The Kalifs War

COUP

THE KALIF DEPOSED AND IMPALED (the short stake?); THE COLLEGE OF

Below that he had written two actions which he considered prerequisites: (1) Greatly increase the disaffection of the nobility for the Kalif. (2) Gain the support of some key part of the military. Assuming he accomplished them, they might or might not be sufficient to his purpose, but without them, his chances would be poor.

Earlier, his purpose had been simply to prevent the Kalif from mounting his invasion. Now, though, it seemed to Rothka that a coup ending with the Greater Nobility in power was the correct goal. In fact, he'd felt so good when it first occurred to him, there'd been no room for uncertainty. As long as the Kalif was in power, the man would strive until he had his way. If not this year, and that now seemed impossible, then next year or the year after, or the year after that.

Simply to have him assassinated would throw dark suspicion on his opponents in the House, most particularly the Party, risk a serious public reaction and a possible purge. At the least it would virtually ensure that one of Biilathkamoro's supporters, probably the gentry exarch, Jilsomo, was given the throne as his successor.

No, a coup was the only correct action. But it would help greatly, in establishing order afterward, if the man's popularity was sufficiently weakened in advance. Give people an excuse to tell themselves that the coup might be for the best.

The things already done had provided a certain groundwork toward that. True the Kalif had come through most of them remarkably well. But it seemed to Rothka that by now the kalifa's questionable past must be stuck ineradicably in the back of people's minds, as was her husband's penchant for personal violence. Break down his credibility in other matters, and people would remember, begin to question his suitability.

Up till now, Rothka told himself, his own mistake had been in trying to discredit the Kalif with a single action. Which the Kalif had then focused on and more or less neutralized. Until this last business, the man had shown a talent for saying or doing the right thing to minimize damage. It had been a stroke of genius when Coso had released the cube of the Diet session in which he'd killed Nathiir. No one, except possibly the Kalif himself, had anticipated the widespread public approval it had gotten.

Finally, when it seemed he'd damaged himself seriously, old Dosu had rescued him. And while he might have been tempted to release the cube with old Dosu's scathing defense, he hadn't. To do so would have alienated the House, beyond recovery for this session and probably for sessions to come. As the man had foreseen.

Rothka frowned. Or was that little scenario still a possibility? It would be a dangerous project, but the potential…

He set it aside, at least for the time.

He'd learned some things from all that. One was to look toward volume, another to focus on issues. The pamphlets he planned to release would be numerous, brief, pithy, and politically relevant. Also they'd carry no actionable attacks on the Kalif. A pamphlet would attack some single element of the invasion plan, and dismantle or discredit it. The arguments didn't need to be valid, as long as they were convincing, at least superficially. They'd stress practical matters: economics, civil disorders, and other gut-level issues. Play the factions: the lesser nobility feared the ambitions of the gentry; the gentry worried about the peasantry encroaching on their privileges. Keep the pamphlets coming, one after another, too many and too plausible-seeming to counter. And keep them legal.

Although he wouldn't stay entirely on practical issues. He'd already ordered the printing of a pamphlet saying that The Book of Shatim, announced by the College of Exarchs as having been found in a provincial archives, was rumored to be a forgery, produced by the College to help them hold onto power. The pamphlet would question how it could possibly help them do that, while not questioning the idea that the book was spurious. As if the origin of the book was certain, and only the College's supposed rationale was in doubt.

There was a polite knock on his study door, and with a button on his chair, Rothka released the lock. It buzzed quietly, and his gentry serving man entered.

"Your lordship, there's a young man to see you."

"Young man? What young man?"

The servant came over and held out a card to Rothka, who took and examined it. Neethoon Ralakhon, it said. Administrative Aide. The Informer. He looked up sharply at his servant. "You know I don't receive journalists at home."

"He claims to be here on his own behalf, and not on business of The Informer, your lordship. He says he has certain information, ah, for sale. Information that his publication would quash if they had it."

Rothka's brows knotted. It had to be something unfavorable about the Kalif, otherwise the newszine would hardly quash it. Scandal was The Informer 's bread and butter.

"Neethon Ralakhon." Rothka said the name aloud, as if tasting it. "I'll speak with him, Ilavi. Send him in."

A little thrill shivered through him. Somehow it seemed to the nobleman that he had something here. Something big.

Fifty

Protocol was permissive in some cases. These particular visitors would not arrive as petitioners, nor as foreign functionaries on the business of their sultan. They would be there at the Kalif's invitation-indeed at his request. Thus he could receive them in his study as well as in the receiving room, and he liked his study better.

Jilsomo was with him as usual. In this case, though, the exarch's role was not that of silent lieutenant, because the guests would be Elder Dosu, leader of the Assembly of Elders, and the four members of his executive council.

And Jilsomo had begun in the Pastorate. Further, he'd been the first man in 560 years to enter the College of Exarchs after beginning in the Pastorate, and from provincial Niithvoktos, at that. Add to that his gentry origins… In the Niithvoktu Pastorate he'd made his name as a negotiator-a diplomat, so to speak, a bringer together of factions. And a man of integrity and justice as well as intelligence.

He'd graduated from seminary at the unusually early age of nineteen, receiving his own parish at the even more remarkable age of twenty-one, an age when most pastoral candidates were still students. At twenty-six he'd become the youngest dean in the history of Niithvoktos. At twenty-nine he'd been appointed archdean, and liaison between the Niithvoktu Pastorate and the Niithvoktu Synod of Archprelates-the sultanate's equivalent of the Imperial College of Exarchs.

While Jilsomo was still short of his thirty-first birthday, a major Niithvoktu prelacy had been shamed by scandal and vacated by a declaration of anathema. Specifically, its prelate had extorted money from well-to-do gentry charged before him with crimes of character, some of which had been fabricated for the purpose.

As partial punishment, the sultan had stripped the family of its long-standing rights to a prelacy, and with the concurrence of the Synod of Archprelates had appointed the young Archdean Jilsomo to the diocesan throne, in part to ameliorate the deep offense felt by the gentry there.

Being an experiment, so to speak, he'd been under the continual scrutiny of his sultan, and the remarkable recovery of the diocese under his direction brought him an Archprelacy at thirty-four. At thirty-seven he'd been called to Varatos to serve as Collegial staff, and at thirty-nine appointed exarch by old Kalif Parthaalu, and assigned to the College. Every seminarian training for the Pastorate knew Jilsomo's name and honors.

Although the junior member of the College, he'd been the exarch most ready to disagree with, and even occasionally lecture Kalif Gorsu. And survived not only with his life but his position, presumably because of his non-censorious, matter-of-fact manner of criticism. Gorsu even seemed to hold a certain fondness for the exarch who was fatter than himself.

Thus Jilsomo knew intimately both sides of the Church: The Pastorate-that hierarchy responsible for the spiritual instruction, guidance, and welfare of the people from peasants to nobles; and the Prelacy-that parallel senior hierarchy responsible for the administrative and judicial governance of Kargh's empire and individual worlds. He was the Kalif's spokesman in any dealings with the Pastorate.

The five pastors came into the Kalif's study carrying umbrellas. Outside the thick glass garden doors, hard rain was a steady mumble on the canopy. The curtains had been drawn back, showing the downpour dancing violently on the patio.

"Your Reverence," Elder Dosu said, and bowed slightly. The bow was not required. If he'd wished to show disapproval of the Kalif, or even reserve toward him, he would have withheld it, and two of his council did.

The far younger Kalif bowed slightly in return. "Thank you, honored Elders, for coming. Would you like refreshment?" The offer was an especial courtesy, implying that he would not rush them, that his business with them had priority over any audiences scheduled to follow.

"No thank you, Your Reverence. We appreciate your generosity, but we have breakfasted, and we know your time is precious. We are also very curious as to why you asked us here."

The Kalif gestured at his aide. "Alb Jilsomo will tell you. I'm aware that not all your Assembly trusts me."

Their attention shifted to the exarch. "Kalif Coso has a proposal for your consideration," Jilsomo said. "In the second week of his reign, he told me that one of the things he wanted to accomplish during his tenure was to change the status of your estate in the Diet. From non-voting to voting."

He had their attention.

"Recently we discussed how it might be accomplished. He can, of course, simply proclaim it, but it falls under the Charter of Establishment, and thus would not take affect until the next autumnal equinox, when the new Diet is seated. And it can be blocked for an entire session by a majority voice vote of the House-blocked in the session proclaimed, or in the first meeting of the session following. Then, without the concurrence of the College, the House of Nobles by itself can repudiate the proclamation, or any proclamation that would alter the Charter, by a roll-call vote of sixty percent of its delegates."

Jilsomo looked around at the pastors. "You know, of course, the record on these things. Only one such proclamation has ever survived: the proclamation which provided the Pastorate its voice in the Diet, a voice without a vote. And that proclamation was issued by no less than Papa Sambak.

"In the few other instances when a Kalif has proclaimed a change in the Charter, it has been repudiated. And afterward, the noble delegates have felt it a point of principle to thwart and frustrate him. Under Kalif Kambara, this so crippled government that the College impeached and dethroned him.

"Thus, wishing a vote for the Pastorate and accomplishing it are two very different things, and in the press of kalifal operations, Kalif Coso lost sight of it at times. As did I. Elder Dosu's oratory the other day reminded us.

Jilsomo turned and nodded to the Kalif, who stood up then and spoke.

"You can see, I believe, why I requested that you not talk about this meeting to anyone outside yourselves. If the House learns of it, it will be more displeased with me than it already is."

He paused, looking them over. "If we succeed in gaining the vote for you, it will be because the stage has been set for it. The Pastorate must preach for it, from the pulpit in every house of worship, from the lectern in every school.

"Speak of it not only to the nobility, but to the gentry. It is the Elders, more than any, who speak for their interests in the Diet; now let gentry voices speak for you in the marketplaces and taverns. And speak occasionally of it to the peasants, for you are their principal friends, and it will gladden them to think that you may gain the vote."

He stopped and looked at them, his gaze direct. "And in time-not at the beginning-tell them you have a friend in the Diet. Tell them their Kalif is favorable to your aspiration. And when you preach to the nobles, tell them to tell their delegates to support you.

"In five years, or ten, or perhaps only two, you will have a large body of supporters in the work places and the marketplaces. And in the House of Nobles, the delegates will have gotten used to the idea. You'll have supporters among them, too, by then, and I can proclaim you a voting estate with some likelihood that the House will not repudiate it and punish me with recalcitrance."

He spread his hands. "I presume you have questions; I'll try to answer them."

A bald, thickly bearded Elder spoke from his chair. "You propose this only for your own purposes. There are millions of pastors on Varatos alone. By positioning yourself with us in this, you will draw strength from us-strengthen yourself in the Diet, and strengthen the prospect of obtaining funds for your proposed invasion."

The Kalif answered him mildly. "Friend Gwampala, I look toward a vote on invasion funding well before my name is associated with this project."

The man grunted. "And if the vote goes against you, as it will, there will be next year. And no doubt the year after. You are taking the long view here."

Another Elder spoke. "How many votes would the Pastorate have in the Imperial Diet?"

"It will depend on public support and the strength of opposition in the House. Not less than five, though."

"Five?" It was the bald Elder again. "Five would be like spitting in the ocean."

Another Elder interrupted. "I can think of numerous times where five votes have decided a matter. And five will be a precedent. Eventually it will be twelve."

The bald Elder grunted. "Eventually can be a very long time. But five would be a start." He turned to the Kalif. "Now here is an observation for you. I don't believe you'll find a pastor who will not like the thought of our estate having votes in the Diet. Even if it is only five. But there are many pastors, doubtless most, who do not like your desired invasion. And I for one will not support it. In conscience I cannot. Some who will speak fervently for votes in the Diet, will speak against invasion."

The Kalif inclined his head for a moment, than looked at the man again. "In that, at least, we agree. I have no doubt that some will speak against it.

"But tell me, Elder Gwampala, why you, for one, dislike the invasion. I presume that part of it is the men who will die in the war. But what are your other reasons?"

Gwampala's scowl furrowed his forehead into the area where hair once had grown. "That is reason enough!"

The Kalif's eyebrows shot up. "The Prophet wrote that one must be ready to give one's life to spread the word of Kargh. And proved with his own death that he meant it. As others have done since. How terrible is death, if the soul goes to Paradise?"

He paused. "Well, what you support, and your reasons for it, are a matter between you and Kargh, and perhaps Elder Dosu. I am not so naive as to think I can buy loyalty, or that honest men will sell it." He scanned over the five, then settled his gaze on Elder Dosu again.

"I have said what I asked you here for. And while I could say more, I've said what's necessary. Perhaps you'll assign someone as liaison, to keep me informed. Or perhaps you'll decide that's not necessary.

"Now, unless one of you has something further you need to tell me at this time…"

No one spoke until, after three or four seconds, Elder Dosu did. "On next Threeday I will issue a writ, authorizing and urging the Pastorate empire-wide to request support for a voting Assembly of Elders. Meanwhile, we five will have discussed possible objections which our pastors may face, and provide guidance in answering them.

"I'll have a copy hand-carried to you."

He got to his feet with the help of his umbrella. The rain still danced on the patio outside, almost as hard as before. "And now we will leave. It is eleven-fifteen, and while the Diet will not convene till one-thirty, I prefer to lunch at my leisure when I can."

With Jilsomo at his side, the Kalif walked with them down corridors to the front entrance of his palace. Making only a little small talk, saying nothing further about his proposal. It seemed to him the meeting had gone reasonably well, and that this was not the time to say more.

Also, it occurred to him that these past few days he'd performed as well as ever, mentally. Apparently his strangely shortsighted idea, following Dosu's speech in the Diet, had been an isolated and ephemeral aberration.

He hoped he'd reassured Jilsomo, too, he and the clean result of Neftha's medical examination. He'd realized from the physician's overly casual request that the two had colluded.

Fifty-one

Supper for the royal couple, that evening, was a chopped salad, a salad as aesthetic visually as in flavor. There were green and red vegetables of several sorts, and cubes of tender-flavored fish, with a clear, delicately tart dressing. As usual, they ate to the evening news, watching intermittently as it took their attention.

The kalifa had recovered readily from the events of The Prophet's Day. Probably because Nertiilo Parsavamaatu had been a certifiable madwoman, while by and large, the guests had been friendly and admiring. Equally important to the Kalif, the hurt she'd felt from his invasion plan was in abeyance, at least now that the subject wasn't prominent.

It helped greatly that Tain was good at directing her attention to other things. She was on her second reading of An Abstract of History , this time calling up elaborative material she'd passed by on her first reading. He wondered if her avidity for the subject was partly due to having lost her own history, and that of her home world and empire.

"It seems to me," Tain was saying, "that the empire would be better off if the peasants were taught to speak Imperial. And read it. Especially since it's not so different from their own speech.

The Kalif grunted. The observation wasn't unique to her, but it got angry reactions from most nobles, or at least most noble politicians. "Arguably true," he said. "But to impose a change would offend the nobles more than I care to just now. They're mad enough at me over the invasion issue." Damn! There he was, bringing it up! "Along with other matters. And when the Pastorate starts promoting the pastoral vote from the pulpit…"

He stopped in mid sentence; the news anchor had taken his attention.

"… Kalif Coso has released the cube of last Five-day's Diet session. A session in which the House castigated him severely over his duel with the late Lord Siisru Parsavamaatu."

He stared at the wall screen, unbelieving. He'd released no such thing!

"Their criticisms," the man went on, "were interrupted by a spirited defense of the Kalif by Elder Dosu. We'll show you excerpts of the House's verbal assaults, beginning with a motion by Lord Agros for formal denunciation, then show you Elder Dosu's defense in its entirety."

The man had Tain's attention now, too, and they watched, the Kalif in a state of near shock. Dosu's speech had stunned and embarrassed the nobles, and broken their indignation. But played before the public like this, it humiliated them. They'd be angry now with Dosu, and enraged at himself for its release. But he hadn't released it! Nor did he have any idea who could have; it was something only he had the authority to do!

Tain, engrossed in what she was watching and listening to, didn't notice his reaction till he got up from the table. "Darling! Is anything the matter?"

"That was not supposed to be released. I gave no such order, but the House isn't going to believe me when I tell them. They're going to want my body on a stake!"

He realized by her expression then that she'd taken his words literally. "Not literally on a stake," he added quickly, "but they're going to be very angry with me. I have to make some calls, and try to patch this up as well as I can."

Then he hurried from the dining room, leaving her with the television.

He placed a call to Lord Agros, who hadn't watched the news, telling him absolutely that he'd had nothing to do with it. After that he called several others. Finally he called Alb Thoga, who'd seen the news and wondered if the Kalif had taken leave of his senses; Thoga promised to make some calls, too, and to assure the Diet tomorrow that the Kalif was truly upset by it. Next he called Jilsomo, who'd also watched and been stunned by what he'd seen. Jilsomo would call Elder Dosu and make clear to him that the Kalif had had nothing to do with the fiasco. And that an investigation was being started to find out who had.

After talking briefly with Jilsomo, the Kalif called the Minister of Justice and told him he wanted the affair investigated. Starting that night, with questioning of the producer of the evening news. The ministry was to call him with every piece of information they got, till midnight. If possible, he wanted to attend the Diet tomorrow with something more than unsupported denials to offer.

Without supporting evidence, though-at least a little bit-he'd stay away from the Diet, he told himself. His failure to show up would bring angry ranting, he had no doubt, and quite possibly an actual, formal denunciation. Those he could live with. If he did show up, things would be shouted in his face that could hardly be retracted and would make future collaborations extremely difficult. There might even be a walkout by part of the House-a much greater possibility in his presence than if he wasn't there. Historically that had happened several times, blocking even minimal appropriations and largely stalling government. The first two times it had happened, the reigning Kalif had declared himself dictator "for the duration of the walkout," and the result had been insurrections, one expanding into armed revolt, the other into a civil war whose ravages on several worlds had taken decades to heal.

No, he'd stay away until he had evidence to offer that it hadn't been he who'd released the cube-evidence that at least pointed elsewhere. Or, lacking that, until the temperature of the House had dropped a few degrees.

Finally he called Elder Dosu himself. It was desirable that the Elder's message to the Pastorate not go out yet. It would be impolitic to have the pastors begin their campaign until this particular fire was out. It would look as if the two were coordinated, and tend to discredit the Pastorate's campaign.

Before he went to bed at midnight, he'd had a report from the Justice Minister. The chief archivist at the Library of the Sreegana had been questioned under instrumentation, and had sworn he'd had a call from the Kalif, telling him to release a copy of the cube to the Imperial Broadcasting Network. Yes, the call had been on visual, and by hindsight, the visual had been unusual; usually the Kalif sat close to the pickup. This time he'd sat or stood several feet back from it, and the lighting had been poor.

No, he'd noticed nothing different about the Kalif's voice.

The investigator had then checked the computer for the time and origin of the call: it had been placed a little before noon, at 11:17 P.M. But not from a Kalifal office; from a conference room in the Sreegana administration building. There'd been nothing scheduled in the room at the time; anyone could have used it who had access to a staff security card.

Eleven-seventeen, the Kalif thought now. He recalled Elder Dosu's comment just before he'd left that noon: it had been eleven-fifteen. No doubt others of the Elders would remember it, too. And from there he'd walked them to the palace entrance. He couldn't have called from the Admin Building at eleven-seventeen. But to cite them as witnesses would bring up the question of why they were meeting with the Kalif.

For now he'd simply have to take the heat.

Fifty-two

Early the next morning, he informed Partiil and Jilsomo that he wanted no further appointments for the day, short of real emergencies. He wanted to be available for any calls from Justice. Then he handled the three petitioners already scheduled, and had turned his attention to the morning's backlog of communications, when a call from Jilsomo interrupted him.

"Your Reverence, there's someone in my office whom I think you'll want to see."

A note in the exarch's voice said even more than his words. "Bring him in," the Kalif answered, then sat back and waited. In half a minute they were there. The man who entered with Jilsomo was the Klestronu colonel.

"Your Reverence," Jilsomo said, "Colonel Thoglakaveera."

The Kalif regarded them for a moment, saying nothing, and when he answered, his voice was cool. "Colonel, please be seated."

The colonel sat. Jilsomo stepped to the Kalif's desk and handed him a cube. "I'll let the colonel tell you about this. I haven't seen it yet; he brought it to me only minutes ago."

The Kalif's eyes shifted to Veeri.

"Your Reverence," the colonel began uncomfortably, "a few days ago a man came to my apartment with an offer for me. Of 100,000 dromas and-an opportunity, as he put it, for revenge. Also a place to stay, with an assumed identity, until you were removed from office, which he implied would be soon." The colonel's mouth tightened for a moment. "He also offered what he called 'subsidiary benefits' that I won't elaborate. I found them insulting, but they made me curious.

"In return for these incentives, I was to answer questions, first privately, and later in front of a camera. I answered the questions. He already had the basic features of what had happened; that was obvious from the questions themselves. He wanted details he could use to write an interview script. An interview that I would star in."

He gestured at the cube on the Kalif's desk. "That's the result. He took what I'd told him and twisted it. Badly. We did the interview yesterday evening before a camera. I'd had the foresight to carry a concealed stunner with me; the man seemed like a criminal. When the interview was over, I stunned the interviewer, the cameraman, and the door guard; actually the door guard first. Then I took the cube from the camera and got out of there. Walked to a thoroughfare and caught a taxi.

"It was late, and it seemed unwise to return to my apartment, so I stayed in a hotel. And came here when I finished breakfast. The gate notified Alb Jilsomo for me." He gestured at the cube. "If you'll play that, you'll see what this is all about."

The Kalif inserted it into his terminal and keyed in an instruction. The wall screen took life and color. There was no lead-in material, of course; it was the raw interview. It opened on a comfortable living room with an interviewer and the colonel. The interviewer smiled at the camera and spoke.

"I have here with me Colonel Koora Thoglakaveera of the Klestronu marines. The colonel was on the Klestronu expedition to the Confederation, and it might be interesting to ask him some questions about it."

He turned to Veeri. "Colonel, what sort of fighting men were the Confederation troops?"

"The best term to describe them is-Well, it takes more than one term. They are skilled, they are savage, they are cunning, and they do not surrender. They fight to the death. Our casualties were remarkably high."

"Hmm. It sounds as if an invasion army might have its hands full. Is it possible that the Confederation troops might, in fact, defeat an invasion force?"

"If the invasion force was strong enough and well led, no. But they would definitely inflict heavy casualties."

The interviewer showed polish before the camera, but his face was not familiar to the Kalif. The colonel came across fairly natural, although his eyes moved repeatedly to a point just off camera, as if there was a prompter there, with his lines.

"Interesting," the interviewer said. "Earlier, I understand, it was you who captured the female enemy soldier who is now our kalifa. How did you happen to take her alive?"

"Actually it wasn't I who captured her. She'd apparently been knocked semi-conscious by a blow on the head, and was captured by a squad of marines who didn't kill her because they recognized her as a woman, and, well-A little later she was taken from them by an officer."

The interviewer's brows arched. "Those marines that had held her-I hope they were gentry."

"No, they were peasants. But presumably she was rescued before anything, uh, serious happened to her. They'd pulled off her clothing, but the officer said he'd gotten there in time. I didn't hear about her till the next morning, and because we were anxious for a live prisoner, I was there in minutes. To find her somewhat bruised and in a confused state of mind."

"Good god, Colonel! What a terrible experience that must have been for her! A squad of Klestronu marines! Then what?"

"I took her to headquarters base, where she was cleaned up and sent to the flagship for questioning. I never saw or heard of her again till our return to Klestron."

"I see. Why was she brought to Klestron? It was my understanding that she'd lost her memory in an interrogation accident. Surely they didn't expect to get any information from her after that."

"It was never clear to me why they took her with them."

"Can't you even think of a reason they might have taken this lovely female captive with them?"

"I prefer not to speculate."

"How did you come to encounter her again on Klestron?"

"That was pure chance. I discovered that she was being held prisoner by a group of intelligence agents."

"Held prisoner?! Were there any other prisoners?"

"None. They'd been keeping her in a room alone. In a small apartment, actually. Fairly comfortable but with no privacy whatsoever. She was watched constantly, day and night, by hidden cameras. It was quite scandalous, because over a period of days, what had begun as ordinary security monitoring had degenerated into voyeurism, if not something worse. She being such a remarkably attractive and vulnerable young woman.

"When I learned of the situation, I at once felt a certain responsibility for her safety. Because I was the one who'd transported her to headquarters in the first place. So I had her removed, and my wife took her to her father's estate. Shortly after that, the Kalif had her brought here to Varatos."

"Where he apparently found her as attractive as all the others had. How did you avoid her attractions?"

"It wasn't easy."

"Were there a lot of these beautiful female soldiers on the Confederation world?"

"Actually she was as unusual there, in her beauty, as she is here. And I never saw or heard of any other female soldier there. Not one."

"Remarkable. Truly remarkable. Why just this one beautiful woman, I wonder.

"Now, Colonel, I have some more personal questions to ask you. Frankly, I've heard that there was a lapse of several days between the time you took the now kalifa from the room the intelligence agents were holding her in, and the time your wife took her away. Isn't that so?"

"That's not true!"

"And isn't it also true that your wife asked the Kalif for a writ of divorcement from you?"

"I refuse to answer that."

"Are you now married to your wife?"

"No. No, I'm not. She-thought I'd been unfaithful to her."

"Why would she think that?"

"She said-she said that Tain, now the kalifa, had told her I'd-taken advantage of her."

"But you hadn't?"

"I hadn't."

"Why would she have said that if it wasn't true? And why would the Kalif grant your wife a divorce? Adultery by the husband isn't grounds for divorce. Grounds for punishment, yes, for amends to the wife, and reparations to her family if they ask for them, but not divorce. Do you suppose a divorce could have been part of an agreement to keep your wife from making public what the kalifa told her about you?"

"I have no way of knowing. And anyway it wasn't a divorce. He granted her an annulment."

"An annulment?! On what grounds?!"

"You'll have to ask him. I refuse to say any more about it."

"Hmm." The interviewer turned again to the camera. "So now we know the true history of the kalifa, or some of it. A young woman victimized repeatedly, from her capture and-abuse by a squad of peasant marines to her arrival here on Varatos. But seemingly her hardships are over now. Because this lovely yellow-haired soldier, if that's what she actually was, and not something else, shares the kalifal palace with the Successor to The Prophet.

"Who seems to have made a seriously criminal agreement in order to get her into his bed. It also seems that he was not the first man to have her. He seems to have been preceded by an indeterminate number of peasant marines in a muddy field on a far off planet; an indeterminate number of fleet personnel on a bunk in a warship-and remember, that was a three-year voyage! And repeatedly by a crowd of lustful intelligence officers in a room on Klestron.

"That of course is just since we've known of her. What had her function been in the enemy army? This solitary young woman with such sexual magnetism. Surely she wasn't a soldier. The evidence is that the enemy had no female soldiers. The soldiers they did have didn't let themselves be taken alive, yet she surrendered-perhaps because surrendering was what she was used to doing.

"One may be forgiven for wondering if, in fact, the writer of The Kalif's -excuse me- The Sultan's Bride was more correct than we imagined.

"At least the sultan in the story performed no acts of criminal collusion in bedding his prisoner. Nor did he knowingly disregard Church Law and the specific command of The Prophet in marrying her. Nor did he murder a delegate to the House of Nobles who'd publicized the nature of his bride.

"I recommend that you resist the wishes of this immoral, this disgraceful Kalif, and do all in your power to have him deposed. I also urge you to copy this cube in quantities, if you have access to equipment, and give the copies to others.

"Perhaps we might put him and his bride on a small hyperspace ship and send them outward to the Confederation by themselves, keeping our young men home and alive, and the fruits of our labor here where we can have the use of them."

The speaker bowed, and the picture faded slowly to deep indigo, then black. For a minute no one spoke. Then the Kalif unclenched his jaw and turned to Veeri. "I presume you can lead us to the place where this was made?"

"Indeed I can, Your Reverence."

The Kalif sat staring at him, his hot gaze cooling, growing thoughtful. "Colonel, why did you bring me this cube? Surely you have no love for me."

"You're right, Your Reverence, I don't. But neither do I hate you, though perhaps I did once. The kalifa is a very beautiful young woman. Through no fault of her own. And she was indeed very vulnerable, again through no fault of her own. I speak from experience when I say I appreciate how a man can be smitten by her loveliness, and do what he would not ordinarily do.

"So I can understand how you might have done to me what you did. As for why I brought this here"-he gestured toward the terminal, and the cube in it-"instead of destroying it…" He paused, then continued. "I'm in favor of an invasion. I've seen a beautiful world scarcely used by the people there. I would like to go with the invasion force, take part in the conquests, be part of the occupation. I'd like to have a fief of my own there, a land fief. Not on Terfreya-not necessarily-but on some world there. So in my own interest, I would not sabotage either you or your invasion."

He sat back then, waiting.

"Ah. Well. A fief can be arranged." The Kalif spoke the words absently, as if his attention had gone to something else. "Colonel, the things you said in the interview, about Tain…"

"Sir, I am confident the intelligence agents hadn't abused her, although they might well have before long. The opportunity and temptation were there. I also doubt that anything happened to her aboard the flagship. She was undoubtedly in stasis most of the trip, and the commodore had a reputation as a hard, strict old man. His officers would have considered the prospect of being tried before him and jettisoned out a trash port. And if the marines had-used her on the battlefield, she'd have been more than 'bruised and confused.'

"Concerning her role with the enemy army-We know nothing of the Confederation's military practices away from the battlefield. There may well be administrative functions which women carry out, as they do in our own fleet. We do know that women carry out administrative functions in civil government there.

"And, sir…"

"Yes, Colonel?"

"Your Reverence-What is the kalifa like?" He rushed on then, as surprised and flustered by what he'd asked as that he'd asked it. "I mean-I never really came to know her. And I've wondered."

The Kalif's frown changed from incensed to thoughtful. "Her manners, Colonel, are noble. She is considerate, intelligent, affectionate. I could not have imagined a better wife, or one as good. Her soul matches her physical beauty."

The colonel's response was soft. "Thank you, Your Reverence," he said, "for your extraordinary courtesy."

It was Jilsomo who spoke next. "Your Reverence, do you have instructions for me? Or shall I go now and inform the Justice Ministry?"

"Call them, Jilsomo. Have a senior investigator sent here. We'll speak with him, the colonel and I.

"Meanwhile, Colonel, go with Alb Jilsomo. I have things to think about and do."

The two men left, but the Kalif didn't return at once to his work. Instead he sat and examined briefly a feeling that had struck him while he and the colonel talked. After watching the cube. It had been-It had been when the colonel said what he'd said about the planet Terfreya. And then about women in their government. And there was the savage energy of the defenders there, as if they fought for reasons beyond simple duty and orders.

He shook the thoughts away. He had work to do.

Fifty-three

Lord Rothka Kozkoraloku watched the scrub-clad hills of the Fashtar Military Reservation pass beneath his personal floater. His guts and chest were unconsciously tense. There was something uncanny about this trip. But it didn't occur to him to back away; this was what it had all been leading up to. He'd simply have to make it work out.

He hadn't intended to come here so soon; things weren't ready yet. But circumstances had pushed him. Roopal had called him in the predawn hours; the Klestronu colonel had carried a stunner, stunned all four of them, and fled with the cube. Liiroola and the outer door guard had died, Liiroola no doubt because of his bad heart.

It was aggravating that people couldn't handle situations competently. He'd had to arrange for disposal of the bodies himself, which was not only a nuisance, but involved a degree of risk, even with the baffles he'd worked behind.

But everything seemed to be under control now. Only Roopal knew who was behind the project, and Roopal was away free. Thus there was no way of connecting him to any of it; the Klestronu colonel didn't know-possibly hadn't even heard of-Lord Rothka Kozkoraloku.

Obviously the Klestronit hadn't run to the police. If he had, they'd have gone to the house and found Roopal and the other three lying unconscious or dead. And they'd have learned who was behind it. Even if Roopal had never said the name "Rothka," they'd have used standard questioning and instrument reads to narrow down the possibilities; they'd have found him out in minutes. And this act might well have broken the Kalif's reluctance to impale, even use the short stake.

A sobering thing to contemplate. Rothka admitted to himself that his interview project had been a questionable risk. But to have such an opportunity dropped in his lap…

As for the Klestronit's motives for attacking the others and running off with the cube-Perhaps he'd begun to wonder what kind of safe house they had in mind for him up north. Whose safety they had in mind. Or maybe he thought he could market the cube for himself; if he could, it hadn't been a waste after all.

The major danger now was that the Klestronit would decide for profit instead of revenge, and sell it to a known market-the Kalif. If that happened, it would be destroyed. And it had taken the police only three or four days to nose through Nathiir's safety baffles and nail him down for The Sultan's Bride.

So Rothka had pushed his timetable up a week and a half, and scheduled his first military contact. He'd made his excuses to Agros and Ilthka, and was skipping today's meeting of the Diet.

He'd already had enough on his mind, engineering the release of the cube showing old Dosu scathing the House. Liiroola had handled that, handled it nicely. Had done the Kalif's voice and even made the mask. Rothka had had misgivings when he'd seen the mask on him. The likeness hadn't been as good as he'd expected, and when Liiroola talked, it hadn't looked fully lifelike. But the light wouldn't be good, Liiroola had told him, and people saw what they expected to see, at least when there was a marked resemblance. And Liiroola had been right; the archivist had accepted it without a question.

Ahead, Rothka could see now what he assumed was a division area. First Corps' four ground forces divisions and air services division were housed well separated from each other in a broad open ring, with corps headquarters and service and support units in the center.

By the nature of floater traffic, traffic patterns were simple. Thus there was no delay; he was allowed to land within a hundred feet of the general's control center. A captain was waiting for him at the pad.

The control center was a separate, single building containing the general's personal office, offices for his immediate staff, conference rooms, kitchen… in the midst of a broad and beautiful lawn, large shade trees, and well-tended flowerbeds. Rothka thought wryly that the lord delegates of the House had less pleasant surroundings in which to work.

The general was not at the entrance to greet him; he was at his desk, seemingly busy, when Lord Rothka was delivered to him like a petitioner, which in a sense he was. Rothka had researched both the general and his family. Lieutenant General Lord Karoom Songhidalarsa, known as "Old Iron Jaw," and sometimes as "His Majesty Iron Jaw the First," was the best, and perhaps the only realistic candidate to carry out a coup. He was also arrogant and imperious.

Nonetheless he got promptly to his feet and stepped out from behind his desk to greet his guest. The general was a tall man, flat-cheeked and spare-limbed, yet at the same time paunchy and corseted. His hair was well-oiled and brushed straight, in a style of some decades earlier.

"Lord Rothka," he said, "it's an honor to have you here. I've made a point of keeping your arrival inconspicuous, as you requested. Would you care for coffee? Tea?"

"Nothing, thank you. I'm not thirsty. There are things I've come here to discuss, General-matters that may take considerable time. And I have to be back in Ananporu tonight; it's impolitic for me to miss two consecutive days in the Diet."

"Of course. Captain, make sure the lord delegate and I are not disturbed. And keep in mind that the lord delegate's presence here is absolutely confidential."

"As you wish, General." The captain saluted, fist thumping his chest, then left.

"So, Lord Rothka," the general said, "this room is completely secure, as your messenger requested."

Rothka knew the general's reputation as a committed conservative. It fitted the man's family image. The Songhidalarsas were one of the greatest of the Great Families, with vast holdings on the second continent, and strict advocates of land rights. Their name was synonymous with noble traditions, noble values, and service to Varatos. Two millenia earlier, a dynasty of four emperors had been Songhidalarsas. And the general's grandfather five or six generations removed had broken the Dhimoordu Revolt, restoring imperial unity and the rights of the Great Families on four mutinous worlds.

Still, what Rothka had come here for was extreme. Thus despite having mentally rehearsed his pitch on the way, he sat pinch-mouthed for a long moment before finally speaking.

"I presume you're aware of the recent behavior of the Kalif-his wife, his duels, his recent humiliation of the House of Nobles?"

Rothka deliberately didn't mention the Kalif's invasion plans. That was uncertain ground.

"Loosely speaking, yes," the general answered. "I never follow such issues in any detail, though. I've read the, um, book; it was sent me by my nephew. A satire, obviously; I have no idea to what extent it reflects reality."

"Better than you might imagine, General. I'd thought to have a very interesting cube for you, of an interview with a principal in the affair, but it wasn't ready when I left."

"Oh? I viewed the one your messenger brought, of Elder Dosu's attack on the House. Surprising that the Kalif released such a thing."

Rothka nodded curtly, taut jawed. "It's typical of the arrogance he's shown lately. The man is trying to discredit the House and evict the nobility from any meaningful role in imperial government. It fits perfectly the criminal way in which he took the throne in the first place, with the murder of Gorsu. Not that Gorsu was any better." He shook his head in disdain. "If Coso Biilathkamoro stays in office much longer, there's sure to be insurrection, and probably civil war. The empire may very well collapse in violence and disorder."

He paused to let his words sink in. The general watched, inscrutable. "One can hardly avoid contemplating-" Rothka paused, then abandoned his roundabout approach. "I'm thinking in terms of a coup. In fact, I'm proposing one. On behalf of a number of us in the House, I'd like you to dispose of this false Kalif, evict the College of Exarchs, and declare a dictatorship. I can guarantee the backing of at least a large and powerful minority, probably a majority, of the delegates."

With that he'd committed himself. If the general wished, his carcass would soon decorate a stake in the Square of The Prophet. Already Rothka's guts burned.

The general didn't raise an eyebrow, though, simply gazed at Rothka for what seemed at least a minute. Finally the iron jaw opened. "Speaking hypothetically, of course, if someone were to undertake such an action there'd be a number of things to consider. A coup would need to succeed quickly, which would require a force not only adequate to suppress the Kalifal Guard, but to give the Capital Division pause. We're talking about a brigade at the very least, with heavy air support." As he spoke, he jotted quick notes on a tablet. "The Capital Division is-what? Forty miles from the Sreegana? While we're 2,100 miles away, which would mean an air lift. Made with transport on hand; additional transport couldn't be had without General Staff orders. For example, orders to move as part of some larger activity-some military exercise." He took his eyes away from his note pad to look at Rothka. "Which is not going to happen unless you can arrange it."

Rothka shook his head. The general's stylus recommenced its jotting.

"Heavy gunship support would be needed to suppress the Kalifal Guard and to discourage and delay the Capital Division. The Guard could prove a tough nut to crack; they're a proud outfit. Lightly armed, it's true, but the Sreegana's buildings give a major advantage to a defender."

Again he looked at Rothka. "A lot of damage would be done to the buildings, you know."

Rothka nodded. The general went on, jotting as he spoke. "The best strategy would be to attack while most of the Guard is still in bed or at breakfast; bomb their barracks before they know anything's afoot. Disorganize them; kill as many as possible at the outset. I presume their heavier weapons are in an armory or armories in one or more of their barracks buildings. Find out which building, and hit it hard enough-then immediately land troops in the center quadrangle and on the roof of the Administration Building."

He paused for another long and thoughtful minute, then looked up from his pad. "Still speaking hypothetically, when would this need to be done?"

"When is the soonest you can do it?"

The general's eyebrows climbed. "Soon is not the problem. Secrecy's the problem." His eyes gleamed like wet black marbles. "Once I'd informed my staff, I'd want to move within two days. Because if it leaked, you and I would both be carrion. I'd need to come up with a convincing cover story for most of the officers involved: something they'd believe. Something to allow-to justify convincingly-the quiet, confidential movement of nearly 8,000 men."

The hot rock in Rothka's stomach threatened to burn its way through.

Thoughtfully the general gnawed a lip. "If I called a meeting of selected staff this evening, we'd need to draft specific plans before we slept. I have a couple of officers who've served in the Guard; they'll know the ground and the schedules. I'll have to question them carefully though, and perhaps, um, put them to sleep afterward. Certainly they can't sit in on the planning; they're not people I'd trust in this."

Rothka stared, his scalp crawling. The man was talking about this week! He hadn't planned to move so quickly; he'd intended this meeting to establish an agreement in principle.

"We have no contingency plans for this, of course," the general was saying. "We'll have to create it from nothing, and carry it out within two days." He returned his gaze to Rothka. "It's more than a matter of troops and tactics, you know. There's logistics-ammunition, fuel, food, medical supplies, all of it. Fortunately, we're looking at a brief operation in more or less friendly territory."

This evening. Within two days. If he could have backed out… Rothka shook off the feeling, the weakness. Get the damned thing done.

"The Caps-the Capital Division-is the most dangerous element," the general was saying. "I don't suppose you have anything to suggest there? And a lot depends on how difficult the Kalifal Guard proves to be. We'll need to carry off the actual coup quickly, before the Caps can move. If we can present them with an accomplished fact-the Kalif dead, the exarchs mostly dead or captured, the Sreegana in our hands, and the House of Nobles willing to accept us-the odds are excellent that they'll hold off."

Again he fixed Rothka with his eyes. "It's absolutely essential that the House of Nobles acknowledge me as dictator as quickly as the Kalif is taken care of. I have no desire to decorate a stake in the middle of the square."

Rothka's eyes gleamed back at him; his funk of a minute earlier was gone, at least for the moment. "Taking the Sreegana and the Kalif shouldn't be as difficult as it looks," he replied. "Do you know who commands the Guard?"

The general shook his head.

"Neither does the Kalif. That is, he knows the man, but not what he is. It was pointed out to me last night that the commander of the Kalifal Guard is Colonel Vilyam Parsavamaatu."

The general frowned; the name meant nothing to him.

"Lord Siisru Parsavamaatu is the man the Kalif killed, after the row at The Prophet's Day party. It's Siisru's son who commands the Guard. As soon as you set the time, I'll arrange for him to take steps to prevent an effective defense. The odds are, he'll be able to arrange the Kalif's murder himself, as soon as your troops land there."

The general's eyebrows jumped. "And he's still there? In command?"

"As of this morning."

"Astonishing!" The general shook his head, incredulous. "Well! That is a boon, and an excellent omen. We'll want to strike before the Kalif discovers the situation and has him removed. All right. I'll use the 31st Light Infantry Brigade." He paused again. "You're certain you want to do this?"

Rothka nodded, despite the second thoughts that swirled. The general went on: "The 31st includes a light assault regiment, the 103rd, whose regimental and battalion staffs I have handpicked over a period of time. Its company commanders, too. A real old-fashioned regiment, without one gentry officer. I consider it my 'personal' regiment." He paused, grunted, then surprisingly grinned. "I never really looked at why I molded it as I have. Well!

"You realize, of course, that the Kalif is widely popular with the army. A large majority of the officers' corps is strongly in favor of his invasion proposal, even here at 1st Corps. Even in the 31st Brigade, I have no doubt, and the 103rd will be no exception. So. I'll give them an explanation to satisfy them."

He chuckled. Rothka watched and listened, fascinated now.

"They're young, most of them," the general went on. "Compared to you and me, all of them are. At age sixty-three, I have no desire to spend the rest of my career fighting in some distant part of the galaxy. They, of course, look at it differently, and the prospect of conquest has stirred old traditions, old ambitions in the armed forces. I doubt you realize how strongly."

His focus shifted, his expression thoughtful again as he examined the problems. "There've been peasant demonstrations at Ahantar, conveniently just 120 miles east of Ananporu. I'll order the 31st, with floater transport, on full readiness. As an exercise; my prerogative. Telling their commanding officer, and my immediate staff, that it's to be ready for departure on an hour's notice. In case the demonstrations 'heat up as expected,' and the General Staff calls on us. Something we've half been expecting anyway.

"The district airfield's just outside Ahantar. The brigade can leave here in mid-evening, landing there sometime after midnight tomorrow night… Hmh!"

Tomorrow night! Fear and excitement chased each other around in Rothka's gut.

The general grunted again, smiling. "The more I look at it, the more feasible it gets.

"The brigade commander's an old friend of mine. We see eye to eye on many things. Most things. He and the CO., 103rd. They'll have to know in advance. The Kalif, I'll tell them, has become insane-there are certainly precedents for that-and that it's being kept secret. Meanwhile, his excesses have killed any chance of an invasion of the Confederation. We're going in to take over, set up a military dictatorship until the invasion can be launched."

Rothka heard, and felt shock. Until the invasion can be launched? What if the man followed through on it? He might have to, to satisfy his officers.

The general never noticed the change in Rothka's eyes, the dismay. He was looking inward, seeing something else and nodding, as if the whole procedure was coming together for him. "1st Corps has two special penal platoons," he went on, "the toughest, most dangerous men we have. They're organized as a point force, for use in particularly dangerous situations, and they don't give a damn for much of anything except their image. I'll attach them to the 103rd, and assign them especially to kill the Kalif. I'll tell them he's their meat. That if they bring me his body-his head at least-they'll have a party in their stockade that lasts as long as they do, with all the liquor and women they can handle. They're to kill all the exarchs they come across, but the Kalif is their special target. The party will be their reward for killing him."

He nodded again, pleased with his creating. "I'll have to assign the brigade pretty much the corps' full airlift capacity. And our full gunship support force, to interdict any move the Caps might try. The Caps have an armored brigade that's a lot more than the 31st can handle on the ground, but they won't be eager to move if we outgun them in the air by four to one."

He stopped then, his eyes, his wolfish smile almost paralyzing Rothka. "Given any decent sort of luck, we should pull it off nicely. After lunch I'll call in a few reliable staff and go over it with them. Work out the details." He leaned back then, as if ready. "Meanwhile, perhaps you'll have lunch with me. We have our own kitchen and gourmet cooks right here in my control center."

Stomach churning, Rothka declined. It seemed to him now that this man was a disaster! Ambitious! Once he established himself as dictator, how could he be evicted? He'd set himself up as the champion of invasion, and move the rest of his corps down to Ananporu. It was doubtful the army would challenge him then, and if the House tried to do anything about it, he'd probably handle it the way he planned to handle the Kalif and the College.

Yet he could hardly report the general's plans without exposing his own criminality. Which would mean certain impalement.

Rothka Kozkoraloku left the control center wondering feverishly how he could get the general assassinated. The man would look at him as an ally; he'd have access to him. Yes, that was the solution. When the Kalif was dead and the general was dictator, he'd shoot him himself. It was as simple as that.

Just now, though, his knees felt almost too weak to carry him to his floater.

When Rothka had left, the general sat for several minutes, contemplating. As a child, he'd imagined being emperor. As a youth he'd imagined scenarios that ended with himself on the throne; had done this even in middle age, occasionally, as a form of mental relaxation when he'd gone to bed.

Now… He became aware that the blood was ringing in his ears.

It was risky of course; extremely risky. That sharp-faced little politician had no real understanding of the risks. If he did, he'd shit himself. There was little margin for errors and unforeseens.

But in the olden times, every new dynasty rode into the palace on the back of some fanged and deadly rajwar, figuratively speaking. Some rough and dangerous scheme or some opportunity of the moment. And he was as good a man as any ancestor.

Fifty-four

The transports would be halfway to Ahantar by now, the captain thought as he swung out of the light utility vehicle. And when the general said 0130, he didn't mean 0125 or 0135, he meant 0130 sharp. Just now it was 0102. The 11th Gunship Support Wing was on ready standby-a drill, they assumed, a ground exercise. But its aircraft would be fueled and armed, their crews sleeping on board. They could lift within fifteen minutes of the time the order was given.

He strode into the air command building. The place felt asleep, despite the standby. The few personnel on night duty there were saying nothing, as if in the grip of some slow dream. He went directly to the duty officer, the dispatcher, who this night was a subcolonel, and saluted. The man looked up as if irritated at the interruption of the novel he was reading.

"Colonel!" said the captain, and identified himself. "Acting for General Songhidalarsa, I've come to order the dispatch of the 11th Gunship Support Wing."

The subcolonel looked at him as if he thought this was some kind of crude joke.

"To order what? "

A premonition of trouble started in the captain's chest, and spread. "The dispatch of the 11th Gunship Support Wing," he enunciated. "General Songhidalarsa has ordered it in support of the 31st Brigade. To Ahantar."

"Huh! Interesting that I wasn't briefed that something like this might happen." The subcolonel reached out a hand. "Let me see the orders."

The captain counted mentally to eight, calming the panic that was beginning to tug at his mind. Obviously someone had screwed up. The dispatch officer was to have been notified in advance, given written orders in mid-evening, with a cover story of some kind.

"General Songhidalarsa indicated to me that they'd been given to you. I was simply to let you know the time. He wants the gunship support wing in the air at 0130."

"Well I'm sorry, Captain, but no one's given me anything in writing on this. And that's how I need it: in writing."

And it was not to be known that the general had accompanied the brigade in his own command floater. That had been stressed. Otherwise it would be obvious that the expedition was intended to do more than overawe and suppress the strikers and demonstrators at Ahantar.

"My orders came from General Songhidalarsa verbally," the captain said. "That's how I'm passing them on to you. I'm sure you don't want to reject them."

He realized, even as he was saying it, that the last sentence was a mistake. The subcolonel's brows drew down sharply; he'd taken it as an implied threat. "Captain, we operate according to regulations here. If it's not in writing, it's not an order. In writing and signed by someone authorized to give it to me: General Songhidalarsa or his deputy. Or General Mavaraloku, of course; the orders would need his initials at any rate."

The captain couldn't go to Major General Khobajaleera, the general's deputy in charge. Khobajaleera knew only the cover story; he wasn't considered politically safe either. He'd never acccept that the general wanted a whole damned gunship support wing dispatched just to help stare down a mob of strikers and demonstrators. He'd ask questions that the captain dare not answer.

And turning to General Mavaraloku was out of the question. Mavaraloku was the commanding general of the air services division. His initials were to have been forged on Songhidalarsa's orders. Mavaraloku too was politically unreliable, and under other than combat conditions, he was free to query orders he considered dubious, even from the corps commander. If he suspected that something covert was going on, he might well call the Imperial General Staff in Ananporu, to check. The fat would really be in the fire then. Thus the forged initials.

"Can I have the use of a commset?" asked the captain stiffly.

The subcolonel looked at him as if questioning his sobriety. Or his sanity. "There's a whole row of them in the common room."

"I need… never mind." If he said he needed one with scramble functions, the frigging subcolonel might call a query of his own. He hurried out, glancing at the large wall clock as he did so: 0107. He'd use a commset at Corps. And even that might not work; he wasn't sure that Abrikalaavi was still in range. If not… He imagined himself coming back with a gun. Shove it in the subcolonel's gut, and then see if he'd honor a verbal order.

The only practical thing he could think of was to draft the order himself and forge the general's signature. And Mavaraloku's initials. The thought of it made his hair bristle with fear. It would have to look just right-wording and forgeries. He'd have to look up the relevant regulations, use the proper form, drill Old Iron Jaw's signature… 0130 was out of the question.

It was a damned good thing the brigade had its own gunship squadron. But a mere squadron wouldn't discourage the Capital Division.

The subcolonel watched the captain leave. He remembered the written reprimand Old Iron Jaw had issued on him the spring before, during maneuvers, for releasing a mere flight of gunships on the verbal order of an unauthorized colonel. He'd been brand new here at Fashtar, and hadn't known the general's reputation for entrapment. Regulations, he'd learned then, were not to be slighted.

Fifty-five

The armored transport had lifted with both penal platoons on board. It was not an ideal situation; the two platoons were vicious rivals, had been conditioned that way, each led to consider itself the toughest platoon in the Imperial Army. Platoon Sergeant Skosh Viilenga couldn't vouch for it, but it seemed to him that one or the other might actually be the toughest. If not, they had to be close.

They'd made the flight to Ahantar without any trouble. The men had dozed in their bucket seats, been taken off a squad at a time to relieve themselves, then loaded back on without any trouble. To wait.

They were peasants, their noncoms gentry, their lieutenants nobles. But some of these peasants were smart. Ignorant maybe, did dumb shit maybe, but they were shrewd; they could figure things about as well as anyone. And as far as dumb shit was concerned… In the penal platoons, the three classes had two things in common: They all had compulsions to get into trouble; serious trouble. And they all tended to be violent. Those were the reasons they were there, all of them, himself included.

For an officer or noncom to survive in the penal platoons, he had to have an edge, and the edge came from training. Special training in close combat-hands, feet, baton, knife, saber-and in the psychological handling of men like these. When to praise, when to reason, when to bribe, when to shout and curse. When to strike out-and when to kill without warning. You never bluffed and you never showed the slightest trace of fear. If you didn't learn those lessons well, you didn't last long. Sergeant Skosh had been in this platoon for more than four years, and had six more to go on his sentence. He was there for slugging a captain, a nobleman-broke his frigging nose, actually-which was the final straw in a career of fights and brawls.

When his ten penal years were up, Skosh fully intended to stay in the platoon until retirement. It seemed to him it was the best place for someone like himself. Outside there was too little tolerance, too many chickenshit regulations, with the risk of ending up on Shatimvoktos. Here he felt at home. These were his kind of people, from Lieutenant Paasalarogu to Harelip and the Slasher.

A major, the division's provost marshal, stepped into the floater. The lieutenant barked "at ease!" which woke the men who were dozing and stilled those who weren't. Major Dholagilarmo was one of the few outside officers who could step into the middle of these men without looking nervous. He called them his boys. Still, Skosh wondered why the provost marshal would be along on this expedition.

"Listen up!" the major shouted. The language he used was a sort of pidgin-an off-the-cuff, simplified Imperial with usages borrowed from peasant jabber. "You gonna fight some real troops, not just a buncha demonstrators. We gonna find out if you really any good or not. You gonna get big party and some big money if you do good."

He waited a moment before saying more, tightening their attention.

"Pretty soon we gonna lift for Ananporu, gonna land you men inside the Sreegana. You gonna kill the Kalif. He been fuckin' up too damn much."

Again he waited. Now he really had their attention.

"The Kalif got a short regiment-three short battalions-of pretty tough guards to protect 'im. They ain't got you firepower, but they pretty damn tough. You ask 'em, they tell you they tougher than you. We gonna waste 'em pretty bad with bomb attack on they barracks, but them that live, they be pretty mad.

"We gonna land a battalion in the Sreegana and cool 'em. The rest of the 103rd be close by if need 'em. You mother haters gonna land in Kalif's garden. You job to get inside palace and kill Kalif.

"You gotta do it without no dry runs or mockup drills. I just give your officers a map and tell 'em what to do.

"If one of you kill Kalif, both platoons get big party. All the booze and all the broads you can handle! Each man get twenty dromas bonus. In platoon that kills 'im, each man get twenty more. Man that kills 'im gets 500 more!"

Skosh could hear their breath suck in. The major looked them over. "You mother haters like that?"

Three or four whooped. A few shouted "yes." Most just grinned or laughed.

"You do not," he went on-"I repeat not -shoot each other to get at Kalif. Your officers and sergeants will shoot any mother haters that fight each other. It's the Kalif we want dead, not you.

"How you know the Kalif when you see 'im? Look at me." The major stood tall in front of them. "He about my size. Your officers gonna show you pix of im to look at. Lotsa times Kalif wear a red cape, come down 'bout to here." The major gestured. "Lotsa times he wear a red robe." He gestured again. "But maybe he be dressed like anyone else there. So when you look at photos, look good. Make sure you know 'im.

"Now. You maybe see men in white capes or white robes. Them exarchs. Kill them, too, when you come to 'em. But the one to kill for bonus, he the Kalif. We wannim dead. You don't kill Kalif, you don't get bonus, don't get party.

"Any questions?"

There weren't. The men, their noncoms and lieutenants, pored over the photos-grimly or gleefully, according to the individual. The Kalif was a doomed man, thought Skosh. He wondered if he might get him in his sights himself.

Fifty-six

Alb Jilsomo Savbatso had just turned on his terminal when he heard and felt the explosions, a sequence of them. They sounded as if they'd been on the far side of the Sreegana, from the direction of the armory and Guard barracks. Jumping to his feet, he started for the Kalif's office, down the hall from his own.

It was early enough that no one else was in the hall except two guardsmen near the far end, clutching rifles, running toward him. Jilsomo surged through the Kalif's reception area-Partiil wasn't in yet-and into the Kalif's office. That's when he heard the first gunfire, heavy automatic weapons, a shocking, violent sound. It stopped him in his tracks. Then the two guardsmen burst in behind him and ran past, almost knocking him over, sucking him along in their wake. Tempered-glass doors were partly open to the morning cool, and they ran out through the gap, into the garden.

Jilsomo stopped at the door. The gray semi-cylindrical bulk of an armored personnel transport was settling onto the ground, and he could see a guardsman sprawled on a flowerbed not far off, as if all his strings had been cut. The kalifa was just rising from her knees behind a marble bench, then she sprinted toward him, fast as a man in her billowing pantaloons. The two guards had separated, both firing at the transport's opening doors.

Soldiers jumped out even as the doors opened. He saw more than one fall. Another fired a burst from the hip. A marble statue came apart, shards flying, ricochets keening. One of the two guardsmen fell, and the kalifa also, in mid-jump over a tangleflower bed. From somewhere came more furious gunfire, and emerging soldiers fell or hit the ground.

The other guardsman was darting toward the kalifa. Scarcely pausing, he scooped her up, with astonishing strength and agility jumped over a hip-high ornamental wall, then running low in its shelter, darted toward the office. The immobilized exarch had never imagined such an athletic feat.

The ground twitched with the massive explosions of three more bombs, shaking Jilsomo out of his paralysis. He stepped back out of the way as the guardsman with the kalifa rushed past him. Automatic weapons fire grew in intensity outside, and for some reason Jilsomo moved to slide the doors shut. Bullets sent glass flying, partly intercepted by curtains, and he felt a sharp sting in his cheek. Abruptly he fled, after the guard and the kalifa, through reception and into the corridor. Alb Thoga stood there, round-eyed, holding a folder in his hands like an offering. Jilsomo followed the guardsman, Thoga falling in beside him.

Ahead was a heavy door accessing a utility stairwell, and the guardsman paused there, lowered the kalifa to the floor, and opened the door with his security card. The exarchs held back till the guard had shouldered the kalifa again, Jilsomo shocked by the scarlet that stained her pale blue clothing. Then they followed him through.

"Lock it!" the guard shouted back, and started down the stairs. Jilsomo stared, confused, already breathing hard. Thoga crowded him aside, threw his slight weight against the steel door, closing it, pulled its wheel out half an inch and gave it a partial turn, then pushed it back in.

"Come, Jilsomo!" he said sharply, and tugged the larger exarch's sleeve. They hurried after the guardsman, down a double flight of stairs and into a tunnel containing pipes and conduits. By its light panels, Jilsomo could see drops of blood on the floor ahead of him. The kalifa's blood, he thought. The rebels-that's what they had to be-would surely follow the blood trail, blow down the door with something, and catch them, kill them all.

They ran what seemed a long way before they passed another stairwell. Farther ahead was still another. The guard went up its steps two at a time, the kalifa, who was taller than he, draped over his shoulder. Jilsomo was gasping now; to climb the stairs seemed beyond him. Thoga jabbed him. "Up!" he ordered, and somehow the fat exarch found himself climbing, clinging to the handrail, lungs heaving, Thoga continuing to push, yapping, "Move! Move!"

When they reached the top, Jilsomo reeled out into a corridor, against a wall, almost collapsing while Thoga drew the heavy access door shut behind them, the effort taxing his thin strength. Vaguely Jilsomo wondered if their supposed pursuers might be stopped by it after all. He became aware that he was bleeding, his white cape stained red.

Once more the slight Thoga confronted his much larger colleague, and pointed down the hallway. "Move!" he wheezed. He too was gasping.

Jilsomo shook his head, his chest heaving, and waved him on. "No," said Thoga, "rest later," and jerked on Jilsomo's sleeve for emphasis. Jilsomo stared for a second through blurring eyes, then somehow moved again, down the corridor with Thoga. Five guardsmen trotted by, faces grim, rifles ready, in duty uniforms and helmets. Jilsomo thought to tell them about the tunnel, but had no breath for it.

He realized where they were now-in the heart of the Administration Building. The guardsman carrying the kalifa turned through a door, the door to the clinic. Another guardsman, posted there, saw Jilsomo's blood-marked robe and barked him inside.

Jilsomo was staggering by then, walking with Thoga's help. He found himself in medical reception. A corporal grabbed the big exarch, getting a shoulder under his arm, and helped him down a small hall to another room.

Inside, the guardsman laid the kalifa down on an examination table, then turned to leave, but Thoga stopped him. "Stay!" he ordered, and stepped to the table. The kalifa's face was gray, her eyes closed. The corporal helped Jilsomo down onto a chair.

"Find one of the physicians!" Thoga told him. "Hurry!"

"Your lordship," the corporal said, "there's men looking for them now."

"Tell them to hurry. The kalifa's dangerously wounded."

The corporal ran without saying anything more.

Jilsomo felt of his face, the source of his bleeding. Glass from the garden door had sliced his cheek. Thoga, standing beside the kalifa, first felt for her pulse, then, with the guardsman's dagger, cut off her bloody clothes. Jilsomo was aware that she stank. With the guardsman's help, Thoga turned her onto her stomach. "Dear Kargh," he muttered.

"What?"

"She's been shot twice. Once in the side, the bullet following along the ribs, then emerging. The other entered the body from behind, probably below the right kidney. I hope it was below. It has to have passed through the small intestine. Missed the aorta, though, or she'd be dead already."

Already. "Can she…" Jilsomo began, then didn't finish.

"I don't know. My training ended with pre-med. I've had courses, observed dissections, worked on dummies with syntho-flesh… that's all." He stared helplessly at the kalifa's lax, corpselike body.

The corporal entered again. "Alb Thoga," he said, "none of the physicians answer. The bachelor apartments were bombed. No one seems to know where the on-duty physician is. I'm told his breakfast tray was delivered just before the trouble started, and he went into the common garden to eat. Probably with his beeper on. One of the men says he saw him start running toward the palace. No one knows where his receptionist is. Smoke's pouring out the windows there, and there's still a lot of shooting. Plus we've got rebels in the upper floors here; got in from the roof."

Thoga blew tiredly. "Well, then." He looked at the guardsman who'd brought the kalifa. "Private," he said, "you've done marvelously well so far. Now you'll have to help me." He went to a cabinet and opened the doors. Instruments lay inside, wrapped in clear plastic. "We'll see what we can do. And hope for the best."

The Kalif crouched at the window, Sergeant Yalabiin beside him. It was a ground-floor window; there were none higher in the House of SUMBAA. Outside, the rebels held the quadrangle, more or less. A number of armored troop carriers lay parked where they'd landed, their turrets erupting spasmodically with heavy automatic weapons fire at the surrounding buildings. Occasionally he saw rebel soldiers move, quickly and low, under light fire from windows. He couldn't see the palace except for a couple of its roofs, but he could see smoke rising from it. Light troop carriers were visible on the roof of the Administration Building.

He wondered where Tain was. How she was. He told himself she was a survivor, but was not greatly reassured by the thought. If she was harmed and he came through it all… He banished the train of thought. This wasn't the time for it.

He'd seen from other windows what had happened to the Guard barracks and the Bachelor Apartments. It was surprising that so many guardsmen had gotten out alive and with their rifles. As for the bachelor exarchs and collegial staff caught at their breakfasts…

He'd been lucky. He and Yalabiin had just finished their workout when the first bombs struck, and had ducked into the House of SUMBAA. A dozen or so other guardsmen had come in afterward, in off-duty uniforms but armed and some with helmets.

The building had very few windows, and a casual move by rebel troops to get in had been repulsed by automatic rifle fire from what windows there were. They'd scarcely fired back, and afterward had stayed clear. Obviously they'd been told in advance not to fire on the House of SUMBAA; to govern and administer the empire would be virtually impossible if the great computer was out of order. The Kalif in turn had told the guardsmen inside not to fire except to repel attacks.

He wondered what would happen if the rebels knew he was inside. Right now things were disordered, chaotic out there. But sooner or later, unless something intervened, they'd take the rest of the Sreegana. And discover that no one had seen what had to be their principal quarry.

He wondered what the Capital Division was doing. These rebels were not Caps, he knew that from their transports.