Reith said: "We're first going to see the consul. He's a reformed Englishman named Fallon."
"Reformed? You sound as if being English were a criminal offense."
"No, I merely meant that he's English, like you; and that he's also given up being a drunken drifter."
"Hm. I'm skeptical of reformed characters."
Reith leaned out, looking along the avenue. At last he said to the driver: "Stop here, Timásh!"
The Krishnan halted the ayas before a modest edifice. To one side of the door, the red-white-and-blue medallion of the Terran World Federation was affixed to the beige stucco of the wall.
The passengers climbed down, wearily stretching cramped limbs; and a Krishnan servant admitted them to a long, dark hall. As they passed a stand bearing an open registry book, Reith paused to sign. "Now the rest of you sign, too, please!" he said, handing the pen to Alicia.
"Hey there, Fergus!" came a shout from the far end of the hall. "I thought I recognized that voice."
Footsteps signaled the man's approach. The newcomer proved a tall Terran who looked much older than Reith, although in fact the years that separated them were few. His wavy hair was gray and his face, once handsome, was lined and pouched from years of hard, dissipated living; yet Anthony Fallon stood militarily straight and moved with the spring of a younger man. He shook hands heartily with Reith and cheerfully acknowledged the round of introductions.
"What quarters did you get us?" Reith asked.
"A VIP suite in the Citadel. It looks as if your project should go through without a hitch."
"In my experience," said Reith, "when things seem too good to be true, they usually are."
"We shall see; we shall see. Can I give you all a drink?"
As Fallon waved his guests into the consular office, he touched Reith's arm and whispered: "I say, Fergus! Isn't she the gal you once—umm—"
Reith nodded silently and passed through the door. The travelers took seats and watched Fallon pour fight falat wine into four goblets. Instead of pouring a fifth for himself, he filled his own vessel from a pitcher of water.
"Ordway can't believe you've reformed, Tony," said Reith. "Working in the movie industry has made him cynical. Tell him your tale."
"Very well; if you're sure it won't bore you," said Fallon. "I've led a pretty full life: been everything from king to drunken swagman, including along the way policeman for the World Fed, hippopotamus farmer, wild-life photographer, actor, professional cricketer, and spy. By the way," Fallon addressed Reith, "speaking of my kingship days, I got a letter from my ex."
"And how is the onetime Queen of Zamba?"
"Not that ex, the previous one, Alexandra—the one who married that Canadian—ah—Hasselborg, the chap who killed the then Dasht of Ruz. Alex was bubbling over because the Genetics Board on Terra had given them permission to have a third child. Thank the Lord, here we don't have to ask permission to beget our land."
"Are they happy?"
"Apparently. I'm glad they're doing well, but you know how it is. Unhappy marriages are full of mixed emotions, conflict, and tragedy—the stuff of drama—so they're interesting. But as for happy ones—"
"What about your reformation?" interrupted Ordway.
"Certainly. It was about fifteen years ago, after the foil of Balhib, when Ishimoto was consul in Mishé. I was living here by my wits, indulging in futile dreams of getting my throne back and drinking myself to death.
"Then I pulled myself together, went back to Novo, and got the doc there to give me the treatment developed by that Indian chap. Now I can't abide anything alcoholic. Next, I persuaded the brass to make me acting consul here when the job opened up. Later I passed the qualifying tests; and here I am, an excruciatingly respectable civil servant, a bloody bureaucrat. I sometimes miss the old, irregular days; but to quote some ancient bloke: 'We live not as we wish but as we can.' By the way, Fergus, do you know a man named Enrique Schlegel?"
"Slightly, and not to my pleasure. What about him?"
"He was in Mishé a few days ago, campaigning for his Society for the Preservation of Krishnan Culture. In the past half-moon, his followers have smashed up a shop selling Terran-style women's clothes. Before that, they rioted at a concert where the orchestra played Rozanov's Second Symphony. Not that Rozanov would have known his piece by the time the Krishnan band got through with it."
"Why haven't the Knights kicked him out? Or better yet, put his head on a spike?"
"He has a following. Grand Master Juvain was ultra-conservative, and a lot of his admirers are still around."
"Was Schlegel disguised as a Krishnan?"
"Absolutely; a first-class cosmetic job. I talked with him, as I do with all such characters. When I mentioned you, he began to roar curses and threats. Seems you once knocked him down."
"So I did, when he disrupted one of my tours."
"Said he was leaving shortly for Mikardand, drumming up support for his cult, and you'd better look to your sword if he ran into you. He'd been kicked out of Suruskand and blames you."
"That was Herculeu's idea," said Reith. "Not that I didn't agree! But Herculeu wrote Dámir while I was away with my clients here, so I knew nothing about it at the time."
"I tried to gentle him down," said Fallon, "but he's a real paranoiac, sure all Terrans on the planet are out to get him. So keep your sword handy."
As the visitors filed out, Fallon touched Reith's arm to detain him, murmuring: "How the devil does it happen that you're knocking about with your former spouse?"
"I told you," said Reith. "She's an executive with these movie people, and she got me this guiding contract."
"Doesn't it make things a bit awkward?"
"Not a bit," said Reith, avoiding Fallon's eye. "We're friends, and neither of us is now married. We're—well, sort of like brother and sister."
"Good! Then I can be friends with both. You know, keeping up with both halves of an ex-couple is something to be done the way porcupines make love— carefully." Fallon shook his head. "I say, have you two any—all—plans?"
Sternly, Reith said: "You're about the tenth person who's asked me that. The next will be eaten by my pet yeki."
"I didn't know you had a pet yeki."
"I don't; but I'll get one."
Fallon frowned. "Ruin thing about exes; one doesn't get over them as easily as expected. You think it's long since done with, that you have no more feelings one way or the other, that there have been others since, and that you're both better off. But then something brings your former spouse into the foreground again. You see her, or hear from her, like this letter from Alexandra. And suddenly you're all of a twitter emotionally, as if you were still ..." He broke off, staring wistfully.
"I know," said Reith. "Old man, I know."
The new Grand Master, Sir Yazman bad-Esb, proved unexpectedly young. It was hard to judge the age of a Krishnan, but Reith guessed this one to be under forty, a third of the normal Krishnan life span.
Sir Yazman cut a handsome figure save for a prominent scar on one side of his face. Because of the frequent duels and tournaments, such scars were almost as common among the Knights of Qarar as the blue-and-orange tunics and hose that formed their uniform. To indicate his rank, the Grand Master's tunic bore cryptic symbols worked in golden thread.
Fallon made introductions. The Grand Master looked uncertainly at the consul before he came around his desk with outstretched hand, saying in halting, mangled Portuguese: "¿Possa—poderei—dar um apêrto de mão?"