"In other words, no middle-beings skimming the donations," the Emperor said.
"Exactly, Your Highness. Ninety percent of every credit donated goes directly to the cause. Only ten percent goes for administration, transportation, mail, that sort of thing."
"Remarkable," the Emperor said. He meant it. He had also had his agents confirm this as part of an intensive investigation of the cult.
He pulled a fiche out of his desk and handed it to Zoran. "I've had my people do a little... research. You'll find the results here. There's a breakdown—region by region—of my entire empire. As well as a profile of my most, shall we say, appreciative subjects."
Zoran found her hands shaking as she took the fiche. She quickly covered the reaction. "How can we ever thank you, Your Majesty?''
"Oh, it's nothing. Merely a little assistance for your good works. Now... to the matter of funding. There can be no connection between us, you understand?"
"Yes, Your Majesty. It would be... unseemly."
"Quite. You'll be contacted shortly. A large donation will be made available. Put it to good use. There will be more, later. When it's needed."
"Yes, Your Highness."
"I'm glad we understand one another," the Eternal Emperor said.
Zoran was not so glad. This was proof, she thought, that it is not always wise to pray so hard for a thing. Because there was a great danger your prayers might be answered.
And now she didn't dare reject it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
"Ah hae observed," Alex observed, "a wee miracle."
"You're learning to talk right?"
"Hae Ah ripped y' smeller away, recent?"
Sten ostentatiously protruded his tongue, felt his nose's continued presence, and shook his head. Kilgour was a brightener, as always—one of the reasons he had been such a prized member of Mantis.
Besides his seemingly innate capabilities as a murderer...
Alex handed Sten a fiche. Sten dropped the fiche into a viewer. It was the Eyes Only weekly report that Jochi police commanders received. He saw nothing beyond the usual crop of homicides, brutalities, and greeds.
"Y' c'n scan i' y' wish, but Ah'm noo a walkin't breathin't abstract."
"GA."
"Thae's arsenals all o'er Jochi bein' ripped, wee Sten. Some copshops, but mostly military. Thae's tearaways beyon't count oot there."
"Somehow, I'm not surprised," Sten said dryly. "Given what we're in the middle of, if I were a resident of this sorry-ass land, I'd be looking to acquire a small equalizer. Such as," he went on, "a Perry-class battlewagon. And that'd be for a backup gun."
"Hae a drink, skip. Cind, pour the wee lad a dram. He's wanderin't. He's discons'late an' forlorn, nay, fivelorn, 'cause th' braw Emp dinnae call him back.
"Y' ken, lass, th' problems thae command bring't. Ah reck thae wae a time when Sten wae happy, dancin't i' thae streets, celebratin' nae but a full belly, a empty bowel, a pint backed up ae th' barman an' ae warm blankie t' pass out in.
"Noo, he's bein't cynical an' takin't th' long-range view. He's plain forgot thae'll be no t'morrow unless Ah will it."
"You, Alex?" Cind wondered pointedly, as she slid the decanter over. "You mean you're really the Prime Being?"
"A' course," Alex said, pouring rounds of stregg. "An' Ah can prove it. I' this stregg's poison't, an Ah go int' convulsions, writhin' aboot like Ah'm Nessie, an' croak, thae'll be no t'morrow. Right?"
"Not for you, anyway."
"Ah. Th' stregg's nae poison't, so you lightarses c'n drink an' keep up. An thae's th' proof. If thae's no t'morrow f'r me, an' Ah'm th' most important one, thae's no t'morrow f'r anyone, right?"
Sten and Cind looked at each other. Obviously Kilgour was at least two streggs up on them.
"Noo," Kilgour continued, "back t' thae armories bein't thieved. All report'd i' th' class'fied sum'ry ae events th' topper coppers hae, which Ae 'mediately arranged f'r us to get, just after Ah guineapigged thae' local brew an' found it nae fit f'r man, beast, nor Campbell.
"Y' ken an oddity aboot thae thefts, boss. Weapons bein't ripped right, left an' straight clottin' up, but thae's no report ae kill't security."
"Oh."
"What is this 'oh,' " Cind wondered.
"It's real hard," Sten explained, "to break into an armory that's supposedly guarded by the army or the national reservists or whatever, without some patriotic sod objecting to said breaking into, which should have produced some old semiretired sergeant type playing hero and either gunning down or getting gunned down."
"Aye. Th' clottin' army's in on the deal."
"Hell," Cind said. "Maybe I better stick to straight soldiering. This special operations drakh like you two specialize in makes you cynical."
"Ah mentioned thae," Alex said, "aeons ago, back ae Newton, when y' wanted t' be Sten's handholder when he wae slippin' onto Prime."
"You did. I should have listened."
Sten himself wasn't listening to their back-chat. "I would not mind a little independent action," he said. "First, it'd be good for my morale. Second, it'd be nice to advise these local clots the world isn't marching to their particular jodie; and third, I don't like the idea that this local goddamned military thinks they can set up a private terrorist organization—or anyway have one at their beck and call. Let's find out where these guns are going."
Cind looked skeptical. "What do we do? Frick & Frack every arsenal that's still unraided? Takes a lot of sensors."
"Nope. They've got the motive, we'll give them the opportunity. We'll use the gambit that I, hem, hem, call the Ploy of the Singing Gun."
"Zeegrade livie," Cind said.
"Not at all. All we need—"
"Is this," Kilgour finished, sliding a willygun onto Sten's desk. "T th' clots are lookin' f'r any gun, Ah suspec' thae'll be hemorrhagin' their wee hearts oot frae a bonnie official Imp-issue bang-stick, aye? Ah hae th' thought Ah'm right, since thae's been three villains lurkin't 'crost frae th' side gate's guard post frae a couple nights, noo."
"You never let me be clever, Mr. Kilgour."
"Och, boss. Ah dinnae ken thae's what y' were doing. 'Sides, y' still hae furlongs ae room t' be clever. Such ae, who's goin' t' bell th'cat?"
"We'll just—hellfire and damnation."
"Aye. Ah dinnae trust th' embassy security staff. Colonel Jerety's Guards dinnae hae th' brains t' understand whae's intended. Th' Bhor'd most likely cut their beards off i' y' suggested th' idea to them. An' Ah know the Gurkhas'd flat tell you to pack your bum wi' salt an' piddle up a rope."
Sten nodded. Kilgour was right. "I would pay good money for two lousy sneaky, evil Mantis types who'd plant this for me."
"I'm not sure what's intended," Cind said, "but I'll go."
"Nae. Th' oppo's got y' pegged too close, Ah reck."
"Mr. Kilgour. They'd never think the ambassador's ace boon would be out on a night like this, would they? Especially wearing soldier-type gear.''
"Ah, boss, Ah tried that one, too. But 'twill nae play. E'en in disguise, thae'll see m' comfortable bulk," and Alex patted his solid midsection proudly, "think Ah'm an ol' soldier, an' nae fall frae such a gimmick. E'en on a night thae's as blust'ry ae this one.
"But now, i' thae peer oot, an' see a young so'jer, a wee lad, who's taken on a dram too much a' th' canteen, an' somehow's walkin't his post i' a military manner or so..."
"Kilgour, planting a weapon's something they give you when you're still a Mantis trainee. You want me, Ambassador-type Sten, to—"
"It's braw, lad, t' rediscover an' redefine y'r roots. Teaches humility."