The Kalif had intended that when the discussion was over-or perhaps when the vote was over, depending on how the discussion went-he'd apologize for his actions on that misbegotten night. But Dosu's sermon changed his mind. Self-flagellation was rarely a proper act-for a Kalif less than anyone. Certainly this wasn't the time for it.
Then it struck him with a sense of lightness and certainty: The time had come to do something else-something he'd had in mind three years earlier and lost sight of. In fact he was sure of it. It was risky, but what wasn't, in a universe full of surprises. And it would gain him very influential allies.
He'd try it on Jilsomo when they got out of here; see what he'd say.
Forty-seven
The Kalif had gone directly from the Diet to his office, Jilsomo following. When they'd sat down, the Kalif described his plan. His intention would be a better term: there was no plan behind it.
The exarch tried not to stare; to him it was unbelievable that the Kalif could be serious.
"Your Reverence," he said cautiously, "It sounds-unwise."
The Kalif looked troubled. Not angry, not stung, simply troubled. He'd begun to see the flaws himself, even as he described the idea. Jilsomo continued, moving to take advantage of what appeared to be uncertainty.
"Prior to the unfortunate events on The Prophet's Day, you'd made real gains toward the funding of your invasion. You pointed that out to me yourself. Then, when it seemed you'd had a major setback, a critical one, Elder Dosu's speech gained back much of the lost ground for you. Possibly all of it. True?"
Possibly. The Kalif nodded. He thought he could see where Jilsomo was going with this: Continue the successful actions he'd been pursuing before. Continue, then perhaps dicker when it came down to it, offering to accept a lower level of support than he'd heretofore talked about publicly. A level which SUMBAA still considered satisfactory. By next year at this time, preparations might well be for along, new divisions training, new ships under construction. Everyone would have jobs. Attention would be outward, not inward. Two years after that, the fleet would be on its way. It would amount to the birth of a new empire, a new people extroverted from old attitudes, old troubles-old traps. It made excellent sense, it seemed to him; much better than the idea he'd just described. Yet…
"To proclaim the Pastorate a voting estate will truly outrage the House," Jilsomo went on. "They'll never go along with it; they wouldn't even if they were in love with you. And you're talking about a change in the Charter of Establishment! With a vote of sixty percent of their own members, they can repudiate your proclamation without the College even having a vote on the issue! And the odds are, they'd be unanimous.
"Nor will they forgive you for it. Unlike the duel, and the killing of Nathiir, this would attack the very seat of their power. As a result, you'd have no chance at all with your invasion, or the legalization of loohio-or anything else you might espouse!"
The Kalif's mouth twisted liplessly in painful thought. Jilsomo continued.
"Beyond that, it will antagonize the College. Some of them because they'll like the idea no more than the House will, for much the same reasons: prejudice and the dilution of their power."
Halfheartedly the Kalif tried to muster a defense. "The dilution would not be great," he said. "I'm only proposing to give the Assembly five votes. Five, which the twelve can elect to cast as a block or distribute as they see fit. The House has twenty-seven and the College eighteen."
"You'd undertake to give them five; they'd get none of them." Jilsomo paused. "Why not try to give them twelve? One per delegate? It would hardly anger the House more than five. And the result would be the same: No votes for the Pastorate-and no votes for anything else you wanted. You'll be fortunate to escape impeachment! Or perhaps unfortunate to escape it."
The Kalif groped. Why had the idea seemed so brilliant when it came to him? There had to be a reason behind it somewhere. Jilsomo kept relentlessly on.
"And suppose, through some miracle, they let your proclamation stand. Five votes. What assurance would there be that the Pastorate would vote with you on invasion? They'd hardly vote with you on loohio; I remember what Elder Dosu said about that, early in the session. You'd be diluting your own power and the College's, as well as the House's. And this is not the time for that."
"But they should have a vote," the Kalif said. "You agree with me on that. Or you did."
"I did and I do. But they won't get it this way. Not now." Jilsomo paused, and when he went on, it was with a new note in his voice, the growth of an underlying excitement. "Your Reverence, you've given me an idea. Let me tell it to you. It is time to start toward a vote for the Pastorate. But first build a base of support…"
As Jilsomo talked, both men scribbled ideas, diagrams, notes of things to do. The Kalif took time off to call Tain on his commset and tell her he'd be late to supper.
When they finished, both men felt exhilarated.
That night they lay down to sleep, one on a broad LG bed beside his beautiful wife, the other on a narrow, solitary bed in his bachelor apartment. Then each of them, as he waited for sleep, recalled the Kalif's original idea, so strange in its irrationality. And wondered about the Kalif's mind.
The possibility of a brain tumor occurred to the exarch, and the idea chilled him. Chilled him more strongly than he might have expected. Entirely aside from the vaguely sexual attraction the Kalif had once had for him, an attraction that seemed to have died at the man's wedding, this Kalif was a man whom he loved for reasons entirely aside from physical attraction of any kind. It seemed to him, now that he looked at it, to be a blend of the man's charisma, his loyalty to principle-and the Kalif's love for humankind. He also wondered if it wasn't a recognition of that love, perhaps an unconscious recognition, that had inspired old Dosu's fiery defense.
Tomorrow he'd asked the Kalif when his last medical examination had been. And bring the matter up to Neftha. If there was something organically wrong with the ruler, it needed to be handled before it became severe, perhaps debilitating.
Forty-eight
The young man stood trying to look firm, but a person less perceptive than the Kalif could have seen his discomfort at being there: He'd been assigned this task by someone higher in the family.
The Kalif's voice was calm and mild, but his words were blunt. "So, Lord Paalu. Why did they send you to beard me? You're an attorney, true, but green, lacking experience. I've researched your family, you see. I'd expected your Uncle Meelor."
"Your Reverence, my Uncle Meelor is a tempestuous man."
The Kalif's eyebrows raised. He was tempted to ask if his uncle was afraid he'd end up assaulting or challenging his Kalif. Instead he asked, "As tempestuous as his now notorious cousin, the Lady Nertiilo?"
He waved off any reply, almost as he said it. "I don't expect an answer to that. The question was rhetorical. Do you have authority to make an agreement? Otherwise you're wasting my time."
The young attorney stiffened somewhat, as the Kalif had expected. "I have the authority in writing," he answered, and opening his belt purse, handed a rolled paper to the Kalif, who opened it, looked it over, and handed it back.
"Good. What figure did your uncle give you?"
His uncle Meelor had indeed set the price. Cousin Nertiilo had not become rational again, even after she'd metabolized the alcohol in her bloodstream. Thus she'd been interned by the family to hide the shame of her madness, and was in the care of an alienist. Apparently, the young man thought, the Kalif knew these things, too.
"Two hundred and fifty thousand dromas," he said.
"That much, eh? If I paid that much, I'd sue her in return, for slander. Probably for a quarter million. How would that look in the fax? That and other matters?"