She probablywould have to kill a number of them, she thought.

In the end she had to kill only one, Lady Jagirin, whom she ordered arrested and beheaded following the appearance of spot shortages in the southern hemisphere. Since the Naxid head contained no vital organs and only sensory apparatus, the body staggered around, arms and legs flailing, for quite some time before Jagirin finally died of shock and blood loss.

Sula made certain the video of the execution was sent to the other clans on the ration board. There was no further trouble. The new Lord Jagirin was particularly cooperative.

"We'll continue price controls until the harvest from the southern hemisphere is in," she told the council. "After that, we'll remove controls from certain items and see what happens. If the results are positive, we'll lift controls gradually from then on."

It was difficult to be certain, but she thought, as she spoke, that she caught a glint of approval in Sergius Bakshi's cold eye.

Casimir got the extravagant funeral that Sula had promised him. It took place six days after the surrender, in one of the cemeteries on the fringes of the city. In one of the gestures that seemed natural to the absolute ruler of a world, she confiscated an elaborate marble tomb that had originally belonged to a family of Daimong who had either become extinct or left Zanshaa. The original inhabitants of the tomb were removed to one of the city's ossuaries and the memorial plaque outside replaced with one that featured Casimir's name, dates, and engraved image.

He was buried wearing one of his Chesko outfits, strips of leather and velvet ornamented with beads and mirrors, and polished boots. His long pale hands were folded over his crystal-topped walking stick. The cliquemen had emptied half the flower shops in the city: the coffin was carried between tombs along a lane made of fragrant blossoms that wafted gusts of perfume to the mourners.

Sula led the procession in formal parade dress, with the cloak that fell to her ankles, the heavy shako with its silver plate, the polished jackboots, the curved knife at her waist. Winter had clamped down firmly on the city: the skies were a mass of gray, and wind kept whipping the cloak off her shoulders. Occasional drizzle moistened her face. Behind her, Julien and Sergius and other cliquemen carried the coffin; and behind them the Masquers of Sorrow performed their ritual dance.

Cameras were present-anything the lady governor did was news-but had been told to keep their distance.

A Daimong chorus chanted Ornarak's arrangement of the Fleet burial service, ending with the deep bass rumble, "Take comfort in the fact that all that is important is known." As the harmonies faded among the tombs, Sula bent to kiss the polished surface of the coffin, and looked down to see her own distorted, reflected face, its expression carefully painted on that morning lest the features beneath dissolve into turmoil and grief.

She was expected to say something, and could think of no words. Casimir had thrived in a life of crime and glamour and violence, a happy, amoral carnivore, and died, with many others, fighting to replace a vicious tyranny with another tyranny that at least possessed the grace of being inept. He and Gredel, as Lord and Lady Sula, could have burrowed into the darker corners of the High City and emerged gorged with loot, content and sleek as a pair of handsome young animals. The House of Sula would have been built on a foundation of plunder.

Casimir's lack of compunction was a part of his dangerous glamour. He took what he wanted and simply didn't care what happened later. Sula had taught him that patience, at least occasionally, paid; but it was only out of his strange sense of courtesy that he deferred to her-courtesy, and perhaps love, and perhaps curiosity to find out what she would do next. Perhaps she and Casimir had been more in love with adrenaline and their own mortality than with each other. Whatever the case, she knew that each had taken from the other what they wanted.

None of this was anything Lady Sula could say in public, or anywhere else.

She stood by the coffin and looked out over the crowd-the fighters, the cliquemen, Spence and Macnamara in viridian green, the Masquers in their strange white costumes with their tufted ears. A gust of wind brought an overwhelming waft of the flowers' scent, and she felt her stomach turn. She moistened her lips and began.

"Casimir Massoud was one of my commanders, and a friend," she said. "He died in the act of bringing the Naxid dominion to an end.

"Like everyone else in the secret army, Casimir had other choices-he didn't have to be a fighter. He was very successful at his work, and he could have kept his head down for the remainder of the war and come out of it with wealth and credit and"-for a moment her tongue stumbled-"and his life," she finished.

She looked at the coffin, at the expectant faces ranked behind it, and felt a tremor in her knees. She anchored herself on the concrete beneath her feet and spoke over the heads of the people in front of her, into the wet cold sky.

"And his life," she repeated.

"I would like to be present at every memorial for every victim of the Naxids," she said, "but I can't. Let this service represent them all. Let the record state that Casimir was brave, that he was very smart, that he was as loyal to his friends as he was deadly to the enemy. That he chose to fight when he didn't have to, and that he never regretted his choice, not even when he was dying in the hospital."

Her voice faltered again, and she managed through an act of will to make a gesture of finality.

"May the Peace of the Praxis be with you all."

The Bogo Boys stepped forward, raised rifles, and fired volleys into the air. The Masquers went into their ancient pantomime as the pallbearers lifted the coffin and carried it into the tomb.

As the tomb was sealed and the monument placed in front of the door, Sula felt dropping upon her the horrendous weight of being Lady Sula, of living every minute with the consequence of a reckless, angry decision taken years ago, of living forever behind the mask she had painted that morning on her face, and living alone...

She and One-Step and Turgal traveled then through Riverside and the other neighborhoods in the Lower Town and carried out the instructions given by Casimir in his will. One safe after another was opened and emptied, and the proceeds of Casimir's businesses dumped into pillowcases. In similar fashion, Sula acquired the profits of her shipping company from their hiding places and theju-yao pot from her last safe house. She then went to a bank, opened an account, and deposited it all.

A hundred and ninety-five thousand zeniths, more or less. Hardly a sum to compare with the great fortunes of the High City, but enough to keep her in luxury to the end of her days.

The money was spare comfort. Perhaps she would throw it all off the terraces of the High City after all.

She held the pot between her hands as One-Step drove her back to the Commandery, and as her fingers blindly traced the smooth, cool crackle, she thought that perhaps she, as well as the pot, had outlived her proper time.

"Ihave received the recommendations for awards and decorations that you have forwarded to me." The image of Tork had been recorded seven hours earlier and spent the intervening hours in transit. Sula had made a point of finishing her luncheon before viewing it, as she knew it was bound to sour her digestion.

"I believe that on further review you will wish to reconsider some of the recommendations," Tork said.

"You have recommended commoners for awards that are customarily given only to Peers. A lower grade of decoration is surely more appropriate."

A buzzing disharmony entered the Supreme Commander's chiming voice.

"And as for the amnesties that you have proclaimed for various citizens, I must question them. To fight bravely for the Praxis is no more than one's duty, and hardly excuses any criminal offenses that might have been committed earlier in life. I shall keep these for a careful review. And now..."

Tork's voice filled with clashing discord, a sound that raised the hackles on Sula's neck. She could imagine that the sound was intimidating at close range-even at the range of seven light-hours it was unpleasant enough.

"I must strongly disapprove," Tork said, "of your appearance at the funeral of someone who seems to have led an-irregular-life. This is consistent neither with the dignity nor the gravity of an official of high rank. Nor did the-the 'soldiers' at the funeral"-Sula could hear the quotes in Tork's voice -"display appropriate military discipline. I trust that there will be no repetition of this kind of disgraceful exhibition."

The orange end-stamp appeared on the screen before Sula could hurl at it the obscenities she held pent-up in her lungs.

And then she thought,How does he know?

The funeral had been broadcast on Zanshaa, but how had Tork heard of it light-hours away? No one was beaming news video from Zanshaa to the fleet.

Someone, Sula thought, had been sending Tork messages. She wondered who it was.

These speculations moderated the tone of her reply, though not by much.

She replied from the private quarters of the commander of the Home Fleet, with the polished silver symbol of the Fleet on the paneled wall behind her, and seated behind the commander's massive kesselwood desk.

Theju yao pot stood on a corner of the desk, just in pickup range.

"I would love to have rewarded Peers for their bravery, my lord," she said, "but unfortunately most of them had already fled Zanshaa as fast as their yachts could carry them, and the ones that didn't seemed to have kept away from anyplace where bullets were likely to fly. So far as I know, there were only two Peers in the entire secret army, and I was one of them. The other, PJ Ngeni, you'll note I recommend for the Medal of Valor, First Class.

"The fact is, my lord," she went on, gazing straight into the camera pickups, "the commoners have been far braver in this war than the Peers, and they know it. If we Peers want any credit at all, we should at least recognize the courage that these people displayed. All of my recommendations stand-and in fact they will be proclaimed publicly by the time you have a chance to view this."

She offered the camera her most pleasant smile.

"Because the Peers and the political leadership fled, and because my own superiors were captured by the Naxids within days of their arrival, in order to carry on the war I was forced to make deals with individuals who hold...local power. One of the promises I made them was that of amnesty for any'irregularities,' to use your term, they may have committed prior to their joining the army. If the word of a Peer is to mean anything..."

Anything more,she thought,than the word of the Peers,Lord Tork among them, who swore to defend Zanshaa to their dying breath and then ran like dogs .

"If the word of a Peer is to mean anything at all, I repeat, then these amnesties should stand. This list too will be made publicly available within the hour."

She took a breath and leaned slightly forward. "As for the discipline of the army," she said, "they were so busy killing Naxids that they didn't have a chance to learn to march properly."Perhaps in your own command, she thought,the reverse is true . "I'll do my best to teach them the necessary skills, however.

"End communication."

Sula sent the message before she had the opportunity to change her mind, then arranged for the Ministry of Wisdom to make public the list of decorations and amnesties. It was then that she received a message from the guard on the Commandery's main entrance saying that she was needed there urgently.

She arrived to find a group waiting at the front door in a drizzling rain. In the lead was a tall Torminel in the undress uniform of the Fleet, followed by others similarly clothed. Sula looked at the rank badges and saw that the leader was a lieutenant captain, and the rest petty officers.

The next thing she checked was to see if they were armed. No weapons were visible. She signed for the door to be opened.

"Yes?" she said. "Who the hell are you?"

The leader gave her a surprised look, the fur tufting up above her dark goggles. "I would expect a salute," she said, "from a lieutenant."

"From a military governor," Sula said, "you get nothing till you tell me who you are."

"Lieutenant Captain Lady Trani Creel, Action Group 569." She reached in her pocket and produced a Fleet ID.

Sula looked at the picture now dotted with tiny drops of rain. Everything seemed in order.

"Ah. Hah," she said. There had been Torminel missing from the Naxid roundup following the Axtattle battle, and now she knew where they were, all-she counted-thirteen of them.

It also occurred to her that she now knew who had been sending Tork reports of her activities.

Lady Trani licked her fangs delicately. "I would appreciate a report, Lieutenant," she lisped.

Sula looked at her. "To what end?" she asked.

"So that I understand what's happening in my command. I gather that I'm the senior officer present."

A burst of laughter erupted from Sula. "You can't be serious!" she said.

Again that surprised look. "Of course I'm serious. May I please come in out of the rain?"

"Why not?" Sula laughed again, and stepped back from the door. Lady Trani moved into shelter, brushing rain off her shoulders. Drops of water glittered like rhinestones on her goggles. The other Torminel crowded in behind her. The air began to smell of wet fur.

"Do you really expect to take command of my army?" Sula said.

"Of course. And the government as well, until a proper governor arrives from the Convocation." Sula could see her reflection in the Torminel's dark eyeshades. "I'm still awaiting a salute."

"You'll wait a long time if you expect a salute from the army," Sula said. "May I ask where you've spent the war?"

"Kaidabal," Lady Trani said, naming a city south of Zanshaa. "We ran there after we heard that everyone was being arrested. We stayed with a client of ours, a wealthy businessman."

"And what did you do there?"

"Hid. We had no other options, because we had to abandon all our equipment in Zanshaa." Lady Trani sighed. "There were such problems. We couldn't get ration cards, you see."

"I see." Sula looked Trani up and down and saw little evidence of starvation. Her fur was glossy and her bottom was no less plump than that of most Torminel.

"Lady Trani," Sula said, "may we speak privately?"

"Of course."

Sula took Trani's arm and led her to the room where important visitors had once been asked to wait while their escorts were found. The place still had its thick carpeting and expensive paneling, but the original furniture was gone, and had been replaced by some cheap sofas on which the guard took their breaks.

"My lady," Sula said, "please believe I have your best interests at heart. I ask that you not make yourself ridiculous."

"Ridiculous?" Again that surprised look. "Whatever do you mean, Lady Sula?"

"You can't expect my army to respect a commander who spent the war hiding in Kaidabal when they were fighting and dying here in Zanshaa. And the government-I proclaimed myself Governor on the day of the victory and no one has disputed it."

"But I'm the senior officer," Lady Trani said, her lisping voice quite mild. "One doesn't salute the person; one salutes the rank-and obeys it too. You keep referring to 'my' army, but it doesn't belong to you, it belongs to the empire, and I am the senior imperial officer present. I don't dispute that you're the military governor, just as I don't expect you to dispute the fact that I'm about to succeed you."

"They'll laugh at you," Sula said. Her own laughter had faded, to be replaced by a growing foreboding.

"As long as they laugh in private," Trani said, her voice level. "If they laugh in public, or disobey, I shall be forced to cut their throats."

Sula refrained from taking a step back, and reminded herself that Lady Trani was unarmed.

"I think," she said, "that we should refer this matter to higher authority."

The delay was mainly to allow herself time to think. Lady Trani no longer seemed a figure of fun. She was going to be a serious problem, and worse for the fact that Fleet law, custom, and the Praxis were all behind her.

Furthermore, the only person to whom Sula could appeal was Tork. He was exactly the sort of person who would find Lady Trani's simplicities appealing; and in any case, Sula very much doubted that Tork, on the heels of receiving her last message, would feel much in sympathy with her.

"While I don't dispute that Lady Trani outranks me," Sula said in her message to Tork, "I am nevertheless concerned whether someone who spent the war in hiding, after abandoning her equipment, is going to receive the respect of the army and other institutions here in the High City. I don't want to push myself forward, but if the disparity in rank is truly a problem, you could solve the problem by promoting me. I'm already doing the work, after all."

As Sula expected, Tork's reply, received some fifteen hours later, ignored this suggestion.

"It has long concerned me that a lieutenant of such youth and of only a few months' seniority held such a critical post," he said in a message addressed to Lady Trani Creel. "It is meant as no offense to Lady Sula to say that she has suffered from her inexperience. Lady Trani, I am pleased to confirm you as Military Governor of Zanshaa. I hope you will rule with firmness, and consider it your first duty to kill the traitors who have caused our people so much suffering."

Lady Trani turned from the screen to where Sula sat, in the office of the Home Fleet commander with its huge curved glass window.

"I believe I'll take that salute now, Lady Sula," Trani said.

"Yes, my lady." With grave deliberation Sula rose from her desk and braced.

"Thank you very much," Trani said. She ambled across the office to join Sula behind her desk. She looked through the great curved window at the morning light shining over the Lower Town, the kingdom she had just conquered without firing so much as a shot.

"I'll need your access codes," she said. "I trust you will remain on hand for the duration of the transition, after which I will find you a posting suitable to your station. And of course I'll recommend you for a nice decoration for all you've done here."

Sula tried not to show the savage amusement she felt. No doubt Trani was trying to be kind.

"Thank you, my lady," she said.

She'd had nearly fifteen hours to make herself ready for this moment.

Lady Trani looked down at the desk. "I'll also need to meet with your council, or cabinet, or whatever they're called."

"I don't believe they have a name," Sula said. "But I'll call them."

"No," Lady Trani said firmly. "I'llcall them. If you'll provide me with contact information."