by John Dalmas
Eltrienn shook his head. "Nothing like that would happen here. Hrum forbids it."
Brokols looked uncertainly at his guide. "But the things he said . . ."
"That's another thing. They aren't convinced yet; they don't know Vessto. Rantrelli may consider him a sage, but to the crowd he's from a far province, an unknown quantity. Without enough recognition to draw a larger crowd, even today, a Freeday, even though he's spoken before."
They were at a side gate now, and after Eltrienn had given an order to the guards there, got down from the shay. Two of the guards took their bags and put them in the gatehouse for temporary safekeeping. Another mounted the seat and drove away. Brokols was sure they'd looked strangely at him. "He's spoken before? How do you know?"
"Half the crowd were farmers. By their clothes. So he's spoken before, enough that some people, in from the country, have come round to hear what he has to say. But it sounds strange to them."
They walked through the arch-topped gate that penetrated the thick wall.
"The purpose of Vessto speaking to them is to raise wide concern and disapproval among the people," Eltrienn continued, "and force the Two Estates to consider replacing Leonessto Hanorissio as amirr. That's the procedure for removing an amirr. And to get anywhere with it, unless the amirr is criminal or grossly inept, requires the leadership of a sage. The fat man, Mellvis Rantrelli, is a prominent merchant, a noble, a member of the First Estate. Apparently he couldn't talk Panni Vempravvo into supporting him in this; otherwise he would have. And people realize that; it makes them more skeptical. So he turned to my brother. Perhaps in three or four weeks, if things go well here, he'll take it to the provinces. After that, Rantrelli may raise the issue to the First Estate."
"What do you think of what Vessto said?" Brokols asked. "Do you believe it?"
Eltrienn glanced sideways at him. "You're the one who knows whether it's true or not. Maybe I should ask you."
There was no accusation in Eltrienn's voice or eyes as he said it. He was simply making a point.
* * *
The amirr was eating lunch with Allbarin in what amounted to his private corner on the wall, and had them brought to him. When they were seated, he looked Brokols over.
"Well, Mr. Ambassador," said the amirr, "what did you think of our country?"
"Quite interesting, Your Eminence," Brokols replied, "and very comely. Perhaps more to the point, I now have information on a number of products that should interest Almaeic merchants, and the names of people and villages who are or might be interested in providing those goods."
The amirr said nothing for a long moment. When he spoke, it was drily. "Interesting enough or comely enough to be worth conquering? Or perhaps rich enough?"
Brokols' lips tightened. "Your Eminence, our own country is quite rich and fertile enough. As to what dreams your neighbors to the north might entertain, I don't know, but I suspect the quality of your archery must give anyone pause who'd care to invade you.
"Considering the distance involved, Almeon's interest in things Hrummean must be restricted to those things more or less unique to Hrumma. For example, your art. And certainly the furs I've seen examples of, that you obtain in trade with the barbarians."
The amirr's hazel eyes probed his own. "In that case, I trust you will excuse my question. There are reports, rumors I should say, to the effect that your nation does intend to invade us." He paused. "These rumors include a fleet of 200 great ships being built to carry Almaeic soldiers. You'll understand that I'm concerned both with the rumors and with their effects on my people."
"Of course, Your Excellency. I might also point out that to build 200 great ships would be an enormous expense." As the emperors advisors pointed out, he added to himself.
Allbarin interrupted. "Mr. Ambassador, is it possible that your emperor has designs on our neighbors to the north? The Djezes?"
Inwardly the question shook Brokols. "I find it highly improbable," he replied. "As I indicated before, eight thousand miles of ocean is a very great distance across which to mount a conquest."
There was another long, sharp-eyed lag by the amirr. "To be sure, Ambassador Brokols," he said at last. "To be sure."
* * *
When Brokols left, Eltrienn stayed with him long enough to arrange transport home for the ambassador and his luggage, then excused himself, commenting frankly that he needed to report on their trip. In parting they shook hands, Eltrienn seeming now as friendly and genial as ever.
On the ride home, Brokols asked himself how Vessto had gotten his information about the 200 ships. Could Stilfos have said something to someone? To Gerrla perhaps? But surely Stilfos was smarter than that. And what possible reason could he have had? As far as that was concerned, how would Stilfos have known the size of the fleet? The number hadn't been part of his briefing; Brokols was sure of it, had helped give it. And it wasn't open knowledge. The ships were being built at a number of shipyards on different islands, and hadn't been marshalled—some of them hadn't even had their keels laid—when the Dard had left Larvis Harbor.
It must have been Stilfos who'd mentioned it though. Who else could it have been? Maybe he'd overheard something on it before they left. He'd question him when he got home.
Interesting that Vessto had gotten the number of ships right, but not the target country.
* * *
Stilfos wasn't home when he arrived—not in the kitchen or the roof garden or his room. He could hardly be far though; the stove's tiny auxiliary firebox was hot, and the kettle was on it. Brokols made satta and strolled with it out onto the roof garden where there was a fair and cooling breeze. His meeting with the amirr was on his mind. These were strange people. Clearly the amirr had considered what Vessto was saying as at least possibly true. Yet there'd been no sense of hostility, really, from either the amirr or Allbarin. Or from Eltrienn, who after all was Vessto's brother.
As Brokols sat thinking, a sound impinged on his mind until it breached his consciousness and he turned around. The wind vanes of his generator were spinning, as they were more often than not, but the sound . . . hmm. The generator was still engaged! The automatic cutoff hadn't disengaged it! Quickly Brokols climbed the steps to the roof of his penthouse and tripped the manual cutoff, then checked the battery. No damage! Incredible! And he hadn't used the wireless for sixteen days! Surely they hadn't had sixteen days of near calm here.
Frowning thoughtfully, he went back down to the roof garden and into the apartment, then to the wireless room. Dragging his index finger across the table to the left of the sending apparatus left a visible track through dust. To the right, where the notepad would rest while receiving, there was no dust. With his handkerchief he wiped the key itself; no sign of dust soiled the white fabric.
Someone had been using the wireless while he'd been away.
Stilfos chose that moment to return; Brokols heard him enter the apartment and walk down the hall past the open wireless room door. After a moment there was an opening and closing of cabinet doors in the kitchen. Brokols went down the hall after him.
"Shopping?" he asked from the kitchen door.
Stilfos looked around from putting purchases away. "Yes, milord. Nice to have you back, sir. I've been to the greengrocer's. Assumed you'd be back within a day or so." The smaller man's quick smile covered nervousness. He'd seen that the wireless room door was open.
Brokols' voice was mildly sardonic. "I take it there's been an ordinary amount of wind while I was gone?"
Stilfos nodded. "A fair bit, sir. Off and on."
"Then you've used the wireless."
Apologetically: "One time, sir."
"Explain."
"I thought I should inform Lord Kryger of the public meetings, sir, so I put on native things and went to hear the second for myself. Then I let him know."
"Interesting. I attended one myself today. In proper ambassadorial garb, I might add. And heard something that quite surprised me—that the emperor's preparing a fleet of 200
invasion ships. Where do you suppose they got that number? Two hundred?"
"Well, sir . . . I really don't know. Is that number correct?"
Brokols ignored his aide's question. "How many ships do you suppose he's actually got built or building?"
"I have no idea, sir. It'd have to be a great many though, to bring an army big enough. Is the . . . is 200 right?"
Brokols studied Stilfos thoughtfully. "It would seem that one of us leaked to the Hrummeans."
"Yes, sir."
"The idea of us invading them could easily have grown out of human suspicion, but the number . . . two hundred is the actual number, you know."
"No, sir, I didn't know."
Brokols said nothing for a moment, his attention withdrawn. "When did you learn to use the telegraph?"
"During my army service, sir."
"Why wasn't I informed?"
"I suppose it never came up, sir."
Brokols pursed his lips, eyes hooded. "I see." He didn't see though, at all. It should have been on Stilfos's dossier. And Stilfos had wirelessed Kryger about the anti-Almeon rallies, had probably mentioned the figure of 200 ships, too. What had Kryger thought when he heard that? What could he have thought?
Kryger'd never liked him. He'd assigned Stilfos as an informant as well as aide.
But that didn't answer the question about the leak. Stilfos almost had to be lying about not knowing the number of ships. How else could they . . . then Brokols remembered the night of the reception, and something in the drink. But it couldn't have been himself that had told. He hadn't sat around talking that night; he'd been fully occupied with—other things.
It had to have been either Stilfos or himself though. How else could Vessto have found out what he had? Surely not a lucky guess? With an effort Brokols shook off the mystery, the loop of circular questions.
"Well," he said, "I suppose you have things to do."
"Yes, sir." Stilfos scurried off.
Brokols wandered to his room to work on a schedule of possible Hrummean exports and prices. He didn't accomplish a great deal though. His mind was on other things.
* * *
"There's no doubt at all, Your Eminence," Allbarin said to the amirr. "Two hundred is the right number, and it's Djez Gorrbul they plan to invade, not ourselves. Gorrbul is to invade us; that was clear this time. Get its army deeply involved down here. Then Almeon will land its army at Haipoor l'Djezzer, presumably take over the government, and after that, pacify the countryside. I suppose they plan to take us afterward, at their leisure.
"But our immediate problem seems to be with Djez Gorrbul. As it has been so many times before."
* * *
After Brokols' call that evening, Lord Vendel Kryger sat brooding at his wireless, beside the penciled notebook pages with his record of their exchange. That scoundrel Brokols hadn't so much as offered a speculation, let alone an explanation. Or a confession, though he'd hardly expected one.
He'd already made his weekly report to the emperor's office, and mentioned that Gamaliiu was seriously considering moving up his invasion of Hrumma to late summer. And that that would seem to call for scheduling the departure of the fleet for late summer, if they were to land here while the Gorrbian army was embroiled away from home.
He hadn't mentioned that he'd been working on Gamaliiu to make the change, of course. That wouldn't do at all. First it would make them extremely unhappy with him. Second, they'd demand to know why he'd done such a thing. And third, it would not do to tell them of Brokols' leak. Or perhaps treachery. As mission leader, the responsibility and blame would fall on himself regardless.
Of course, if the fleet did leave in late summer, the Gorrbian army had damned well better be tied up in the south, or there'd be the headsman to pay.
His lips twisted grimly. Brokols had put him in a very touchy situation.
But so far Gamaliiu'd been receptive to every other suggestion. He'd been impressed, of course, with the Dard's artillery salute, and the gunnery demonstration on the island up the coast. And had seemed quite accepting of the argument that the emperor, as a matter of principle, could hardly traffic for long with less than another emperor—with three separate states having three separate rulers.
The idea of conquering Hrumma, and later Djez Seechul, were in line with Gamaliiu's long-held interests anyway. While the promise to help him make his own artillery, along with the idea for a seaborne attack on the Hrummean north coast, had seemed to the king just the edge he needed to ensure success.
Now the deliberately planted worry that the Hrummeans might find out and take new defensive measures would almost surely bring Gamaliiu to move his plans ahead.
At least, according to Brokols, the Hrummeans didn't know that the fleet would strike Djez Gorrbul. And Stilfos's report implied the same.
But if the Hrummeans thought the invasion would strike Hrumma, then why hadn't they arrested Brokols and done away with him? Admittedly the droids were strange, their thinking undisciplined and often illogical, but that was still a bit much. Unless, of course . . . and there was that thought again: that Brokols, for some inconceivable reason, might be a traitor instead of simply loose-mouthed.
Eighteen
Brokols settled down after supper with a history of Hrumma. It had been lying on the librarian's table, and he'd picked it up to browse through while the Hrummean had been off somewhere. The librarian, though always polite, had been surprisingly adamant in denying him access to the shelves, doling out books to him like a teacher to a lower-form pupil. So Brokols had tucked this one in his satchel without asking.
It was an interesting book, mostly seeming quite factual, but with occasional references almost amusingly imaginative and superstitious. The other books he'd read contained nothing like them, and it occurred to Brokols that the librarian might be a rational, nonsupersritious person who was embarrassed at the thought of the foreign ambassador reading such things.
There were superstitions in Almeon too, Brokols reminded himself, but they were personal, not cultural—minor aberrations, not major institutions. He wondered what Almeon would have been like if Kaitmar III had been superstitious and enforced some religion with as much energy as he'd used, in fact, to suppress them.
He was sipping juice and reading about the last invasion of Hrumma by Djez Gorrbul when Stilfos interrupted.
"Milord, Mirj Tirros Hanorissio to see you." This time he announced the name without effort or awkwardness. "He has a friend with him; the same young gentleman as before."
Tirros! Brokols was surprised that the criminal mirj had the gall to visit, after what he'd done at the reception. There was a table of hard alabaster beside him, a pale figured pink, and marking his place, Brokols laid the book down on it. "I'll see him," he said tersely, getting up. "In the waiting room."
The two youths were slouched on the settee when he entered. Brokols had no intention of sitting: standing gave him altitude and established that the audience would be short. "How may I be of service to you?" he said. It wasn't an offer, but a formal greeting.
"Why, Your Excellency," Tirros drawled, "that's exactly what I came here about. How I could be of service to you." His tone became confidential. "I've heard what the so-called 'Trumpet of Hrum' has said about your emperor's intentions for us here. And it occurs to me that while he may be just a country sage, he's quite probably right about it. Certainly it makes good sense.
"So I'm offering my services in your emperor's behalf. And in yours, of course. I'm sure you can make good use of my knowledge and advice, and I can connect you with others who could be invaluable to you. For example, I can have the country sage silenced if you'd like. Very thoroughly, very—unobtrusively."
Tirros looked expectantly at Brokols. When the Almite only stared at him, he continued.
"You're wondering what I'll want as recompense. That's simple enough, and it won't cost you anything at all, personally. When your emperor has conquered us, he'll want to rule as profitably as possible.
Which means he'll want a native Hrummean, someone who knows Hrummean affairs thoroughly, to be his regent here. To see that taxes get collected and that things are done the way he wants. That sort of thing.
"I'm proposing myself for the position. He'll find me efficient and loyal, quite able to assume his viewpoint and his purposes."
"Hmh!" Brokols had no doubt that the young man was serious and meant what he said, without scruple of patriotism, of loyalty to country or family. He was an utter scoundrel, without redeeming quality.
And dangerous to deal with, that he also knew, capricious and undisciplined. "An interesting offer," Brokols replied. "I'll need to give it some thought and perhaps take it up with my superior."
Tirros's eyebrows raised. "With your superior? How would you do that? Isn't it 8,000 miles to your homeland?"
