Michael Flynn - In the Lion’s Mouth

Still, a home-cooked meal was a home-cooked meal. Dawshoo arrived first and was amused to see how the locals shrank a bit from his presence, as if they were ants, and he a drop of pesticide. Evening had fallen and the terrace was ablaze with tiki, their guttering flames casting dancing shadows upon the flagstone patio and obscuring the vista of the half-barren heavens above. The tikis, at least, were a genuine touch, and for a moment they stirred in Dawshoo a long-dormant homesickness for the warm surf of the Enameled Isles on a world he no longer called home.

Gidula approached silently and without announcing himself. His shouldered hair and shovel beard were pure white, which made darkness no longer his friend. He took the seat opposite Dawshoo and touched the menu to activate it. For several long moments he studied the selections, as if his choice would be the most momentous decision of a long and distinguished career. Dawshoo said nothing, had said nothing, not even in greeting. He took great comfort from Gidula’s advice, though it would never do to acknowledge that.

“Many eyes caress us,” Gidula said without looking up from the screen.

“We are strangers in a neighborhood eatery. Strangers are never welcome.”

“With good reason,” Gidula said dryly. He raised his head. “Overcome by a fit of nostalgia, were you?”

Dawshoo bobbed his head toward the menu. “For the savors of my youth? No. But have you sampled the local cuisine? They boil the taste out of everything.”

“What do you recommend, First Speaker?”

“Fasting. But from this menu … If they have faithfully executed it, the Darling Lamb was always a favorite of mine. Much depends on the chutneys they have used. The same herbs grown in different soils often bear small resemblance one to the other.”

Gidula nodded. “I bow to your superior wisdom in such matters.” He touched the screen, made his choices, and Dawshoo—as the host—transmitted the order to the kitchen.

“A human servant will bring it out. A nice touch, no? One might even suppose the place to be of the upper cuts.”

The Shadow tossed his head. The white hair bobbed. “The greater the gap, the greater the effort to close it.” He shaded his eyes and squinted through the flickering tikis toward the night sky. “Why the torches?”

“A custom on my homeworld. I was born in the cities; but on some of the isles they use such devices, both for lighting and to repel insects … But this place is too bleak and cold for them. It wants bonfires and mulled wine; not dancing torches and fruited rum.” He held up his preprandial drink.

Gidula gave it a brief grimace. He himself never poisoned his wits. “It is bleak and cold because it is their winter season here in the southern hemisphere. Call another meeting in the springtime. I am told it is quite delightful. The young women wear colorful wildflowers wound into circlets in their hair. There. That’s the Perseus Arm, just rising over the hills. You can see it through the goat willows.”

Dawshoo twisted a little in his seat. “Yes. So it is. The League stars.”

“Do you think she’s found him?”

First Speaker shrugged. “It was a cast of the dice. If she has, that may solve one problem. If not, that would solve another.”

“And if she never comes back at all?”

“A third.”

“A superb galaxy, then, where whatever befalls solves one problem or another.”

Dawshoo straightened in his chair. “Small problems are easily solved. The greater ones linger. I fear many comrades are losing heart.”

“I think perhaps just the opposite,” Gidula answered. “The great problems are more easily solved, while the small ones remain stones in our shoes. The struggle has been a long one. Enthusiasm by its nature burns hot and fast. Yet, there may be a simple solution.”

A human waiter had brought their meals and the two fell silent while they were presented and suitable solicitations and compliments were exchanged.

“He does not really wish my opinion on this travesty,” Dawshoo said when the waiter was out of earshot. “These provincials ought not attempt the cuisine of the Triangle worlds unless they have some skill at pulling it off.” He took a bite of his perch.

Gidula smiled and cut into his lamb. “It is the taste of your youth you recall, Beak. Should Fate take you once more home, I dare say you would find the cuisine there as disappointing.”

Dawshoo snorted, and the two ate in silence for a time. “All right, Gidula,” First Speaker said after a number of chews. “You intend to make me ask and, while the night is pleasant enough to be worth extending, there is too much yet awaiting my attention. How do you recommend dealing with the loss of heart?”

“Say rather ‘impatience,’” the other reminded him. “Their enthusiasm wanes because they are eager. A paradox. But the answer is not to deal with the symptom, the ennui; but with the cause, the impatience. Strike now. An all-out assault on the Secret City. Hold nothing back.”

Dawshoo placed his fork carefully on the table. “We would be crushed,” he said flatly.

“Would we? We have been gnawing at the extremities for twice-ten years. Surely that has impaired their capabilities. Key men have been assassinated or suborned; key intelligence and communication posts lie secretly in our hands. And is it not better that our efforts be crushed than that they sputter out ignominiously?”

“Padaborn’s Rising was crushed,” First Speaker observed. “Are you so eager to end as he did?”

“Padaborn was betrayed. And in some ways he did not fare too terribly. You told us yourself: The game is worth the candle.”

Dawshoo squinted at the sky against the glare of the torches. “We shall see.” When he lowered his gaze once more, Gidula was gone and the lamb barely touched. Dawshoo Yishohrann sighed and, reaching across the table, gathered the lamb unto himself and chewed upon it thoughtfully.

They congregated the next morning in a large meeting space provided by the hotel. There were thirty of them, many known to one another only by reputation. Some had met. A few had worked together in pairings. Perhaps, Dawshoo thought, some were surprised to see who else had shown up; or perhaps they were surprised at who had not.

It was a well-lit room, with a dais on which Dawshoo sat with Gidula on his right and Oschous Dee Karnatika on his left. The Triumvirate, some had called them during the anonymous phase of the conspiracy, when it had not been safe to use names; when no man knew more than two others. Through kaowèn, any man might be brought to betray another, and the rebellion had been built in water-tight compartments, lest loose lips sink it.

Down the center of the room ran a table around which sat the Ten, or at least most of them. Domino Tight was not present. The others leaned against the walls or perched upon sideboards in various attitudes, perhaps understanding only now their place in the scheme of things. Conversation filled the room like a swarm of bees.

Little Jacques the Dwarf completed his circuit of the room and nodded to Dawshoo, holding up four fingers. He had found and neutralized four devices. First Speaker had expected MILINTEL to bug the room, but the thoroughness surprised him. Swoswai Mashdasan must be uneasy at this unwonted gathering in his jurisdiction—for by now he had surely realized the cut of men involved.

Dawshoo leaned toward Gidula and whispered, “I think I will test their mettle before I press your notion.” Then he stood, stilling the idle conversations. “Deadly Ones,” he said formally. They pressed forward to hear him better, sensing a cusp in their affairs: the physical nature of the meeting, the grave demeanor on the faces of the Triumvirate.