"Your Reverence has bereaved her; left her a widow."
"True. And even if she recovers her sanity, she's unlikely to wed again, despite her good looks. After her public performance of ten days ago, any would-be suitor would investigate, and what he'd learn would cool his interest. But she's quite an affluent widow: I'm aware that her husband's will left her almost all of his estate, and his children remarkably little."
The Kalif examined the young man for visible reaction. "It would be interesting to know how she managed that," he added.
The young man darkened somewhat; apparently there was a story there, the Kalif decided. One he'd leave well enough alone, unless forced to pursue it.
"Well. I have a counter offer for you," he said briskly. "Based on several facts: one, that she and her family are not in need; two, that while I bear a major responsibility for her bereavement, she bore an equal one, or greater; three, that she caused my own wife pain and suffering; four, that such a person deserves little in the way of solace from her victims; and five-Well, hear my proposal."
His eyes pinned the young man. "Your uncle can accept this or not, but given the circumstances, he cannot call it stingy. I have already made reparations to Siisru's son and daughter, reparations they regarded as generous. But that was before I, and they, knew the terms of their father's will. So I herewith offer your cousin a reparation of 10,000 dromas."
He saw the expected flinch in the young man's face, and continued. "A sum greater than the annual income of most gentry families today, and in these times, greater than that of too many noble families.
"Besides, it's the sum that Siisru left to each of his children.
"At the same time I will offer to Siisru's two children an additional reparation of 40,000 each, money they should have gotten from their father." He reached inside his robe and took out a scroll of his own. "It's all there, on the scroll. Agreed?"
"My uncle will be wroth."
"Your uncle's wrath is chronic, and no secret among those who know him. Or so I'm told. In fact, it's a matter of public record, in the courts. You're a fortunate man not to share that sometime family trait. With regard to myself, he's well advised to keep his wrath closely reined; I'm disinclined to be tolerant with his niece's uncle. As for you-Weigh well your decision. And if your uncle is too upset, tell him what I would have done, if you'd refused these terms. Which is, I would have-and will if you're difficult-publicize the whole affair, certain pertinent aspects of your family history, and the miserable bequests to Siisru's children.
"Now. I will have your answer."
The young man looked to Jilsomo as if for support; the exarch's round face showed no trace of sympathy.
"It seems-I must accept."
The Kalif stood, removed a small scroll of his own from inside his robe, and held it out. The young man took it, pulled his chair closer to the desk to sign, and discovered that the sum on the agreement was 20,000, not ten. He wasn't sure what the Kalif's motive might have been for misleading him, but he signed both halves quickly, and handed it back. The Kalif separated them and gave one to him.
The young man stood to leave.
"One moment."
He stopped.
The Kalif's voice was mild. "As you know well, young attorney, it is customary to shake hands on such an agreement, unless one side feels there is serious injustice in it. Do you honestly- honestly -feel there is?"
The young man blew softly through pursed lips and shook his head. "No, Your Reverence, I do not honestly feel there is. Though I cannot speak for my uncle in that."
The Kalif extended his hand; they clasped and shook.
"Good. Go with Kargh, and may you prosper, both in wealth and in the spirit."
"Thank you, Your Reverence."
As the young man left, the Kalif looked at the clock on his wall. Almost time for his appointment with Neftha. I might as well go now, he told himself, and have done with it.
Forty-nine
Lord Rothka Kozkoraloku sat tapping his stylus on his work tablet. His intention was no problem, but implementing it would take some doing. His eyes re-underlined it at the head of the first page:
COUP
THE KALIF DEPOSED AND IMPALED (the short stake?); THE COLLEGE OF
Below that he had written two actions which he considered prerequisites: (1) Greatly increase the disaffection of the nobility for the Kalif. (2) Gain the support of some key part of the military. Assuming he accomplished them, they might or might not be sufficient to his purpose, but without them, his chances would be poor.
Earlier, his purpose had been simply to prevent the Kalif from mounting his invasion. Now, though, it seemed to Rothka that a coup ending with the Greater Nobility in power was the correct goal. In fact, he'd felt so good when it first occurred to him, there'd been no room for uncertainty. As long as the Kalif was in power, the man would strive until he had his way. If not this year, and that now seemed impossible, then next year or the year after, or the year after that.
Simply to have him assassinated would throw dark suspicion on his opponents in the House, most particularly the Party, risk a serious public reaction and a possible purge. At the least it would virtually ensure that one of Biilathkamoro's supporters, probably the gentry exarch, Jilsomo, was given the throne as his successor.
No, a coup was the only correct action. But it would help greatly, in establishing order afterward, if the man's popularity was sufficiently weakened in advance. Give people an excuse to tell themselves that the coup might be for the best.
The things already done had provided a certain groundwork toward that. True the Kalif had come through most of them remarkably well. But it seemed to Rothka that by now the kalifa's questionable past must be stuck ineradicably in the back of people's minds, as was her husband's penchant for personal violence. Break down his credibility in other matters, and people would remember, begin to question his suitability.
Up till now, Rothka told himself, his own mistake had been in trying to discredit the Kalif with a single action. Which the Kalif had then focused on and more or less neutralized. Until this last business, the man had shown a talent for saying or doing the right thing to minimize damage. It had been a stroke of genius when Coso had released the cube of the Diet session in which he'd killed Nathiir. No one, except possibly the Kalif himself, had anticipated the widespread public approval it had gotten.
Finally, when it seemed he'd damaged himself seriously, old Dosu had rescued him. And while he might have been tempted to release the cube with old Dosu's scathing defense, he hadn't. To do so would have alienated the House, beyond recovery for this session and probably for sessions to come. As the man had foreseen.
Rothka frowned. Or was that little scenario still a possibility? It would be a dangerous project, but the potential…
He set it aside, at least for the time.
He'd learned some things from all that. One was to look toward volume, another to focus on issues. The pamphlets he planned to release would be numerous, brief, pithy, and politically relevant. Also they'd carry no actionable attacks on the Kalif. A pamphlet would attack some single element of the invasion plan, and dismantle or discredit it. The arguments didn't need to be valid, as long as they were convincing, at least superficially. They'd stress practical matters: economics, civil disorders, and other gut-level issues. Play the factions: the lesser nobility feared the ambitions of the gentry; the gentry worried about the peasantry encroaching on their privileges. Keep the pamphlets coming, one after another, too many and too plausible-seeming to counter. And keep them legal.