"I wondered why you met with that Zoran woman," Poyndex said. "Now it makes sense. It didn't when my operatives first reported it."
Kyes clawed back his instinct to gape, to be shocked that Poyndex apparently routinely shadowed any member of the ruling council. He had been advised that such comments were one of the colonel's favorite ploys—to win the upper hand with a seemingly casual verbal blow.
"I thought you might be puzzled," Kyes shot back. "That's why I thought we should talk."
He was hinting that the shadowers had shadows of their own, operating at his behest. It was a lie, but a good one. Poyndex allowed an appreciative nod.
"Regretfully..." Poyndex deliberately let this trail. "I don't see how I can help. My department's resources..." Again, a deliberate trailing off to indicate lack of same. "Also, I fear I would be exceeding my authority."
It was not necessary for Poyndex to detail his agency's awesome responsibilities and the additional burdens it now bore as a result of such things as the disaster in predicting the Honjo as a relatively soft target.
Lovett would have bottom-lined Poyndex's statement immediately. The deal—if there was to be one—would begin with increased resources and more authority. Kyes was no slower. He had come prepared to make one offer and one alone. He believed the price was set so high, that no one—especially a spy master—could resist.
"My colleagues and I have been considering a matter for some time," Kyes said. "All of us are concerned that certain views—important views—never come to our attention. In short, we feel a lack of depth on the privy council."
Poyndex raised an eyebrow. The first show of emotion! Especially since the spy master had no idea where Kyes was going. He saw the eyebrow forced into place—a bit irritably, like a cat angrily coaxing back an unruly tuft of fur. Kyes was pleased. Poyndex could be handled. No trouble at all.
"What would you say," Kyes said, "if I proposed that you join us? As the sixth member of the privy council?"
Kyes was absolutely delighted when the spy master gaped like a freshly landed fish!
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Sr. Ecu hovered at the edge of the lake. The sun was warm, and the rising moist air from the Bhor memorial allowed him to float without effort: a tic of a winglet for steadiness; a flick of the tip of the three-meter tail to keep his eyes on the small being walking toward him across the grass.
In most other circumstances, the Manabi would be enjoying this moment. The warm air and sun were pleasurable, the setting perfect. He appreciated—as only the Manabi could—the contrast of his dark body, with its red-tipped wings and pure white sensing whiskers, against the mirroring lake with its small, rocky beach, and the deep blue-green of the healthy lawn.
He had reluctantly agreed to the meeting. To him, further involvement with any of the surviving conspirators was not only pointless—witness Fleet Marshal Mahoney's dismal failure—but extremely dangerous. Ignoring the invitation, however, might create equal, or greater, peril.
One stray word from the conspirators—deliberate, or otherwise—would implicate the Manabi no matter how tentative their previous role. It took no imagination to know what form the privy council's reaction would take. Imagination was one thing the Manabi were more than blessed—or cursed—with.
Sten did his best to appear casual as he approached. He wanted no hint of self-doubt, although he had a clot of a lot of it. He had already invested a week of preliminary discussions with Sr. Ecu. Diplomacy was a maddening art. Still, he threw everything he had been taught and learned into the effort. There were the circlings to begin with, as each being measured, tested, and got to know the other. Then there was a host of initial discussions—never once hitting, or even coming near, the point.
It did not help his confidence to know he was dealing with the most skilled diplomat from a race of ethereal beings who were individual experts before they had left their childhood behind along with their milk sting.
He had consulted heavily with Kilgour and Mahoney well before Sr. Ecu's arrival. Even now, his two friends were ablaze with the effort of launching the main body of his plan. Weapons, ammunition, fuel, and supplies were being gathered. The Bhor were already rehearsing, and Otho's patience was wearing thin. When Sten had said "load the ships," he was being symbolic. By the time he explained that to the literal-minded Bhor chieftain, Otho was ready to blast off with a ragged crew aboard an iffy warship. Suicide was not painless, Sten kept telling Otho. Eventually, he made his point.
Sten was vastly relieved when he and Kilgour had finally reached Mahoney. After seventy-five years as chief of Mercury Corps, Ian had found little difficulty in staying many steps ahead of his pursuers.
Mahoney had just kept moving. He would go to ground for a few days in a well-chosen hidey-hole, then pop up to see what was going on about him, moving on again before suspicions were aroused. By the time Sten and Alex had contacted him through Jon Wild, their old smuggler friend, he had already hidden in a dozen wildly disparate spots, using an equal number of identities. The faster and more often one moved, Ian always said, the less perfection was required when it came to forged paperwork. The role was the thing, he said. The whole thing. That, and being able to think on one's feet and shed the role like old, itchy skin.
Sten's former commander had instantly seen the value in his plan, and they had put it into motion. The key was the Manabi and their spotless reputations for honesty. Without their agreement, the plan had far less of a chance. However, considering his recent, explosive failure, Mahoney urged Sten to take point in the discussions. He would come in later, if needed. Sten agreed. But he was far from sure. One thing was certain, however: whatever the outcome, Sten was determined to proceed. Still, he wanted Sr. Ecu. He wanted him bad.
Today was the day. It was all or nothing. His goal was simple and did not require total victory. He only had to drive in a big enough wedge to get a glimpse of sunlight.
Sten could only see one way to go about his task. He had to hard-ass the Manabi. But first, as his father used to say, he had to get Sr. Ecu's attention. In this case, however, his father's suggested club would not do.
He waved a greeting when he was a few meters away, then knelt on the grass. He placed a small black cube on the ground, gently pinched the sides, and stepped back. The cube began to unfold. As it did so, Sten sensed a slight flutter in the air and Sr. Ecu floated closer. He could also sense the being's curiosity. Sten did not turn. Instead, he kept his rapt attention on the unfolding cube. It was show time, folks.
The cube became a base for a little holographic display: a moving, almost-living art form that Sten had wiled away the time with most of his life. The one he had picked as a gift for the Manabi diplomat was not all that elaborate. Sten had built replicas of entire ancient mills and factories and towns, all with active workers and residents going about their programmed daily lives. This hologram was an off-the-shelf kit that took him no more than six hours to complete. Of course, by now he was highly skilled at his hobby.
But it was not the difficulty of a display that necessarily attracted him. Sometimes it was just nice to look at, or it was oddly moving, or it had something to say. The gift for Sr. Ecu had a little of all of these.
The cube was gone, and in its place was a meadow converted into some sort of arena surrounded by makeshift wooden bleachers, which were filled with a cheering crowd of humans. Their costumes were early twentieth-century Earth, and if one listened extra closely, so were their comments. Hawkers moved in and out of the crowd, selling all kinds of odd foods and trinkets. Gangs of tiny wild boys ran about, getting into minor mischief. After all that sank in, the observer started looking at the strange little object in the center.