"Small things," Rykor agreed. "I shall tell you a joke, Otho. Do you know the difference between the old Emperor, the new Emperor, and the privy council?"
"I do not."
"If somehow all three entities were aboard a ground vehicle, and were informed the vehicle is stalled, their responses would be as follows: the privy council would have ordered the controllers be shot, the crew sent into exile, and someone new brought in. The old Emperor would have ordered the problem investigated and then the most competent crew members given promo-tions and the vehicle be put under way once more. The new Emperor would pull down the shades and pretend the vehicle was still moving."
Otho considered, then politely chuffed a minilaugh. "As you said, Rykor, a small thing."
Cind got it. "Uh-uh," she said. "Isn't the point of the story to get beings thinking in terms of old and newt Which ices the whole Majesty of Ages, Eternal Emperor belief?"
"Just so. Once we have accomplished that mental division, then the stories, the back-alley rumors, will start to be believed.
"Another area—I think it is profitable for us to look at this Cult of the Emperor that has been tacitly encouraged. Once you have two beings convinced that the immaterial exists, and can affect the material, you can then make one proclaim the other a heretic. Possibly you can even convince the first being that the new deity is, in fact, the antigod.
"Beings, particularly humans, will harbor the most imbecilic thoughts and commit the most appalling acts in the name of whichever god they've created and decided to worship... But I am sorry. I run on."
"Not at all," Sten said. "You, at least, have a specific campaign. At this point all I have is some generalities and a possible first target. Gentlebeings, the floor is open for ideas, suggestions, and stupid ramblings."
"All a which," Kilgour said, "is vasty improved wi‘ a whiff ae th' grape. Or stregg. Boss, whae are y‘ drinkin't?"
Sten shook his head. "No thanks. Somebody's got to drive." He was starting to realize that among the many things wrong with being the one for whom the buck stops, a fairly high degree of sobriety was one.
As it happened, the only drinkers were Otho, Kilgour, and Freston, and Freston stopped after one heavily watered glass of alk.
Otho looked them up and downi then growled. "Wonderful. Simply wonderful. By my mother's beard, I appear to have cast my lot with a group of bluestockingsV‘
And he promptly drained the great Horn and refilled it, determined to compensate for this shame single-handedly.
The session did not break up until nearly dawn. It had been productive—and that possible first target was a definite.
As everyone yawned toward their quarters, and a few hours of unconsciousness before the Dream would be broken down, bit by bit, ship by ship, duty by duty, weapon by weapon, ratpack by ratpack, into an operations order.
Cind lingered on and caught Otho's eye. He nodded, knowing what she would ask.
He filled his horn and grunted a question. Cind nodded, and Otho filled one for her.
"When will we gather?" Cind asked.
"I have already heard from the elders. They wait on our convenience."
"Soon," Cind suggested. "Do you know what you will say?"
Otho's brows furrowed. His great fangs bared. He snarled. To anyone not familiar with the Bhor, it would have been taken as at least a threat, at worst the beginnings of a possibly cannibalistic attack. Cind knew it to be a smile.
"By Sarla and Laraz, I do. But it is not what I had planned. By my father's thawing buttocks but I am surprisingly thick at times. But now I have the words, and shall cut my beard if necessary to make the elders listen."
Beard-cutting was the way the Bhor had of bringing a matter to an immediate "vote" in front of the assemblage—and something that, if the "vote" did not go in the favor of the beard-cutter, would almost certainly result in his dismemberment.
"Yes, I now have the words," Otho repeated.
"I shall inform the elders, and we shall meet at nightfall of this day. Advise Sten and the others to remain in their quarters after dusk. I do not mean to embarrass great warriors such as them—but this business must be done with only our people present. Time has run out for the Bhor to continue as they have been."
And that was all that Otho would tell Cind.
Near dusk of the next day, the Bhor arrived, singly and in groups. ‘Trickled in" might be a correct phrase, but tsunamis never runnel. Cind was one of a handful of humans—all natives of the Lupus Cluster, and all high-rankers in the Bhor military— permitted at this enclave. She, like the others, wore full battle harness.
Otho had the great tables laid out for a banquet, and sideboards held cold roasts and dishes for late arrivals. Everything had been presliced, since a Bhor political discussion did not need further encouragement by allowing edged weapons.
Great barrels of stregg were set out at strategic intervals. Which meant arm's length.
At full dark, the subject was formally announced by tin- Hlior elders: Should the Bhor declare against the Empire‘.' II so, should they declare independence and war openly—or merely back Sten to the hilt, protesting innocence all the while and declaring anyone whose name/profile showed up on a WANTED poster a renegade?
That ancillary topic was taken care of rapidly. In spite of the brawling style of the Bhor, they were not imbeciles—and the mere mention of the size, of the Imperial fleets, the existence of planetbusters, and the probable willingness of the Emperor to deploy those weapons sent a cold chill across the great hall.
Even the greatest warrior may have a mate and offspring, and somehow hope to still have a home he/she/Va might return victoriously to.
Then the major issue was mounted.
By midnight, several topics had been discussed:
Whether it was wise for the Bhor to involve themselves with any cause with a human at its helm.
Whether Sten was in fact human or a Bhor reincarnated under a curse in that puny body.
Whether Alex Kilgour was actually a Bhor (passed by acclamation).
The most successful way of thawing frozen buttocks.
Whether, if the motion to go to war against the Empire failed, the Bhor ought to declare war on someone , since the new warriors were little other than mewling milksops.
Whether the W'lew Peninsula still contained any wild stregg.
Whether the W'lew Peninsula offered better fishing than C'lone Bay, assuming you could not find any stregg.
Whether the problem with the Eternal Emperor could be settled by a chosen Bhor warrior challenging him to a winner-take-all duel to the death.
Six tables had been broken, two over Bhor heads. Twelve warriors were on their way to hospital. Cind was nursing a black eye and bruised heel of palm from a badly conceived but extemporaneous rebuttal. Five very promising duel challenges had been issued. Seven warriors had been tossed through a window into a snowbank to sober up.
The Bhor were merely getting started—this was the first big issue to come up in several years, and it might be a week before it was settled, assuming the stregg held out and there were Bhor still left unhospitalized to argue.
Otho had enough.
The elders had already attempted to manipulate the "dialogue" toward Otho, with small success. Otho waited until Iv'r was in midperoration, surprisingly close enough to the subject at hand, being a diatribe that even the best of the Imperial Guard would not be a worthy adversary to the Bhor, no matter how greatly they outnumbered the race.
Iv'r, a longtime friend of Otho—Otho'd once bested him in a trial of endurance over the stewardship of a disputed arctic oasis—saw him fondle his beard, knew what Otho would do as a last resort, and yielded the floor to a "point of order."