The garrison, for its part, knows both to apply the pressure and withhold the worst. What fool kills the cow he milks? All told, the garrison commander has told his staff, it was nice to lie doggo in a corner and be forgotten by those in power.
And so a certain unease grew in the heart of Swoswai Mashdasan as he reviewed the Ten-day Reports. A visitor from off-world named Egg Mennerhem had been accosted by two ratings on groundside leave from WŠ Gentle Caress. Touristas being targets of opportunity, they had pressed of him a donation to the Astral Shore Leave Benevolent Fund and, in the ensuing discussion, each had broken an arm. Boots did not always get the better of these little extortions, but they usually did at two to one. That made Mennerhem a Person of Interest.
MILINTEL was set to watch the tourista and reported back the curious fact that he took none of the day tours to the Commonwealth Ruins in the nearby Gyorjyet Narrows, the only conceivable reason why a tourista might come to Riettiesburg in the first place, but he remained idly content in the Grand Khyan Hotel.
That was bad enough. But it was as the first raindrop before a storm. Others followed in a quickening drizzle, arriving by ones and twos, never overtly acknowledging one another, but congregating as if by accident here and there—in the hotel lobbies, in the restaurants, casually on the street corners and in the parks. They came by packet and they came by liner and they came by monoship. Mashdasan’s agents watched—and the touristas grinned and watched MILINTEL watching them.
The conclusion was soon inescapable.
They were gathering.
Dawshoo Yishohrann waited until he was certain that everyone who was coming to Henrietta had come. If the absence of some of his allies, indeed of some of his staunchest allies, disturbed him, he gave no sign to the others. He was affable at meals, engaging in his conversations, suitably grave at the reports delivered in face time. Those missing had undoubtedly excellent reasons. Death, perhaps; or, like Olafsdottr, a special assignment. In the meantime, he showed his teeth to everyone and gave reassuring shoulder claps to the more disheartened. Dawshoo was wide shouldered and possessed a hooked nose of impressive scope, so that he was known quietly as “the Beak.” Some called him arrogant; others called him less arrogant than he had a right to be. His enemies said that self-interest was his guiding principle, but his friends pointed out that he had risked and lost both wealth and position to lead the rebellion. He was a marked man; and a dead one if the Long Knife ever found its mark.
For his own reassurance, the Beak sought the company of Gidula. Whether the old man had any other name, Dawshoo did not know. The name had resonances of torture in one of the ancient tongues of men, so it may have been an office-name and, as the office had consumed the man, so the name had consumed his identity. But any random combination of phonemes could find kin in some old language, and office-names were less common in the Confederacy than among the Peripherals. In any case, Gidula had grown old in a service little known for longevity. If that did not mark him wise, it at least marked him nimble.
The two met by prearrangement on the terrace of a small restaurant in the Skimkhorn district of Riettiesburg. The kitchen boasted the cuisine of the Century Suns, though it was an empty boast. Perhaps at some remote time, a Centurion had been assigned to Henrietta and had afterward received permission to remain. If so, his family recipes had suffered over the generations. Dawshoo was a native of Alpha, the Big Sun, and knew whereof he spoke.
Still, a home-cooked meal was a home-cooked meal. Dawshoo arrived first and was amused to see how the locals shrank a bit from his presence, as if they were ants, and he a drop of pesticide. Evening had fallen and the terrace was ablaze with tiki, their guttering flames casting dancing shadows upon the flagstone patio and obscuring the vista of the half-barren heavens above. The tikis, at least, were a genuine touch, and for a moment they stirred in Dawshoo a long-dormant homesickness for the warm surf of the Enameled Isles on a world he no longer called home.
Gidula approached silently and without announcing himself. His shouldered hair and shovel beard were pure white, which made darkness no longer his friend. He took the seat opposite Dawshoo and touched the menu to activate it. For several long moments he studied the selections, as if his choice would be the most momentous decision of a long and distinguished career. Dawshoo said nothing, had said nothing, not even in greeting. He took great comfort from Gidula’s advice, though it would never do to acknowledge that.
“Many eyes caress us,” Gidula said without looking up from the screen.
“We are strangers in a neighborhood eatery. Strangers are never welcome.”
“With good reason,” Gidula said dryly. He raised his head. “Overcome by a fit of nostalgia, were you?”
Dawshoo bobbed his head toward the menu. “For the savors of my youth? No. But have you sampled the local cuisine? They boil the taste out of everything.”
“What do you recommend, First Speaker?”
“Fasting. But from this menu … If they have faithfully executed it, the Darling Lamb was always a favorite of mine. Much depends on the chutneys they have used. The same herbs grown in different soils often bear small resemblance one to the other.”
Gidula nodded. “I bow to your superior wisdom in such matters.” He touched the screen, made his choices, and Dawshoo—as the host—transmitted the order to the kitchen.
“A human servant will bring it out. A nice touch, no? One might even suppose the place to be of the upper cuts.”
The Shadow tossed his head. The white hair bobbed. “The greater the gap, the greater the effort to close it.” He shaded his eyes and squinted through the flickering tikis toward the night sky. “Why the torches?”
“A custom on my homeworld. I was born in the cities; but on some of the isles they use such devices, both for lighting and to repel insects … But this place is too bleak and cold for them. It wants bonfires and mulled wine; not dancing torches and fruited rum.” He held up his preprandial drink.
Gidula gave it a brief grimace. He himself never poisoned his wits. “It is bleak and cold because it is their winter season here in the southern hemisphere. Call another meeting in the springtime. I am told it is quite delightful. The young women wear colorful wildflowers wound into circlets in their hair. There. That’s the Perseus Arm, just rising over the hills. You can see it through the goat willows.”
Dawshoo twisted a little in his seat. “Yes. So it is. The League stars.”
“Do you think she’s found him?”
First Speaker shrugged. “It was a cast of the dice. If she has, that may solve one problem. If not, that would solve another.”
“And if she never comes back at all?”
“A third.”
“A superb galaxy, then, where whatever befalls solves one problem or another.”
Dawshoo straightened in his chair. “Small problems are easily solved. The greater ones linger. I fear many comrades are losing heart.”
“I think perhaps just the opposite,” Gidula answered. “The great problems are more easily solved, while the small ones remain stones in our shoes. The struggle has been a long one. Enthusiasm by its nature burns hot and fast. Yet, there may be a simple solution.”