Sten wore a pale blue tunic that buttoned to his neck, and trousers of the same color. He was bareheaded and wore no decorations.
No security beings followed them. The two walked out into the soft sunlight and waited.
Across the field, bootheels clashed and weapons crashed as the IS troops came to attention.
The Eternal Emperor and his entourage came down the ramp. As expected, he wore a plain black uniform with the Imperial Emblem on its breast. Around his neck was one decoration—one of the liviecasters correctly identified it, in a hushed voice, as the Giver of Peace decoration that he'd received at the conclusion of the Mueller Rising.
The ‘caster went on to identify the Imperial dignitaries: Avri, his political chief of staff. Tyrenne Walsh, figurehead ruler of Dusable and the Eternal Emperor's usual stalking-horse in Parliament. And so on down, from Count This to Secretary of Protocol That. The liviecaster misidentified one being, but Ecu knew him welclass="underline" Solon Kenna. The Eternal Emperor was bringing his sharpest political minds to this meeting. Ecu felt that horrible stir called hope move in his soul once more.
Best of all, Poyndex was not part of the throng. Once more, a favorable sign that perhaps this conference was intended to bring a measure of peace to the Empire.
Sten and Alex moved to greet the Imperial troupe. The entourage stopped, and the Eternal Emperor walked forward alone.
"Sten." It was a completely neutral acknowledgment.
Sten, foolishly, had to stop himself from saluting. The habit of years died very hard.
"Your Highness."
"Shall we begin?"
Sten forced a smile to his lips and nodded.
Sten and the Eternal Emperor were alone on a balcony near the crest of the Guesting Center. The balcony appeared to be just a ledge on the outer near-vertical slope of the volcano-styled Center.
After the conferees had been shown to their quarters, the Emperor had asked Ecu if he might have the pleasure of talking to Sten alone for a few moments. The meeting was not to be recorded.
Ecu asked Sten, who hesitated, then agreed.
It was just twilight, and purple drifted across the sky above them, coloring the wide valley around the Center. The young Manabi who escorted them to the balcony told them it was screened against anyone, especially a liviecaster, who might be indiscreet enough to focus a parabolic microphone on the two of them. Sten and the Emperor looked at each other, and Sten half smiled. No one would be that indiscreet, he knew.
There were two chairs and a large cart equipped with a McLean generator at the rear of the balcony. The Emperor walked to it and opened the doors.
"Scotch. Stregg. Alk. Pure quill. Beer. Teas. Even water. The Manabi certainly worry over dry throats."
He turned to Sten. "Would you like a drink?"
"No," Sten said. "But thank you."
The Emperor picked up the flask of stregg. Turned it back and forth. "I used to drink this," he mused. "But I found I've lost my taste for it. Isn't that unusual?"
He looked directly at Sten, then his eyes shifted back and forth. Sten found the gaze uncomfortable, but did not allow himself to look away. After a few seconds, the Emperor looked elsewhere.
He walked to the edge of the balcony and sat on the low railing, looking out at the valley.
"Unusual beings, the Manabi," he mused. "The only real trace of their civilization is underground. I would feel unsettled, bothered, that if I vanished in the night, there would be no sign whatsoever that I had ever existed... no mark of my own on the face of the planet."
Sten had no answer. Again, the Emperor looked at him, his eyes doing that mad dance.
"Do you recall our first meeting?"
"Formally, sir?"
"No. I meant the night of Empire Day. When you were head of my bodyguards. I assume you have heard that I dismissed the Gurkhas. Romantic as they are, I found their capabilities limited. Anyway, that night was when I asked to see your knife. Do you still have it, by the way?"
"I do."
"May I see it again?"
Now Sten smiled. "I hope there are no security types out there who might misunderstand," he said. He curled his fingers and let the weapon slip down into his fingers. He passed it across to the Eternal Emperor, who looked at it curiously and handed it back.
"Just as I remembered it. You know, I have dreamed about this knife from time to time. But I don't remember the circumstances of the dream. Yes. I should have realized its symbolism to you back then."
It took a moment for Sten to understand what the Emperor meant. Before he could protest, the Emperor went on: "That was an interesting night. You introduced me to stregg, as I recall. And I cooked. I don't remember—"
"It was something you called Angelo stew."
"Oh yes." The Emperor was silent for a moment. "That's something else I find I don't have much time for any more. Cooking. But now that this... disagreement... will be cleared up, I'll be able to return to my old ways. Who knows? Maybe even think about trying to build a guitar again." His expression hardened. "It's good to have a hobby in your twilight years, isn't it?"
Sten thought it best to remain silent.
"Empire Day. That, I suppose, is where the dry rot set in. Hakone. The Tahn. Mahoney. The Altaics... Christ!"
The Emperor peered intently at Sten. "You don't know what you have asked for, Sten. How all this goes on, and on, and it never slows and no one ever is grateful."
"Sir. I did not ask for anything. This powersharing is—"
"Of course you didn't ask," the Emperor said, a note of pet-tishness in his voice. "But after all these centuries, don't you think I know? Give me credit, at least, for not being a fool."
"That is something I have never thought, Your Majesty."
"No?" The flickering gaze turned away, back to the darkening landscape far below. "How bare," the Emperor mused. "How barren."
He rose. "I plan on eating in my quarters," he said, and smiled. "I would think that any banquets or public feastings might well wait until we have reached an arrangement. Don't you?"
"It doesn't matter to me," Sten said. "But I'm not particularly inclined to ten courses and having to come up with polite toasts."
The Emperor's smile became larger. "That was one of the reasons I respected you at one time. Even, perhaps, liked you. You had no truckle for pretense. I sometimes wonder how you found yourself capable of this."
He nodded, and, still smiling, went inside.
Alex Kilgour saw Sten to his chambers, and, yawning mightily, went to his own rooms.
Once inside, he doffed the outfit he mentally referred to as th‘ Laird Kilgour drag and shrugged off the pretense of exhaustion. He took from the lining of his valise a phototropic camouflage suit and zipped it on. The valise's straps became a swiss seat, and he took a small can of climbing thread from his sporran.
An" noo, he thought, we'll ken i‘ th' luck ae th‘ spidgers appliet't' all Scots, or solely't‘ Bobbie th' Brucie.
The problem was that he was not sure exactly what luck would be defined as.
The IS technician ran and reran his tapes. He was trying to figure out just where an annoying buzz on a low freq was coming from. Not from the Normandie, nor from any of the Imperial staff. Nor from any of the liviecasters' equipment.
He had tracked the static to the Guesting Center itself, but it wasn't from any of the Manabi's electronics.
The tech had finally nailed it. The buzz was coming from the portable com that the rebel's aide was carrying. Typical, he thought. Can't even use a handitalki without mucking it up.