"Truly, things have not turned out that badly, have they, Uncle?"

Breathless with anticipation, beautiful Triss, no longer Mistress Trezleniya-Silvertou, but with joy and without question Yvan Dragomilov's woman (and Zakh Sorokin's, she realized, as well, whatever that might prove to mean), saw her uncle aboard the golden droilodka, battered by still glittering, ghostly by ringlight, which another Yvan Dragomilov had so long ago adorned.  Trezleniya-Silvertou, already aboard, made no polite pretense of not listening to the private conversation between his colleague and his colleague's niece.

"I would say the estimate," her uncle spared a wry look for the Dzendayn ambassador, "rather depends on one's viewpoint.  Being frightened hastily offplanet in the middle of the night, without the dignity of leave to stay until morning---and in a farm wagon, of all conveyances---smacks of ignominy, wouldn't you agree?"

The ambassador could identify with what Trezleniya-Silvertou's feelings and was himself grateful that he had come to Genrich at the start of the Genrichian Premier rather than his own, and just as an observer.  Fighting thoughts that wished to stray elsewhere, Tris shook her head.  "You are not an honored guest, Uncle, but an unsuccessful invader.  Moreover, as I have recent occasion to appreciate, day and night are all the same in the bosom of the Deep."  Nonetheless, her smile was kind.  "The only viewpoint I own is that of one who must bid you farewell.  I suspect the Premier will understand, if that bothers you.  Affairs here would inevitably have concluded the same way had he come himself.  I shall enfile a message and tell him so."

The Premier was indeed what worried  Trezleniya-Silvertou.  Fancying bandits as he professed, possibly Arkivitius would be amused by what had transpired on Genrich, however displeased he must officially appear.  Which reaction, personal or political, to humiliating failure on the part of his Executor-General would most likely determine that worthy's fate?  Sharing his niece's opinion with regard to the eventual outcome, nonetheless he wondered, with an anticipatory shudder, what Kvadratriok was like this time of year.  

Events now moved relentlessly, as if by their own weight, toward some momentous conclusion he would apparently not be here to witness.  The fire in Novgorod had already burned itself out.  Among themselves, the rebels seemed to hold a sense of unnamed excitement.  Hours had passed since Yvan Dragomilov's complicated ruse had been revealed.  His forces continued to make planetfall in big numbers at the starport---a new name would be found for it, now---to hunt for Zaytsteva's stragglers, aided by woodsjacks, villagers, and (it rankled the Executor-General) some elements of Romanovan soldiery lately persuaded to join the famous star-bandit.

"Many of his crewbeings will be staying planetside, I should imagine."  Joining the two men within the droilodka---their pilot had as yet failed to make his appearance---Tris poured tea from a portable service she had carried with her.  She seemed nervous and preoccupied, anxious to have done with this and be elsewhere.  "At present they are sorting out genuine deserters from the spies you'd planned to leave behind."

"He'll have nobody left to work his ships," her uncle replied, taking the cup she offered, "and this pleasant woodland planet will be overwhelmed with people---and other things."

"I don't think so, Uncle. It is what he promised," she observed as she sipped her tea, "as a substitute for the usual prize bandits seek.  Yes, even some sleemov and strozad will stay.  Genrich will be the first home many of them, human or alien, have known.  It is a large planet, and their places will be taken by a greater number of Genrichians wishing to travel to the stars."

"While I, the Premier's personal representative, am rudely, unceremoniously booted off a planet under Romanovan sovereignty by a mere..."

"Desperado?" Despite herself, Tris giggled. "Does this look rude to you?"  She tossed a glance about the comfortably appointed droilodka.  They had just quit the paneled library office where a sumptuous breakfast had been served while music played and a fire burned in the grate.  His niece had eaten little, having been called to the communicator several times during the meal.  "I understand that, as soon as he returns from looking at something in the woods which Mr. Putin wanted to see, he will come to wish you bon voyage, whereupon you will be free to return to Romanova---if as he says, you think that the most prudent course.  This is what he wishes, Uncle, what he planned, and assured at great personal risk by entering a rather obvious trap."

Trezleniya-Silvertou, snorted.  "He did not look for our presence here, it was a total surprise!"

"It is the policy he purposed following all along, whoever claimed to represent the Cosmopolity on Genrich."  She raised an admonitory finger.  "He still wants to send a message to Romanova, which Captain Omarov somehow failed to deliver. I daresay he is rather pleased that it happens to be you to whom pragmatists compel him to show mercy, rather than certain others."

Trezleniya-Silvertou nodded his satisfaction.  "Yes, even the ruthless Yvan Dragomilov seems to have acquired some restraint of late, I suspect as a consequence of his violent and emotional encounters with you."

Barely concealing her impatience, she shook her head.  "I would not stake my life on that theory, Uncle.  Not in the way you mean.  He will continue to be what he must be, merciful or ruthless by turns as practicality demands of him.  Rather say that your niece has learned profoundly from the sometimes splendidly, deliciously wicked Yvan Dragomilov, and hopes to continue her lessons in the future.  Violent emotional experiences are not a bad thing, altogether.  True, maybe, he feels he has regained some measure of humanity he feels he lost...."

"In no small part, thanks to you, my dear, I have no doubt of it." He nodded towards the ambassador.  "For which two great spheres of influence will be grateful for a long time to come."

She frowned.  "Be that as it might, Uncle, I warn you, he will never grow soft like the sissies you complain of.  I know him. It was only by heroic effort, against what has long since become reflex with him, that he refrained from thrusting the Premier's personal representative when he first laid eyes on you in his father's house. For him it constituted one usurpation too many."

Trezleniya-Silvertou sat up.  "The presumption of the whelp!"

She almost jumped from her lthyseat.  The words were not Tris's, but arose from the ladderhatch.  Yvan Dragomilov was covered in mud from head to toe, the sling on his arm filthy.  Blood splotches lay across his other sleeve.  Putin climbed the ladder behind him, filling the hatchway as, at their feet, flowed one of the bandit's sleemov companions.  Yvan Dragomilov strode up the aisle, bent to kiss Tris---who gave him a look fraught with expectation---and straightened up to face her uncle.

"My message is a simple one, sir," he continued, his voice level.  "I bid you, and your filthy minions and serial killers begone, not just from the planet Genrich, but from this whole region of the Deep.  If not, then by all that is unholy in a universe brimming with degeneracy, I swear I will bring a long-overdue revolution to Romanova itself.  And, whatever else may come of it, not one stone of that planet will I live standing on another!"

The cabin was quiet for a long while.  Ignoring this annoying, overhanging air of unfulfilled awaiting as he usually ignored air altogether, Trezleniya-Silvertou found he could be quite philosophical about not having acquired Tris.  Given a measure of ruthlessness upon her part fully comparable to that of Yvan Dragomilov---not to mention her apparent taste for weaponry---he was vastly better off.

A voyage of some weeks lay ahead. It would be well to introduce his Romanovan friend to the mysteries of the Immortal Shrine.  Peter, himself, was an intelligent and stabilizing influence in the galaxy.  The Practice would extend a useful life---did Arkivitius not see fit to end it after hearing of events on this planet---and give them something personal in common.

They would need it. If this threat were to bring anarchy down upon Romanova were taking with even a fraction of the needed seriousness, life was going to become not too interesting and tough for the established powers in the not-too-distant future. Maybe it was time to start thinking about ending a Thousand Years' War which diverted their attention from matters more important.

At last, the troublesome individual who had made the silence broke it.  "I would have said all of this earlier, had we not been interrupted, and my attentions urgently needed elsewhere.  Now matters are out of my hands for the time being.  May I have some tea, my darling Tris, and a cup for Mr. Putin, I think, as well?"

Putin nodded enthusiastic agreement.  He tossed a grin and a wink at the girl, as if sharing some mysterious private joke with her, found a seat which protested under his weight, and affectionately scratched the alien on what served as its head.

"Even with this tiny armada of yours..."  Trezleniya-Silvertou gave a polite cough, attempting to regain some measure of his dignity, "---this may prove a tough edict to enforce, young man, against the massed naval power of the Romanovan Imperium-Conglomerate."

"You would be well advised to believe him, Uncle," Tris suggested as she poured, "when he speaks in this manner without raising his voice."  Not able to contain herself further, she turned to Yvan Dragomilov. "And what, if I might ask, have your various searches produced?"

Suddenly appearing weary and much older than his years, Yvan Dragomilov stared into his teacup.  "Broken, gnawed, marrow-split bones, left behind in a deserted Cossack camp.  I have reason to be sure they are the remains of Zaytsteva and his evil daughter, Veronica."

Suppressing a shudder, Tris looked a different kind of question at him than had been the case earlier.  He passed it to his first officer.  Putin fumbled in a grimy camouflage-patterned kevlar bag slung over one massive shoulder.  Trezleniya-Silvertou cringed within himself (he wasn't alone in this), dreading to see what gruesome trophy of the Usurprer had been retrieved. Still grinning, Putin produced the battered "persuadible" which, for man and daughter, had proven the deadliest possible failure.  The sleemov took the object in its stubby tentacles, turning it as if examining something once familiar, now much altered by circumstances.

"It is my hope," Yvan Dragomilov offered in the same uninflicted tone he had earlier employed, "that in the final, horrifying moment of their lives, they realized it was all a deliberate hoax, conceived by myself and executed by my comrades, to forestall many less-sophisticated but more brutal measures on the Usurper's part by rendering him complacently dependent upon miracles."

Another silence ensued.  "And of Mistress Petrovka," Trezleniya-Silvertou asked, drawing funny looks from Yvan Dragomilov and his niece, "is there no word?"

"Nor," Tris added, some measure of her excitement having evaporated, "of your brother, Adam?"

Tris reached out to place a comforting hand on her lover's forearm.  Trezleniya-Silvertou had quite another reason for the look of worry and loss in his eyes.  "And what is to become of you, my dear?"

"I had almost forgot!"  All of a sudden, she was bright and lively once more.  From a pocket of her gown, she handed him an engraved autofile on a jeweled chain.  Yvan Dragomilov smiled.  Her expression had become one of rejoicing.  "For you, Uncle Flownx, from both of us."  She raised adoring eyes to Yvan Dragomilov, who now grinned from ear to ear, momentarily a boy again, and took her hand.  "Since he has asked me, I will sail the dark, endless currents of the Deep with him, or else live the rest of my days in happiness, on this, our liberated Genrich, it's halo for my wedding ring."

Yvan Dragomilov pointed upward.  "And here, unless I am mistaken, in answer to all your unasked questions, are the first of our wedding guests, four hundred sleemov fighting captains, their stout crews, and their new apprentices, late of the Dzendayn naval academy!"

An unfamiliar roaring hum filled the air. Through the open meshwork of the droilodka, Trezleniya-Silvertou at first thought dawn lit the sky in golden contrast to the dusty silver of the moonring.  Yet it was still many hours until sunrise. Then he realized that the Premier wold have little to blame him for, after all.  Somehow it seemed like little comfort.

Overhead, from horizon to horizon, the sky filled with hundreds of alien vessels descending---without benefit of cabelle, starsail, or rocket blast---directly towards the planet's surface.  Each pulsed with inner light in quality resembling the eerie blue flicker of purge-glow, yet brighter, stronger, daytime brilliant, challenging the night-black Deep, bearing the first real progress for mankind in a thousand years.

"In either case," declared Tris, suffused with a certain glow of her own," on Genrich or in the Deep, I will be with the man I love, forever."