The guards made no move; two or three grinned nervously.
"Alb Deloora," the assassin said dryly, "it's not I who shall die." Quickly then he strode to the secretary, who found himself trapped between heavy chair and massive table. A body blow half paralyzed him, a strong hand grasped his hair and forced his head back. "It was your idea that the Kalif be killed. Even this syringe was your idea!" It darted, chuffed as before. "I agreed with you that the act was necessary. I also knew you would turn on me. So I made arrangements with the marshal, who chose and briefed these men for duty today."
He let go the secretary, who sagged onto his chair to dangle limply over an arm. Then the young prelate moved to the senior remaining exarch. "Alb Ikomo, I believe you knew of our late secretary's plan to sacrifice me. Would you care to follow him to the judgment of Kargh?"
The gray head shook a negative. The young man pointed at the throne. "Then crown me Kalif."
"But you are not a member of the College! The Kalif is always sel-"
Coso Biilathkamoro moved swiftly. Ikomo Iiakasomo's eyes bulged with shock as a hand grasped his hair, too, and the syringe flashed again. The gaunt exarch had just time to squawk before he sagged. The young prelate turned to the next in rank. "You too knew our secretary's intention toward me. Crown me!"
One of the others spoke, a fat man relatively pale among brown. "Teethkar, put the crown on his head! You know what's happening to the empire. It occupies our thoughts more than anything else; more than that mad heretic he just killed. We need someone like Coso Biilathkamoro on the throne now. He can be the strongest Kalif since Papa Sambak." The speaker turned his clean-shaven face toward the killer. "If he proves ruinous, we can rid ourselves of him later."
A few nervous laughs flashed and died, and after a moment's suspension, the exarchs relaxed a bit. "Crown him!" said another, then others yet. Still others nodded. The exarch ordered by the young prelate stepped to the throne and picked up the crown. The one who'd spoken, the fat one, spoke again.
"Our new Kalif must be formally elected. Those in favor of Chodrisei Biilathkamoro as Kalif, say 'aye!' "
Half a dozen said aye almost at once, then another, two more, two more again. More than half.
"Opposed 'nay!' "
Three said "nay," defiantly. Several said nothing.
The speaker looked at the exarch holding the crown, one of those who'd abstained. "As always, abstentions are not counted. The ayes prevail. Crown him!"
The man carried the crown to the young prelate, who half knelt, and placed it gingerly on his soldierly, short-cropped hair. When Chodrisei "Coso" Biilathkamoro stood again, he was the Successor to The Prophet, and the new ruler of the Karghanik Empire.
Wearing the red cape of his office, the new Kalif stood in his hearing room before the mustered senior officers of the Kalifal Guard: its marshal, the marshal's aide, the executive officer, and the three battalion commanders.
"I have called you together for two main reasons," the Kalif said. "First there are rewards to make. Your concern for the welfare of the empire, your understanding of the urgent need to remove a degenerate ruler, your willingness to allow and even assist in that removal, have earned the gratitude of the College of Exarchs and myself. Therefore, the empire will reward the Guard, every man in it, with a bonus of 100 gold sovereigns. Each commissioned officer shall receive 300, each of you here 500." He turned to the marshal. "And you," he added, "have earned 1,000. Also, the two officers who accompanied me when I performed the deed shall receive an additional 500."
He stepped closer to the marshal now, looking him over calmly. "As for the second matter," he went on, "I am told by a reliable informant that you have bragged that the Guard now determines who sits on the throne. Do you deny saying it?"
The marshal managed no words, merely stood flustered. In that moment his saber, not a syringe, hissed from beneath the Kalif's red cape, and though the marshal went for his pistol, he moved too late. The sword took his gun arm below the elbow, shearing muscle from bone, then thrust upward beneath the ribs. Blood poured. The Kalif stepped back, drew a large kerchief and wiped clean his blade.
That done, his eyes locked onto the shocked executive officer's. "Major," he said, "I have seen only good reports on you. If you are willing, I am prepared to promote you to colonel and appoint you marshal."
Somehow his gaze calmed the major, who pulled himself together. "Your Reverence, I am willing."
"Good. Then marshal you are. As for me-I intend to be the Kalif this empire has needed for so long. And one of the things I demand is your absolute loyalty, yours and that of the entire Guard. There may be disorders as a result of this day's work, and I will be too busy to protect myself. It will be up to you.
"Now, as the late marshal did not live to draw his bonus, I will have it divided equally among the six of you."
For a moment his eyes held on the new marshal's again, then he nodded slightly as if to himself, in approval. "I will review your regiment on the parade ground tomorrow morning at nine, to let your men know me. And-I do not plan any more surprises. I much prefer to operate in a regular and orderly manner."
The Kalif turned his back to them then, and strode from the room.
Two
The cruiser and its troopship companion had generated hyperspace and disappeared from the Karnovir System a ship's week earlier, programmed as accurately as possible to return to its home system, nearly three years away.
They took no victory with them, little booty, and on]y one prisoner, female. One badly damaged prisoner, thought Lieutenant Commander Bavi Ralankoor, He stepped from a lift tube into the Services Section, A-Deck, strode down a gray, uncarpeted corridor to Utility Compartment A-S 04, and opening the door, stepped inside. With all but one table folded into the walls, it seemed almost spacious by ship's standards. Two young women were there. The short one, swarthy like himself, was in charge. She glanced questioningly at the officer.
He gestured to continue, and they did, exchanging simple sentences-simple comments and questions by the specialist, simple replies by the prisoner. The language program could install vocabulary and grammar in a mind, but not all at once. And with each installment, it was necessary to exercise the new knowledge before another acquisition.
Ralankoor stood by the door, listening.
"What is the name of the planet from which this ship came?" asked the dark young technician.
The prisoner was long-legged, remarkably so, and taller than Ralankoor, with hair the color of pale honey, and violet-blue eyes. Even newly captured, confused, and frightened, she'd been beautiful-exotic, interesting, exciting to look at.
"The name of the planet from which this ship came is Klestron," she answered.
The sentences and pronunciations were stilted, the delivery awkward.
"Good. And what is the name of the Imperial Planet?"
"The name of the Imperial Planet is Varatos."
"Good. Please name the other planets in the empire."
"Maolaari, Ikthvoktos, Kathvoktos, Niithvoktos, Kolthvoktos, Saathvoktos, Naathvoktos, Chithvoktos, Veethvoktos."
"Very good." The tech turned to Ralankoor. He was frowning. "Sir?" she said.
"Continue. I will listen."
"Thank you, sir." While he took a seat to one side, she turned back to the prisoner. "If you will count to ten for me, I will then tell you a story."