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Fifty-eight

Lord Rothka Kozkoraloku sat in his chilled study, staring at the television image on the wall screen, an image consisting simply of the imperial flag.

That's all that had shown there for more than an hour and a half. The sounds of bombs exploding had been followed, after about three minutes, by an announcer reporting excitedly that the Sreegana was under attack by an unidentified unit or units of the Imperial Army. Then the flag had replaced him, the flag and the imperial anthem. Followed by the Klestronu anthem, the Maolaaru ... until they'd played them all. Then they'd played military marches, and from there had gone to Feromanoothu's "Symphony to the Victor."

He'd expected they'd give bulletins on the fighting. They hadn't. But his apartment was near enough to the Sreegana that, even with windows closed and curtains drawn, he could hear, vaguely, the sounds of gunfire, sometimes desultory, sometimes intense. Once it had seemed to stop, then continued with new fury.

The duration itself was worrisome. It shouldn't have taken so long. If only... He'd never contacted the Guard commander. Before he'd had the chance, he'd heard that the man was reconciled with the Kalif and had accepted his reparation. It was hard to believe, but if it was true, to contact him could destroy everything. And if it wasn't true, surely the commander would surrender his troops with no more than token resistance, contacted or not.

Again the shooting stopped, and he came alert. Any minute now, it seemed to him, the flag would be replaced by a face, the music by an announcement.

It took about three minutes to happen. Then the same announcer was back, this time looking not stunned but grimly pleased.

"Fighting in and around the Sreegana has stopped," the man announced. "We here at Imperial Broadcasting have been monitoring the radio frequencies used by the combatants—the 31st Light Infantry Brigade, the 11th Gunship Support Wing, the Imperial Guard, and units of the Capital Division. Rebel floaters attacked the Sreegana at 7:21 A. M., bombing the Imperial Guard barracks and other targets. At 8:03, infantry from the Capital Division, said to consist of one battalion, were landed inside the Sreegana to bolster the heroic defense of the Imperial Guard."

Rothka's gaze had sharpened at the word "rebel": It told him who'd won, or rather, who'd lost. If any doubt had remained, "heroic defense of the Imperial Guard" had settled it. The coup had failed.

"At 8:58 a.m., advance elements of the 27th Armored Battalion, of the Capital Division, fought their way into the Square of The Prophet, then into the Sreegana itself. Moments later, radio negotiations began between the commanding officers of the opposing forces inside the Sreegana. At 9:05 a.m., the leader of the coup, General Karoom Songhidalarsa, speaking to his forces by radio from an unknown location, ordered them to surrender to the government.

"Shooting ended at once, and rebel troops are reportedly filing from their positions with their hands on their heads.

"While I was reading the above to you, a report came in that the Kalif was wounded while fighting valiantly against the rebels. The kalifa was also wounded. As soon as we have word on the seriousness of their conditions..."

Rothka cut off the set in mid sentence. Nothing had worked. Nothing.

Hands on his chair arms, he raised himself heavily to his feet. Songhidalarsa would give himself up, of course. And tell the government whose idea it had been. Within the hour they'd be here for him. Perhaps within minutes.

He left the study, his slippered feet padding down the dimly lit hall. Softly, seeming little more than a whisper, his man-servant's television murmured from his room at the far end. Rothka turned into his own bedroom and closed the door behind him. Here too the drapes were drawn and the room dim. He paused, looking at a cabinet. After a moment he crossed the room to it, unlocked and opened it, and from it took a dagger with a thick, double-edged blade about nine inches long.

Tradition dictated that he kneel, holding the point below his breastbone, then fall forward, driving it through his heart.

He tested its tip against the ball of a thumb, and flinched. A dark drop formed there. Then he stood for a long minute, not moving, staring blankly at the simple, unfeeling steel. Finally he put it back in the cabinet and went into his bathroom.

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Framed