Thunder still rumbled farther up the Theed Valley, but in the city the sun had reappeared, and steam rose from the pavement as Brokols folded back the top of the shay. Shutters were being thrown open; merchants or their employees were emerging to sweep puddled water off concrete sidewalks into the broad main street; cheery voices called back and forth.
Brokols found himself glad to be back. He was sure that no other sizeable town anywhere was so bright and friendly.
The street they were on, Central Avenue, opened onto Hrumma Square between the Fortress and the Theed River. As the shay rolled into the large open rectangle, Brokols and Eltrienn could see a crowd gathering—perhaps regathering after the rain—in front of the stone speaker's platform at one end. There were six or eight hundred of them, Brokols estimated, tiny compared to the throngs that turned out for the imperial government.
"Let's stop and hear what it's about," he said.
Eltrienn nodded, and when they were close enough, reined in the team. After a moment, they saw two men climb the steps to the platform, one fat, wearing an expensive, intensely white robe, the other lean, his robe unbleached. Brokols recognized the lean one as Vessto, Eltrienn's brother.
That's when it occurred to him that this was not a gathering by decree. In Hrumma, it would be legal to gather outside the seat of government to listen to anyone, perhaps even without approval. Somehow, illogically, a breath of fear touched him.
"People of Theedalit!" the fat one shouted, "I give you the sage, the Trumpet of Hrum! May you listen closely." And having said it, stepped back, leaving Vessto Cadriio standing alone. Vessto waited a long moment. When he began, his voice had power and reach without seeming loud, in fact while seeming quiet.
"People of Hrumma. Your nation is threatened. The very worship of Hrum is threatened. A distant land across the sea, called Almeon, has sent an ambassador to us, and one to each of the Djezes. In friendship, so they say. To establish commerce between us, so they say."
Vessto glanced at the shay then, just for a moment, not long enough to turn the crowd's heads toward them, then returned his gaze to the Hrummeans who stood listening. Brokols' whole body, his whole being, had tensed when Vessto began his speech, had frozen when the eyes touched him. When they moved on, it was release.
Vessto continued. "But talk of trade is subterfuge. Talk of friendship is lies. Almeon's king over kings, who calls himself emperor, intends to rule us. He plans war against us."
Vessto paused, scanning his listeners. "But how can he conquer us from 8,000 miles away?" Again he paused, as if waiting for one of them to tell him, then went on. "You have all heard of the great ship he sent here. Which brought his ambassador. Some of you saw it, and heard the great thunder of its weapons when they shot forth fire. He is preparing 200 such ships. Two hundred! And each of the 200 will come here full of soldiers, with weapons far more powerful than any we have against them."
Again he paused. And it seemed to Brokols that escape was impossible. He sat within thirty feet of the crowd's edge. In a moment the holy man would look at him again, point him out, tell them to turn around and see the enemy. And he'd be torn to pieces.
If only Eltrienn would start up again, drive casually away without drawing attention. But that was impossible. To start away now would draw attention, and there he was in the shay with the top back, wearing clothes that proclaimed him enemy.
"Hrum is testing us," Vessto went on. "Testing all of us. As he has tested our nation before. But this will be the hardest test of all. Although Hrum has the power to deliver us from any fleet, any army, any weapons, it is up to us to save ourselves. And we must save ourselves without transgressing the laws of Hrum! If we do this—if we act with all our strength to save ourselves, as if there could be no help—then he will help us. He will thresh the enemy, and scatter the chaff like dust in the wind."
Vessto raised his arms now, and his voice swelled. "All we must do is do all that we can, within the strictures of Hrum's words, and we are ensured victory. But to stint will be to lose."
He lowered arms and voice then. "Tell others of this. I will speak here again, two days from now as the sun sets, and at high noon on the next Freeday, for those who would hear me for themselves."
With that he turned and left the platform, and the crowd seemed to relax. The fat man stepped forward as another man, wearing a leather apron, climbed the steps. The fat man too glanced at the shay, but said and did nothing to call attention to it.
"There are people here," he said, "who were on the headland when the enemy ship approached the firth. They heard the Trumpet of Hrum prophesy that the serpents would leave when the ship entered. Though such a thing had never happened before. And . . . but here. Here's someone who was there. Let him tell you himself what he saw. What they all saw!"
He stepped back, turning the crowd over to the aproned man, the witness to Vessto's accurate foretelling. Eltrienn chucked to the kaabors, and they moved briskly off toward the north gate.
"That was the most frightening thing I ever experienced," Brokols murmured as they left the crowd behind. It was as if he'd said it to himself. "I was petrified."
Eltrienn's brows lifted. "Why?"
"Well . . . I'm the ambassador. Of the emperor that Vessto called the enemy. I was afraid Vessto or the heavyset man would point us out and the crowd would attack us."
Eltrienn shook his head. "Nothing like that would happen here. Hrum forbids it."
Brokols looked uncertainly at his guide. "But the things he said . . ."
"That's another thing. They aren't convinced yet; they don't know Vessto. Rantrelli may consider him a sage, but to the crowd he's from a far province, an unknown quantity. Without enough recognition to draw a larger crowd, even today, a Freeday, even though he's spoken before."
They were at a side gate now, and after Eltrienn had given an order to the guards there, got down from the shay. Two of the guards took their bags and put them in the gatehouse for temporary safekeeping. Another mounted the seat and drove away. Brokols was sure they'd looked strangely at him. "He's spoken before? How do you know?"
"Half the crowd were farmers. By their clothes. So he's spoken before, enough that some people, in from the country, have come round to hear what he has to say. But it sounds strange to them."
They walked through the arch-topped gate that penetrated the thick wall.
"The purpose of Vessto speaking to them is to raise wide concern and disapproval among the people," Eltrienn continued, "and force the Two Estates to consider replacing Leonessto Hanorissio as amirr. That's the procedure for removing an amirr. And to get anywhere with it, unless the amirr is criminal or grossly inept, requires the leadership of a sage. The fat man, Mellvis Rantrelli, is a prominent merchant, a noble, a member of the First Estate. Apparently he couldn't talk Panni Vempravvo into supporting him in this; otherwise he would have. And people realize that; it makes them more skeptical. So he turned to my brother. Perhaps in three or four weeks, if things go well here, he'll take it to the provinces. After that, Rantrelli may raise the issue to the First Estate."
"What do you think of what Vessto said?" Brokols asked. "Do you believe it?"
Eltrienn glanced sideways at him. "You're the one who knows whether it's true or not. Maybe I should ask you."
There was no accusation in Eltrienn's voice or eyes as he said it. He was simply making a point.
* * *
The amirr was eating lunch with Allbarin in what amounted to his private corner on the wall, and had them brought to him. When they were seated, he looked Brokols over.
"Well, Mr. Ambassador," said the amirr, "what did you think of our country?"
"Quite interesting, Your Eminence," Brokols replied, "and very comely. Perhaps more to the point, I now have information on a number of products that should interest Almaeic merchants, and the names of people and villages who are or might be interested in providing those goods."
The amirr said nothing for a long moment. When he spoke, it was drily. "Interesting enough or comely enough to be worth conquering? Or perhaps rich enough?"
Brokols' lips tightened. "Your Eminence, our own country is quite rich and fertile enough. As to what dreams your neighbors to the north might entertain, I don't know, but I suspect the quality of your archery must give anyone pause who'd care to invade you.
"Considering the distance involved, Almeon's interest in things Hrummean must be restricted to those things more or less unique to Hrumma. For example, your art. And certainly the furs I've seen examples of, that you obtain in trade with the barbarians."
The amirr's hazel eyes probed his own. "In that case, I trust you will excuse my question. There are reports, rumors I should say, to the effect that your nation does intend to invade us." He paused. "These rumors include a fleet of 200 great ships being built to carry Almaeic soldiers. You'll understand that I'm concerned both with the rumors and with their effects on my people."
"Of course, Your Excellency. I might also point out that to build 200 great ships would be an enormous expense." As the emperors advisors pointed out, he added to himself.
Allbarin interrupted. "Mr. Ambassador, is it possible that your emperor has designs on our neighbors to the north? The Djezes?"
Inwardly the question shook Brokols. "I find it highly improbable," he replied. "As I indicated before, eight thousand miles of ocean is a very great distance across which to mount a conquest."
There was another long, sharp-eyed lag by the amirr. "To be sure, Ambassador Brokols," he said at last. "To be sure."
* * *
When Brokols left, Eltrienn stayed with him long enough to arrange transport home for the ambassador and his luggage, then excused himself, commenting frankly that he needed to report on their trip. In parting they shook hands, Eltrienn seeming now as friendly and genial as ever.
On the ride home, Brokols asked himself how Vessto had gotten his information about the 200 ships. Could Stilfos have said something to someone? To Gerrla perhaps? But surely Stilfos was smarter than that. And what possible reason could he have had? As far as that was concerned, how would Stilfos have known the size of the fleet? The number hadn't been part of his briefing; Brokols was sure of it, had helped give it. And it wasn't open knowledge. The ships were being built at a number of shipyards on different islands, and hadn't been marshalled—some of them hadn't even had their keels laid—when the Dard had left Larvis Harbor.
It must have been Stilfos who'd mentioned it though. Who else could it have been? Maybe he'd overheard something on it before they left. He'd question him when he got home.
Interesting that Vessto had gotten the number of ships right, but not the target country.
* * *
Stilfos wasn't home when he arrived—not in the kitchen or the roof garden or his room. He could hardly be far though; the stove's tiny auxiliary firebox was hot, and the kettle was on it. Brokols made satta and strolled with it out onto the roof garden where there was a fair and cooling breeze. His meeting with the amirr was on his mind. These were strange people. Clearly the amirr had considered what Vessto was saying as at least possibly true. Yet there'd been no sense of hostility, really, from either the amirr or Allbarin. Or from Eltrienn, who after all was Vessto's brother.
As Brokols sat thinking, a sound impinged on his mind until it breached his consciousness and he turned around. The wind vanes of his generator were spinning, as they were more often than not, but the sound . . . hmm. The generator was still engaged! The automatic cutoff hadn't disengaged it! Quickly Brokols climbed the steps to the roof of his penthouse and tripped the manual cutoff, then checked the battery. No damage! Incredible! And he hadn't used the wireless for sixteen days! Surely they hadn't had sixteen days of near calm here.
Frowning thoughtfully, he went back down to the roof garden and into the apartment, then to the wireless room. Dragging his index finger across the table to the left of the sending apparatus left a visible track through dust. To the right, where the notepad would rest while receiving, there was no dust. With his handkerchief he wiped the key itself; no sign of dust soiled the white fabric.
Someone had been using the wireless while he'd been away.
Stilfos chose that moment to return; Brokols heard him enter the apartment and walk down the hall past the open wireless room door. After a moment there was an opening and closing of cabinet doors in the kitchen. Brokols went down the hall after him.
"Shopping?" he asked from the kitchen door.
Stilfos looked around from putting purchases away. "Yes, milord. Nice to have you back, sir. I've been to the greengrocer's. Assumed you'd be back within a day or so." The smaller man's quick smile covered nervousness. He'd seen that the wireless room door was open.
Brokols' voice was mildly sardonic. "I take it there's been an ordinary amount of wind while I was gone?"
Stilfos nodded. "A fair bit, sir. Off and on."
"Then you've used the wireless."
Apologetically: "One time, sir."
"Explain."
"I thought I should inform Lord Kryger of the public meetings, sir, so I put on native things and went to hear the second for myself. Then I let him know."
"Interesting. I attended one myself today. In proper ambassadorial garb, I might add. And heard something that quite surprised me—that the emperor's preparing a fleet of 200 invasion ships. Where do you suppose they got that number? Two hundred?"
"Well, sir . . . I really don't know. Is that number correct?"
Brokols ignored his aide's question. "How many ships do you suppose he's actually got built or building?"
"I have no idea, sir. It'd have to be a great many though, to bring an army big enough. Is the . . . is 200 right?"
Brokols studied Stilfos thoughtfully. "It would seem that one of us leaked to the Hrummeans."
"Yes, sir."
"The idea of us invading them could easily have grown out of human suspicion, but the number . . . two hundred is the actual number, you know."
"No, sir, I didn't know."
Brokols said nothing for a moment, his attention withdrawn. "When did you learn to use the telegraph?"
"During my army service, sir."
"Why wasn't I informed?"
"I suppose it never came up, sir."
Brokols pursed his lips, eyes hooded. "I see." He didn't see though, at all. It should have been on Stilfos's dossier. And Stilfos had wirelessed Kryger about the anti-Almeon rallies, had probably mentioned the figure of 200 ships, too. What had Kryger thought when he heard that? What could he have thought?
Kryger'd never liked him. He'd assigned Stilfos as an informant as well as aide.
But that didn't answer the question about the leak. Stilfos almost had to be lying about not knowing the number of ships. How else could they . . . then Brokols remembered the night of the reception, and something in the drink. But it couldn't have been himself that had told. He hadn't sat around talking that night; he'd been fully occupied with—other things.
It had to have been either Stilfos or himself though. How else could Vessto have found out what he had? Surely not a lucky guess? With an effort Brokols shook off the mystery, the loop of circular questions.
"Well," he said, "I suppose you have things to do."
"Yes, sir." Stilfos scurried off.
Brokols wandered to his room to work on a schedule of possible Hrummean exports and prices. He didn't accomplish a great deal though. His mind was on other things.
* * *
"There's no doubt at all, Your Eminence," Allbarin said to the amirr. "Two hundred is the right number, and it's Djez Gorrbul they plan to invade, not ourselves. Gorrbul is to invade us; that was clear this time. Get its army deeply involved down here. Then Almeon will land its army at Haipoor l'Djezzer, presumably take over the government, and after that, pacify the countryside. I suppose they plan to take us afterward, at their leisure.
"But our immediate problem seems to be with Djez Gorrbul. As it has been so many times before."
* * *
After Brokols' call that evening, Lord Vendel Kryger sat brooding at his wireless, beside the penciled notebook pages with his record of their exchange. That scoundrel Brokols hadn't so much as offered a speculation, let alone an explanation. Or a confession, though he'd hardly expected one.
He'd already made his weekly report to the emperor's office, and mentioned that Gamaliiu was seriously considering moving up his invasion of Hrumma to late summer. And that that would seem to call for scheduling the departure of the fleet for late summer, if they were to land here while the Gorrbian army was embroiled away from home.
He hadn't mentioned that he'd been working on Gamaliiu to make the change, of course. That wouldn't do at all. First it would make them extremely unhappy with him. Second, they'd demand to know why he'd done such a thing. And third, it would not do to tell them of Brokols' leak. Or perhaps treachery. As mission leader, the responsibility and blame would fall on himself regardless.
Of course, if the fleet did leave in late summer, the Gorrbian army had damned well better be tied up in the south, or there'd be the headsman to pay.
His lips twisted grimly. Brokols had put him in a very touchy situation.
But so far Gamaliiu'd been receptive to every other suggestion. He'd been impressed, of course, with the Dard's artillery salute, and the gunnery demonstration on the island up the coast. And had seemed quite accepting of the argument that the emperor, as a matter of principle, could hardly traffic for long with less than another emperor—with three separate states having three separate rulers.
The idea of conquering Hrumma, and later Djez Seechul, were in line with Gamaliiu's long-held interests anyway. While the promise to help him make his own artillery, along with the idea for a seaborne attack on the Hrummean north coast, had seemed to the king just the edge he needed to ensure success.
Now the deliberately planted worry that the Hrummeans might find out and take new defensive measures would almost surely bring Gamaliiu to move his plans ahead.
At least, according to Brokols, the Hrummeans didn't know that the fleet would strike Djez Gorrbul. And Stilfos's report implied the same.
But if the Hrummeans thought the invasion would strike Hrumma, then why hadn't they arrested Brokols and done away with him? Admittedly the droids were strange, their thinking undisciplined and often illogical, but that was still a bit much. Unless, of course . . . and there was that thought again: that Brokols, for some inconceivable reason, might be a traitor instead of simply loose-mouthed.