reinstatement with almost giddy relief. “We campaign again?”
“Yes,” Suzette said.
She pushed a document across the table with a finger. “One of your relatives is contractor for the East Residence municipal coal yards, isn’t he?”
Muzzaf nodded; men from Komar and the other Border cities were prominent in trade all over the Civil Government, and in the new joint-risk companies.
“Subcontractor, Messa. The primary contract is farmed to an . . . associate of Chancellor Tzetzas.” He took up the paper and whistled silently. “That is a great deal of coal.”
“Subcontractor is good enough. Have him release that amount to the Central Rail; and drop a suggestion with their dispatching agent that they begin to accumulate rolling stock immediately. Sweeten the suggestion if you have to.”
“Immediately.”
They exchanged a smile; Chancellor Tzetzas had confiscated all Raj’s wealth . . . all that he had been able to find, at any rate. Neither the Chancellor nor Raj knew exactly how much the Whitehalls had had; Raj left such things to Muzzaf and Suzette . . . and they had anticipated the evil day long before. Raj knew how to handle guns and men, and even politics after a fashion, but money could also be a useful tool.
Silence fell as the steward left, broken only by the scritching of the pen and the faint thumps and scraping of the packing in the outer chambers. On the bed behind her were Raj’s campaigning gear: plain issue swallowtail jacket of blue serge, maroon pants, boots, helmet, saber, pistol, map case, binoculars. Beside it was her linen riding costume and a captured Colonial repeating carbine, her own personal weapon . . . and the one, she reflected, that had disposed of the Clerett’s heir.
A pity, she thought absently, tapping her lips with the tip of the pen before dipping the nib in the inkwell again. A very pleasant young man.
And easy to manipulate. Which had been crucial; like his uncle, he’d been mad with suspicion against Raj. With envy, too, in young Cabot’s case: of Raj’s reputation, his victories, his hold over his soldiers, and his wife.
A pity she’d had to kill him. Particularly just then. Shooting people was a crude emergency measure . . .
Which reminded her. She crossed to her jewel table and reached beneath for a small rosewood box. A tiny combination lock closed it, and she probed at that with a pin from a brooch.
Yes, the crystal vials of various liquids and powders within were all full and fresh—there was a slip of paper with a recent date inside to remind her, one of Abdullah’s many talents.
You never knew what sort of help Raj would need . . . whether he knew it or not.
“You will triumph, my knight,” she whispered to herself, closing the box with a click. “If I have anything to do with the matter.”
CHAPTER THREE
Governor Barholm stood while the servants stripped off the heavy robes; apart from Raj, they were the only people in the chamber who didn’t look terrified . . . and they didn’t have to watch the Governor’s face. A sicklefoot had that sort of expression, just before it pivoted and slashed open its prey’s belly with the four-inch dewclaw on one hind foot.
The Negrin Room was three centuries old. Walls were pale stone, traced over with delicate murals of reeds and flying dactosauroids and waterfowl; there was only one small Star, a token obeisance to religion as had been common in that impious age. The heads of the Ministries were there: Chancellor Tzetzas, of course; General Fiydel Klostermann, Master of Soldiers; Bernardinho Rivadavia, the Minister of Barbarians; Mihwel Berg of the Administrative Service; Gharzia, Commander of Eastern Forces. The courier from the east as well.
It was strange not to see Lady Anne Clerett, the Governor’s wife. Barholm didn’t have anyone he really trusted now that she was dead, and it was affecting his judgment.
“Heldeyz,” Barholm snapped. “ Give us the report, man.”
Ministerial