"For the moment, we really do need to keep a lid on this situation, at least until we can completely redeploy our own forces. And we also need someone who's a bit older and wiser?maybe even a bit more cynical?" he smiled quickly at Skirvon, "to make a firsthand analysis of the other side. Someone not quite so blinded by the … intricacies of the Andaran honor code."
"I've always been considered a pretty fair analyst," Skirvon observed.
"Yes, I've heard that about you." mul Gurthak smiled again, but his eyes were very serious as he continued. "Still, don't forget that you're dealing with a complete unknown here. These prisoners of Hundred Olderhan can insist all they want to that their people don't know anything at all about magic. I'm not going to take that as a given without some additional, independent confirmation."
"And if it turns out that they really don't know anything about magic?" Skirvon asked delicately.
"Why, in that eventuality," the two thousand half-drew the dagger, turning it to let the light gleam wickedly on its razor-sharp edge, "our menu of choices would change quite radically, wouldn't it?"
mul Gurthak leaned back in his chair again, once more alone in his office, and grimaced at the ceiling.
Rithmar Skirvon was almost as smart as he thought he was, the two thousand reflected. But only almost. He'd been perfectly happy to enter into certain subsidiary business arrangements with various Mythalan financiers and banks, and he'd always held up his end of any arrangements. But by and large, he seemed to think money and personal power were all that were at stake. He knew he was involved with shakira, but he thought they were acting as individuals, in their own self-interest. He didn't have a clue about the bigger picture … which was fortunate for him. Men who knew too much about the Council of Twelve and its plans inevitably had accidents.
Which didn't do a thing to simplify mul Gurthak's present nasty situation.
The two thousand sighed. As he'd said to Skirvon, he couldn't begin to forecast how the Andarans were going to react to this. The Ransarans?aside from Dastiri's Manisthuans, perhaps?were far easier to predict. They'd want to understand these Sharonians, because Ransarans, for reasons only they could fully comprehend, wanted to understand everything and everyone. It was the second most maddening thing about them, after their obnoxious conviction that everyone else should agree with their mad notions about the total equality of everybody everywhere with everyone.
mul Gurthak managed not to shudder at the thought only because he'd spent so many years dissembling. Ransaran democracies were just short of mentally aberrant, and their citizens?who were usually as vocal about their absurd beliefs as they were lunatic?frequently left him feeling queasy. He hadn't been at all distressed to learn that Magister Kelbryan had chosen to stay with the prisoners in order to reassure them.
That choice of hers told mul Gurthak everything he needed to know about Kelbryan's views on Jasak Olderhan's precious shardonai. It was scarcely a surprising position for her to take, given her pedigree and history, and if she wanted to spend time with them, so much the better. The woman represented one of the greatest public relations disasters in the history of Mythal, after all, not to mention a staggering affront to anything approaching decent behavior. And at least this way, he wouldn't have to clench his teeth against nausea while listening to her expound her thoughts about these Sharonians. If it should happen that she developed any genuine insights, they'd undoubtedly show up in Olderhan's reports, anyway, so he wasn't overly concerned about depriving himself of critical military intelligence.
The problem was that, aside from the regrettable power of her Gift, Kelbryan was typical of Ransarans, and there were a lot of them. An appalling number of them, as a matter of fact, when it came to seats in the Union Parliament. Unlike Mythal, which was experiencing a steady decline in population, thanks to the current massive garthan exodus (which had the caste-lords howling in outrage and threatening to impose emigration quotas?as if the Accords would have permitted them to do any such thing), the Ransaran population on Arcana Prime was growing steadily. Not just in absolute terms, but as a percentage of the total planetary population, as well.
Despite their much vaunted individualism and the depressing technological advantages it had given them, however, Ransarans as a group tended not to relocate as much as other Arcanans. In part, that was simply because they preferred the creature comforts of home. Given the almost universally high standard of living amongst Ransarans, higher than that of any other group in the Union, outside a few dozen shakira ruling families, Ransarans simply preferred to stay home.
Roughing it in a cabin in the wilderness, with no hospitals, no universities, no theaters or museums, no banks or stock exchanges, and no shopping emporia stuffed with luxury goods from every Arcanan universe, was simply too crude for most self-respecting Ransarans. That was one Ransaran attitude mul Gurthak understood perfectly. He missed the comforts of home, as well. Bitterly, at times.
But sacrifices had to be made. That was a concept he'd embraced long ago, although it clearly continued to elude most Ransarans. Of course, one of these fine days, those same Ransarans would wake up to discover that a few changes had been made. Nith mul Gurthak took great personal satisfaction in being part of the mechanism which would make that moment inevitable.
The world would be a far safer?and vastly more stable?place when that day finally came, but that wasn't something he could discuss even with Skirvon. He had allies, to be sure, and the diplomat was one of them. But Skirvon wasn't part of the inner circle, and never would be, for the simple reason that however useful he might be, he wasn't Mythalan.
mul Gurthak grimaced again at that thought, then pushed his chair back and stood, reviewing the string of unutterably bad news he'd received over the past few weeks. One hand clenched itself around his belt dagger's hilt, and he managed?somehow?not to swear. This whole nasty business had thrown a serious spanner into a very delicate piece of machinery, and he had so many piles of pieces to pick up that he hardly knew where to start. He could perceive?imperfectly, as yet, but perceive?certain strands of opportunity running through the chaos which had engulfed so many years of effort. But even the best of those opportunities were problematical, and it had taken all of his formidable self-control not to curse out loud during the past few hours.
Dissembling was a game which had long since palled. He'd grown weary of presenting a calm and measured face to the world, hiding his true opinions in order to accomplish his mission. But it had never been as difficult as it had while he listened to Olderhan?Olderhan, of all people?spouting his goodness-and-light interpretation of the current situation. He'd needed to curse someone, starting with the incomparably incompetent Shevan Garlath and ending with the next problem on his list.
He glowered out his office window at the rapidly settling evening and reached a decision. Then he turned his back on the dusk and his eyes hardened as he looked down at the antique rankadi knife on his desk. That problem he could safely vent spleen on to his heart's content, he decided. And by all the gods of his grandfathers' fathers, the stupid little bastard had earned every ounce of spleen mul Gurthak intended to vent.
He opened his office door and looked at his clerk.
"Send someone to the brig. I want to see Bok vos Hoven."
"Yes, Sir." The clerk snapped a salute and stepped out to arrange for the brig's sole occupant to be escorted to the commandant's office. Eight minutes later, there was a tap at mul Gurthak's door.