"Some of their leaders, however, were pretty sharp on civic theory," he continued. "They worked out a rather good system and put it into effect. Actually, it's a simple idea, but it has resulted in an imposing governmental structure. The basic idea was that of a governing panel of selected persons, the 'Eligible Ones' from whom leaders were chosen. By means of competitive examinations and contests, they selected the best of their youth. These were placed in training as potential leaders, and when deemed ready, were proposed for official posts. Only members of this panel were eligible for such posts. When not in office, or when training, they lived in simple surroundings, supported by the state. Popular vote placed them in office, and a system of electors was worked out to simplify the gathering of that vote.
"Nominally, this system is still in effect," added Fero. "The only trouble is that it's showing signs of weathering. Here and there, along the line, certain electors took matters into their own hands. Some of the Eligibles played along, for value received, of course. Appointive officials started appearing. A priesthood sprang up among the 'Eligible Ones.' Next thing, sons of the 'Eligible Ones' started taking their places among the governing group without benefit of the traditional selection. A few centuries ago, a hereditary dynasty was set up, supported by the priesthood, and the inevitable happened. The Emperor became divine."
Fero reached for the wine cup, took another sip, then continued.
"As it stands now," he concluded, "we have a sick Empire. The divine ruler is totally unfit to make the decisions required of him. A group of advisors have taken over the reins of government, and are running things strictly for their own profit and that of their friends. The average citizen has no more choice in government or even in his own fate than his cattle. Of course, he can still vote, but the results of the ballot invariably swing into line with the wishes of the ruling group. Our common citizen is becoming aware of the situation and dissatisfaction is spreading throughout the Empire. The governors and priests know it, but they are incapable of quelling the feeling. They can't return to the old uncomplicated days of the democracy and still hold their positions, so they depend more and more upon force and terrorism for their authority. Meanwhile, the outer fringes of the Empire are under pressure from a number of unassimilated tribes, who have no desire to deal with Daltur in any way. The Empire will probably stagger along under its own inertia for a few more centuries, but the final collapse is already on the tape."
Marko Dalu nodded as Fero sat down. "That's the general picture," he commented. "Not particularly original, of course, but it's not pretty, and it's up to us to take action. Naturally, you have all studied the handbooks and a number of case histories, so I don't think I'll have to go into basic details." Dalu looked around the group. "We have about a hundred thousand people in this area," he added, "and about two sun cycles to work on them. We might get three. Sergeant Miller, suppose you go into individual assignments. I'll listen."
As Miller talked, Dalu sat listening and checking off points. Finally, he leaned back, satisfied. Yes, they should be able to collect at least a hundred and fifty useful recruits from this population. Properly guided, their influence should make quite an impact upon the millions within and without the Empire. Yes, he decided, between a hundred and fifty and two hundred should be a great sufficiency for the initial phases. Now, the only question would be to gather the right people, instruct them properly, equip them and put them to work.
"Of course," Sergeant Miller was saying, "these agents will have to have some sort of publicly known basic philosophy. Their mission depends to a great extent upon popular reaction and recognition. We can't simply tell them, 'Go out and reform the Empire,' and turn them loose." He paused, turning slightly. "That is Sergeant D'lun's department."
Marko Dalu smiled to himself. Yes, there would have to be considerable publicity, some of it pretty dramatic. Actions would have to be taken and words spoken whose echoes would ring through history for centuries to come. He remembered some of the melodrama that had been played out for similar purposes. "Hope we can play this one straight," he muttered to himself.
Miller finished his talk and sat down. Marko Dalu looked up. "Any questions?" he asked.
No one spoke.
"There's one other thing," added Dalu, "the legal system of the Empire. Fundamentally, it's good. Simple, to be sure, but good. The underlying theory is equity, which is correct. Laws are quite easy to understand, reasonably definite, yet they admit of equitable decisions. The system of elected judges, public hearings and scant ceremony is worth saving. We can't say so much for the ecclesiastical courts. They are overburdened with ceremony. Bribery is altogether too easy and too common, and the closed hearings and drastic punishments are definitely undesirable. The same equity should be used in criminal cases as is at least nominally shown in civil affairs." He looked around again. "If there are no questions, I think we can call this meeting over. You can go ahead and start evaluating your acquaintances and making more. Shoot them into me as fast as you are sure of their potentialities. I'll screen 'em and pass them on to Base."
One by one, the men took their leave, and melted away into the shadowy streets.
Slowly, the galley picked its way through the crowded harbor, edging through the narrow channel to the Baratea dockside. Already, the merchants were on deck, watching the sweating slaves hoist bales of goods from the hold. An overseer called time; an unimaginative man, he called with a monotonous, annoying chant. Below, the slow drumbeat of the oarmaster competed with him for rhythm.
Philar, master of the ship's guard, leaned against the low rail, aloof from the activity. He was bored. He was also mildly irritated. Why, he wasn't sure. He was just bored and irritated. Nothing had happened this voyage to cause annoyance. In fact, nothing had happened this voyage. The normal, dull routine of life had droned on day by day, just as it had during most of a long career. There had been no attempts at uprising by the galley slaves; no pirate attacks; no adventures with marine monsters; nothing. Philar yawned. Looking across the harbor, he could see his favorite wine shop. There, stories would be circulating of sea monsters; of mutinies successfully coped with; of pirate attacks skillfully repelled by bravery at arms. Old comrades would be coming in, their purses heavy with rewards, their armor renewed; some, perhaps, with new insignia of rank. He, Philar dar Burta, senior guardmaster, would merely sit. He would listen to the talk, and when questioned, all he could say would be:
"We went to Bynara. The merchants haggled. Some got richer; some got poorer. We came back. Have some wine." Everyone in the room would shake their heads. Someone would say, "Good old Philar. Nothing ever happens. Nothing ever goes wrong. Now, the last time I went to Bynara—"
At a sharp command from the oarmaster, the port oars were shipped. Slowly, the galley swung into the dock, to be secured by the shouting dockhands. A gangway was being rigged aft. Philar shifted his attention to the dockers. Good man, that dockmaster. His handling of men and materials spoke plainly of long years of experience.
Oh, well, thought the guardmaster. He had long experience, too. It was honorable service he had behind him, though uneventful. For forty-five years, he had perfected himself and others in the arts and in the ancient sciences of war and defense. From one assignment to another, he had gone his uneventful way, covering every corner of the sprawled Empire. Always, however, he had arrived at a new assignment just after the excitement was over, or he had received orders and left just before the trouble started. He shook his head. Funny, how battle had passed him by. Many of his comrades and pupils in the training fields and guardrooms had gone on to promotion and rewards. Others had simply gone. Here, though, was good, solid, old Philar; a dependable guardmaster, but somehow one who never wet his sword or did anything very remarkable. Even in his youth, during the war with Maelos, he had been assigned to the reserve which, due to the proficiency of the commanders, had never been called up.
As he gazed at the practiced movements of the stevedores, they faded from view, to be replaced by other images. Again, he was an awkward new recruit. Daltur was at war. They were on the training field. The old fieldmaster who had instructed was long since gone, but Philar could still hear his voice; cautioning, criticizing, advising.
"You, there, Philar," he had cried. "Hold up that point. Hold it up, I say! This is no corn you're mowing now. That's a man before you. Were Holan there of Maelos, he'd be drinking your blood by now. Here, let me show you." Indignantly, the elder had snatched Holan's sword, turning quickly. A swift pass ensued. Philar's blade was brushed aside and a heavy blow on his helmet made him stagger.
"See, now," the instructor had growled, throwing the sword back to its owner, "that was the flat. The edge would've made you dog meat." He turned away. "Go to it again."
The shouting from the dock filtered through the guardsman's reverie, scattering the picture. He shook his head.
"Guess I'm getting old," he muttered. "Better retire to a farm before I get feeble-minded."
Truthfully, he didn't feel any older than he had when he came into the service. Men said, however, that one can only live so long. He knew he was approaching that age. Most of his allotted time had gone. Shrugging, he gazed over the crowded wharf. A courier was approaching.
The man drew his car to the gangway, tossed the reins to a dockhand, and came striding up to the deck. As he approached, he performed a quick salute.
"You are the guardmaster, Philar dar Burta?"
Philar nodded. "I am," he announced. "What have you?"
The courier extended a sealed tablet. "Orders, sir. I await your pleasure."
The old guardsman's eyebrows contracted as he took the package. "What have we here?" he muttered. Turning, he broke the seal with a few quick taps against the rail, and scanned the characters impressed on the tablets within.
The first was the standard company master's commission.
"By the grace of Halfazor, Emperor of Daltur, First Prince of the Seas, Defender of Truth and Divine Lord of all Things living, know all men that, placing great faith in the loyalty, ability and wisdom of Philar dar Burta, I present him as Kalidar of Guardsmen. All men and all other Things living beneath the heavens as ordained by the Divine Halfazor will then render him such aid as is necessary to complete his ordered course. All men under his command, or of inferior rank will unquestioningly obey his orders henceforth—"
It was signed by the Master of the Palace Guard, Milbar.
Philar looked over the tablet again. Yes, he had read correctly the first time. After forty-five years, promotion had come. Now, Philar was one of those who grandly crooked a finger for a car to pick him up. No longer did he have to walk the streets to his barrack. Rather, he would ride to his lodging. No more would he sit in the wine shop of an evening, listening to the boasts of those younger than himself. Rather, he would drink with a few of his own chosen friends in his own room. He shook his head, then looked at the other tablet. Here was an assignment.
"By the grace . . . Proceed to Kleedra . . . Deal with rebellious elements . . . Bring offenders to swift justice—" It was also signed by old Milbar.
Philar dropped the two tablets into his pouch, then leaned against the rail again. He looked toward the courier. His courier, now. By Halfazor! Rebellion in the Empire! Of course, merely a minor affair, but rebellion none the less. Most peculiar. Why, the Kleedrans had been a minor tribe in a little backwater corner of the Empire for years, even lifetimes. He could remember back thirty or more years, when he was on duty in the sleepy little walled village—fifty men, under a senior guardmaster. Even at that, it had been a soft assignment. He shook his head again, then turned sharply.
"Mylan. Mylan, come here, I say," he shouted. His senior watchmaster came out of a hatch, blinked, then stood before him.
Philar put his hand on the man's shoulder. "Take over, friend," he said. "I'm giving you the ship."
Mylan frowned. "What happened?"
His senior grinned. "I just got promoted and reassigned," he announced.
Mylan's smile was slightly forced. "Congratulations," he said. Then, formally, "I hope I may serve under you later, sir." He gave a salute.
Philar nodded, returning the salute. "Possibly we may serve together," he gave the formal reply. He turned, and went down the gangway.
Mylan watched him as he climbed into the car. The courier snapped his reins and they were off. The new guardmaster leaned against the rail, frowning.
Why, he wondered, should they promote that soft, easygoing old fool when real men were around for the asking. He glanced down at his own trim armor, with its fine inlaid design. How much, he wondered, had he spent in bribes to the aides? How many times had he sent the Kalidar choice bottles? And then they promoted an idiot who wouldn't unsheath his sword. Why, the poor old poltroon wouldn't even strike an erring guard. Had to talk softly to them.
He spat over the side, then turned, fingering his sword hilt. Well, anyway, things on this ship would be far different now, with a man in charge. He raised his voice.
"Turn out the guard," he shouted. "Get moving there. We haven't all day to clear this ship." Unsheathing his sword, he smacked with the flat at the legs of the guards as they passed. "Come on, come on," he urged. "On the double, there."
Plono Baltur shook his head as he looked at his tent. There was no question about it, long and hard use was showing. The tent had patches upon its patches. Yes, this man was right. He must do something about it, but there was the cost. He turned again. Kono Meru stood watching him.
"I am not a rich man," began Baltur. "My needs are simple."
Meru waved a hand airily. "No matter," he declared, "my tents are good. They last for years, yet the cost is low." Turning to one of his animals, he started unpacking a bale, "You will see," he said, "how strong material can be, and yet how light in weight." He spread the contents of the bale on the ground, whipping the expanse of cloth open with practiced gestures, and talking as he worked.