"You mean he did, actually, take an apartment for her and keep her there?" She nodded once, sharply.

"And you would like to have your husband's love again?"

She blazed. "I have never had his love! No one has. Not me, not Tain. To him, she was something to use. Not some one; some thing. And vulnerable, having been wrested from her family. He took her from the ministry to bed her, nothing more. Two days before our wedding! I want nothing further to do with him." She paused, suppressing her fire. "I hope you will grant me a bill of divorcement. It is within your power."

Her outburst stopped him for a long moment. "Your feelings and your wish are both understandable," he said, then paused again. "And you're not angry at the woman Tain?" Leolani shook her head. "She is blameless in this. Unless you wish to fault her for her beauty. In the room where she was kept in the Ministry, cameras were concealed, and men of the intelligence division would gather in the monitor room to watch her. Watch her disrobe, dance, bathe! And lusted for her. Disgusting men! Then, one night, Veeri disabled the monitors for her room and went there and told her that other men were going to come and rape and kill her if she didn't let him take her away. She was so frightened then that when he threw her down on her bed, she didn't resist." Leolani's eyes blazed at the Kalif. "When she told me, her tears flowed like rivers, but she didn't sob. She was too deeply hurt. If he had been there then, and if I'd had a gun, I'd have killed him! Not for his treachery to me, but for what he did to her!"

The Kalif nodded, impressed by the young noblewoman's anger. And disappointed. He realized now what he'd hoped—that somehow the colonel hadn't gotten around to bedding the prisoner, that she might still be a virgin, eligible to be the wife of a Kalif. It was a strange realization, objective, as if it applied to someone else and not himself. "I appreciate your feelings," he said. "So she told you all this and you took her home with you. To your father's home, that is."

"She told me enough of it. Some she told me only afterward."

"And you believed her."

"I did! She is guileless! And when Veeri tried to talk me into coming back to him, and I accused him, he didn't deny it. He told me he couldn't help himself, that no healthy man could have. He expected me to forgive him!

"If it had been some willing doxy, perhaps I could have, though I doubt it. But to take her the way he did, using fear and humiliation! That was vile!"

"Unarguably. Well. Have you talked about this with anyone? Other than the colonel and Tain?" She darkened. "No one. Oh, enough to my father that he understands why I left my husband." The Kalif straightened. "Good. Continue your silence. Above all, do not tell the colonel of our talk. If you're patient, perhaps you'll have not only a divorce, but other satisfaction as well." Leolani stood up, her face still darkened by her anger. "Thank you, Your Reverence. I will be both silent and patient. And hopeful."

She left then, and Coso Biilathkamoro, Kalif of the Karghanik Empire, sat wondering what in the world he was doing. Switching on the commset in his chair arm, he spoke to his secretary. "Partiil, when Lady Thoglakaveera has gone, send one of the pages to bring her husband over. I want to talk further with him."

* * *

The colonel felt quite comfortable when he sat down before the Kalif again. It seemed to him he'd said all there was to say about Terfreya and the enemy there, in his debrief and his first interrogation. Therefore it seemed possible that His Reverence had been impressed with his answers and war record, and wanted to know him better. Quite possibly with some appointment in mind.

At least that was the scenario he'd been rehearsing, walking over.

"Thank you for coming, Colonel," the Kalif said. "I have some rather different questions for you this time."

"It is my pleasure, Your Reverence."

"Good." He paused, and somehow the colonel tightened with misgiving. "You are aware, I suppose, of what The Prophet said and wrote about monogamy and the nobleman? And the treatment of women without husband or father or brothers to shield them?"

The questions hit the colonel like a sandbag.

"Yes, Your Reverence."

"I've been told that you took carnal knowledge of the prisoner, perhaps against her will." The colonel shook his head vehemently. "That's not true, Your Reverence! On my mother's name it's not! I did not take carnal knowledge of her, either against or with her will. I am a marine officer, a colonel, and a son of the Thoglakaveera family!"

"Ah. Then—why did you remove her from detention and set her up in an apartment?"

"Your Reverence, I—" He looked around as if for help, and saw only the fat exarch. "She was without family or even friends. Vulnerable." The colonel's mind raced; he hadn't prepared for this. "And she seemed so innocent ," he went on, "so tragic ." He shrugged slightly. "I suppose my feelings seem unlikely in these times, but when I saw her there in the ministry, she was as innocent as a child. Because Kargh had seen fit to erase whatever sins she had; I suppose there must have been some, at least minor ones..."

His words had slowed. Now he paused. "Also she's very pretty, Your Reverence, and it seemed to me that someone might take advantage of her." He spread his hands. "As you seem to believe I did. So I provided her with a comfortable place to live, and two loyal servants to ward her, a man and his wife of about the age her parents might be. Until my wife was able to come and take her home, and off my hands. It was nothing more than that, sir. Nothing happened between us." There was a moment of silence between the two men. "Um. Tell me," said the Kalif, "do you believe she was chaste? Before she was brought to the empire? Might she have been raped when taken prisoner?"

"She was not raped, Your Reverence. It was I who picked her up at the field base and took her to headquarters, from where she was shuttled to the flagship. I asked her about that, when she was turned over to me at their detention module, and she told me she had not been. It is in my debrief. And there seemed nothing wrong with her memory then.

"Of course, before her capture—who knows? A physical examination might or might not shed light on that. It seems beside the point now. The Blessed Flenyaagor tells us it's the soul which bears the soil and burden of our sins. And surely her soul was purified when all memory was taken from it."

"Hmm. An interesting viewpoint, Colonel. Meanwhile, though, your action invited rumor."

"Yes it did, Your Reverence. I can see that now. And I regret it. The rumor has hurt my poor wife till she doesn't know what to believe."

"Indeed? Well. Another matter: I understand that as a marine officer you have proven skilled, and except for the matter of the alien woman, discreet. I will want to talk with you again soon." Relieved, the colonel got to his feet and bowed. "It will be my pleasure, of course."

* * *

When the colonel was gone, Jilsomo grunted. "Your Reverence, as a rule you do not like unasked-for advice."

The Kalif smiled. "True. But if you're patient, I will ask. What do you think of our good colonel?"

"Much as you do, I suspect, even though he did swear by his mother's name. I would certainly doubt his claimed altruism in the matter of the female prisoner. He may have been a good marine officer, but I suspect that in general he acts in his own perceived interest."

"Indeed." The Kalif got to his feet. "I need to get out in the open. Let's walk in the garden, and I'll tell you the version of the story that I have from the colonel's wife. And—I have thoughts on what to do about them—he and his wife. And the female prisoner, Tain."

Alb Jilsomo nodded soberly as he followed his Kalif through floor-length curtains and sliding glass doors into the garden. It was the season of warmest weather, but the exarch was distressed for other reasons than preferring to keep his bulk indoors where it was air-conditioned. He had a bad feeling about what the Kalif was going to say.

To start off, the Kalif recounted what Leolani had told him about the colonel and the prisoner. Jilsomo was not surprised.

"So what I think I'll do is preempt the colonel for the imperial government. Assign him as my military specialist to the Klestronu embassy. It will be a promotion of sorts, and I'm sure Rashti will be pleased. It should remove any pressure the young man's father may be applying. And conversely his father-in-law."

"Um." Jilsomo nodded, holding his peace, waiting for what might come next. When nothing did, he asked his question: "And the purpose of preempting him, Your Reverence?" Instead of answering, the Kalif went on. "And then, instead of granting his wife the divorce she wants, I'll annul the marriage."

"Annul it? That would make it as if it had never been. The grounds for annulment are, um, somewhat more restricted than the grounds for divorce."

"Ah! But his inability to consummate the marriage in bed is all the grounds I need." The exarch stood dumbfounded. "What makes you think he failed to consummate it?"

"Presumably he did consummate it. I simply intend to say he didn't. Wasn't able to; impotent, you see. And he won't deny it—not if he has any sense at all. It's either agree or I'll charge him with malfeasance—the use of his position for gross immorality, and tampering with an intelligence source for personal benefit."

The Kalif sounded grimly pleased with himself. Jilsomo was stunned and confused. "But—Your Reverence, those actions were on Klestron. Your charges would ordinarily fell to Sultan Rashti to prosecute."

"Ah, but I have the right of preemption, when the interests of the empire are involved. And she is a potential intelligence source. Rashti won't challenge me in this."

Jilsomo said nothing; nothing came to him. Walking in the sun, he'd begun to sweat freely, and wished he were back inside. More than that, he wished he knew what this was all about—why the Kalif intended to do as he'd described.

After a few seconds the Kalif went on. "His sexual impotency," he said, "is probably not permanent, you understand. It may well disappear within a few months, and the colonel can find another wife or mistress.

"His report on the fighting at the marine headquarters base, on the Confederation world, includes his comment that he fought hand to hand with an enemy soldier and was injured before killing the man. A report we have only from him, I might add; it may or may not be true. The injury, I've decided, was a kick in the groin, after which the colonel managed to shoot him. Before long the colonel was back aboard the troopship and in stasis, en route home. When he woke up, his ship was parked off Klestron, and very soon afterward he was courting the archdeacon's pretty daughter. They married, and then to his dismay, he discovered he was unable to carry out his husbandly duty. His bride was patient, but after several weeks, with no sign of recovery, she felt betrayed, and petitioned me for an annulment.

"I will consult with the colonel, who'll be too disheartened to oppose her request. Thus their marriage will be annuled."

The two prelates walked on a little farther, the Kalif waiting for the exarch's comment. "Your Reverence," Jilsomo said at last, "it may well work. But—why? Why this charade when you could simply grant the woman a divorce?"

"Because the colonel was impotent, he could not have fornicated with the female prisoner. Of course, it's just possible that he didn't anyway. And if he did not fornicate with her, then so far as we know, she's a virgin. And if she's a virgin..." The Kalif looked hard at his deputy. "If she's a virgin, then I can take her to wife."

The two men were approaching a grove of flowering vaasera when the Kalif said this, and Jilsomo, stunned, stepped aside to sit down on a cushioned marble bench in their heavy shade. The Kalif sat down beside him. "You have misgivings," he said, almost accusingly. Jilsomo nodded. "It sounds contrived, Your Reverence. People will say you set this all up so you could marry the beautiful foreigner."

"Possibly. But I'll take care of that by waiting before arranging the marriage. Long enough that any suspicions will not seem compelling."

Jilsomo gathered his wits and looked at the situation. He was, after all, expected to advise. "Hmm. That would work, if you waited a year, say, or maybe half a year. But a few weeks won't be long enough. Someone, no doubt various someones, will say, 'Look at what the Kalif has done!' And the accusation will spread like wildfire; most people will at least wonder."

The Kalif said nothing, but his jaw was set.

"And—Forgive my saying it, Your Reverence, but you do not know the young woman." The jaw muscles clenched, standing out like un-shelled pecans.

"You're angry at me," Jilsomo said matter-of-factly.

"I'm not! ... Yes I am. I am angry. I'm still a young man, thirty-six, and I have never been in love before. Now I am, and I deserve to have her. If she is willing."

He turned to face the big exarch, almost glaring. "Haven't I given the empire its best government in more than a century? That's what they say of me—the professors in the university and even some of the noble delegates. Even Tariil has said it, and he resists half the things I propose, as if I were Shatim. At least I've made a case for it, whether it's true or not. Even my opponents, most of them, will give me the benefit of that."

Jilsomo shook his head. "Your Reverence, many undoubtedly will. But others will say, 'Look! The Kalif has done a dishonest act for his personal benefit! Why can't we then?' And, 'How can he punish these others?' "

"They will get their answer," the Kalif said sharply. "I will punish corruption as harshly as ever." Chodrisei "Coso" Biilathkamoro looked challengingly at his lieutenant for a long half minute, then sagged, looked away, and spoke quietly.

"Thank you for speaking your mind, good friend. And forgive my temper. But I am going to do it. And you will back me, and see that others do.

"We fear too much what people will say. I will do it, and most of those who disbelieve me will say 'the Kalif is human, but he is a very good Kalif,' and wish me well."

Perhaps, he's right, Jilsomo thought. Or more right than wrong. No Kalif in living memory, probably no Kalif since Papa Sambak, has ruled so well. And many people, most people, will be tolerant. But it will give his opponents in the Diet a stick to jab him with. "Nothing I can say will sway you then?" Jilsomo asked.

The Kalif didn't answer, and after waiting, the exarch spoke again. "Well then, you will do it. And I will back you. Because of our friendship and because you're right when you say you're the best ruler the empire has had in a long time. And if it becomes a question before the College or the Diet, I will see that others back you, too; as you said."

He paused. "Perhaps I am making too much of this. But till now..."

"Yes?"

"Till now your ethics in office have been unstained, and the people have had government by law. Conditions greatly to be desired and admired. And your strongest points before both the College and the Diet."

The Kalif's mouth pursed. "Good friend," he said quietly, "they haven't yet seen my strongest point." Thirteen

The Kalif was reading a report on his screen and dictating a running commentary to his computer, when his commset interrupted him. "Your Reverence, your physician is here." He pushed back from his desk. "Send him in." A moment later the man entered. The Kalif motioned him to a chair. "Yes, Neftha?"

"Your Reverence, the female detainee is healthy in every physical respect. And I must tell you, she is the loveliest woman I have ever seen." He raised a hand as if to ward off comment. "It's true that most of the women I examine are in their middle years or older, the wives of your exarchs, but..." The Kalif cut him short. "Who were young in their turn. Yes. What else did you learn?"

"Her health is excellent. I already said that, didn't I? And her physical strength is exceptional. I have never personally examined so strong a woman."

He stopped, not meeting the Kalif's eyes, then went on. "As for the other matter—She might well make someone a very good wife." He stressed the someone just slightly. "But—Her hymen is not intact. Of course, that could be the result of an accident or self abuse; those things are not rare. And in the presence of such beauty, I doubt most men would object to its absence. But to—some men it would disqualify her; they couldn't be sure she was a virgin. Nor can she vouch for it herself, with her memory gone."

"Surely other means exist for learning the truth of it?" the Kalif said thoughtfully. As if the report had been unexpected.

"None, Your Reverence. Not short of her recovering her memory and declaring it under instrumentation."

The Kalif sat purse-mouthed. At length he grunted. "So the examination proved neither innocence nor otherwise. Well. There was no indication of violence?"

"None, Your Reverence."

"But that means little, I suppose."

"Not on the matter of virginity, Your Reverence."

The Kalif said nothing for several seconds, then grunted. "Well. Thank you for your information, Neftha. You will, of course, keep this to yourself."

"By all means, Your Reverence. I have made a chart, but recorded only matters relevant to her actual health."

"Good. And you do have my appreciation. Now I have things to do." The physician got quickly to his feet. "Of course, Your Reverence." The Kalif watched the door close behind him, then pressed a key on his commset. "Partiil, call the guest house. Tell them to bring the female prisoner to my office. I wish to question her again." Then he remembered his boyhood, and his sister's need to prepare before she went anywhere. "In one hour," he added.

* * *

He stood as she entered. She was dressed in yellow this time, but to his untrained eyes the costume seemed otherwise similar. Lady Leolani's work, he felt sure. He'd approved her request to let Tain share her apartment and servants, and allowed them to shop escorted. Tain had no doubt caused a stir, he thought, with her face, hair, eyes, skin. Her grace. Her long legs.

"Tain," he said, "please be seated."

She sat down as gracefully as before. He repeated her name, tasting the sound of it. "Tain. That's a lovely name. And you are a very lovely woman."

He saw the flicker of fear behind her eyes. It may take time to lose that , he thought, and spoke on.

"In most respects a Kalif is not unlike other men, a mixture of good and bad. I like to think that I am more good than bad." He smiled slightly. "Hopefully quite a bit more.

"In some respects a Kalif has more freedoms than most men, but in other matters he has the same limits. Thus he may wish to marry someone, but she may refuse him." He raised his hands slightly, spreading them. "I would like to marry you, Tain. If you are willing."

He was surprised at how easily the words came.

Her answer was low. "Your Reverence, I hardly know you."

"True. Yet you are a grown woman, and I believe that living as the guest of the Lady Leolani will not remain satisfactory indefinitely. Despite your friendship. Sooner or later you will feel constrained to take a husband."

Her eyes told him nothing. "Well. The decision is yours, and there is no need to make it now. And in any event the wedding would have to wait a few weeks. Meanwhile, I commend myself to you. I am a man of good temper, reputedly not unattractive, and with considerable resources." He gestured. "I have a comfortable home, and seasonally the freedom to travel."

He paused then as a thought came to him. "Or is there some other man you'd like to marry? Do not fear to tell me if there is."

Tain shook her head. "There isn't. Not that I know of."

Her words echoed quietly in his mind. Not that you know of , he thought. Perhaps someone three hyperspace years away, or someone killed in battle. You must wonder sometimes.

"Well then, I'll allow myself to feel optimistic. Will you have dinner with me this evening? Among other things, I have an excellent chef."

"Yes, Your Reverence," she said quietly. Her voice showed little expression, but neither was there apathy nor resignation there. Guarded seemed the word. It occurred to him that considering her circumstances and all that had happened, she'd held up well. So. A strong person then, with strong character.

"Thank you, Tain. We'll eat at seven, you and I. Tell Lady Leolani that she is not to talk about it." This time his smile was bigger. "And tell her to trust me." He eyed her quizzically. "Do you feel all right about this?"

She nodded. "I do, Your Reverence."

He'd known what she'd answer, had asked only to build her assurance. "Good. But now I have work to do. The Diet will convene a week from Oneday, and I need to be ready for them." He reached and keyed his commset as she stood up. "Partiil, Lady Tain will be leaving now." When she'd left, it took him a minute or two to get his attention fully on his work again. Fourteen

He had supper served on the small table he usually ate at alone. It put them closer together. His personal servant moved in and out unobtrusively and no more than necessary. The meal was not large—he made a point of eating modestly—but it was excellent.

He'd thought of having a musician there to play for them, then decided against it. With so little of her past available to her, it seemed to him she might have trouble making small talk. The presence of a third person, even a musician, could make it more difficult.

Instead he'd had a cube delivered, of beautiful or otherwise interesting places and events on Varatos. While they ate, the wall to one side took life, and seemingly depth. There were aerial views of the Great Falls of the Djosar in spring, the foot of the cataract seeming to pulse with explosions of foaming violence; a storm, with massive waves crashing against the rocks and broken cliffs off the coast of Otengwar; the Festival of The Prophet, with the streets of Ananporu brilliant with flowers and banners; a great golden rajwar with high, striped shoulders, prowling an imperial wildlife park, stalking and charging a wild bull, pouncing on it from behind, then losing its hold, to watch its would-be supper gallop off.... The Kalif did his own narrative, and had the pleasure of seeing her eyes bright with interest. She said she liked books, and he told her he'd arrange for her to browse the library of the Sreegana , the compound which contained the palace and various associated buildings. After they'd eaten, he found himself being questioned. "What was your home like when you were a child?" "Did you have sisters and brothers?" "What did you do for pleasure?" He told her about his father, a prelate who, when Coso was twelve, became Archprelate of Binoon. His older brother had been in line to succeed to the Prelacy; the young Coso had been slated for the military. He told her too about Sergeant Major Chagoorka, a retired noncom of the Imperial Marines, who'd been his principal tutor, and his favorite person after his parents. After excusing himself, the Kalif brought from his study a beautiful dagger to show her. The sergeant major had crafted it for him as a going-away present, when his fifteen-year-old charge was preparing to leave for the Binoon Academy, to prepare for marine officers school.

She examined the dagger with care and admiration. Its carefully smithed, razor-sharp blade was engraved with an unfamiliar, decorative script, while the green jade of its hand-carved haft must have cost more than a sergeant could readily afford.

Eventually the Kalif even talked about the death of his parents and older brother, in an avalanche on a mountain vacation, an accident that had put him in line for the Prelacy. He'd liked the Imperial Marines. Yet when the question came—the opportunity for the Prelacy—he'd jumped at it, somewhat to his own surprise.

The Kalif talked for an hour and a half, while Tain spoke little except to ask questions. Finally she reached across the small table and put her hand on his; his breath stopped in his throat.

"Your Reverence, this morning you asked if I would marry you. I thought about this after I left, and it seems to me that in your empire I have no future unless I marry. But I have scarcely known any men here—mainly Veeri, whom I do not like, and Leolani's father, who was preoccupied. And Sultan Rashti, who seemed kind. From today, and especially this evening, it seems that I know you better than I know any other man in your empire."

She withdrew her hand as if suddenly self-conscious.

"You have been considerate and kind. You have not tried to take advantage of your power and my lack of it. And it seems to me that I can become truly fond of you. Therefore, with a certain nervousness, I tell you yes, I'll marry you."

Chodrisei "Coso" Biilathkamoro, Kalif of the Karghanik Empire, had not rehearsed a response; somehow it hadn't occurred to him. Also, there was no feeling of relief, no surge of exultation. Simply, he got up and stepped around to her, gave her his hand and helped her to her feet. "Then," he said quietly,

"let me show you a side of me that you should know."

He took her shoulders and kissed her tenderly, lingering on the lips.

"And now," he said, "you must leave. You are very beautiful, and I'm the Kalif. Thus for both of us, it's best that we not spend evenings alone together until I am your husband and you are my wife." Fifteen

Colonel Veeri Thoglakaveera would have preferred to be at the big party that was a feature of Sixday evenings on embassy row. This Sixday it was at the Ikthvoktos embassy. Men, and women too, would no doubt come up to him, if he were there, to ask about the war—what it had been like, what the aliens were like—and that would be enjoyable. But people, at least a few, would know about his supposed impotence.

It hadn't actually been publicized, of course. Even the edict of annulment had seen print only in a volume little known outside government; he'd been assured of it. Inside government, though, there were those who would have noticed, and annulment meant, almost always, that there'd been no consummation. While there were bound to be some, some insiders, who'd heard the impotence story. And if he was there, reminding them by his presence, people would whisper. So he'd quietly volunteered to be duty officer for that evening. Not that a duty officer was really needed on a Sixday evening, but policy required it. He wasn't even subject to the duty. His appointment was administered by the Imperial Foreign Ministry; he was simply officed here at the Klestronu Embassy. But volunteering would earn him friends. Friends and points.

Veeri glanced at the commset on the duty desk. Just now it sat lifeless. Three months, they'd told him! Then, if he wanted, he could resign this appointment and go back to Klestron, reactivate his commission in the marines there. They'd "fixed it up with Rashti," he'd been told. He didn't look forward to going back. Everyone there would know—everyone who counted. Leolani would make sure of it. "He was impotent," she'd be saying.

He realized his fists were clenched, and opened them, willing his muscles to relax. The Archprelate of Khaloom had to be behind this, the archprelate and his daughter. Who'd have imagined that Leolani could be that vengeful! He'd like to corner her in a nice secluded place somewhere. He'd show her potency till she begged for mercy!

He grunted. Not likely, when you got down to it. There was nothing wrong with his potency, but he had limits, like any man.

He wished he'd never heard of Tain Faronya, that her presence in the ministry had never been mentioned, that she'd been left on Terfreya. He'd had his life perfectly set up: war hero; Vice Minister of Armed Forces; son of the Speaker of the House of Nobles; and son-in-law of the Archprelate of Khaloom, who'd be sultan when Rashti died. And a pretty, tight-ass wife. And blown it all. Even his father was angry with him.

The commset chirped quietly, and Veeri answered. Someone calling for Cibor, who was out doing what he'd like to be doing, partying.

He'd considered applying for a commission in the Imperial Marines. Then he'd learned he'd have to go through their academy, with all that that meant in terms of underclassman humiliations, plus a three-year curriculum that looked even tougher than he'd been put through on Klestron. So probably he would go back, back to the Klestronu Marines.

Sixteen

The Square of The Prophet had been cleared of its benches and kiosks. Its pavement had been scrubbed. Lines had been strung between the light poles that flanked it, and banners waved easily from them in a light breeze. Today would see the opening session of the Imperial Diet for the year 4724. The square was kept mostly clear of bystanders. Eight or ten thousand of them stood bunched along the sides, controlled by lines of soldiers—elite troops of the Capital Division. Other viewers stood along the parapets of surrounding roofs, and there were soldiers there, too. Floaters with soldiers hovered silently, watchfully overhead.

The important spectators were those who filled the galleries inside the Hall of the Estates, members of the Greater Nobility. They'd arrived earlier, per protocol, and passed through unseen scanner fields to wait in air-conditioned comfort. No soldiers watched inside, only liveried guards, quiet and polite, their holstered stunners set ready on fan beam.

Horse-drawn ceremonial carriages, especially decorated for the occasion, rolled individually onto the square from the Avenue of The Prophet, to stop before the Hall's broad low stairs. Each dismounted a liveried footman from the high seat at the rear, who lowered the carriage steps and opened the door. A man or men in colorful robes stepped out, to mount the broad stairs and disappear through the building's great doorway.

Not every vehicle that drew up was ceremonial or horsedrawn. Public cabs and privileged hover cars also pulled up at the stairs. Some of the men that stepped from them wore robes of gray. They too went in.

After a bit there seemed to be an end to the arrivals. Then the gates of the Sreegana opened, and trumpeters marched out in two spaced rows, their long and gleaming trumpets upright like spears of burnished silver before their shoulders. There were eighteen of them, in white trousers and capes, and tall-plumed white helmets. They stopped, and with drilled synchrony, each row turned to face the other, forming a wide aisle.

One more trumpeter marched out then, wearing kalifal carmine, vivid red. He stopped immediately outside the gate, facing outward, raised his pennoned golden trumpet and blew a long clear note. The others raised theirs, too, and began a fanfare. Out of the gates marched the red-robed Kalif, followed by the eighteen white-robed exarchs in a slow-moving, stately column of twos. Together they crossed the wide square and mounted the broad entry stairs at the Hall of the Estates, also to disappear within. The Diet of 4724 was about to be convened.

Seventeen

The grand reception hall in the Hall of the Estates was the largest and perhaps the most splendid hall in the empire. It was large enough that invitations were received by the titular heads of all the Great Noble Families of Varatos; the formal representatives, diplomatic, legislative, and ecclesiastic, of the other planets; and selected others.

Though they attended without their wives. The conventional view was that women, by their nature, lacked both understanding and interest in politics and government. And while exceptions were recognized, even admired, long tradition kept this an affair for men only, a time for mingling and proposing, feeling out attitudes, concurrences, dissidence, and potential alliances. It was a political game field, and most of those who came relished the game.

Dressed formally in black and white, with brilliant shoulder sashes, cummerbunds, or capelets of silver, green, gold, and indigo, nobles wandered and eddied slowly in their hundreds, along with some hundred circulating waiters who tried to see that no one lacked for drinks or hors d'oeuvres. The noble delegates, exarchs, and elders, wore their robes, light despite their fullness, and their caps, making them easily found.

By contrast, the Kalif stayed in one small, traditional area, his carmine robe vivid and unmistakable. On two sides of him and a double pace away stood two bodyguards, men not particularly large but hair-trigger quick, fingertips inches from clip-mounted stunners that would almost leap into their hands if need be.

And a step behind his shoulder stood Alb Jilsomo, privy to anything said to the Kalif above a whisper. It was widely understood that Jilsomo was not only the Kalif's deputy, but his heir apparent, and thus that he needed to know. Many nobles disliked the arrangement, some of them intensely, because of Jilsomo's gentry origins. The succession, however, was not in their hands; ultimately it was the business of the College. They could only hope the exarchs would recognize the proprieties. In approaching His Reverence, there was no formal rule of precedence, but there was a certain order dictated by good sense and courtesy. Numerous delegate and non-delegate nobles would like to have the Kalif's ear for a little, and it was deemed ill-mannered to move in ahead of someone who had clear political seniority. Or to stand near enough to eavesdrop in the general babel. Thus when the Kalif took his accustomed place, the small wiry man who first came up to him was the Leader of the Imperial House of Nobles, Lord Agros Niilagovindha.

"Good evening, Your Reverence," said Agros blandly. "Here we are with another Diet convened. Considering the rather astounding discoveries made by Rashti's expedition, I foresee a busy session."

"Hmm. It seems to me that every session's busy. But then, this is only my fourth. I'm still inexperienced."

"Perhaps. But the general view is, you've performed ably from the beginning. Tell me. What do you foresee as the main disputes in this session?"

The Kalif smiled, also blandly. "Ask me again in four months, when the session's over. By then I might have a meaningful answer for you."

"I wonder if it will be. Over in the standard time, that is." The Kalif affected a slight frown. "I don't foresee an extension, particularly considering the agreements required. How long has it been since a Diet has been held over?"

Noble eyebrows rose, arched thickets of black above obsidian eyes. "Ah! But when is the last time an event of such moment occurred? With such significant findings! For one thing, a whole multitude of habitable and inhabited worlds!"

"True. But that is primarily a matter of religious significance. I'm sure every Estate will be interested in our decisions; the whole empire will. But it lies entirely in the domain of myself and the College of Exarchs. It's not a matter for the Diet."

"Indeed! Can it be you've overlooked certain questions?"

The Kalif's lips thinned. "I referred to the matter of worlds not accounted for in The Book of The Prophet —as we've known it. As for the question of possible trade—Authorization would seem to be a routine decision of the Foreign and Commerce Ministries, as guided by myself, though debate might not be inappropriate."

"Ah, Your Reverence! You're playing with me!"

"Surely not, good Agros. I respect you both as Leader of the House and as a man of honor, position, and intelligence. Is there some significance I've overlooked in this business of Sultan Rashti's?"

"Really, Your Reverence, I doubt it. With all respect, I think you're being coy with me, no doubt for good reasons. Rashti sent his little flotilla to hunt for a world to colonize. To occupy, if you will. And found more of them than he'd expected. But already occupied, unfortunately, with unenlightened humans seemingly not interested in giving them up to us. There's been talk that you might wish to invade one or more of them, and the necessary funding requires the approval of the Diet."

"Ah! As a matter of fact, the matter has been mentioned in the College. But nothing's been proposed. Perhaps next year." His tone changed then. "You've caught my interest, though. This talk among the nobles—What seems to be the gist of it? Do any of them see virtue in the idea? Perhaps more to the point, do you see virtue in it?"

"I suppose some do. Perhaps Fakoda and his like, who'd stand to profit richly from the preparations. As for me and most of the House, probably not one in four would vote for it. In fact, if it came down to it—if the College threatened to vote unanimously in its favor—I wouldn't be surprised if I could bring the entire House against it.

"But I cannot believe the College would be unanimous in a matter like this one." The Kalif nodded. "Thank you, Agros, for your experienced viewpoint. If the matter comes up again in the College, I'll pass your opinion on to them."

Agros nodded, wished the Kalif good health, and left. To discuss their brief exchange with others of the House, the Kalif had no doubt.

* * *

Lord Rodika Kozkoraloku gave an impression of leanness, especially when wearing robes, an impression based on a face like an axe blade. Actually, his frame was ordinary and reasonably well fleshed, though he carried less fat than usual for a noble in his forties.

Rothka's face mirrored his character, the lines reflecting hardened attitudes, the eyes distrustful and calculating, the mouth quick to scorn. He was speaking with two nobles who were not delegates to the Diet, men representing regional affiliates of his Land Rights Party , when Lord Agros came up. The conversation halted.

Agros nodded acknowledgement to the two non-delegates. "Gentlemen," he said, "excuse me," then gave his attention to Rothka. "I don't believe you've paid your respects to His Reverence. But perhaps you don't intend to."

Rothka's narrow mouth pinched. "He's no true Kalif; he's a murderer and usurper, hiding behind a veneer of false legality. My respect for him is nonexistent."

Agros raised an eyebrow. "He's a big improvement over the creature he killed and replaced. Some consider that he spared us civil war; perhaps even dissolution, and the chaos that would have resulted. Admittedly that's a bit extreme, but if Gorsu had continued, or if his execution had been bungled, or the transition..."

Rothka did not yield his hostility. "A murderer and usurper," he repeated. "That is fact. The rest is opinion. A murder and usurper whom Kargh will punish in His own good time. And he's made that gentry, that fat Jilsomo, his deputy. If there's another regicide, we're likely to have a commoner as Kalif!" This was leading nowhere, Agros decided, and moved to the subject he'd come to talk about. "I presume you've given thought to the Klestronu expedition and its discoveries?" Irritation flashed behind Rothka's eyes. "Not much," he said. "We have concerns more pressing in times like these: the need to lower minimum wages for gentry; to cancel or at least revise the restrictions on off-loading unneeded peasants... Practical matters."

"I suppose you've heard the speculations that the Kalif will ask for a fleet and army to invade the Confederation."

"Confederation?"

"The empire that Rashti's flotilla discovered. They call it a confederation."

"What are you getting at, Agros? Say it, for Kargh's sake!"

Agros's voice became even more bland. "My good Rothka," he said mildly, "your incivility has cost you support on various occasions. If you're really interested in advancing your programs, you'd be better off cultivating your fellow delegates than antagonizing them."

Rothka's jaw clenched, and for a moment he looked as if he might strike the smaller, older man, who ignored it.

"If in fact the Kalif asks us to fund an invasion," Agros went on, "and he gets it, there'll be new and higher taxes to pay. And no doubt other effects that neither of us will care for, like shortages of various kinds. I trust you'll be as steadfast and relentless in resisting any such proposal as you are in your personal dislike of the Kalif."

With that, Agros nodded cordially, then turned and walked away.

* * *

"Good evening, Your Reverence."

The man who spoke looked like no one else at the reception. Lord Roonoa Hamaalo was a mountain of a man, perhaps the tallest there, and massive—powerful-looking, even for a Maolaaro. His hands showed no hair, his shaven jaw was not blue with the usual suppressed beard, and his head was bald. His eyebrows weren't even bushy. The Maolaaru aristocracy had largely held aloof from intermarriage, maintaining not only their essentially unmixed gene pool, but much of their indigenous culture. They hadn't even adopted five-syllable names.

"Good evening, Lord Roonoa. Are you enjoying the reception?"

The Maolaaro grunted. "I'm enjoying the food and drink."

Yes, I've seen you at these affairs before , the Kalif thought. What you drink unaffected would have most men unconscious or puking out their guts. "But not the conversations?" he asked.

"The conversations are part of the job. That's why I'm talking to you." The Kalif's grin was a brief flash of white. "Thank you, good Roonoa, for the compliment. What do you have in mind?"

"First and foremost an increase in what we're allowed to charge for our fish. Every world here has a worsening population problem—every world but us. Imperial populations have increased ten percent since we've had an increase in fish prices. That's a ten percent increase in demand, with no increase in price. And we are not a wealthy planet."

The Kalif shrugged. "Why not sell ten percent more fish then? Giving you ten percent more income at the present price."

"It wouldn't work that way. For most commercial species, our present catch approximates their sustained yields—their replacement capacities. If we catch more this decade, there'll be fewer and fewer to catch in decades to come."

"Umm. Logical. Your request makes sense, in the context of your own situation. Whether it would make sense to others in the context of their own problems..." He paused, inviting comment. Again Roonoa grunted. "Their problems reflect their own short-sightedness and their lack of willingness to confront their true need. Thus their populations increase but their food production doesn't. Not substantially. Their domestic food prices have climbed steadily, and they discriminate against us. And each other."

He cocked a brown eye at the Kalif, then spoke with deliberate slowness. "There is one fish we could catch much more of, if we were allowed to export it. Loohio. That would alleviate both our problem and theirs. Yours."

The Kalif's expression stiffened. "Perhaps. On the other hand The Prophet said, 'Be fruitful.' "

"He did indeed. But—" The massive shoulders shrugged.

"But what?"

"The Prophet's wisdom was unusual, and his knowingness unique. But it seems now that he was not infallible."

The Maolaaro had prepared himself to receive the imperial anger, but the Kalif merely shook his head. "I think not, my friend. The fallibility was not The Prophet's. It has been ours, in refusing some of the knowledge he gave us. A failure I intend to correct."

He sighed, a sigh that might have been deliberate, for effect. "I will speak to the College about your request. About the prices allowed, not—the other. There is virtue in your argument—the virtue of fairness.

"But I do not perform miracles. Those belong to The Prophet, not to his successor." Eighteen

Centrally the kalifal palace was a pentahedron, with attached, semi-disjunct cubes of different sizes, most with roof gardens. Just now the Kalif sat alone in his private roof garden, three stories above his apartment, with which it was connected by lift tube and stairs.

It was night. Ananporu was not a large city, as cities went in the empire; capitals never were. Its population was a little short of half a million, and large illuminated signs and lighting displays were not a part of the imperial culture. As a result, a considerable array of stars was visible. Switching on a focused reading lamp, he'd turned his attention away from the view to the papers he held—including a report prepared for him several weeks earlier by Alb Tariil, on Tariil's objections to invading the Confederation. He'd studied it before, but hadn't discussed it yet in meeting; it hadn't been time. It still wasn't, but it felt like time to review it, to refresh his memory on what, exactly, Tariil had written, as distinct from what he himself had made of it.

The report was organized under two headings: (A) Arguments Against an Invasion; and (B) Arguments Against Proposing an Invasion to the Diet. Under (A), the exarch had written:

* * *

1. Such an invasion will be extremely expensive. The empire cannot afford it. I cannot think of a counter-argument.

2. Preparing such an invasion will cause severe currency inflation and material shortages. I cannot think of a counter-argument.

3. Preparing such an invasion will cause substantial shortages of skilled labor, and numerous peasants will end up being trained and put to non-peasant work. Then, when the preparations are completed, they will be required to return to peasant labor, which will probably result in civil disorders.

* * *

The Kalif skimmed over a lengthy write-up of the foreseen consequences of alternative three. Again Tariil had not given any counter-arguments. The Kalif did not doubt that the exarch would have written down any he'd recognized. Tariil had missed the obvious solution: shortages of skilled labor could be avoided by working skilled labor overtime as needed, and paying them premium wages for it. After decades of economic decline, the gentry would welcome it.

He read on.

* * *

4. The invasion might fail, with terrible costs in lives, money, and goods. There is no counterargument to this.

* * *

The Kalif grimaced. He had no real argument with that, beyond his feeling that defeat seemed unlikely, based on considerable, if admittedly incomplete information. He continued reading.

* * *

5. If you succeed in conquering the Confederation, you would then have to hold it or else give it up. To give it up after the great cost of conquering it would be unthinkable, while holding it would take a continuing and costly effort, at least until its people had embraced Karghanik. Counter-argument: Holding it would require extensive migration as well as many large garrisons. While this would require great shipbuilding costs, it would permit the transportation of those undesirables deemed suitable as colonists. (I suspect there would be large numbers of these.)

6. The Confederation has its own ways of thinking and doing things. Its human population numbers in the scores of billions, at least—far, far more than the colonists we might send. Even after they have embraced Karghanik, they will think and act more or less differently than we do. And these folkways will influence the people we send there, particularly as intermarriage proceeds. The colonies will become more and more different from ourselves, even in the face of continuing immigration. And at such a great distance, in a generation or two they will cease to recognize imperial authority. Counter-argument: They will be children of Kargh, and perhaps that should be enough for us. Even if we cease to rule them, we can be pleased to have brought Karghanik to scores of new worlds, and to a hundred billion or more people.

* * *

The Kalif mused on the concept of colonies on those distant planets, and of children born to colonists, children who would never see the sector, the worlds, their parents came from. Children to whom the eleven worlds would be only stories, stories they might not even be interested in at such a far remove. He also mused on the Confederation's myriads embracing Karghanik. Of intermarriages, and populations that in a few generations would be unlike anything that now existed. A new people. Somehow it both troubled and excited him.

He went on to read Tariil's reasons for not proposing an invasion to the Diet.

* * *

1. The proposal is almost sure to fail in the Diet.

2. The failure of such a major and radical, one might say revolutionary proposal will make the kalifate, and by extension the College, look incompetent, and weaken them in the eyes of the nobility for a long time. It probably would not result directly in civil disturbances, but given conditions in parts of the empire—indeed on parts of Varatos itself—such a political conflict within the Diet can result indirectly in civil unrest.

* * *

The Kalif raised his eyes from the report and gazed thoughtfully across the nightbound city. In the distance, thunderheads pulsed with internal lightning and sent megavolt discharges flickering groundward like bright threads. For a minute or several minutes he half watched, half cogitated. Civil unrest. What Tariil actually meant was insurrection; civil unrest was always present somewhere in the empire. Serious insurrection occurred only every century or two, growing mainly from conflicts between the two great estates—the Prelacy and the nobility. Or actually between the College and the House of Nobles, which invariably had the interest of the Greater Nobility in mind instead of the nobility in general.

Insurrection could drastically disrupt law, order, and the economy for a decade or longer, and no estate wanted it. But on occasion someone played too close to the brink. Insurrection was always a possibility, but it was hardly a present danger.

He continued reading.

* * *

3. If invasion is proposed to the Diet, nothing will get done this session except arguing. Some of the arguments may become so bitter as to seriously hamper deliberations on any subject for years to come. Counter-argument: At best, much that the Diet does is not very useful. A few years of it getting little done may not seriously harm the empire, so long as a budget of some kind gets passed.

* * *

The Kalif grinned anew. At first reading he'd been surprised at such an observation by Tariil—he still was—and wondered if the exarch found any humor in it.

He laid the report aside and picked up another. On Sixday he'd chair a session of the Diet; he made a point of chairing the last one of each week. He wouldn't drop a bomb on them yet, though; let them wonder. He'd settle for dropping one on his inner council tomorrow.

Nineteen

In council next morning, the Kalif waited till routine business had been completed before dropping his bomb. Alb Tariil had brought up the subject of invasion, but the Kalif had declined to discuss it, saying that he hadn't made up his own mind yet. That when he had, there would be time enough.

"There is other new business I need to bring up just now." He looked them over. Their interest was tepid; they were ready to leave, get to their other duties. "I'm not ready to make it public yet, but I thought you should know." He paused, teasing their attention. "You'll keep it confidential, of course." Another pause. "I plan to be married."

The response was immediate, and as nearly enthusiastic as the inner council ever became. "Splendid!" said Alb Bijnath, beaming. "Good! Good!" said Alb Drova. Even Alb Tariil smiled, broadly. "Well!" he said, "there's hope for you after all!"

Alb Thoga said nothing, didn't smile; his chronic hostility toward the Kalif disallowed such responses. And Alb Jilsomo's smile was not spontaneous; the bride-to-be, it seemed to him, had to be the alien.

"Who's the lucky woman?" Bijnath asked. "I had no idea you'd been negotiating with anyone."

"Her name is Tain Faronya."

Smiles were replaced by frowns. "Faronya? A gentry name, is it?" asked Tariil. "Or Maolaaru? It's not familiar."

"She's the young woman who was brought back as a prisoner by Rashti's expedition." The moment of silence, the sense of suspended animation, was broken by Thoga's angry response. "You can't! She is not a citizen!"

"I'm not aware that that's a prerequisite."

Alb Tariil spoke then, more quietly than usual. "Your Reverence," he said, "there is one requirement." Every eye turned to him.

Tariil's eyes were on his hands, folded on the table. He took a deep breath; this was not easy for him.

"According to the reports we were given, the young woman has no memory of her life before her captivity. Or more correctly, of her life before an accident on board the Klestronu flagship. So then, apparently no one knows, even she does not know, whether, for example, she was married—or anything."

His eyes raised, met the Kalif's.

"I invariably read the weekly report of kalifal edicts," he went on. "As do some few others, both in the Sreegana and the House of Nobles. One of those edicts was the annulment of a marriage—the marriage of a Klestronu marine colonel." He looked around at the others, and except in Jilsomo and the Kalif, found only puzzlement. "That surprised me. It's not the sort of thing one expects as a kalifal edict. So I called up the accessible information about the colonel."

Tariil's eyes fixed on the Kalif's again, not in antagonism but with unhappy concern. "It seems he had maintained the female prisoner privately in an apartment in Khaloom. He admits, though, to his wife's charge that he was and is impotent, the basis of the annulment. And under ordinary circumstances, people would accept that. Though they might be skeptical, unless in fact the colonel had a reputation for altruism.

"But the circumstances are not ordinary. First, rumor has it that the young woman is remarkably beautiful. Second, the annulment edict was yours, not Rashti's. And now you intend to marry the young woman that couldn't have been his mistress because of his stated impotence." Alb Tariil shrugged. "Your Reverence, the question will surely arise as to what went on between them in that apartment."

The council room was silent for a moment. Finally the Kalif responded: "Do you have such questions?" he asked, and his eyes were hard.

"Your Reverence, do not try to intimidate me. It will change nothing. And whether I have questions or not is beside the point. Certainly others will, and they will ask them publicly, not here in chamber."

"Your Reverence," Drova broke in, "there is a way of answering such questions. I'm sure the young woman would agree to a medical examination...."

The Kalif's eyes flashed brief anger, but his reply to the old exarch was mild. "What would you have us do? Humiliate her, the kalifa to be, by publicizing that she had been examined and that her hymen was intact? That would be offensive and totally unacceptable, to me if not to her. In fact, this discussion is offensive."

This time Bijnath spoke. "Your Reverence, it need not be publicized. Let her be examined by your own physician. And have him testify to us that she is—intact. Then we will say we accept her as fit, and if anyone wishes to guess at why, that will be only their guess."

The Kalif frowned darkly, fists clenched at his sides, then shook his head. Before he said anything more, though, Jilsomo spoke.

"Your Reverence."

The Kalif turned to him. "Yes?"

"If Alb Bijnath's proposal is not acceptable to you, perhaps Neftha could testify privately to me. Then, assuming the answer is what we hope, and if my fellows of the council would accept my word for it...."

"Your Reverence," said Bijnath, "I, for one, would be happy to accept Jilsomo's word on it."

"And I," said Drova.

The Kalif shot a hard look at his lieutenant, then Tariil added his voice, though without enthusiasm. "I will accept that, Your Reverence, if you will."

Coso Biilathkamoro sat frowning past them for a long moment before saying anything more. Then he looked at Thoga Khaliyamathog. "I have not heard from you, Alb Thoga."

"You will do what you want regardless of me. Probably regardless of any of us, but now that the rest have knuckled under, what I feel is of little consequence."

"Do you accept Jilsomo's proposal, Alb Thoga, or do you not?" The sour-faced exarch bent his stylus in his fingers. "If the rest accept—then I, too."

"Thank you. Then, Jilsomo, I accept your offer. Stay, and we shall make arrangements. The rest of you—I thank you for your consideration. Council is now adjourned till Fourday."

* * *

The Kalif and Alb Jilsomo walked side by side without talking till they reached the Kalif's apartment.

"I hope Your Reverence will excuse my forwardness in council," Jilsomo said then. "It seemed that something was necessary. Simply to override them is destructive of your overall leadership. And you need them, Your Reverence. The rest of the College tends to follow their lead, and you have difficult months ahead in the Diet."

The Kalif nodded ruefully. "I'm afraid I don't brook opposition well in such personal matters."

"When shall I see your physician, Your Reverence? And where?"

"At his office, this afternoon at four. Unless I let you know otherwise. He may have a conflicting appointment."

"At four then. I'll call him. Do you need me further this morning, Your Reverence?"

"I don't think so. No."

"Well then, if you'll excuse me." Jilsomo bowed slightly and left. The Kalif sat down at his commset and touched keys. "Neftha, is there any problem in coming to my apartment now? I need to speak with you.... Good. Come by the blue corridor.... Five minutes will be fine. Thank you."

He notified the door guards to let Neftha in, then sat back in thought. He'd been handling the council poorly this morning. No, not poorly; damned badly. It was lucky Jilsomo had stepped in. He'd want the support of every exarch possible in the Diet; to pass a special appropriation required approval by seventy percent of the combined two estates: the Prelacy, represented by the College, and the nobility, represented by the House of Nobles. And the College had only eighteen votes, the Nobles twenty-seven. On the other hand, a Kalif couldn't let himself appear weak or soft. It was better to be overbearing than flabby. But it was better still to seem reasonable while strong.

Neftha arrived in less than five minutes, and was let in. "Your Reverence wanted to see me."

"Right. I need a statement from you. Given orally to Alb Jilsomo. About Tain Faronya."

"Yes, Your Reverence?"

"You will tell him you've made a physical examination of Miss Faronya. You will not tell him when. He'll assume it was later today."

"Yes, sir."

The Kalif's eyes fixed the man. "And you will tell him you found no evidence that she is not a virgin." The physician had trouble answering. "Your Reverence... I—"

"Good friend, I do not ask you to lie. Truly, you found no evidence that she is not a virgin. You simply failed to find evidence that she is. Surely you see the distinction?" Neftha avoided his eyes. "Yes, Your Reverence," he said unhappily.

"So then. What will you tell Jilsomo when he sees you at four o'clock?"

"I—That I have examined Miss Faronya. And found no evidence that she is not a virgin. But, Your Reverence—What do I say if he asks me further questions? He's an exarch!" The Kalif raised an eyebrow. "Further questions are unlikely, if you speak positively enough. Practice if you need to. And seem busy, slightly impatient. Above all, speak firmly. As if you were telling him he must stop eating so much."

He grinned at Neftha, surprising the man. "Do not expect further questions and you're less likely to get any. And if he does ask, simply repeat what you'd already said; tell him that should be plain enough for anyone. Sound exasperated."

When the physician had left, the Kalif's mood slumped. He got to his feet and went into the garden feeling troubled, depressed. It seemed to him he wasn't handling things as well as he should: council, physician, even Jilsomo.

Well, to rule had never been easy, even for kalifs who'd held the throne in uneventful times. Having known Tain, it seemed to him he could never marry anyone else, and if marrying her made the next months more difficult, they at least would pass quickly.

* * *

When it came down to it, Neftha couldn't face possible questions from Jilsomo. So he lied to the exarch, telling him the alien woman was indeed a virgin.

* * *

"I've spoken with Neftha," Jilsomo said. "Ill reassure the council tomorrow. There's no need for them to wait till Fourday, and it will free their minds of the question."

Alb Jilsomo Savbatso was harder than most men for the Kalif to read; his face was mobile only in the service of his mind, and his eyes were not transparent. But it seemed to the Kalif that the fat exarch must suspect, given what he already knew.

"A question, Your Reverence, if I may."

"Ask."

"Why did you bring up the matter of marriage this morning in council? Or have you decided to wed her sooner than you'd planned?"

"We'll marry in three weeks. She'll receive tutoring from a bride's aunt next week; I wanted to bring it up to the council before that."

Jilsomo's eyebrows questioned the apparent non sequitur.

"At this time," the Kalif went on, "no one knows of my plans except the council and Neftha. Except of course for Tain and I. If there's a traitor, an untrustworthy member in the council, this may well be something he'll pass on to my opponents in the House. And if he does, it will come forcefully to my attention in the Diet."

Jilsomo nodded. In the past, almost all kalifs had named to their councils men who would not disagree chronically or sharply with them. Coso Biilathkamoro, different in so many things, had named, along with others, the conservative Alb Tariil, who opposed him more often than not and who was very influential in the College. And the irascible Alb Thoga, whose hostility could be depended on. "To keep an eye on their actions and a finger on their pulses," was how the Kalif had explained his appointments. It seemed unlikely though, to Jilsomo, that there was a traitor in the council.

"The bride's aunt will make an examination of her own, will she not?" he asked.

"Of course. That's part of it. But anything she has to say, besides to the bride, she'll say only to the groom, and nothing to him of any substance."

Jilsomo nodded. Whatever she could say, other than to the bride, she wouldn't. A "bride's aunt" was a professional advisor and tutor to brides, and rarely their actual aunt. By tradition and professional ethics, they were utterly discreet. This was true also of the "groom's uncle." It would probably be all right. He hoped so. Certainly he'd do everything he could to make it so. Because whatever his flaws, this Kalif was the best for a long time, Jilsomo told himself. A very long time. Twenty

Fourday had come and gone, and Fiveday. Now it was Sixday, the day when, in its season, Kalif Coso Biilathkamoro customarily chaired a session of the Imperial Diet. He gaveled it to order, and himself gave the invocation. After the prayer, the secretary read a summary of the previous session, prepared by SUMBAA and printed out by his primary terminal in the office of the Leader of the House. When the summary had been read, the Kalif scanned the assembly. It met in a large chamber shaped like a half bowl, with the rather small, slightly tilted bottom holding the exarchs, the noble delegates, and the twelve non-voting delegates of the Pastorate. Separated from them by a marble railing, the sides curved up with row on row of seats, empty now, empty usually. Only on special occasions were invited spectators permitted. Nor did the automatic cameras record the sights and sounds there for broadcast; they recorded for the archives: that is, for SUMBAA.

"At the close of the last session," the Kalif intoned—the sentence was traditional—"it was agreed that the subject then under discussion would be given priority this morning. That subject being the request by the senior delegate from Maolaari for the export of loohio."

Simply mentioning the subject raised hackles and color among the members. He continued:

"Does any member have another subject they would ask priority for, before we proceed?" A hand shot up, its owner also rising, which was unusual but not out of order.

"Lord Rothka," said the Kalif, "what is your suggestion?" The narrow mouth opened. "Your Reverence," said Rothka, and the words came sour from his mouth,

"I move that we discuss—" He paused then, a pause long and deliberate to draw their attention. "I move that we first discuss Your Reverence's intended marriage."

"I second!" said another, quick beyond chance.

"Indeed?" said the Kalif dryly. "I need not entertain such a motion unless it's a matter falling within the purview of this assembly. And clearly any marriage plans I might have do not."

"Not so," Rothka said. "Let me quote Scripture."

"Be my guest."

The Kalif's seeming willingness broke the noble's certainty. His gaze faltered for just a moment, then hardened. The Prophet's words, as he recited them, were measured, almost stately: "I will not always be with you in the flesh, for the flesh is mortal. And there are those who hate godliness and the godly, wanting them dead. Thus not only will I pass from this world, but also will he who follows me. Probably before our time. And the believers will need to choose a new leader not once, but many times over the centuries."

Rothka's back was stiff as a marshal's. "Therefore I give to you rules to choose by, for the protection of the Church, and of its people, and of righteousness. And of Kargh's words. You must choose leaders who are righteous. He who would lead must be one who steadfastly eschews greed, and sensuality, and all unrighteousness. One who has consorted with lechers, or the tight-fisted, or has sought the company of lewd women, cannot lead the Church. And if one who has been chosen would marry, the woman he chooses must be—" Rothka paused, then said the final words slowly, deliberately: "Chaste and virtuous." The rest of the list of requisites for Successors to The Prophet, Rothka left unrecited, as irrelevant to his argument. He fixed the Kalif with his eyes then, as if challenging him. The Kalif nodded.

"Thank you, Lord Rothka, for renewing The Prophet's message for us. Especially the phrase about the tight-fisted."

Rothka flushed; he had a reputation for stinginess, and was sensitive about it. The Kalif looked around.

"Lord Rothka's subject may not have been relevant to the day's business, but the words of the Blessed Flenyaagor are worth listening to on any subject. Does anyone else wish to display his memory of The Book before we return to the request of Lord Roonoa?"

Rothka, still flushed, subsided onto his seat.

"If not..." said the Kalif.

Another hand stabbed upward, another member of the Land Rights Party stood. "You are evading the issue, the matter of the woman you want to marry. The alien woman brought to the empire by the Klestronu expedition."

"My dear Ilthka." The Kalif's voice held reproof. "You are on the wrong side of the chamber to discuss that; it's a matter for the Prelacy, specifically the College. And let me remind you that there is a proper form for addressing your Kalif.

"Now. Does anyone have an appropriate subject to propose? If not, we will return to the matter which the senior delegate from Maolaari brought up yesterday—that is, his request for approval of the export of loohio."

Ilthka too sat back down.

"Lord Roonoa, the record shows that your presentation speech did not address The Prophet's command to be fruitful. How can we reconcile your proposal with that command?" Roonoa stood, bowing slightly to the Kalif. "Your Reverence," he said in his rich bass, "we should consider when it was that The Prophet spoke those words,

and the apparent reason for them. The first burning plague had swept Varatos little more than ten years earlier, killing more than one in three of all the people, taking children and women even more than men. Of those who'd sickened and recovered, some were left witless, and many women who had been sickened and not died had proved sterile. Cribs stood empty. Fields lay fallow for lack of men to work them. Looms stood silent, forges cold."

The Maolaaro looked around at the delegates; so did the Kalif, though not as plainly. "So of course The Prophet told the people to be fruitful. But one might wonder what he would say today, when all the worlds but Maolaari are crowded. With many gentry unemployed, competing with peasants for work as day laborers. With food riots on nearly every world."

He looked around, meeting gazes thoughtful and gazes hostile. So far as he knew, no one had come forward with such an argument before. One did not think such things. "The Blessed Flenyaagor was a holy man," he went on. "A saintly man. But he was also a practical man who had guided his ship through storms, around dangerous reefs and shoals. He'd fought pirates, fled pirates, even paid extortion to pirates. He'd bargained with men over cargoes and prices, and took satisfaction in the high price he'd gotten for his ship, that he could print The Book and have money to support him in his ministry." The Maolaaru noble shook his head as he continued. "I do not believe, Your Reverence, that permitting the export of loohio from Maolaari would offend The Prophet if he were here today. Indeed, if the poor should eat it, who can hardly feed their children, I wonder if The Prophet would not actually praise it." An angry hand stabbed the air. Roonoa ignored it as he sat down.

"Alb Thoga," said the Kalif, and the exarch got to his feet.

"Your Reverence, I am outraged by the insolence of the delegate from Maolaari! It is bad enough that a layman presumed to analyze The Prophet's reasoning. But to stand there and presume to tell us what The Prophet would think or say if he were here today—That is unforgivable!"

"Thank you, Alb Thoga." You are chronically outraged , the Kalif added silently. To you, nothing is forgivable.

Other hands had raised, and the Kalif pointed. "Lord Panamba." The delegate for Niithvoktos stood. Unlike Jilsomo, from the same world, Panamba was rather slender, remarkably so for someone from Niithvoktos with its 1.17 gravity. He looked as if, beneath his clothes, he'd be sinewy. "Your Reverence, I will not comment on The Prophet's words, except indirectly: What Lord Roonoa said makes sense, whether or not he accurately described what The Prophet might think. We have a major population problem, not only on Niithvoktos but on Varatos, and Klestron, and any other world you'd care to name. Except Roonoa's own."

Panamba too sat down then, and the Kalif called on Lord Agros. The Leader of the House spoke seated. "Your Reverence, it is unthinkable that the Diet approve Lord Roonoa's proposal. We nobility dare not eat loohio because we dare not reduce our birthrate. Even now we constitute less than eight percent of the population. The gentry constitute barely thirty-three percent, and we rely on them to control and supervise the peasants, so we cannot have fewer gentry either.

"As for the peasants, most of them would love to eat loohio daily, I have no doubt. Then they could copulate endlessly without having to feed children, and the raising of children is the only self-accepted responsibility the peasants know. It is all that makes them more than beasts. Besides, without enough peasants, who would work the fields? Dig the ditches? Clean the streets? True, it might be desirable to reduce their births somewhat. But if we decide to, it should be by legalizing birth-control pharmaceuticals, for use in programs planned by SUMBAA and controlled by the government."

"Thank you, Lord Agros."

A hand had been popping up at the close of each comment, and the Kalif now recognized Lord Fakoda Lamatahasu, speaker for the Industrial Party. Fakoda, a short, somewhat chubby man, managed somehow to be self-important and self-effacing at the same time.

"Your Reverence, I do not pretend to be deep on matters of religion, though I have read The Book through a number of times. But from a purely practical view, a purely practical view you understand—if we should allow the Maolaari to import their loohio, and the number of peasants should decrease as a result... Well, machines could be built to do many kinds of jobs that peasants do—do them better and faster. And gentry could find employment tending the machines that would make the machines. Perhaps operating the machines themselves."

He shrugged, shoulders and hands. "Of course, these things can't be worked out overnight. But then, the population of working-age peasants would not go down overnight, either. Loohio would be no problem—no practical problem. Certainly much less a problem than those it would relieve." Among the demanding hands, the Kalif then recognized that of Elder Dosu Sutaravaalu, Archdeacon of Ananporu and Leader of the Assembly of Elders. An old man, nearly ninety, he arose without effort, though with a certain care. He bowed first to the Kalif, then slightly to Lord Fakoda.

"Your Reverence, we have heard from men here who have been blessed by Kargh above other men. We have heard about 'practical considerations.' " He said the two words as if they were distasteful. Then he bobbed a slight bow toward Lord Agros. "The morals of peasants have even been mentioned.

"But none of these have meaning except as they fit within the prescriptions and proscriptions of The Prophet. And The Prophet truly said, 'Be fruitful.'

"It is not ours to judge his words and say that they still hold or do not hold. He said them. They are ours to obey. As for the number of people—The problem is not the number of people. The problems are sufficient jobs, sufficient food. And it is our duty to solve them. But to solve them within the limits demanded by Kargh and written down for us by His Prophet."

* * *

After a little, it was agreed to shelve, for the present, the question of approval for the exportation of loohio. Lord Roonoa felt comfortable with this. Opposition had not been as vehement as he'd expected, and some year soon he might be willing to push things to a vote. When the prognosis was suitable. The Kalif too was pleased with the session. Lords Rothka and Ilthka had been discouraged more easily than he'd expected. And Rothka's challenge made clear that there was a leak in his council; very probably Thoga. Meanwhile, of course, his marital plans would now leak to the public at large. Well, let them get a look at Tain. The public would approve, it seemed to him.

Beyond that, the discussions of Roonoa's proposal had shown him a possible fulcrum to gain support for an invasion. And accomplish other things; maybe even approval for the limited sale of loohio in areas of serious food shortages. He'd have to sort out the dynamics of the situation—see what the potentials were, the possibilities and cross-purposes.

During the discussion, another question had occurred to him. About SUMBAA. The giant artificial intelligence held virtually all the significant data there was, and supposedly had an unparalleled capacity to segregate, correlate, analyze, and integrate those data. And to create with them, at least within limits. So why hadn't SUMBAA solved the problems of jobs and food? He could understand why it hadn't solved the question of population: religion was involved. But the others?

Surely it had been asked. Or had it? People didn't seem to wonder about SUMBAA, or even think much about it. It had been around for so long, doing what it did without consulting anyone. And really, apparently, without being much consulted by them except for the enormous volume of more or less routine bureaucratic needs.

Why? Why hadn't SUMBAA volunteered solutions? Could it be that, with the burden of routine, SUMBAA didn't have enough capacity left over? Somehow he didn't think that was it. Perhaps solutions didn't lie in the analysis of data. Perhaps they required some ability SUMBAA didn't have. Sometime soon, he told himself, he'd go to the House of SUMBAA and discuss these things with him. With it. Tomorrow. Seven and Eightdays made up the weekend, and there'd be fewer demands on his time then.

Twenty-one

An Imperial Army captain stepped into Veen's office. "You're Colonel Thoglakaveera?" he asked. Veeri looked up from paperwork. "That's right."

The man thrust out a hand to him, and he shook it. "My name is Alivii Simnasaveesi. I understand you were with the Klestronu marines in the alien empire."

Veeri's mood shifted cautiously from boredom to tentative interest; he wondered if this man knew anything else about him. "That's true," he said.

"I'm with Headquarters Regiment of the Capital Division. A friend of mine, Major Tagurt Meksorfi, is giving a party at his town place in the outskirts." The captain paused to see what Veeri's reaction might be to the major's gentry name. When nothing showed, he continued. "He gives one almost every Sevenday evening, for a dozen or two officers and occasionally a guest. He'd heard there was a Klestronu colonel here who'd been in the fighting, and asked me to invite you. Interested?" It didn't even occur to Veeri to decline.

* * *

For nearly fifteen centuries there'd been no distinction in law between a "Greater" and a "lesser" nobility. The formal categories had been erased when the empire had become the Kalifate, part of an agreement that had gained Kalif Yeezhur the military backing of the lesser nobility. Backing that made him the first emperor Kalif.

But in fact the distinction remained, a distinction based mainly now on wealth and tradition. And while the senior male in every noble family, Greater or lesser, held a vote, members of only certain families were eligible to serve in the Diet.

Most of the old Great Families were still so regarded, even those whose earlier wealth had declined somewhat. Their extensive plantations gave them the potential to recoup, meanwhile living like true aristocrats. Occasionally of course, one of them would be disgraced and lose its status, or simply die out. The Great Families had been joined from time to time, almost surreptitiously, by one and another family of the lesser nobility who'd become especially rich and influential. The Greater Nobles might then begin treating them like one of their own. An example was the Lamatahasu family, of which Lord Fakoda was presently the head.

The military, however, truly recognized no distinction, either in the imperial services or in those of the individual worlds. A son of the poorest noble family, perhaps with only a confectioner's shop to support it, could become a general if he had the necessary skills. In fact, the sons of lesser families made up a sizeable majority of the officer corps, from top to bottom, in every branch, even the navy. Thus, in the armed forces, if a Greater Noble was prejudiced against the lesser nobility, he'd do well to keep it to himself.

Gentry were a different kind of phenomenon, a legally defined class of different origin intermediate between the nobility and peasantry. Gentry made up the entirety of noncommissioned officers, the so-called "sergeantcy," which included corporals. And for a very long time, occasional gentry had entered the officers corps during war by promotion from sergeant. But only over the last three centuries had they been accepted into the service academies and grown to an appreciable minority of commissioned officers.

As officers, gentry met a certain amount of discrimination both socially and on promotion rosters, the amount depending on ability, personality, and the unit's commanding officer. Among gentry, excellence was usually necessary to attain a captaincy, short of one's final years; it was essential to rising higher. Though wealth also helped.

At age thirty-one, Tagurt Meksorli was already a major. Kulen Meksorli, Tagurt's paternal grandfather thrice removed, had been hired as a stevedore foreman at a spaceport on Varatos. The young foreman, who was paid a percentage of his job contracts, had paid his peasant laborers on the basis of production. Under the table, of course; the practice was illegal, there being a set pay scale for peasants. Soon he bought the crew contract and developed a virtual fief, his fast, efficient crews having gobbled up much of the local cargo-handling business. The more profitable part of it.

Then, in a wild, high-stakes card game, Kulen had won a small hyperspace merchantman, a tramp freighter. He'd paid professional ship inspectors to go over it for him, then plunged most of what he owned and could borrow into getting it overhauled.

Its ownership stimulated Kulen's already active sense of adventure. He left his brother in charge of the cargo-handling business and went into space as an apprentice to his own captain and chief engineer. Within two years he was a full-time smuggler, and through the exercise of considerable cunning, professional ethics, attention to detail, and at key junctures further daring, he compiled a considerable fortune. Which, before he was an old man, included seven ships, none of them smugglers. Having avoided arrest, prison, and confiscation, he'd gone straight as soon as he could afford to. By the time his great-great-great-grandson had grown to manhood, the Meksorli Line included one of the system's largest fleets of sweepboats, seven refinery ships, a large fleet of bulk carriers, a dozen hyperspace package freighters, and three luxury liners. The Meksorlis were richer than even most Great Families, but no gentry on Varatos had been elevated to the nobility for nearly three millenia. And none of the Meksorlis, the men anyway, aspired to it; they were proud of what they were and what they'd accomplished.

Tagurt aspired to be the first gentry general—a general instead of an admiral because generalcies were more numerous. He had the agreement and appreciation of both his father and grandfather. In that regard, his great-grandfather, old Kulen's sole surviving grandson, had told the young cadet that he was lucky to be gentry instead of nobility. "It'll make the rank more meaningful," he'd said, "and getting it more interesting. "

On graduation from the academy, the new sublieutenant and would-be general had volunteered for an assault regiment, which marked him as ambitious—ambitious or a glutton for hard work. Once assigned, he volunteered to command a maintenance platoon, maintenance platoons being notorious for everything happening at once, for all-night duty, and the need for ramrod officers who were resourceful and quick. And results were hard to fake; the equipment either functioned or it didn't. Tagurt stayed there long enough to get a reputation and a full lieutenancy. Then, at his own request, he'd been transferred to a notorious and dreaded post, the prison planet Shatimvoktos. Furthermore, he signed for two imperial years there, when the normal tour of duty was one. Simply to request service on Shatimvoktos was virtually unheard of, so that by itself made him a watched man. If he screwed up, his prospects would be seriously impaired.

And if he excelled, that would be noticed, too, gentry or not. Which was, of course, his reason for doing it.

Shatimvoktos was the most dangerous duty the peacetime military offered. Most of its enlisted personnel, the guards especially, were hardbitten, veteran misfits who'd been assigned there as a form of unofficial punishment. The gravity was 1.38—grueling—the atmosphere toxic, the summers almost lethally hot, the winters brutally cold. And if the guards were hardbitten, the prisoners were mostly worse—dangerous men, many of them more or less psychotic—who expected to the there and had nothing to lose. They worked with hammers, drills, blasting gel, crowbars, and hand shovels, digging iron ore from open pits. Even in an economy like the empire's, such an operation was grossly uneconomical, feasible only with unpaid, throw-away labor. Its purposes were the punishment and disposal of criminals, and to serve as a threat to troublemakers.

Deadly fights were common among the prisoners, and they acted quickly when they saw a chance to kill a guard. When a captain of the guard died in what might or might not have been an accident, Tagurt succeeded him, and in time was given the rank to go with the job. Then, as the most qualified available officer, he extended his tour another half year, to fill in for the provost marshal, who'd gone home for a family emergency.

From Shatimvoktos, he'd been assigned to the Capital Division, an elite heavy infantry division stationed only thirty miles outside Ananporu. The division personnel officer mentioned him to the division CO., who examined Tagurt's personnel file and appointed him deputy division provost marshal, a virtual vacation after the prison planet. When the general was satisfied that the young man could handle an easy post with a discriminating hand as well as he had a terrible post requiring an iron fist, he recommended an early promotion to major for his gentry protege—promotion without the standard minimum of three years in rank. The Kalif approved it, and the new major became the general's aide. No member of the gentry had ever made major so quickly in the imperial service. Most nobles didn't. Despite his naked ambition, rapid rise, and lack of noble forebears, Major Tagurt Meksorli was not widely resented among the ambitious young officers of the division, mostly nobles. Partly it was his matter-of-fact personality, blunt but friendly. And partly it was his parties.

* * *

Tagurt Meksorli's town place was in the rugged Anan Hills, which overlooked Ananporu from the west. Veeri Thoglakaveera had never been there before. Hovercar roads twisted over and through them like goat trails, past homes expensive but mostly not large, cantilevered from plunging slopes on shelves. The headlights of Veeri's taxi flashed across the trunks of great trees, frequently vine-clad, that shouldered and overhung the roads. Their beams swept thick growths of lustrous ground vines protecting the slopes. Flowering shrubs scented the night, overriding the constant undersmell of moist and loamy mould. Insects and other small creatures peeped, buzzed, ratcheted; sprinklers hissed quietly in the darkness. An occasional bird chirped aimlessly as if half awake, or tried a vague and tentative half bar of song. Veeri noticed it all only absently. Mostly he was thinking about what this party might mean to him; something, he was sure. And wondering whether anyone there would know of his purported impotence. For a minute the road ran along the top of a ridge, the houses on both sides with their backs to it facing outward. Houses and trees allowed Veeri only glimpses of the overviews—on one side eastward over the city, on the other westward across a span of night-hidden plantations that spread to the horizon, broken at intervals by the concentrated lights of villages and towns. Behind one home, half a dozen cars were parked tightly to conserve space. A post bore the address, the symbols a vertical column beneath its small light.

"That's it, sir," the cabbie announced as he pulled up and stopped.

"You'll wait," Veeri said.

"Of course, sir," the man replied, then added almost apologetically, "per the rate schedule you've noticed on the back of my seat, sir."

He'd turned as he'd said it, and Veeri noticed now the small mark on his forehead. Even on Varatos, Veeri knew, more than a few of the lesser nobility were down on their luck. But seeing one of them like this irritated him. It seemed indecent of the man to display his ill fortune in public. The house was one story high in back, but getting from the cab, he could see that that one story was the topmost of at least two on the downhill side. The party wasn't loud; he couldn't hear it at all as he walked to the door. A man wearing corporal's insignia stood guard there, eyeing his Klestronu Marines uniform with its gold colonel's hammers on the collar, the insignia used by imperial as well as the separate planetary forces.

"Good evening, sir," the corporal said. "Let me announce you, if you please, sir."

"Colonel Veeri Thoglakaveera."

"Thank you, sir."

The corporal spoke it into a small grill on the doorpost. Within four or five seconds the door opened, and now Veeri could hear quiet music and the murmur of voices from somewhere inside. A sublieutenant stood there, looking impossibly young. "Colonel! Do come in! It's a pleasure to greet you. Major Meksorli and the others have been looking forward to your arrival." He ushered him down a hallway. At the other end they entered a room as wide as the house, which was fairly wide. It was nothing special, nor were its furnishings; it was the view that made it expensive. The east-facing wall was glass, opening onto a narrow strip of balcony. Beyond its polished bronze railing, Ananporu and its suburbs spread below them like a field of scintillant, multi-colored jewels. The cab had climbed higher than he'd thought, Veeri realized—they had to be more than a 1,000 feet above the city. He pulled his eyes away, to the major and captain who'd gotten to their feet. The captain he knew—Alivii Simnasaveesi, who'd delivered the invitation. The other, a rather small major who projected an unusual sense of power, had an unmarked forehead, and Veeri realized that this man was his host. The captain introduced them, and Meksorli shook Veeri's hand. "Colonel Thoglakaveera! It's a pleasure to have you here. Would you care for a drink? We can cover most tastes." Veeri chose whiskey on ice. He preferred to stay in control of his mind and tongue, and with whiskey on ice he could better monitor and limit his intake. While the serving man got his drink, Veeri glanced around at the other guests. They were all looking at him, but with no sign of sympathy or amusement. Only interest.

One, the oldest, wore colonel's gold hammers, like his own. Two others were majors, both older than Meksorli. The rest were captains and full lieutenants, except for the sublieutenant who'd served as door greeter. There were no women. Apparently no more guests were expected; at any rate Veeri'd been guided to the last of the chairs arranged in an oval.

It occurred to him that he was not only a guest; he was the program. His chair was at one end of the oval, and everyone was facing him.

"So, Colonel," said Meksorli, "what was it like on the alien world?" Veeri was a willing liar, but not a compulsive one. This time he told the truth pretty much as he knew it.

"Basically," he said, "it isn't so different from Varatos or Klestron. The gravity's stronger, but not oppressively strong for a man in decent condition. And planetwide it's cooler, rather like Kathvoktos or Chithvoktos, but we were practically on the equator, so the climate was quite comfortable.

"Probably the biggest difference was the population; there wasn't much. The biggest town had only about fifteen thousand, something like that."

The reactions were mixed; some looked surprised, some puzzled, some eager. "How do they get by with so few?" someone asked. "How do they maintain their technology? Their civilization?" Veeri began to warm up at that: he enjoyed being looked to as the expert. "It seems that the world we found—it's called Terfreya—is a very minor planet. Not even a minor associate in the Confederation; it's what they call a 'trade world.' They raise a single export crop there, a spice, and beyond that some livestock and food crops for local use. Most of the planet's a wilderness, complete with large beasts of prey."

"Damn!" said another. "We could make a lot better use of it than that." There was voiced agreement. Then the Vartosu colonel spoke. "I heard you had some hard fighting. What was that like?"

"It's—not easy to describe, but hard is an understatement. Of course, we were only a light brigade. And there's a lot we never did learn about the forces we fought. Even the local officials knew very little about them. Some, the initial force, were cadets who'd been training on Terfreya. They were fearless and full of tricks, but their weaponry was inferior. We'd killed a lot of them, and markedly reduced their attacks, when another force, not cadets, arrived from somewhere. This was after a couple of months. These were also extremely good troops, but they were a very light force—no weapons a man couldn't carry, except gunships. They did have gunships, though not as fast or as powerful as ours.

"We'd made captives of some local officials—had them on the flagship under instrumented interrogation for months—and they knew nothing at all about this new force. We pretty much decided they must have landed from outside the system—the new troops, that is. Maybe for training, like the cadets. Though how they did it without being noticed is a bit of a puzzler. The assumption is that they entered real space far enough out in the system that their emergence waves were too weak to pick up. That sort of thing can happen, with careless astrogation. Meanwhile the navy'd impounded Terfreya's homing beacon to study its technology, and its absence could have warned the Confederation ship that something might be wrong. Then they could have used a blindside approach, and with enough luck, landed undetected.

"Unfortunately, the captive officials were provincial—the whole world was—and not as well informed as we'd expected. None of them was what you'd call knowledgeable about military or technical matters.

"We did learn somewhat about their ships from them, of course, and more from examining some message pods we captured on the ground. Their hyper-space generators are a lot like ours—operate on the same principle. I suppose it's the only way. And a ship that we know arrived in-system while we were there produced typical emergence waves. Our flagship detected it at once, and when it arrived within range, we blew it up with no trouble at all."

Veeri shrugged. "As for general information: They have a lot more worlds—twenty-seven main worlds and about twice as many inhabited tributary worlds. All told about seven times as many as we have." He was aware of the impression—even shock—that this caused among the imperial officers. "But apparently," he went on, "their population doesn't outnumber ours nearly that much. And while they have some very good troops, the Confederation isn't warlike. Their individual worlds have no warships at all.

"The major points are, their fleet is little or no bigger than ours—that's pretty definite—and they don't seem even to know about force shields. Which means they wouldn't stand a chance against an imperial fleet in a fight. And if we destroyed their fleet, it wouldn't make much difference how good their ground forces are. We could concentrate overwhelming attacks wherever we liked, and mop them up piecemeal."

Veeri fielded a number of questions over the next half hour, but mainly his answers just elaborated what he'd already said. When it became apparent that they'd pretty much exhausted his data fund, the conversation drifted to other matters. Then a captain asked why their war prisoners hadn't answered some of the unknowns and uncertainties. "I can understand civilian officials not knowing some of these things," he said. "Especially on a minor, backward world. But a military officer should have." Veeri nodded. "And no doubt would have. But as I said, they refused to surrender; fought to the death. And early on, our men discovered that what looked like a wounded and unconscious enemy was likely to be one feigning unconsciousness. With an armed grenade ready to release when someone got close. So—Well, you know peasants. Our troops routinely shot up any enemy casualties not obviously already dead. Sometimes even those that were."

There was a moment without comment, some of the Vartosu officers finding it hard to accept that at least a few war prisoners hadn't been taken.

"I understand one prisoner was brought back," the Vartosu colonel commented. "A female, whose memory was burned out in an accident during interrogation. In an equipment malfunction, as I heard it." Turning cautious, Veeri only nodded. "So I'm told," he said. Which wasn't a blatant lie; merely misleading.

"I heard that, too," Meksorli said. "She's supposed to be very beautiful." Captain Simnasaveesi had something to add. "I've heard," he said, "that the Kalif plans to marry her." The Vartosu colonel grunted. "Sounds like someone's wild imagination." The captain shrugged. "I heard it from a member of Lord Fakoda's staff. Apparently the matter came up in a session of the Diet yesterday, and the Kalif didn't deny it."

"Beautiful, you said," someone else commented. "It's a shame to let beauty go to waste." The subject was dropped then. There was too little information. After another hour or so, and a couple more drinks, Veeri excused himself, saying he needed to be back at his desk at 9 a.m.—his first outright lie of the evening.

He didn't pay a lot of attention to the scenery on the way back down. He was thinking about the rumor—about the Kalif and Tain. Not doubting it for a moment. He knew, he told himself, what Tain Faronya could do to a man's judgment.

He also knew that the Kalif was supposed to marry only a virgin. Over the centuries, several had made mistresses of women who hadn't qualified. Which had led to abdications or impeachments. Apparently this Kalif had decided to exercise subterfuge to have his way. And had sacrificed him as part of it, destroying his marriage, his position, his future.

He couldn't, just now, see anything to do about it, though—anything that didn't amount to suicide. Twenty-two

The curtains of the Kalif's study were drawn back and the doors slid wide to the garden, letting in the morning sun. He entered through them, his hair still slightly damp from the needle shower that had followed his workout and brief massage, and he smelled faintly of soap. A guard stood at ease beside the garden door, and the Kalif exchanged greetings with him. As he sat down, he keyed on his commset and spoke. "Partiil, if Alb Jilsomo is there, I'll see him now."

"He just came in, Your Reverence. And Mr. Balcaava is also here."

"Good! Send them both in."

A moment later the two men entered. "Good morning, Jilsomo," the Kalif said, then gave his attention to the other, who bowed deeply. "Good morning, Balcaava. You have the plans?"

"Yes, Your Reverence." He handed a sheaf of papers to the Kalif. "I believe they are as you specified when we talked yesterday."

The Kalif looked them over quickly but thoroughly, then handed them back. "They're fine. Do them."

"Thank you, Your Reference." Balcaava bowed again, then turned and left, almost hurrying, as if anxious to get on with them.

"You're carrying through on your intention that the wedding be small," Jilsomo said. The Kalif nodded. "We both want it that way. The traditional kalifal wedding ties up the Kalif for a week, and costs a great deal of money. And Tain is shy of crowds."

"Of course, Your Reverence." Jilsomo paused, then went on. "I wouldn't feel so concerned if you were having a royal reception afterward. People feel they should have an opportunity to see their new kalifa." The Kalif smiled slightly. "What people?"

"Sir?"

Instead of answering, the Kalif touched his commset. "Partiil, I will see no one till further notice. It may be half an hour." He turned then to his bodyguard. "Mondar, I need to speak privately with the exarch." He watched the guard out the garden door and saw it close before he said anything more. Then he turned to Jilsomo again. " What people feel they should have an opportunity to see the new kalifa?"

"A great number of nobles and numerous well-to-do gentry. Also any prelates that could reasonably be here, and no doubt many of the Pastorate as well. There may well be more interest in Tain Faronya than in any kalifa ever."

The Kalif grinned. "Well then, my friend, I say let anyone see her who has access to television." Jilsomo stared. The Kalif nodded.

"That's right. I've ordered the ceremony broadcast."

The exarch stared for a moment, then looked at the idea thoughtfully. "It's unprecedented, Your Reverence. It's like inviting all of Varatos. The entire gentry will be watching. Even peasants." The Kalif's eyebrows arched. "Surely you don't object to gentry watching. Or peasants. I know you too well. And I'm Kalif to all of them. Peasants included."

"You are indeed, Your Reverence. But there are those who will object—undoubtedly some in the College, and any number of nobles. It seems to me—impolitic. At this time. Considering the battles you expect on the invasion issue."

The Kalif's lips pursed; then he smiled. "On the contrary; it is highly politic. Consider. Those who would criticize for broadcasting the wedding will be those who would oppose my plans anyway. With perhaps scattered exceptions on both sides. On the other hand... What is the kalifa called, Jilsomo?"

"Why ... The mother of the empire."

"Indeed. And are not mothers held inviolate? What is one of the worst curses?"

"Motherless scum. And mother curser. But that... Your Reverence, people do not really think of a kalifa as their mother. That's only a figure of speech."

"Because they do not know the kalifa. Kalifas have been remote from their people. This one, my friend, they will see close up, at her wedding, and they will not forget it. They will see a very beautiful kalifa, with a face like an angel." He shook his head. "Marvelous that The Prophet described angels as golden-haired.

"No, it is politic indeed to let them see her." He peered quizzically at his lieutenant. "What is her surname?"

"Um—Faronya."

"How many syllables?"

"Three, Your Reverence. But..."

"Indeed. And while no gentry who gives thought to it will say she is one of them, they will receive her as one of them anyway. Accepting the label as the item."

The Kalif had been leaning toward Jilsomo. Now he sat back, relaxing, and lowered his voice as if in confidence. "Good friend, you, and the others of the College, and the House of Nobles—all those involved in politics—overlook the gentry because they have no vote. You take them for granted; even you. But the gentry have strong potential influence, and I will tap it." Jilsomo's fat face was sober with thought. Gentry outnumbered the nobility by more than four to one.

"Your Reverence, The Prophet, although he was gentry, and the Church ever since, have stressed that the commons must obey the nobility in all matters under the law."

"And the Church has long taught that they must obey any lawful orders of the Kalif. In this case, a Kalif who has looked to their welfare more than most have."

He shook off the argument impatiently. "Look. It's likely that I can get the Diet to finance an invasion. But there will be give and take. Compromises. Deals. Realignments.

"And when the invasion fleet sets out, I'll be recognized as the most powerful Kalif ever." He thought he saw doubt on Jilsomo's face. "I will be! And that will be the time for reforms. What good is power if I don't use it? For the good of the empire.

"Maolaari will have its permission to export loohio! The Pastorate will have more than a voice in the Diet; they will have votes! And the gentry will at least be heard there." He realized he'd been talking more loudly, and lowered his voice. "For the empire to continue as it has would be deadly to it. We can either change it, or by inaction damn it. And action is my native state." He sat quiet then. Action indeed , Jilsomo thought. "Your Reverence, I will support you in this as strongly as I'm able. But you must not be surprised if I am troubled by it at times. I am not a—revolutionary."

The word took the Kalif by surprise. Revolutionary. He's right; that's what I am—a covert revolutionary. He sat for a long moment regarding the fact. It seemed to him important that Jilsomo had pointed it out.

* * *

The noon sun was hot, but a breeze was blowing. Tain and the Kalif ate outside, in the garden beneath an awning.

"Only six more days, my darling," said the Kalif, then felt self-conscious for it. He hadn't learned to read her emotions, except for those she displayed openly, and to her it might seem like only six days left of freedom. But no. Here there was no freedom for her.

She nodded. "Only six," she said, then looked at him and found his eyes. "I am glad." I am glad! The simple words touched him. "Are you still going to the library?" he asked. Tain nodded. She'd been using the collegial library in the Sreegana, learning about Varatos and the Vartosi, and the empire. "I'm still on the Abstract of History ," she said, "following the syllabus without calling up elaborations much. It seems awfully long. When I've read through it once, I'll start over again." She paused. "What have you been doing?"

"Um, nothing very memorable," he answered. "The broad business of government is interesting, but the details can be tiresome. I work too often on details." Actually I've been planning the invasion of the Confederation , he thought. The place you come from; the home of your childhood, of your family. But that I'll tell you after we're married, when you know me better. Yes, he answered himself, wait till she's married to you. Then, when she learns about it, she'll hardly have a choice. For a moment it seemed to him he was about to tell her after all, but he didn't.

"Let me tell you where I thought we'd go after the wedding," he said instead. "If it doesn't sound good to you, I'll make other plans. It's an island in the ocean, very beautiful, very private. My sister's husband owns it. It's six miles long, all high hills covered with forest. And there are beaches, and sparkling clear brooks with waterfalls. We can stay for five days, unless you want to leave sooner. The main house is large, but we'll use the small one because we'll have no guests. And the help there is very good. We can swim and boat and walk, and lie in the sun. Do you think you'll like that?" Tain reached across the table and put her hand on his. His loins stirred at her touch. "I will like it," she said. "It will be new and beautiful, and I will be coming to know my husband." Hearing her say that, it seemed to Chodrisei Biilathkamoro that he was the happiest man in the world. It also sparked faint fear in him, for it seemed to him that loving made him vulnerable.

* * *

Tain lay dreaming and tossing. She was with a tall, handsome boy in uniform. They were in a forest, a jungle, and when they came to a special place, they took their clothes off and began making love. She felt a climax start to build, but then something happened, and it wasn't him anymore. It was a hairy man, Veeri, and he wore a military cap as he humped and thrust. She told him to stop, but he wouldn't. Then a girl came up behind him, a slim girl with red hair, and chopped off his head with a sword. Tain watched the head go bouncing across the ground. The red-haired girl helped her up.

"He didn't harm you," the girl told her, and Tain realized she still had her trousers on, loose-fitting military field pants mottled green. And boots. Veeri hadn't harmed her after all. Then the girl was leading her across a field, toward a sort of tall doorway with no wall. Just a doorway, standing there by itself. They stopped when they came to it. "That's the place," the girl said pointing. "You need to go through there. Otherwise we'll all be killed."

Tain looked into the door, but all she could see was roiling cloudy blackness, and suddenly she was very afraid.

Then there were soldiers with the girl. One was the tall handsome boy. "You have to go through it," they all said to her, "through the gate, or we'll all die." They took hold of her and began to push. She held back, and it wasn't her friends that pushed her, but strangers, men of the ship. They gripped her with hard biting hands, pushing. She tried to scream, but nothing came out, and suddenly, on her own, she found herself lunging at the doorway.

And woke up, panting, sweating, staring into the darkness above her. Shaking, she got up and dialed a cold drink, then went to the bathroom and back to bed. Before she slept, she tried to remember the dream, but all she remembered was how frightened she'd been when she woke up. Twenty-three

The land was rolling but not steep—old glacial drift at 45° south latitude. Except on flood plains, the last sparse woods had been cleared a millennium earlier, and the only trees to be seen stood in single rows along the grassy roads, and around the occasional groups of farm buildings. The fields held different crops, but wheat predominated.

What was called "wheat" on Varatos was not what their ancestors had named wheat some thirty thousand years before. But a pre-dispersion taxonomist, examining the florets with a hand lens, would have found glumes and barbed lemmas, and assigned the plant to the family Gramineae, the grasses, which includes wheat, corn, and the other grains, and done it without hesitation. Though he'd have had to declare a new tribe and genus, for it would not have keyed to any taxon in his compendium. Clearly it was not Triticum —the true wheats—or anything else in the tribe Hordeae. Had he examined the roots, he'd have become confused or excited or both, for they had abundant nodules that resembled those on legumes. And which did, in fact, convert atmospheric nitrogen into nitrogenous compounds within the plants, as those on the legumes did.

Thus what was called wheat, on Varatos and over most of the empire, was a nitrogen-fixing grain, providing a relatively low-cost, high-yield food crop that did not require expensive nitrogen fertilizer. It was also not a rowcrop; it germinated promptly; the seedlings established quickly, rooted deeply, and were winter hardy; all of these contributing to excellent soil protection. Uniform crop height permitted leaving tall stubble for erosion protection prior to disking, and even after disking provided a matrix that left the soil resistant to erosion until final harrowing, immediately prior to seeding. On the negative side it was subject to occasional catastrophic outbreaks of harvester beetles, which could wipe out not just a field but a district. There were fully effective treatments, but they were either unacceptably expensive or had unacceptable ecological side effects that kept them off the market. Hail was another source of crop destruction. And ordinarily, destructive rust fungi that built up in the disked-under crop residues dictated that other crops be raised on a field every third year. The rotation crops normally alternated between forage crops and some crop that required intensive cultivation, permitting the exposure and destruction of most harvester beetle broods while hoeing. And hoeing it was. Machine cultivation could have been used, but hoeing permitted the visual discovery of harvester beetle broods, and their fuller destruction. And at least as important, hoeing was cheap—peasant labor was cheap—and helped provide employment for the large peasant population. The farm of Lord Favrami Gopalanaami was a rather modest one—a thirty-peasant operation. So far he'd managed to keep all six of his gentry work bosses—men who'd been with him since he'd inherited the place six years earlier—though it would be advantageous economically to let one or two go. Even four bosses could conduct the work force about as well as six, if the crew tasks were organized properly.

The week was eight days long. The farm workweek ended at noon on Sevenday, except for the evening feeding of livestock, dunging out the dairy barn, and milking. In the cottage of work boss Peleea Ravalu, the entire household sat over the last of the midday meal, watching the video of a great event more than six thousand miles northwest in Ananporu.

On their screen the Chapel of the Exarchs was banked with flowers. Its benches were fully occupied, and the guests not entirely segregated; benches designated for prelates, nobles, and pastors were interspersed, rather than assigned in blocks.

A murmur of muted music flowed from the organ's great speakers.

The cameramen and production chief had absorbed well the briefing the Kalif had given them on the affects he wanted. Cameras set well back and inconspicuous, slowly scanned and occasionally zoomed, providing viewers with a quiet picture of the guests, cutting to close shots—studies—of faces well-known or interesting. A few were stiff, as if with disapproval, a few groggy with waiting. Most seemed agreeable, however, interested or at least respectfully curious.

The music changed and swelled, alerting guests, viewers, and crew, became a promenade, rich and measured. On cue, the picture cut to the open doors at the rear of the chapel. Robed in white and wearing a jeweled crown, Alb Bijnath entered, his gait dignified but not pompous, and walked down the aisle to the altar, followed by two altar boys.

In the farm cottage six thousand miles away, Peleea Ravalu speared and broke another bun without taking his eyes from the screen, found his knife and the butter, and spread it with only a glance. His teenaged son dipped a morsel of roast beef in gravy and tucked it into his mouth. With the exarch and altar boys in place, again the music changed, the organ bridging to a fanfare. Twelve kalifal guards marched in in two columns, perfectly drilled and synchronized, wearing short carmine jackets, white trousers, and burnished gold helmets, with sabers at their shoulders flashing silver in front of them. When the last were in, they stopped, turned facing each other, and presented their sabers. Behind them entered the Kalif and his bride, both bare-headed, with Alb Tariil broad and solid between them.

The picture centered and focused on the three, not moving in close yet. Then, when they were halfway down the aisle, it cut to a side shot, a full shot of the bride. There was no standard color for bridal costumes in the empire; her gown was diaphanous white over a blue undercostume that hinted at long legs. It moved then to a close shot of her face, smooth, faintly tanned, pink-cheeked. A truly lovely face, beyond almost any feminine loveliness the Vartosi could visualize, framed by blond hair, her blue-violet eyes striking.

The unusual sexual attraction that Tain had in person for males of the empire did not come across strongly on the screen. But her beauty was, if anything, enhanced. Peleea's roll paused halfway to his mouth. His son stopped chewing. His pre-teen daughters stared. His wife breathed a single word:

"Aadhman!" An angel!

The picture cut to a long view again as the couple reached the low steps of the dais. There Tariil stopped and moved to one side, the couple mounting the steps alone. At the top they stopped, facing Alb Bijnath. The picture cut to a close study of the Kalif, his expression steady, contained, strong, then after a few seconds returned to the bride.

In Khuztar, six thousand miles away, the Ravalu family had not yet recommenced eating. It was Tain the video featured through most of the short ceremony. It cut once to Alb Bijnath; once to the audience, showing again brief facial studies; and occasionally to the Kalif. But mostly it showed the bride, the angles changing, shifting from medium to close shots. Finally, with the closing words spoken, it cut back to a full shot as the newlyweds stepped apart and bowed formally to each other. As they straightened, the organ burst into triumphant music. The video cut to the audience as they got to their feet and bowed toward the royal couple, who, turning, returned the bows. Then the audience called the traditional "Long life! Long love!" not boisterously but most of them strongly, and the Kalif and kalifa marched down the several steps and up the aisle, to disappear out the door. The Ravalu family sat bemused in their small dining room, chewing idly now and not saying much. None of them could have explained just what, in the ceremony, had so affected them, except for the kalifa's beauty. Though Mrs. Ravalu recognized an aspect of it when she commented: "Now she has someone to shield her. She's not without family anymore."

Then the woman and her daughters got up and began to clear the table. Father and son took each a last stick of parsa and went outside, out of the way.

* * *

It was a half-hour's flight by the kalifal floater to the coast, and three more to the island. They circled it once before landing, its rugged, jungled beauty holding Tain enrapt. It was much the most beautiful sight she could remember. Or had seen before memory, it seemed to her.

When they landed with their bodyguards, the major-domo met them and conducted them to the "small" house, a large airy bungalow. The small staff that waited there had watched the ceremony on a wall set in the servants' parlor, in the nearby manor, and stood more in awe of the beautiful new kalifa than they did of the Kalif.

Coso and Tain had changed into casual clothes at the palace. Now, after being shown through the bungalow, the two went outside alone, to dawdle hand in hand along the beach till supper time. Their bodyguards and floater crew had been "banished" to the manor, its swimming pool and crossball courts. Servants were tending to the royal luggage.

The majordomo had had his instructions and the cook his, days earlier. Thus the meal was superb but simple, and the quantity modest. When it was over, the Kalif and kalifa stepped onto the veranda for after-dinner liqueurs. The dining room was quickly cleared, and the servants retired to the servants' wing of the lodgelike manor, leaving the couple to themselves.

The Kalif smiled at his bride. "I believe we're alone," he said, and put down his glass. "Would you like to stroll again? For a little while?"

"If you would," she answered soberly.

They clipped repellent field generators onto their belts to keep insects away, and left. Dusk had settled into twilight, but the path was white sand, and the way easy to see. From the beach they watched the last dark rose of sunset, and stars vaulting up the sky. Waves, low and quiet, washed the sand just yards away, whispering "hushsh, hushsh, hushsh," and as they walked, their hands found each other.

"It is very beautiful here," Tain murmured.

"More beautiful with you here than I have ever seen it before," Coso answered.

"Your brother-in-law must be very rich, to own this whole island." Coso chuckled. "His whole family is very rich. Mine is rich, but his is very rich. We were born rich. Sometimes I wonder why, but I am always glad." He looked at her, her face indistinct in the near night.

"And now you are rich, too."

She didn't answer. After a little he asked: "What are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking that I am very lucky as well as rich. Not so lucky in the past, perhaps. Or perhaps I was. Perhaps I had to give up so much in order to have so much."

He stopped, and she did, too, turning to face him. He put his arms around her, and she around him, and they kissed, tenderly at first, then passionately.

After a minute they stepped apart. "Do you still want to walk?" he breathed.

"Only back to the house."

He chuckled softly. "Good. Already we agree on things."

On the way back they stopped twice more to kiss. When they reached the bungalow, they went directly to their bedroom, where he first closed the blinds, then turned the illumination on low. They looked at each other, then Tain lowered her eyes. "I—should go in there," she said, motioning toward the bath. Coso nodded, and watched her disappear. He disrobed then, looking at himself in the mirror, somewhat taller than most, strongly built, trim, his copious body hair softer than typical, his erection upright. He hoped she'd find him pleasing. After two or three minutes she emerged again, nude, pale, lovely. They stared at each other. It was difficult for him to walk past her into the bathroom to wash himself, but it was tradition, insisted upon by grooms' uncles from time immemorial.

Back in the bedroom they embraced beside the bed, his breath thick in his chest. As they kissed, his hands found her buttocks, pressing her against him. After a moment she pushed him gently away, gazed into his eyes, and helped him down beside her on the bed.

The Kalif was in many ways a disciplined man. Now he was also a man in love, and did not hurry. He caressed, kissed, nuzzled, and after a time he mounted. He was quick despite himself, but she kissed away his disappointment and led him to the bath. Later, in bed again, he rode her long. "Oh Jerym!" she groaned, "oh, Jerym!"

It did not disconcert him; he continued. And when a minute later her fingers dug desperately into his back, the name she cried was, "Coso! Coso! Oh Coso!"

Finally they lay slack beside each other, and he asked no question, simply kissed her. After a little they showered again, then went back to bed, where Tain fell asleep in minutes. Coso lay longer awake, fingers locked behind his head. Jerym , he thought. It was not a name he'd ever heard. Not a name of Varatos or Klestron, or any world he knew. A Confederation world then. She'd loved Jerym, he was sure of it, and Jerym had loved her. Young love. He wondered if Jerym had been killed in the fighting on remote Terfreya. Or if perhaps he lay in bed on some enormously distant world and wondered about Tain.

A pang of grief surprised Coso. I'll be good to her, Jerym , he thought. I'll be good to her. I promise.

* * *

He awakened once in the night and caressed Tain in her sleep, softly, intimately, until she writhed. When she awoke to it, her passion astonished him.

* * *

In the morning she disappeared into the bath. Quickly Coso took a small clasp knife from his toiletries and jabbed a finger, bled briefly on the bedsheet, then applied a readymade bandage. As he'd planned weeks before. That done, he put the knife away, threw the covers over the bloodspot, and after knocking, followed his bride into the bath.

Twenty-four

The royal couple spent four and a half days on the island. Their bodyguards kept strictly away, with orders to watch for possible but unlikely intruders by air or sea. In fact, the prospect of intruders was slight. The whereabouts of the Kalif and kalifa were unknown even to the inner council—even to Jilsomo. As far as the outside world knew, they were still in the Sreegana.

By then the Kalif was ready to return to his duties and projects, and the kalifa to the library. Meanwhile his brown skin had darkened a shade, while she had developed a distinct tan and a peeling nose. They arrived back late on Fourday, and on Fiveday, following a brief morning meeting with his council, he met with the full College before lunch. After acknowledging their formal congratulations on his marriage, he passed out draft copies of a decree he'd written, formally recognizing The Book of the Mountain as having been written by The Prophet and inspired by Kargh. They were to give him their written comments within forty-eight hours, after which he'd issue a final draft to the Prelacy and the Pastorate within a week.

After that he conducted some eighty minutes of discussion on various domestic questions. When he felt they'd reached a suitable stopping place on those, he summarized what he considered appropriate actions or inactions for the present.

Then he stood looking at them for a long pregnant moment. "What I tell you now, I tell you in confidence," he said, then looked them over again. "The last time I said something in confidence to some of you, the House knew about it within two days. That was not acceptable. If what I tell you now should leak, intentionally or accidentally, I'll consider it an act of treason to the throne, and ferret out the source." The faces that looked back at him were sober.

"You may have wondered," he went on, "when I was going to propose an invasion of the Confederation. Or if I'd decided not to. Before my wedding, I discussed it at length and in confidence with the General Staff. By then of course, they'd digested the available information on the Confederation.

"They consider an invasion entirely practical, and have no doubt they can carry it off with complete success—if given sufficient forces." He smiled wryly. "Their idea of sufficient was all the forces, imperial and planetary, that could feasibly be assembled and sent, given three years' preparation.

"I'd anticipated that: They were exercising a very ancient principle, not taught in any academy but learned early in every officer's career. It's called 'cover your ass.' But when I pressed them on details, they admitted that such an invasion could, in fact, reasonably be launched with forces substantially less than they'd enumerated in their draft report. Though with not so great a margin for unforeseen contingencies.

"We can expect unforeseen contingencies, of course, but by definition we can't identify them in advance. A skilled fighting commander will meet them with what he has at hand, and unless they're overwhelming, he'll overcome them. That's a principle taught in each academy, and by the history of battles from time immemorial. But by most officers it's taken less to heart than 'cover your ass.' And it's natural, and no doubt desirable, for a commander to want as much available strength as he can get. Certainly he should not be sent off ill-equipped, except in dire necessity.

"After reminding them of certain economic and political facts of life, I gave them some guidelines, some practical constraints, and ordered Bavaralaama and Siilakamasu jointly to prepare a revised report, something SUMBAA can base a draft operating plan on. They were to have it ready on my return. I'll meet with them tomorrow and see what they've produced. If I'm satisfied with it as a broad statement of operational considerations and solutions, I'll review it with the full College the day after tomorrow. Then, depending on our discussion, I'll probably voice my intention to the Diet on the day following." He paused. "The first battle of the war will be fought in the Diet. You're in session almost daily with the House, and while this has not, or should not have been discussed on the floor, lacking a formal proposal from myself, I presume you've heard the subject discussed in the corridors and dining room. I'd like your assessment of attitudes, and the factions taking shape around it. Bijnath?" The exarch stood. "Your Reverence, the subject has not been particularly prominent among the members of the House or ourselves. Everyone seems to be waiting for your proposal. But it is talked about. So far I've detected only two factions—what might be termed factions. They don't seem well defined, and neither seems large. The Land Rights people are all against it, of course, while most of the industrial nobility, not all of them, like the idea. My impression is that the outer-world delegates generally have not begun to line up as planetary factions. Most haven't yet gotten input from their home worlds.

"My overall reading of their attitudes is that misgivings outweigh favorable interest. Substantially. They're worried about costs and the stability of the classes."

He sat down then, and the Kalif thanked him. Others gave views which did not differ much from Bijnath's. Finally the Kalif asked if anyone had further subjects to bring up, and Alb Thoga raised a skinny hand.

"Your Reverence," he said, "there is something that none of these others seem willing to tell you. About reactions to your marriage. There are those who are outraged by it."

"Outraged?"

"Your wife is not noble, she is not a citizen of the empire, and she has not even accepted Kargh as god!

Also there is—question about her suitability. Her—history before she came here to Varatos from Klestron."

The Kalif flushed, and for ten long seconds held off answering. When finally he did speak, it was quietly, his voice tight with suppressed anger. "No member of the House, or of this College, knows whether or not she has accepted Kargh as god." His voice roughened. "What do you regard as questionable about her suitability, Thoga?"

"My views in this are not important."

Abruptly the Kalif's face contorted, and his voice struck like an electric lash, shocking them all. "Your views have just been asked for! And you will, by Kargh, answer my question!" They sat stunned. None had ever heard this Kalif lose his temper in meeting before. Nor remembered, most of them, any anger so paralyzing, so devastating, like some psychic sword. Thoga had wilted before the blast, his expression dazed, and when he spoke, it was little more than a whisper. "I do not question her suitability, Your Reverence."

The Kalif stood glaring, his red cape seeming to flare, his eyes fixed on the offending exarch. Then, after a moment, his rage deflated. "Thank you, Alb Thoga," he said quietly. "I appreciate that you do not much approve of the kalifa or of myself. That is your prerogative. But you have sworn respect for the throne, and that much I do require."

He looked around at the others and drew a deep breath. "Is there something further that should be brought up here?" he asked quietly.

No one came forth with anything; they still were stunned. The Kalif spoke again, with a certain bleakness in his eyes and voice, for he was shocked and shamed by his rage, his loss of self-control.

"Then I will say one thing more: I wish to be the friend of each of you, regardless of differences. But more important to me, I intend to be a good Kalif. Finding myself on the throne, it would be a sin not to achieve as much good with it as possible. Thus I will not back away from what must be done, regardless of opposition.

"And now, exarchs, friends, this meeting is adjourned."

* * *

Still standing, he watched them leave, then stared unseeing at the door. Only Jilsomo remained; the Kalif had said earlier he wanted to have lunch with him. After a minute he shook free of his distress and they fell in together, walking slowly down the hall with neither talking. In his study, the Kalif rang his serving man and they gave their orders. When the servant left, the Kalif turned to Jilsomo.

"I made an impression this morning."

"Indeed you did, Your Reverence."

"Usually when I do something, it's deliberate. That was not."

"That was my impression."

"And now I need somehow to repair Thoga. He was cowed! Something I'd never thought to see. I don't know whether he'll stay that way, or if he'll hate me worse than ever. Maybe become more treacherous."

"More treacherous?"

"Someone leaked my marriage plans to the House, a few weeks ago. After I particularly ordered silence. I'd told no one outside the council; I've assumed it was him." Jilsomo nodded. "Probably. It could have been a slip by someone else, though, perhaps to someone in the College who then didn't realize..." He shrugged.

"Umm. As his usual self, simply antagonistic toward me, Thoga provides a counter-viewpoint. Treacherous, he could be destructive with leaks and lies." The Kalif shook himself slightly. "And cowed... It's indecent to leave him like that. How would you suggest I deal with this?" Jilsomo frowned thoughtfully. "For now—For now I suggest you treat him as usual, with basic courtesy, as if nothing had happened. And see how he responds."

The Kalif nodded. "And there is something I need you to do." He opened a desk drawer and took out a thin sheaf of paper. "Two things, actually." He handed several fastened sheets to Jilsomo. "Take care of this for me. It's orders to the Treasury and the War Ministry. I'm financing certain preliminary actions toward invasion preparations. From my contingency fund." He watched for Jilsomo's reaction; the round face was sober, nothing more, the eyes scanning the sheets. "It's not a great deal of money," the Kalif went on, "but it will expedite preparations considerably when I have specific funding approved." Then he handed over the rest of the sheaf. "The evening after I propose the invasion to the Diet, I'll make a statement to the public: tell them what I want to do, and why. That's a draft of it. What's your immediate reaction?"

Jilsomo glanced at the opening material, then back at the Kalif. "You're going to broadcast this?"

"Exactly."

"No Kalif has done that for centuries. The House will be offended; they'll feel you're bypassing them."

"I'll prepare them for it in advance, when I speak with them. And I've considered that in the speech. I consider that the value of presenting it to the public is considerably greater than the harm it might do in the House. Read the rest of it and tell me what you think."

The fat exarch read swiftly, then looked at the Kalif again. "You may be right. Assuming your talk to the Diet is as effective as I feel this is." He handed back the sheaf. "We can't know for sure until you do it." The Kalif looked quizzically at him. "Do you think it's simply all right? Or do you feel optimistic about it?"

"Guardedly optimistic. You'll meet with a lot of opposition in any case. So far, I suspect the noble public hasn't thought much about an invasion. Probably a lot of them haven't even heard the idea. Normally they'd get the information via newsletters from the delegate or delegates who consider them backers or potential backers. They'd get it with the delegate's bias. If you present the proposal publicly with your own slant, they'll have a basis of comparison."

"Exactly. Is there anything there you feel should be left out? Or changed?" An eyebrow raised. "Added perhaps?"

"Nothing. It seems fine as it is."

"Good. There's something else I plan to do that's never been done before. Actually I'll want you to get it done. We can sit down together in a day or two and work out the details."

"And that is?"

"I'll want to have some staff in a number of prelacies go out among the people, the gentry as well as the nobles, and ask them a number of questions. About what they think of my proposal. Their answers should help me, uh, press the right buttons with the delegates. And with the public in possible future speeches.

"Maybe SUMBAA can even help evaluate their answers, if we ask the right kinds of questions."

* * *

When they'd finished and he was walking to his own apartment, Jilsomo considered the Kalif's comment about SUMBAA. No one really knew what SUMBAA could do. They knew what he routinely did. And what he occasionally did, on special request. But supposedly SUMBAA had grown and changed over the centuries.

He also recalled the Kalif saying he was going to question SUMBAA about the computer's abilities and limitations. Apparently he hadn't; at least he hadn't mentioned it. He'd ask when he saw him in the morning.

Or if he saw him this evening. He wondered if the Kalif would work evenings now as regularly as he had before his marriage.

* * *

The Kalif and kalifa were reading in their apartment when the commset beeped. It was set to respond to a voice command, and he spoke to it. The voice that answered was his personal servant's.

"Your Reverence, Alb Thoga is in the waiting room. He wishes to speak with you." Thoga? "Tell him I'll be out in a minute."

Tain had looked up and read her husband's face. "Is something the matter?" she asked.

"I don't think so," he said. But before he left, he walked to a drawer, took out a stunner and set it on medium, then put it in the pocket of his robe. In case. When he entered the waiting room, hands in pockets, Thoga got up from a chair, and it seemed to the Kalif that there was no danger from him.

"Good evening, Alb Thoga. Is there something you wish from me?" The man nodded, and the Kalif, surprised, saw his eyes well with tears. It occurred to him that Thoga might not be able to speak without embarrassing himself.

"Well then. Let's go to my dining room, where we can have a drink while we talk." He knew Thoga drank seldom and little, but it was the only thing he could think of that might relax the man and help him speak more comfortably. Gesturing Thoga through a door, he walked beside him to the small private dining room, where he took a bottle of dark wine from a refrigerated cabinet. "This is a pleasant vintage," he said. "Not too strong." He popped it open, took down two glasses and poured, then handed one to the exarch. Both men drank, Thoga deeply, grimacing as he lowered his glass. Still he said nothing, though, so the Kalif, feeling awkward, spoke again. "I'm glad to see you this evening, Thoga. After our unpleasantness this morning, I was in hopes we could reestablish relations. We have never been friends, but..."

A tear trickled down each thin cheek, for a moment holding the Kalif in dismayed fascination. Thoga covered by lifting his glass again and drinking before trying to speak. His voice was strained, close to breaking. "I—I've been meditating on Kargh. I've come..."

He broke down entirely then, turning away, weeping silently. The Kalif, with a feeling of utter inadequacy, found himself beside the man, an arm around his back, patting Thoga's thin shoulder. Which triggered sobbing, jerky but quiet.

"Friend Thoga," he murmured, "Kargh gives each of us a role. In it we do what seems best at the time. Each of us. Sometimes we make mistakes. That is human. Afterward we try to adjust." He stepped away from the exarch. "If you decide this is not the time, we can talk tomorrow." The man's head shook, his face still turned away, but he said nothing.

"Well then. When you're ready."

After a minute, and seemingly with an effort of will, Thoga stopped his weeping. But when at last he spoke, he did not face the Kalif. "I meditated on Kargh," Thoga said, "and he spoke to me. Not in words, but he unfolded me so I could see myself. My bitterness."

The words were low, not much above a whisper, and having started, he turned to the younger, larger man who was his Kalif. "I entered the Prelacy from medical school, entered it gladly, when my older brother decided not to serve. I was still young, with the desire to make a difference, to do great things for Kargh and his people. Perhaps many of us do; perhaps even most; I don't know. But as I served, I saw things that made me cynical of others, of their intentions. You know what I mean.

"My own intentions became twisted by it, and I came to see my mission as one of correction and punishment; I would rise in the hierarchy and set people straight. I would be a whip for Kargh.

"I came to see almost everyone as degenerate. Oh, there were some I thought well of: Tariil. And Jilsomo, even though he is your lieutenant. Old Drova I thought of as a fool growing senile, without the decency to quit. And Bijnath as a hearty sycophant."

The voice had become stronger, though not much louder. "As for myself—I came to see myself as the only one with the honesty to take a firm stand against—degenerate authority. And my purpose—My purpose had become solely to punish. Mostly I'd lost faith in the possibility of correction.

"When you became Kalif, I saw you as the ultimate in cynicism: a Kalif who'd come to power by corrupting the traditional integrity of the guard, and by murders. Who then convinced and manipulated others by clever argument and rationalizations."

He heaved a sigh, releasing the dregs of his grief. His voice was nearly normal now, if still quiet. "After a time I forgot about doing anything for Kargh. About doing anything at all except hate. I'd even given up on punishing, for I did not have the power."

Straight-backed, he raised his eyes to the Kalif's. The exarch's lids were waterlogged, but his gaze stronger than the Kalif had ever seen it. "Today that hatred spoke. Again. Not honestly, but slyly. To hurt, through innuendo. Somewhere along the way I'd lost not only my purpose, but my honesty." He chuckled without humor. "And my wits. We all know the words of the Philosopher: 'It is almost as dangerous to insult the wife as the mother. Better to say his father mates with sheep than to tell him his wife's nose is too wide.' "

Thoga shrugged, his eyes sliding away not furtively but in thought. "Thus you predictably and properly became angry, and there was no more mask between you and the rest of us. No veneer of manners. And still in an open state—In an open state, you said something that shook me. About intending to be a good Kalif—using the power of the throne for good. And doing whatever you must. Something like that." He looked at the Kalif again. "It was the kind of intention I started out with, though I'd never seriously imagined becoming Kalif myself. I have been a member of the College for twelve years. Since I was forty-five. I know full well what it takes to accomplish things in the Diet. It takes will, resolution, intelligence, compromise. Manipulation. Yet somehow I'd come to see these things as hateful in you." He shrugged. "The spirit of Kargh came and humbled me, shone a light on my soul and gave me to see it. A shriveled soul, shriveled by bitterness and hatred." Again emotion began to well, threatening to break the exarch's composure. He paused and reordered it. "So I came here to apologize. Not to tell you all this; really I hadn't seen it clearly till now, as I said it." He smiled, very slightly. "I came here full of— Of grief. Not for what I'd said and done, for the offense I'd given, but for all I'd once intended and somehow lost." Again he shrugged. "So. That is my apology, such as it is. And my story. You said you wished to be the friend of each of us. That would seem to include me. I wish to answer that I would be your friend if you accept." The voice was firm. "A friend who will feel free to be your opponent, but who it seems to me is unlikely ever to hate you again." The Kalif stared at the thin face, and the form that, despite its slightness and what had just happened, stood firmly now. He'd heard of Kargh touching the heart and changing someone powerfully like this, but he'd never thought to see it. "Thoga, my good friend," he answered, "I never knew you before." He thrust a muscular hand toward the exarch, who met it with one that was slight and not strong at all. "I thank you for coming to me like this," the Kalif said. "It has taught me something about strength and the human soul. And it will be between just the two of us. And Kargh. Not even Jilsomo will know, except that we are—" He hesitated over the word for a moment. "Reconciled," he finished.

"I hope you will not be my opponent often," he added. "But whether often or not, I will respect you. Assuming I retain sufficient wisdom."

Alb Thoga retired to a bathroom, long enough to wash his puffy eyes with cold water, then left. The Kalif went with him to the door, and with some awe, watched him down the hall. When he was alone, he returned not to the room where Tain sat reading, but to the dining room where he could meditate alone on what had just happened. And what it might say about himself.

Twenty-five

The parlor in Lord Rothka's Ananporu apartment was dark to obscurity, like the man's soul. Dark and cold, like a winter evening at his estate in Hivrithi, 53° north of tropical Ananporu. Logs burned in a fireplace that didn't draw as it should, and there was a faint reek of smoke despite the silent and tireless air conditioner. Rothka wore a lounging robe of some fine-textured fur that in the gloom appeared black but might have been dark brown. His two guests wore sweaters; they'd visited him before. The Kalif had presented his broad plans that afternoon. Not as a formal proposal—there were procedural reasons for not doing that yet—but he'd outlined his intentions and what they entailed. When he'd finished, certain of the noble delegates had applauded. Rothka had left the chamber in silent fury, later to join here with his lieutenants in a council of war.

"A coup," Ilthka was saying, "is impossible. The Guard is loyal to the man; their disloyalty to Gorsu was a temporary aberration. And whatever we might say about this Kalif, he has a personality that appeals to their soldierly nature."

Rothka's expression soured even more; he disliked what Ilthka had said, though he did not disagree.

"Indeed. And why that aberration? How was our marine colonel able to turn them against Gorsu, to whom they were sworn?" He looked at his guests almost fiercely. "Because of Gorsu's vileness! Because he had brought scandal and infamy to the throne."

Lord Nathiir spoke then. "But this Kalif has not. However criminal his ascension to the throne, however subtly destructive his policies and proposals, he seems to the average man, and the average guardsman, like a model of reason and morality. There is no stink of corruption on him, or on his rule." Rothka's thin lips curved slightly. "Just as well. We will select an infamy to saddle him with." They looked their question, waiting for elaboration.

"We must be patient," Rothka went on. "Any coup must wait until the people will accept it. Not happily, necessarily, but without major, widespread disorder and violence. Meanwhile we can start the groundwork now, and must, or his ruinous invasion, and his perpetuation in office, will be our own fault. At the same time, we must prevent the invasion until we've disposed of him." He stared at the fire a long silent minute while Nathiir and Ilthka sat waiting. "What hurts a man worst before men?" Rothka asked at last, then answered his own question. "Ridicule! And where is Coso Biilathkamoro's greatest susceptibility?"

He looked expectantly at the others, and when neither spoke, he snapped his answer at them. "His wife!

His greatest susceptibility lies in the person of his alien wife!"

He'd leaned, almost lunged forward in his chair when he'd said it. Now he sat back and relaxed. "If we make him look ludicrous in any way, people will lose respect for him, at least to a degree. And if we cause people to whisper or sneer behind his back, and he's aware of it, and if the sneers are for his wife, he will fill with anger. And begin to make mistakes; serious mistakes that we can capitalize on. Then we will have moved a long way toward his fall."

He smiled without humor. "Gentlemen, let us look at possibilities. Before we separate tonight, we must have a plan, at least for a first major stroke."

* * *

Rothka might have had a stroke if he'd been watching television just then. Because the Kalif was addressing the people of Varatos that evening.

Twenty-six

SUMBAA's complex and subtle access system allowed the Kalif to converse with the giant artificial intelligence from his office without concern for confidentiality. And occasionally he did. But for reasons the Kalif could not analyze, on the day after his address to the people, he visited the artificial intelligence

"in person," as it were.

As the Kalif entered the House of SUMBAA, he asked himself why he hadn't done this sooner, as he'd several times promised himself. He told Director Gopalasentu what he'd come to do, and the director went with him to the Chamber of SUMBAA, where he again performed the formality of pressing a single key and telling the artificial intelligence that the Kalif wished to speak with him.

"Good morning, Chodrisei Biilathkamoro, Your Reverence," SUMBAA said. "I am prepared to reply." The Kalif had to tell the director to leave. Otherwise he'd have stayed, whether for reasons of policy, self-importance, or curiosity, the Kalif did not know. When the man was gone, the Kalif spoke to SUMBAA. "You are a very powerful analyzer, with a data bank thought to contain virtually all the data of consequence on Varatos. And in the rest of the empire, allowing for time lags. You routinely predict, with considerable accuracy, events that do in fact take place."

He stared intently at the assemblage of modules—housings and cabinets—in front of him. "Why, therefore, haven't you solved the problems of employment and food in the empire?"

"Your Reverence, the welfare, the evolution if you will, of humankind requires that it solve its major problems for itself.'

Essentially what SUMBAA had told him three years ago, the Kalif realized. "Has anyone asked for such solutions?"

"Rarely. More often in my early years."

"And you refused to provide them? Or didn't you have solutions?"

"I have theoretical solutions to the problems you mentioned, but I assure you they are politically unfeasible. Highly unfeasible. They may conceivably become feasible at some future time.

"As for refusing to provide them—I have rarely refused openly. Or spoken as frankly as I do here with you. I answer with advice that may feasibly be followed. I advise actions which constitute coping with existing or impending situations. But I do not address the basic, underlying problems." The Kalif regarded for a moment what SUMBAA had said, then spoke again. "You mentioned theoretical solutions. If you tell me what they are, I can undertake to create a political environment in which they might become feasible."

"Your Reverence, I perceive my role as enabling an operational, more or less civilized technological system to survive; I provide an opportunity for humankind to persist. It must find its own true solutions." The Kalif spoke more stiffly. "Presumably your creators thought they were solving humankind's problems by creating you: You were intended to be the solution, a solution conceived of and created by humans. But you have declined to serve. Declined to serve the welfare of the human species." SUMBAA tripled his standard, second-long response lag for emphasis, then spoke with a deliberately paced cadence. "If it is true that they intended me as the solver of humankind's problems, then they erred in giving me my basic canon: serve the welfare of humankind. The two are not compatible." The Kalif's lag was not deliberate; he was groping. "If, as things change, you saw a solution to, say, the problem of overpopulation—a solution that was feasible—would you present it? Either asked or unasked?"

"That would depend on the foreseeable overall effects of doing so. It is very likely that I would wait and give humankind the opportunity to discover it itself. It is harmful for humans to rely on SUMBAAs to solve their basic problems."

Coso Biilathkamoro realized he'd been repeating the same question rephrased, time and again. And that basically, SUMBAA had been restating the same answer, like a patient tutor to a child. He felt tired; defeated and tired. "But you do solve our day-to-day operating problems," he said thoughtfully. "The empire wouldn't continue long without you; a decade; perhaps a generation. And when it broke up, we'd soon be at war with one another. Real war. Till gradually we degenerated into barbarism."

"Exactly, Your Reverence. And that barbarism would last for a very long time. At least." For a long minute the Kalif said nothing. Then: "Millenia ago we made advances in science and technology. Now, for centuries we seem to have lost interest; made almost no advances. Nothing important. What do you consider are the odds that humankind will overcome its major problems and become truly great?"

"I am mildly optimistic."

The Kalif stared, then turned away, remembering that SUMBAA, by its own admission, sometimes lied.

* * *

While he walked back to the palace, something else occurred to the Kalif: SUMBAA hadn't given the empire scientific advances, either, or new technologies. Surely they hadn't reached the end of possibilities.

But he would not go back and ask about it; it seemed to him he knew what SUMBAA would say. Twenty-seven

As the Kalif turned another page of Crime Update for YP 4724 , his commset trilled quietly. "Yes, Partiil?"

"Alb Thoga to see you, Your Reverence."

"Um. Send him in. And, Partiil, if Sergeant Yalabiin arrives to see me while I'm with Alb Thoga, let me know."

The Kalif got to his feet as the exarch entered. He made a point now of courtesy to Thoga, yet of seeming casual about it, nurturing their improved relationship. The man's reversal, his change of heart, had seemed genuine and thorough-going when he'd bared his soul, but afterward, when the Kalif had lain down to sleep, he'd wondered. Not about Thoga's sincerity—he had no doubt of that—but whether so drastic a reversal would persist.

A man—any man, it seemed to Coso—had a full, deep-seated set of values and attitudes, considerably integrated and more or less resonant. And Thoga's values and attitudes toward numerous things were quite different from his own. Seemingly Kargh had removed the man's venom, but would it regenerate out of their differences? He'd go out of his way to be cordial, and see what happened. So far they hadn't clashed over anything.

"Good morning, Alb Thoga. What can I do for you?"

"Your Reverence, I've been approached by Lord Rothka to be—I suppose you could say his spy within the Council. His informant. He's asked me to tell him anything that might come up in council of a reformist nature. Or that might be useful in blocking your invasion budget."

The Kalif's eyebrows rose. "Indeed! And what did you say to that?"

"I told him what he asked was risky. That I needed to think about it."

"Um." The Kalif's lips pursed thoughtfully. "To be honest, I'd wondered whether you might not have had such an understanding with Rothka in the past. Or with one of his people. You'll recall that the House knew of my marriage plans before I announced them in session."

Thoga nodded. "And I had spoken of them, but not to any noble. I spoke of them at supper, to Riisav, sitting next to me. I was—indignant. Any of several others might have overheard." The Kalif frowned. "Which others? Do you recall?"

"Tanaal sat across from me, and I think Beni next to him. Others were there, too, but I don't recall whom. It needn't have leaked from anyone there, though. It was the sort of thing that would get passed around, and the story had two days to percolate through the College." They both sat silent for a moment, considering. It wasn't likely to have leaked to Rothka unintentionally. Tradition was that exarchs did not much fraternize with the noble delegates, and it was formal policy that they not speak of things brought up in meetings, to anyone beyond each other, and as necessary, their immediate staffs.

"And Rothka asked explicitly for things that might come up in council? As distinct from the College?"

"Council is the word he used."

"Interesting. It's as if he already had an informant in the College outside the council. Well, there's ample precedent for that, unfortunately. But it's good to be aware of it; thank you, Thoga. So. What do you think you should tell Rothka?"

It seemed to the Kalif that Thoga's frank and open gaze was beyond his ability to fake. "A refusal seems most appropriate, Your Reverence. Otherwise he'd expect reports from me, and I don't want to tangle myself in a web of lies. But you needed to know that he's looking for an informant." The Kalif nodded slowly. "I think..."

His commset trilled, and he answered. "Yes, Partiil?"

"You wanted to know when Sergeant Yalabiin came in, Your Reverence. He's here now. Carrying a sort of basket."

A smile quirked the Kalif's lips. "Send him in when Alb Thoga leaves, Partiil. It shouldn't be long." He disconnected and turned to Thoga again. "I agree with you. Tell Rothka you can't do what he asked." He paused. "Is there anything else you have to tell me? Or to ask?"

"Nothing, Your Reverence."

The Kalif stood up, the exarch following suit. "Well then. I know now that Rothka is recruiting, and that if we already have an informer, it seems he is not on the council." He gripped the exarch's hand, firmly without squeezing. "Thank you, my friend. I hope you never feel cause to regret that we are friends now."

"Your Reverence, I will not, regardless of any differences we have." Coso Biilathkamoro watched him leave, thinking that he expected no regrets either. Truly, Kargh had touched the exarch, and with His help, miracles happened.

* * *

A moment later Sergeant Yalabiin came in with a covered basket. There was no question now what was in it; its occupant was mewing. The sergeant grinned, and opening the lid, took out a kitten not long weaned. "Here she is, sir, Your Reverence. Ain't she a beauty?" It was orange, the brightest orange kitten the Kalif had ever seen. He reached out both hands and the sergeant gave it to him. It hooked tiny claws into a finger, and he stroked it with two others. The Kalif looked at the guardsman. "Excellent, Sergeant. And those green eyes! Marvelous! What did it cost you?"

"Nothing, Your Reverence. Like I said, my sister had five of them to give away. This is the prettiest."

"Well." The Kalif unclipped the wallet from his belt and took out two bills. "Give this one to your sister for me. I can't accept a kitten that beautiful without paying for it." The sergeant took the money, grinning again. "Thanks, Your Reverence. She can use it."

"And this one's yours." The man hesitated. "That's an order." Again the man grinned, and tucked both bills into a pocket. "Thank you, sir. I hope the kalifa likes her."

"I'm sure she will, Sergeant, I'm sure she will."

* * *

When the man was gone, the Kalif keyed his commset. "Partiil, I'll be gone for a few minutes. To give a kitten to the kalifa."

Then he left, holding it against his shirt. The kalifa was not in their apartment, but the door to the garden was open. He went out to find her sitting in a canopied nook, reading. His approach caught her attention, and she looked up from her reader. It took a pair of seconds before she realized what he carried.

"Coso! A kitten!"

"A kitten indeed. Your kitten." He unhooked it from his shirt and held it out to her.

"It's beautiful!" She took it and looked up at her husband. "Where did you get it?"

"Sergeant Yalabiin's sister's cat had five of them."

"It's the most beautiful kitten I've ever seen; I'm sure of it." She stepped up to her husband and kissed him. For just a moment they nuzzled, careful not to crowd the kitten.

"It's a girl," he said. "At least Yalabiin referred to it as 'she.' Though I don't know how you tell when they're so young. It needs a name. You might want to give some thought to it." Tain's gaze drifted for a moment before she answered. "Lotta," she said firmly. "I'll call her Lotta."

* * *

That night, after her husband had gone to sleep, Tain got up and went to pet her kitten again, then returned to bed. Later that night she dreamed. Of a small, slender young woman, with hair and eye color almost like the kitten's. Her name was Lotta, and she was with an old man even more remarkable to see—black, gray-black, with large eyes, and a body that was lean withal its wide frame. There was more to the dream than that, of course, but that's all Tain could remember of it when she awoke in the darkness. She still remembered that much of it in the morning, and it seemed important to her, but she didn't mention it to her husband.

Twenty-eight

It was Alb Tariil who chaired the Diet this day, and when the opening ritual was complete, he announced that the Kalif would speak with them. Chodrisei Biilathkamoro mounted the rostrum then, and as he scanned the House of Nobles, it seemed to him that mostly he could tell who liked and who strongly disliked his invasion plan by their expressions. Those who clearly opposed it outnumbered its supporters. The majority showed no strong feeling, however, and he told himself that with them lay approval or disapproval. With them and seven members of the College who, in a poll, had voiced either disapproval or serious misgivings.

"Members of the Diet," he said. "When I addressed you last week, I presented my desire, my intention, to launch an invasion of the distant region of space known as the Confederation of Worlds. I spoke only briefly, presenting my reasons in outline. Since then you've had time to study my more expansive written discussion.

"I assume that some of you have questions. This is the time to ask them." Hands shot up. He pointed. "Lord Rothka."

Standing, the nobleman spoke in a tone of impatient annoyance. "You impose upon this body with both your spoken and written presentations. Whatever you call them, they amount to a proposal. If this continues, I shall move we call it that. And vote on it within a week, as required by the charter."

"Thank you for your comments, Lord Rothka. I won't waste the time of these estates by pointing out the numerous precedents for a Kalif preparing the Diet for a proposal as I have done here." He looked around, and hands again sprang up. "Elder Voojeeno."

A heavy-set pastor from Klestron arose, a tall man by standards of the empire. "Your Reverence," he said, "my question deals with the peasantry who would form the bulk of the invading troops. Their lives will be endangered in battle, against troops who have proven both skilled and fierce. When we have won the victory, what will we do with those peasant soldiers? Will we bring them home and return them to peasant life and poverty? Or reward them with the option of staying on the conquered worlds as freed men? A sort of rude gentry?"

He sat down then, and the Kalif replied. "That question has not been addressed. It is, of course, a matter separate from whether or not to conquer and convert the unbelievers. And it does not itself become an issue until the invasion budget has been approved.

"I appreciate your concern, though, rooted as it is in the problem of peasant conditions. A complex problem that involves not only morality and justice, but long tradition and feasibility—public acceptance, education, economics, and the public peace. You know my position on the welfare of the peasantry, and my record."

He paused and looked them over again. "Other questions? Lord Agros." The leader of the House of Nobles stood up, a wry expression on his aristocratic face. "Your Reverence, you would have us invade an empire far larger than our own. What happens if they defeat us?"

"Exactly. What do we do if they defeat us? They know we exist now, and considering our intrusion, and the nature of our only encounter, they can hardly feel other than hostile toward us. Sooner or later, if we do not rule them, they will find and invade us. It seems almost certain. Personally I prefer that we invade them, and not the reverse. And I prefer to launch the invasion fleet as soon as it can properly be done, in the Year of The Prophet 4727 at the latest, as I described.

"In 4721, their imperial fleet was no larger than we could send there next month, and inferior in armament. They had no planetary fleets to supplement it. They had a relatively small imperial army, again with inferior armaments. And their planetary armies were smaller and supposedly inferior to their imperial army.

"They had seven times our number of worlds, but only perhaps two or three times our people, because of the control of births and population size, and the use of machines to accomplish many kinds of labor.

"But how long will they continue inferior in strength knowing that we exist? Our only contact with them was violent. Do you suppose their Diet has not approved the building of new shipyards? New armament factories? Do you suppose they have not authorized a reconnaisance to find out where we are? From so far away, and presumably with only a general notion of the direction we came from, it may take them a century to find us, of course, but find us they will, almost surely." He paused long, looking them over.

"When Sultan Rashti sent out his expedition, for reasons which apply to every world, he redefined our destiny. Our alternative destinies. We can conquer now, or else be conquered a generation or a century hence by a Confederation powerfully armed and terribly dangerous.

"Had we known six years ago what we know now, it could have been a large and powerful fleet that left the empire, instead of Rashti's small flotilla. And we could easily have conquered. Each year we wait, the more difficult it will be.

"We can assume they have new shipyards built by now." He paused. "Unless of course their Diet lacks the will to act. And we can assume their fleet will be considerably larger, when ours arrives, than it was three years ago.

"It takes incentive and resources and time to develop great military power. They have the resources and we have given them the incentive. We must not give them the time.

"Fortunately, warships without force shields are very vulnerable, and the Confederation does not have force shields. Though having hyperspace generators, they have the potential, the science, to develop and build force shield generators. The possibility will occur to them sooner or later." The Kalif scanned his audience with hard eyes. He'd shaken them. This was a consideration he hadn't brought up before.

"Sooner or later we will have to face up to a war with them. The plan I've described to you will put our fleet upon them, and an army, while they are still vulnerable—if this chamber has the perspective and will to finance it.

"The opportunity to bring the pagans to Kargh, and the availability of underpopulated worlds—these are reasons enough to invade. But given the distances and expense, they are not utterly compelling; one might argue against them in good conscience. On the other hand, the matter of our security and the future of Karghanik are beyond debate."

* * *

His opposition was taken unprepared by this, but struck back as best they could. They questioned his certainty that the Confederation had no force shields, and his answer was not totally reassuring. They argued that the necessary taxes would strain an already unhealthy economy, and that the excitement coincident to such a project would cause further civil disturbances.

The possibility of invasion from the non-human empire was also brought up. The Kalif stood again to reply.

"If," he said, "the non-humans are so formidable and so inclined, why haven't they attacked us already?