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© Copyright Julia Latynina
© Copyright translation by Boris Itin (bitin@nysbc.org)
Date: 08 Dec 2004
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The First Chapter
Where Kissur the White Falcon gets in an accident while the first
vice-minister of finance discusses the reasons for the dearth in the state
treasury.
The Second Chapter
Where the sad history of the Assalah spacefield is told while the
ex-first minister of Empire finds himself a new friend.
The Third Chapter
Where Kissur opens the Emperor's eyes to a foreign briber while Terence
Bemish received a gift of a luxury villa.
The Fourth Chapter
Where Kissur tells investment bankers how to train a highwayman's horse
while Terence Bemish makes an acquintance with other contenders for Assalah
stocks.
The Fifth Chapter
Where Terence Bemish is being persuaded to drop out of Assalah stocks
auction while Shavash reminds the visitors that he is not familiar with the
financial term dictatorship.
The Sixth Chapter
Where company AC declares its real name while Mr. Shavash shares some
unusual thoughts about democracy's drawbacks.
The Seventh Chapter
Where all investors' difficulties are solved in the best way.
The Eight Chapter
Where Terence Bemish pays taxes with fallen leaves while the rock with
an ancient foretelling is dug out at the construction.
The Ninth Chapter
Where the demons' boss makes a pact with the pious people.
The Tenth Chapter
Where Terence Bemish becomes familiar with provincial life of the
Empire while Mr. Shavash offers an original plan for the restructuring of
the state debt.
The Eleventh Chapter
Where Terence Bemish's assistant goes to the sectants' meeting in
Imissa while Kissur the White Falcon looks around the Galaxy for abandoned
warheads.
The Twelfth Chapter
Where the Emperor of the Country of Great Light finds out the real
purpose of the Assalah construction from the opposition press and expresses
his confusion.
The Thirteenth Chapter
Where the nation expresses its will with unpredictable results.
The Fourteenth Chapter
Or the first minister as an international terrorist.
The Fifteenth Chapter
Where the saviors of the Country of Great Light pull the biggest
insider deal in the history of the Galaxy.
where Kissur the White Falcon gets in an accident while the first
vice-minister of finance discusses the reasons for the dearth in the state
treasury.
The walls of the living room were covered with blue silk and the
corners were overlayed with hexagonal tiles making the room an octagon, the
shape guided its owner's success in life and smoothed all turns in his fate.
Embroiderings grew over silk - blossoming lotuses with leaves lowered from
heat, plum flowers opening up, a snow white duck in a pond and a sping sun.
A light hung almost all the way down to the floor, looking like a
transparent upside down mushroom and golden figures of animals ran over its
rim.
A small table with a frosted jar and an armchair were next to the
light. A 30 year old man sitting in the armchair was dressed in the silk
pants and a jacket, girdled with a belt made from large silver links. His
face was very handsome but cruel, with blue eyes and eyebrows rising at the
tips. Old rings of delicate worksmanship looked strange on his predator's
hands with untrimmed nails. His hair was twisted in a bun and held with a
tortoise comb. A 3D transvisor on a fat golden leg stood in the left corner.
Periodically, the man would fill a small five walled cup from the jar,
close the cup with a lacquered cap enclosing a straw, and stick the straw in
his mouth. He was watching the transvisor.
On his left hand, a small drawing hung in a sable fur frame - a
beautiful drawing of a sick chickadee in snow. The picture bore the
Emperor's signature. It was a personal gift from the Emperor. Two golden
rings of orchids and clematis hang next to it. A sonar rabbit ear antenna
stuck up above the transvisor and a silvered pot with a blooming flower was
behind the antenna. The flower had a artful name "furled belle's eyebrows."
The picture in the transvisor greatly differed from that on the silk
paintings decorating the room. The transvisor was not showing either a sick
chickadee or blossoming plums. The transvisor was showing a
press-conference. A self-important patrician Earthman was talking and his
piggish eyes were routinely squinting from camera flashes. A whole flock of
microphones was gosseling out in front of the Earthman. He was earnestly
attempting to look inside the room through the screen and he probably felt
alien surrounded by blooming plums and golden flower rings.
Somebody asked the man on the screen in a thin voice, and he answered
benevolently,
"While we are not interfering in any way with the independent nation
and are not pressuring its government, the Federation of Nineteen would
encourage the Emperor to conduct the first Parliament elections in the
history of your country as a one more step in of your nation's integration
into the galactic society."
The man sitting in the chair poured the last remnants from the silver
jar into the cup. He slightly raised his hand and threw the jar at the
forehead of the smiling Earthman on the screen. The Earthman stopped smiling
and disappeared. The screen squeaked and exploded in tiny pieces. The
"furled belle's eyebrows" loudly crashed, and the nauseating smell of
burning plastic intestines filled the room. The painted doors moved apart
and a middle-aged majordomo in a blue caftan rolled into the room.
"Take it away," the man in the armchair said without raising his voice.
The majordomo threw his hands up and exclaimed,
"Oh, Mr. Kissur, that's the third one this week."
Kissur jumped out of the chair, slammed the door and was gone.
The majordomo in the room stuck his hand in the empty jar, scratched it
and licked... The lord was not even drunk, or almost not drunk - there was a
light palm wine in a jar, generously diluted by the apricot juice. Kissur
could get drunk and get drunk to his eyebrows, drunk enough to fight, drunk
enough to cut dogs or people cut in half. But, he could do it only at merry
party with a dozen friends. Kissur never drank by himself.
Kissur ran gasping down the staircase and leaped out into the inner
yard. The night was already in. It smelled of mint from countryside gardens,
gasoline and horses. A city mansion with a flat roof surrounded the yard on
three sides. A left wing tower decorated with grape carvings rose gracefully
like a reed leaf. In the past, high-ranking officials built towers like
this, for them to touch the sky like little fingers. The towers would be
like a staircase that Fortune walk down from the sky to the officials. In
the past, people had said that only the Emperor's castle spires were higher.
Now, one would not be able to say that, since a construction crane made from
steel matches was showing up on the black sky background; the crane was
touching the sky with its little finger. Enraged Kissur threw his fist to
the sky and stomped flying down the moonlighted path.
A servant in a short blue jacket stood in the backyard, in front of the
gates wrapped by brass vines. The servant lovingly washed a long glossy car
like he would be braiding a horse's tail. The black sides of the car gleamed
in the moonlight and the silver gills of the hydrogen engine air intakes
shined.
Kissur ripped the hose out of the slave's hand and threw himself in a
car. The tires screeched - the slave was barely able to jump away. The
terrified booth guard hit the button on the keyboard, the gates bobbed up,
and the car flew out on the deserted and wet night highway. "Once he won't
be able to get the gates up in time", Kissur thought, "and I'll break my
neck at my own wall."
The car was purring and eating hydrogen - isn't it strange that a horse
eats when it's resting while this black ironmonger eats only when it's
moving, and when it's not moving it doesn't eat anything. Yes! Seven years
ago when gloom was sometimes eating at his soul, Kissur would take a black
stallion with a wide back and tall legs and race him in the Emperor's
garden, in the gullies overgrown with bushes and grass, till the sunrise.
Where is this garden now? They peddled it, sold it like a wench in the
market, for some glass contraption. It was shameful, since Kissur himself
sold it to some corporation .
The highway ended abruptly at a flooded river; Kissur almost flipped
over in the water on the sliver of the pontoon bridge. At least, this thing
does race faster than a horse even if it stinks of iron. Only weapons
smelled like iron in the past, while now in an every beaurocrat's house a
barrel like this hangs out and stinks like iron. It's terrifying to think of
the size of the motherland piece this beaurocrat sold for this barrel...
Kissur turned around and slowly drove back. In a hundred yards, a cement
road forked off the highway. Moon tatters floated in a little puddle at the
road turn. "What road is that?", Kissur was curious and turned the car.
The road ended in ten minutes. The car beams tore at the darkness and
illuminated a tall concrete fence with barbed wire on top and a lonely guard
getting bored at the watchtower. A dark open field could be seen on the left
and a yellow light beam from the beacon was hitting the field. Kissur got
out of the car and walked down the field to the excavator that was ascending
like a clockwork mole over a not-yet-fully-eaten hill. Tracks and wheels
bulldozed the field and water gleamed in the clay ruts. The excavator was
huge, taller than a poplar. It was one of these huge machines that swallow
clay with some additives delivered from afar and spit out finished
construction blocks.
Kissur climbed up a steep staircase to the top of the excavator. It was
a long climb; the staircases twisted, went horizontal, changed in narrow
paths between steel casings covering various mechanisms and finally finished
at a tiny booth. The booth was locked; constellations of blue lights at the
napping console looked at Kissur through the glass.
At this moment, the moon peered out of clouds again; Drunken River
gleamed far away with the multi-coloured tower of Seven Clouds Bridge above
it. Kissur suddenly recognized this field; it happened here, next to Seven
Clouds, eight years ago. Kissur caught up with the rebel Khanalai right when
he was going to enter the capital; Kissur and his five hundred horsemen
drowned four thousand rebels in the river. The commander wore a ruby
necklace; Kissur remembered very well how he cut off his head with one hand
and stuffed the necklace in his coat with the other.
Kissur turned around and started to climb down the narrow staircase,
smelling of oil and chemistry. His car purred quietly and complained about
the open door. The guard hesitantly shifted from foot to foot in his nest.
What's happening? Did some boss come in a luxurious barrel to look at the
construction at night? It doesn't look like a robber... Take this excavator,
such an insanely expensive machine that's tall like a cypress, walks by
itself, digs earth by itself, piles the blocks behind by itself. They say
that this machine costs three times more than the village that the guard was
born and grew up in. They say even that it's more expensive than the
Emperor's scepter covered with jewels and gold. That's probably bullshit;
the Emperor's sceptor is the focus of the world and the buttress of power.
When the Emperor knocks his scepter, flowers bloom and birds build nests;
how can you compare it some ironmongery? You can't compare it to ironmongery
and that's why people from the sky get angry and laugh at the scepter. Like
it's all crap and the Spring comes not because the Emperor knocks the
sceptor on the floor in the Hall of Hundred Fields but because Weia planet
turns its side to the sun differently. But what if the people from the sky
don't bullshit? What if their excavator is more powerful than the Emperor's
scepter?
"Hey," Kissur asked, "what are they building here?"
" I don't know, sir", the frightened guard answered. "They say it will
be a garbage plant."
"Who is building it?"
The puzzled guard was silent for a moment.
"I knew, sir, but the name is such difficult..."
"Earthmen?"
"Earthmen."
The beacon from the tower was blinding Kissur's eyes, shamelessly
eclipsing the moon. Kissur rolled on the heels, threw a coin to the guard,
got in the car and left.
He didn't care where he went, but the wheels drove him of their own
accord to Jasper Hills, the most expensive suburb of the capital. Painted
walls extended behind the sidewalk covered with blue cloth; trees and turnip
shaped turrets flashed behind the walls, and traffic lights blinked in the
intersections illuminating statues of gods and road signs with transparent
lights.
Kissur drove the wrong way down a one way street, turned the wrong way
again and raced down night intersections not bothering to decrease his
speed. He passed red lights twice without problems, but third time he was
less lucky. Out of a white fence came a grey Daiquiri, looking like a gopher
with a sharp snout, the last year model made by the Republic of Gera.
Kissur wrenched the steering wheel left even before the slow
biolectronic guts of the car smelled danger. The brakes of both cars sang an
ugly song in the night. Grey Daiquiri swerved left. Everything would have
been fine, if not for the wet road cover. The grey car spun like a top and
hit Kissur's car right side head-on.
Metal screeched desperately, like a chainlink mail parting under an old
sword strike.
Everything became quiet.
The owner of Daiquiri jumped out of the car and rushed to the other
auto; he jerked the driver's door open and looked inside. He was probably
expecting to find a corpse or somebody severely wounded; he looked
astonished when he discovered that the culprit was sitting in the car and
getting his wallet out. Then, Kissur looked in rearview mirror, shifted from
the collision, and noticed that his hair twisted in a bun was in disarray
and the comb popped out of the bun like a button out of a safety switch.
Kissur pulled the comb out and started to arrange his hair.
The other driver's face contorted like an image in a transvisor with a
bad tracking; he started pulling Kissur out and hissed awfully in the
language of the people from the stars.
"You, Weian monkey! Climb down a tree first, before you start driving."
The smile slowly left Kissur's face. He left the comb alone, grabbed
the Earthman's wrists with his hands, got out of the car, and with a slight
swing punched the Earthman in the solar plexis with his knee. He went limp
and said "Ouch." Red unglazed tiles that were covering the ditch caved in
with a crunch and the Earthman tumbled down through the tiles with his legs
sticking up.
Kissur grinned, straightened up his shirt and started opening the car
door.
In the next second, something gleamed above his head and refracted in
the long titanium oxide rib of the car. Kissur turned with lightning speed.
Great Wei! The Earthman dragged himself out of the tiled ditch and was
flying at Kissur prancing like a goose. Astounded Kissur avoided the first
punch, but the second almost shattered his jaw. Kissur was hurled in the
corner between the door and rearview mirror. The mirror crunched and Kissur
noticed the Earthman's right foot an inch away from his ear. Kissur grabbed
and twisted this leg, but the masterly Earthman instead of smashing his face
in the road, let out a war cry, threw his body strangely in the air and
punched Kissur's belly with another leg. Kissur even fainted for a second.
When he opened his eyes again, he found himself lying on the road like a pod
from an eaten bean and the Earthman was going to punch him again. Kissur
threw himself to the side; Earthman missed, and Kissur adroitly punched
Earthman right in the place where the Earthman's corn grew from. This time
Earthman's cry was less warlike. Kissur jumped with his back, bounced on his
feet and hit the foe in the face, once and again; he went limp. Kissur
prodded him in the groin to check, lifted him and flang the Earthman at the
grey Daiquiri's windshield. The layered glass cracked and started to break,
the Earthman dropped his head and lost consciousness.
Kissur stood breathing deeply and blinking with half mad eyes. He was
trained to loose any self control during a fight; at times like this,
Kissur's ancestors turned into wolves and bears. If Kissur had a sword, he
would cut the scoundrel down. However, it would be stupid to wear a sword
now and Kissur didn't have a liking for all these things with nulls, lights,
gases - all having a hole in the middle like a wench. Though he had an
automatic six pound laser and another very fashionable gadget in the car's
trunk, Kissur didn't know even why he carried them. His friends did, so did
he.
Kissur stood and shook his head purposelessly, slowly coming back in
this world. The Earthman was lying on the car hood like a squashed frog. His
white shirt and tie were hopelessly soiled with cranberry juice. The traffic
light at the intersection blinked and changed color - the fugurine of a
god-protector of intersections sparkled with green light. Kissur finally
came to his senses. He chewed his lips and retrieved his round wallet out of
a pocket. Kissur didn't respect plastic. He got out everything that he had
in the wallet - he vaguely remembered that it was twenty or maybe fifty
thousand - rolled the money in a wad and stuck it in the Earthmans's split
lips. He didn't want them to say that he beat people free of charge.
Then he got in his car and left.
The car slowly rolled forward. Kissur felt slightly sick; blood dripped
out of his nose. It wouldn't be proper to come back home looking like this.
Kissur passed several more mansions and stopped in front of beautiful
brass gates. Horses and peacocks intertwined in a dance on the gates; the
blue enamel on the horsetails glistened in the beam lights. The beauty of
gates was such they seemed to lead from earth to heaven. Night garden's
sweet smells wafted out from behind the gates. The turnip shaped turrets of
the side houses stuck out from the dark mass of trees. Melancholic gods sat
on the flat roofing of the covered road. At the side of the gates, a small
ivory plaque glimmered, "Shavash Ahdi. The first vice-minister of finance.
Vice prefect of the Sky City." A small figurine of the god-protector of the
gates was next to the plaque. The god had a small basket with fish in his
hand. A marble cup stood under the figurine. A piece of dried oil saturated
cow dung burned in the cup; it demontrated the owner's modesty and honored
the cane-built huts of ancient officials.
Surprisingly, the gates were closed - the vice prefect of the capital
was not feeding either officials or paupers today.
Kissur smirked.
The mansion's owner could've had numerous titles written on the plaque
- the Keeper of Piety, the Brocade of Truth, the Flower Garden of the Wisdom
Beyond the Sky, the Meadow of the State Virtue, etc... etc... He regularly
received these titles from the Emperor and was supposed to engrave them on
gate plaques. However, the owner of the mansion has often had visitors from
the skies and he probably realized that the Brocade of Truth and the Flower
Garden of Wisdom were not titles that would impress the foreigners.
Kissur blinked the lights; the gates suddenly moved to the sides
without a call and Kissur drove in.
The yard was brightly lit. Streams of water and light erupted from the
fountains and multi coloured balls bounced on the streams. Rows of columns
and rose bushes led to the open front entrance. The columns tops made from
carved jade and inlaid silver pointed to the moon. The host was already
running down the staircase rushing to the wide path. A bowing servant opened
the car door and Kissur stepped out of the car. Mr. Shavash froze as if he
had ran into a wall but he recovered at once, opened his arms and embraced
Kissur.
"Hello," he said.
"Well," said Kissur, "I was driving and decided to drop by. Sorry that
I didn't warn you... I don't like these - beep, beep," Kissur traced a
sickly body of a T-phone with his hand. "Are you busy?"
Mr. Shavash regarded the caved in car door and looked Kissur over from
his head to his toes.
"Give me your driver's license," said the vice-minister of finance and
the vice prefect of the capital.
Kissur bent his eyebrows, got the wallet out and handed his license
over. The vice prefect waved the license, thought a bit, tore it apart and
threw it in the lighted fountain.
"Whom have you run over?"
"I haven't run anybody over," answered Kissur, "I hit a pole."
This lie would have a short life span. If the Earthman is dead, Shavash
will learn everything tomorrow morning. If he is alive, Shavash may learn
about it tonight. Kissur, however, didn't come to Shavash to avoid a
scandal. Thank God, the time hasn't come yet for a foreigner wearing a tie
to turn in a complaint about a personal friend of the Emperor.
"The pole," mentioned Shavash, "had leaden fists."
"Are you waiting for somebody," asked Kissur, "did I come at a wrong
time?"
Shavash became slightly embarassed.
"You are always welcome."
Shavash gave orders; Kissur followed to the guest chambers. A servant
rushed along in mincing steps carrying a basket with clean sheets. Shavash
said to Kissur's back,
"You will not drive again. Otherwise you will die sometime."
"It's ok," replied Kissur, "if Gods like a man, he dies young."
Twenty minutes later, bowing servants walked Kissur down the roofed
path to the Pavilion of White Creeks.
There were two pavilions for receiving important guests in the
Shavash's estate - the Pavilion of White Creeks and the Red Pavilion.
Pavilion of White Creeks was decorated in the traditional style, the floors
were covered with knee deep white rugs, flower spheres swang under the
ceiling, incense flowed from golden braziers, silken scrolls rimmed with fur
hang on the walls, while the corners (corners are indeed atrocious things,
everything bad in a house comes from the corners) were hidden well from a
random glance by long ivy plants rising all the way to the ceiling. Red
Pavilion was designed by an Earthman.
Shavash usually received Weians in the Pavilion of White Creeks and
Earthmen in the Red Pavilion. They claimed that these places had magical
properties - when Mr. Shavash received Weians in the Pavilion of White
Creeks he discoursed one way, but when he received Earthmen in the Red
Pavilion his speeches were very different. For instance, when questioned
about the reasons for the Empire's poverty in the Pavilion of White Creeks,
he complained about the greed of people from the skies who only try to buy
as much Weia as possible for a keg of marinated onions. However when asked
the same question in the Red Pavilion, he complained about laziness and
selfishness of Weian officials. Since these different speeches belonged to
the same person, you have to agree, that the magical properties of these
buildings had to be involved.
The servants brought trays of roasted goose and baskets of picked fruit
and covered the table with vegetable and meat appetizers.The melon floating
in a silver basin was delivered the last. Shavash seated Kissur as the guest
of honor and broke off the top of clay wine jar. Kissur caught the top and
glanced at the stamp.
"Good wine," Kissur, "if this stamp is not counterfeited."
"There are no fakes in my house," Shavash replied, "it was made in
Inissa in the fifth year of sovereign Varnazd rein."
"It was made when the empire was still the empire. It was made when I
was not a minister yet, when I was a brigand in Kharain mountains and when
my wife was your fiancee.
Shavash smiled slightly and poured wine in the cups.
"I would," Kissur spoke, "drink a wine that was bottled in the times of
sovereign Irshahchan. When there were no merchants and bribers and when all
these barbarians from the mountains or from the sky didn't wave their swords
or their science in front of our people's faces.
"I am afraid," Shavash replied, "that no wine that ancient exists. And
even if it's around still, it has turned into vinegar."
The friends intertwined their hands and drank wine.
After that, Shavash started on a young bamboo shoot and a river
calimari with a spicy Iniss sauce appetizers. Kissur, squinting, rolled a
cup in his hands and looked at the man sitting across the table.
Even among Weian officials that nobody would suspect to be excessively
uncorrupted, Shavash had made himself quite a reputation. Shavash's servants
took bribes, Shavash's assistants took bribes, Shavash's wife (by the way,
Kissur's wife was her sister) took bribes; they took bribes with lands and
stocks, with licenses and money, with options and thoroughbreds, with the
newest financial tools and ancient paintings, took bribes from provincial
and center worlds, took bribes from the Federation of Nineteen and the
Republic of Gera - though the dictator of Gera didn't take bribes and didn't
really give much. One official asked what kind of place a supermarket was;
they told him that it was a place where one could by anything. "Oh, it's Mr.
Shavash's house," the astonished official exclaimed. Kissur once, after some
really offensive deal, grabbed Shavash by his shirt at the Emperor's soiree
and asked what the current price was for a pound of motherland. "I love
motherland and I charge a lot for it," Shavash leered. Mr. Shavash liked to
state that if a man says that he doesn't like money, it means that money
doesn't like him.
Since the Earthmen came to the planet, seven years and four cabinets
have passed. Every one of the cabinets fired all its predecessor's
functionaries. Shavash was the only higher level official who worked for all
the cabinets and survived. The first man he betrayed in order to survive was
his teacher and lord, Nan, who had made him a big boss out of an street
urchin thief. Thanks to such a long political life, Shavash was able to pull
all the strings of power and influence in the country in spite of his
relative youth - he was only two years older than Kissur.
Shavash could help or hinder anything. Even the biggest country bumpkin
Earthmen - who came to Weia to invest in a construction of some resort in
the middle of untamed nature or in the development of a uranium mine that
will sooner or later finish this untamed nature off - knew that they should
introduce themselves to the first vice minister of finance and they should
invest in Shavash first, and in a mine next.
Kissur had just finished half of the goose, when a bowing servant slid
in the room and handed Shavash a paper. "At the intersection of Spring
Fires, the traces of a two car collision were found, the unglazed tile ditch
cover was broken through, blood and fragments of headlights identical to the
broken headlight of Kissur's car were present. The grey paint particles
stuck to Kissur's car trunk match to the grey paint particles found at the
collision place." That was the answer to the orders Shavash had given his
secretary twenty minutes ago.
Shavash folded the paper sheet and put it in his pocket.
"What," Kissur asked, "are they building at the Seven Clouds field?"
The official pondered.
"Garbage processing plant," he said.
"Who? Another of their corporations?"
"The company CB Trade. The owner of company is Kaminski. What's the
problem?"
"Nothing. I was just passing by and got curious."
"So, have they built the plant?"
"No," Kissur said, "they haven't built it yet. They built a big road to
the garbage plant."
Shavash reflectively touched the paper in his pocket. Kissur sucked on
a goose breast bone, washed it down with another wine cup and said, "Garbage
plant! Our ancestors swept garbage out of their houses only at a full moon.
They used to call a charmer, so that a warlock would not be able to pick up
trash and put a spell on them. Imagine what would happen in Earthmen's
houses if they threw garbage out only once a month? All their wraps and cans
would rise above the ceiling even thought their ceilings are very high! How
can a people that generates so much garbage call itself civilized? How dare
these people teach us to manufacture goods only to dispose of them
afterwards?!
Shavash didn't react to this tirade in any way. Kissur silently
finished wine and his eyes became even more desperate.
"Why," Kissur asked, "does the capital need a garbage processing
plant?"
"Probably," Shavash supposed, "to process garbage."
"Crap," Kissur objected, "Earthmen don't need plants to process
garbage. They produce garbage, as an excuse to build garbage processing
plants. Why don't we ask the sovereign to ban this construction? Almost in
the center of the capital!"
Shavash pressed his thumb in the armchair and looked thoughtfully at
Kissur. It looked like he was pondering something.
"Don't be afraid," Shavash said suddenly, "Kaminski will not built his
garbage plant."
"How so?"
"As you mentioned, this is almost downtown. The status of the land will
be reconsidered; industrial construction will be prohibited; the business
and industrial land committee will submit a complaint; the sovereign will
sign it and the garbage plant construction will be cancelled."
"But the foundation is already there."
"Mr. Kaminski will receive a compensation for the foundation - two
million."
"And then?"
"Then, Mr. Kaminski will built a new business center instead of a
garbage plant on the business zoned land."
"I am probably very stupid," Kissur remarked, "but I don't understand
what's going on."
"Lands of the Empire that are sold to foreign investors as a private
property," Shavash patiently explained, "can be divided in four categories -
agrarian, residential, industrial and business lands. Industrial zoned land
costs twelve times less than business zoned one. If Mr. Kaminsky had bought
the land for a business center, it would have been too expensive for him."
"And what about the foundation?" Shavash spread his hands.
"I am not an engineer, of course, and they don't allow outsiders to
visit the construction. If however, I was an engineer and I was allowed
there, I would probably notice that the foundation and the underground
communications confirm to a business center specifications and not to a
garbage processing facility specifications."
Kissur's face froze.
"So," he said, "that's what Kaminsky will get two million compensation
for?"
"Kaminsky," Shavash responded, "will not get the compensation. The
compensation will be procured by a Weian official who affirms the complaint
and transfer land from one zoning category into another."
"Hold on, this deal must have passed through your prefecture!"
"In this case, the contract did not pass via the prefecture. It passed
through Mr. Khanida's department."
"I see. You can't forgive Khamida that it was him and not you to
receive the money."
"This money wouldn't hurt me"
Kissur stood up and started pacing in the pavilion.
"Mutual profit," Shavash talked, "is the basis of cooperation. Kaminsky
will save four hundred million; Khamida will receive two million. Weian
officials cost cheap."
"What if everything falls through? If the sovereign fires Khamida
before he changes the land zoning?"
"Well, Kaminsky gave Khamida only a little bit, less than seven hundred
thousand. The rest Khamida will get only upon a successful completion of the
deal and he will not get it from the Earthman - he will get it from the
state. Khamida is not the one who invented it, it's a well known setup."
"What other setups are there?" Kissur asked quickly.
The official spread his hands smiling like a porcelain cat. He
evidently didn't want to tell Kissur about all the different ways of selling
his own country, even though he was much more nimble than Khanida in this
business.
"Kissur, you haven't seen my watch collection in a while. Let's go and
look at it." Standing up unhurriedly, Shavash approached a fifth dynasty
cabinet that stood in the living room. Shavash' s collection of Weian pocket
watches was filling the sparkling malachite shelves in the cabinet. The
collection had indeed improved. A tiny sand watch in a tumbler braided with
gold knots was added. Also new were three mechanical pocket watches that
just started to appear in the Empire before the catastrophe and were luxury
and therefore art, with fanciful ornament and decorations, with
mother-of-pearl hands made in the image of the eternity god, hence they had
nothing to do with this flat crap that even women now worn on their wrists.
Other new additions were present: a tiny watch embedded in a lid of a jade
powder box - it didn't have a glass cover, it had a twined filigree lattice
and a single hour hand languished behind it as if in prison cell; an oval
watch strewn with pearls had two faces - one face for the minute and another
for the hour hand - and a long chain with jade pendants that high officials
used to wear personal seals. A seal was at the botton and the watch covered
with tiny jewels at the top.
Kissur suddenly grabbed Shavash by his right hand - a homely watch with
a simple platinum face was there and twenty six hours of Weian time were
marked with Earthern numerals.
"Yes," Shavash said thickly, "there are no more Weian numerals. Our
time has been severed. Let my hand go now or you will break it again."
Grinning Kissur released Shavash's hand, turned to the shelf and picked
up an onion shaped watch with a crystal top. Agitation briefly ran over
Shavash's face - he loved this onion more than any of his concubines and
Kissur knew that. Kissur squeezed the onion in his fist and waved it in
front of Shavash's face.
"So," Kissur asked, "what other ways are there? How many of your
monthly salaries did this onion cost?"
Shavash suddenly twisted like a cat protecting its kittens.
"Put it back now," he hissed.
Nobody knows how Kissur woud have answered if a brass gong had not
banged at the hall entrance and an incoming servant announced,
"Mr. Bemish begs forgiveness for being late."
"Let him in," Shavash cried desperately.
Kissur's lips twitched; he put the onion back in place and for a second
longer looked at the numerals in the hands of the eternity god twisted
around the dial.
Isn't it strange? A while ago this fashion for watches was started by
this scoundrel, minister Nan, who later appeared to be a barbarian from the
stars, - Kissur couldn't stand this fashion - how could it be that a watch
hand commanded a Man like an owner his slave. And now his heart hurt when he
saw the Weian numerals and a Weian device.
When Kissur turned around, the official was already standing at the
entrance and bowing ceremoniously to the Earthman.
"Please," Shavash said, "let me introduce you to each other. Terence
Bemish, the general director of ADO company and Mr. Kissur, an Emperor's
personal friend...."
The Earthman and Kissur looked at each other.
Kissur's eyes popped out; it was the same man he had a fight with only
two hours ago. Great Wei! Kissur thought the Earthman had died and the guy
even managed to change his shirt!
"We have met already," the Earthman reported in an even voice and
added, "Mr. Kissur, I was just going to hand you over a letter." He stepped
closer to Kissur and put a white envelope in his hand. Kissur felt a wad of
crimpled money under the plastic paper.
Kissur guffawed and slapped Bemish on the shoulder. Bemish bit his lips
for a second, pondering if he should punch the guy in the face, but Kissur
was laughing so merrily that Bemish couldn't help but join him.
Shavash batted his eyelids apprehensively. The official had to solve
several problems quickly and the most pressing one was where to receive the
guests and what language to use. It was a very important question due to
this strange quality of Shavash's soul; as we have discussed, a conversation
in a different language seemingly transferred it to a different world. We
have mentioned, that when somebody asked Shavash in
Interenglish about the reasons for pauperism in the Empire, Shavash
denounced passionately unbearable state expenses and the state budget that
half of the country's banks made fortunes on. However, when somebody asked
him the same question in Weian, he castigated the gluttony of the people
from the stars who were buying the country for a wine jar. Hence, Shavash
avoided speaking Interenglish next to a Weian and speaking Weian next to a
person from the stars. His brain got muddled otherwise.
Shavash carefully pulled a window curtain away and looked outside. A
taxi stood far outside, behind the white wall. Oh, the Earthman flew in
yesterday and rented a car - a grey Daiquiri. Hmm, to change a car is more
difficult than to change a shirt.
"Well, gentlemen," Shavash said, still undecided about the hall, "the
night is divine, why should we sit inside eight walls, let's go into the
garden."
"I apologize," Kissur bowed, " but I need to go."
"What..." Shavash started.
"Gentlemen," Kissur said, "I'll only get in your way. Two respectable
people are going to discuss an important business. It's not a place for a
vagrant like me. You are not going to waste your time on small things like a
garbage plant, are you?"
Where the sad history of the Assalah spacefield is told while the
ex-first minister of Empire finds himself a new friend.
Next morning Terence Bemish sat in his room on the seventh floor of the
local Hilton hotel nudging the back of his head and feeling annoyed. His
head hurt as hell. A large peony-shaped bruise swelled on his cheekbone.
Somebody knocked in the door - Stephen C. Welsey, an employee of one of
the largest investment banks in the Galaxy and Terence's colleague on this
stupid trip, walked in.
"Wow," Welsey said, looking curiously at the peony bruise, "is it a
local mafia?"
"Ah, a guy shattered my car's headlamps."
"And then?" Welsey asked with an undisguised curiosity knowing that a
while ago the sixteen year old future corporate raider Terence Bemish got to
the semi-finals of a youth kickboxing Galaxy championship.
"To be honest," Bemish said, "I was a complete pig. These jerks charged
me three times more for the rent than this tin can really costs. I grabbed
the guy by his shirt and called him a Weian monkey or something like that.
He punched me in the face."
"Thank God, you were smart enough to hold back."
"To the contrary," Bemish said bitterly, "I punched him back."
Welsey's raised his eyebrows in astonishment.
"To summarize," Bemish explained, "he drove away and left me sitting
with my butt inside the crashed windshield."
"What about Shavash?"
"I changed my clothing and went to Shavash."
"Well?"
"Shavash is a very intelligent person," Bemish said, "and his education
is impeccable. He knows everything about IPO, underwriters, cumulative
privileged stocks, etc... You have to admit that in a country where most
people are sure that when an Earth starship reaches the sky, the Earthmen
knock in the sky and God opens them a brass door, that's pretty impressive.
He is a very intelligent man who encompassed the best in the both cultures -
Weian and Galactic ones."
"What does it mean?"
"He can bankrupt you without breaking a sweat like a vulture fund
manager and he can personally cut your head off like a true Weian official.
He is the most charming man."
"So, what has the most charming man told you about your desire to buy
Assalah?"
"That to agree to our proposal means to sell the motherhood for a sour
cream jar."
"Well, should we pack our things and leave?"
"Not necessarily. Mr. Shavash hinted that he would be ready to sell the
motherhood for a sour cream jar, if the jar was big enough."
Welsey hummed.
"Don't I dream sometimes," he said, "that at some point the Securities
and Stocks Committee will allow us to have an entry in a balance sheet -
"for bribing of the developing markets officials" - and it will be tax
deductible... How much does he want?"
"We didn't get to particular numbers."
Bemish was silent for a moment and continued,
"The company stocks are unbelievably under priced. I am not going to
give him any money. Let him buy stock warrants, this way it would be in his
interest for the company to survive and prosper."
"What is that you don't like?"
"Shavash is not the director of the company."
"Excuse me," Welsey was amazed, "what do you mean, he is not a
director? All the forms say - Shavash Ahdi, the director of the state-owned
Assalah Company."
"Stephen, it is a poor translation. The company is not owned by the
state, it is owned by the sovereign. Do you see the difference? "State" and
"sovereign" are two different conjugations of the same word in Weian - nouns
have conjugations here - what a language... When the translation says, the
state appoints, it really means, the sovereign appoints. The sovereign
personally appoints and revokes the company president; the sovereign
personally accepts financial plans. What if the sovereign does not accept
the IPO plan? Bye-bye sour cream..."
"Hmm," Welsey said, "From what I've heard, you can't really say he
spends all his time studying companies' IPO plans during the
de-nationalization process. They say he has seven hundred concubines..."
"Yes, but what's the guarantee that some official that can't stand
Shavash doesn't go to the sovereign and tell him about the sour cream jar."
"Giles from IC told me that we would not even be able to get papers for
the space field preliminary checkup without bribing Shavash first."
Bemish retorted, "What is the IC? I've never heard about this company."
Somebody knocked in the door.
"Come in," Welsey shouted.
A boy with a card on a silver tray materialized at the entrance. As a
local custom demanded, the boy kneeled down on a scrawny knee in front of
the foreigner. Bemish took the card. The boy said,
"A gentleman would like to have a breakfast with you. The gentleman is
waiting down in the foyer."
"I am coming," Bemish said.
The boy backed away and left. Bemish hurriedly pulled on pants and a
jacket. Welsey took the card.
"Kissur," he read, "wow, isn't he the Emperor's favorite who filched a
Van Leyven's bomber plane and slaughtered the rebels next to the capital?
Didn't he later get on LSD and gang up with anarchists on Earth? Where did
you pick this drug addict up?"
Bemish checked his bruise out in the mirror.
"Drug addicts," Bemish said, "don't fight like this."
Terence Bemish descended.
Slim and smiling Kissur sat on the car hood. He wore soft grey pants
girdled by a wide belt embroidered with silver sharks and a grey jacket. A
wide necklace made of jade plates set in gold glistened under the open
jacket akin to a collar. The attire was similar enough to the contemporary
fashion to look unobtrusive, except for the necklace and the finger rings.
Bemish winced involuntarily and touched his cheekbone where Kissur's ring
tore the skin off.
"Hello," Kissur said, "general director! Never in my life have I met a
general director who fights like this. Are you special?"
"I am special," Terence Bemish agreed.
Laughing, Kissur embraced him, seated him in the car and started the
engine.
"What have you seen in our capital?" Kissur asked.
"Nothing."
"Have you seen nothing at all?"
"Well, I saw cards in the hotel hall," Bemish said, "and I also saw a
warning there - don't eat fried river calamari on the market if the calamari
© Copyright Julia Latynina
© Copyright translation by Boris Itin (bitin@nysbc.org)
Date: 08 Dec 2004
---------------------------------------------------------------
The First Chapter
Where Kissur the White Falcon gets in an accident while the first
vice-minister of finance discusses the reasons for the dearth in the state
treasury.
The Second Chapter
Where the sad history of the Assalah spacefield is told while the
ex-first minister of Empire finds himself a new friend.
The Third Chapter
Where Kissur opens the Emperor's eyes to a foreign briber while Terence
Bemish received a gift of a luxury villa.
The Fourth Chapter
Where Kissur tells investment bankers how to train a highwayman's horse
while Terence Bemish makes an acquintance with other contenders for Assalah
stocks.
The Fifth Chapter
Where Terence Bemish is being persuaded to drop out of Assalah stocks
auction while Shavash reminds the visitors that he is not familiar with the
financial term dictatorship.
The Sixth Chapter
Where company AC declares its real name while Mr. Shavash shares some
unusual thoughts about democracy's drawbacks.
The Seventh Chapter
Where all investors' difficulties are solved in the best way.
The Eight Chapter
Where Terence Bemish pays taxes with fallen leaves while the rock with
an ancient foretelling is dug out at the construction.
The Ninth Chapter
Where the demons' boss makes a pact with the pious people.
The Tenth Chapter
Where Terence Bemish becomes familiar with provincial life of the
Empire while Mr. Shavash offers an original plan for the restructuring of
the state debt.
The Eleventh Chapter
Where Terence Bemish's assistant goes to the sectants' meeting in
Imissa while Kissur the White Falcon looks around the Galaxy for abandoned
warheads.
The Twelfth Chapter
Where the Emperor of the Country of Great Light finds out the real
purpose of the Assalah construction from the opposition press and expresses
his confusion.
The Thirteenth Chapter
Where the nation expresses its will with unpredictable results.
The Fourteenth Chapter
Or the first minister as an international terrorist.
The Fifteenth Chapter
Where the saviors of the Country of Great Light pull the biggest
insider deal in the history of the Galaxy.
where Kissur the White Falcon gets in an accident while the first
vice-minister of finance discusses the reasons for the dearth in the state
treasury.
The walls of the living room were covered with blue silk and the
corners were overlayed with hexagonal tiles making the room an octagon, the
shape guided its owner's success in life and smoothed all turns in his fate.
Embroiderings grew over silk - blossoming lotuses with leaves lowered from
heat, plum flowers opening up, a snow white duck in a pond and a sping sun.
A light hung almost all the way down to the floor, looking like a
transparent upside down mushroom and golden figures of animals ran over its
rim.
A small table with a frosted jar and an armchair were next to the
light. A 30 year old man sitting in the armchair was dressed in the silk
pants and a jacket, girdled with a belt made from large silver links. His
face was very handsome but cruel, with blue eyes and eyebrows rising at the
tips. Old rings of delicate worksmanship looked strange on his predator's
hands with untrimmed nails. His hair was twisted in a bun and held with a
tortoise comb. A 3D transvisor on a fat golden leg stood in the left corner.
Periodically, the man would fill a small five walled cup from the jar,
close the cup with a lacquered cap enclosing a straw, and stick the straw in
his mouth. He was watching the transvisor.
On his left hand, a small drawing hung in a sable fur frame - a
beautiful drawing of a sick chickadee in snow. The picture bore the
Emperor's signature. It was a personal gift from the Emperor. Two golden
rings of orchids and clematis hang next to it. A sonar rabbit ear antenna
stuck up above the transvisor and a silvered pot with a blooming flower was
behind the antenna. The flower had a artful name "furled belle's eyebrows."
The picture in the transvisor greatly differed from that on the silk
paintings decorating the room. The transvisor was not showing either a sick
chickadee or blossoming plums. The transvisor was showing a
press-conference. A self-important patrician Earthman was talking and his
piggish eyes were routinely squinting from camera flashes. A whole flock of
microphones was gosseling out in front of the Earthman. He was earnestly
attempting to look inside the room through the screen and he probably felt
alien surrounded by blooming plums and golden flower rings.
Somebody asked the man on the screen in a thin voice, and he answered
benevolently,
"While we are not interfering in any way with the independent nation
and are not pressuring its government, the Federation of Nineteen would
encourage the Emperor to conduct the first Parliament elections in the
history of your country as a one more step in of your nation's integration
into the galactic society."
The man sitting in the chair poured the last remnants from the silver
jar into the cup. He slightly raised his hand and threw the jar at the
forehead of the smiling Earthman on the screen. The Earthman stopped smiling
and disappeared. The screen squeaked and exploded in tiny pieces. The
"furled belle's eyebrows" loudly crashed, and the nauseating smell of
burning plastic intestines filled the room. The painted doors moved apart
and a middle-aged majordomo in a blue caftan rolled into the room.
"Take it away," the man in the armchair said without raising his voice.
The majordomo threw his hands up and exclaimed,
"Oh, Mr. Kissur, that's the third one this week."
Kissur jumped out of the chair, slammed the door and was gone.
The majordomo in the room stuck his hand in the empty jar, scratched it
and licked... The lord was not even drunk, or almost not drunk - there was a
light palm wine in a jar, generously diluted by the apricot juice. Kissur
could get drunk and get drunk to his eyebrows, drunk enough to fight, drunk
enough to cut dogs or people cut in half. But, he could do it only at merry
party with a dozen friends. Kissur never drank by himself.
Kissur ran gasping down the staircase and leaped out into the inner
yard. The night was already in. It smelled of mint from countryside gardens,
gasoline and horses. A city mansion with a flat roof surrounded the yard on
three sides. A left wing tower decorated with grape carvings rose gracefully
like a reed leaf. In the past, high-ranking officials built towers like
this, for them to touch the sky like little fingers. The towers would be
like a staircase that Fortune walk down from the sky to the officials. In
the past, people had said that only the Emperor's castle spires were higher.
Now, one would not be able to say that, since a construction crane made from
steel matches was showing up on the black sky background; the crane was
touching the sky with its little finger. Enraged Kissur threw his fist to
the sky and stomped flying down the moonlighted path.
A servant in a short blue jacket stood in the backyard, in front of the
gates wrapped by brass vines. The servant lovingly washed a long glossy car
like he would be braiding a horse's tail. The black sides of the car gleamed
in the moonlight and the silver gills of the hydrogen engine air intakes
shined.
Kissur ripped the hose out of the slave's hand and threw himself in a
car. The tires screeched - the slave was barely able to jump away. The
terrified booth guard hit the button on the keyboard, the gates bobbed up,
and the car flew out on the deserted and wet night highway. "Once he won't
be able to get the gates up in time", Kissur thought, "and I'll break my
neck at my own wall."
The car was purring and eating hydrogen - isn't it strange that a horse
eats when it's resting while this black ironmonger eats only when it's
moving, and when it's not moving it doesn't eat anything. Yes! Seven years
ago when gloom was sometimes eating at his soul, Kissur would take a black
stallion with a wide back and tall legs and race him in the Emperor's
garden, in the gullies overgrown with bushes and grass, till the sunrise.
Where is this garden now? They peddled it, sold it like a wench in the
market, for some glass contraption. It was shameful, since Kissur himself
sold it to some corporation .
The highway ended abruptly at a flooded river; Kissur almost flipped
over in the water on the sliver of the pontoon bridge. At least, this thing
does race faster than a horse even if it stinks of iron. Only weapons
smelled like iron in the past, while now in an every beaurocrat's house a
barrel like this hangs out and stinks like iron. It's terrifying to think of
the size of the motherland piece this beaurocrat sold for this barrel...
Kissur turned around and slowly drove back. In a hundred yards, a cement
road forked off the highway. Moon tatters floated in a little puddle at the
road turn. "What road is that?", Kissur was curious and turned the car.
The road ended in ten minutes. The car beams tore at the darkness and
illuminated a tall concrete fence with barbed wire on top and a lonely guard
getting bored at the watchtower. A dark open field could be seen on the left
and a yellow light beam from the beacon was hitting the field. Kissur got
out of the car and walked down the field to the excavator that was ascending
like a clockwork mole over a not-yet-fully-eaten hill. Tracks and wheels
bulldozed the field and water gleamed in the clay ruts. The excavator was
huge, taller than a poplar. It was one of these huge machines that swallow
clay with some additives delivered from afar and spit out finished
construction blocks.
Kissur climbed up a steep staircase to the top of the excavator. It was
a long climb; the staircases twisted, went horizontal, changed in narrow
paths between steel casings covering various mechanisms and finally finished
at a tiny booth. The booth was locked; constellations of blue lights at the
napping console looked at Kissur through the glass.
At this moment, the moon peered out of clouds again; Drunken River
gleamed far away with the multi-coloured tower of Seven Clouds Bridge above
it. Kissur suddenly recognized this field; it happened here, next to Seven
Clouds, eight years ago. Kissur caught up with the rebel Khanalai right when
he was going to enter the capital; Kissur and his five hundred horsemen
drowned four thousand rebels in the river. The commander wore a ruby
necklace; Kissur remembered very well how he cut off his head with one hand
and stuffed the necklace in his coat with the other.
Kissur turned around and started to climb down the narrow staircase,
smelling of oil and chemistry. His car purred quietly and complained about
the open door. The guard hesitantly shifted from foot to foot in his nest.
What's happening? Did some boss come in a luxurious barrel to look at the
construction at night? It doesn't look like a robber... Take this excavator,
such an insanely expensive machine that's tall like a cypress, walks by
itself, digs earth by itself, piles the blocks behind by itself. They say
that this machine costs three times more than the village that the guard was
born and grew up in. They say even that it's more expensive than the
Emperor's scepter covered with jewels and gold. That's probably bullshit;
the Emperor's sceptor is the focus of the world and the buttress of power.
When the Emperor knocks his scepter, flowers bloom and birds build nests;
how can you compare it some ironmongery? You can't compare it to ironmongery
and that's why people from the sky get angry and laugh at the scepter. Like
it's all crap and the Spring comes not because the Emperor knocks the
sceptor on the floor in the Hall of Hundred Fields but because Weia planet
turns its side to the sun differently. But what if the people from the sky
don't bullshit? What if their excavator is more powerful than the Emperor's
scepter?
"Hey," Kissur asked, "what are they building here?"
" I don't know, sir", the frightened guard answered. "They say it will
be a garbage plant."
"Who is building it?"
The puzzled guard was silent for a moment.
"I knew, sir, but the name is such difficult..."
"Earthmen?"
"Earthmen."
The beacon from the tower was blinding Kissur's eyes, shamelessly
eclipsing the moon. Kissur rolled on the heels, threw a coin to the guard,
got in the car and left.
He didn't care where he went, but the wheels drove him of their own
accord to Jasper Hills, the most expensive suburb of the capital. Painted
walls extended behind the sidewalk covered with blue cloth; trees and turnip
shaped turrets flashed behind the walls, and traffic lights blinked in the
intersections illuminating statues of gods and road signs with transparent
lights.
Kissur drove the wrong way down a one way street, turned the wrong way
again and raced down night intersections not bothering to decrease his
speed. He passed red lights twice without problems, but third time he was
less lucky. Out of a white fence came a grey Daiquiri, looking like a gopher
with a sharp snout, the last year model made by the Republic of Gera.
Kissur wrenched the steering wheel left even before the slow
biolectronic guts of the car smelled danger. The brakes of both cars sang an
ugly song in the night. Grey Daiquiri swerved left. Everything would have
been fine, if not for the wet road cover. The grey car spun like a top and
hit Kissur's car right side head-on.
Metal screeched desperately, like a chainlink mail parting under an old
sword strike.
Everything became quiet.
The owner of Daiquiri jumped out of the car and rushed to the other
auto; he jerked the driver's door open and looked inside. He was probably
expecting to find a corpse or somebody severely wounded; he looked
astonished when he discovered that the culprit was sitting in the car and
getting his wallet out. Then, Kissur looked in rearview mirror, shifted from
the collision, and noticed that his hair twisted in a bun was in disarray
and the comb popped out of the bun like a button out of a safety switch.
Kissur pulled the comb out and started to arrange his hair.
The other driver's face contorted like an image in a transvisor with a
bad tracking; he started pulling Kissur out and hissed awfully in the
language of the people from the stars.
"You, Weian monkey! Climb down a tree first, before you start driving."
The smile slowly left Kissur's face. He left the comb alone, grabbed
the Earthman's wrists with his hands, got out of the car, and with a slight
swing punched the Earthman in the solar plexis with his knee. He went limp
and said "Ouch." Red unglazed tiles that were covering the ditch caved in
with a crunch and the Earthman tumbled down through the tiles with his legs
sticking up.
Kissur grinned, straightened up his shirt and started opening the car
door.
In the next second, something gleamed above his head and refracted in
the long titanium oxide rib of the car. Kissur turned with lightning speed.
Great Wei! The Earthman dragged himself out of the tiled ditch and was
flying at Kissur prancing like a goose. Astounded Kissur avoided the first
punch, but the second almost shattered his jaw. Kissur was hurled in the
corner between the door and rearview mirror. The mirror crunched and Kissur
noticed the Earthman's right foot an inch away from his ear. Kissur grabbed
and twisted this leg, but the masterly Earthman instead of smashing his face
in the road, let out a war cry, threw his body strangely in the air and
punched Kissur's belly with another leg. Kissur even fainted for a second.
When he opened his eyes again, he found himself lying on the road like a pod
from an eaten bean and the Earthman was going to punch him again. Kissur
threw himself to the side; Earthman missed, and Kissur adroitly punched
Earthman right in the place where the Earthman's corn grew from. This time
Earthman's cry was less warlike. Kissur jumped with his back, bounced on his
feet and hit the foe in the face, once and again; he went limp. Kissur
prodded him in the groin to check, lifted him and flang the Earthman at the
grey Daiquiri's windshield. The layered glass cracked and started to break,
the Earthman dropped his head and lost consciousness.
Kissur stood breathing deeply and blinking with half mad eyes. He was
trained to loose any self control during a fight; at times like this,
Kissur's ancestors turned into wolves and bears. If Kissur had a sword, he
would cut the scoundrel down. However, it would be stupid to wear a sword
now and Kissur didn't have a liking for all these things with nulls, lights,
gases - all having a hole in the middle like a wench. Though he had an
automatic six pound laser and another very fashionable gadget in the car's
trunk, Kissur didn't know even why he carried them. His friends did, so did
he.
Kissur stood and shook his head purposelessly, slowly coming back in
this world. The Earthman was lying on the car hood like a squashed frog. His
white shirt and tie were hopelessly soiled with cranberry juice. The traffic
light at the intersection blinked and changed color - the fugurine of a
god-protector of intersections sparkled with green light. Kissur finally
came to his senses. He chewed his lips and retrieved his round wallet out of
a pocket. Kissur didn't respect plastic. He got out everything that he had
in the wallet - he vaguely remembered that it was twenty or maybe fifty
thousand - rolled the money in a wad and stuck it in the Earthmans's split
lips. He didn't want them to say that he beat people free of charge.
Then he got in his car and left.
The car slowly rolled forward. Kissur felt slightly sick; blood dripped
out of his nose. It wouldn't be proper to come back home looking like this.
Kissur passed several more mansions and stopped in front of beautiful
brass gates. Horses and peacocks intertwined in a dance on the gates; the
blue enamel on the horsetails glistened in the beam lights. The beauty of
gates was such they seemed to lead from earth to heaven. Night garden's
sweet smells wafted out from behind the gates. The turnip shaped turrets of
the side houses stuck out from the dark mass of trees. Melancholic gods sat
on the flat roofing of the covered road. At the side of the gates, a small
ivory plaque glimmered, "Shavash Ahdi. The first vice-minister of finance.
Vice prefect of the Sky City." A small figurine of the god-protector of the
gates was next to the plaque. The god had a small basket with fish in his
hand. A marble cup stood under the figurine. A piece of dried oil saturated
cow dung burned in the cup; it demontrated the owner's modesty and honored
the cane-built huts of ancient officials.
Surprisingly, the gates were closed - the vice prefect of the capital
was not feeding either officials or paupers today.
Kissur smirked.
The mansion's owner could've had numerous titles written on the plaque
- the Keeper of Piety, the Brocade of Truth, the Flower Garden of the Wisdom
Beyond the Sky, the Meadow of the State Virtue, etc... etc... He regularly
received these titles from the Emperor and was supposed to engrave them on
gate plaques. However, the owner of the mansion has often had visitors from
the skies and he probably realized that the Brocade of Truth and the Flower
Garden of Wisdom were not titles that would impress the foreigners.
Kissur blinked the lights; the gates suddenly moved to the sides
without a call and Kissur drove in.
The yard was brightly lit. Streams of water and light erupted from the
fountains and multi coloured balls bounced on the streams. Rows of columns
and rose bushes led to the open front entrance. The columns tops made from
carved jade and inlaid silver pointed to the moon. The host was already
running down the staircase rushing to the wide path. A bowing servant opened
the car door and Kissur stepped out of the car. Mr. Shavash froze as if he
had ran into a wall but he recovered at once, opened his arms and embraced
Kissur.
"Hello," he said.
"Well," said Kissur, "I was driving and decided to drop by. Sorry that
I didn't warn you... I don't like these - beep, beep," Kissur traced a
sickly body of a T-phone with his hand. "Are you busy?"
Mr. Shavash regarded the caved in car door and looked Kissur over from
his head to his toes.
"Give me your driver's license," said the vice-minister of finance and
the vice prefect of the capital.
Kissur bent his eyebrows, got the wallet out and handed his license
over. The vice prefect waved the license, thought a bit, tore it apart and
threw it in the lighted fountain.
"Whom have you run over?"
"I haven't run anybody over," answered Kissur, "I hit a pole."
This lie would have a short life span. If the Earthman is dead, Shavash
will learn everything tomorrow morning. If he is alive, Shavash may learn
about it tonight. Kissur, however, didn't come to Shavash to avoid a
scandal. Thank God, the time hasn't come yet for a foreigner wearing a tie
to turn in a complaint about a personal friend of the Emperor.
"The pole," mentioned Shavash, "had leaden fists."
"Are you waiting for somebody," asked Kissur, "did I come at a wrong
time?"
Shavash became slightly embarassed.
"You are always welcome."
Shavash gave orders; Kissur followed to the guest chambers. A servant
rushed along in mincing steps carrying a basket with clean sheets. Shavash
said to Kissur's back,
"You will not drive again. Otherwise you will die sometime."
"It's ok," replied Kissur, "if Gods like a man, he dies young."
Twenty minutes later, bowing servants walked Kissur down the roofed
path to the Pavilion of White Creeks.
There were two pavilions for receiving important guests in the
Shavash's estate - the Pavilion of White Creeks and the Red Pavilion.
Pavilion of White Creeks was decorated in the traditional style, the floors
were covered with knee deep white rugs, flower spheres swang under the
ceiling, incense flowed from golden braziers, silken scrolls rimmed with fur
hang on the walls, while the corners (corners are indeed atrocious things,
everything bad in a house comes from the corners) were hidden well from a
random glance by long ivy plants rising all the way to the ceiling. Red
Pavilion was designed by an Earthman.
Shavash usually received Weians in the Pavilion of White Creeks and
Earthmen in the Red Pavilion. They claimed that these places had magical
properties - when Mr. Shavash received Weians in the Pavilion of White
Creeks he discoursed one way, but when he received Earthmen in the Red
Pavilion his speeches were very different. For instance, when questioned
about the reasons for the Empire's poverty in the Pavilion of White Creeks,
he complained about the greed of people from the skies who only try to buy
as much Weia as possible for a keg of marinated onions. However when asked
the same question in the Red Pavilion, he complained about laziness and
selfishness of Weian officials. Since these different speeches belonged to
the same person, you have to agree, that the magical properties of these
buildings had to be involved.
The servants brought trays of roasted goose and baskets of picked fruit
and covered the table with vegetable and meat appetizers.The melon floating
in a silver basin was delivered the last. Shavash seated Kissur as the guest
of honor and broke off the top of clay wine jar. Kissur caught the top and
glanced at the stamp.
"Good wine," Kissur, "if this stamp is not counterfeited."
"There are no fakes in my house," Shavash replied, "it was made in
Inissa in the fifth year of sovereign Varnazd rein."
"It was made when the empire was still the empire. It was made when I
was not a minister yet, when I was a brigand in Kharain mountains and when
my wife was your fiancee.
Shavash smiled slightly and poured wine in the cups.
"I would," Kissur spoke, "drink a wine that was bottled in the times of
sovereign Irshahchan. When there were no merchants and bribers and when all
these barbarians from the mountains or from the sky didn't wave their swords
or their science in front of our people's faces.
"I am afraid," Shavash replied, "that no wine that ancient exists. And
even if it's around still, it has turned into vinegar."
The friends intertwined their hands and drank wine.
After that, Shavash started on a young bamboo shoot and a river
calimari with a spicy Iniss sauce appetizers. Kissur, squinting, rolled a
cup in his hands and looked at the man sitting across the table.
Even among Weian officials that nobody would suspect to be excessively
uncorrupted, Shavash had made himself quite a reputation. Shavash's servants
took bribes, Shavash's assistants took bribes, Shavash's wife (by the way,
Kissur's wife was her sister) took bribes; they took bribes with lands and
stocks, with licenses and money, with options and thoroughbreds, with the
newest financial tools and ancient paintings, took bribes from provincial
and center worlds, took bribes from the Federation of Nineteen and the
Republic of Gera - though the dictator of Gera didn't take bribes and didn't
really give much. One official asked what kind of place a supermarket was;
they told him that it was a place where one could by anything. "Oh, it's Mr.
Shavash's house," the astonished official exclaimed. Kissur once, after some
really offensive deal, grabbed Shavash by his shirt at the Emperor's soiree
and asked what the current price was for a pound of motherland. "I love
motherland and I charge a lot for it," Shavash leered. Mr. Shavash liked to
state that if a man says that he doesn't like money, it means that money
doesn't like him.
Since the Earthmen came to the planet, seven years and four cabinets
have passed. Every one of the cabinets fired all its predecessor's
functionaries. Shavash was the only higher level official who worked for all
the cabinets and survived. The first man he betrayed in order to survive was
his teacher and lord, Nan, who had made him a big boss out of an street
urchin thief. Thanks to such a long political life, Shavash was able to pull
all the strings of power and influence in the country in spite of his
relative youth - he was only two years older than Kissur.
Shavash could help or hinder anything. Even the biggest country bumpkin
Earthmen - who came to Weia to invest in a construction of some resort in
the middle of untamed nature or in the development of a uranium mine that
will sooner or later finish this untamed nature off - knew that they should
introduce themselves to the first vice minister of finance and they should
invest in Shavash first, and in a mine next.
Kissur had just finished half of the goose, when a bowing servant slid
in the room and handed Shavash a paper. "At the intersection of Spring
Fires, the traces of a two car collision were found, the unglazed tile ditch
cover was broken through, blood and fragments of headlights identical to the
broken headlight of Kissur's car were present. The grey paint particles
stuck to Kissur's car trunk match to the grey paint particles found at the
collision place." That was the answer to the orders Shavash had given his
secretary twenty minutes ago.
Shavash folded the paper sheet and put it in his pocket.
"What," Kissur asked, "are they building at the Seven Clouds field?"
The official pondered.
"Garbage processing plant," he said.
"Who? Another of their corporations?"
"The company CB Trade. The owner of company is Kaminski. What's the
problem?"
"Nothing. I was just passing by and got curious."
"So, have they built the plant?"
"No," Kissur said, "they haven't built it yet. They built a big road to
the garbage plant."
Shavash reflectively touched the paper in his pocket. Kissur sucked on
a goose breast bone, washed it down with another wine cup and said, "Garbage
plant! Our ancestors swept garbage out of their houses only at a full moon.
They used to call a charmer, so that a warlock would not be able to pick up
trash and put a spell on them. Imagine what would happen in Earthmen's
houses if they threw garbage out only once a month? All their wraps and cans
would rise above the ceiling even thought their ceilings are very high! How
can a people that generates so much garbage call itself civilized? How dare
these people teach us to manufacture goods only to dispose of them
afterwards?!
Shavash didn't react to this tirade in any way. Kissur silently
finished wine and his eyes became even more desperate.
"Why," Kissur asked, "does the capital need a garbage processing
plant?"
"Probably," Shavash supposed, "to process garbage."
"Crap," Kissur objected, "Earthmen don't need plants to process
garbage. They produce garbage, as an excuse to build garbage processing
plants. Why don't we ask the sovereign to ban this construction? Almost in
the center of the capital!"
Shavash pressed his thumb in the armchair and looked thoughtfully at
Kissur. It looked like he was pondering something.
"Don't be afraid," Shavash said suddenly, "Kaminski will not built his
garbage plant."
"How so?"
"As you mentioned, this is almost downtown. The status of the land will
be reconsidered; industrial construction will be prohibited; the business
and industrial land committee will submit a complaint; the sovereign will
sign it and the garbage plant construction will be cancelled."
"But the foundation is already there."
"Mr. Kaminski will receive a compensation for the foundation - two
million."
"And then?"
"Then, Mr. Kaminski will built a new business center instead of a
garbage plant on the business zoned land."
"I am probably very stupid," Kissur remarked, "but I don't understand
what's going on."
"Lands of the Empire that are sold to foreign investors as a private
property," Shavash patiently explained, "can be divided in four categories -
agrarian, residential, industrial and business lands. Industrial zoned land
costs twelve times less than business zoned one. If Mr. Kaminsky had bought
the land for a business center, it would have been too expensive for him."
"And what about the foundation?" Shavash spread his hands.
"I am not an engineer, of course, and they don't allow outsiders to
visit the construction. If however, I was an engineer and I was allowed
there, I would probably notice that the foundation and the underground
communications confirm to a business center specifications and not to a
garbage processing facility specifications."
Kissur's face froze.
"So," he said, "that's what Kaminsky will get two million compensation
for?"
"Kaminsky," Shavash responded, "will not get the compensation. The
compensation will be procured by a Weian official who affirms the complaint
and transfer land from one zoning category into another."
"Hold on, this deal must have passed through your prefecture!"
"In this case, the contract did not pass via the prefecture. It passed
through Mr. Khanida's department."
"I see. You can't forgive Khamida that it was him and not you to
receive the money."
"This money wouldn't hurt me"
Kissur stood up and started pacing in the pavilion.
"Mutual profit," Shavash talked, "is the basis of cooperation. Kaminsky
will save four hundred million; Khamida will receive two million. Weian
officials cost cheap."
"What if everything falls through? If the sovereign fires Khamida
before he changes the land zoning?"
"Well, Kaminsky gave Khamida only a little bit, less than seven hundred
thousand. The rest Khamida will get only upon a successful completion of the
deal and he will not get it from the Earthman - he will get it from the
state. Khamida is not the one who invented it, it's a well known setup."
"What other setups are there?" Kissur asked quickly.
The official spread his hands smiling like a porcelain cat. He
evidently didn't want to tell Kissur about all the different ways of selling
his own country, even though he was much more nimble than Khanida in this
business.
"Kissur, you haven't seen my watch collection in a while. Let's go and
look at it." Standing up unhurriedly, Shavash approached a fifth dynasty
cabinet that stood in the living room. Shavash' s collection of Weian pocket
watches was filling the sparkling malachite shelves in the cabinet. The
collection had indeed improved. A tiny sand watch in a tumbler braided with
gold knots was added. Also new were three mechanical pocket watches that
just started to appear in the Empire before the catastrophe and were luxury
and therefore art, with fanciful ornament and decorations, with
mother-of-pearl hands made in the image of the eternity god, hence they had
nothing to do with this flat crap that even women now worn on their wrists.
Other new additions were present: a tiny watch embedded in a lid of a jade
powder box - it didn't have a glass cover, it had a twined filigree lattice
and a single hour hand languished behind it as if in prison cell; an oval
watch strewn with pearls had two faces - one face for the minute and another
for the hour hand - and a long chain with jade pendants that high officials
used to wear personal seals. A seal was at the botton and the watch covered
with tiny jewels at the top.
Kissur suddenly grabbed Shavash by his right hand - a homely watch with
a simple platinum face was there and twenty six hours of Weian time were
marked with Earthern numerals.
"Yes," Shavash said thickly, "there are no more Weian numerals. Our
time has been severed. Let my hand go now or you will break it again."
Grinning Kissur released Shavash's hand, turned to the shelf and picked
up an onion shaped watch with a crystal top. Agitation briefly ran over
Shavash's face - he loved this onion more than any of his concubines and
Kissur knew that. Kissur squeezed the onion in his fist and waved it in
front of Shavash's face.
"So," Kissur asked, "what other ways are there? How many of your
monthly salaries did this onion cost?"
Shavash suddenly twisted like a cat protecting its kittens.
"Put it back now," he hissed.
Nobody knows how Kissur woud have answered if a brass gong had not
banged at the hall entrance and an incoming servant announced,
"Mr. Bemish begs forgiveness for being late."
"Let him in," Shavash cried desperately.
Kissur's lips twitched; he put the onion back in place and for a second
longer looked at the numerals in the hands of the eternity god twisted
around the dial.
Isn't it strange? A while ago this fashion for watches was started by
this scoundrel, minister Nan, who later appeared to be a barbarian from the
stars, - Kissur couldn't stand this fashion - how could it be that a watch
hand commanded a Man like an owner his slave. And now his heart hurt when he
saw the Weian numerals and a Weian device.
When Kissur turned around, the official was already standing at the
entrance and bowing ceremoniously to the Earthman.
"Please," Shavash said, "let me introduce you to each other. Terence
Bemish, the general director of ADO company and Mr. Kissur, an Emperor's
personal friend...."
The Earthman and Kissur looked at each other.
Kissur's eyes popped out; it was the same man he had a fight with only
two hours ago. Great Wei! Kissur thought the Earthman had died and the guy
even managed to change his shirt!
"We have met already," the Earthman reported in an even voice and
added, "Mr. Kissur, I was just going to hand you over a letter." He stepped
closer to Kissur and put a white envelope in his hand. Kissur felt a wad of
crimpled money under the plastic paper.
Kissur guffawed and slapped Bemish on the shoulder. Bemish bit his lips
for a second, pondering if he should punch the guy in the face, but Kissur
was laughing so merrily that Bemish couldn't help but join him.
Shavash batted his eyelids apprehensively. The official had to solve
several problems quickly and the most pressing one was where to receive the
guests and what language to use. It was a very important question due to
this strange quality of Shavash's soul; as we have discussed, a conversation
in a different language seemingly transferred it to a different world. We
have mentioned, that when somebody asked Shavash in
Interenglish about the reasons for pauperism in the Empire, Shavash
denounced passionately unbearable state expenses and the state budget that
half of the country's banks made fortunes on. However, when somebody asked
him the same question in Weian, he castigated the gluttony of the people
from the stars who were buying the country for a wine jar. Hence, Shavash
avoided speaking Interenglish next to a Weian and speaking Weian next to a
person from the stars. His brain got muddled otherwise.
Shavash carefully pulled a window curtain away and looked outside. A
taxi stood far outside, behind the white wall. Oh, the Earthman flew in
yesterday and rented a car - a grey Daiquiri. Hmm, to change a car is more
difficult than to change a shirt.
"Well, gentlemen," Shavash said, still undecided about the hall, "the
night is divine, why should we sit inside eight walls, let's go into the
garden."
"I apologize," Kissur bowed, " but I need to go."
"What..." Shavash started.
"Gentlemen," Kissur said, "I'll only get in your way. Two respectable
people are going to discuss an important business. It's not a place for a
vagrant like me. You are not going to waste your time on small things like a
garbage plant, are you?"
Where the sad history of the Assalah spacefield is told while the
ex-first minister of Empire finds himself a new friend.
Next morning Terence Bemish sat in his room on the seventh floor of the
local Hilton hotel nudging the back of his head and feeling annoyed. His
head hurt as hell. A large peony-shaped bruise swelled on his cheekbone.
Somebody knocked in the door - Stephen C. Welsey, an employee of one of
the largest investment banks in the Galaxy and Terence's colleague on this
stupid trip, walked in.
"Wow," Welsey said, looking curiously at the peony bruise, "is it a
local mafia?"
"Ah, a guy shattered my car's headlamps."
"And then?" Welsey asked with an undisguised curiosity knowing that a
while ago the sixteen year old future corporate raider Terence Bemish got to
the semi-finals of a youth kickboxing Galaxy championship.
"To be honest," Bemish said, "I was a complete pig. These jerks charged
me three times more for the rent than this tin can really costs. I grabbed
the guy by his shirt and called him a Weian monkey or something like that.
He punched me in the face."
"Thank God, you were smart enough to hold back."
"To the contrary," Bemish said bitterly, "I punched him back."
Welsey's raised his eyebrows in astonishment.
"To summarize," Bemish explained, "he drove away and left me sitting
with my butt inside the crashed windshield."
"What about Shavash?"
"I changed my clothing and went to Shavash."
"Well?"
"Shavash is a very intelligent person," Bemish said, "and his education
is impeccable. He knows everything about IPO, underwriters, cumulative
privileged stocks, etc... You have to admit that in a country where most
people are sure that when an Earth starship reaches the sky, the Earthmen
knock in the sky and God opens them a brass door, that's pretty impressive.
He is a very intelligent man who encompassed the best in the both cultures -
Weian and Galactic ones."
"What does it mean?"
"He can bankrupt you without breaking a sweat like a vulture fund
manager and he can personally cut your head off like a true Weian official.
He is the most charming man."
"So, what has the most charming man told you about your desire to buy
Assalah?"
"That to agree to our proposal means to sell the motherhood for a sour
cream jar."
"Well, should we pack our things and leave?"
"Not necessarily. Mr. Shavash hinted that he would be ready to sell the
motherhood for a sour cream jar, if the jar was big enough."
Welsey hummed.
"Don't I dream sometimes," he said, "that at some point the Securities
and Stocks Committee will allow us to have an entry in a balance sheet -
"for bribing of the developing markets officials" - and it will be tax
deductible... How much does he want?"
"We didn't get to particular numbers."
Bemish was silent for a moment and continued,
"The company stocks are unbelievably under priced. I am not going to
give him any money. Let him buy stock warrants, this way it would be in his
interest for the company to survive and prosper."
"What is that you don't like?"
"Shavash is not the director of the company."
"Excuse me," Welsey was amazed, "what do you mean, he is not a
director? All the forms say - Shavash Ahdi, the director of the state-owned
Assalah Company."
"Stephen, it is a poor translation. The company is not owned by the
state, it is owned by the sovereign. Do you see the difference? "State" and
"sovereign" are two different conjugations of the same word in Weian - nouns
have conjugations here - what a language... When the translation says, the
state appoints, it really means, the sovereign appoints. The sovereign
personally appoints and revokes the company president; the sovereign
personally accepts financial plans. What if the sovereign does not accept
the IPO plan? Bye-bye sour cream..."
"Hmm," Welsey said, "From what I've heard, you can't really say he
spends all his time studying companies' IPO plans during the
de-nationalization process. They say he has seven hundred concubines..."
"Yes, but what's the guarantee that some official that can't stand
Shavash doesn't go to the sovereign and tell him about the sour cream jar."
"Giles from IC told me that we would not even be able to get papers for
the space field preliminary checkup without bribing Shavash first."
Bemish retorted, "What is the IC? I've never heard about this company."
Somebody knocked in the door.
"Come in," Welsey shouted.
A boy with a card on a silver tray materialized at the entrance. As a
local custom demanded, the boy kneeled down on a scrawny knee in front of
the foreigner. Bemish took the card. The boy said,
"A gentleman would like to have a breakfast with you. The gentleman is
waiting down in the foyer."
"I am coming," Bemish said.
The boy backed away and left. Bemish hurriedly pulled on pants and a
jacket. Welsey took the card.
"Kissur," he read, "wow, isn't he the Emperor's favorite who filched a
Van Leyven's bomber plane and slaughtered the rebels next to the capital?
Didn't he later get on LSD and gang up with anarchists on Earth? Where did
you pick this drug addict up?"
Bemish checked his bruise out in the mirror.
"Drug addicts," Bemish said, "don't fight like this."
Terence Bemish descended.
Slim and smiling Kissur sat on the car hood. He wore soft grey pants
girdled by a wide belt embroidered with silver sharks and a grey jacket. A
wide necklace made of jade plates set in gold glistened under the open
jacket akin to a collar. The attire was similar enough to the contemporary
fashion to look unobtrusive, except for the necklace and the finger rings.
Bemish winced involuntarily and touched his cheekbone where Kissur's ring
tore the skin off.
"Hello," Kissur said, "general director! Never in my life have I met a
general director who fights like this. Are you special?"
"I am special," Terence Bemish agreed.
Laughing, Kissur embraced him, seated him in the car and started the
engine.
"What have you seen in our capital?" Kissur asked.
"Nothing."
"Have you seen nothing at all?"
"Well, I saw cards in the hotel hall," Bemish said, "and I also saw a
warning there - don't eat fried river calamari on the market if the calamari