In the Lion's Mouth Page 8

  The game proceeded. Pieces shifted about a board composed of stars—threatening here, checking there, protecting elsewhere a pawn or knight. Complexity built upon complexity, intricacies difficult at times for even the players to comprehend. Key pieces were lost. Positions were abandoned. Identities fatally revealed. Or kept! (Grizzlywald Hupp died because his cover identity had been marked for death by a comrade. Even secret wars have friendly fire.)

  But what began in grim anticipation had grown to smell more of desperation—or at least of impatience. After twice ten years, even the most eager of rebels might find his enthusiasm thinning, and a certain hunger for results had begun to inform their thoughts.

  And so those who must never meet in person had decided that they must meet in person. They had chosen for this purpose the outpost of Henrietta in the remote border province of Qien-tuq. They gathered there from across the CCW: from Dao Chetty and the Century Suns, from Big Dog and the Groom’s Britches, from Hasselbard and Paladin, from worlds of legend and ancient renown. And while they could not hope to meet entirely in secret, they hoped at least to meet where no one paid much attention.

  * * *

  Henrietta was the sort of world that had betrayed the promise of her youth. The lushness of her terraformation imbues the visitor with awe at the powers of the old Commonwealth of Suns—or would have, had Henrietta visitors to awe. Her verdant hillsides ache for the plow, her splendid vistas for the well-sited villa. Her broad, gleaming rivers want earnest industrious traffic and even more earnest fishermen. By rights, the planet should have been thickly settled centuries since.

  But she sits hard by the border with the Peripheral League, and her strategic value is too great to pimp herself as a tempting prize. She dare not be too wealthy, too prosperous, too desirable, lest she invite attack—by the pirates of the Hadramoo, if by no one else. Yet here and there stand ancient ruins, tumbled reminders that there had once been a different age, when no borders ran through the worlds of men.

  Like a promising young woman who has settled for a lesser beau, Henrietta has been rimmed in steel and not in verdure. Grim men stand guard along the walls of the world. Fortresses orbit o’erhead, and burrow deep within her vales. Corvettes hold station at the Visser hoops of her roads, even the narrow, minor stream known as the Tightrope.

  Of course, no one attacks. No one has ever attacked; and the thought that the sprawling, barely United League of the Periphery could muster enough common purpose to do so has grown every year less likely. But the pretense that they might still do so serves a purpose, and the garrison acts as garrisons always have when bored in their duties. They are far enough from Dao Chetty to feel the slack in their tethers. The natives of Henrietta, heirs to obsolete traditions, find the boots of the garrison heavy on their necks; but they cannot remember a time when those soles did not rest there, and most have forgotten that it had ever been otherwise.

  The garrison, for its part, knows both to apply the pressure and withhold the worst. What fool kills the cow he milks? All told, the garrison commander has told his staff, it was nice to lie doggo in a corner and be forgotten by those in power.

  * * *

  And so a certain unease grew in the heart of Swoswai Mashdasan as he reviewed the Ten-day Reports. A visitor from off-world named Egg Mennerhem had been accosted by two ratings on groundside leave from WŠ Gentle Caress. Touristas being targets of opportunity, they had pressed of him a donation to the Astral Shore Leave Benevolent Fund and, in the ensuing discussion, each had broken an arm. Boots did not always get the better of these little extortions, but they usually did at two to one. That made Mennerhem a Person of Interest.

  MILINTEL was set to watch the tourista and reported back the curious fact that he took none of the day tours to the Commonwealth Ruins in the nearby Gyorjyet Narrows, the only conceivable reason why a tourista might come to Riettiesburg in the first place, but he remained idly content in the Grand Khyan Hotel.

  That was bad enough. But it was as the first raindrop before a storm. Others followed in a quickening drizzle, arriving by ones and twos, never overtly acknowledging one another, but congregating as if by accident here and there—in the hotel lobbies, in the restaurants, casually on the street corners and in the parks. They came by packet and they came by liner and they came by monoship. Mashdasan’s agents watched—and the touristas grinned and watched MILINTEL watching them.

  The conclusion was soon inescapable.

  They were gathering.

  * * *

  Dawshoo Yishohrann waited until he was certain that everyone who was coming to Henrietta had come. If the absence of some of his allies, indeed of some of his staunchest allies, disturbed him, he gave no sign to the others. He was affable at meals, engaging in his conversations, suitably grave at the reports delivered in face time. Those missing had undoubtedly excellent reasons. Death, perhaps; or, like Olafsdottr, a special assignment. In the meantime, he showed his teeth to everyone and gave reassuring shoulder claps to the more disheartened. Dawshoo was wide shouldered and possessed a hooked nose of impressive scope, so that he was known quietly as “the Beak.” Some called him arrogant; others called him less arrogant than he had a right to be. His enemies said that self-interest was his guiding principle, but his friends pointed out that he had risked and lost both wealth and position to lead the rebellion. He was a marked man; and a dead one if the Long Knife ever found its mark.

  For his own reassurance, the Beak sought the company of Gidula. Whether the old man had any other name, Dawshoo did not know. The name had resonances of torture in one of the ancient tongues of men, so it may have been an office-name and, as the office had consumed the man, so the name had consumed his identity. But any random combination of phonemes could find kin in some old language, and office-names were less common in the Confederacy than among the Peripherals. In any case, Gidula had grown old in a service little known for longevity. If that did not mark him wise, it at least marked him nimble.

  The two met by prearrangement on the terrace of a small restaurant in the Skimkhorn district of Riettiesburg. The kitchen boasted the cuisine of the Century Suns, though it was an empty boast. Perhaps at some remote time, a Centurion had been assigned to Henrietta and had afterward received permission to remain. If so, his family recipes had suffered over the generations. Dawshoo was a native of Alpha, the Big Sun, and knew whereof he spoke.

  Still, a home-cooked meal was a home-cooked meal. Dawshoo arrived first and was amused to see how the locals shrank a bit from his presence, as if they were ants, and he a drop of pesticide. Evening had fallen and the terrace was ablaze with tiki, their guttering flames casting dancing shadows upon the flagstone patio and obscuring the vista of the half-barren heavens above. The tikis, at least, were a genuine touch, and for a moment they stirred in Dawshoo a long-dormant homesickness for the warm surf of the Enameled Isles on a world he no longer called home.

  Gidula approached silently and without announcing himself. His shouldered hair and shovel beard were pure white, which made darkness no longer his friend. He took the seat opposite Dawshoo and touched the menu to activate it. For several long moments he studied the selections, as if his choice would be the most momentous decision of a long and distinguished career. Dawshoo said nothing, had said nothing, not even in greeting. He took great comfort from Gidula’s advice, though it would never do to acknowledge that.

  “Many eyes caress us,” Gidula said without looking up from the screen.

  “We are strangers in a neighborhood eatery. Strangers are never welcome.”

  “With good reason,” Gidula said dryly. He raised his head. “Overcome by a fit of nostalgia, were you?”

  Dawshoo bobbed his head toward the menu. “For the savors of my youth? No. But have you sampled the local cuisine? They boil the taste out of everything.”

  “What do you recommend, First Speaker?”

  “Fasting. But from this menu … If they have faithfully executed it, the Darling Lamb was always a favo
rite of mine. Much depends on the chutneys they have used. The same herbs grown in different soils often bear small resemblance one to the other.”

  Gidula nodded. “I bow to your superior wisdom in such matters.” He touched the screen, made his choices, and Dawshoo—as the host—transmitted the order to the kitchen.

  “A human servant will bring it out. A nice touch, no? One might even suppose the place to be of the upper cuts.”

  The Shadow tossed his head. The white hair bobbed. “The greater the gap, the greater the effort to close it.” He shaded his eyes and squinted through the flickering tikis toward the night sky. “Why the torches?”

  “A custom on my homeworld. I was born in the cities; but on some of the isles they use such devices, both for lighting and to repel insects … But this place is too bleak and cold for them. It wants bonfires and mulled wine; not dancing torches and fruited rum.” He held up his preprandial drink.

  Gidula gave it a brief grimace. He himself never poisoned his wits. “It is bleak and cold because it is their winter season here in the southern hemisphere. Call another meeting in the springtime. I am told it is quite delightful. The young women wear colorful wildflowers wound into circlets in their hair. There. That’s the Perseus Arm, just rising over the hills. You can see it through the goat willows.”

  Dawshoo twisted a little in his seat. “Yes. So it is. The League stars.”

  “Do you think she’s found him?”

  First Speaker shrugged. “It was a cast of the dice. If she has, that may solve one problem. If not, that would solve another.”

  “And if she never comes back at all?”

  “A third.”

  “A superb galaxy, then, where whatever befalls solves one problem or another.”

  Dawshoo straightened in his chair. “Small problems are easily solved. The greater ones linger. I fear many comrades are losing heart.”

  “I think perhaps just the opposite,” Gidula answered. “The great problems are more easily solved, while the small ones remain stones in our shoes. The struggle has been a long one. Enthusiasm by its nature burns hot and fast. Yet, there may be a simple solution.”

  A human waiter had brought their meals and the two fell silent while they were presented and suitable solicitations and compliments were exchanged.

  “He does not really wish my opinion on this travesty,” Dawshoo said when the waiter was out of earshot. “These provincials ought not attempt the cuisine of the Triangle worlds unless they have some skill at pulling it off.” He took a bite of his perch.

  Gidula smiled and cut into his lamb. “It is the taste of your youth you recall, Beak. Should Fate take you once more home, I dare say you would find the cuisine there as disappointing.”

  Dawshoo snorted, and the two ate in silence for a time. “All right, Gidula,” First Speaker said after a number of chews. “You intend to make me ask and, while the night is pleasant enough to be worth extending, there is too much yet awaiting my attention. How do you recommend dealing with the loss of heart?”

  “Say rather ‘impatience,’” the other reminded him. “Their enthusiasm wanes because they are eager. A paradox. But the answer is not to deal with the symptom, the ennui; but with the cause, the impatience. Strike now. An all-out assault on the Secret City. Hold nothing back.”

  Dawshoo placed his fork carefully on the table. “We would be crushed,” he said flatly.

  “Would we? We have been gnawing at the extremities for twice-ten years. Surely that has impaired their capabilities. Key men have been assassinated or suborned; key intelligence and communication posts lie secretly in our hands. And is it not better that our efforts be crushed than that they sputter out ignominiously?”

  “Padaborn’s Rising was crushed,” First Speaker observed. “Are you so eager to end as he did?”

  “Padaborn was betrayed. And in some ways he did not fare too terribly. You told us yourself: The game is worth the candle.”

  Dawshoo squinted at the sky against the glare of the torches. “We shall see.” When he lowered his gaze once more, Gidula was gone and the lamb barely touched. Dawshoo Yishohrann sighed and, reaching across the table, gathered the lamb unto himself and chewed upon it thoughtfully.

  * * *

  They congregated the next morning in a large meeting space provided by the hotel. There were thirty of them, many known to one another only by reputation. Some had met. A few had worked together in pairings. Perhaps, Dawshoo thought, some were surprised to see who else had shown up; or perhaps they were surprised at who had not.

  It was a well-lit room, with a dais on which Dawshoo sat with Gidula on his right and Oschous Dee Karnatika on his left. The Triumvirate, some had called them during the anonymous phase of the conspiracy, when it had not been safe to use names; when no man knew more than two others. Through kaowèn, any man might be brought to betray another, and the rebellion had been built in water-tight compartments, lest loose lips sink it.

  Down the center of the room ran a table around which sat the Ten, or at least most of them. Domino Tight was not present. The others leaned against the walls or perched upon sideboards in various attitudes, perhaps understanding only now their place in the scheme of things. Conversation filled the room like a swarm of bees.

  Little Jacques the Dwarf completed his circuit of the room and nodded to Dawshoo, holding up four fingers. He had found and neutralized four devices. First Speaker had expected MILINTEL to bug the room, but the thoroughness surprised him. Swoswai Mashdasan must be uneasy at this unwonted gathering in his jurisdiction—for by now he had surely realized the cut of men involved.

  Dawshoo leaned toward Gidula and whispered, “I think I will test their mettle before I press your notion.” Then he stood, stilling the idle conversations. “Deadly Ones,” he said formally. They pressed forward to hear him better, sensing a cusp in their affairs: the physical nature of the meeting, the grave demeanor on the faces of the Triumvirate.

  “Comrades,” he added more gently. “For twenty years we have struggled against greater numbers and greater guile, and Those who held the Secret City hold it still. Brave friends have died; and strangers you knew only by their deeds. And still no end heaves in sight. What lives, what honors we had before we took up the cause lie ruined and neglected. We have come so far into the woods, comrades, that but two paths lie before us. The first…” And here he paused artfully to enhance the tension. “The first is to fold our tents, dissolve our oaths, and salvage what we can from the debacle.”

  A small smile played across his lips. Gidula and Oschous stared at him openmouthed. In the rear of the room, a man shrugged. Another threw his stylus to the table and closed his note screen with a snap. One of the couriers sitting perched along the windowsill slid to the floor, clapped a comrade on the shoulder in farewell, and strode to the door. A second followed her. Someone said, “Well, we had a good run of it,” loud enough for everyone to hear.

  With glances both furtive and calculating, they made their way to the doors. More followed. Then two of the Ten stood. Appalled, Dawshoo counted half the room on its feet.

  Then Dee Karnatika stood. “Cowards!” he bellowed.

  Heads turned at the cry. Hands flew to scabbards. Those at the door paused. Egg Mennerhem called back. “No cowards have come this far,” he said. “No coward would ever have started.”

  Oschous tossed his head. “What man fears the past? Its hazards are dead and gone. What matter if it’s two years or twenty? We know what they looked like, those old familiar years. What you hazarded then has no more power to harm. It’s the new years, the stranger years, that inspire dread.”

  “There’s a proverb,” said Egg, “about straws and camel backs.”

  “Aye. Any man who’s shouldered twenty years has a right to be proud of his burden—and is right to wonder if the twenty-first might break him. But he’s less right, having twenty and facing one, than that same man earlier having one and facing twenty. You’ve come this far. Why not farther?�
� He suddenly grinned and rubbed his ear. “By the Fates, we’re all dead men anyway. Quitting now would hardly make us lively.”

  “Dee Karnatika’s right,” said Big Jacques Delamond, one of the Ten. Some said he was two of the Ten, so large was he. He rose now, like a mountain uplifted by colliding continents. “We’ve come through too much to balk at going through a little more.”

  “I never said I balked,” Egg replied. “The Beak did.” He looked about, uncertain. Some of those who had stood to go had returned to their seats. “I’ll see it through—if I see a chance.”

  “Happy, I am,” said Dawshoo in a voice that commanded everyone’s attention. “Happy, I am to see Egg Mennerhem of two minds about our enterprise. It would be wrong if all our Egg were in one basket.”

  The room broke into laughter, and Mennerhem flushed. A Shadow nearby slapped him on the back. Dawshoo gestured for silence and when he had it, he filled it with his words.

  “Happy, I said, and happy, I am. Egg, you and I see the same two paths. You want to see a chance of success if we press on. But do you see a chance of success if we give up? Don’t suppose that we can call an armistice with the Secret City and everything will be as it was before. We are all dead men walking, as brother Oschous said.” He threw an arm around Dee Karnatika’s shoulders. “And any man defying death with me is my brother. You too, Egg. All of you here. Not a one of you has been backward in our cause. So do not think that the Names will forgive everything, and kiss us on the cheeks. More likely, they would ram ‘the gay barb’ up between those cheeks. Those they know of, they will kill. Those they know not, they will track down and then they will kill. In the end, it is all the same.”

  Big Jacques made a fist and struck the table. “Press on, then!”

  “No,” said Dawshoo.

  And that silenced everyone. Oschous sat slowly. Egg lowered himself to the floor, where he squatted cross-legged. Big Jacques looked left and right at the Ten and resumed his seat. “What then?” he asked in a voice like an earthquake.