; I remember what Elder Dosu said about that, early in the session. You'd be diluting your own power and the College's, as well as the House's. And this is not the time for that."

"But they should have a vote," the Kalif said. "You agree with me on that. Or you did."

"I did and I do. But they won't get it this way. Not now." Jilsomo paused, and when he went on, it was with a new note in his voice, the growth of an underlying excitement. "Your Reverence, you've given me an idea. Let me tell it to you. It is time to start toward a vote for the Pastorate. But first build a base of support…"

As Jilsomo talked, both men scribbled ideas, diagrams, notes of things to do. The Kalif took time off to call Tain on his commset and tell her he'd be late to supper.

When they finished, both men felt exhilarated.

That night they lay down to sleep, one on a broad LG bed beside his beautiful wife, the other on a narrow, solitary bed in his bachelor apartment. Then each of them, as he waited for sleep, recalled the Kalif's original idea, so strange in its irrationality. And wondered about the Kalif's mind.

The possibility of a brain tumor occurred to the exarch, and the idea chilled him. Chilled him more strongly than he might have expected. Entirely aside from the vaguely sexual attraction the Kalif had once had for him, an attraction that seemed to have died at the man's wedding, this Kalif was a man whom he loved for reasons entirely aside from physical attraction of any kind. It seemed to him, now that he looked at it, to be a blend of the man's charisma, his loyalty to principle-and the Kalif's love for humankind. He also wondered if it wasn't a recognition of that love, perhaps an unconscious recognition, that had inspired old Dosu's fiery defense.

Tomorrow he'd asked the Kalif when his last medical examination had been. And bring the matter up to Neftha. If there was something organically wrong with the ruler, it needed to be handled before it became severe, perhaps debilitating.

Forty-eight

The young man stood trying to look firm, but a person less perceptive than the Kalif could have seen his discomfort at being there: He'd been assigned this task by someone higher in the family.

The Kalif's voice was calm and mild, but his words were blunt. "So, Lord Paalu. Why did they send you to beard me? You're an attorney, true, but green, lacking experience. I've researched your family, you see. I'd expected your Uncle Meelor."

"Your Reverence, my Uncle Meelor is a tempestuous man."

The Kalif's eyebrows raised. He was tempted to ask if his uncle was afraid he'd end up assaulting or challenging his Kalif. Instead he asked, "As tempestuous as his now notorious cousin, the Lady Nertiilo?"

He waved off any reply, almost as he said it. "I don't expect an answer to that. The question was rhetorical. Do you have authority to make an agreement? Otherwise you're wasting my time."

The young attorney stiffened somewhat, as the Kalif had expected. "I have the authority in writing," he answered, and opening his belt purse, handed a rolled paper to the Kalif, who opened it, looked it over, and handed it back.

"Good. What figure did your uncle give you?"

His uncle Meelor had indeed set the price. Cousin Nertiilo had not become rational again, even after she'd metabolized the alcohol in her bloodstream. Thus she'd been interned by the family to hide the shame of her madness, and was in the care of an alienist. Apparently, the young man thought, the Kalif knew these things, too.

"Two hundred and fifty thousand dromas," he said.

"That much, eh? If I paid that much, I'd sue her in return, for slander. Probably for a quarter million. How would that look in the fax? That and other matters?"

"Your Reverence has bereaved her; left her a widow."

"True. And even if she recovers her sanity, she's unlikely to wed again, despite her good looks. After her public performance of ten days ago, any would-be suitor would investigate, and what he'd learn would cool his interest. But she's quite an affluent widow: I'm aware that her husband's will left her almost all of his estate, and his children remarkably little."

The Kalif examined the young man for visible reaction. "It would be interesting to know how she managed that," he added.

The young man darkened somewhat; apparently there was a story there, the Kalif decided. One he'd leave well enough alone, unless forced to pursue it.

"Well. I have a counter offer for you," he said briskly. "Based on several facts: one, that she and her family are not in need; two, that while I bear a major responsibility for her bereavement, she bore an equal one, or greater; three, that she caused my own wife pain and suffering; four, that such a person deserves little in the way of solace from her victims; and five-Well, hear my proposal."

His eyes pinned the young man. "Your uncle can accept this or not, but given the circumstances, he cannot call it stingy. I have already made reparations to Siisru's son and daughter, reparations they regarded as generous. But that was before I, and they, knew the terms of their father's will. So I herewith offer your cousin a reparation of 10,000 dromas."

He saw the expected flinch in the young man's face, and continued. "A sum greater than the annual income of most gentry families today, and in these times, greater than that of too many noble families.

"Besides, it's the sum that Siisru left to each of his children.

"At the same time I will offer to Siisru's two children an additional reparation of 40,000 each, money they should have gotten from their father." He reached inside his robe and took out a scroll of his own. "It's all there, on the scroll. Agreed?"

"My uncle will be wroth."

"Your uncle's wrath is chronic, and no secret among those who know him. Or so I'm told. In fact, it's a matter of public record, in the courts. You're a fortunate man not to share that sometime family trait. With regard to myself, he's well advised to keep his wrath closely reined; I'm disinclined to be tolerant with his niece's uncle. As for you-Weigh well your decision. And if your uncle is too upset, tell him what I would have done, if you'd refused these terms. Which is, I would have-and will if you're difficult-publicize the whole affair, certain pertinent aspects of your family history, and the miserable bequests to Siisru's children.

"Now. I will have your answer."

The young man looked to Jilsomo as if for support; the exarch's round face showed no trace of sympathy.

"It seems-I must accept."

The Kalif stood, removed a small scroll of his own from inside his robe, and held it out. The young man took it, pulled his chair closer to the desk to sign, and discovered that the sum on the agreement was 20,000, not ten. He wasn't sure what the Kalif's motive might have been for misleading him, but he signed both halves quickly, and handed it back. The Kalif separated them and gave one to him.

The young man stood to leave.

"One moment."

He stopped.

The Kalif's voice was mild. "As you know well, young attorney, it is customary to shake hands on such an agreement, unless one side feels there is serious injustice in it. Do you honestly- honestly -feel there is?"

The young man blew softly through pursed lips and shook his head. "No, Your Reverence, I do not honestly feel there is. Though I cannot speak for my uncle in that."

The Kalif extended his hand; they clasped and shook.

"Good. Go with Kargh, and may you prosper, both in wealth and in the spirit."

"Thank you, Your Reverence."

As the young man left, the Kalif looked at the clock on his wall. Almost time for his appointment with Neftha. I might as well go now, he told himself, and have done with it.

Forty-nine

Lord Rothka Kozkoraloku sat tapping his stylus on his work tablet. His intention was no problem, but implementing it would take some doing. His eyes re-underlined it at the head of the first page: