She secured the sash of her kimono and went to join him. He laid an arm around her waist. His straight-lined countenance writhed into a smile. “Sorry about the oratory,” he murmured. “I’ll try to keep it properly caged henceforward.”
She leaned close. “I never mind. It’s nice to see you relax from your perpetual clowning.” Her innate seriousness rose afresh. “But you haven’t answered me. All right, the Empire was bumbling along fairly peacefully, and Magnusson’s revolt is a disaster. Don’t I know it myself? However—my parents always told me to look at every side of a question—would his success be a catastrophe? I mean, I’ve heard you say often enough that we no longer have any such thing as legitimate government. Maybe Magnusson would be better than Gerhart, who is rather a swine, isn’t he?”
“Well, yes, he is,” Flandry admitted, “although a shrewd swine. For a moderately important instance, you know he doesn’t like me, but he’s given to taking my advice, because he sees it’s practical. And … Crown Prince Karl does have a high opinion of me, and is a thoroughly decent boy.” He snickered. “If I’m still alive when he inherits the throne, I’ll have to set about curing him of the latter.”
She stared outward and upward. Stars were lost in the haze of light from the towers everywhere around, but—“Does it make that much difference who is Emperor? What can he, what can any person, any planet, do to change things?”
“Usually very little,” Flandry agreed. This was by no means the first time they had been over the same ground. They were both aware and concerned, she less cynically than he. But some open wounds do not allow themselves to be left alone; and tonight they were feeling a freshly inflicted one. “The Policy Board, the provincial nobles, the bureaucrats and officers, the inertia of sheer size—Still, even a slight shift in course will touch billions of lives, and perhaps grind them out. And occasionally a pivotal event does happen. More and more, I wonder whether we may not be about to have that experience again.”
“What do you mean?”
Flandry ran fingers through his sleek gray hair. “I’m not sure. Possibly nothing. Yet every intuition, every twitchy nerve I’ve developed in decades I misspent as an Intelligence agent when I might have gone fishing—my hunch screams to me that something peculiar is afoot.” He pitched his cigarette expertly away, into an ashtaker, and swung about to face her, hands on her shoulders. “Listen, Banner. You’ve been in the yonderlands, you haven’t followed the input as you would’ve with me if you’d stayed home. The Merseians have now hit us.”
She gave him a stark smile. “Is that a surprise? Haven’t they always taken what advantage they could, when the Empire’s been in disarray? Nibbles here and there, no casus belli that might unite us against them—obviously, not in this case either, if the story hasn’t been released.”
“This case is oddly different,” Flandry said. “There’ve been the predictable skirmishes in the marches, yes. No major thrust. But … they sent a task force, which passed straight through Imperial space—they sent a strike force to Gorrazan, on the far side of us.”
“What?” She stiffened. “Why? It doesn’t make sense.”
“Oh, it does, it does, when you contemplate it from the proper, skewed angle.” He spoke softly, as was his wont when discussing terrible things. “Yes, the Realm of Gorrazan is the pathetic souvenir of a botched attempt at empire, a few colonies and clients on a few second-rate worlds near the home sun. Yes, its government has been plagued by insurrectionists who proclaim a bright new ideology—God, how long has the universe endured the same old bright new ideologies?—and the rebels are known, to everybody except our journalists and academics, to nave Merseian inspiration and help. Trouble at our backs. Certainly I’d instigate the identical thing behind Merseia if I could.
“But now—” He drew breath. “Word came in the other day. The Merseians sent a ‘mercy mission’. They declare the need was so urgent they had to traverse our space, hoping we wouldn’t notice, and we were wicked to pounce on them as they were in Sector Alpha Crucis approaching their destination. It was a shame that we compelled them to trounce what forces we could bring to bear. The diplomats will be discussing who’s to blame, and who’s to pay what reparations to whom, and the rest of that garbage, for years to come. Oh, yes, business as usual.
“But the fact is, the Merseians could have passed through unknown to us, if they’d wanted. They made their presence blatant when they neared our Alpha Crucis frontier. Our units had no choice but to attack and take losses. Meanwhile a Merseian detachment punched through to Gorrazan itself. It made rags of the home defense fleet. It could have blown up every governmental installation. The rebels could have taken over entirely. We’d either have intervened to prevent, and found ourselves bogged down in a nasty, lasting little war; or, likelier, we’d have done nothing, and in due course had a pro-Merseian power at our backs, small and weak but an almighty nuisance.
“Instead, the raiders contented themselves with taking out the Folkmoot’s main command center. The government’s badly hurt, but it can still fight. The Gorrazanian civil strife proceeds.”
“What does that imply?” She guessed his answer.
“Why, when the news breaks, as it inevitably will, the powers that be in the Empire will fall into a rupturing controversy. Some will want to tie down strength in watchfulness, diametrically opposite to Magnusson’s campaign, lest the situation explode in our rear end. Others will claim there’s no danger in those parts, whether because the Liberation Council hasn’t yet won or because the Liberation Council represents progress and this past incident proves how wrong we are to keep provoking the Roidhunate. The waste of energy, the confusion of purpose among us would be unbelievable if it didn’t have so many precedents.” Flandry shrugged. “Oh, the Merseians have studied us. They understand us better than we understand them. And … Magnusson has the kudos of having beaten them in battle, but he also promises that when he becomes Emperor, he’ll negotiate a permanent peace with them.”
“How do you read the sign?” she whispered.
“The entrails, do you mean?” His laugh turned into a groan. “I don’t try. I know better. I only see that a most useful piece of psychological warfare has just been waged on Magnusson’s account. Coincidence? Or an attempt to further the cause of sincerely desired peace? I can only nurse my suspicions. What can I, here on Terra, find out for sure? How can I?”
Again he laughed, but cheerfully, and hauled her to him. “So never mind, sweetheart! Let’s enjoy ourselves while we may.”
Chapter 13
Being a mostly Cynthian town, Lulach looked smaller than it was. Buildings snuggled under trees, their roofs often decked with planted sod and their walls with flowering vines. Many houses were in the branches above—vegetation introduced from the mother world frequently grew enormous—where foliage hid them behind the play of sun and shadow. Streets were turf-covered, narrow and twisting, not many vehicles upon them and those compact. Wherever they could, dwellers went arboreally rather than on the ground.
A few large structures rose along the waterfront, among them a rambling timber inn. Diana and Axor established themselves there and set about exploring the area. Wo Lia took a room in the same place and got her performing animal put in its stable; local folk made considerable use of beasts for riding and hauling, though the farms to the north were mechanized.
Toward dawn, when fog off the river dusked the light night of Daedalus, she went out there, explaining to a sleepy kitchen helper whom she passed that she must see to the creature’s well-being. The helper paid no particular attention to the cloth-wrapped bundle Wo Lia carried—for cleaning the cage, no doubt.
The stable was warm, murky, its air sweetened by a smell of horses and sharpened by a smell of changtus. Wo Lia groped her way to the cage and undid the catch on its door. Targovi bounded forth. “Harrugh!” he growled. “You took your time.”
“I had to wait till you could get away unseen, didn’t I?” she replied. “That cursed
sun-ring makes life hard for entrepreneurs.”
Targovi stretched and yawned mightily. “Ah, but this feels wonderful! Pray to your little gods that you never have to be locked up.”
By his count, a pair of Terran weeks had passed since Waterblossom left Paz. He could scarcely have endured this confinement, had Wo Lia not let him out on a chain at every stop along the way, to dance and do tricks while she played a flute and collected coins. “What news have you heard?” he asked.
“Fresh word has lately come from the war front, borne by a courier boat to Aurea. Great excitement. Admiral Magnusson has offered to negotiate with Emperor Gerhart. He has his nerve, no?”
“Ai, he needn’t fear immediate peace. It sounds good and helps smooth the way for his next onslaught. If ever the Imperium is ready to bargain in earnest, it will be too late for the Imperium, save that Magnusson might let Gerhart and his councillors retire to some obscure set of palaces and carouse themselves to death.” Targovi crouched to unfold the bundle and examine its contents. “Any tale of the Merseians?”
“Of course. How could anybody on Daedalus not want the latest gossip about the neighbors? It’s vague, though, except that a Navy spokesman insisted we have nothing to fear from them. A later commentary by several learned academics pointed out that, since the Merseians want a lasting peace as badly as all right-thinking Terrans do, they would probably rather see Magnusson on our throne, even though he did defeat them more than once in the past. So they will refrain from any actions that would look as if they were taking advantage of an opportunity he had created for them.”
“Assuredly that is what learned academics would say.” Targovi opened his purse and counted the money within. “This sum isn’t quite what I remember.”
“I had expenses,” said Wo Lia blandly.
“Well, you weren’t too generous to yourself, I see. The funds were bound to be lean regardless—and likewise, I fear, are those of my companions, by now.” Much more important, anyway, was his combat knife. Targovi rose. “Best I be off. Fail not in the part that remains for you to play, for if you do, you will come to harm that may well prove fatal. On the other hand, success should bring excellent baksheesh.”
“I know. If you fail, I will kindle a light for your ghost. Wan jin rao.”
Targovi slipped forth and vanished into the fog. Wo Lia waited a while before scurrying back and screaming for the landlady. Her priceless trained animal, the mainstay of her livelihood, was gone! She had cast about unavailingly, finding no trace. Had it escaped because the stablehands were careless? Had it been stolen? She demanded help in searching, the entire staff, the patrol, a posse of citizens. If the magnificent, irreplaceable creature was not found, she would have compensation. She would demand justice, she would file suit, she would not cease until she had her rightful due!
On the riverbank beyond the docks, screened by brush as well as murk, Targovi thankfully removed the mane from his head. Besides being messy and itchy, it had interfered with the oxygill it covered, making him chronically short of breath. A quick chemical rinse out of a bottle Wo Lia had provided, followed by a dip in the stream, got the black dye off his fur. He toweled himself fairly dry and put on the clothes his accomplice had brought him. Besides his breechcloth and belt, this included a loose robe with cowl that she had purchased in Aurea according to his specifications. While he was making no further attempt at disguise for the nonce, a full garment might come in handy at some later time.
The sun was again a disc, low above the river. Mist was breaking into thin white streamers, as warmth seeped into the valley. Though hunger gnawed in Targovi’s guts, he decided he had better establish himself before seeking a foodstall. He padded back into town and through twilight still blue under the trees.
Passersby gave him looks but sounded no alarm.
He had counted on that—bet his life on it, in fact. The public cry for him had not most likely been confined to the Aurea vicinity. Nobody would have imagined he’d be able to get this far undetected through habitation; and had he tried to make his way through the backwoods, he would have perished. Planet-wide bulletins would merely add to an already enormous perturbation.
Here in Lulach he continued just the trader from Imhotep whom folk had long known. He could have arrived on any of the numerous boats that came and went, day and night. Cynthians are inquisitive by nature, perhaps even more than humans; however, this was essentially a community of small businesses, therefore one which did not intrude on privacy. Targovi knew he was yet on the “Wanted” list at patrol stations everywhere. Such interchange of information was automatic. Anybody who thought to inquire of the data bank at local headquarters would get a full description of him and his misdeeds, including the reward offered. He had spent a considerable while in his cage figuring out what to do about that.
The station house was a frame building in a grove of ocherous-glowing fruit trees. (A shame that no colonist could enjoy more than the sight. The flesh was not poisonous, but its flavor was almost nil and, eaten, it would make an inert mass in the stomach.) Since the founding of a major base on Daedalus, the Navy had taken over most police functions, except in areas such as Zacharia that retained autonomy. Few places required much in the way of law enforcement. A detail was apt to consist largely of personnel recruited in the district, who had served elsewhere but were now approaching retirement age. At need, they could summon swift help from outside.
Entering, Targovi found a Cynthian who sported a lieutenant’s comets on a collar that was her principal outfit, chatting with a couple of elderly enlisted ratings. “Why, hail,” she said in surprise. “What brings you here?”
“Something that calls for a confidential meeting, Rihu An,” he replied.
She chirred her kind of laugh. “Do you have smuggled goods for sale, you rogue? The market has gotten brisk, too much so for my poor monies.”
“No, this is more interesting.”
She led him to the outer office, closed its door, and crouched expectant. “I lay on you a secret you must keep,” he said. “Only in seeming am I a footloose peddler. The truth is that for long I have been a secret agent for Intelligence.”
Her tail bottled. “What say you?”
He made a deprecating gesture. “Oh, I am no Flandry. I am among many who go about, alert, reporting whatever they learn, and sometimes helping in some or other petty operation. You know of us. You did not know I am of the fellowship. Urgency requires I reveal it to you.”
Albeit relatively unsophisticated, Rihu An was capable. “Prove it.”
“Certainly.” He glided to the computer terminal. “Ng-ng-r-r, to avoid possible sleight-of-hand, would you care to take this yourself?” She sprang to the desktop. “Key for Central Database, please. Now key for Restricted—I’ll turn my back while you put in your identification and certify you have a need to know … Are you done? Very well, next comes this.” He recited a string of numbers and letters.
Inwardly, his battle readiness heightened. He did not tense; that would have been dangerously self-limiting. Rather, he relaxed his body utterly, opening every sense to the fullest, until he caught the least whiffs of dust and smoke in the air, the least early-morning traffic murmurs from the town. This was his crucial moment.
The entire code for agents could have been changed. He was guessing that nobody had gone through that cumbersome process at an unscheduled time in the midst of crisis.
The announcement that he was a fugitive from arrest identified him simply as Targovi the merchant. One never blew a cover needlessly; in this case, it would have started people wondering whether other lowly individuals were agents too. Targovi was guessing that the warrant for him had only been entered in patrol databases, not in those of his service. The latter would be an inconvenient reminder to the corps of how divided against itself the Navy was; and it would probably not be of any help in laying him by the heels.
A wiser decision might well have been to go ahead and make the cross-correlation. Ta
rgovi was guessing that wisdom was in short supply these days. Magnusson’s uprising must inevitably have generated limitless confusion. Moreover, it surely appalled many persons in the armed forces. On Daedalus they dared not protest; but they would drag their feet in carrying out orders, especially if those orders were less specific than might have been the case under normal circumstances.
If his assumptions proved wrong, Targovi would break out. If possible, he would avoid doing serious harm to Rihu An or her underlings, whom he knew and liked. He had friends hereabouts who would give him shelter while he hatched a new scheme.
As was, she turned wide eyes on him and breathed, “You, scruffy wanderer and tavern brawler, are in the guardians too? … Well, what do you require?”
Relief flooded through him. “I may say but little, other than that I keep my pelt as clean and well-groomed as yours. These are evil days.”
“True,” she said unhappily.
“We, you and I and all our kind, we cannot take sides against either of the rival Emperors, can we? What we serve is the Empire itself. What we obey is the orders we get from our superior officers.”
“True,” she said again. Her reluctance was plain to hear. Knowing her as he did, he had counted on it. She would not rebel against the rebellion—that would have been pointlessly self-destructive—but she would not be zealous either. Had the station commandant, Lieutenant Commander Miguel Gomez, been on duty, Targovi would have waited till he went off. Gomez was an honorable sort, but rather lavish in his admiration for Sir Olaf Magnus-son. Luckily, commandants don’t generally take night watches.
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