Veeri glanced at the commset on the duty desk. Just now it sat lifeless.

Three months, they'd told him! Then, if he wanted, he could resign this appointment and go back to Klestron, reactivate his commission in the marines there. They'd "fixed it up with Rashti," he'd been told.

He didn't look forward to going back. Everyone there would know-everyone who counted. Leolani would make sure of it. "He was impotent," she'd be saying.

He realized his fists were clenched, and opened them, willing his muscles to relax. The Archprelate of Khaloom had to be behind this, the archprelate and his daughter. Who'd have imagined that Leolani could be that vengeful! He'd like to corner her in a nice secluded place somewhere. He'd show her potency till she begged for mercy!

He grunted. Not likely, when you got down to it. There was nothing wrong with his potency, but he had limits, like any man.

He wished he'd never heard of Tain Faronya, that her presence in the ministry had never been mentioned, that she'd been left on Terfreya. He'd had his life perfectly set up: war hero; Vice Minister of Armed Forces; son of the Speaker of the House of Nobles; and son-in-law of the Archprelate of Khaloom, who'd be sultan when Rashti died. And a pretty, tight-ass wife.

And blown it all. Even his father was angry with him.

The commset chirped quietly, and Veeri answered. Someone calling for Cibor, who was out doing what he'd like to be doing, partying.

He'd considered applying for a commission in the Imperial Marines. Then he'd learned he'd have to go through their academy, with all that that meant in terms of underclassman humiliations, plus a three-year curriculum that looked even tougher than he'd been put through on Klestron.

So probably he would go back, back to the Klestronu Marines.

Sixteen

The Square of The Prophet had been cleared of its benches and kiosks. Its pavement had been scrubbed. Lines had been strung between the light poles that flanked it, and banners waved easily from them in a light breeze. Today would see the opening session of the Imperial Diet for the year 4724.

The square was kept mostly clear of bystanders. Eight or ten thousand of them stood bunched along the sides, controlled by lines of soldiers-elite troops of the Capital Division. Other viewers stood along the parapets of surrounding roofs, and there were soldiers there, too. Floaters with soldiers hovered silently, watchfully overhead.

The important spectators were those who filled the galleries inside the Hall of the Estates, members of the Greater Nobility. They'd arrived earlier, per protocol, and passed through unseen scanner fields to wait in air-conditioned comfort. No soldiers watched inside, only liveried guards, quiet and polite, their holstered stunners set ready on fan beam.

Horse-drawn ceremonial carriages, especially decorated for the occasion, rolled individually onto the square from the Avenue of The Prophet, to stop before the Hall's broad low stairs. Each dismounted a liveried footman from the high seat at the rear, who lowered the carriage steps and opened the door. A man or men in colorful robes stepped out, to mount the broad stairs and disappear through the building's great doorway.

Not every vehicle that drew up was ceremonial or horsedrawn. Public cabs and privileged hover cars also pulled up at the stairs. Some of the men that stepped from them wore robes of gray. They too went in.

After a bit there seemed to be an end to the arrivals. Then the gates of the Sreegana opened, and trumpeters marched out in two spaced rows, their long and gleaming trumpets upright like spears of burnished silver before their shoulders. There were eighteen of them, in white trousers and capes, and tall-plumed white helmets. They stopped, and with drilled synchrony, each row turned to face the other, forming a wide aisle.

One more trumpeter marched out then, wearing kalifal carmine, vivid red. He stopped immediately outside the gate, facing outward, raised his pennoned golden trumpet and blew a long clear note. The others raised theirs, too, and began a fanfare. Out of the gates marched the red-robed Kalif, followed by the eighteen white-robed exarchs in a slow-moving, stately column of twos. Together they crossed the wide square and mounted the broad entry stairs at the Hall of the Estates, also to disappear within.

The Diet of 4724 was about to be convened.

Seventeen

The grand reception hall in the Hall of the Estates was the largest and perhaps the most splendid hall in the empire. It was large enough that invitations were received by the titular heads of all the Great Noble Families of Varatos; the formal representatives, diplomatic, legislative, and ecclesiastic, of the other planets; and selected others.

Though they attended without their wives. The conventional view was that women, by their nature, lacked both understanding and interest in politics and government. And while exceptions were recognized, even admired, long tradition kept this an affair for men only, a time for mingling and proposing, feeling out attitudes, concurrences, dissidence, and potential alliances. It was a political game field, and most of those who came relished the game.

Dressed formally in black and white, with brilliant shoulder sashes, cummerbunds, or capelets of silver, green, gold, and indigo, nobles wandered and eddied slowly in their hundreds, along with some hundred circulating waiters who tried to see that no one lacked for drinks or hors d'oeuvres. The noble delegates, exarchs, and elders, wore their robes, light despite their fullness, and their caps, making them easily found.

By contrast, the Kalif stayed in one small, traditional area, his carmine robe vivid and unmistakable. On two sides of him and a double pace away stood two bodyguards, men not particularly large but hair-trigger quick, fingertips inches from clip-mounted stunners that would almost leap into their hands if need be.

And a step behind his shoulder stood Alb Jilsomo, privy to anything said to the Kalif above a whisper. It was widely understood that Jilsomo was not only the Kalif's deputy, but his heir apparent, and thus that he needed to know. Many nobles disliked the arrangement, some of them intensely, because of Jilsomo's gentry origins. The succession, however, was not in their hands; ultimately it was the business of the College. They could only hope the exarchs would recognize the proprieties.

In approaching His Reverence, there was no formal rule of precedence, but there was a certain order dictated by good sense and courtesy. Numerous delegate and non-delegate nobles would like to have the Kalif's ear for a little, and it was deemed ill-mannered to move in ahead of someone who had clear political seniority. Or to stand near enough to eavesdrop in the general babel.

Thus when the Kalif took his accustomed place, the small wiry man who first came up to him was the Leader of the Imperial House of Nobles, Lord Agros Niilagovindha.

"Good evening, Your Reverence," said Agros blandly. "Here we are with another Diet convened. Considering the rather astounding discoveries made by Rashti's expedition, I foresee a busy session."

"Hmm. It seems to me that every session's busy. But then, this is only my fourth. I'm still inexperienced."

"Perhaps. But the general view is, you've performed ably from the beginning. Tell me. What do you foresee as the main disputes in this session?"

The Kalif smiled, also blandly. "Ask me again in four months, when the session's over. By then I might have a meaningful answer for you."

"I wonder if it will be. Over in the standard time, that is."

The Kalif affected a slight frown. "I don't foresee an extension, particularly considering the agreements required. How long has it been since a Diet has been held over?"

Noble eyebrows rose, arched thickets of black above obsidian eyes. "Ah! But when is the last time an event of such moment occurred? With such significant findings! For one thing, a whole multitude of habitable and inhabited worlds!"