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# Epilogue

Michael Winton-Serisburg smiled. "So she lost, huh?"

His daughter Ruth nodded. " 'Lost' is hardly the word. She got smeared. Flattened. Nobody agreed with her—not even me. But I will say she put up one hell of a fight. And—Berry's a lot slyer than most people think—she got what she wanted out of it in the end, I'm pretty sure."

Judith, Ruth's mother, had a smile on her face also. But it was a distracted sort of smile, since she was preoccupied examining the thousands of ex-slaves spilling through all the streets in Torch's main city to watch the coronation. "I assume she made sure the whole populace knew about the brawl."

Her daughter gave her a hey, no kidding sort of a look. "That was my job," she said, a bit smugly. "Well. Captain Zilwicki helped."

Her father's smile widened. "Indeed. That was before the vote, yes? So by the time the entire populace was able to express their opinion on whether they wanted a constitutional monarchy, they all knew that their prospective Queen had been waging a battle royal to have herself referred to as 'Your Mousety.' With 'Your Incisorship" as"—he choked down a laugh—"the 'compromise' she was willing to settle for."

"Yup," said Ruth. "Like I said, she got smeared. But the vote in favor of the constitutional monarchy was ninety-three percent—and she did manage to hold the line on the royal 'We.' She just flat refused, pointing out that nobody could make her use the expression. And since she's the only one who can, that made it a moot point. She said it made her feel fat already, with her eighteenth birthday just behind her."

Ruth's mother didn't try to choke down her own laugh. "Probably just as well she lost. The Andermani Emperor would have had a fit. He's got precious little use for 'constitutional' monarchism in the first place, much less kings and queens being likened to mice."

"Your aunt would have been none too pleased either, for that matter," commented Michael idly. He was now examining the crowd closely himself; but, in his case, concentrating on the notables gathered on the terrace where the coronation was finally getting underway. The same terrace that he and his wife and daughter were standing on, as the official representatives of the Star Kingdom.

"No reason to irk your neighbors unnecessarily—especially when, for the moment at least, you're awash in official goodwill." He made a discreet little swivel of his head, indicating by the gesture everyone gathered on the terrace. "This is quite an assemblage, when you get down to it. Official representatives from every star nation on this side of the Solarian League. And even if the League itself didn't send anybody . . ."

His eyes settled on the figure of Oravil Barregos. The governor of Maya Sector was standing almost right next to the rabbi who would be officiating over the ceremony. Close enough that he was almost crowding him, in fact. The governor was smiling widely and waving at the crowd gathered below; the rabbi was clearly trying not to scowl.

Michael's gaze shifted to the man next to Barregos. The new top military officer of the SLN in Maya Sector—formerly Captain, now Rear Admiral Luiz Rozsak—was standing just a little to one side, and just a little farther back. Not much. Clearly enough, Maya Sector felt it had a certain "special relationship" with the new star nation of Torch.

Which, in truth, they did. But Michael didn't miss the importance of the position which had been given to the Erewhonese representatives. Jack Fuentes, the President of Erewhon and in fact its central leader—never automatically the same thing with Erewhonese—was standing on the other side of the rabbi. Just as close as Barregos, had he chosen to crowd his way forward the way the governor of Maya was doing.

Of course, Fuentes wasn't. That was not the way of Erewhonese leaders. If anything, the Erewhonese President was doing his best to remain inconspicuous. As inconspicuous as possible, that is, for a man standing very close to the center of the crowd's attention—and the small horde of media people who were recording the event.

Not such a small horde, actually. The dramatic events on The Wages of Sin followed by the equally dramatic liberation of Congo had riveted the galaxy's attention and interest. The Mesans had taken a tremendous body blow, here. There were not down and out, certainly—not with the connections they had with the real powers in the Solarian League. But the shadows in which Mesa and the Office of Frontier Security preferred to operate had been obliterated by a blinding glare of public scrutiny. The Mesans and the Solarian bureaucrats and combines had been caught like cockroaches when the lights go on. Too busy frantically scurrying for cover to really be able to do much to prevent the final unfolding of the drama.

"Final" unfolding? he asked himself. Hardly that.

Hardly. Michael was now certain that the Solarian League, center of the human race, was in for that ancient curse: interesting times. Governor Barregos' popularity in Maya Sector itself had soared to stratospheric heights. For that matter, Web Du Havel had told Michael yesterday that the most recent poll indicated that Barregos was now the best-known and most popular political figure in the entire Solarian League. Which wasn't perhaps saying much, looked at from one angle, since the huge population of the League tended to be oblivious to most political affairs outside of their own systems. There was certainly no chance that Barregos could parlay that new popularity into a real challenge for wresting control of the entire League away from its established ruling interests.

Still . . .

Rear Admiral Rozsak, the same poll indicated, was now quite a well-known and popular figure himself. Michael knew that, for all practical purposes, Maya Sector now had its own independent naval force—and Barregos and Rozsak were quietly launching a massive armament program. If civil war did erupt in the League, Maya Sector would be a very tough nut to crack.

But that was a problem for a later day. Michael shook his head slightly, reminding himself that he had far more immediate concerns to deal with.

Again, his gaze moved to Fuentes. For a moment, the eyes of the Erewhonese President met Michael's. Fuentes gave him a cordial, polite little nod—and then looked away.

Michael stifled a sigh. Erewhon, he was almost sure, was lost to Manticore, though nothing formal had been said or done. The most he could do, now, was contain the damage.

His hand rose, his fingers closing around the hilt of the new ceremonial sword he'd chosen to bring to the ceremony.

It was not a sword, really; the weapon was much too short for that term. The blade scabbarded to his hip was more in the way of a very big knife. The same kind of knife which, tradition had it, had figured prominently in the ancient clashes of the gangster families who had founded Erewhon centuries earlier.

Walter Imbesi had presented it to Michael, the day he'd arrived at Erewhon on his way to Torch. When Michael had looked at inscription etched on the blade, he'd felt his heart sink.

To the House of Winton, with our compliments and thanks. It had been signed: Fuentes. Hall. Havlicek. Imbesi. The new quadrumvirate-in-all-but-name which ruled Erewhon.

"To the House of Winton." Not "to the Star Kingdom of Manticore." The Erewhonese were making clear, in their own way, that the back door would always remain open for Manticore's dynasty. But the front door was closing on the Star Kingdom.

The coronation ceremony was about to begin. All eyes were now on the figure of Berry Zilwicki, coming toward the terrace through the crowd below. She was wearing very fine apparel, but—another of the girl's subtle touches—had no escort at all. She was relying on the crowd itself to make way for her.

Since no one was looking at him, for the moment, Michael allowed the sigh to emerge. He tried to look on the bright side. Given Erewhonese custom, the back door was actually a prestigious entrance. Close friends as well as servants always came into the house of an Erewhonese grandee through the back door, never using the front door. In fact, the very closest of friends were given the combination of the lock on that back door.

Translated into diplomatic terms—Michael glanced sideways at his adopted daughter—that "combination" was Ruth Winton.

Judith had already made clear she was in favor of Ruth's proposal. Michael had been the one to hesitate.

"Okay," he murmured. "If that's your desire, Ruth, I don't object. You can stay here, for as long as you want. With my blessing."

Ruth's smile was almost a grin. "Thanks, Dad."

Berry was making slow progress through the crowd. Not because people weren't giving way for her and clearing a space, but simply because she was chatting with them as she came. Since he still had some time before the ceremony began, Michael chewed on the matter further. And, after a while, discovered himself agreeing more and more with his wife's assessment, despite his own misgivings.

Judith had expressed herself bluntly. That very morning.

"Leave diplomacy out of it, Michael! This place is good for Ruth. And I'm not talking about the spy business!" Judith had chuckled, then. "Of course, being trained by such as Anton Zilwicki and Jeremy X—not to mention those Erewhonese not-all-that-far-from-gangsters—she'll become more of a holy terror than she is already. What's more important is that it's finally something that is hers, Michael. And for the first time in her life she has real friends. One, especially."

Indeed, so. One, especially. And as Michael Winton-Serisburg watched that special friend start to climb the staircase up to the terrace, he found all his doubts fading away.

"You'll have to accept a guard detachment from the Queen's Own, though," he murmured. "I'll leave the same unit behind that escorted me here, since Judith and I won't need them on the trip back."

He saw Ruth wince.

"Don't even try to argue the matter, daughter. My sister would kill me if I didn't leave them behind."

Ruth didn't argue the point, at the moment. It would have been impossible anyway, since Berry was now on the terrace and approaching the rabbi. The ceremony was finally about to get underway. But Michael knew she would argue it later. And he also understood the true reason, which had nothing to do with the diplomatic folderol she'd advance—her own feelings of guilt over the fate of her former guardsmen. Not so much their death in the line of duty, but the fact that she'd immediately allied herself thereafter with the man who had done nothing to prevent those deaths, even if he wasn't personally responsible for them.

But Michael wasn't worried about it. He understood the mentality of the Queen's Own far better than his adopted daughter did. Or ever would, in truth. Despite her upbringing, Ruth would never really think like royalty—or their closest retainers. Michael was quite sure that the soldiers of the Queen's Own had already made their own assessment of his adopted daughter. Royal ruthlessness for purposes of state, even at the cost of their own lives, would not bother them in the least. Such was the nature of the game they had chosen to play. What they did care about was that the royal person they served and protected knew how to play the game—play it well, for a real purpose, with courage and panache. They would lay down their lives with no complaint, so long as they thought those lives weren't simply being thrown away by a fool or a poltroon.

"I won't tell them to do it," he murmured. "I'll ask for volunteers. They will all volunteer, Ruth. Each and every one. You watch."

Struck by a related thought, Michael's eyes scanned the notables gathered on the terrace. The official representatives of the Republic of Haven, Kevin and Virginia Usher, were standing near the front. But . . .

"Where is this mysterious Victor Cachat, by the way? I still haven't met the fellow."

Ruth looked a bit uncomfortable. "Ah. He's not here, I don't think. Well, maybe he is. Hard to know. And if he is, you won't see him anyway. Thandi—uh, General Palane—asked him to oversee the security arrangements. She couldn't do it herself, since she's part of the ceremony. It's a little irregular, of course, but Torch doesn't have a security apparatus really in place yet."

"Irregular" was putting it mildly. Michael chewed on the thought of his own security—and his wife and daughter's—being in the hands of a Havenite secret agent. It was certainly an odd taste.

Ruth smiled thinly. "Relax, Dad. For the moment, he's on our side. Or, at least, the same side we are, if not exactly 'ours.' So long as that's true, we're as safe as can be. Trust me on this one."

* * *

Michael spoke only once, during the ceremony itself. "This is very shrewd," he whispered. "Whose idea was it?"

"Web's," Ruth whispered in response. Her eyes flicked toward the figure of Jessica Stein, standing in the crowd of notables on the terrace. "Rabbi Hideyoshi was probably her father's closest friend, even if he was never officially part of the Renaissance Association."

Michael suspected that Ruth was missing some of the equation. He resolved to discuss it with Du Havel himself, later, in private. Granted, choosing a rabbi from Hieronymus Stein's own branch of Judaism to officiate at the ceremony was a smooth way of furthering ties with the Renaissance Association. It also neatly sidestepped the awkwardness of creating a new royal house without the blessing of any organized religious body.

Still, he thought those were secondary concerns, in Du Havel's political calculations. Michael himself did not know as much as he wished he did, concerning the history and theology of Autentico Judaism. He'd have to do some studying on the matter. But he did know two things:

First, it was easily the fastest-growing branch of that ancient faith, even if some of the most orthodox branches of Judaism refused to accept the Autenticos as a legitimate part of galactic Jewry. If for no other reason, because they choked at the notion of the "Chosen People" as a self-selected body rather than a hereditary one, and the proselytizing that went with it.

Second, it met a particularly favorable reception from the galaxy's most downtrodden peoples. He'd heard, though he wasn't sure it was true, that it was by far the most popular religion among Manpower's ex-slaves—not least of all because the Autenticos, like the Audubon Ballroom, were willing to send organizers back into slavery to proselytize from within. He'd also heard—though, again, he'd have to check the accuracy—that there had been some trouble on the Mfecane worlds because of Autentico activity. He did know, for a fact, that the religion was officially banned on Mesa.

"Shrewd," he murmured again.

The murmur was loud enough to be heard by his wife. "Yes. It's not a militant or intolerant creed—blessedly"—Judith had her own very good reasons for being hostile toward fundamentalist religions—"but . . . how to say it? Autentico Judaism lends itself well to rebellion, leave it at that. Which is fine with me."

Michael delicately cleared his throat. "Fine with me, as well, dear. But do try to find a more diplomatic way of putting that, should you ever happen to discuss it with my sister."

Judith smiled serenely. Berry Zilwicki was now kneeling and Rabbi Hideyoshi was placing the crown on her head. It was a simple tiara. Berry had insisted on that, and, this time, won the argument. She'd even managed to win the argument over the decorations: nothing more than a golden mouse, with pearls for its eyes. Looking a bit startled, as if it had been caught while stealing cheese.

"Oh, bah," she murmured back. "There's a queen who won't have trouble embracing rebellion, where it's needed."

The crown was securely placed. Berry rose, turned, and moved to the front of the terrace to face the throng. On her way—this was quite impromptu, Michael was sure of it—she took the hand of her adopted father and mother and brought them forward with her.

Queen Berry, of the House of Zilwicki, faced her new subjects—using the term loosely—flanked by a former countess of Manticore and . . .

Cap'n Zilwicki, Scourge of the Spaceways.

Michael winced, even before the crowd's erupting applause smote his ears like a hammer. Oh, Lord. Interesting times, indeed.

The thunder of applause rolled over him like a waterfall. The sound continued as Berry, like the star of a just-concluded drama, cheerfully dove back into the little mob of notables and started hauling some of them forward to share in the applause.

She began, diplomatically enough, by escorting Governor Barregos and Admiral Rozsak to the fore. Then, the Erewhonese representatives. Then—it was very well done, with a simultaneous wave of her hands, avoiding any favoritism—she brought forward Michael and Judith themselves, with Kevin and Virginia Usher advancing on her other side. (Michael was amused to see the slick way in which Ruth managed to stay behind, avoiding the limelight.) Then, the notables from the Andermani Empire and the Silesian Confederacy; Jessica Stein; any number of others.

But Michael didn't miss the significance of the sequence. Berry saved three for the last.

First, the two central figures in the new government of Torch: Web Du Havel and Jeremy X, whom she brought forward together.

The crowd's applause was now almost deafening. Michael wished he'd had the foresight to bring ear protectors.

When Du Havel and Jeremy stepped back, the roar of the crowd eased a bit. Michael thought the worst of it was over.

Then, as Berry brought forward a tall and very powerful looking woman wearing a uniform Michael was not familiar with, and he heard the crowd almost sucking in a collective breath . . .

He knew who she was. Thandi Palane, the newly appointed commander-in-chief of Torch's brand new military in creation. But he hadn't had a chance to meet her yet.

The next wave of applause hit like a tidal wave. Michael couldn't help but flinch a little. Not even so much at the sheer volume of the sound, but at its timber. This was no longer simply applause. This was a snarl of pure fury. The new star nation might have adopted—cheerfully, with good humor, even gleefully—a queen with a mouse on her coat of arms. But no one would ever confuse that nation's fangs with those of a rodent.

* * *

The applause soon crystallized into two slogans, chanted over and over again, like a collective blacksmith hammering out a sword.

One of them he understood. Death to Mesa! was a given.

The other had him puzzled.

After the ceremony was finally done, he asked his daughter.

"What does 'Great Kaja' mean?"

Ruth managed to look ferocious and smug at the same time. "It means Mesa is history. They just don't know it yet."

THE END

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