There was a long lag. "Caps Command, you'll have to do better than that. You'll have to guarantee my life and that of my officers."
Meksorli didn't hesitate. "Rebel Command, set your radio to your own frequency. I repeat, set your radio to your own frequency and hear my reply." He paused then and set his own on the rebel frequency. "Rebel Command," he said, his voice hard, "I retract my earlier offer. I retract my earlier offer. If SUMBAA is damaged in any way-repeat, damaged in any way-I will recommend that you and your officers get the slow stake. I repeat, I will recommend that you, your officers, and whoever is directly responsible for the damage, get the slow stake. If SUMBAA is damaged by air action, I will also recommend that all your gunship commanders get the slow stake. Caps Command out."
He ceased transmitting and switched to his own command frequency. "Bull Four, you may fire at will."
Seconds later his radio spoke again. "Caps Command, Caps Command, this is Captain Iighil Dhozmariloku, Acting Commander, 103rd Infantry. I surrender my command."
"Bull Four, hold your fire. Rebel Command, you have ten seconds to tell your troops to surrender. I'll be listening."
Once more he switched to the rebel frequency. When Rebel Command had complied, he spoke again. "Now, Rebel Command, tell your gunships to leave the area."
"Caps Command, I have no authority over the gunships."
"Rebel Command, tell them anyway."
Another voice cut in. "All 1st Corps units, this is General Songhidalarsa. This is General Songhidalarsa. I order you to cease fire and surrender to the government forces. Cease fire immediately and surrender to the government forces. I will exert whatever influence I may have to obtain leniency for my officers."
"That's it!" Meksorli said. "It's over!" He turned to the battalion E.O. "Barjiith, get a squad to the House of SUMBAA, just in case."
Fifty-eight
Lord Rothka Kozkoraloku sat in his chilled study, staring at the television image on the wall screen, an image consisting simply of the imperial flag.
That's all that had shown there for more than an hour and a half. The sounds of bombs exploding had been followed, after about three minutes, by an announcer reporting excitedly that the Sreegana was under attack by an unidentified unit or units of the Imperial Army. Then the flag had replaced him, the flag and the imperial anthem. Followed by the Klestronu anthem, the Maolaaru… until they'd played them all. Then they'd played military marches, and from there had gone to Feromanoothu's "Symphony to the Victor."
He'd expected they'd give bulletins on the fighting. They hadn't. But his apartment was near enough to the Sreegana that, even with windows closed and curtains drawn, he could hear, vaguely, the sounds of gunfire, sometimes desultory, sometimes intense. Once it had seemed to stop, then continued with new fury.
The duration itself was worrisome. It shouldn't have taken so long. If only… He'd never contacted the Guard commander. Before he'd had the chance, he'd heard that the man was reconciled with the Kalif and had accepted his reparation. It was hard to believe, but if it was true, to contact him could destroy everything. And if it wasn't true, surely the commander would surrender his troops with no more than token resistance, contacted or not.
Again the shooting stopped, and he came alert. Any minute now, it seemed to him, the flag would be replaced by a face, the music by an announcement.
It took about three minutes to happen. Then the same announcer was back, this time looking not stunned but grimly pleased.
"Fighting in and around the Sreegana has stopped," the man announced. "We here at Imperial Broadcasting have been monitoring the radio frequencies used by the combatants-the 31st Light Infantry Brigade, the 11th Gunship Support Wing, the Imperial Guard, and units of the Capital Division. Rebel floaters attacked the Sreegana at 7:21 A. M., bombing the Imperial Guard barracks and other targets. At 8:03, infantry from the Capital Division, said to consist of one battalion, were landed inside the Sreegana to bolster the heroic defense of the Imperial Guard."
Rothka's gaze had sharpened at the word "rebel": It told him who'd won, or rather, who'd lost. If any doubt had remained, "heroic defense of the Imperial Guard" had settled it. The coup had failed.
"At 8:58 a.m., advance elements of the 27th Armored Battalion, of the Capital Division, fought their way into the Square of The Prophet, then into the Sreegana itself. Moments later, radio negotiations began between the commanding officers of the opposing forces inside the Sreegana. At 9:05 a.m., the leader of the coup, General Karoom Songhidalarsa, speaking to his forces by radio from an unknown location, ordered them to surrender to the government.
"Shooting ended at once, and rebel troops are reportedly filing from their positions with their hands on their heads.
"While I was reading the above to you, a report came in that the Kalif was wounded while fighting valiantly against the rebels. The kalifa was also wounded. As soon as we have word on the seriousness of their conditions…"
Rothka cut off the set in mid sentence. Nothing had worked. Nothing.
Hands on his chair arms, he raised himself heavily to his feet. Songhidalarsa would give himself up, of course. And tell the government whose idea it had been. Within the hour they'd be here for him. Perhaps within minutes.
He left the study, his slippered feet padding down the dimly lit hall. Softly, seeming little more than a whisper, his man-servant's television murmured from his room at the far end. Rothka turned into his own bedroom and closed the door behind him. Here too the drapes were drawn and the room dim. He paused, looking at a cabinet. After a moment he crossed the room to it, unlocked and opened it, and from it took a dagger with a thick, double-edged blade about nine inches long.
Tradition dictated that he kneel, holding the point below his breastbone, then fall forward, driving it through his heart.
He tested its tip against the ball of a thumb, and flinched. A dark drop formed there. Then he stood for a long minute, not moving, staring blankly at the simple, unfeeling steel. Finally he put it back in the cabinet and went into his bathroom.
Fifty-nine
›From time to time the Kalif had been vaguely aware of people around him. But it had been pain that provided continuity, the common theme through jumbled, troubled dreams. Now, as he drifted upward into consciousness, it seemed that all that had been some time ago, that he'd slept deeply and untroubled for a long while.
His eyes opened to a room colored by flowers. He lay on an LG bed, feeling very weak. Tubes dangled from overhead, connecting, he assumed, with parts of his body. A female nurse stood looking down at him. Yab was dead, he remembered, and he'd killed the rebel. Someone here would be able to tell him what had happened to Tain.
"Good morning, Your Reverence." The nurse smiled then, dimpled. "We've been expecting you."
"Umm." He was even weaker than he'd realized. "Tain, the kalifa-where is she?"
"She's sleeping, Your Reverence. She's very weak, but she'll recover. She'll be all right, too."
She'd been wounded then. "And Jilsomo?"
"I can call him for you, but the doctors prefer that you rest now. It will take him a little while to get here."
Of course. Jilsomo would be busier than Shatim. Obviously the rebels had lost; somehow he'd known that. And they wouldn't have given him flowers if they'd won. They'd simply want him fit to stand trial, a public trial. And fit for impalement in the square.
His wound was a dull, heavy pain in his gut, and he was deeply tired. "Thank you," he murmured. His eyes were already closed; he slipped into sleep again.