The Return of the Emperor (33 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

P
oyndex was not a being of temperament. Long before, he had put away anger with his childhood toys. He left elation behind with adolescence. In fact, there was not one emotion he did not have under control. Ambition was the only fruit he nourished in this garden of the middle ground. Achieving power was his only pleasure.

So as his colleagues on the privy council raged at the "shocking and spurious allegations" of Sr. Ecu's Tribunal, he knew fear for the first time in his life. He saw the power slipping away.

The instant he saw the liviecast of Sr. Ecu's announcement of the murder charges, he believed it was true. The reaction came from the gut. As he rushed to the hastily called meeting of the council, the surer he became. It became clearer to him as he entered the enormous building the council had constructed as its headquarters. The odd, towering tree that grew up through the central courtyard seemed withered and ailing. For Poyndex, who was not a being taken to symbolic thought, the condition of the rubiginosa still seemed to bode ill.

It just made more sense that the assassination of the Emperor was not the act of a lone madman. A conspiracy was far more likely. And who had the most to gain from such a plot? The answer became all too obvious as he entered the meeting room.

Everyone was in a bellowing rage. The Kraa twins were purple with fury. Lovett kept pounding on the polished meeting table, screaming for bloody action. Malperin was letting loose an odd stream of obscenities at the awful lies being told.

When he saw the violent reaction, Poyndex knew his instincts had been on the mark. He was looking at the beings who killed the Eternal Emperor.

Why else all that outrage? If the charges were false, then it was merely a ploy by their enemies. The council members were all experienced businessbeings who had dealt with such mudslinging all their professional lives.

He also noted their faces when they were in between bellows, gasping for breath. He did not imagine the guilty looks of fear they exchanged. The capper was the Kraa twins. In their anxiety, they immediately switched roles. As they consumed the usual huge quantities of food, the skeletal one stopped her endless trips to the fresher. Instead, the obese one became the twin who was constantly heading off to vomit.

That's when the fear struck him. He had only just achieved his lifelong ambition. As a member of the privy council, Poyndex had reached his dream of great power. He knew he could swiftly consolidate and strengthen it even more as he learned which buttons of manipulation to punch. Poyndex had never had any thoughts of being a great tyrant, a single ruler. He liked staying in the shadows, where it was safer. Also, like Kyes, he had no love of the trappings of office and was content to let his fellow members shine in whatever sun pleased them. Poyndex knew he could get what he wanted far more easily as the being who gave favors, rather than took them.

Before the Tribunal's charges were announced, Poyndex had only just begun to recover from the blow of the loss of his mentor. When Kyes—or the gibbering thing that had been Kyes—was brought back from his mysterious journey, he knew he had lost his main supporter in any contest of wills with the rest of the council.

But, if anything, his colleagues became more dependent on him. They listened closely to his cool advice on all matters, not just those involving the military or intelligence, but on Imperial policy as well. There was no talk of filling Kyes's post with a new council member.

Now that he thought of it, their reaction to what had happened to Kyes was also very odd. They took it quietly—mildly, almost. They asked no real questions and hastily arranged for the poor creature to be cared for in a top-secret military hospital for the insane. Actually, they seemed relieved. Poyndex thought it was because there was one less guilty party who could tell the tale.

As the privy council struggled to come up with a counterattack, Poyndex knew the first thing he had to do was cover his ass. It was apparent, no matter what the outcome, that these beings were doomed. It was not important if they destroyed the Tribunal and its allies. The charges would eventually bring them down.

Poyndex was determined that he would not go down with them. So, as his colleagues debated, he started rummaging through his bag of survival tricks.

The Kraas wanted to fire fleets out in all directions. Every system vaguely involved with the Tribunal would be crushed and garrisoned with Imperial troops. Lovett and Malperin shouted approval. Poyndex waited until some of the steam went out before he spoke.

"I share your outrage," he said. "Although I am not listed by name in these awful lies, I consider an attack on any single member an attack on us all. But we still have to face reality. There simply isn't enough AM2 to accomplish a tenth of what you are saying."

His words were greeted with sober silence. What he said was true. They began narrowing the scope of the operation, bit by bit, Poyndex subtly coaxing them on. Finally it was decided there would only be one target: Newton. A crack fleet would be sent, and all surviving parties—if any—would be hauled back to Prime World for punishment. Malperin cautioned that the troops might not be all that loyal, considering the recent military purges. Poyndex knew that she also was worried that the assassination charge itself would spark a revolt. It was a very guilty statement, one that the others quickly took up. As much as possible, only intensely loyal beings would man the fleet.

Before agreement was reached and the fleet sent, Poyndex raised a purposeful warning flag—for the official record.

"I'm sure, of course, this is what must be done," Poyndex said. "You've argued so persuasively. However, it would be remiss of me not to point out the dangers in this action.

"Some might argue that it would be better to ignore the whole thing. You've already ordered an Empirewide blackout of the proceedings. Continue it. Make no response. Then let them slink away. We could arrest them at our leisure. Also, the attack itself might backblast. Our own allies may become fearful. But I'm sure all of you know these things. I'm only pointing them out so that no little detail might be overlooked."

"Bloody hell on th' allies," one Kraa snarled.

"If we
don't
act, some fools might think those outrageous charges are true," Malperin said.

"Send the fleet," Lovett said.

Poyndex sent the fleet. However, as he was issuing orders all around, he called in his most trusted aides. There was a great deal of ass covering to be done.

Poyndex had to get ahead of events before they ran him down.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

I
mperial captain of the Guard (Retired) Hosford topped the hill, rested on his staff, and gave himself five solid minutes of wheezing before starting downslope, across the next valley, and up the next ridge. Foothills, he thought. Foothills of the clottin' Himalayas, you ought to add.

Not only did he feel himself too fat and too old for this assignment, but it was a perfectly empty and thankless one.

There had been two things eternal about the Empire. A pistol and a bomb had proven one to be mortal. The other was the Gurkhas.

The Gurkhas were the best soldiers any world had ever produced, human or otherwise. Most people hoped that a species of still-more lethal killers would not appear—or that if they did, they would be as firmly on the side of the Empire as the Gurkhas. The Gurkhas and the Empire were one and the same to the many, many people who had seen them on the livies.

The privy council wanted them back. Both because they wanted absolutely faithful, absolutely incorruptible beings for their bodyguards, and to legitimize their own rule.

Hence Captain Hosford's mission.

Hosford had been—years, lifetime, lifetimes ago, he thought—commander of the Gurkha bodyguard at the Emperor's palace of Arundel. He had been a very promising officer, guaranteed for high rank—as, indeed, was anyone picked for Captain of the Guard.

The assignment was glamorous—and gave its holder no time for a personal life, as Sten had discovered when he had replaced Hosford in the position.

All went well—until Hosford fell in love. Completely, absolutely. So much so that he had covered the walls of his quarters with paintings of Maeve. Maeve never said anything, but Hosford realized the choice was clear. The assignment—or her.

He called in every favor he could to get out. The military powers did not like one of their chosen ones changing the plans they had for him. So the only assignment offered was an exile post on a frontier world. Hosford took it, and Maeve went with him.

Obviously there was no more career for him in the Guard. He resigned his commission, chose not to reenlist when the Tahn wars started, and wandered with Maeve. He had thought that wandering aimless, but he had once plotted his travels and realized that they led, in a perfectly logical pattern, to Earth.

And the Gurkhas.

The Gurkhas who had survived Imperial duty may have been rich, but Nepal was still a very primitive province. It was kept that way by its king, who claimed that his succession ran back to when the mountain gods were born. He must protect Nepal and his people. The country was a sacred place, from the peaks of Dhaulagiri, Annapurna, and Chomolungma to the Gautama Buddha's birthplace in the Lumbini Valley. In practice that meant the Nepalese were actively discouraged from becoming too "civilized." They no longer died of the same diseases, nor was tuberculosis endemic, and lifespan was extended—if not by "civilized" Imperial standards—but it was still a hard, primitive tribal existence. Hosford wanted to help.

He was not permitted to settle in Nepal—no foreigners were allowed in the country except in limited numbers for brief visits. But he and Maeve found a home in Darjeeling, in the nearby province of Gurkhali, once part of a long-fragmented nation called India.

From there, he did what he could. He encouraged education and teachers inside Nepal, assisted any old soldier he could, and helped and found work for the depressed, near-suicidal young men who were rejected from the military.

He and other ex-Gurkha officers were allowed into Nepal twice a year to distribute pension monies, to offer any technical education they could, and to recruit—until six years earlier, when the Emperor had been murdered and the Gurkhas returned home. Every year, Hosford was commissioned by a representative of the privy council to try recruiting once more. Every year he was greeted with smiles and whiskey and told "We serve the Emperor. Only."

The first two years he tried arguing: The Emperor was dead. Were they planning to abandon their military tradition? Their answer was: "No, Captain. We are not foolish. When the Emperor returns, so shall we. But serve this privy council? Never. They are worth less than one yak pubic hair."

Why did he keep returning? The commission was part of it—he left the monies with village heads for their own purposes. But just being in the mountains, being in Nepal, being with the Nepalese was reason enough.

One more year, he groaned. One more trip. One more rejection. This must be the last one. Otherwise his body would be found, years later, dead on some unknown hillside when his heart gave out. This… well, no. Perhaps next year. But that would definitely be the last.

Ahead lay the Gurkha Center in the hamlet of Pokhara. Hosford shifted the heavy pack of credits and marched on. He knew what he would see from the next hilltop. The center, and some of his old comrades waiting. Somehow they always knew when he would be there. They would be drawn to as rigid attention as their age permitted. At their head would be ex-Havildar Major Mankajiri Gurung, who, unless he was actually his son, Imperial records said was over 2S0 years old. Them… but that would be all.

Pokhara, in fact, was a confusion of noise, music, and youth. Almost, Hosford estimated, a thousand of them, drawn up in what screaming old men were telling them was a military formation, and if they shamed their clan or Captain Hosford they would be tied up in barrels and rolled into the headwaters of the Sacred Ganges to disappear into the sea.

In front of the assembly stood Mankajiri. He saluted. Hosford returned the salute. He should have waited to ask, but could not.

"These are… recruits?" he wondered aloud.

"Such as they are. Mountain wildflowers compared to men of our wars, Captain. But recruits, if they pass your careful eye. Their medical records wait for your examination."

"Why the change?"

"Change? There has been no change."

"But you said you would never serve the privy council."

"Again, no change. These men will serve the Emperor. He is returning. He will need us."

Captain Hosford felt a cold chill down his spine—a chill that had nothing to do with the icy winds blowing down from the nearby mountain tops.

" 'Ow lang wi' the' squawkin't an' squeakin't frae th' Tribunal gae on?" Kilgour wondered.

Mahoney shrugged. "Until every lawyer has his day in the sun, and until every challenge the privy council can come up with now or later is answered."

"Ah hae no plans," Kilgour said grimly, "frae much of a later f'r th' clots. Thae drove me off Edinburgh. Thae'll be ae accountin' f'r that. Wi' me. Nae wi' a court ae law."

"Alex. We aren't vigilantes," Sten said.

"Ye're intendin't to force us inta th' path ae righteousness frae somebody's namesake? Nae. Nae. I' this all collapses, an' Ah'm morally cert it shall, thae'll nae gie us a wee home back in Mantis. Morally corrupted, we are, we are.

"Ah'll nae adjust't' ae world where y' need more on ae villain than enow't' authorize the usual." Alex drew a thumb across his throat.

"If you're through, Laird Kilgour. We are now sworn officers of a legitimate court," Sten said, grinning. "While the lawyers are dicin' and slicin', we have to go out and get some concrete evidence for them to chew over when they get tired of talking about whether the Magna Carta's bridge-building ban might pertain."

"Ah'm noo through. But Ah'll shut m' trap."