"True. But that is primarily a matter of religious significance. I'm sure every Estate will be interested in our decisions; the whole empire will. But it lies entirely in the domain of myself and the College of Exarchs. It's not a matter for the Diet."

"Indeed! Can it be you've overlooked certain questions?"

The Kalif's lips thinned. "I referred to the matter of worlds not accounted for in The Book of The Prophet -as we've known it. As for the question of possible trade-Authorization would seem to be a routine decision of the Foreign and Commerce Ministries, as guided by myself, though debate might not be inappropriate."

"Ah, Your Reverence! You're playing with me!"

"Surely not, good Agros. I respect you both as Leader of the House and as a man of honor, position, and intelligence. Is there some significance I've overlooked in this business of Sultan Rashti's?"

"Really, Your Reverence, I doubt it. With all respect, I think you're being coy with me, no doubt for good reasons. Rashti sent his little flotilla to hunt for a world to colonize. To occupy, if you will. And found more of them than he'd expected. But already occupied, unfortunately, with unenlightened humans seemingly not interested in giving them up to us. There's been talk that you might wish to invade one or more of them, and the necessary funding requires the approval of the Diet."

"Ah! As a matter of fact, the matter has been mentioned in the College. But nothing's been proposed. Perhaps next year." His tone changed then. "You've caught my interest, though. This talk among the nobles-What seems to be the gist of it? Do any of them see virtue in the idea? Perhaps more to the point, do you see virtue in it?"

"I suppose some do. Perhaps Fakoda and his like, who'd stand to profit richly from the preparations. As for me and most of the House, probably not one in four would vote for it. In fact, if it came down to it-if the College threatened to vote unanimously in its favor-I wouldn't be surprised if I could bring the entire House against it.

"But I cannot believe the College would be unanimous in a matter like this one."

The Kalif nodded. "Thank you, Agros, for your experienced viewpoint. If the matter comes up again in the College, I'll pass your opinion on to them."

Agros nodded, wished the Kalif good health, and left. To discuss their brief exchange with others of the House, the Kalif had no doubt.

Lord Rodika Kozkoraloku gave an impression of leanness, especially when wearing robes, an impression based on a face like an axe blade. Actually, his frame was ordinary and reasonably well fleshed, though he carried less fat than usual for a noble in his forties.

Rothka's face mirrored his character, the lines reflecting hardened attitudes, the eyes distrustful and calculating, the mouth quick to scorn. He was speaking with two nobles who were not delegates to the Diet, men representing regional affiliates of his Land Rights Party, when Lord Agros came up. The conversation halted.

Agros nodded acknowledgement to the two non-delegates. "Gentlemen," he said, "excuse me," then gave his attention to Rothka. "I don't believe you've paid your respects to His Reverence. But perhaps you don't intend to."

Rothka's narrow mouth pinched. "He's no true Kalif; he's a murderer and usurper, hiding behind a veneer of false legality. My respect for him is nonexistent."

Agros raised an eyebrow. "He's a big improvement over the creature he killed and replaced. Some consider that he spared us civil war; perhaps even dissolution, and the chaos that would have resulted. Admittedly that's a bit extreme, but if Gorsu had continued, or if his execution had been bungled, or the transition…"

Rothka did not yield his hostility. "A murderer and usurper," he repeated. "That is fact. The rest is opinion. A murder and usurper whom Kargh will punish in His own good time. And he's made that gentry, that fat Jilsomo, his deputy. If there's another regicide, we're likely to have a commoner as Kalif!"

This was leading nowhere, Agros decided, and moved to the subject he'd come to talk about. "I presume you've given thought to the Klestronu expedition and its discoveries?"

Irritation flashed behind Rothka's eyes. "Not much," he said. "We have concerns more pressing in times like these: the need to lower minimum wages for gentry; to cancel or at least revise the restrictions on off-loading unneeded peasants… Practical matters."

"I suppose you've heard the speculations that the Kalif will ask for a fleet and army to invade the Confederation."

"Confederation?"

"The empire that Rashti's flotilla discovered. They call it a confederation."

"What are you getting at, Agros? Say it, for Kargh's sake!"

Agros's voice became even more bland. "My good Rothka," he said mildly, "your incivility has cost you support on various occasions. If you're really interested in advancing your programs, you'd be better off cultivating your fellow delegates than antagonizing them."

Rothka's jaw clenched, and for a moment he looked as if he might strike the smaller, older man, who ignored it.

"If in fact the Kalif asks us to fund an invasion," Agros went on, "and he gets it, there'll be new and higher taxes to pay. And no doubt other effects that neither of us will care for, like shortages of various kinds. I trust you'll be as steadfast and relentless in resisting any such proposal as you are in your personal dislike of the Kalif."

With that, Agros nodded cordially, then turned and walked away.

"Good evening, Your Reverence."

The man who spoke looked like no one else at the reception. Lord Roonoa Hamaalo was a mountain of a man, perhaps the tallest there, and massive-powerful-looking, even for a Maolaaro. His hands showed no hair, his shaven jaw was not blue with the usual suppressed beard, and his head was bald. His eyebrows weren't even bushy. The Maolaaru aristocracy had largely held aloof from intermarriage, maintaining not only their essentially unmixed gene pool, but much of their indigenous culture. They hadn't even adopted five-syllable names.

"Good evening, Lord Roonoa. Are you enjoying the reception?"

The Maolaaro grunted. "I'm enjoying the food and drink."

Yes, I've seen you at these affairs before, the Kalif thought. What you drink unaffected would have most men unconscious or puking out their guts. "But not the conversations?" he asked.

"The conversations are part of the job. That's why I'm talking to you."

The Kalif's grin was a brief flash of white. "Thank you, good Roonoa, for the compliment. What do you have in mind?"

"First and foremost an increase in what we're allowed to charge for our fish. Every world here has a worsening population problem-every world but us. Imperial populations have increased ten percent since we've had an increase in fish prices. That's a ten percent increase in demand, with no increase in price. And we are not a wealthy planet."

The Kalif shrugged. "Why not sell ten percent more fish then? Giving you ten percent more income at the present price."

"It wouldn't work that way. For most commercial species, our present catch approximates their sustained yields-their replacement capacities. If we catch more this decade, there'll be fewer and fewer to catch in decades to come."

"Umm. Logical. Your request makes sense, in the context of your own situation. Whether it would make sense to others in the context of their own problems…" He paused, inviting comment.

Again Roonoa grunted. "Their problems reflect their own short-sightedness and their lack of willingness to confront their true need. Thus their populations increase but their food production doesn't. Not substantially. Their domestic food prices have climbed steadily, and they discriminate against us. And each other."