The Imperial Court signalled its desire for peace the day what was left of its two divisions entered Balzeit City. They had a dozen tanks and a thousand men, but they left their artillery in the fields, bereft of ammunition. The few thousand people left in the city sought refuge in the wide parade grounds of the citadel. He watched them stream in through the gates in the high walls, far in the distance.

He'd been going to quit the citadel that day — the priests had been screaming at him to do so for days, and most of the general staff had already left — but now he held the transcript of the message they'd just received from the Imperial Court.

Two Hegemonarchy divisions were, anyway, on their way out of the mountains, coming to the aid of the city.

He radioed the priests. They decided to accept a truce; fighting would stop immediately, if the Imperial Army withdrew to the positions it had held before the war. There were a few more radio exchanges; he left the priests and the Imperial Court to sort it all out. He took off his uniform and for the first time since he'd arrived, dressed as a civilian. He went to a high tower with some field glasses, and watched the tiny specks that were enemy tanks as they rolled down a street, far away. The citadel gates were closed.

A truce was declared at midday. The weary Imperial soldiers outside the citadel gates billeted themselves in the bars and hotels nearby.

He stood in the long gallery and faced into the light. The tall white curtains billowed softly around him, quiet in the warm breeze. His long black hair was lifted only slightly by the gentle wind. His hands were clasped behind his back. He looked pensive. The silent, lightly clouded skies over the mountains, beyond the fortress and the city, threw a blank, pervasive light across his face, and standing there like that, in plain dark clothes, he looked insubstantial, like some statue, or a dead man propped against the battlements to fool the foe.

"Zakalwe?"

He turned. His eyes widened in surprise. "Skaffen-Amtiskaw! This is an unexpected honour. Sma letting you out alone these days, or is she about too?" He looked the length of the citadel's long gallery.

"Good day, Cheradenine," the drone said, floating towards him. "Ms Sma is on her way, in a module."

"And how is Dizzy?" He sat down on a small bench set against the wall which faced the long line of white-curtained windows. "What's the news?"

"I believe it is mostly good," Skaffen-Amtiskaw said, floating level with his face. "Mr Beychae is on his way to the Impren Habitats, where a summit conference between the Cluster's two main tendencies is to be held. It would appear the danger of war is lessening."

"Well, isn't this all very wonderful," he said, sitting back with his hands behind his neck. "Peace here; peace out there." He squinted at the drone, his head to one side. "And yet, drone, somehow you do not seem to be overflowing with joy and happiness. You seem — dare I say it? — positively sombre. What's the matter? Batteries low?"

The machine was silent for a second or two. Then it said, "I believe Ms Sma's module is about to land; shall we go to the roof?"

He looked puzzled for a moment, then nodded, stooa smartly and clapped his hands once, indicating the way forward. "Certainly; let's go."

They went to his apartments. He thought Sma seemed rather subdued, too. He'd imagined she'd be bubbling over with excitement because the Cluster looked like it wasn't going to go to war after all.

"What's the problem, Dizzy?" he asked, pouring her a drink. She was pacing up and down in front of the room's shuttered windows. She took the drink from him, but didn't seem interested in it. She turned to face him, her long, oval face looking… he wasn't sure. But there was a cold feeling somewhere in his guts.

"You have to leave, Cheradenine," she told him.

"Leave? When?"

"Now; tonight. Tomorrow morning at the latest."

He looked confused, then laughed. "Okay; I confess; the catamites were starting to look attractive, but…"

"No," Sma said. "I'm serious, Cheradenine. You have to go."

He shook his head. "I can't. There's no guarantee the truce will hold. They might need me."

"The truce isn't going to hold," Sma told him, looking away. "Not on one side, anyway." She put her glass down on a shelf.

"Eh?" he said. He glanced at the drone, which was looking non-committal. "Diziet, what are you talking about?"

"Zakalwe," she said, eyes blinking rapidly; she tried to look at him, "A deal's been done; you have to leave."

He stared at her.

"What's the deal, Dizzy?" he said softly.

"There was some… fairly low-level help being given to the Empire by the Humanist faction," she told him, walking towards one wall, then returning, talking not to him but to the tile and carpet floor. "They had… face invested in what's been happening here. The whole delicate structure of the deal did rather depend on the Empire triumphing here." She stopped, glanced at the drone, looking away again. "Which is what everybody agreed was going to happen, up until a few days ago."

"So," he said slowly, putting aside his own drink, sitting down in a great chair that looked like a throne. "I messed things up by turning the game against the Empire, did I?"

"Yes," Sma said, swallowing. "Yes, you did. I'm sorry. And I know it's crazy, but that's the way things are here, the way the people are here; the Humanists are divided at the moment, and there are factions within them that would use any excuse to argue for getting out of the deal, however insignificant that excuse might be. They might just be able to pull the whole thing down. We can't take that risk. The Empire has to win."

He sat, looking at a small table in front of him. He sighed. "I see. And all I have to do is leave?"

"Yes; come with us."

"What happens after that?"

"The high priests will be kidnapped by an Imperial commando squad brought in by Humanist controlled aircraft. The citadel here will be taken over by the troops outside; there are raids planned on the field HQs; they should be pretty bloodless. If necessary, the Hegemonarchy planes, tanks, artillery pieces and trucks will be put out of action, should the armed forces ignore the call put out by the high priesthood to surrender their arms. Once they've seen a few planes and tanks laser-blasted from space, it's expected the fight will go out of the army."

Sma stopped pacing, came to stand in front of him, on the far side of the little table. "It all happens at dawn tomorrow. It should be fairly bloodless, really, Zakalwe. You might as well leave now; it would be best." He heard her exhale. "You've done… brilliantly, Cheradenine. It's worked; you did it; brought Beychae out, got him… motivated or whatever. We're grateful. We're very grateful, and it's not easy…"

He raised one hand to stop her. He heard her sigh. He looked up from the small table, up to her face. "I can't leave right away. There are a few things I have to do. I'd rather you left now and then came back. Pick me up tomorrow; at dawn." He shook his head. "I won't desert them until then."

Sma opened her mouth, then closed it, glanced at the drone. "All right; we'll be back tomorrow. Zakalwe, I —»

"It's all right, Diziet," he interrupted calmly, and slowly stood up. He looked into her eyes; she had to look away. "It'll be as you say. Good-bye." He didn't hold out his hand.

Sma walked to the door; the drone followed her.

The woman looked back. He nodded once; she hesitated, seemed to think the better of saying anything, and went out.

The drone stopped there too. "Zakalwe," it said. "I just want to add —»

"Out!" he screamed, and in one movement turned, swooped, caught the small table between the legs and threw it with all his might at the floating machine. The table bounced off an invisible field and clattered to the floor; the drone swept out and the door closed.