Flandry chewed his lip for a while before he said “Those were Imperials who came to arrest you? Not Dennitzans?”
“No, sir, not Dennitzans. There could be no mistake.” Chives spoke mutedly. His thin green fingers hauled the cowl closer around his face.
“You went unmolested for days, and then in a blink—” Flandry’s speech chopped off. They were at their goal.
Well into Old Town, the party passed between two many-balconied mansions, out onto a plateau of Royal Hill. Constitution Square opened before them, broad, slate-flagged, benches, flowerbeds, trees—empty, empty. In the middle was a big fountain, granite catchbasin, Toman Obilich and Vladimir locked in bronze combat, water dancing white but its sound and spray borne off by the wind. Westward buildings stood well apart, giving a view down across roofs to Lake Stoyan, metal-bright shimmer and shiver beyond the curve of the world. Directly across the square was the Capitol, a sprawling, porticoed marble mass beneath a gilt dome whose point upheld an argent star. A pair of kilometers further on, a rock lifted nearly sheer, helmeted with the battlements and banners of the Zamok.
Flandry’s gaze flickered. He identified a large hotel, office buildings, cafes, fashionable stores, everything antiquated but dignified, the gray stones wearing well; how many Constitution Squares had he known in his life? But this lay deserted under wind, chill, and hasty cloud shadows. A militia squad stood six men on the Capitol verandah, six flanking the bottom of the stairs; their capes flapped, their rifles gleamed whenever a sunbeam smote and then went dull again. Aircraft circled far overhead. Otherwise none save the newcomers were in sight. Yet surely watchers waited behind yonder shut doors, yonder blank panes: proprietors, caretakers, maybe a few police—a few, since the turmoil was elsewhere in town and no disturbance expected here. Who besides? He walked as if through a labyrinth of mirages. Nothing was wholly what he sensed, except the blaster butt under his hand and a stray russet lock of Kossara’s hair.
She had no such dreads. As they trod into the plaza, he heard her whisper, “Here we go, my brave beloved. They’ll sing of you for a thousand years.”
He shoved hesitation out of his mind and readied himself to fight.
But no clash came. Despite what they told him when the move was being planned, he’d more or less awaited behavior like that when a gaggle of demonstrators wanted to invade a legislative session on any human planet he knew—prohibition, resistance, then either a riot or one of the sides yielding. If officialdom conceded in order to avoid the riot, it would be grudgingly, after prolonged haggling; and whatever protesters were admitted would enter under strict conditions, well guarded, to meet indignant stares.
Dennitza, though, had institutionalized if not quite legalized procedures like the ispravka. Through the officer he met on the way, Ywodh had explained his band’s intent. Word had quickly reached the Chief Justice. Four hundred zmays would not lightly descend on Zorkagrad, claiming to represent the whole Obala; they could be trusted to be mannerly and not take an unreasonable time to make their points; urged by Kyrwedhin, a majority in the third house of the Skupshtina endorsed their demand. No guns greeted them, aside from those of the corporal’s guard at the entrance; and they bore their own arms inside.
Up the stairs—past armored doors that recalled the Troubles—through an echoful lobby—into a central chamber where the parliament in joint session waited—Flandry raked his glance around, seeking menaces to his woman and shelters for her.
The room was a half ellipsoid. At the far-end focus, a dais bore the Gospodar’s lectern, a long desk, and several occupied chairs. To right and left, tiers held the seats of members, widely spaced. Skylights cast fleetingness of weather into steadiness of fluorescents, making the polished marble floor seem to stir. On gilt mural panels were painted the saints and heroes of Dennitza. The lawmakers sat according to their groupings, Lords in rainbow robes, Folk in tunics and trousers or in gowns, Zmayi in leather and metal. After the outdoors, Flandry breathed an air which felt curdled by fear and fury.
Banners dipped to an old man in black who sat behind the lectern. Slowly the fishers advanced, while unseen telescanners watched on behalf of the world. In the middle of the floor, the ychans halted. Silence encompassed them. Flandry’s pulse thuttered.
“Zdravo,” said the Chief Justice, and added a courteous Eriau “Hydhref.” His hand forgot stateliness, plucked at his white beard. “We have … let you in … for unity’s sake. My understanding is, your delegation wishes to speak relevantly to the present crisis—a viewpoint which might else go unheard. You in turn will, will understand why we must limit your time to fifteen minutes.”
Ywodh bowed, palms downward, tail curved. Straightening, he let his quarterdeck basso roll. “We thank the assembly. I’ll need less than that; but I think you’ll then want to give us more.” Flandry’s eyes picked out Kyrwedhin. Weird, that the sole Dennitzan up there whom he knew should bear Merseian genes. “Worthies and world,” Ywodh was saying, “you’ve heard many a tale of late: how the Emperor wants to crush us, how a new war is nearly on us because of his folly or his scheming to slough us off, how his agents rightly or wrongly charged the Gospodar’s niece Kossara Vymezal with treason and—absolutely wrongly—sold her for a slave, how they’ve taken the Gospodar himself prisoner on the same excuse, how they must have destroyed the whole homestead of his brother-in-law the voivode of Dubina Dolyina to grind out any spark of free spirit, how our last choices left are ruin or revolution—You’ve heard this.
“I say each piece of it is false.” He flung an arm in signal. With a showmanship that humans would have had to rehearse, his followers opened their ranks. “And here to gaff the lies is Kossara Vymezal, sister’s daughter to Bodin Miyatovich our Gospodar!”
She bounded from among them, across the floor, onto the dais, to take her place between the antlers of the lectern. A moan lifted out of the benched humans, as if the fall wind had made entry; the zmayi uttered a surflike rumble. “What, what, what is this?” quavered the Chief Justice. Nobody paid him heed. Kossara raised her head and cried forth so the room rang:
“Hear me, folk! I’m not back from the dead, but I am back from hell, and I bear witness. The devils are not Terrans but Merseians and their creatures. My savior was, is, not a Dennitzan but a Terran. Those who shout, ‘Independence!’ are traitors not to the Empire but to Dennitza. Their single wish is to set humans at each other’s throats, till the Roidhun arrives and picks our bones. Hear my story and judge.”
Flandry walked toward her, Chives beside him. He wished it weren’t too disturbing to run. Nike of Samothrace had not borne a higher or more defenseless pride than she did. They took stance beneath her, facing the outer door. Her tones marched triumphant:
“—I escaped the dishonor intended me by the grace of God and the decency of this man you see here, Captain Sir Dominic Flandry of his Majesty’s service. Let me tell what happened from the beginning. Have I your leave, worthies?”
“Aye!”
Gunshots answered. Screams flew ragged. A blaster bolt flared outside the chamber.
Flandry’s weapon jumped free. The tiers of the Skupshtina turned into a yelling scramble. Fifty-odd men pounded through the doorway. Clad like ordinary Dennitzans, all looked hard and many looked foreign. They bore firearms.
“Get down, Kossara!” Flandry shouted. Through him ripped: Yes, the enemy did have an emergency force hidden in a building near the square, and somebody in this room used a minicom to bring them. The Revolutionary Committee—they’ll take over, they’ll proclaim her an impostor—