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Fifty-nine

>From time to time the Kalif had been vaguely aware of people around him. But it had been pain that provided continuity, the common theme through jumbled, troubled dreams. Now, as he drifted upward into consciousness, it seemed that all that had been some time ago, that he'd slept deeply and untroubled for a long while.

His eyes opened to a room colored by flowers. He lay on an LG bed, feeling very weak. Tubes dangled from overhead, connecting, he assumed, with parts of his body. A female nurse stood looking down at him. Yab was dead, he remembered, and he'd killed the rebel. Someone here would be able to tell him what had happened to Tain.

"Good morning, Your Reverence." The nurse smiled then, dimpled. "We've been expecting you."

"Umm." He was even weaker than he'd realized. "Tain, the kalifa—where is she?"

"She's sleeping, Your Reverence. She's very weak, but she'll recover. She'll be all right, too."

She'd been wounded then. "And Jilsomo?"

"I can call him for you, but the doctors prefer that you rest now. It will take him a little while to get here."

Of course. Jilsomo would be busier than Shatim. Obviously the rebels had lost; somehow he'd known that. And they wouldn't have given him flowers if they'd won. They'd simply want him fit to stand trial, a public trial. And fit for impalement in the square.

His wound was a dull, heavy pain in his gut, and he was deeply tired. "Thank you," he murmured. His eyes were already closed; he slipped into sleep again.

* * *

It was the next time he awoke that they called Jilsomo. He felt much stronger mentally, though physically, he knew, he was still very weak. While he waited, a doctor described Tain's condition. She'd been shot in the abdomen, and had gone much longer without medical treatment than he had. She was out of danger now, but it had been a very close thing. She would suffer no permanent impairment. She still had not wakened, but would before very long.

They volunteered nothing about the coup or revolt or whatever it had been, and he didn't question them. Jilsomo would answer his questions in detail and with certainty, he had no doubt.

His left arm was restrained and had two tubes attached to it. They'd left his right arm free, and he reached up to feel his face. His beard was perhaps three days old, but he'd had a day's growth awaiting the razor when the bombs had struck. Call it two days then, or two and a half, that he'd been here.

His arm had felt weak; it had taken an effort to raise it.

Jilsomo, when he came in, seemed to have shrunk somewhat. Surely, though, he hadn't. Even fasting wouldn't have worked that quickly. The left side of his face was purple and green, and his cheek wore a red scar two to three inches long.

"Good evening, Your Reverence."

"You wear a battle scar!" the Kalif said. His chuckle was weak.

"Indeed. And out where people can see and admire it." He paused. "I suppose you'd like to know what happened."

"And what's happening. Yes."

"Well. First things first. Tain has been awake, but she's sleeping again. Your wounds were somewhat alike, but she was shot at the very beginning, and had to wait much longer before being brought here.

"As for the coup attempt—" He told the Kalif all that he knew, which was most of it. Rothka's role, Songhidalarsa's surrender, Rothka's suicide.

"So Rothka suicided. The traditional thrust, I suppose." "No, Your Reverence. Poison. An extreme overdose of sleeping pills."

"Huh! I'm—surprised at him."

"Your Reverence, I suspect I'd have done it as he did. I doubt I could have made the thrust, or completed it anyway."

I wonder, my friend, if you'd have done either one, the Kalif thought. Likelier you'd have sat through the public hearings and then the impalement. As I would have. He grunted, and felt it in his abdomen. "But you're not a self-proclaimed traditionalist," he said. "Well, the result's the same.

"What—what's the status of the College? Who died? Who's injured?"

Jilsomo enumerated.

Six dead. It could have been worse. "And the House? What's their frame of mind?"

"They're adjusting. The Diet should finish its business nicely before closing. Finding that mask of you in the building Colonel Thoglakaveera led us to, seems to have convinced everyone that it wasn't you who released the video showing Dosu upbraiding them. They're tending to blame Rothka now; of course he can't defend himself. And Uthka's in the forefront, trying to distance himself and the party from his old friend."

"I suppose you've seated a committee of evidence, on the—coup? Uprising?"

"Coup. Yes. I'm chairing it, and Tariil in my absences. We should be done in about a week."

"And public hearings?"

"They'll begin when you're fit to hold them. Unless you want me to. I believe the public will prefer that you do it."

"I'll do it," the Kalif answered, then added dryly: "I hope they won't be disappointed in me."

"Sir?"

"I'll have no one impaled."

Jilsomo's eyebrows raised. "They needn't be disappointed. If you prepare them for it."

"Exactly. I'll give it some thought. Meanwhile, we'll say nothing about it, you and I." He paused, suddenly very tired. "Are we done now?"

"I believe so, Your Reverence."

"One last thing. There's a palace to rebuild, and a barracks, and much other damage to repair, I'm sure. That will not be done with public funds. It will come out of the estates of the officers involved. The hearings should assign liabilities proportional to responsibilities. A traitor should not expect his loyal countrymen to pay for the destruction he's wrought."

"A point well taken, Your Reverence, and a worthy innovation. The committee of evidence will take somewhat longer then; perhaps an extra week."

The Kalif let his eyes close. "Soon enough. I may be fit to hold hearings by then."

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Framed