Magnan had broached the nature of the assignment obliquely, mentioning his visit as a tourist to Northroyal, a charming, backward little planet settled by Cavaliers, refugees from the breakup of the Empire of the Lily.
Retief knew the history behind Northroyal’s tidy, proud, tradition-bound society. When the Old Confederation broke up, dozens of smaller governments had grown up among the civilized worlds. For a time, the Lily Empire had been among the most vigorous of them, comprising twenty-one worlds, and supporting an excellent military force under the protection of which the Lilyan merchant fleet had carried trade to a thousand far-flung worlds.
When the Concordiat had come along, organizing the previously sovereign states into a new Galactic jurisdiction, the Empire of the Lily had resisted, and had for a time held the massive Concordiat fleets at bay. In the end, of course, the gallant but outnumbered Lilyan forces had been driven back to the gates of the home world. The planet of Lily had been saved catastrophic bombardment only by a belated truce which guaranteed self-determination to Lily on the cessation of hostilities, disbandment of the Lilyan fleet, and the exile of the entire membership of the Imperial Suite, which, under the Lilyan clan tradition, had numbered over ten thousand individuals. Every man, woman, and child who could claim even the most distant blood relationship to the Emperor, together with their servants, dependents, retainers, and protégés, were included. The move took weeks to complete, but at the end of it the Cavaliers, as they were known, had been transported to an uninhabited, cold sea-world, which they named Northroyal. A popular bit of lore in connection with the exodus had it that the ship bearing the Emperor himself had slipped away en route to exile, and that the ruler had sworn that he would not return until the day he could come with an army of liberation. He had never been heard from again.
* * *
The land area of the new world, made up of innumerable islands, totaled half a million square miles. Well stocked with basic supplies and equipment, the Cavaliers had set to work and turned their rocky fief into a snug, well-integrated—if tradition-ridden—society, and today exported seafoods, fine machinery, and tourist literature.
It was in the last department that Northroyal was best known. Tales of the pomp and color, the quaint inns and good food, the beautiful girls, the brave display of royal cavalry, and the fabulous annual Tournament of the Lily attracted a goodly number of sightseers, and the Cavalier Line was now one of the planet’s biggest foreign-exchange earners.
* * *
Magnan had spoken of Northroyal’s high industrial potential, and her well-trained civilian corps of space navigators.
“The job of the Corps,” Retief interrupted, “is to seek out and eliminate threats to the peace of the Galaxy. How does a little story-book world like Northroyal get into the act?”
“More easily than you might imagine,” Magnan said. “Here you have a close-knit society, proud, conscious of a tradition of military power, empire. A clever rabble-rouser using the right appeal would step into a ready-made situation there. It would take only an order on the part of the planetary government to turn the factories to war production, and convert the merchant fleet into a war fleet—and we’d be faced with a serious power imbalance—a storm center.”
“I think you’re talking nonsense, Mr. Minister,” Retief said bluntly. “They’ve got more sense than that. They’re not so far gone on tradition as to destroy themselves. They’re a practical people.”
Magnan drummed his fingers on the desk top. “There’s one factor I haven’t covered yet,” he said. “There has been what amounts to a news blackout from Northroyal during the last six months. . . .”
Retief snorted. “What news?”
Magnan had been enjoying the suspense. “Tourists have been having great difficulty getting to Northroyal,” he said. “Fragonard, the capital, is completely closed to outsiders. We managed, however, to get an agent in.” He turned, gazing at Retief. “It seems,” he went on, “that the rightful Emperor has turned up.”
Retief narrowed his eyes. “What’s that?” he said sharply.
Magnan drew back, intimidated by the power of Retief’s tone, annoyed by his own reaction. In his own mind, Magnan was candid enough to know that this was the real basis for his intense dislike for his senior agent. It was an instinctive primitive fear of physical violence. Not that Retief had ever assaulted anyone; but he had an air of mastery that made Magnan feel trivial.
“The Emperor,” Magnan repeated. “The traditional story is that he was lost on the voyage to Northroyal. There was a legend that he had slipped out of the hands of the Concordiat in order to gather new support for a counteroffensive, hurl back the invader, all that sort of thing.”
“The Concordiat collapsed of its own weight within a century,” Retief said. “There’s no invader to hurl back. Northroyal is free and independent, like every other world.”
“Of course, of course,” Magnan said. “But you’re missing the emotional angle, Retief. It’s all very well to be independent; but what about the dreams of empire, the vanished glory, destiny, et cetera?”
“What about them?”
“That’s all our agent heard; it’s everywhere. The news strips are full of it. Video is playing it up; everybody’s talking it. The returned Emperor seems to be a clever propagandist; the next step will be a full-scale mobilization. And we’re not equipped to handle that.”
“What am I supposed to do about all this?”
“Your orders are, and I quote, to proceed to Fragonard and there employ such measures as shall be appropriate to negate the present trend toward an expansionist sentiment among the populace.” Magnan passed a document across the desk to Retief for his inspection.
* * *
The orders were brief, and wasted no wordage on details. As an officer of the Corps with the rank of Counselor, Retief enjoyed wide latitude, and broad powers—and corresponding responsibility in the event of failure. Retief wondered how this assignment had devolved on him, among the thousands of Corps agents scattered through the Galaxy. Why was one man being handed a case which on the face of it should call for a full mission?
“This looks like quite an undertaking for a single agent, Mr. Minister,” Retief said.
“Well, of course, if you don’t feel you can handle it . . .” Magnan looked solemn.
Retief looked at him, smiling faintly. Magnan’s tactics had been rather obvious. Here was one of those nasty jobs which could easily pass in reports as routine if all went well; but even a slight mistake could mean complete failure, and failure meant war; and the agent who had let it happen would be finished in the Corps.
There was danger in the scheme for Magnan, too. The blame might reflect back on him. Probably he had plans for averting disaster after Retief had given up. He was too shrewd to leave himself out in the open. And for that matter, Retief reflected, too good an agent to let the situation get out of hand.
No, it was merely an excellent opportunity to let Retief discredit himself, with little risk of any great credit accruing to him in the remote event of success.
Retief could, of course, refuse the assignment, but that would be the end of his career. He would never be advanced to the rank of Minister, and age limitations would force his retirement in a year or two. That would be an easy victory for Magnan.
Retief liked his work as an officer-agent of the Diplomatic Corps, that ancient supranational organization dedicated to the contravention of war. He had made his decision long ago, and he had learned to accept his life as it was, with all its imperfections. It was easy enough to complain about the petty intrigues, the tyrannies of rank, the small inequities. But these were merely a part of the game, another challenge to be met and dealt with. The overcoming of obstacles was Jame Retief’s specialty. Some of the obstacles were out in the open, the recognized difficulties inherent in any tough assignment. Others were concealed behind a smoke-screen of personalities and efficiency reports; and both were equally important. You did your job in the field, and then you threaded your way through the maze of Corps politics. And if you couldn’t handle the job—any part of it—you’d better find something else to do.
He had accepted the assignment, of course, after letting Magnan wonder for a few minutes; and then for two months he had buried himself in research, gathering every scrap of information, direct and indirect, that the massive files of the Corps would yield. He had soon found himself immersed in the task, warming to its challenge, fired with emotions ranging from grief to rage as he ferreted out the hidden pages in the history of the exiled Cavaliers.
He had made his plan, gathered a potent selection of ancient documents and curious objects; a broken chain of gold, a tiny key, a small silver box. And now he was here, inside the compound of the Grand Corrida.