Do I comprehend that they are gone?
If only things would move. They had hours to wait, safest here, before the ychan chiefs could be gathered together. Flandry had offered her medicines from his kit, for sleep, for calm and freedom from pain, but when she declined, he said, “I knew you would. You’ll always earn your way,” and when she told him she would like to go out for a while, he saw she needed aloneness. He saw deeper than most, did her Dominic, and covered the hurt of it with a jape. If only he did not see right past God.
In time? I’ll never preach at him, nor admit outright that I pray for him. But if we are given time—
They had had no end to their plans. A house in the Dubina Dolyina country, an apartment in Zorkagrad; they could afford both, and children should have elbow room for body and mind alike. Quests among the stars, wild beauties, heart-soaring moment of a new truth discovered, then return to the dear well-known. Service, oh, nothing too hazardous any more, staff rather than field Intelligence—nonetheless, swordplay of wits in the glad knowledge that this was for the future, not the poor wayworn Empire but a world he too could believe in, the world of their own blood. Ideas, investments, enterprises to start; the things they might undertake had sparkled from them like fireworks …
It had all gone flat and blurred, unreal. What she could still hold whole in her daze were the small hopes. She shows him an overlook she knows in the Vysochina highlands. He teaches her the fine points of winetasting. She reads aloud to him from Simich, he to her from Genji. They attend the opera in Zorkagrad. They join in the dances at a land festival. They sail a boat across Lake Stoyan to a cafe beneath flowering viyenatz trees on Gar-landmakers’ Island. They take their children to the zoo and the merrypark.
If we prevail.
She stopped. Her body ached, but she straightened, faced into the wind, and told it, We will. We will. I can borrow strength and clarity from his medicines. The repayment afterward will simply be a time of sleep, a time of peace. She wheeled and started back. As she fared, her stride lengthened.
Novi Aferoch climbed from the docks at the Elena River mouth, up a hill from whose top might be spied the ruins of Stari Aferoch when they jutted from the sea at low tide. There stood Council Hall, slate-roofed, heavy-timbered, colonnaded with carven water monsters. In the main chamber was a table made three hundred years ago from timbers out of Gwyth’s ship. Around it perched the steadcaptains of the Obala. At its head, stood their moot-lord Kyrwedhin, Hand of the Vach Mannoch, and the two humans.
A storm hooted and dashed rain on windowpanes. Inside, the air was blue and acrid from the pipes whereon many had been puffing. Anger smoldered behind obsidian eyes, but the leathery visages were moveless and not a tailtip twitched. These males had heard what the voivode’s daughter had to tell, and roared their curses. The hour had come to think.
Kyrwedhin addressed them in quick, precise words. He was short for an ychan, though when he was younger it had not been wise to fight him. He was the wealthy owner of seareaping and merchant fleets. And … he held a degree from the Shkola, a seat in the Skupshtina, a close experience of great affairs.
“For myself I will merely say this,” he declared in Eriau. (Flitting from Zorkagrad after receiving Ywodh’s urgent, argot-phrased call, he had been pleased to learn Flandry was fluent in the language, at least its modern Merseian version. His own Serbic was excellent, his Anglic not bad, but that wasn’t true of everybody here.) “The ideas of our Terran guest feel right. We in the House of the Zmayi have doubtless been too parochial where the Empire was concerned, too narrowly aimed at Dennitzan matters—much like the House of the Folk. However, we have always kept a special interest in our mother world, many of us have gone there to visit, some to study, and the inhabitants are our species. Thus we have a certain sense for what the Roidhunate may or may not do. And, while I never doubted its masters wish us harm, what news and clues have reached me do not suggest current preparations for outright war. For instance, I’ve corresponded for years with Korvash, who lately became Hand of the Vach Rueth there. If an attack on us were to be mounted soon, he would know, and he must be more cunning than I believe for this not to change the tone of his letters.
“No proof, I agree. A single bit of flotsam in the maelstrom. I will give you just one more out of many, given me by Lazar Ristich, voivode of Kom Kutchki. Like most members of the House of the Lords, he takes close interest in Imperial business and is familiar with several prime parts of the inner Empire; he had friends on Terra itself, where he’s spent considerable time. He told me the story we heard about Kossara Vymezal could not be right. Whether truly accused because she belonged to an overzealous faction among us, or falsely accused for a twisted political reason elsewhere, a person of her rank would not be shipped off to shame like any common criminal. That could only happen through monumental incompetence—which he felt sure was unlikely—or as a deliberate provocation—which he felt sure the present Im-perium itself would not give us, though a cabal within it might. He wanted to discuss this with her uncle. The Zamok kept putting him off, claiming the Gospodar was too busy during the crisis.
“Well, both Ristich and I know Bodin Miyatovich of old. Such was not his way. It had to be the doing of his staff. Expecting we’d get a chance at him somehow, soon—since he was never one to closet himself in an office—we did not press too hard. We should have. For now he is captive.”
Kyrwedhin halted. The wind shrilled. Finally Kossara said, tone as uncertain as words, “I can’t find out what’s really happened to him. Do you know?”
“Nobody does except the doers,” he answered. “There are—were—Imperial liaison officers about, and their aides. Bodin had explained publicly why he, as sector governor, called in chosen craft that serve the Emperor directly, as well as those of the Voyska. Besides their guns, should Merseia attack, he wanted to demonstrate our reluctance to break with Terra.
“Spokesmen for the Zamok—the Castle,” he added to Flandry; “the executive center and those who work there—spokesmen for the Zamok have said they aren’t sure either. Apparently a party of Imperials got Bodin alone, took him prisoner, and spirited him away to a ship of theirs. Which vessel is not revealed. None have responded to beamed inquiries.”
“They wouldn’t,” Flandry observed.
Kyrwedhin nodded his serrated head. “Naturally not. Imperial personnel still on the ground deny any knowledge. Thus far we have nothing except the statement that a high Terran officer contacted Milutin Protich, informed him Bodin Miyatovich was under arrest for treason, and demanded Dennitza and its armed forces give immediate total obedience to Admiral da Costa. He’s the ranking Imperial in the Zorian System at the moment, therefore can be considered the Emperor’s representative.”
“And who is, m-m, Milutin Protich?”
“A special assistant to the Gospodar. According to the announcement, he was the first important man in the Zamok whom the Terrans managed to get in touch with.” Kyrwedhin pondered. “Yes-s-s. He isn’t Dennitzan-born—from a nearby system where many families from here have settled. He arrived several years back, entered administrative service, did brilliantly, rose fast and far. Bodin had much faith in him.”
Flandry drew forth a cigarette. “I take it everybody’s been pretty well paralyzed throughout today,” he said.
“Aye. We must decide what to do. And we’ve fiendish little information to go on, half of it contradicting the other half. Were the Imperialists essentially right to seize our Gospodar, or was this their next step in subjugating us, or even getting us destroyed? Should we declare independence—when Merseia lurks in the wings? The Imperials can’t prevent that; our ships vastly outnumber theirs hereabouts. But if fighting starts, they could make us pay heavily.”
“You Dennitzans, human and zmay—ychan—you don’t strike me as hesitant people,” Flandry remarked. “As we say in Anglic, ‘He who dithers is diddled.’ The newscasts have been forgivably confused. But
am I right in my impression that your parliament—Skupshtina—meets tomorrow?”
“Yes. In the Gospodar’s absence, the Chief Justice will preside.”
“Do you think the vote will go for secession?”
“I had no doubt of it … until I heard from Dama Vymezal and yourself.”
The captains gripped their pipes, knife handles, the edge of the table, hard. They would have their own words to say later on; but what they heard in the next few minutes would be their compass.
“If you rise and tell them—” Flandry began.
Kossara cut him off. “No, dear. That’s impossible.”
“What?” He blinked at her.
She spoke carefully, clearly. The stim she had taken made vigor shine pale through flesh and eyes. “The Skupshtina’s no controlled inner-Empire congress. It’s about five hundred different proud individuals, speaking for as many different proud sections of land or walks of life. It’s often turbulent—fights have happened, yes, a few killings—and tomorrow it’ll be wild. Do you think our enemy hasn’t prepared for the climax of his work? I know the Chief Justice; he’s honest but aged. He can be swayed about whom he recognizes. And if somebody did get the floor, started telling the whole truth—do you imagine he’d live to finish?”
“She’s right,” Kyrwedhin said.
Flandry drew on his cigarette till his face creased before he replied, “Yes, I’d supposed something like that must be the case. Assassination’s easy. A few concealed needle guns, shotted around—and as a backup, maybe, some thoroughly armed bully boys hidden away in buildings near the Capitol. If necessary, they seize it, proclaim themselves the Revolutionary Committee … and, given the spadework the enemy’s done over the years, they can probably raise enough popular support to commit your people beyond any chance of turning back.”
“If you have thought of this and not despaired,” Kyrwedhin said, “you must have a plan.”
Flandry frowned. “I’d rather hear what you have in mind. You know your establishment.”
“But I am taken by surprise.”
Kossara spoke against storm-noise: “I know. If you and I, Dominic—especially I—if we appear before them, suddenly, in person—why, killing us would be worse than useless.”
Kyrwedhin’s tail smacked the floor. “Yes!” he cried. “My thoughts were headed your same way. Though you can’t simply walk in from Constitution Square. You’d never pass the Iron Portal alive. What you need is an escort, bodies both shielding and concealing you, on your way right into the Union Chamber.”
“How?” snapped from a village chief.
Kossara had the answer: “Ychani have always been the Peculiar People of Dennitza. The House of the Zmayi has never entirely spoken for them; it’s a human invention. If, in a desperate hour, several hundred Obala fishers enter Zorkagrad, march through Square and Portal into the Chamber, demanding their leaders be heard—it won’t be the first time in history. The enemy will see no politic way to halt that kind of demonstration. They may well expect it’ll turn to their advantage; outsiders would naturally think Merseian-descended Dennitzans are anti-Terran, right? Then too late—” She flung her hands wide, her voice aloft. “Too late, they see who came along!”
Beneath the surf of agreement, Flandry murmured to her: “My idea also. I kept hoping somebody would have a better one.”
XVII
Just before their car set down, Flandry protested to Kossara, “God damn it, why does your parliament have to meet in person? You’ve got holocom systems. Your politicians could send and receive images … and we could’ve rigged untraceable methods to call them and give them the facts last night.”
“Hush, darling.” She laid a hand across his fist. “You know why. Electronics will do for ornamental relics. The Skupshtina is alive, it debates and decides real things, the members need intimacies, subtleties, surprises.”
“But you, you have to go among murderers to reach them.”
“And I fear for you,” she said quietly. “We should both stop.”
He looked long at her, and she at him, in the seat they shared. Beryl eyes under wide brow and bronze hair, strong fair features though her smile quivered the least bit, height, ranginess, fullness, the warmth of her clasp and the summery fragrance of herself: had she ever been more beautiful? The vitality that surged in her, the serenity beneath, were no work of a drug; it had simply let her put aside shock, exhaustion, grief for this while and be altogether Kossara.
“If there is danger today,” she said, “I thank God He lets me be in it with you.”
He prevented himself from telling her he felt no gratitude. They kissed, very briefly and lightly because the car was crammed with ychans.
It landed in a parking lot at the edge of Zorkagrad.
None farther in could have accommodated the swarm of battered vehicles which was arriving. Besides, a sudden appearance downtown might have provoked alarm and a quick reaction by the enemy. A march ought to have a calming effect. Flandry and Kossara donned cowled cloaks, which should hide their species from a cursory glance when they were surrounded by hemianthropoid xenos, and stepped outside.
A west wind skirled against the sun, whose blaze seemed paled in a pale heaven. Clouds were brighter; they scudded in flocks, blinding white, their shadows sweeping chill across the world, off, on, off, on. Winged animals wheeled and thinly cried. Trees around the lot and along the street that ran from it—mostly Terran, oak, elm, beech, maple—cast their outer branches about, creaked, soughed Delphic utterances though tongue after fire-tongue ripped loose to scrittle off over the pavement. Rainpuddles wandered and wandered. All nature was saying farewell.
The ychans closed in around the humans. They numbered a good four hundred, chosen by their steadcaptains as bold, cool-headed, skilled with the knives, tridents, harpoons, and firearms they bore. Ywodh of Nanteiwon, appointed their leader by Kyrwedhin before the parliamentarian returned here, put them in battle-ready order. They spoke little and showed scant outward excitement, at least to human eyes or nostrils; such was the way of the Obala. They did not know the ins and outs of what had happened, nor greatly care. It was enough that their Gospodar had been betrayed by the enemy of their forefathers, that his niece had come home to speak truth, and that they were her soldiers. The wind snapped two standards in their van, star white on blue of Yovan Matavuly, ax red on gold of Gwyth.
“All set,” Ywodh reported. A shout: “Forward!” He took the lead. Flandry and Kossara would fain have clasped hands as they walked, but even surrounded must clutch their cloaks tight against this tricksy air. The thud of their boots was lost amidst digitigrade slither and click.
At first it was predictable they would encounter nobody. Here was a new district of private homes and clustered condominium units, beyond the scope of forcefield generators that offered the inner city some protection. Residents had sought safer quarters. An occasional militia squad, on patrol to prevent looting, observed the procession from a distance but did not interfere.
Farther on, buildings were older, higher, close-packed on streets which had narrowed and went snakily uphill: red tile roofs, stucco walls of time-faded gaudiness, signs and emblems hung above doorways, tenements, offices, midget factories, restaurants, taverns, amusements, a bulbous-domed parish church, a few big stores and tiny eccentric shops by the score, the kind of place that ought to have pulsed with traffic of vehicles and foot, been lively with movement, colors, gestures broad or sly, words, laughter, whistling, song, sorrow, an accordion or a fiddle somewhere, pungencies of roast corn and nuts for sale to keep the passerby warm, oddments in display windows, city men, landmen, offworlders, vagabonds, students, soldiers, children, grannies, the unforgettably gorgeous woman whom you know you will never glimpse again … A few walkers stepped aside, a few standers poised in doorways or leaned on upper-story sills, warily staring. Now and then a groundcar detoured. A civilian policeman in brown uniform and hig
h-crowned hat joined Ywodh; they talked; he consulted his superiors via minicom, stayed till an aircar had made inspection from above, and departed.
“This is downright creepy,” Flandry murmured to Kossara. “Has everybody evacuated, or what?”
She passed the question on. Untrained humans could not have conveyed information accurately in that wise; but soon she told Flandry from Ywodh: “Early this morning—the organizers must have worked the whole night—an ispravka started against Imperial personnel. That’s when ordinary citizens take direct action. Not a riot or lynching. The people move under discipline, often in their regular Voyska units; remember, every able-bodied adult is a reservist. Such affairs seldom get out of control, and may have no violence at all. Offenders may simply be expelled from an area. Or they may be held prisoner while spokesmen of the people demand the authorities take steps to punish them. A few ispravkai have brought down governments. In this case, what’s happened is that Terrans and others who serve the Imperium were rounded up into certain buildings: hostages for the Gospodar’s release and the good behavior of their Navy ships. The Zamok denounced the action as illegal and bound to increase tension, demanded the crowds disperse, and sent police. The people stand fast around those buildings. The police haven’t charged them; no shots have yet been fired on either side.”
“I’ve heard of worse customs,” Flandry said.
Puzzled, she asked, “Shouldn’t the plotters be pleased?”
Flandry shrugged. “I daresay they are. Still, don’t forget the vast majority of your officials must be patriotic, and whether or not they prefer independence, consider civil war to be the final recourse. The top man among them issued that cease-and-desist order.” He frowned. “But, um, you know, this nails down a lot of our possible helpers, both citizens and police. The enemy isn’t expecting us. However, if too many parliament members refuse to board the secession railroad, he’ll have a clear field for attempting a coup d’etat. Maybe the firebrand who instigated that, uh, ispravka is a Merseian himself, in human skin.”
A Knight of Ghosts and Shadows Page 18