by John Dalmas
Twenty-Six
Elver Brokols had somehow felt like a criminal being taken before the magistrate.
Which made no sense: It was a messenger who'd come to him, not a constable, while the summons, if it left him no alternative, was courteously written. And a hansom, not a police wagon, had come to fetch him. Yet riding with Reeno through the morning's cheerful sounds and sunshine, he'd felt like someone on his way to be sentenced. Then a guard had met them at the gate and, still courteously, had taken him and Reeno to the amirr's office.
When Leonessto Hanorissio told him of Stilfos's death, Brokols had thought for a moment that that was the reason for his misgiving, though it was hardly a surprise to him. But then the amirr told him all they knew of the emperor's plans—somewhat more than Vessto Cadriio had known. He knew of the Gorrbian invasion, the imperial intention to land at Haipoor l'Djezzer—all of it.
Brokols was stunned. Stilfos must have talked to his kidnapers before they killed him, he tfiought. That was the only explanation he could see. It occurred to him that it may have been the police who'd stolen Stilfos, perhaps torturing the information out of him and then killing him.
"Who is the murderer?" His voice was thick and rough as he asked it. The amirr didn't answer at once. "I think you owe it to me to tell me," Brokols insisted.
"I do not owe it to you!"
Brokols' stomach knotted at the amirr's abrupt vehemence, his blazing eyes, but after a moment the glare died, and the amirr spoke quietly. "I do not owe it to you, for you share responsibility in it. As I do. And you are an enemy of Hrumma." He paused a long moment. "But I will tell you nonetheless. The murderer was my son Tirros, and when we catch him, he will be tried for both treason and murder. He and a friend of his."
He stopped with that, unable for the moment to say more. Brokols stood dumbfounded, his mouth open, and after momentary shock felt a surge of spontaneous sympathy for the man in front of him. He didn't speak, wasn't sure he could. It was Allbarin that broke the painful silence, looking at the amirr.
"Your Eminence, may I speak with you privately?"
Leonessto Hanorissio nodded, and had Reeno take Brokols into a side room. "Milord," Allbarin said, "this Brokols is a decent man. He felt with you when you told him of Tirros. Felt deeply. And he knows the enemy as he would a brother. Perhaps he can be subverted to our cause."
"How?"
"Give me leave to speak with him here. To make him an offer, and bargain with him."
Leonessto sighed, a release of spent emotion. "Very well." Allbarin went to the door and spoke to Reeno, who brought Brokols back in. It was Allbarin who addressed the Almite then.
"Ambassador Brokols, you see our position. You are an agent of a hostile nation, you know. As such, it is not appropriate that we let you remain free here. Our proper action is to deport you, send you back to Almeon, but as we have no means to do that, we have to settle on an alternative. The most obvious one is to imprison you until your people come for you. Which should not be very long, I believe; your ship plans to stop here on its way back to Almeon. We will put you aboard her, deporting you as an agent of an enemy state." He paused, then added: "With a listing of all that we've learned, to establish, to demonstrate that you are our enemy."
Brokols looked at him, frozen-faced. They'll never believe I didn't tell, he thought. They'll have me before a public tribunal as soon as we get to Larvis Royal. My family will be humiliated and disgraced, my brother's career ruined. They'll make a holiday of my decapitation.
He'd never attended an execution himself; like his father, he'd never had the stomach for it. But millions did have. Three hundred thousand would pack the square; thousands more would line roofs. Field glasses would rent high.
"Can you think of an alternative for us?" Allbarin asked.
Brokols shook his head. "None." Actually, suicide occurred to him, but he knew he wouldn't do it.
"Tell me, Ambassador Brokols, what do you think will happen to Hrumma when the Gorballis invade us?"
The question surprised Brokols. He hadn't really looked at it before.
Obviously the emperor had had his reasons for placing a member of the general staff in charge of the mission. He didn't want the Gorrbian army tied up near the border; he wanted them deep inside Hrumma when his own army landed. Kryger was no doubt a busy man, much busier than himself, and giving little or none of his attention to trade or the study of Gorrbian culture. He'd have too much else to do.
And as he thought these things, Allbarin had access to what lay beneath those thoughts.
"I suppose," said Brokols quietly, "you'll defend yourselves. Fight back."
"Do you think we can hold them out?"
Brokols shook his head. "I don't know. It seems doubtful."
"Your General Kryger will provide the Gorballis with weapons we're poorly suited to confront, wouldn't you say? Projectile casters? Thunder weapons?"
Great Dard! Was there nothing they hadn't found out? He didn't know for sure himself, had only wondered. "Quite likely," he said.
"Would you like to know what happened to Hrumma the last time the Gorballis conquered us? What was done to people here?"
"I've—read of it."
"It took centuries, with the help of Hrum's holy clergy, before our people lost their hatred. They didn't fully lose it till after the great sage, Kiruu Hemaruuvo, learned to merge the parts of his beingness and began to teach it in the monasteries."
The privy counselor paused. "Of course, the Gorballis won't occupy us through more than two generations as they did the last time. Wouldn't you say?"
Brokols nodded. Probably they wouldn't.
Allbarin cocked his head slightly as he continued to look at the Almite. "Your emperor will station troops of his own here, won't he?"
It was difficult for Brokols to answer; his throat had gone dry. His conscious mind seemed frozen. "Undoubtedly," he answered. He remembered stories of the occupation of Kelthos, southernmost of Almeon's major islands. Although the history books didn't say that much about it, stories were told. The Kelthians had resisted as an underground, held secret religious services, retained their own dialect, until Kaitmar IV lost patience and loosed the army on them. The result had been futile resistance and massacre; some of the stories had been the kind that boys in early adolescence tell in breathless, bright-eyed whispers.
As for the Hrummeans . . . they were human! Droids were made in vats, and programmed, whatever that was, not nurtured. Something to do with electricity, it was thought. Hrummeans had been born of mothers for millenia, twenty millennia, the astronomers estimated, and knew nothing of electricity. But Dard and Kryger would not consider them human. Perhaps—probably—it wouldn't make much difference if they did.
"Ambassador," Allbarin said softly, "I do have an alternative to offer. I'm sure you know what will happen if you're sent home. Under the circumstances. However, if you should agree to help Hrumma repel the Gorballis . . ."
Allbarin bowed his head a moment as if apologizing, then raised it again to look thoughtfully at Brokols with no trace of discomfort. "We do not ask that you directly oppose your own people, only that you help us against the Gorballis. With all that you know."
Brokols stared at him.
"You needn't decide at once. Think about it; sleep on it. Reeno will stay with you, your keeper now as well as guide and liaison. And he is to be with you if you decide to use your communicating machine, your—your 'wireless.' "
They even know about the wireless, Brokols thought numbly. Is there anything they don't know?
He couldn't remember afterward whether he'd nodded or not; presumably he had. He was sure he hadn't answered aloud. But he was aware of walking to the door with Reeno.
And encountering Juliassa entering the antechamber from the hallway, dressed in riding clothes.
"Elver!" she said, surprised and pleased. For the moment she forgot what her father had told her, forgot she'd come, at her mother's entreaty, to say goodbye to him. A
cold and unfriendly goodbye it would be. "I'm so glad . . ." Then she saw her father in the doorway behind Brokols, and on impulse put her hands on the Almite's shoulders, kissing him on the mouth. "I'm so glad I got to see you before I left."
Brokols stood with his fingers touching his lips where she'd kissed him.
She frowned slightly. "Is something the matter?"
"No. Yes. Stilfos is dead. My aide. Murdered."
At once her face changed, became concerned. "Oh no. I'm sorry."
"It's all right. I mean . . ." He stopped, not sure what to say, knowing that "all right" sounded all wrong. "I mean, it's done."
"I hope they catch whoever did it," Juliassa answered. She looked questioningly at her father, who made no sign, then back at Brokols. "I'm going to stay with my aunt again. At Sea Cliff. But I'll be back." Once more she looked at her father, still saw no scowl, no frown, no disapproval; he only shook his head slightly, as if wanting her to cease.
"I'll send a page when I get back," she added. "To let you know."
"Thank you," Brokols said. Then with Reeno he left the room, the amirr and his daughter watching them go.
* * *
The morning sun low on his back, Panni Vempravvo had been walking along a bluff, looking at the ocean across a lower ridge. He had no conscious purpose in walking this morning. Usually when he walked, he noticed everything: stones, flowers, insects, birds, clouds, sensed their beingness, their awarenesses. This morning, though, he noticed only enough to keep from stumbling.
Yet few thoughts drifted through his awareness, which told him that a part of himself was thoroughly engaged at some metaconscious level, occupied so thoroughly that it left little capacity for conscious attention. Absently he chuckled. He didn't know what was going on, but he was sure it was interesting.
* * *
On the way home, Reeno stopped at an herbalist's shop. It seemed to him that Brokols' roiling mind needed soothing sleep without waiting for night. He'd make tea when they got home, with an additive for Brokols' cup.
Twenty-Seven
Tirros Hanorissio had ridden north out of Theedalit, then northeast. That way the country was rugged, its hills offering more security than the plateau to the south. He'd decided to ride northeast to the Neck, staying out of sight at all times, then into Djez Gorrbul. He'd tell King Gamaliiu what he knew about the foreigners, and the king would make a prince of him. Gamaliiu would be ready when the Almaeic fleet came, and with Tirros fighting in the van, he'd drive the invaders back into the sea. Then he, Tirros, would ride at Gamaliiu's side when the Gorrbian army marched into Theedalit, and the first person he'd have drawn and quartered would be his father.
By noon of the second day, Tirros looked as if he'd been on the road for a week. He was dirty, hungry, saddle-sore, and he'd hardly gotten started on the long, long ride to Haipoor l'Djezzer. The day before, he'd eaten nothing but some not-yet-ripe mornoles, plucked where the cart trail ran past an orchard, and they'd upset his stomach. That morning he'd killed a vehatto, then realized he had no firemaker, no way to cook it, He'd tried eating a bit of it raw, and managed to swallow a few bites, but decided he couldn't live like that for long. Sleeping on the ground he could get used to, but he'd have to chance stopping at inns to eat.
But to eat at inns cost money, and what he had with him wouldn't take him halfway to Haipoor l'Djezzer. He'd have to steal some. And the only place he could be sure of finding it in any quantity, without exposing himself to serious danger, was the ranch. He knew the place thoroughly, could find his way around the villa in the dark, and rob his Aunt Zeenia without anyone being the wiser.
Glancing at the sun, he turned his kaabor southward. He'd make a big semicircle and head for Sea Cliff. If he pushed really hard, he could be there the next night but one.
* * *
Brokols had slept like a baby for four hours, and awoke feeling renewed, without memory of dreams except that there'd been some. For a minute or two he didn't even remember what had happened earlier. When he did, it was like a cloud settling over him, but even so, he was in considerably better shape than he'd been on their ride home.
Reeno was sitting in the entryway when Brokols came out of his bedroom into the hall. The Hrummean looked up, a book open on his lap, then got to his feet. After Brokols had washed his face, they went out and ate a late lunch at a satta shop, took rikkshas to the Fortress and rode kaabors north out of the city, then up out of the valley onto the ridge above the firth.
It was a day without rain, without even a threat of it. The sky was a high vault of blue, with small white clouds. A breeze, cool for the season, moved the lush green of grasses and forbs. Reeno rode a dozen yards behind, saying nothing, leaving Brokols to himself, monitoring the Almite's thoughts and the pictures beneath them.
Brokols was reviewing mentally. His official function here was to keep Kryger informed of what went on in Hrumma, what the conditions and potentials were. And when the time came, to tell the Hrummeans of the Gorrbian intention to invade. And tell the amirr that a friendly Kryger had passed him the word. He was not, of course, to tell him that Kryger had instigated the invasion.
He was also to be sure that Hrummean forces would not collapse too readily.
Really, there was no great conflict between imperial orders and the proposal that Allbarin had made. He could satisfy the amirr without clear and overt treason against the emperor. Whereas, if he refused the amirr, there was deportation and the headsman's axe.
And perhaps something would come up—perhaps there'd be something he could do, as the emperor's agent, to protect Hrumma from occupation. Perhaps Hrumma could exist as an internally autonomous tributary of Almeon. Hrumma was not a rich and fertile land. The emperor might be satisfied with tribute. Admittedly it wasn't likely, but if he could work something . . . if the Hrummeans showed enough military strength, enough ferocity in battle, perhaps occupation would look too costly and troublesome. In that case, tribute might seem a good and intelligent alternative to occupation and direct rule.
At any rate, he'd go along with Allbarin's proposal.
And tonight—tonight he'd definitely have to report to Kryger. He needed to give that some thought. Lying would take more care than telling nothing but the truth.
* * *
Reeno watched the ambassador as they rode. He liked the man. He seemed to be into wishful thinking today, but given his circumstances that was just as well. And you couldn't help but hope.
Twenty-Eight
When he'd finished his exchange with Brokols, Lord Vendel Kryger sat frowning at the message pad in front of him. Midshipman Werlingus, Argant's replacement, sat at the key looking at him. Brokols' communications were in the midshipman's simple letters. Kryger's communications alternated with them in crabbed cursive.
Brokols' report held both bad and good. Which was better than the all bad that Kryger'd been prepared for.
* * *
STILFOS MURDERED STOP ONE MURDERER CAUGHT STOP OTHER ONE STILL FREE STOP STATED REASON FOR MURDER WAS ENMITY TOWARD ALMEON STOP HOWEVER PUBLIC MEETINGS HOSTILE TO ALMEON HAVE CEASED STOP I HAVE TOLD AMIRR ABOUT WIRELESS STOP TOLD HIM YOU INFORMED ME OF GORRBIAN INTENTIONS TO INVADE HRUMMA STOP LOCAL SUBJECT IN THE STREETS IS NOW THE GORRBIAN THREAT STOP AMIRR DEFINITELY FRIENDLY TO ME NOW STOP END
* * *
"Message received. Stop. Continue your work. Stop. Any further report? Question."
* * *
AS PART OF ONGOING COVER I HAVE TALKED TO AMIRR AND A NUMBER OF MERCHANTS ABOUT TRADE WITH ALMEON STOP THEIR ARTWORK AND FURS IN EXCHANGE FOR STEAM POWERED ORE CRUSHER STOP HRUMMEAN GOVT WILL BROKER STOP END
* * *
The rest had been the closings.
Just now it appeared that Brokols might prove satisfactory after all, though the situation there still troubled Kryger.
Making a decision, Kryger picked up a pencil and scribbled some more. For security reasons, the Dard was anchored in the harbor rather than being tied to the dock, and it was
far more convenient to communicate with her by wireless than to have her captain come ashore for a conference.
"Stedmer," Kryger wrote. "I have changed the procedure you will follow when you arrive at Theedalit. As it stands now, you will land Argant there and stand by while he evaluates Brokols' fitness on the site. Only if he sees fit will you land personally, serve my warrant of arrest on Brokols, and return him to Larvis Harbor. Argant now has alternative, repeat, Argant has alternative, of deciding that Brokols should remain as ambassador in Theedalit. In that event you will bring Argant back to me before steering west to Almeon. End. Kryger."
When he had it written, he motioned Werlingus to send it. Stedmer wasn't going to like the possibility that he might have to turn around and bring Argant back, but he'd have to swallow it. He'd have steam up by dawn, and leave for Theedalit with daylight; he hardly had time to argue. Not that arguing would do him any good. Kryger outranked him militarily, and as Mission Commander he specifically had overriding authority.