Lysander set down his fork and turned to his hostess. Ann Hollis Chang looked much more elegant here in the dining room of the governor's private apartments than she had when Lysander had seen her in the governor's office. Her silver grey hair was down in loose waves and held by a bright blue jeweled comb, and her gown was simply cut but clung in ways that flattered her somewhat bony figure. Still there was much of the senior bureaucrat about her. She was attentive to the guests at her end of the table, but she was also thoroughly aware of everything Governor Blaine said at the far end. She had mentioned earlier that her husband was a senior chemist with the Lederle company, and never came to government functions, official or not.
Lysander smiled. "Madame Chang, this roast is excellent."
"Thank you. But the real thanks should go to Mrs. Reilly."
"Oh?" He turned to his right. "Indeed?"
"Not really." Alma Reilly was a small woman, expensively dressed, but her hands were square and competent. Lysander guessed that she was in her mid-forties, a few years younger than her husband. The Reillys had been chemical engineers but were now planters. They held one of the largest and most productive stations. Alma Reilly's gown was sequined and she wore a large opal brooch, but her only ring was a plain gold band. "Actually, our foreman shot the porker three days ago, and we knew the dinner was coming up, and I knew the governor likes marinated porker so—" She laughed. "I know I talk too much."
"No, please go on," Lysander assured her. "Is there much wild game here?"
"More than we like," Alma said. "Henry—our son—had a fight with a Weem's beast last week and he's still in the hospital."
"Oh—"
"Nothing the regenners can't handle, but Henry's furious. He loves riding, and he won't be able to compete this year at all."
"I'm sorry to hear that. I take it you've had no trouble with the rebels, then?"
Alma Reilly glanced nervously up and down the table. "Trouble? We'd hardly have trouble with them, Your Highness. Most of them are our friends."
"Oh. But clearly you're not with them." He looked significantly at Colonel John Christian Falkenberg, who was seated near Governor Blaine at the head of the table.
"No, we've sent our crop in. Chris and I are agreed, Carleton Blaine is the best thing that has happened to Tanith since we got here. But it's not simple. Some of the reforms have been very hard on our friends." She looked across the table at Ursula Gordon. "Not that Governor Blaine wasn't right about many things, you understand. But it's very hard. There's precious little profit to be made on Tanith."
At the mention of profits, Dr. Phon Nol looked up from his plate and nodded. "Little enough before, and now we must make a further investment in—militia," he said. "More than worth the money once the escapees and pirates are killed, but I must say that Colonel Falkenberg's services are more expensive than I had hoped."
Captain Jesus Alana smiled thinly. "I appreciate your difficulties, Dr. Nol, but you of all people on Tanith must understand the economics. Without munitions we'd be useless, and we have to import most of our supplies and just about all our equipment."
"I understand, I sympathize," Nol said. "But permit me not to care much for the expenses."
Both Captains Alana, Jesus and Catherine, laughed at that. "Permit us to dislike them just as much," Catherine said. "I can't imagine the colonel is much happier than you." She looked at Ursula on her right. "That's a very nice gown. From Harrod's?"
"Actually, no. Ly—Prince Lysander bought it for me at a little shop in the garden district. He was looking for something made here."
"Ah, very astute," Dr. Nol said. "Tell me, Your Highness, did you know our governor before you came to Tanith?"
"Not at all. We'd heard about him of course. Seems very dedicated to his work."
"He is that," Hendrik ten Koop said from Alma Reilly's right. "Too dedicated for some."
White-jacketed servants cleared the table and brought an elaborate three-tiered compote of sherbets and ices. After desert they brought crystal decanters of a rose-colored liqueur. Governor Blaine stood to offer the first toast.
"To our guest, Prince Lysander of Sparta. May there always be friendship between Tanith and Sparta."
That's a bold toast, Lysander thought. Considering that Sparta is sovereign and Tanith isn't. Not yet.
Lysander acknowledged the toast with a bow. "Our thanks. May we always be friends, and your enemies be ours." There was silence for a moment. Lysander looked across the table to smile reassurance at Ursula, then up toward the governor. Colonel Falkenberg caught his eye, and might have smiled. Lysander turned back to his left. "And if I may offer a toast to our charming hostess. Madame Chang."
Hendrik ten Koop laughed aloud. The portly Dutch planter had already drunk four glasses of port, but it hadn't seemed to affect him at all. "Good, good. May I second? To the real governor of Tanith."
"Why, thank you," Mrs. Chang said. "And in response—to the new order on Tanith." She looked significantly at Ursula Gordon. "But I can't quite let Mynheer ten Koop get away with that. To the best governor Tanith will ever have." She raised her glass toward Blaine.
Another moment of silence, even longer than the first. Then Falkenberg lifted his glass. "Well said," Captain Ian Frazer and both Captains Alana instantly lifted theirs. Dr. Nol smiled, a tiny smile at just the corners of his mouth. "If Colonel Falkenberg agrees, then it must be so."
Christopher Reilly was next. "Indeed. Thank you, Dr. Nol." He sipped at his liqueur.
"I see," Hendrik ten Koop said. "I see indeed." He drained his glass in one gulp.
The outside walls of Government House were bleak and fortified, with few windows. The building's roofed verandas all lined its inner walls, which enclosed a large courtyard dotted with fountain pools and crowned with a large illuminated aviary. Sprays of water traced sparkling paths through the multicolored spotlight beams, and the patter of the fountains was punctuated by the occasional cries of the birds.
There were ceiling fans out here as well as inside. Lysander watched a pair of brilliant blue-and-red hens strut in their cage, then turned to the others who had gathered around him at the veranda railing. "I'd thought Tanith was a young planet," Lysander said. "But surely birds are a late stage of evolution?"
"Quite late, Highness," Catherine Alana said. "Even though this planet looks like it's still in the Cretaceous, it's actually in an era beyond Earth's present period."
"Ah. I hadn't known that. And no intelligent life evolved. Not here, not anywhere—"
Ursula smiled. "Except on Earth, of course."
"Sometimes I wonder," Christopher Reilly said. He looked out over the fountains below. "If we're so intelligent, why do we act so stupid?"
"You're not being stupid," Captain Alana said. Her smile faded. "It's those others. They aren't going to win, so why are they making us fight? It will be expensive for everyone." She looked across the veranda where her husband stood with Colonel Falkenberg. "It could be very expensive."
"She ought to know," Beatrice Frazer said. "Catherine is the regiment's chief accountant."
"I see. Captain Alana is in uniform, but you're not, Madame Frazer," Lysander prompted.
"No, I'm a civilian." She laughed. "As much as we have civilians in Falkenberg's Legion. I teach in the regimental schools."
"Are there many women in your regiment?" Ursula asked.
"A fair number if you count the dependents," Beatrice said. "Most of the men are married, so there are nearly as many women as men. I expect Catherine could tell you exactly how many of us are in uniform. Actually, we don't make too strong a distinction between those in ranks and the dependents. We take care of our own."
"Do you fight?" Lysander asked Catherine Alana. He glanced at her holstered pistol.
"I presume you mean the women? Only if we have to. The regiment is organized so that it can take the field without us, and we manage the rear areas, so to speak. Sometimes things don't work the way they're planned." Captain Alana's blue eyes danced. "I should tell you? You've a whole planet to run. Or will have."
"It's not quite cut and dried," Lysander said. "Sparta has a dual monarchy, and the throne is elective in each royal house. Then there's the Senate, and the Council."
"How could they pass you over?" Catherine said.
"Well, it would be pretty stupid, wouldn't it?" Lysander grinned and turned so that he faced her, with his back to the others. "You seem to know everything, Captain. Tell me, please: What is all this about a revolt of the planters?"
"I expect you'll find out soon enough," Catherine said. "Very soon, in fact. Here's the governor, and if no one's already told you, he's revived the custom of inviting the menfolk into his office for after-dinner cigars."
Governor Blaine had brought Falkenberg down to join them. Like his officers, Falkenberg wore dress whites. Lysander smiled to himself. He'd already noticed that the colonel and his staff were the only guests wearing white upper garments.
"Your Highness, Colonel Falkenberg has asked me to provide you transport to his regimental compound tomorrow," Blaine said. "Easy enough to do, if you like."
"Oh, please," Lysander said. "Good of you to invite me, Colonel."
"My pleasure. I'll ask the mess president to come up with something special for dinner. Lunch as well?"
"Certainly, if it's not an inconvenience."
"Not at all."
Blaine turned to Ursula. "Meanwhile, if the ladies would excuse us? Gentlemen, if you'd care to join me in my office, I can offer you genuine Havana cigars. Rolled on Tanith, of course, but the tobacco is imported from Cuba. It'll be another few years before we can grow our own."
"Not too long, I hope," Lysander said. "I confess I've never smoked a genuine Havana. Thank you." He looked to Ursula. "You'll excuse me?"
She glanced nervously around. Beatrice Frazer caught Falkenberg's eye, then smiled at Lysander. "Your Highness, with your permission we'll bore your young lady with tales of life in the regiment."
"Ah. Yes. Thank you." He squeezed Ursula's hand and turned to Blaine. "Governor, I would very much like a taste of your tobacco."
A detailed map swam up on the monitor screen. Blaine pointed at an inlet of the sea. The view zoomed in until Government House Square filled the screen, then zoomed back out to show an area of several hundred kilometers around the city. The screen held the display for a moment, then the view zoomed out once more.
"The last pirates are down here, between us and the southern province," Blaine said. "They call themselves the Free State."
Hendrik ten Koop drained his glass of port and poured another. "Free State. Yes, that's what they called themselves. Last month they killed five of my people and kidnapped three women on my south station. Then they burned what they could not carry away."
"Yes. Well, it shouldn't take Colonel Falkenberg long to root them out." Blaine zoomed the map to an area a few hundred kilometers west of Lederle. "It's the rebel planters who're likely to be more trouble to us all. Most of them are in this area here." He pointed.
"I would not go so far as to call them rebels," Dr. Nol said. He drew delicately on his cigar. "Excellent tobacco. Thank you. Governor, is it wise to think of our friends as rebels?"
"Perhaps not." Blaine looked thoughtful. "Think rebel and drive them to rebellion. Note taken. Still—what should we call them?"
"The opposition?" Christopher Reilly asked.
"Hardly a loyal opposition," Blaine said. "But very well. 'Opposition' it is."
"Your pardon, Governor," Lysander said. "If they're not rebels, what have they done that you're about to send some of the best troops in the galaxy against them?"
"Withheld their crops," Blaine said.
"They won't pay taxes," ten Koop said. "Often I wonder why I do not join them."
"For the same reason I don't," Reilly said. "The Navy will have our crops, or someone else will. Better we keep something than nothing."
"Will they kill all the geese?" ten Koop demanded.
"I expect that'd depend on the goose supply," Falkenberg said carefully. "Fifty geese laying silver eggs might be worth as much as one that lays gold, if the one that lays gold eats too much."
"Now, there's an unsettling notion for you," Christopher Reilly said. "Colonel, I'm very glad it's our side you're on."
"Oh, indeed. I am also," ten Koop said. He turned to Lysander. "I expect this is nothing new for a prince of Sparta. I understand you have rebels there also."
"Unfortunately, yes. I wish things were different."
"So," ten Koop said. "Tell us, Colonel, once you have killed the last of the pirates, what will you do about the—opposition?"
"Are you sure the Legion needs to do anything?" Falkenberg asked. Ten Koop opened his mouth to speak but Falkenberg went on. "They must know just how little military force they can field. No, this is a political problem, gentlemen. With any luck you'll find it has a political solution."
"I certainly hope so," Blaine said.
Ten Koop shut his mouth. "Yes, yes. Much better that way," he muttered.
Lysander couldn't be sure, but he thought one or two of the others gave the Dutch planter a sidelong look. He filed the impression and turned back to the maps on the monitor screen. "Just how much force does this opposition group command? I shouldn't think much compared to Falkenberg's Legion."
"Precisely," Christopher Reilly said. "I'm sure they'll see reason."
Falkenberg nodded. "That's as it may be. Meanwhile we have the pirates to deal with."
"Out of bed, sleepy bunnies."
Ursula moaned and pulled the bedclothes over her head. "Noooo . . . Five minutes more—"
"Not another second!" Lysander threw the covers to the foot of the bed and got to his feet. He turned the air conditioner to full cold.
Ursula shivered visibly. "Not fair. I don't have to get up yet!"
"Yes you do. I told you, you're coming with me."
She sat up and tucked her knees under her chin. "Lysander, I wasn't invited."
"Not your worry. I want you with me. What's wrong now?"
"Take Harv."
"He wasn't invited either. One unexpected guest is enough."
She turned away from him.
"Ursula—"
"You'll lose me my job, and then where will I be?"
"Oh, come now—"
"You will. One word from Colonel Falkenberg to the governor, and I'll be doing tours of worker barracks at the plantations."
"That's a horrible thought!"
"It happens."
"Besides, Colonel Falkenberg wouldn't do that, and even if he did I can't think the governor would let that happen."
"Why not?"
"I just don't think so—after all, you were the star of his reconciliation dinner last night."
"That was a nice dinner." She stretched her arms toward him. "Don't we have a few more minutes?"
"No, Miss Minx. Now get your clothes. Traveling clothes."
The Legion's encampment covered the top of a low hill thirty kilometers from the capital city. It was laid out much like the classical Roman camp, except that it was much larger, with more space between tents and houses. There were other differences. Radar dishes pivoted ceaselessly at every corner of the encampment. The spaces between the rows of tents were dotted with low bunkers, personnel shelters, revetments for air defenses.
As the helicopter circled well away from the camp, the governor's pilot spoke carefully into his headset, and seemed relieved to be acknowledged. They flew straight in. As they got close Lysander saw three battle tanks and two infantry fighting vehicles. He knew there were many others, but they were nowhere in sight. At the landing area there were two helicopter gun ships and one small fixed-wing observation plane.
Soldiers in jungle camouflage moved between the orderly lines of tents. None of them seemed interested in the approaching helicopter.
A young officer greeted them at the landing pad. "I'm Lieutenant Bates, sir. Colonel Falkenberg is expecting you." He indicated a waiting jeep. "I hadn't been told the lady was coming. The ride may be a bit bumpy."
"I'll manage." Ursula smiled. "Thank you."
Muddy water stood in the unpaved tracks around the perimeter of the camp. Sentries saluted with a wave as they passed through the gates and splashed toward the headquarters area. As they entered Lysander heard trumpets sound. In seconds men rushed out of the tents, spread groundcloths, and began laying out equipment. Sergeants and centurions moved along the neat lines to inspect the gear.
"Moving out?" Lysander asked. "Or is this for me?"
"Don't know," Bates said.
Ursula stifled a giggle.
Headquarters was a low stucco building. Falkenberg and Beatrice Frazer stood waiting on the porch. "Glad you could come," Falkenberg said.
"Thank you. I hope you won't mind if Miss Gordon has a look around—"
"Not at all." He nodded slightly at Ursula. "Pleased to have you, Miss Gordon. I've asked Mrs. Frazer to see that you're comfortable. You'll join us for lunch, of course."
"Thank you," Ursula said.
"Excellent. Now if you'll excuse us, the regiment is going into the field tomorrow, and I've a few matters to discuss with Prince Lysander."
The office was dominated by an elaborately carved wooden desk. Other wooden furniture matched it. The walls were decorated with photographs and banners.
"Well. You've come a long way, Your Highness." Falkenberg indicated a chair, and sat at his desk. "Drink?"
"No, thank you. Impressive show out there."
"It was meant to be. I take it you have bad news."
"Not entirely bad."
"Not entirely bad," Falkenberg said. "But not good either. You haven't come to take us to Sparta." He looked up with a slight smile. "Despite the show we put on for you."
"I truly wish I could, but we don't have the resources yet. We still want you. We certainly want your good will."
"Thank you," Falkenberg said. "I'm afraid good will doesn't buy many munitions."
"No, of course not."
"Rather sudden change of plans?" Falkenberg said.
"Well, yes, sir, I suppose so," Lysander said. Damned sudden. One day Father was eager to get Falkenberg to Sparta, and the next he was worried about money. The budget's tight, but not that tight. I really don't understand. I guess I don't have to. "Colonel, I've brought a sight draft as a retainer against future need. Sort of an option on your services."
"Services when?"
Lysander glanced around the room. Falkenberg smiled thinly. "Your Highness, if this room's bugged, there's no place safe on the planet."
"I well believe it. Very well, I was told to be honest with you. We won't be ready to move for another four or five standard years. Admiral Lermontov agrees with that. Provided—" He let his voice trail off.
"Provided that things on Earth don't come apart on their own before then," Falkenberg said. "Yes. Now, how real is that Tanith-Sparta friendship Governor Blaine was hinting at?"
"I think very real. As real as my father and I can make it, in any event."
"I thought so. Good. But does your father control Spartan foreign policy?"
Lysander looked thoughtful. "Just how much do you know about our Constitution?"
"Assume nothing," Falkenberg said.
"Well, I won't do quite that," Lysander said. "Do you know my father?"
"Met him once. Long ago," Falkenberg said.
"Yes. Well, Sparta's government was designed by—well, by intellectuals. Intellectuals who were disgusted with what happened to the United States, where by the year 2000 both houses of the Congress for all practical purposes held office for life, and the only really elective office was held by a president who had to spend so much time learning how to get the job that he never learned how to do it."
"An interesting way of putting things."
Lysander grinned. "Actually I'm quoting my grandfather. Who was, of course, one of those disgusted intellectuals. Anyway, Sparta was designed differently. The dual monarchy controls foreign policy. The two kings are supposed to be a check on each other, but my father and his colleague are very much in agreement. If something happens to Father, it's nearly certain that I'll take his place. As the junior king, of course. Really, Colonel, I don't think you need to worry too much about changes in Spartan policy."
"Who controls the money? Your legislature?"
"We don't exactly have a legislature," Lysander said. "But yes, the Senate and Council control most of Sparta's budget. Not all of it, though. Control of some revenues is built into the Constitution. There are funds reserved for the monarchy, and others controlled by the Senate, and the Senate—well, it's pretty complicated. Some seats are elected in districts and some are virtually hereditary. Others are appointed by the unions and the trade associations. I'd hate to have to explain it."
"The bottom line, though, is that you can't get the money right now."
"The bottom line, Colonel, is that we don't have the money right now. But we're pretty sure we know where to get it."
Falkenberg sat impassively.
"If it's any consolation, Admiral Lermontov agrees with us," Lysander said. "I'm surprised he hasn't made you party to his views."
"He has," Falkenberg said.
"Ah. I see. Then you know his ultimate goal hasn't changed." Lysander frowned. "One thing concerns me, Colonel. This—Blaine doesn't want to call it a rebellion, but we may as well. If they're holding back their crops, what does that do to Admiral Lermontov's budget?"
"It could be grim. Which is why Blaine can't let them get away with it."
"Yes. I thought as much. There's more at stake here than Blaine and his reforms. Just how much of the crop has been withheld?"
"At least a quarter. Maybe as much as a third."
Lysander whistled softly. "Colonel, that—that could mean—what? Half the Fleet's operations budget?"
"Not quite that. The Grand Senate still appropriates something for operations. But it would certainly wipe out Grand Admiral Lermontov's discretionary funds."
"I can't say I care for that. Still, Colonel, what can they do with their crop if they don't sell it to the government? Surely they won't carry out their threat to destroy it."
Falkenberg laughed. "With that much money at stake? Hardly. I'm afraid there are a lot of markets, Prince Lysander. Some will pay more than the government."
"But—"
"The most likely customer is a company owned by the Bronson family."
"Oh. I see. Grand Senator Bronson. With his protection—"
"Precisely. His faction doesn't control a majority in the Grand Senate, but he doesn't have to, does he? No one else has a majority either. Lots of horse trading, I'm told."
"Yes," Lysander looked at the far wall. It was covered with holographs. One showed the Legion in formal parade with battle banners and victory streamers. "Still, I gather you don't anticipate any trouble recovering the crops?"
"I always anticipate trouble, Your Highness."
"Colonel, let me be frank. You're very heavily involved in Admiral Lermontov's plan, but we are even more so. Anything that changes or delays it—well, we would have to take that very seriously back on Sparta." He spread his hands wide. "Of course I'm only a message carrier. I'm not empowered to negotiate."
Falkenberg raised an eyebrow. "Well, if you say so. But you do carry messages to high places. Your Highness, you have to appreciate my situation. I'm certain this mess with the opposition planters will be cleared up in weeks, months at most. It will have to be. After that the regiment won't be able to stay on Tanith very long. Certainly not five years. The economy won't support us, and besides, I can't condemn my people to five years in this place."
"What will you do?"
"We have offers. I'll have to take one of them."
"Preferably something that doesn't tie you down for too long—"
"Preferably," Falkenberg agreed. "But the Regimental Council makes that decision."
"Colonel, my father—all of us regret putting you in this situation."
"I'm sure you do," Falkenberg said. "How long will you be on Tanith?"
"It's not definite, but—let's say weeks. Months at most."
Falkenberg smiled and nodded. "Right. I expect you'll want to see a bit of the country beyond the capital while you're here. I'll have Captain Rottermill draw up a travel guide if you like."
"Very kind of you. Should be helpful." Lysander frowned. "Colonel, what is your impression of Governor Blaine?"
Falkenberg chuckled. "At the risk of being offensive, he seems much like the people who established your government. Let's hope he learns as much from experience as your father and grandfather did."
"I see. Do you think he will?"
"He has held on quite well so far."
"Colonel, I have reasons for asking your opinion. I'm authorized to tell Governor Blaine certain things about Lermontov's plans, provided you agree."
Falkenberg touched a button on the side of his desk. "Whiskey and soda. Ice. Two glasses, please." He turned back to Lysander. "I repeat. He has managed quite well so far."
"With your Legion at his back. What happens when you leave?"
"That is the question, isn't it?" Falkenberg touched controls in a desk drawer. The gray of the desktop flashed into a brightly colored map of the region around Lederle. "The main opposition to Blaine's new policies is out here in the bush. Until recently they were unable to form any effective organization. Now they have done so. They've even hired a battalion of mercenaries. Light infantry, mostly."
"I hadn't heard that," Lysander said.
"Governor Blaine isn't particularly proud of having let things go that far."
There was a tap at the door. An orderly brought in a tray and set it down. "Anything else, sir?"
"Thank you. No." Falkenberg poured for both of them. "Cheers."
"Cheers. Colonel, I notice that you haven't told the governor anything—or if you have, he's very discreet."
"He is discreet, but in fact I was waiting for your father's views. Incidentally, I'd be careful when and where you told him anything. This room is secure, but I wouldn't bet that the governor's office is. Or the study in his apartments, for that matter."
"Who?"
Falkenberg shrugged. "When was a politician's office ever secure? In this case it's even more likely to be leaky. You will remember Mynheer ten Koop?"
"Certainly."
"I don't recall it was mentioned at Blaine's dinner, but ten Koop's oldest daughter is married to one Hiram Girerd—who just happens to be one of the leaders of the planters' boycott. That's just one of the odd mixtures you can find at Government House."
"Hah. Then perhaps it would be best to wait until this boycott affair is settled before we come to any decisions about Tanith's role in—" He shrugged. "We've no name for Lermontov's grand scheme."
"Just as well."
"I suppose. In any event, Colonel, I can't think that even with their mercenary battalion the planters could muster much force against your Legion."
"Military, no. But they've hired Barton's Bastards, and Major Barton is no fool." Falkenberg chuckled. "If he were, I'd hardly say so. He was once a captain in the 42nd."
"Oh? Why did he leave?"
"His hitch ran out and he got a better offer," Falkenberg said. "After that we were allies for a while."
"I see." Classic situation? Lysander wondered. Two condottiere captains facing each other, neither willing to fight a battle because the losses would be too costly. A long confrontation but no fighting. Mercenary paradise. Surely not Falkenberg's game? "What will you do?"
"That rather depends on what the opposition intends, doesn't it?" Falkenberg studied the map table. "One thing is certain. They'll have to deliver that crop to someone, presumably a Bronson agent. Major Barton will see to that. It's the only way he can be paid, and he needs the money."
"So if you can intercept the delivery—"
"The conflict is ended, of course. Governor Blaine will have his taxes, the Navy will have its drugs, and Lermontov will have his secret funds." Falkenberg glanced at his watch and stood. "But first things first. This week we have to clean out that nest of pirates in the south."
"Of course. Colonel, I don't want to keep you from your work, but there is one thing. May—I would very much like to accompany your troops on this campaign."
Falkenberg considered it for a moment. "I think not this time. Ordinarily I wouldn't mind having a volunteer subaltern along, but this looks like a job for specialists. Hostage situations generally are."
"Another time, then?"
Falkenberg looked thoughtful again. "It makes sense. In fact, it's as good a way as any for you to get the intelligence your father will need. When we get back from this mission, you'll be welcome aboard."