"Well, this will take some fixing," the adjutant said, squaring his shoulders and tapping his comm awake. "Hello? Is this the Gandaris consulate? Yes, this is Corporal Clark. I'm acting factotum for the Prince Imperial while he's in the city…Yes, that one. Yes. Listen now, there's been a bit of a problem with the servants at the Gemmilsky house." Clark paused, listening to the consul babble in his ear. The corporal's face grew still, then turned grim.
"You say the Resident's wife is coming with him? She's not injured? Good. But her vacation party has been invited to stay with the prince?" Clark's dark eyebrows drew close over brown eyes. "And where would her luggage be? At the palace? No? Ah, the train station. I see. Well, sir, if you wish to remain employed by the Imperial Diplomatic Corps, I suggest you tell me how to acquire thirty properly trained household staff and hot dinner and drinks for thirty in…" Clark raised his wrist, glanced at his chrono, then peered out the window at the sun. "Three-quarters of an hour. As, sir, there are no staff here. They have all fled to the four winds."
There was a pause. Clark waited, trying not to tap his boot on the floor. Eventually the consul spoke again and a begrudging smile lit the corporal's dour face.
"Does the kujen have an Imperial-addressed comm? He does? Excellent – what's the number there? Good. Now, can you send a man to get her Ladyship's baggage? I will be very busy here, very busy."
Parus The District of the Claw-Sharpeners
Just west of a mustard-yellow mercantile arcade, where rug merchants laid out their wares in smoke-stained alcoves, an old royal residence with two slender towers sat hidden inside a block of residential flats. Inside the palace, in a large domed chamber holding a dry pool, the leaders of four of the darmanarga moktar cells in the capital considered a table covered with maps and diagrams.
The topmost map described the environs of the Imperial Legation, housed within the dhrada-mandura – the Rusted Citadel – and the streets surrounding the human enclave. The chart was covered with annotations describing the security arrangements, guards and other items of interest in the Legation. Despite the reflecting pool having gone dry the room was pleasantly hot and humid.
"We will have to commit nearly every brigade in the city to overwhelm this position," declared the smallest, most nervous of the conspirators. "With the weapons they control, the asuchau could hold the dhrada against us with a claw of warriors! We should wait until more lance commanders commit to our cause."
The largest of the moktar flared his nostrils dismissively. When he frowned, a deep scar puckered beneath his left eye-shield. "They are expecting an attack by warriors bearing swords, spears and the occasional rifle. The 'artifacts' we've put back into service will be a complete surprise – much less the number of rifles and heavy machine guns our agents have purchased on the black market. A swift, coordinated assault on these points…" General Humara's claw tapped the map, indicating the main gates of the Legation, as well as two service entrances on the far side ofthe compound. "…will allow our troops entry and trap them inside. Then it will be a matter of -"
"A matter of counting your corpses," an unexpected – human – voice said, rising over the sound of brisk footsteps on the expanse of mosaic floor. All four of the conspirators turned in alarm, horrified to find a tall, lean-looking Imperial with short blond hair emerging from the dim recesses of the vestibule. Despite civilian attire – short jacket over a cotton mantle, pleated trousers tucked into leather boots – the entire line of his body shouted military. "The Imperial soldiers assigned to the Legation are equipped with combat armor and modern weapons. A single gunso with a Macana 8mm could slaughter two to three hundred of your soldiers with ease. Even the surplused rifles you've purchased from passing merchants will have a hard time penetrating their hard shells."
The man's brash pronouncement froze three of the conspirators, but not the general. Humara trilled a soft laugh and rose to his full height – easily a head over the human – and looked down a scarred old snout. "Humans selling us guns to kill other humans is pleasant," he boomed, "and convenient. But we are not without powerful weapons, even in our diminished state. Not all of the glory of old Jehan has yet failed."
Timonen inclined his head in acknowledgement of the point. Then he raised pale, watery blue eyes to meet the gaze of the old kurbardar and lifted one hand. "Can you still reach to the stars, as your forebears once did? Do you still rule the skies?"
Humara hissed angrily in reply. "No, not as we did. We have been gnawing the same scale. There are Imperial starships in orbit, and those we cannot reach. Thus our desire to seize the Legation and the humans within immediately, so as to shield ourselves from orbital bombardment -"
The Finn produced a trill of laughter. "The Empire will not hesitate to spill innocent blood. The Imperial commanders you face will obliterate any massed forces you expose – such as concentrating all your brigades in the city against the dhrada – along with their 'shields.' "
"How then," the kurbardar growled, "do we defeat this enemy? How do we win?"
"Another question, first," hissed the nervous one. The Jehanan hopped from foot to foot, claws clicking together. "Who are you, asuchau? We have not seen your face before – your coloration is different, your speech pattern unfamiliar! How did you find and enter this place?"
"I am a courier," the blond man replied, producing a packet. "My name is unnecessary. I was given certain signs and procedures to follow and directed here. I have unexpected – but welcome – news for your cause."
The nervous Jehanan snatched the proffered packet and began going through the identity card and other letters inside. "What news?"
"First, I think you should not wait." The cold-eyed human nodded to the old kurbardar. "Each day only increases the chances one of your, ah, less-committed fellows will change his mind, or tell someone, or be betrayed by a subordinate. Then all of your heads – and mine, most like – will be on a drying rack with hooks through our eye sockets. I understand there is a citywide festival in the next day or so?"
"The gathering of the Nem," Humara rumbled wistfully. "The streets will be filled with street festivals and processions of the hatchlings bearing the sacred flowers… The entire city will turn out in hatching-day best, the air will be fragrant with perfume and the smell of a thousand savory dishes." He paused, leathery lips rippling back from rows of ivory-colored teeth in growing anger. "You suggest we should attack the Imperials on one of the most holy days in our year? A day when conflict has always been forbidden?"
The other three hissed in alarm and began to eye the human with great distaste.
"Do you want to free yourselves from the yoke settling so gently around your necks? Do you want to win?"
The Jehanan officers said nothing, but there was a half-audible hissing. The kurbardar leaned forward, glowering at the human. "If we dishonor ourselves for an instant's advantage, a heavier weight than the Empire will be upon our kshetrin, an indelible stain -"
"But if that single moment of advantage is necessary to free your people," Timonen said, removing another, heavier packet from inside his jacket, "and you do not grasp the horn – sharp as it is – then the weight of slavery will be upon you until the sun fails. In truth, time is shorter than you expect."