Again he watched and listened, then looked at his aide. "Captain, take the bullhorn and go halfway to the truce flag. Tell the man waving it to come out. Find out what he wants; terms, I suppose. Tell him you'll conduct him to a parley with me. Go."
The nervous captain got the bullhorn and went.
Vilyamo strode toward the rebel officer, his sergeant major beside him with a pillow case tied to a strip of shelf edging. So far, he told himself, so good. If this went no further than a rejection and possibly captivity, it was still eating up time. Meanwhile, the Caps had to be readying a relief force. At least they'd better be, he thought grimly.
The rebel mother-curser was waiting beside a shin-high planter. Its colorful bed of blooming leronvaalu seemed untouched by the fighting, about the only thing that was. It occurred to Vilyamo what a beautiful place this had been, with the palace, gardens, trees, ornamental shrubs, and these assholes had wrecked it for no better reason than to seize power.
It didn't occur to him to feel resentment for the guardsmen killed. That was a professional hazard.
As he walked up to the rebel, he saw by the man's insignia that he was a captain, and by his blazon that he belonged to the 12th Infantry Division. The motherless bastard even wore dress knee-boots, polished like glass, as if he was on parade instead of an assault. He himself wore an off-duty uniform without even a battle helmet. There was plaster dust in his hair and on his clothes. The attack had caught him at breakfast, like much of the regiment, and unlike most of the survivors, he'd raced for the Admin Building and his emergency command post without first arming himself. The pistol he wore, he'd borrowed from a dead man.
The captain saluted; he was, after all, outranked. Vilyamo returned the gesture; he had a purpose here that didn't include antagonizing the enemy.
"Colonel," said the man, "I'm to find out why you want a truce."
"To end the fighting," Vilyamo answered, then added silently, With you dead, mother-curser.
The captain nodded. "In that case, I'm to conduct you to Colonel Khriivalarooma."
Vilyamo's nod was curt. Fawning would buy him nothing, even if he could do it. They walked side by side to the command floater, accompanied each by his truce flag. On the way they passed a rebel soldier lying dead, legs twisted, face partly blown away. Vilyamo felt satisfaction at the sight.
To enter the command floater, they used the door facing away from the Administration Building. The guard posted there held it open for them. The rebel captain gestured, and the rebel sergeant entered. Vilyamo turned and spoke to his master sergeant. "Sergeant, stay outside. I'll be back out shortly." Then he followed the rebel sergeant in, the captain entering last. A colonel and a major were inside waiting, along with two captains-the colonel's aide and the battalion E.O. They got to their feet, except for the colonel who remained in his chair to establish proper protocol.
"You are the commander of the Guard here?" he asked.
"Correct," Vilyamo answered coldly.
"And your purpose is an end to the fighting?"
"The end of the fighting and the freedom of my men."
The rebel colonel's voice turned curious. "Why have you fought us?" he asked.
Vilyamo's expression showed his incredulity at the question.
"The Kalif killed your father, did he not?"
Hearing that, Vilyamo knew he'd succeed in his ploy, would pull it off. "He did, the motherless dog. But what did you expect from us? Bombing our barracks as you did, killing scores of us and disabling more. My men were bound to fight, after that. I was bound to."
The rebel colonel nodded. "You can guess why we're here, of course."
"Perhaps. But I need to hear it from you."
"We want the Kalif. The murderer of your father. We want him dead."
"That's what I've come about."
"He's dead?"
"No. Only injured, and that not seriously."
"We must, of course, continue to attack until we have him. Dead or alive."
"I'm prepared to deliver him to you."
The rebel colonel nodded. "Well then. I'll send men with you. Deliver him to them and we can go home, leave this place."
"Certain procedures are necessary."
The rebel colonel scowled. "You're in no position to impose conditions on me."
"My men are still loyal. It must seem to them that the Kalif is giving himself up, otherwise they'll continue to fight. And the longer they fight, the more time there is for the Capital Division to send a relief force."
Vilyamo spoke on without giving the rebel commander a chance to object. "His kalifa is dead. He's torn between rage and grief. I'll have my medical officer inject him with a sedative-something that will leave him compliant but allow him to walk. I'm assured that won't be any problem.
"Also-" He paused. "He must not be killed until he's been removed from the premises. It would be a dishonor to the Guard to have him executed by a hostile force inside the Sreegana."
The rebel commander considered for only a moment. His orders were to kill the Kalif at the earliest opportunity. Well, promises were made to be broken. Get his hands on the Kalif, get him here inside the floater, and they'd never know if he was killed. "Very well," he said. "You have ten minutes to deliver him to me here."
"Not here. We'll meet you, he and I, by the planter where the captain met me. It must appear that he's negotiating with you, with you and your command staff. Not that he's being turned over, surrendered."
The rebel commander's face twitched with annoyance. "You ask a lot, for a man whose position is untenable."
Vilyamo's face and voice went tired. "Colonel, I'm trying to get the Kalif into your hands before anything goes wrong. I'm a dead man regardless. But the Guard is loyal to him."
The rebel commander didn't follow the logic, but he bought it. "Very well. In ten minutes, at the planter."
"I need a bullhorn. I have no way of communicating quickly to my troops."
The rebel commander's expression was acid; there seemed no end to this man's requests. "Give him the bullhorn," he ordered. Then to Vilyamo, "I'll want it back, along with your Kalif."
A sergeant handed the bullhorn over. Vilyamo saluted sharply; the rebel colonel's answering salute was insultingly casual. Then, with truce flag and bullhorn, Vilyamo left the floater and started back toward the Admin Building. Around the quadrangle, the guns waited, silent but ready.
In the command floater, the rebel commander watched him go. At the planter, Vilyamo stopped and raised the bullhorn. "Men!" he called, "in a few minutes the Kalif, with me and my staff, will be coming out to negotiate with the enemy commander and his staff, here by this planter. Meanwhile, there is a state of truce. Do not fire your weapons unless attacked."
Then he went on to the Admin Building and disappeared inside.
From there he sent runners with instructions to every part of the building held by guardsmen.
In the House of SUMBAA they heard the guns fall silent. Later they heard the bullhorn, but it was too far away to catch the words. The Kalif wondered what was going on.