Terrans wanted access to. “But the priests aren’t going to go away so easily,”
Zambendorf guessed.
Giraud nodded. “They have a strong traditional hold over the population and can
mobilize widespread support by playing on insecurities, fears, superstitions—all
the usual things. They’re not a force to be trifled with.”
“So what’s the plan—to help Henry rid himself of the priests in return for
plenty of Taloids to work the plantations?” Zambendorf asked, stopping just
short of injecting an open sneer into his voice. Giraud hesitated. Zambendorf
shifted his gaze back to Leaherney.
Leaherney ran the tip of his tongue along his upper lip and frowned for a
moment. “Shall we say, to assist in bringing about the replacement of the
existing form of priesthood by an alternative system that Henry would have
greater control over,” he replied. “It would probably be a mistake to demolish
the clergy completely. After all, it does have considerable merit as an
established instrument of social control.”
“Er, I think Dan means as a temporary mechanism to preserve social order during
the transition period to a more modern form of state,” Giraud interjected
hastily.
“Of course,” Leaherney said.
Now Zambendorf was beginning to see where somebody like himself would fit in.
“Does Henry have anyone in particular in mind to head up this new, tame
priesthood that he wants to install?” he inquired.
Giraud nodded. “But not anyone we’ve met. We haven’t talked to any of the
priests—only to Henry and some of his guys.”
“Hmm … It wouldn’t be the present High Priest, Bishop, Magician, or whatever’s
equivalent,” Zambendorf said. “If someone like that stands to get demoted in a
big way, the last thing Henry would want is to leave him with any power to do
something about the grudge. Henry’s best bet would be to get rid of him
completely and replace him with someone from the lower ranks—someone who’d feel
insecure after a big promotion and would always be Henry’s man. But Henry sounds
enough of a Machiavelli to know about things like that.”
“That’s Henry’s problem,” Giraud said. “All we know is that he’s got someone
lined up. We call him Rasputin.”
Zambendorf leaned back in his chair, steepled his fingers below his chin, and
moved his eyes slowly from one to another of the three faces around him. “And of
course, this Rasputin would have to pull off some pretty spectacular stunts to
stand a chance of discrediting the present chief miracle-worker and taking over
the job, wouldn’t he,” he said, making his voice casual. “He’d have to be
convincing enough not only to impress the average Taloid-in-the-street, but also
to convert enough of the priests over to his side too. Now, I wonder who’d be a
good person to ask if you wanted to help someone work a few of the kinds of
miracles that might do all that.”
Caspar Lang, who had been listening silently for some time, fidgeted in his
chair and looked impatient. He was tiring of Zambendorf’s roundabout way of
talking, a method Zambendorf employed to give himself time to think. Now
Zambendorf was going to launch into more of it by asking why he should be
interested and what was in it for him. Then Giraud would get into his
negotiating stride and start to spell out all the angles and benefits. Lang
could see it coming. He didn’t want to hear it all.
“Look,” he said, raising his face toward Zambendorf. “You’re a good deceptionist
and a top con artist—maybe the best in the business …” He lifted a hand to
forestall any objection that Zambendorf might have been about to make. “Let’s
not go off into any of that stuff about whether you’re genuine or not. What
we’re talking about now is serious, okay . . .” Lang paused for a second, then
continued. “Ever since you first appeared in Europe, you’ve been moving in one
direction—upward, toward becoming the biggest of the big-time operators ever—
bigger sensations, bigger crowds, bigger fame, bigger money. That’s always been
the ambition.” Lang spread his hands briefly. “You’re smart enough to have
figured out for yourself that this whole business at Titan could mean—if it’s