She gave him a stark smile. “Is that a surprise? Haven’t they always taken what advantage they could, when the Empire’s been in disarray? Nibbles here and there, no casus belli that might unite us against them—obviously, not in this case either, if the story hasn’t been released.”
“This case is oddly different,” Flandry said. “There’ve been the predictable skirmishes in the marches, yes. No major thrust. But … they sent a task force, which passed straight through Imperial space—they sent a strike force to Gorrazan, on the far side of us.”
“What?” She stiffened. “Why? It doesn’t make sense.”
“Oh, it does, it does, when you contemplate it from the proper, skewed angle.” He spoke softly, as was his wont when discussing terrible things. “Yes, the Realm of Gorrazan is the pathetic souvenir of a botched attempt at empire, a few colonies and clients on a few second-rate worlds near the home sun. Yes, its government has been plagued by insurrectionists who proclaim a bright new ideology—God, how long has the universe endured the same old bright new ideologies?—and the rebels are known, to everybody except our journalists and academics, to nave Merseian inspiration and help. Trouble at our backs. Certainly I’d instigate the identical thing behind Merseia if I could.
“But now—” He drew breath. “Word came in the other day. The Merseians sent a ‘mercy mission’. They declare the need was so urgent they had to traverse our space, hoping we wouldn’t notice, and we were wicked to pounce on them as they were in Sector Alpha Crucis approaching their destination. It was a shame that we compelled them to trounce what forces we could bring to bear. The diplomats will be discussing who’s to blame, and who’s to pay what reparations to whom, and the rest of that garbage, for years to come. Oh, yes, business as usual.
“But the fact is, the Merseians could have passed through unknown to us, if they’d wanted. They made their presence blatant when they neared our Alpha Crucis frontier. Our units had no choice but to attack and take losses. Meanwhile a Merseian detachment punched through to Gorrazan itself. It made rags of the home defense fleet. It could have blown up every governmental installation. The rebels could have taken over entirely. We’d either have intervened to prevent, and found ourselves bogged down in a nasty, lasting little war; or, likelier, we’d have done nothing, and in due course had a pro-Merseian power at our backs, small and weak but an almighty nuisance.
“Instead, the raiders contented themselves with taking out the Folkmoot’s main command center. The government’s badly hurt, but it can still fight. The Gorrazanian civil strife proceeds.”
“What does that imply?” She guessed his answer.
“Why, when the news breaks, as it inevitably will, the powers that be in the Empire will fall into a rupturing controversy. Some will want to tie down strength in watchfulness, diametrically opposite to Magnusson’s campaign, lest the situation explode in our rear end. Others will claim there’s no danger in those parts, whether because the Liberation Council hasn’t yet won or because the Liberation Council represents progress and this past incident proves how wrong we are to keep provoking the Roidhunate. The waste of energy, the confusion of purpose among us would be unbelievable if it didn’t have so many precedents.” Flandry shrugged. “Oh, the Merseians have studied us. They understand us better than we understand them. And … Magnusson has the kudos of having beaten them in battle, but he also promises that when he becomes Emperor, he’ll negotiate a permanent peace with them.”
“How do you read the sign?” she whispered.
“The entrails, do you mean?” His laugh turned into a groan. “I don’t try. I know better. I only see that a most useful piece of psychological warfare has just been waged on Magnusson’s account. Coincidence? Or an attempt to further the cause of sincerely desired peace? I can only nurse my suspicions. What can I, here on Terra, find out for sure? How can I?”
Again he laughed, but cheerfully, and hauled her to him. “So never mind, sweetheart! Let’s enjoy ourselves while we may.”
Chapter 13
Being a mostly Cynthian town, Lulach looked smaller than it was. Buildings snuggled under trees, their roofs often decked with planted sod and their walls with flowering vines. Many houses were in the branches above—vegetation introduced from the mother world frequently grew enormous—where foliage hid them behind the play of sun and shadow. Streets were turf-covered, narrow and twisting, not many vehicles upon them and those compact. Wherever they could, dwellers went arboreally rather than on the ground.
A few large structures rose along the waterfront, among them a rambling timber inn. Diana and Axor established themselves there and set about exploring the area. Wo Lia took a room in the same place and got her performing animal put in its stable; local folk made considerable use of beasts for riding and hauling, though the farms to the north were mechanized.
Toward dawn, when fog off the river dusked the light night of Daedalus, she went out there, explaining to a sleepy kitchen helper whom she passed that she must see to the creature’s well-being. The helper paid no particular attention to the cloth-wrapped bundle Wo Lia carried—for cleaning the cage, no doubt.
The stable was warm, murky, its air sweetened by a smell of horses and sharpened by a smell of changtus. Wo Lia groped her way to the cage and undid the catch on its door. Targovi bounded forth. “Harrugh!” he growled. “You took your time.”
“I had to wait till you could get away unseen, didn’t I?” she replied. “That cursed sun-ring makes life hard for entrepreneurs.”
Targovi stretched and yawned mightily. “Ah, but this feels wonderful! Pray to your little gods that you never have to be locked up.”
By his count, a pair of Terran weeks had passed since Waterblossom left Paz. He could scarcely have endured this confinement, had Wo Lia not let him out on a chain at every stop along the way, to dance and do tricks while she played a flute and collected coins. “What news have you heard?” he asked.
“Fresh word has lately come from the war front, borne by a courier boat to Aurea. Great excitement. Admiral Magnusson has offered to negotiate with Emperor Gerhart. He has his nerve, no?”
“Ai, he needn’t fear immediate peace. It sounds good and helps smooth the way for his next onslaught. If ever the Imperium is ready to bargain in earnest, it will be too late for the Imperium, save that Magnusson might let Gerhart and his councillors retire to some obscure set of palaces and carouse themselves to death.” Targovi crouched to unfold the bundle and examine its contents. “Any tale of the Merseians?”
“Of course. How could anybody on Daedalus not want the latest gossip about the neighbors? It’s vague, though, except that a Navy spokesman insisted we have nothing to fear from them. A later commentary by several learned academics pointed out that, since the Merseians want a lasting peace as badly as all right-thinking Terrans do, they would probably rather see Magnusson on our throne, even though he did defeat them more than once in the past. So they will refrain from any actions that would look as if they were taking advantage of an opportunity he had created for them.”
“Assuredly that is what learned academics would say.” Targovi opened his purse and counted the money within. “This sum isn’t quite what I remember.”
“I had expenses,” said Wo Lia blandly.
“Well, you weren’t too generous to yourself, I see. The funds were bound to be lean regardless—and likewise, I fear, are those of my companions, by now.” Much more important, anyway, was his combat knife. Targovi rose. “Best I be off. Fail not in the part that remains for you to play, for if you do, you will come to harm that may well prove fatal. On the other hand, success should bring excellent baksheesh.”