He peered at Venloe with a slight sneer on his lips. "You surprise me. I didn't think you'd be so squeamish over a little blood spilled for good purpose. Strange how you think you know a being."
Venloe just grunted noncommittally. The thought crossed his mind that if his assignment were of the usual nature, just how easy it would be to kill Iskra. Right now.
Without raising a sweat or leaving a sign of foul play.
"I guess you don't," he said.
Iskra stared at him, trying to engage him in a childish battle of stare-down. Venloe's fingers itched to put them both out. Instead, he lowered his gaze.
"Good," Iskra muttered. "Now, I have some things I need. Desperately. I want to go over these requests thoroughly. So the Emperor will understand my requirements."
He began detailing a massive shopping list that Venloe was sure would not be looked at kindly by the Eternal Emperor.
"I'm all ears," Venloe said.
Sten leaned back in the seat of the gravcar. A heavy rainstorm sheeted the windows.
He was damned if he knew how to proceed next. Iskra was one of those beings that all diplomats met at least once in their careers, but were never the wiser afterward.
How did one deal with a ruler bent on his own ruin? The easy solution would be to just walk away. Unfortunately that was almost never a logical alternative.
Difficulty number one: In situations such as this, there is almost never an obvious successor. If the ruler is ruined, so is the kingdom. Which might be just ducky for all parties outside the kingdom, except for:
Difficulty number two: Suicidal rulers are always propped up by outsiders, whose own fate rests on the well-being of the threatened kingdom. In other words, nature is not allowed to take its course. If lightning strikes moral dry brush, many nationalities rush in with a fire brigade.
Sten realized that he was getting a major lesson through Iskra. The Altaics, he realized, had been doomed to their present unpleasantness the moment the first Jochians arrived in the cluster, clutching the Emperor's charter.
The charter-a fancy word for a business relationship between the Jochians and the Emperor-made them special, favored above all others. Their right to rule became as God-given as any ancient monarch. The charter eventually created the Khaqans, who forced themselves on an unwilling populace.
Without the external support of the Emperor, the beings of the Altaics would have been forced to find some other solution. There would have been bloodshed, but eventually the Jochians, the Torks, the Suzdal, and the Bogazi would have hammered out some kind of a consensus.
When he took the assignment, Sten had envisioned working out a situation that would have led to such a consensus government. He had hoped at least to build a scaffold others could stand on to hammer up a building.
Instead... Instead, Sten had clottin' Iskra to deal with. What kind of drakh was in his boss's mind?
Sten pulled himself back from irritation. No good to beat up on the boss's decisions. The Emperor might be eternal, but he had never claimed to be perfect. If Sten wanted him to choose a wiser course, Sten would have to help.
The driver signaled. They were approaching the Suzdal embassy, Sten's first stop. It was the first step in his plan to build an outside consensus.
As he looked out the window, one third of that plan went into the crapper.
The Suzdal embassy was empty. Some young Tork ruffians were combing through piles of hastily abandoned personal articles.
Sten slid out of the gravcar. The young beings spotted him and tensed, ready to flee. Sten waved away his security force, which had quickly piled out of its own vehicles. He walked casually up to the kids.
"Good pickings?" he asked the taller one, guessing that size might have something to do with leadership.
"Whotsit to ya?" the smallest of the Torks snarled. So much for guessing. This was not one of Sten's better days.
"Better question," Sten said. "What's it to you?"
He fished out some credits and flashed them before glittering little eyes. The little Tork snatched. Sten yanked his hand back.
He nodded, indicating the embassy. "Where'd they go?"
"Clottin' home is where they went. Whaddya think?" The kid glared at the money, lips compressed. Sten crossed the young Tork's palm with a few credits.
"Tell me more," Sten said. "Start with when they left."
"Three, four hours ago," the kid said. "We was playin' down the street, when all of a sudden there's this big clottin' bust-up. Suzdal yappin' and yippin' way they do. Gravlighters and Suzdal soldiers all over. 'Fore we knew it, they had the whole place packed up and they was gone."
Sten fed the kitty with a few more credits. "Anybody after them?"
"Nope. And nobody showed up later, either. Suzdal left on their ownsome all right. And they weren't talkin' scared, neither."
"What were they talking about?" Sten asked, handing over more filthy lucre.
"Killin' Bogazi, whoddya think?" The young Tork was clearly astonished at Sten's woeful ignorance. "We snuck in close, see? Checkin' drakh out for anything valuable they might be leavin' behind.
"We heard the pack leader talkin' to the crooked leg whot runs the militia. Said there was a big fight comin'. With the Bogazi. That's why they was goin' home. To help with the fight."
The kid looked up at Sten. His eyes were old. "I figure the Suzdal ain't got a chance," he said. "They're mean. But the chickens are meaner. Whatcha think? Suzdal or Bogazi?"
Sten handed over the rest of the credits. "Do you care?"
"Clot no! Just tryin' to figure the odds. The money's on the Bogazi in our neighborhood. Ten to one. Thought maybe you'd tell me somethin' so I could shave 'em some. Get down some serious action."
He waved the fistful of bribe money in Sten's face. "Way I figure," the kid said, "guy's just gotta get a bet down any chance he gets. I mean, a person could be runnin' around lucky all day and never know it. If you know what I mean."
"I certainly do," Sten said. He left, thinking even less of his chances than before.
"My vision is a simple one, General," Iskra said. "But I think you'll agree that simplicity of concept is the first definition."
"Without question," General Douw said. "This is one of your attributes I have admired from afar for years. You see a thing, a complex thing, and then with a little rearranging it is no longer complex. It is simple. It is real. It is genius." Douw didn't have the faintest idea what he was saying. It didn't matter. The general was an expert at flattery. He sipped at the water Iskra had given him as refreshment-pretended to savor it as if it were wine.
"It's like the glass of water,'' he said, grabbing for any kind of analogy at all. "I see water, but you see..." His brain slipped a cog. What the clot did Iskra see? Maybe he just saw water. Personally, Douw could see a green-skinned amphibian. One that went croak, croak, croak.
"Yes. Go on," Iskra said. "What do I see, General?"
"A symbol," Douw gasped out. "That's it! Symbolism. Now who but a genius could see symbolism in a simple glass of water?" He quickly checked Iskra's face to see how this bit of verbal dancing had gone down. The doctor was beaming and nodding. Whew. Thank God.
"You strike for the heart of the matter, as always," Iskra said. "This is why I felt I needed you. I knew I would find a kindred spirit."
"Absolutely," Douw said, brushing back his silver locks with a nervous hand. "No question about it."
What an old fool, Iskra thought. "You are perhaps the most respected individual in the military, General," he said.