Her eyes widened. She unfolded herself, leaned on her knuckles toward him, and cried, “Do you mean you’ll stay?”
“Wouldn’t you prefer that?”
“Yes, yes. But I’d taken for granted—you’re a Terran—where you go, I go.”
Flandry said straight to her flushed countenance: “At the very least, I’d expect us to spend considerable time on Dennitza. Then why not all, or most? I can wangle a permanent posting if events work out well. Otherwise I’ll resign my commission.”
“Can you really settle down to a squire’s life, a storm-bird like you?”
He laughed and chucked her under the chin. “Never fear. I don’t imagine you’re ambitious either to rise every dawn, hog the slops, corn the shuck, and for excitement discuss with your neighbors the scandalous behavior of ’Uncle Vanya when he lurched through the village, red-eyed and reeling from liter after liter of buttermilk. No, well make a topnotch team for xenology, and for Intelligence when need arises.” Soberly: “Need will keep arising.”
Graveness took her too. “Imagine the worst, Dominic. Civil war again, Dennitza against Terra.”
“I think then the two of us could best be messengers between Emperor and Gospodar. And if Dennitza does tear loose … it still won’t be the enemy. It’ll still deserve whatever we can do to help it survive. I’m not that fond of Terra anyway. Here is much more hope.”
Flandry broke off. “Enough,” he said. “We’ve had our minimum adult daily requirement of apocalypse, and dinner grows impatient.”
The Vymezal estate lay sufficiently far inside the crater that the ringwall cut off little sky—but on high ground just the same, to overlook the river and great reaches of farm and forest. Conducted from an outer gate, on a driveway which curved through gardens and parkscape, Flandry saw first the tile roof of the manor above shading trees, then its half-timbered brick bulk, at last its outbuildings. Situated around a rear court, they made a complete hamlet: servants’ cottages, garages, sheds, stables, kennels, mews, workshops, bakery, brewery, armory, recreation hall, school, chapel. For centuries the demesne must have brawled with life.
On this day it felt more silent and deserted than it was. While many of the younger adults were gone to their militia units, many folk of every other age remained. Most of them, though, went about their tasks curt-spoken; chatter, japes, laughter, song or whistling were so rare as to resound ghostly between walls; energy turned inward on itself and became tension. Dogs snuffed the air and walked stiff-legged, ready to growl.
At a portico, the gamekeeper who accompanied Flandry explained to a sentry: “We met this fellow on the riverside lumber road. He won’t talk except to insist he has to see the voivode alone. How he got here unbeknownst I couldn’t well guess. He claims he’s friendly.”
The soldier used an intercom. Flandry offered cigarettes around. Both men looked tempted but refused. “Why not?” he asked. “They aren’t drugged. Nothing awful has happened since mobilization, right?” Radio news received on his minicom had been meager during the seven planetary days of march; entering inhabited country, he and Kossara had shunned its dwellers.
“We haven’t been told,” the ranger grated. “Nobody tells us a thing. They must be waiting—for what?”
“I’m lately back from an errand in the city,” the guardsman added. “I heard, over and over—Well, can we trust those Impies the Gospodar called in along with our own ships? Why did he? If we’ve got to fight Terra, what keeps them from turning on us, right here in the Zorian System? They sure throw their weight around in town. What’re you up to, Impie?”
A voice from the loudspeaker ended the exchange. Danilo Vymezal would see the stranger as requested. Let him be brought under armed escort to the Gray Chamber.
Darkly wainscoted and heavily furnished like most of the interior, smaller than average, that room must draw its name from rugs and drapes. An open window let in cool air, a glimpse of sunlight golden through the wings of a hovering chiropteroid. Kossara’s father stood beside, arms folded, big in the embroidered, high-collared shirt and baggy trousers of his home territory. She resembled her uncle more, doubtless through her mother, but Flandry found traces of her in those weather-darkened craggy features. Her gaze could be as stern.
“Zdravo, stranac,” Vymezal said, formal greeting, tone barely polite. “I am he you seek, voivode and nachalnik.” Local aristocrat by inheritance, provincial governor by choice of Gospodar and popular assembly. “Who are you and what is your business?”
“Are we safe from eavesdroppers, sir?” Flandry responded.
“None here would betray.” Scorn: “This isn’t Zorka-grad, let alone Archopolis.”
“Nevertheless, you don’t want some well-intentioned retainer shouting forth what I’ll say. Believe me, you don’t.”
Vymezal studied Flandry for seconds. A little wariness left him, a little eagerness came in. “Yes, we are safe. Three floors aloft, double-thick door, for hearing confidences.” A haunted smile touched his lips. “A cook who wants me to get the father of her child to marry her has as much right to privacy as an admiral discussing plans for regional defense. Speak.”
The Terran gave his name and rank. “My first news—your daughter Kossara is unharmed. I’ve brought her back.”
Vymezal croaked a word that might be oath or prayer, and caught a table to brace himself.
He rallied fast. The next half-hour was furiously paced talk, while neither man sat down.
Flandry’s immediate declaration was simple. He and the girl lacked accurate knowledge of how matters stood, of what might happen if her return was announced. She waited in the woods for him to fetch her, or guide Vymezal to her, depending on what was decided. Flandry favored the latter course—the voivode only, and a secret word to the Gospodar.
He must spell out his reasons for that at length. Finally the Dennitzan nodded. “Aye,” he growled. “I hate to keep the tidings from her mother … from all who love her … but if she truly is witness to a galaxy-sized trick played on us—we’ll need care, oh, very great care”—he clapped hand on sidearm—“till we’re ready to kill those vermin.”
“Then you agree Zorkagrad, the planet’s government and armed service, must be infested with them?”
“Yes.” Vymezal gnawed his mustache. “If things are as you say—you realize I’ll see Kossara first, out of your earshot, Captain—but I’ve small doubt you’re honest. The story meshes too well with too much else. Why is our crisis hanging fire? Why—Ha, no more gabble. Tomorrow dawn I’ll send … him, yes, Milosh Tesar, he’s trusty, quick of wit and slow of mouth—I’ll send him on a ‘family matter’ as you suggest. Let me see … my wife’s dowry includes property wherein her brother also has an interest—something like that.”
“Kossara will have to lie low,” Flandry reminded. “Me too. You can call me an Imperial officer who stopped off on his liberty to give you a minor message. Nobody will think or talk much about that. But you’d better squirrel me away.”
“ ‘Squirrel’?” Vymezal dismissed the question. “I understand. Well, I’ve a cabin in the Northrim, stocked and equipped for times when I want to be unpestered a while. Includes a car. Ill flit you there, telling the household I’m lending it to you. They can’t see us land at Kossara’s hideout, can they?”
“No. We foresaw—” Flandry stopped, aware of how intent the stare was upon him. “Sir, I’ve told you she and I aim to get married.”
“And aren’t yet—and nobody wants a hedge-wedding, not I myself when I don’t know you.” The voivode sketched a grin. “Thanks, Captain. But if you’ve told me truth, she needs a marksman more than a chaperone. Anyhow, whatever’s between you two must already have happened or not happened. Come, let’s go.”