"My uncle will be wroth."

"Your uncle's wrath is chronic, and no secret among those who know him. Or so I'm told. In fact, it's a matter of public record, in the courts. You're a fortunate man not to share that sometime family trait. With regard to myself, he's well advised to keep his wrath closely reined; I'm disinclined to be tolerant with his niece's uncle. As for you-Weigh well your decision. And if your uncle is too upset, tell him what I would have done, if you'd refused these terms. Which is, I would have-and will if you're difficult-publicize the whole affair, certain pertinent aspects of your family history, and the miserable bequests to Siisru's children.

"Now. I will have your answer."

The young man looked to Jilsomo as if for support; the exarch's round face showed no trace of sympathy.

"It seems-I must accept."

The Kalif stood, removed a small scroll of his own from inside his robe, and held it out. The young man took it, pulled his chair closer to the desk to sign, and discovered that the sum on the agreement was 20,000, not ten. He wasn't sure what the Kalif's motive might have been for misleading him, but he signed both halves quickly, and handed it back. The Kalif separated them and gave one to him.

The young man stood to leave.

"One moment."

He stopped.

The Kalif's voice was mild. "As you know well, young attorney, it is customary to shake hands on such an agreement, unless one side feels there is serious injustice in it. Do you honestly- honestly -feel there is?"

The young man blew softly through pursed lips and shook his head. "No, Your Reverence, I do not honestly feel there is. Though I cannot speak for my uncle in that."

The Kalif extended his hand; they clasped and shook.

"Good. Go with Kargh, and may you prosper, both in wealth and in the spirit."

"Thank you, Your Reverence."

As the young man left, the Kalif looked at the clock on his wall. Almost time for his appointment with Neftha. I might as well go now, he told himself, and have done with it.

Forty-nine

Lord Rothka Kozkoraloku sat tapping his stylus on his work tablet. His intention was no problem, but implementing it would take some doing. His eyes re-underlined it at the head of the first page:

THE KALIF DEPOSED AND IMPALED (the short stake?); THE COLLEGE OF

Below that he had written two actions which he considered prerequisites: (1) Greatly increase the disaffection of the nobility for the Kalif. (2) Gain the support of some key part of the military. Assuming he accomplished them, they might or might not be sufficient to his purpose, but without them, his chances would be poor.

Earlier, his purpose had been simply to prevent the Kalif from mounting his invasion. Now, though, it seemed to Rothka that a coup ending with the Greater Nobility in power was the correct goal. In fact, he'd felt so good when it first occurred to him, there'd been no room for uncertainty. As long as the Kalif was in power, the man would strive until he had his way. If not this year, and that now seemed impossible, then next year or the year after, or the year after that.

Simply to have him assassinated would throw dark suspicion on his opponents in the House, most particularly the Party, risk a serious public reaction and a possible purge. At the least it would virtually ensure that one of Biilathkamoro's supporters, probably the gentry exarch, Jilsomo, was given the throne as his successor.

No, a coup was the only correct action. But it would help greatly, in establishing order afterward, if the man's popularity was sufficiently weakened in advance. Give people an excuse to tell themselves that the coup might be for the best.

The things already done had provided a certain groundwork toward that. True the Kalif had come through most of them remarkably well. But it seemed to Rothka that by now the kalifa's questionable past must be stuck ineradicably in the back of people's minds, as was her husband's penchant for personal violence. Break down his credibility in other matters, and people would remember, begin to question his suitability.

Up till now, Rothka told himself, his own mistake had been in trying to discredit the Kalif with a single action. Which the Kalif had then focused on and more or less neutralized. Until this last business, the man had shown a talent for saying or doing the right thing to minimize damage. It had been a stroke of genius when Coso had released the cube of the Diet session in which he'd killed Nathiir. No one, except possibly the Kalif himself, had anticipated the widespread public approval it had gotten.

Finally, when it seemed he'd damaged himself seriously, old Dosu had rescued him. And while he might have been tempted to release the cube with old Dosu's scathing defense, he hadn't. To do so would have alienated the House, beyond recovery for this session and probably for sessions to come. As the man had foreseen.

Rothka frowned. Or was that little scenario still a possibility? It would be a dangerous project, but the potential…

He set it aside, at least for the time.

He'd learned some things from all that. One was to look toward volume, another to focus on issues. The pamphlets he planned to release would be numerous, brief, pithy, and politically relevant. Also they'd carry no actionable attacks on the Kalif. A pamphlet would attack some single element of the invasion plan, and dismantle or discredit it. The arguments didn't need to be valid, as long as they were convincing, at least superficially. They'd stress practical matters: economics, civil disorders, and other gut-level issues. Play the factions: the lesser nobility feared the ambitions of the gentry; the gentry worried about the peasantry encroaching on their privileges. Keep the pamphlets coming, one after another, too many and too plausible-seeming to counter. And keep them legal.

Although he wouldn't stay entirely on practical issues. He'd already ordered the printing of a pamphlet saying that The Book of Shatim, announced by the College of Exarchs as having been found in a provincial archives, was rumored to be a forgery, produced by the College to help them hold onto power. The pamphlet would question how it could possibly help them do that, while not questioning the idea that the book was spurious. As if the origin of the book was certain, and only the College's supposed rationale was in doubt.

There was a polite knock on his study door, and with a button on his chair, Rothka released the lock. It buzzed quietly, and his gentry serving man entered.

"Your lordship, there's a young man to see you."

"Young man? What young man?"

The servant came over and held out a card to Rothka, who took and examined it. Neethoon Ralakhon, it said. Administrative Aide. The Informer. He looked up sharply at his servant. "You know I don't receive journalists at home."

"He claims to be here on his own behalf, and not on business of The Informer, your lordship. He says he has certain information, ah, for sale. Information that his publication would quash if they had it."

Rothka's brows knotted. It had to be something unfavorable about the Kalif, otherwise the newszine would hardly quash it. Scandal was The Informer 's bread and butter.

"Neethon Ralakhon." Rothka said the name aloud, as if tasting it. "I'll speak with him, Ilavi. Send him in."

A little thrill shivered through him. Somehow it seemed to the nobleman that he had something here. Something big.