"And, sir…"

"Yes, Colonel?"

"Your Reverence-What is the kalifa like?" He rushed on then, as surprised and flustered by what he'd asked as that he'd asked it. "I mean-I never really came to know her. And I've wondered."

The Kalif's frown changed from incensed to thoughtful. "Her manners, Colonel, are noble. She is considerate, intelligent, affectionate. I could not have imagined a better wife, or one as good. Her soul matches her physical beauty."

The colonel's response was soft. "Thank you, Your Reverence," he said, "for your extraordinary courtesy."

It was Jilsomo who spoke next. "Your Reverence, do you have instructions for me? Or shall I go now and inform the Justice Ministry?"

"Call them, Jilsomo. Have a senior investigator sent here. We'll speak with him, the colonel and I.

"Meanwhile, Colonel, go with Alb Jilsomo. I have things to think about and do."

The two men left, but the Kalif didn't return at once to his work. Instead he sat and examined briefly a feeling that had struck him while he and the colonel talked. After watching the cube. It had been-It had been when the colonel said what he'd said about the planet Terfreya. And then about women in their government. And there was the savage energy of the defenders there, as if they fought for reasons beyond simple duty and orders.

He shook the thoughts away. He had work to do.

Fifty-three

Lord Rothka Kozkoraloku watched the scrub-clad hills of the Fashtar Military Reservation pass beneath his personal floater. His guts and chest were unconsciously tense. There was something uncanny about this trip. But it didn't occur to him to back away; this was what it had all been leading up to. He'd simply have to make it work out.

He hadn't intended to come here so soon; things weren't ready yet. But circumstances had pushed him. Roopal had called him in the predawn hours; the Klestronu colonel had carried a stunner, stunned all four of them, and fled with the cube. Liiroola and the outer door guard had died, Liiroola no doubt because of his bad heart.

It was aggravating that people couldn't handle situations competently. He'd had to arrange for disposal of the bodies himself, which was not only a nuisance, but involved a degree of risk, even with the baffles he'd worked behind.

But everything seemed to be under control now. Only Roopal knew who was behind the project, and Roopal was away free. Thus there was no way of connecting him to any of it; the Klestronu colonel didn't know-possibly hadn't even heard of-Lord Rothka Kozkoraloku.

Obviously the Klestronit hadn't run to the police. If he had, they'd have gone to the house and found Roopal and the other three lying unconscious or dead. And they'd have learned who was behind it. Even if Roopal had never said the name "Rothka," they'd have used standard questioning and instrument reads to narrow down the possibilities; they'd have found him out in minutes. And this act might well have broken the Kalif's reluctance to impale, even use the short stake.

A sobering thing to contemplate. Rothka admitted to himself that his interview project had been a questionable risk. But to have such an opportunity dropped in his lap…

As for the Klestronit's motives for attacking the others and running off with the cube-Perhaps he'd begun to wonder what kind of safe house they had in mind for him up north. Whose safety they had in mind. Or maybe he thought he could market the cube for himself; if he could, it hadn't been a waste after all.

The major danger now was that the Klestronit would decide for profit instead of revenge, and sell it to a known market-the Kalif. If that happened, it would be destroyed. And it had taken the police only three or four days to nose through Nathiir's safety baffles and nail him down for The Sultan's Bride.

So Rothka had pushed his timetable up a week and a half, and scheduled his first military contact. He'd made his excuses to Agros and Ilthka, and was skipping today's meeting of the Diet.

He'd already had enough on his mind, engineering the release of the cube showing old Dosu scathing the House. Liiroola had handled that, handled it nicely. Had done the Kalif's voice and even made the mask. Rothka had had misgivings when he'd seen the mask on him. The likeness hadn't been as good as he'd expected, and when Liiroola talked, it hadn't looked fully lifelike. But the light wouldn't be good, Liiroola had told him, and people saw what they expected to see, at least when there was a marked resemblance. And Liiroola had been right; the archivist had accepted it without a question.

Ahead, Rothka could see now what he assumed was a division area. First Corps' four ground forces divisions and air services division were housed well separated from each other in a broad open ring, with corps headquarters and service and support units in the center.

By the nature of floater traffic, traffic patterns were simple. Thus there was no delay; he was allowed to land within a hundred feet of the general's control center. A captain was waiting for him at the pad.

The control center was a separate, single building containing the general's personal office, offices for his immediate staff, conference rooms, kitchen… in the midst of a broad and beautiful lawn, large shade trees, and well-tended flowerbeds. Rothka thought wryly that the lord delegates of the House had less pleasant surroundings in which to work.

The general was not at the entrance to greet him; he was at his desk, seemingly busy, when Lord Rothka was delivered to him like a petitioner, which in a sense he was. Rothka had researched both the general and his family. Lieutenant General Lord Karoom Songhidalarsa, known as "Old Iron Jaw," and sometimes as "His Majesty Iron Jaw the First," was the best, and perhaps the only realistic candidate to carry out a coup. He was also arrogant and imperious.

Nonetheless he got promptly to his feet and stepped out from behind his desk to greet his guest. The general was a tall man, flat-cheeked and spare-limbed, yet at the same time paunchy and corseted. His hair was well-oiled and brushed straight, in a style of some decades earlier.

"Lord Rothka," he said, "it's an honor to have you here. I've made a point of keeping your arrival inconspicuous, as you requested. Would you care for coffee? Tea?"

"Nothing, thank you. I'm not thirsty. There are things I've come here to discuss, General-matters that may take considerable time. And I have to be back in Ananporu tonight; it's impolitic for me to miss two consecutive days in the Diet."

"Of course. Captain, make sure the lord delegate and I are not disturbed. And keep in mind that the lord delegate's presence here is absolutely confidential."

"As you wish, General." The captain saluted, fist thumping his chest, then left.

"So, Lord Rothka," the general said, "this room is completely secure, as your messenger requested."

Rothka knew the general's reputation as a committed conservative. It fitted the man's family image. The Songhidalarsas were one of the greatest of the Great Families, with vast holdings on the second continent, and strict advocates of land rights. Their name was synonymous with noble traditions, noble values, and service to Varatos. Two millenia earlier, a dynasty of four emperors had been Songhidalarsas. And the general's grandfather five or six generations removed had broken the Dhimoordu Revolt, restoring imperial unity and the rights of the Great Families on four mutinous worlds.

Still, what Rothka had come here for was extreme. Thus despite having mentally rehearsed his pitch on the way, he sat pinch-mouthed for a long moment before finally speaking.

"I presume you're aware of the recent behavior of the Kalif-his wife, his duels, his recent humiliation of the House of Nobles?"