Systematic lying, Raj thought. All the way up the chain of command. It’s always the commander’s fault when that happens. Once you let people start telling you what you want to hear, you’re fucked—and everyone else with you.
“Rise, Signore Hosten,” the Emperor said.
He was an old man, but John was slightly shocked at his appearance; there was a perceptible tremble to his hands now, and a faint smell of sickness. Count del’Cuomo beside him looked even worse, if possible—but then, he probably had better information available, as Minister of War.
“Your Majesty,” John said.
He handed over the folder of documents, neatly tied with a green-and-red ribbon.
“My credentials, Your Majesty. And my regrets, but my government requires my services at home. I will be returning to Santander City.”
The Emperor smiled absently. “And taking one of our fairest flowers with you . . . where is young Pia?”
“Currently, she’s working as a volunteer nurse,” John said. Against my advice.
The Emperor frowned. “Not . . . not really suitable, I’d have thought,” he murmured.
Count del’Cuomo shrugged. “She was always too much for me, your Majesty,” he said. He looked up at John. “But my son-in-law will take good care of her, and return in happier times, when we have driven the tedeschi back to their island, as we did before.”
John bowed again, more deeply, and took the required four paces backward. That nearly ran him into an aide with a stack of telegrams, but he ignored the man. Ignored everything, until a turn down the corridor gave him a view down over the city. Then he took in a sharp breath.
It was early morning, still almost dark. The news of the fall of Milana must have reached the people in the hour or so he’d spent waiting. Not from a courier or coded message, surely; the Imperial armies hadn’t fallen apart quite that drastically . . . yet. More probably from a refugee on a fast riverboat. As for official statements, by this time they just confirmed what they denied. Even when they were sincere, and he’d bet it just meant that the lower-level functionaries writing them had been suckered by their own propaganda.
John Hosten stood for a moment looking down at the rioting and the fires, past the gardens of the palace and the cordon of Guard troops stationed along the perimeter. A man of thirty, tall and a hard-faced, in a diplomat’s black morning coat, wing collar and dark-striped trousers. A servant almost walked into him, saw his face and silently stood aside.
“Back to the embassy,” John said to himself; then aloud, to the driver of his car.
“Don’t know if we can, sir,” the driver said. He was an embassy man himself, diplomatic service, and quite capable. Harry. Harry Smith, John reminded himself. It was too easy to forget about people, when you spent time looking at the world through Centers eyes.
Too true, son, Raj said. And if you think it’s a problem for you . . .
“Lot of the streets looked to be blocked,” Smith went on. He shrugged. “Kin find m’ way through, maybe.”
“Mr. Smith,” John said.
The driver twisted around to look at him; he was a slight, grizzled man, with blue eyes and wrinkles beside them. There was a slight eastern twang in his Santander. John recognized it, and the manner.
“My wife is down near the train station, working in the emergency hospital,” he said. “I have to get to the embassy to get some help so I can get through to her. If you don’t think you can make it through, I’ll drive.”
The blue eyes squinted at him. “Nossir. You watch our back, I’ll drive.” He reached under the front seat and pulled out a pump-action shotgun. “You know how to use one of these, sir?”
Smiling, John took it and racked the action. A shell popped out; he caught it one-handed and fed it back into the gate in front of the trigger. A wary respect came into Smiths eyes; it increased when John tucked the weapon under a traveling rug on the seat beside him.
“I’ll bring it out if we need to use it, or show it to somebody,” he said. “Now let’s get going.”