Alai visibly relaxed. They were now playing the same game. Peter had finally understood the rules. “What is to be gained from humiliating those who believe they stand outside the power of God?” asked Alai. “God will show them his power in his own good time, and until then we are wise to be kind.”

  Alai was speaking as the true believers around him required him to speak—always asserting the primacy of the Caliphate over all non-Muslim powers.

  “The dangers I came to speak of,” said Peter, “will not ever come from me or because of the small influence I have in the world. Though I was not chosen by God, and there are few who listen to me, I also seek, as you seek, the peace and happiness of the children of God on Earth.”

  Now was the time, if Alai was completely the captive of his supporters, for him to rant about how it was blasphemous for an infidel like Peter to invoke the name of God or pretend that there could be peace before all the world was under the rule of the Caliphate.

  Instead Alai said, “I listen to all men, but obey only God.”

  “There was a day when Islam was hated and feared throughout the world,” said Peter. “That era ended long ago, before either of us were born, but your enemies are reviving those old stories.”

  “Those old lies, you mean,” said Alai.

  “The fact that no man can make the Hajj in his own skin and live,” said Peter, “suggests that not all the stories are lies. In the name of Islam terrible weapons were acquired and in the name of Islam they were used to destroy the most sacred place on Earth.”

  “It is not destroyed,” said Alai. “It is protected.”

  “It’s so radioactive that nothing can live within a hundred kilometers,” said Peter. “And you know what the explosion did to Al-hajar Al-aswad.”

  “The stone was not sacred in itself,” said Alai, “and Muslims never worshipped it. We only used it as a marker to remember the holy covenant between God and his true followers. Now its molecules are powdered and spread over the whole Earth, as a blessing to the righteous and a curse to the wicked, while we who follow Islam still remember where it was, and what it marked, and bow toward that place when we pray.”

  It was a sermon he had surely said many times before.

  “Muslims suffered more than anyone in those dark days,” said Peter. “But that is not what most people remember. They remember bombs that killed innocent women and children, and fanatical self-murderers who hated any freedom except the freedom to obey the very narrowest interpretation of Shari’ah.”

  He could see Alai stiffen. “I make no judgment myself,” Peter immediately said. “I was not alive then. But in India and China and Thailand and Vietnam, there are people who fear that the soldiers of Islam did not come as liberators, but as conquerors. That they’ll be arrogant in victory. That the Caliphate will never allow freedom to the people who welcomed him and aided him in overcoming the Chinese conquerors.”

  “We do not force Islam on any nation,” said Alai, “and those who claim otherwise are liars. We ask them only to open their doors to the teachers of Islam, so the people can choose.”

  “Forgive my confusion, then,” said Peter. “The people of the world see that open door, and notice that no one passes through it except in one direction. Once a nation has chosen Islam, then the people are never allowed to choose anything else.”

  “I hope I do not hear the echo of the Crusades in your voice.”

  The Crusades, thought Peter, that old bugbear. So Alai really has joined himself to the rhetoric of fanaticism. “I only report to you what is being said among those who are seeking to ally against you in war,” said Peter. “That war is what I hope to avoid. What those old terrorists tried, and failed, to achieve—a worldwide war between Islam and everyone else—may now be almost upon us.”

  “The people of God are not afraid of the outcome of such a war,” said Alai.

  “It’s the process of the war that I hope to avoid,” said Peter. “Surely the Caliph also seeks to avoid needless bloodshed.”

  “All who die are at the mercy of God,” said Alai. “Death is not the thing to fear most in life, since it comes to all.”

  “If that’s how you feel about the carnage of war,” said Peter, “then I’ve wasted your time.” Peter leaned forward, preparing to rise to his feet.

  Petra put her hand on his thigh, pressing down, urging him to remain seated. But Peter had had no intention of leaving.

  “But,” said Alai.

  Peter waited.

  “But God desires the willing obedience of his children, not their terror.”

  It was the statement Peter had been hoping for.

  “Then the murders in India, the massacres—”

  “There have been no massacres.”

  “The rumors of massacre,” said Peter, “which seem to be supported by smuggled vids and eyewitness accounts and aerial photographs of the alleged killing fields—I am relieved that such things would not be the policy of the Caliphate.”

  “If someone has slain innocents for no other crime than believing in the idols of Hinduism and Buddhism, then such a murderer would be no Muslim.”

  “What the people of India wonder—”

  “You do not speak for the people of any place except a small compound in Ribeirão Preto,” said Alai.

  “What my informants in India tell me that the people of India wonder is whether the Caliph intends to repudiate and punish such murderers or merely pretend they didn’t happen? Because if they cannot trust the Caliph to control what is done in the name of Allah, then they will defend themselves.”

  “By piling stones in the road?” asked Alai. “We are not the Chinese, to be frightened by stories of a ‘Great Wall of India.’”

  “The Caliph now controls a population that has far more non-Muslims than Muslims,” said Peter.

  “So far,” said Alai.

  “The question is whether the proportion of Muslims will increase because of teaching, or because of the slaughter and oppression of unbelievers?”

  For the first time, Alai turned his head, and then his body, to face them. But it was not Peter he looked at. He only had eyes for Petra.

  “Don’t you know me?” he said to her.

  Peter wisely did not answer. His words were doing their work, and now it was time for Petra to do what he had brought her to do.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Then tell him,” said Alai.

  “No,” she said.

  Alai sat in wounded silence.

  “Because I don’t know whether the voice I hear in this garden is the voice of Alai or the voice of the men who put him into office and control who may or may not speak to him.”

  “It is the voice of the Caliph,” said Alai.

  “I’ve read history,” said Petra, “and so have you. The Sultans and Caliphs were rarely anything but holy figureheads, when they allowed their servants to keep them within walls. Come out into the world, Alai, and see for yourself the bloody work that’s being done in your name.”

  They heard footsteps, loud ones, many footsteps, and soldiers trotted out of concealment. Within moments, rough hands held Petra and were dragging her away. Peter did not raise a hand to interfere. He only faced Alai, staring at him, demanding silently that he show who ruled in his house.

  “Stop,” said Alai. Not loudly, but clearly.

  “No woman speaks to the Caliph like that!” shouted a man who was behind Peter. Peter did not turn. It was enough to know that the man had spoken in Common, not in Arabic, and that his accent bore the marks of a superb education.

  “Let go of her,” Alai said to the soldiers, ignoring the man who had shouted.

  There was no hesitation. The soldiers let go of Petra. At once she came back to Peter’s side and sat down. Peter also sat down. They were spectators now.

  The man who had shouted, dressed in the flowing robes of an imitation sheik, strode up to Alai. “She uttered a command to the Caliph! A challenge! Her tongue must be cut out of her mouth.”

  Alai remained seated. He said nothing.

  The man turned to the soldiers. “Take her!” he said.

  The soldiers began to move.

  “Stop,” said Alai. Quietly but clearly.

  The soldiers stopped. They looked miserable and confused.

  “He doesn’t know what he’s saying,” the man said to the soldiers. “Take the girl and then we’ll discuss it later.”

  “Do not move except at my command,” said Alai.

  The soldiers did not move.

  The man faced Alai again. “You’re making a mistake,” he said.

  “The soldiers of the Caliph are witnesses,” said Alai. “The Caliph has been threatened. The Caliph’s orders have been countermanded. There is a man in this garden who thinks he has more power in Islam than the Caliph. So the words of this infidel girl are correct. The Caliph is a holy figurehead, who allows his servants to keep him within walls. The Caliph is a prisoner and others rule Islam in his name.”

  Peter could see in the man’s face that he now realized that the Caliph was not just a boy who could be manipulated.

  “Don’t go down this road,” he said.

  “The soldiers of the Caliph are witnesses,” said Alai, “that this man has given a command to the Caliph. A challenge. But unlike the girl, this man has ordered armed soldiers, in the presence of the Caliph, to disobey the Caliph. The Caliph can hear any words without harm, but when soldiers are ordered to disobey him, it does not require an imam to explain that treason and blasphemy are present here.”

  “If you move against me,” the man said, “then the others—”

  “The soldiers of the Caliph are witnesses,” said Alai, “that this man is part of a conspiracy against the Caliph. There are ‘others.’”

  One soldier came forward and laid a hand on the man’s arm.

  He shook it off.

  Alai smiled at the soldier.

  The soldier took the man’s arm again, but not gently. Other soldiers stepped forward. One took the man’s other arm. The rest faced Alai, waiting for orders.

  “We have seen today that one man of my council thinks he is the master of the Caliph. Therefore, any soldier of Islam who truly wishes to serve the Caliph will take every member of the council into custody and hold them in silence until the Caliph has decided which of them can be trusted and which must be discarded from the service of God. Move quickly, my friends, before the ones who are spying on this conversation have time to escape.”

  The man wrenched one hand free and in a moment held a wicked-looking knife.

  But Alai’s hand was already firmly gripping his wrist.

  “My old friend,” said Alai, “I know that you were not raising that weapon against your Caliph. But suicide is a grave and terrible sin. I refuse to allow you to meet God with your own blood on your hands.” With a twist of his hand, Alai made the man groan with pain. The knife clattered on the flagstones.

  “Soldiers,” said Alai. “Make me safe. Meanwhile, I will continue my conversation with these visitors, who are under the protection of my hospitality.”

  Two soldiers dragged the prisoner away, while the others took off at a run.

  “You have work to do,” said Peter.

  “I’ve just done it,” said Alai. He turned to Petra. “Thank you for seeing what I needed.”

  “Being a provocateur comes naturally to me,” she said.

  “I hope we’ve been helpful.”

  “Everything you said has been heard,” said Alai. “And I assure you that when it’s actually in my power to control the armies of Islam, they will behave as true Muslims, and not as barbarian conquerors. Meanwhile, however, I’m afraid that bloodshed is likely, and I believe you will be safest here with me in this garden for the next half hour or so.”

  “Hot Soup has just taken over in China,” said Petra.

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “And he’s taking the title of emperor,” she added.

  “Back to the good old days.”

  “A new dynasty in Beijing now faces the restored Caliphate in Damascus,” said Petra. “It would be a terrible thing, for members of the Jeesh to have to choose up sides and wage war against each other. Surely that’s not what Battle School was ever meant to accomplish.”

  “Battle School?” said Alai. “They may have identified us, but we already were who we were before they laid a hand on us. Do you think that without Battle School, I could not be where I am, or Han Tzu where he is? Look at Peter Wiggin—he didn’t go to Battle School, but he got himself appointed Hegemon.”

  “An empty title,” said Peter.

  “It was when you got it,” said Alai. “Just as my title was until two minutes ago. But when you sit in the chair and wear the hat, some people don’t understand that it’s just a play and start obeying you as if you had real power. And then you have real power. Neh?”

  “Eh,” said Petra.

  Peter smiled. “I’m not your enemy, Alai,” he said.

  “You’re not my friend, either,” said Alai. But then he smiled. “The question is whether you’ll turn out to be a friend to humanity. Or whether I will.” He turned back to Petra. “And so much depends on what your husband chooses to do before he dies.”

  Petra nodded gravely. “He’d prefer to do nothing except enjoy the months or perhaps years he’ll have with me and our child.”

  “God willing,” said Alai, “that’s all he’ll be required to do.”

  A soldier came pounding across the flagstones. “Sir, the compound is secure and none of the council have escaped.”

  “I’m happy to hear that,” said Alai.

  “Three councilmen are dead, sir,” said the soldier. “It could not be helped.”

  “I’m sure that’s the truth,” said Alai. “They are now in God’s hands. The rest are in mine, and now I must try to do what God would have me do. Now, my son, will you take these two friends of the Caliph safely back to their hotel? Our conversation is finished, and I wish them to be free to leave Damascus, unhindered and unrecognized. No one will speak of their presence in this garden on this day.”

  “Yes, my Caliph,” said the soldier. He bowed, and then turned to Peter and Petra. “Will you come with me, friends of the Caliph?”

  “Thank you,” Petra said. “The Caliph is blessed with true servants in this house.”

  The man did not acknowledge her praise. “This way,” he said to Peter.

  As they followed him back to the enclosed van, Peter wondered whether he might have unconsciously planned for the events that happened here today, or whether it was just dumb luck.

  Or whether Petra and Alai planned it, and Peter was nothing more than their pawn, thinking foolishly that he was making his own decisions and conducting his own strategy.

  Or are we, as the Muslims believe, only acting out the script of God?

  Not likely. Any God worth believing in could make up a better plan than the mess the world was in now.

  In my childhood I set my hand to improving the world, and for a while I succeeded. I stopped a war through words I wrote on the nets, when people didn’t know who I was. But now I have the empty title of Hegemon. Wars are swirling back and forth across swathes of the Earth like a reaper’s scythe, vast populations are seething under the whips of new oppressors, and I am powerless to change a thing.

  4

  BARGAIN

  From: PeterWiggin%private@hegemon.gov

  To: SacredCause%OneMan@FreeThai.org

  Re: Suriyawong’s actions concerning Achilles Flandres

  Dear Ambul,

  At all times during Achilles Flandres’s infiltration of the Hegemony, Suriyawong acted as my agent inside Flandres’s growing organization. It was at my instructions that he pretended to be Flandres’s staunch ally, and that was why, at the crucial moment when Julian Delphiki faced the monster, Suriyawong and his elite soldiers acted for the good of all humankind—including Thailand—and made possible the destruction of the man who, more than any other, was responsible for the defeat and occupation of Thailand.

  This is the “public story,” as you pointed out. Now I point out that in this case the public story also happens to be the complete truth.

  Like you, Suriyawong is a Battle School graduate. China’s new Emperor and the Muslim Caliph are both Battle School graduates. But they are two of those chosen to take part in my brother Ender’s famous Jeesh. Even if you discount their actual brilliance as military commanders, the public perception of their powers is at the level of magic. This will affect the morale of your soldiers as surely as of theirs.

  How do you suppose you will keep Thailand free if you reject Suriyawong? He is no threat to your leadership; he will be your most valuable tool against your enemies.

  Sincerely,

  Peter, Hegemon

  Bean stooped to pass through the doorway. He wasn’t actually tall enough to bang his head. But it had happened often enough, in other doorways that once would have given him plenty of room, that now he was overcautious. He didn’t know what to do with his hands, either. They seemed too big for any job he might need them for. Pens were like toothpicks; his finger filled the trigger guard of many a pistol. Soon he’d have to butter his finger to get it out, as if the pistol were a too-tight ring.

  And his joints ached. And his head hurt sometimes like it was going to split in two. Because, in fact, it was trying to do exactly that. The soft spot on the top of his head could not seem to expand fast enough to make room for his growing brain.

  The doctors loved that part. To find out what it did to the mental function of an adult to have the brain grow. Did it disrupt memory? Or merely add to capacity? Bean submitted to their questions and measurements and scans and bloodlettings because he might not find all his children before he died, and anything they learned from studying him might help them.

  But at times like this he felt nothing but despair. There was no help for him, and none for them, either. He would not find them. And if he did, he could not help them.

  What difference has my life made? I killed one man. He was a monster, but I had it in my power to kill him at least once before, and failed to do it. So don’t I share in the responsibility for what he did in the intervening years? The deaths, the misery.