“Can you blame them?” Ranya said. “Interstellar commerce has enriched some Gadirans—the beys, for example. But the rural people and the less-educated urban workers have seen few of the benefits. They’ve lost lands and livelihoods to foreigners who appear to show contempt for their values.”
“That may be true, at least in part,” Bey Salem said. “But it is not the whole story, Ranya. Standards of living are improving around the planet. Some people have lost jobs, true, but others have found better jobs, and more are coming. The working classes have no rational reason for their anger, and they certainly have no excuse for acts of terrorism.”
“You need not remind me of that, Bey Salem,” said Ranya. She glanced at the palace, gleaming in the white sunshine. It had been her father’s until the day a Caidist suicide bomber had slipped past the Royal Guard. “For the record, I suspect the people of the working classes do not share your rosy view of their economic prospects. But whether their anger is justified or not, it is real. If the Caidists get their way, Gadira will close its spaceports to all contact with non-Islamic powers and ban most modern technology. I can think of no better way to guarantee centuries of poverty and backwardness.”
“I can see why the Montréalais are so interested in supporting the sultanate,” Bleindel said. “If the radicals have their way, they’ll lose fifty years of investments and development here.”
“Exactly,” said Ranya. She did not add that the more the sultan leaned on the Montréalais for support, the more caids became radicalized. Helping an offworld investor to understand why the Caidists were upset was one thing, but laying bare the harsh paradox of the sultan’s weakness was another thing entirely.
“How much of a threat do the Caidists pose?” Bleindel asked.
“They have already made several attempts to seize control of outlying cities and destroy offworlder facilities. They are not well organized or well armed, but they enjoy a good deal of popular support in some quarters, and they are quite determined.” Ranya nodded back in the direction of the grav tank. “There is a reason we are modernizing the Royal Guard.”
“An excess of caution, Mr. Bleindel,” Bey Salem quickly pointed out. “The attempts the amira refers to were unsuccessful. I assure you that protecting foreign investments in Gadira is of utmost importance to Sultan Rashid. You need have no concerns about doing business here.”
“Indeed. I am sure that your caids”—this time Bleindel got the pronunciation correct—“will come to terms with the futility of their position soon enough. But it occurs to me that an army strong enough to deter the Caidists is probably strong enough to simply put an end to the unrest altogether. How long before your new tanks are in service, Amira?”
Ranya paused in their stroll and turned to study the Dremish businessman carefully. A small fountain played nearby. “Is Dielkirk’s investment contingent upon the suppression of Caidist unrest, Mr. Bleindel?” she asked.
Bleindel hesitated. “I am only here to gather information for my company’s executive leadership, Amira,” he said. “That would be up to my superiors. I simply wish to provide the most complete report possible so that they can make good decisions.”
“Many beys support Sultan Rashid in dealing sternly with the unrest, Mr. Bleindel,” Bey Salem said. “Our taxes pay for his army, after all, and we too would like to see a good return on our investment. I have been urging the sultan to consider more stringent measures for some time now, and to settle the question once and for all.”
“Why does the sultan hesitate, then?” Bleindel asked.
Because he leaves everything to his ministers? Ranya wanted to say. Or because he does not trust the army and worries they might turn on us? But once again those were not the sorts of concerns to share with an offworlder she had just met. Instead, she shrugged. “The sultan is not eager to turn heavy armor loose on our fellow Gadirans, even the most defiant ones,” she said. “Ultimately, we can buy all the grav tanks we want from Montréal, but tanks won’t change minds. Good jobs and a little more sympathy for Quranist sensibilities are the weapons that will defeat the Caidists. Companies such as Dielkirk can bring the jobs to Gadira. If their representatives are careful to pay attention to cultural concerns, so much the better.”
Bleindel bowed. “The sultan’s restraint is commendable. Forgive me if I have been impolite in my questions, Amira.”
“There is nothing to forgive,” Ranya replied. She glanced toward the palace’s west veranda, which was only a short distance away. “Shall we go inside and perhaps have some lemonade? I would like to hear more about your company’s plans—and why Bey Salem is so enthusiastic about them.”
Salem el-Fasi laughed softly. “A healthy percentage, of course,” he replied. “But I am sincere in my belief that Mr. Bleindel’s company represents an opportunity all Gadirans should welcome.”
“At least you are honest about your venality, Bey Salem,” Ranya said, but she gave the businessman a small smile to make light of the remark. She had to be careful about whom she trusted, and if she couldn’t count on Salem el-Fasi to always do the right thing, at least she could predict how he might act in his own self-interest. So long as he saw that his fortunes would flourish alongside those of House Nasir, he could be counted on.
She motioned toward the veranda. “This way, Mr. Bleindel. And, while we walk, I hope you’ll allow me to tell you a little about the palace and its gardens.”
“I would be delighted, Amira,” Bleindel replied, and followed her inside.
4
Brigadoon, New Perth
Sikander North climbed out of the luxurious flyer on the landing pad of the governor’s mansion, and unconsciously adjusted his finest dress uniform. The magnificent residence was lit with hundreds of golden hoverlights, a lazy swarm of fireflies drifting over the pools and gardens, and the soft sound of a live string quartet came from a bandstand not far away. Hundreds of men and women dressed in formal wear—short jackets and wide cummerbunds for the men, glittering gowns in countless spectacular hues for the women, and of course dress whites for military personnel—were already present, strolling about the grounds or gathering in small groups to talk over cocktails. Sikander was impressed; Aquilans could pull off elite elegance better than almost anyone.
It’s like the Bandi Chor Divas festival back home—the celebrations at the palace after the public processions, anyway. He smiled at the old memories: At dusk, throngs of people and thousands of golden lights would fill the streets of Sangrur as the raucous processions made their way through the city, passing by the nawab’s box in the reviewing stand for the traditional blessing. Afterward, Nawab Dayan always hosted the notables of his domain at a grand banquet, the highlight of Jaipur’s social calendar. Sikander remembered standing in his princely finery beside his father and older brothers, all too conscious of the beautiful young women in the crowd trying to catch his eye. As the fourth-born of his father’s children, Sikander was always much better positioned than his dutiful older brothers to take advantage of his aristocratic name. While Devindar and Gamand squirmed under the constant scrutiny of the planet’s elites and the crowds of journalists who followed them, he was free to engage in the much more enjoyable task of choosing his company for the evening.…
I am forgetting my date, Sikander realized. He took a deep breath, returning his attention to the governor’s mansion on a cool Brigadoon evening. He gave his tunic a tug and shrugged his shoulders to adjust his uniform, then turned to assist Lara Dunstan as she emerged from the luxury flyer. She was his companion for the Governor’s Ball, the daughter of an important Aquilan senator and a close friend of his cousin Amarleen. A deep sapphire gown perfectly complemented her eyes, and her hair was swept up into a jeweled coiffure that sparkled in the soft light.