Zero One.
As for anything about that meeting on Earth, Sten found a complete vacuum. As far as he could tell, there had been no contact between members of the council before they somehow, telepathically, sensed it was time to gather at Sullamora's lodge. At least that was all that was in the open archives and what governmental archives Haines had been able to gingerly pry at. Kilgour had been right-the privy council had been smart enough to destroy or classify whatever memoranda had passed between them but not smart enough to make substitutes. Interesting. Ordinarily that would have been enough for Sten, as an intelligence professional, to take action on. But as an officer of the law, he was trying hard to stay somewhere close to its limits and requirements.
Zero Two.
As for his side quest-he found a mansion that had been rented shortly before Chapelle vanished by a retired colonel general named Suvorov. From some kind of Pioneer Division or Battalion or whatever they called those military things, the estate agent told him. Suvorov was right-the estate agent remembered his dress and credit rating clearly. Solidly built, he thought. Oh yes. A scar on his neck. Don't remember which side. Might I inquire why you're asking, Sr. Braun? Proof that the father my client is looking for is not this man. Thank you for your time.
Big clottin' deal. A smooth operator who used the haunts of the rich to launch his operation. They knew that already. Name-false. Build? Who knew? The scar? Probably as phony as the one Sten was wearing.
Slightly More Than Zero Three. But not much.
The second meeting? He could find no trace of any final parley among the privy council before the assassination other than in their official chambers. He did not think they were dumb enough to plan the death of the Emperor in what they must think to be certainly bugged offices. And were they so skilled that they could set up a conspiracy that ran of itself? Nobody, including Sten, was that good. But where was the evidence?
Zero Four. So far.
Sten wanted Haines to be single, the sky-floating houseboat over the forest to still be there, two bottles of champagne, and the vid disconnected. Oh, yeah. A little general peace without paranoia or goons would go nicely.
He contented himself with one solitary short beer and an equally solitary brood.
He glimmered an idea. But it would, he thought, be in plain view. If the privy council were as paranoid as he thought them to be, he could be strolling into a trap. One set not specifically for Sten, but for anyone with the curiosity of a not particularly bright cat.
It seemed, however, the only and last option.
From first appearances, Hawkthorne had changed very little since Sten and Alex had gone there under deep cover to hire mercenaries for what they called "The Great Talamein Beatup." It still was fairly anarchic-any planet that specialized as a hiring hall for soldiers-for-hire had to have a fairly lax government where the ultimate law was laid down by whoever had the heaviest weapons.
But the mercenaries on Hawkthorne looking for a contract were different from the psychopaths, crooks, opportunists, and would-be kingmakers before.
The Tahn War had changed everything.
Any war produced, in its aftermath, mercenaries. They came from the losing armies, from suddenly stateless soldiers, from the ranks of war criminals, from the bored who wanted to continue experiencing that one insane moment of pure life that was combat, and from those who just could not go back to the farm. Generally they were highly professional. But as peace went on, there was a deterioration in quality. Some got killed, some found their kingdom beyond the clouds, some grew up and realized that that moment of life was surrounded by death, and others drifted on to more stable situations that required only the occasional use of violence.
That had been Hawkthorne before.
The Tahn wars created a new horde of professionals. And the necessary economic cutbacks of peacetime, plus the hamwitted policies of the privy council, had made them potential mercenaries.
Admirals would sign on as ship executive officers. Guard generals would cheerfully command a battalion or even a company. Sergeant majors would wear the blank sleeve of a private without complaining-at least for the moment.
Alex could pick and choose. He did.
Sten dreamed of ten thousand "officers of the court" and hoped for five thousand. Alex could have gotten one hundred thousand. He could afford to be generous.
Money? Nae problem. If the Tribunal failed to start the fall of the privy council, how much was left in the coffers would be completely unimportant once everyone involved bought a fast ticket out of town.
Fuel for combat ships? Kilgour had a "train" full.
He could have enlisted some with a full meal and the promise of regular rations to come.
For some, there was even a more subtle offer, made quietly and in person: If the privy council were toppled, the Imperial military would need restructuring. The corrupt, the incompetent, or those who had bloodied their hands in the purge would be removed. Some kind of military would be—had to be—retained. Alex said that frankly he had no idea what it would be. He let the thought dangle.
He stood at the ramp of Ida's flagship and looked down at his army.
From up there, one could see the threadbare uniforms or the shabby termination-of-service civvies some others wore. One could not see the gaunt, hungry faces.
From there, the lines of soldiery and their ships behind them were as rigidly in formation as any Guards unit on formal inspection.
Put 'em in propit dress, he said to himself. Gie 'em a banner to follow, an' lead 'em to a war wi' paper bullets. Thae's happiness.
Kilgour's... Killers? Cheap. Kubs? Stupid. Klique? Clack. Kilgour's Keeks? Nae. Jus' a few of 'em were ex-intelligence. Ah. Kilgour's Kilted Kvetchers.
He gave the orders and watched proudly as "his" army, who would never know it, boarded ship for liftoff.
Frae a mo', Ah wae a gen'ral.
An' did y'a like it?
He suddenly had a vision of those soldiers at their fate. Dead slowly or quickly. Bodies shredded beyond reconstruction. Blinded. Crippled. Insane.
Then another vision: He saw all those soldiers wearing a motley of civvies. Bankers, farmers, wives, workmen, tourists in the streets, factories, homes, and pubs of the vast estates Laird Kilgour owned but somehow never got around to asserting his total authority over, back on Edinburgh.
Better. Far better.
Answers y'r wee question, doesn't it, now, he thought. And he ordered the officer of the watch to seal ship and prepare for lift.
No one in the Cult of the Eternal Emperor knew exactly how they heard. But suddenly, in a thousand thousand meeting halls on an equal number of worlds, everyone knew.
They had been given a great honor.
One of the privy council had become a fertile ground for the True Belief. Not only a ruler, but the being most reputed to be the most intelligent.
Now he had vanished. No explanation was given by anyone. It was not as if Kyes had regularly appeared in vids of the council-But now it was if he had never existed.
The explanation was simple.
The Mighty Kyes had seen the light. As a reward, he had been taken, in corpore, to commune with the Holy Spheres, just as the Emperor had.