Further, the Sodeskayans intimated that, as planned, the incident would take place spontaneously, making it extremely difficult to predict—and thereby prevent. Because of this, the Imperial Foreign Service had quietly assigned 'round-the-clock, plainclothes guards to both Korfuzzier and the Ambassador whenever either departed his quarters. Presently, all possible preparations had been accomplished; now, the Imperials could only wait for the actual deed to transpire....
Saltash's Imperial limousine was admitted to the palace grounds scant cycles after the diplomat finished his briefing. "We'll talk more of this later," he said. "Inside the grounds, here, we can't be certain of our security, even in a protected limousine. The Leaguers have made some impressive inroads."
Brim's eyebrows rose. "They've wired the palace grounds?" he asked in amazement.
"We think so," Saltash replied. "The Fluvannian state security organization is riddled with Leaguers." Then he sat back in the seat and indicated the vast palace gardens that surrounded them.
"Might as well enjoy the scenery," he said. "It's quite well known throughout the galaxy, and not everyone gets to see it in person."
Brim looked around him; Saltash certainly had a point. And although the spacious courtyard could never compare to the huge campus in which the Gradgroat-Norchelite monastery had once rested, it was altogether impressive in its own—"foreign"—way. Outlined by a wall that Brim remembered from the air as being roughly octagonal in shape, the Royal Compound was dotted by colossal shade trees in reds, oranges, and greens, accented by lofty fountains; domed, pergolalike structures with intricately carved surfaces and massive balustrades; huge stone urns in myriad graceful shapes; and a network of glistening walkways arranged in wild, geometric patterns. Heroic statues had been erected where walkways intersected, and vivid banners thundered in the breeze from lofty flagpoles. The limousine drew to a halt at the end of a queue of similar vehicles that extended into a stately portico of crimson stone. At least thirty footmen, dressed in matching crimson, stood in attendance. "What's the significance of all the red?" Brim asked as the big car inched its way forward.
"The celebration of Zaborew," Saltash answered. "It's a quasi-religious holiday period of some sort, though I doubt if anyone understands the whole significance anymore. Most of the feast days have something to do with a series of victories against some deadly force from outside the galaxy. But the exact nature of that force is never really described, at least in the feasts I've been privileged to attend.''
He grinned as they finally glided under the portico. "Lots of excellent food and magnificent, homegrown Logish Meem, so I've never found much reason to complain about their slipshod historical reckoning."
The Carescrian grinned as a red-clad footman stepped up to open the door. "A man after my own heart," he said. "Where good food and Logish Meem are concerned, wise men ask as few questions as possible. I learned that from friends in Sodeskaya,'' Then he stepped onto the pavement, adjusted his sword, and followed Saltash through the most ornate set of doors he had seen since the Grand Koundourities Hotel in Atalanta. Both were horridly overdone.
Brim was immediately relieved to find that an "audience" with Nabob Mustafa was not something that people did by themselves. To the right of a semicircular area curtained off by huge, red velvet draperies, at least thirty others were lined up, preening themselves and talking to one or more coadjutors.
The throne room itself was a lofty structure, shaped as if it were the interior of an incredibly large and ornate bedouin tent whose walls and roof were lined by giant carpets. Clearly, the Nabob's roots were nomadic—but well before the dawn of recorded history. "Anything I ought to know about this?'' he asked.
Saltash shook his head. "Old Mustafa holds these audiences every other day, year in and year out. And from what I understand, most of them are serious—requiring some sort of judgment that immediately becomes law. You'll make a nice change of pace for him."
"Good," Brim laughed. "I'll take very little of his time, then...."
"Don't count on it," Beyazh laughed, joining the two Imperials in the midst of their conversation.
"What you'll do is answer questions until he runs out of them. And he'll have a few, believe me. I've just spoken to him. He's excited that you're here—with Starfury, of course...." The Minister's next words were completely overpowered by a great braying of trumpets that terminated in respectful silence as the curtains parted to reveal the high throne of Fluvanna: A small, straight-backed chair made of what appeared to be solid gold. It was dramatically lighted by a single beam of ghostly luminescence.
Standing beside the throne, Mustafa IX Eyren, The Magnificent, was a small, stout man with a dark, round face; at least three double chins; small, perceptive eyes peering from behind a pair of enormous spectacles; and truly prodigious mustaches that ended in waxed spikes extending considerably outboard of his ears. He was dressed in baggy scarlet silk knee britches; brilliantly polished riding boots with pointed, turned-up toes; a high-necked tunic of white brocade embroidered in gold; and a crimson fez with a long, blue tassel denoting his royal status. When he clapped his hands twice in rapid succession, a large contingent of musicians began yerking out the national anthem and everyone in the room dropped to their knees—everyone except Brim and Saltash. Imperials bowed to no one, especially Imperials in Imperial uniforms. The traditional prohibition had been in effect since time immemorial, and was seldom taken to heart by dominions whose customs required outward signs of obeisance.
When the room had become silent, a voice from the rear snapped off half a dozen Fluvannian words, and a group of men made their way to a small, ornate carpet placed directly before the throne.
There, they once more dropped to their knees until sharp commands from the Nabob himself brought them to their feet. Mustafa now relaxed and sat on his throne, bidding the petitioners to begin with a casual wave of the hand.
"You won't have long to wait," Beyazh whispered under his breath. "Nabob Mustafa instructed me to inform you that he will hear two of the shortest cases first, in deference to his own countrymen.
You will be called third."
Brim nodded. "I appreciate that," he said.
"Mustafa appreciates Starfury," Beyazh chuckled darkly. "He isn't too anxious for a League takeover, either...."
As Beyazh predicted, the first audience lasted no more than fifteen cycles; the second lasted scarcely half that long. Abruptly someone pronounced a rapid-fire string of mostly unintelligible sounds that contained the words "Wilf Brim" and "Starfury" whereupon Saltash tapped the Carescrian on his arm. "We're up, Commander," he chuckled, starting across the floor toward the throne. "Let's see if the two of us together can put together a single interview—and don't forget, Nabobs always speak first."
The two men stopped a few irals from the throne and came to attention while Brim saluted.
Mustafa eyed them with interest, a small smile on his pudgy face. He twisted one side of his mustache, frowned, nodded, then smiled again and cordially pronounced a string of noises that sounded to Brim like a choleric Xythun warbling turtle.
"His Magnificence extends his personal welcome as well as those of his people," Saltash translated.