"General Douw?"
"Aye. He's away, too."
Sten sat up straight in his chair. "Where'd he go?"
"Off wi' his troopies. Maneuvers, his ferret of a press officer said. Annual maneuvers in yon alps." Alex pointed off in the general direction of the mountain range that half-ringed the wide Rurik valley.
"Maneuvers? Oh, bulldrakh. You don't believe it, do you?"
"Noooooo. 'Less th' Jochi troopies-brave lads an' lassies a'-go on maneuvers wi' ammunition all alive, alive-o."
"Drakh," Sten said. "Hip high, old son. 'N risin' fast."
Douw may have been a silvery-haired fool with a pennyweight brain. But perched on a camp stool in his mountain command center, he looked every inch a general. And acted like a very angry one.
"We don't need proof," he snarled across the war table. "Insisting on proof is the last refuge of cowards."
"No Suzdal has ever been called a coward," came a growl. It was Tress, warlord of the Suzdal worlds.
"Don't be so quick to take offense," Snyder said. He was Menynder's cousin and, now, the de facto war chief of the Torks. "That's our problem in the Altaics. Every time we consider unified action, someone gets his nose out of joint and the whole thing collapses."
"Respect we must have," Hoatzin said. His voice was harsh, weary. His wife, Diatry, had died with Menynder and the others. It was now Hoatzin's task to lead the Bogazi hutches into battle. If there was to be one.
"Divide and conquer. Divide and conquer. That's always been the Emperor's way," Douw said. He was not being hypocritical. He had truly forgotten that Iskra had used those very words, though in a different-and Jochian-context.
"So, we fight,'' Tress said. "What chance do we have? Against the Eternal Emperor? His forces-"
"Who cares about the size of his forces?" Douw broke in. "The terrain is ours. The people are ours. If we all stand together... we must prevail."
"Emperor not so strong as he thinks," Hoatzin said. "Fight Tahn many years. He had victory, yes. But not so good a victory. Very long war. Soldiers, I think, are tired. Also, as general say, this not their land. What they fight for?"
"Still," Tress said, "the Emperor has never been defeated before."
"It happen once," the Bogazi said. "Must have. Why else the Emperor disappear? I think he flee privy council."
No one had ever put the Emperor's disappearance in that light before. It was wrong thinking. But it was the kind of wrong thinking that leads to treacherous conclusions.
"We must all join together," Douw said. "For the first time in our history, we must stand united in one cause. The cause is just. Our soldiers are brave. We only need the will."
There was a long silence around the table. A nesting bird fussed overhead.
Tress rose to his haunches. "I will speak to my pack mates," he said.
"What will you tell them?" Douw asked.
"That we fight. Together."
The sniper still made no sense to Cind.
"Dinnae fash, lass," Alex advised. "Th' shooter's peepers hae big crosses on 'em noo."
"By my father's frozen buttocks, you're thick sometimes."
"Now y're cussin' a' me in y'r heathen Bhor tongue. No respect f'r y'r puir gray mentor. Shame, shame on y' lass.''
"Come on, Alex. How did he get into the palace? Why was he able to pick the best window to shoot from? How come he had all the time in the world to set up shop, find out where Sten would be sitting, plus create a diversion for his escape?"
"We hae a team pokin' 'n a probin' on th' dread plotters, wee Cind."
"No hope, there," Cind said. "Too many suspects. Too many possible combinations. They've got better chance at winning the Imperial lottery."
" 'N y're believin't y' c'n do better?"
Cind thought a moment, then nodded. "Sure. Because they're looking in the wrong direction. The guy was a pro. From his choice of positions, to that old rifle he chose as a weapon, down to the hand-molded bullets."
"Ho-kay. Yon dead shooter wae a pro. This is noo unusual i' a sniper. Wha' else is buggin't y'?" Despite himself, Kilgour was getting interested. Cind was maybe onto something.
"Two things. The first is personal. He was trying to kill Sten. Clot, he almost did!"
Kilgour knew this, tsked, and waved for the key point.
"What really gets me," Cind said, "was that he was the only sniper. Dammit, that makes no sense. Under the circumstances, there should have been a whole host of rooftop shooters. Or none. Not unless somebody wanted to be extra sure of exactly who died.
"Fine. We know he didn't have to go for Iskra. The coroner's report tells us the attack on the stands got him. But the same attack missed Sten. So... Wham! He tries to take him out. Thanks to you and your chain-mail tailor, it didn't work. But... still..."
Alex was thoughtful. "Aye... Thae hae t'be more."
"More of what?" came Mahoney's voice. "What trouble are you two cooking up?''
They whirled to see that Ian had entered the room. Cind was used to big beings moving silently. Look at Alex. Look at her Bhor comrades. But Mahoney still astonished her. It wasn't that he was just, well, getting on in years... But his large Irish body and round friendly face didn't look as if they belonged to someone who could cat around corners and into rooms.
She started to snap to attention and acknowledge her superior officer. Mahoney waved her down. "Just tell me what you two are plotting."
Cind filled him in on the mysterious sniper. Mahoney listened closely, then shook his head. "It's an interesting mystery, I agree,'' he said. "And the man was certainly a pro. Which means he was hired. Which also likely means whoever hired him would have had a cutout. Therefore, if you find out who the sniper is, that's all you'll learn. He even might be an interesting fellow, in an evil sort of way. But, I'm afraid in this case, x plus y can only equaclass="underline" who cares?"
"I don't think so, sir," Cind said. "Not this time. And it's not a feeling, but an instinct. Professional instinct. See, when I was hunting him, I did my clotting best to try thinking like him."
"Naturally," Mahoney said. "Go on." The former Mantis chief found himself getting drawn in.
"Pretty soon I was thinking like him. Even named him 'Cutie' in my mind."
"So, what makes 'Cutie' different?" Mahoney wanted to know.
Cind sighed. "It boils down to his knowledge of the terrain and his target. Which means, I think Cutie had been around the palace for a while. I think he checked out every square inch of it.
"I also think he would have done his damnedest to get to know his target. Otherwise he wouldn't have been comfortable. No. Cutie would've wanted to know Sten. Real well. Have an idea about his private habits. Know which way he would duck when the attack started."
"Aye... Quite logical, lass," Alex said. " 'N maybe... Jus' mayhap..."
Mahoney smacked the table. "Of course! He would have tried to visit the embassy. Or, at least attend some official functions that Sten would have been at."
"Exactly," Cind said. "Which means either Sten, or Alex, might recognize him."
She looked up at Mahoney. "I want Sten to go to the morgue, sir," she said. "To see if he can ID the remains."
"Tell him, not me," Ian said, quite sensibly.
Cind lifted an eyebrow. "He'll think it's a waste of time, sir," she said. "Maybe if you..." She let it dangle.
"I'll drag him along by the ear," Mahoney said. "Come on Alex. Let's go chat with the ambassador."
The basement morgue was white and cold, with antiseptically filtered air that didn't cover the occasional whiff of odor that put a rusty taste on the tongue.
"Hang on a sec," the human attendant said. "I ain't finished the lunch." He waved a thick sandwich in their faces. Tomato sauce seeped through the bread.