"Why, thank you."
"It is only the truth. You have a reputation for loyalty. And as a fierce defender of Jochi tradition.''
"The old ways were best," Douw said. This was a subject he could warm to quickly.
"Sometimes I think the old values have been put aside too hastily.''
"That is exactly my vision," Iskra said.
"It is?"
"Of course. But it will take harsh measures to return us to the glory days of our Jochi forefathers."
"True. How true. Unfortunate. But true."
"However, I certainly do not wish you to become involved in the real unpleasantness. There are things that need to be done that I fear would tarnish the reputation of a true Jochi soldier. I will have... Special Duty units trained and outfitted for these tasks, and they will be responsible directly to me, and outside the military's usual chain of command."
Douw beamed. "How perceptive of you, sir."
"However, I wish you to command my conventional forces in the struggle to bring peace to our glorious cluster. It will require cool thinking, and unshakable purpose."
"Then I am your man," Douw said. "And thank you for the honor.''
"When our people first came to this cluster,'' Iskra continued, "they were faced with a hostile territory filled with ignorant species and a barbarian breed of humans."
"Terrible times. Terrible," Douw babbled.
"There were not so many of us, then."
"How true. I've always said that myself. Not many of us in those days. But we made up for numbers with bravery."
"And one other thing," Iskra said.
"Right. That other thing. It was—uh—"
"Wit," Iskra said.
"That's it. Wit. Was on the tip of my tongue."
"To suppress those beasts—I'm sorry, I'm not with the modernists. They are beasts. Nothing more. To suppress those beasts, our ancestors adopted a tactic summed up by a simple, elegant phrase. The phrase and all it stands for, I believe, is a vital part of Jochi heritage."
"I know the answer," Douw said, "but your words are much finer than mine. Please say it for both of us."
"Divide and conquer," Iskra said. "We brought the beasts to their knees by that simple ploy. Our forefathers inflamed the Suzdal and Bogazi. And the Torks, as well. And we put them at each other's throats.
"We even made a tidy profit selling arms to all sides. We let them kill each other.
And then we stepped in to rule."
"By God, we should do the same thing now!" Douw smacked fist into palm, his patriotic heart aflutter. "Divide and conquer. A return to hallowed tradition."
"Then... you'll accept the post I'm offering?"
"With pride, sir," Douw boomed. "With pride." He wiped a manly tear from the corner of an eye.
Menynder had a shabby little walled estate in the center of a Tork neighborhood.
Sten's professional eye noted that the shabby look was carefully cultured. The walls were chipped and vine-covered. The big entry gate was old and sagging. The garden just inside the gates was overgrown. But the security wire circling the walls was bright and new. The gate was reinforced with steel. And the garden invasion was proofed with thorny hedges or saw-toothed ferns.
Menynder's intelligence profile showed that he had money. Heaps of it, for a Tork. But he was careful not to flaunt it. Just as he had been careful to quickly make himself scarce the moment the drakh hit the fan.
"I'm in mourning," Menynder explained as he cast the fishing line into the green waters of the pool.
Sten sat beside him on the banks of the pond. The rain had turned to baking hot sunshine. But it was cool here under the tree that shaded the old Tork's favorite fishing spot. Menynder reeled in the line, checked the bait and lure, and made another cast.
"A death in the family? I'm very sorry to hear that," Sten said.
Menynder removed his glasses, dabbed at nonexistent tears, and replaced the glasses. "It was a young cousin... He died at Pooshkan."
Sten started to say he was sorry again, but caught a cynical glint in Menynder's eye. "How close was this cousin?" he asked instead.
Menynder grinned. "I don't know-seventh, eight removed. We weren't very close. Still, it was a shock."
"I can only imagine," Sten said.
"I'm so shaken," Menynder continued, "that I fear it will be at least a year before I can show my face in public again."
"Do you really think the Altaics will calm down by then?" Sten asked.
"If it doesn't," Menynder said, "I'll have a relapse. Grief is a sneaky disease. It comes and goes. Comes and goes." He reeled in his line, then cast it out.
"Like a fever," Sten said.
"Yeah. Without the trouble of symptoms. A man can grieve and fish at the same time."
"Funny thing about fishing," Sten said, "is that you look wonderfully purposeful. No one ever bothers a person when he's fishing."
"I get the idea I'm not the only one fishing here, Sr. Ambassador," Menynder said. He tried another spot in the pond.
"I guess I'm just trying to think of the right bait," Sten said.
Menynder gave a firm shake of his head. "Forget it. There aren't enough credits and honors to draw me out. I've lived a long life. I'd like to finish it out naturally."
"Hard thing to accomplish these days," Sten said.
"Isn't that the truth." Menynder's line tangled in debris. He gave a flip of the rod and shook it loose. "Frankly, I don't see that it will get better. Not in my lifetime."
"It'll be solved," Sten said firmly. "One way or the other."
"I assume you have plans for me being involved in the solution?"
"Yes, I do."
"You're probably thinking that because I was fool enough to stick my neck out."
"You got some beings talking together whose normal reactions are to fight instead."
"I used to think I was good at that sort of thing," Menynder said. He reeled in the line three clicks.
"You still are. From where I sit."
"Rotten, useless talent. If a talent it even is. Personally, I think I'm just a clottin' good liar."
"Some big things are going to be coming down," Sten said. "A long time ago—under similar circumstances—I advised a being like you to get out of the line of fire. I told him the best thing to do was develop a good hacking cough."
"Did he take your advice?"
"He did."
"Did he live?"
"He did. He also prospered."
"But—you want me to do just the opposite?"
"Yeah."
"You gave the other guy better advice."
"That was then. This is now."
"No offense, Sr. Sten, but I don't have the awesome majesty of an Imperial appointment to protect me. I've got squat for security. Even if I did, this is the first place the good doctor would send the battalions with the jackboots and clubs."
"You don't think Iskra is going to work out either?"
"Clot, no! What really slays me is that I once mentioned his name myself. Favorably. Tell your boss he fouled this one up good. But don't quote me. I'd rather skip the attention, if it's okay with you."
"I won't lie and say you're the only hope," Sten said. "But you could be an important one."
"You think I should risk my life—and my family—for some noble tilting at windmills? To save the Altaic Cluster?''
"Isn't it worth it?"
Menynder reeled in his line, thinking. Then he sighed. "I don't know."
"Will you help me?"
"Maybe some other time," Menynder said.
Sten got to his feet. He looked out at the green waters of the pond, wondering why he hadn't seen even the dim shape of a fish.
'"Is there anything in there?" he asked.
"Used to be," Menynder said. "I used to stock it every year. Then the weather got real wonky. Case you hadn't noticed. Did something to the water. Changed the balance, or whatever. All the fish died."