Sten, pure bluff, pure rage, bellowed: "Ayo... Gurkhali!" As good a battle shout as any to die with.
The ululation echoed against the brownstones.
And the Gurkhas heard him.
And attacked.
A brown wave of men came out of the night, guns spattering fire, and then they were closed with the enemy. The men spun in sudden confusion at the attack from their rear, and the Gurkhas gave up their guns and slashed in with the kukri.
Two Gurkha fire teams ran past Sten and the others, each with a light crew-served automatic weapon. Moving in pure drill, they went down and opened up, fire roaring down the alley and unsealing that end.
By the time Sten realized he was alive and would stay alive—or, at least, make it out of this stinking alley—none of his attackers could say the same.
The rain felt wonderful on his face. Cind's shoulders as he squeezed them were the most comforting thing he had known. Alex's beam was the friendliest expression he had seen.
Portable torches gleamed from where the enemy's position had been. The three stumbled toward them.
Mahkhajiri Gurung was waiting for him. "Sir, you were very hard to find. This district we found very confusing. I wish you would have summoned us sooner. And when you go out next, would you wear a locator?''
"How," Sten realized, "did you even know I'd left the embassy?"
Mahkhajiri shrugged. "After Mr. Kilgour find secret passage, we did, too. Even though he did not bug passage, we did.
"You see, we are not as good as Mr. Kilgour, and cannot sense in our deepest sleep if some assassin came to attack you in that passage. We Gurkhas need all the help we can get."
Sten, Cind, and Alex looked at each other.
"All right," Sten said finally. "So you know everything. I guess the only question I could have is where are the Bhor?"
"Up on the bridge. Out on the embankment. There were many people with guns we thought should be dealt with.
"The Bhor wanted that honor. We agreed, since they are far more capable of diplomacy than we are."
That would mean no prisoners out there, either.
"I want," Sten said, "a gravsled and back to the embassy and a drink."
"Waiting," Mahkhajiri Gurung said. "In the street."
With a nod, Kilgour pulled Sten aside as they walked down the alley. "Lad, thae was a bit closer'n Ah'm comfortable wi'. Dinnae it be time to be noo studyin't war no more?"
"It is."
"Y ken, Ah know, th' mos' interestin' thing aboot this evening?"
Sten did. Someone had knowingly tried to kill the Eternal Emperor's ambassador plenipotentiary. Not in the heat of battle, but by direct order.
Any rational being would know that such a murder would produce the most immediate and most lethal response from the Emperor.
Sten realized that there were people—factions—here on Jochi that made the lunatics he had been dealing with appear to be sane, peaceful beings.
And so the question would be, who did this semiarmy belong to? Mortars... automatic weapons... men attacking like trained, or at least semitrained, soldiers.
They belonged to somebody.
Sten would wait for the howls of outrage, wondering what conceivable cover story someone would find for the bloody death of one or two companies of gunmen.
But over the days that came, there was never any mention of the incident.
Not from anyone.
Including Rurik's police force.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The proposal was very brief. It was handwritten on three pages of what appeared to be antique paper. The bloodless man sitting across from the Eternal Emperor finished reading it and replaced the pages on the desk.
"Your comments," the Emperor asked.
"Interesting, sir." A neutral tone.
Unsurprising, since everything about Poyndex was neutral. He had formerly been head of Mercury Corps—Imperial Intelligence—in the final days of the Tahn war. An efficient, passionless soldier, he had continued serving under the privy council. Later, in a piece of internal politicking, he had been made the junior member of that council.
But when the Emperor returned, Poyndex betrayed the council to the Empire. All he asked—he knew all he could ask—was for his life. He had had nothing whatsoever to do with the assassination of the Emperor. Nor had he publicly had any part in the various purges and atrocities ordered by the council.
The Emperor took his offer—and the privy council's back was appropriately poniarded, and Poyndex disappeared into the hinterlands of the Empire.
"You show no surprise," the Emperor said.
"Sir... May I speak frankly?"
It was the Emperor's turn for silence. Poyndex chose to interpret that as permission.
"I am only surprised that I am still alive, Your Majesty. When you ordered my return here to Prime World, I was sure—"
"No," the Emperor said. "If I had wanted your corpse, it would have been done silently and at the time of maximum ire. I decided the interregnum would not be memorialized by show trials. Besides, I remember you as being a most efficient chief of Intelligence.
"Now I have need of your services. I want you to take over this newly created entity, Internal Security. It is to be run somewhat differently than Mercury. Its operatives have been and will continue to be recruited from nonmilitary channels. They are required to swear an oath of fealty to me, personally, rather than to the Empire. Their tasks and duties will be known to me alone. The only duty they have been tasked for, in public or classified records, is my protection. Which I plan to give the widest possible interpretation to.
"All IS missions will be assigned by me, and their accomplishment will be reported to me. There will be no other elements in the chain of command. The unit will have the highest priorities in its missions. All reports will be single-copy Eyes Only or orally delivered. There will be no records kept in Imperial Archives. Now... your response?''
"There is not much of a choice, Your Majesty." Poyndex said. "Just knowledge of the existence of this unit could be... embarrassing. And..." He tapped the proposal on the desk. "This plan, and the problem it is intended to solve, is certainly something that must never be common knowledge."
"Your reasoning is correct. You are, in fact, the only being besides myself privy to both the problem and my projected solution," the Emperor said. "But before you accept, I have a single question.
"What is to keep you from betraying me, as you betrayed the council?"
There was a very long silence. Poyndex stood and paced.
"I will answer that, sir," he said, "even though I prefer not to ever discuss my own personality quirks. I find the subject... embarrassing. Perhaps, if you will allow me, a story—a parable—will help."
Poyndex took a breath. "In Spyschool One, they tell the story about a famous spymaster. Serving an ancient Earth imperator. He is credited with creating modern espionage, in fact—where each man spies on his brother and is spied upon. His ruler, impressed, wanted to reward him. The man wanted but one thing—the baton of a field marshal.
"His emperor was shocked at the request, and refused. Spies are not given the rewards of honest soldiers. Nor—he did not add—should they be given public fame."
"The man's name was Fouche, and the dictator's name was First Napoleon," the Emperor said.
"You know the incident, sir. Well, it is told to discourage the budding young intelligence specialist from wanting fame or public glory. And I thought I had taken it to heart and learned to suppress whatever need I had to appear in the public prints, together with other feelings that lessen a reasoning being's efficiency. But when the late Sr. Kyes made his offer to elevate me to the privy council, an offer made very much to serve his own interests I learned, I discovered I was still ambitious. After the privy council's—and my own—downfall I corrected this weakness."