Brokols settled down after supper with a history of Hrumma. It had been lying on the librarian's table, and he'd picked it up to browse through while the Hrummean had been off somewhere. The librarian, though always polite, had been surprisingly adamant in denying him access to the shelves, doling out books to him like a teacher to a lower-form pupil. So Brokols had tucked this one in his satchel without asking.
It was an interesting book, mostly seeming quite factual, but with occasional references almost amusingly imaginative and superstitious. The other books he'd read contained nothing like them, and it occurred to Brokols that the librarian might be a rational, nonsupersritious person who was embarrassed at the thought of the foreign ambassador reading such things.
There were superstitions in Almeon too, Brokols reminded himself, but they were personal, not cultural—minor aberrations, not major institutions. He wondered what Almeon would have been like if Kaitmar III had been superstitious and enforced some religion with as much energy as he'd used, in fact, to suppress them.
He was sipping juice and reading about the last invasion of Hrumma by Djez Gorrbul when Stilfos interrupted.
"Milord, Mirj Tirros Hanorissio to see you." This time he announced the name without effort or awkwardness. "He has a friend with him; the same young gentleman as before."
Tirros! Brokols was surprised that the criminal mirj had the gall to visit, after what he'd done at the reception. There was a table of hard alabaster beside him, a pale figured pink, and marking his place, Brokols laid the book down on it. "I'll see him," he said tersely, getting up. "In the waiting room."
The two youths were slouched on the settee when he entered. Brokols had no intention of sitting: standing gave him altitude and established that the audience would be short. "How may I be of service to you?" he said. It wasn't an offer, but a formal greeting.
"Why, Your Excellency," Tirros drawled, "that's exactly what I came here about. How I could be of service to you." His tone became confidential. "I've heard what the so-called 'Trumpet of Hrum' has said about your emperor's intentions for us here. And it occurs to me that while he may be just a country sage, he's quite probably right about it. Certainly it makes good sense.
"So I'm offering my services in your emperor's behalf. And in yours, of course. I'm sure you can make good use of my knowledge and advice, and I can connect you with others who could be invaluable to you. For example, I can have the country sage silenced if you'd like. Very thoroughly, very—unobtrusively."
Tirros looked expectantly at Brokols. When the Almite only stared at him, he continued.
"You're wondering what I'll want as recompense. That's simple enough, and it won't cost you anything at all, personally. When your emperor has conquered us, he'll want to rule as profitably as possible. Which means he'll want a native Hrummean, someone who knows Hrummean affairs thoroughly, to be his regent here. To see that taxes get collected and that things are done the way he wants. That sort of thing.
"I'm proposing myself for the position. He'll find me efficient and loyal, quite able to assume his viewpoint and his purposes."
"Hmh!" Brokols had no doubt that the young man was serious and meant what he said, without scruple of patriotism, of loyalty to country or family. He was an utter scoundrel, without redeeming quality.
And dangerous to deal with, that he also knew, capricious and undisciplined. "An interesting offer," Brokols replied. "I'll need to give it some thought and perhaps take it up with my superior."
Tirros's eyebrows raised. "With your superior? How would you do that? Isn't it 8,000 miles to your homeland?"
Chagrin flashed through Brokols. "You people have your kiruus," he answered. "Mine have their methods too. Now if you will excuse me . . ."
Tirros and Karrlis got up, and Tirros reached out a hand to shake with Brokols. Brokols met it, clasped and shook it. When they'd gone, he washed his hands.
* * *
Tirros chattered as the two young Hrummeans walked down the stairs and onto the street. Karrlis half listened, his thoughts taking their own course. He decided to keep to himself much of what he'd learned from Brokols' mind. Let Tirros think there was a reasonable prospect of success with his plan. An illicit adept got very few jobs. To advertise was out of the question; even word of mouth was dangerous. He needed to keep this one going for the thin flow of coins it meant.
"What would you say the odds are of his agreeing?" Tirros asked.
Of course, Tirros was not an utter fool. His eyes were sharp enough, and he could add two and two. "Just now it's uncertain," Karrlis improvised. "He doesn't like you, doesn't trust you. But he does see strong advantages in your proposal."
Tirros nodded smugly as they started down the sidestreet, toward its corner with a nearby major street where hansoms and rikkshas would be available. "I won't push him hard. I'll hold off a few days, then come around and ask what he needs taken care of that's a problem for him. Perhaps ask him if he'd like to meet another girl." Tirros laughed, the sound clear and light.
"If he doesn't come around," Karrlis said, "I have an alternate suggestion you might like."
Tirros looked quizzically at him as they strode along. "And what might that be?"
"You can try his man. The little foreigner's more than just a servant. He's the one who'd serve as replacement if anything should happen to the ambassador. If this Brokols proves intransigent, we might, ah, retire him. Then perhaps you could work with the replacement."
Tirros examined the suggestion, then crowed with delight. "A marvelous idea. Well, we'll see what we see. The ambassador is the stronger person, of course, with higher rank. Correct? He can do more for me. But if he closes the door in my face . . . I'll hire someone tomorrow morning; your little brother maybe? Have him watch the ambassador's street entrance and follow him if he goes out. If he goes to the Fortress or seems to be leaving town, we'll catch a coach, you and I, and talk to his man. What's his name again?"
"Stilfos."
"That's it. Stilfos." Tirros seemed to taste the name, trying it on his tongue. "Stilfos. And see what sort of man he might be to work with."