It seemed unlikely though, to Jilsomo, that there was a traitor in the council.
"The bride's aunt will make an examination of her own, will she not?" he asked.
"Of course. That's part of it. But anything she has to say, besides to the bride, she'll say only to the groom, and nothing to him of any substance."
Jilsomo nodded. Whatever she could say, other than to the bride, she wouldn't. A "bride's aunt" was a professional advisor and tutor to brides, and rarely their actual aunt. By tradition and professional ethics, they were utterly discreet. This was true also of the "groom's uncle."
It would probably be all right. He hoped so. Certainly he'd do everything he could to make it so. Because whatever his flaws, this Kalif was the best for a long time, Jilsomo told himself. A very long time.
Twenty
Fourday had come and gone, and Fiveday. Now it was Sixday, the day when, in its season, Kalif Coso Biilathkamoro customarily chaired a session of the Imperial Diet. He gaveled it to order, and himself gave the invocation. After the prayer, the secretary read a summary of the previous session, prepared by SUMBAA and printed out by his primary terminal in the office of the Leader of the House.
When the summary had been read, the Kalif scanned the assembly. It met in a large chamber shaped like a half bowl, with the rather small, slightly tilted bottom holding the exarchs, the noble delegates, and the twelve non-voting delegates of the Pastorate. Separated from them by a marble railing, the sides curved up with row on row of seats, empty now, empty usually. Only on special occasions were invited spectators permitted. Nor did the automatic cameras record the sights and sounds there for broadcast; they recorded for the archives: that is, for SUMBAA.
"At the close of the last session," the Kalif intoned-the sentence was traditional-"it was agreed that the subject then under discussion would be given priority this morning. That subject being the request by the senior delegate from Maolaari for the export of loohio."
Simply mentioning the subject raised hackles and color among the members. He continued:
"Does any member have another subject they would ask priority for, before we proceed?"
A hand shot up, its owner also rising, which was unusual but not out of order.
"Lord Rothka," said the Kalif, "what is your suggestion?"
The narrow mouth opened. "Your Reverence," said Rothka, and the words came sour from his mouth, "I move that we discuss-" He paused then, a pause long and deliberate to draw their attention. "I move that we first discuss Your Reverence's intended marriage."
"I second!" said another, quick beyond chance.
"Indeed?" said the Kalif dryly. "I need not entertain such a motion unless it's a matter falling within the purview of this assembly. And clearly any marriage plans I might have do not."
"Not so," Rothka said. "Let me quote Scripture."
"Be my guest."
The Kalif's seeming willingness broke the noble's certainty. His gaze faltered for just a moment, then hardened. The Prophet's words, as he recited them, were measured, almost stately: "I will not always be with you in the flesh, for the flesh is mortal. And there are those who hate godliness and the godly, wanting them dead. Thus not only will I pass from this world, but also will he who follows me. Probably before our time. And the believers will need to choose a new leader not once, but many times over the centuries."
Rothka's back was stiff as a marshal's. "Therefore I give to you rules to choose by, for the protection of the Church, and of its people, and of righteousness. And of Kargh's words. You must choose leaders who are righteous. He who would lead must be one who steadfastly eschews greed, and sensuality, and all unrighteousness. One who has consorted with lechers, or the tight-fisted, or has sought the company of lewd women, cannot lead the Church. And if one who has been chosen would marry, the woman he chooses must be-" Rothka paused, then said the final words slowly, deliberately: "Chaste and virtuous."
The rest of the list of requisites for Successors to The Prophet, Rothka left unrecited, as irrelevant to his argument. He fixed the Kalif with his eyes then, as if challenging him. The Kalif nodded.
"Thank you, Lord Rothka, for renewing The Prophet's message for us. Especially the phrase about the tight-fisted."
Rothka flushed; he had a reputation for stinginess, and was sensitive about it. The Kalif looked around. "Lord Rothka's subject may not have been relevant to the day's business, but the words of the Blessed Flenyaagor are worth listening to on any subject. Does anyone else wish to display his memory of The Book before we return to the request of Lord Roonoa?"
Rothka, still flushed, subsided onto his seat.
"If not…" said the Kalif.
Another hand stabbed upward, another member of the Land Rights Party stood. "You are evading the issue, the matter of the woman you want to marry. The alien woman brought to the empire by the Klestronu expedition."
"My dear Ilthka." The Kalif's voice held reproof. "You are on the wrong side of the chamber to discuss that; it's a matter for the Prelacy, specifically the College. And let me remind you that there is a proper form for addressing your Kalif.
"Now. Does anyone have an appropriate subject to propose? If not, we will return to the matter which the senior delegate from Maolaari brought up yesterday-that is, his request for approval of the export of loohio."
Ilthka too sat back down.
"Lord Roonoa, the record shows that your presentation speech did not address The Prophet's command to be fruitful. How can we reconcile your proposal with that command?"
Roonoa stood, bowing slightly to the Kalif. "Your Reverence," he said in his rich bass, "we should consider when it was that The Prophet spoke those words, and the apparent reason for them. The first burning plague had swept Varatos little more than ten years earlier, killing more than one in three of all the people, taking children and women even more than men. Of those who'd sickened and recovered, some were left witless, and many women who had been sickened and not died had proved sterile. Cribs stood empty. Fields lay fallow for lack of men to work them. Looms stood silent, forges cold."
The Maolaaro looked around at the delegates; so did the Kalif, though not as plainly. "So of course The Prophet told the people to be fruitful. But one might wonder what he would say today, when all the worlds but Maolaari are crowded. With many gentry unemployed, competing with peasants for work as day laborers. With food riots on nearly every world."
He looked around, meeting gazes thoughtful and gazes hostile. So far as he knew, no one had come forward with such an argument before. One did not think such things. "The Blessed Flenyaagor was a holy man," he went on. "A saintly man. But he was also a practical man who had guided his ship through storms, around dangerous reefs and shoals. He'd fought pirates, fled pirates, even paid extortion to pirates. He'd bargained with men over cargoes and prices, and took satisfaction in the high price he'd gotten for his ship, that he could print The Book and have money to support him in his ministry."