“I like a Widgin with initiative.” Alabow.

The two troopers, on the other hand, were real cases, as their gyves attested. Alabow stood before the first of the two troopers and hailed the ward behind him.

“Hello, Bludgeon,” said Alabow with a fat smile. “Long time no see. How’s the missus?”

“Fine, sir,” rumbled Bludgeon.

“So.” The Pope seemed pleased to have actual cases. He rubbed his palms together and asked, “What you got for me?”

Bludgeon took a deep breath and announced officially, “Trooper Calendar Year has been charged with fleas, sir.”

Alabow retreated compulsively from the offending trooper. The second trooper stepped to the side, jostling the Emissary, who stared in unabashed dismay.

“Fleas!?” shouted the Pope. “I hate fleas!” The Pope took another step back. “That’s ten demerits for not telling me sooner. Now, take him out and scrub him down. Immediately. And, use that red stuff.”

Calendar Year fell to his knees and pleaded desperately, “Not the red stuff! Please, sir!”

Bludgeon took Trooper Year by the collar and lifted him easily to his feet. They left the throne room, Year being shoved ahead, and stumbling through the double doors. When the double doors closed, Alabow turned his attention to the next case.

“Alright, Cudgel, what you got for me?”

Cudgel grated in a low voice, “Trooper Phil N. D’Blanc is accused of collecting double taxes from the muff nut farmers.”

The Pope stepped close and peered into the trooper’s face. “Why didn’t I think of that?” asked the Pope to himself. “That’s good. I like a Widgin with initiative,” he said with a nod.

Cudgel rumbled on, “Trooper D’Blanc lost all collected revenues at the dograt track.”

The Pope frowned. “That’s not good,” he amended. “No riffmarks in the till means no imperial expansion.”

The ward continued, “Trooper D’Blanc is also charged with selling Papal pamphlets to operatives of the Shahshian crown.”

“Nothing wrong with that,” replied the Pope, stabbing the Emissary with an arraigning eye. “God knows they need the enlightenment.”

Cudgel said further, “Trooper D’Blanc spent all his ill-gotten gain on ale at Hurl’s Tavern.”

“What?!” asked the Pope, offended. “No cut? No ten percent off the top? Cudgel, take this gouger out and beat him slowly. Take all day if you have to. I decree a slow death.”

The second trooper was pulled whimpering from the throne room, and the doors closed. The Emissary looked at the Pope and swallowed hard. Sposh knew that, after the beating, D’Blanc would be marched north to the Lazy Dalop pamphlet factory, there to spend his remaining days without hope for parole. A slow death meant folding paper, day after day until insanity and old age were replaced by the grave.

Sposh restrained a shudder of abject horror and took note of the fearful young Emissary who could not swallow the lump in his throat. The Pope, at last, turned his attention to the trembling Emissary.

The Pope impaled the remaining ward with a Papal glare, and prompted, “So?”

“An Emissary, sir.”

“Yes! Yes!” Alabow waved his stubby hands rabidly. “The only thing you lackwits get right is the sir. This is no Emissary; that would presuppose distinction. This is just another flunky,” he yelled in a contemptuous voice to shake the glass walls, “from Uda-almighty-Con!”

There was no act or pretense here. Sposh knew his cousin well. Alabow feared and hated Uda Con. The name alone was enough to send the Pope into a red rage. The Emissary wilted in the hot blast of Alabow’s anger.

“Well, get on with it!” commanded the Pope irritably. “What is it this time?”

The young Emissary opened his mouth, swallowed hard, and began again. His voice trembled as he announced, “Uda Con demands to know why no invitation to the monthly Joining Feast has been sent. Uda Con demands . . .”

Alabow cut him off with razor-sharp vitriol. “Uda Con! Uda Con! You houseboys never fail to impress with your lackless density. I am daily assaulted by the same foul air! I swear; if I hear the name Uda Con one more time, I will stop the world and sate my gluttonous appetite for Ambassadorial flesh!”

His rant ending in a higher octave, Alabow turned away and threw up his hands. As he approached the throne, he called over his rounded shoulder, “Guards! See if I have a free cell.”

Wringing his hands, the Emissary fell to his knees, true terror in his wide eyes. The Pope sat heavily on the throne with an unrepentant huff. He skewered the cowering Emissary with a soul-shriveling gaze.

“I have a kingdom to run. Tell Uda Con that,” commanded the portly Pope.

“I,” stammered the Emissary, feeling wholly neutered.

The Pope asked in anger, “Is there something wrong with my rejoinder? Perhaps you’d enjoy a stretch at our dung works before returning.”

The Emissary gaped in abject horror, unable to speak. The Pope made a visible shift from indignation to sympathy. Alabow rose from the throne with an exaggerated grunt and walked down to the hapless Emissary. He took the youth in both hands and lifted him to his feet. A greasy smile rolled across the Pope’s face, while his voice took on a fatherly note.

“You seem to be a dedicated lad,” said Alabow kindly. “There’s always room for new talent in Brohm, but, let me give you some advice. Your soul is a spiritual wasteland. You’ll never get ahead down in that quagmire. Set yourself free; be the Dalop you were meant to be. Here.” The Pope fished in a pocket and shoved a pamphlet in the Emissary’s trembling hand.

The Pope slapped the Emissary’s shoulder and stepped back. The Emissary looked absently at the pamphlet. Alabow continued to speak in a kind voice. “That pamphlet describes the eighty-nine steps to spiritual enlightenment, which my tutelage provides. Read it on your way home, and of course, don’t forget to stop at the secretarial desk and pay the redundant nine ninety-nine. Let’s see; taking professional courtesy into account, that comes to . . . bargains, bargains.”

Alabow gave a pat to the Emissary’s back and called Spike from his post with a curled finger. “Yes, Yessir,” stammered the young Emissary, all too glad to beat a hasty retreat. Sposh rolled his eyes and sighed. Alabow returned to the throne.

With a gleam in his eye, Alabow locked fingers behind his head and stretched luxuriantly. He looked at the ward with a congenial grin. As Spike placed a heavy hand on a small shoulder, the Emissary turned and sputtered, “But, I don’t have nine ninety-nine.”

The Pope bolted from the throne, not an easy feat. Indignation was in his voice. “One of those, huh?”

Spike clutched the Emissarial collar as the Pope walked forward. The Widgin gulped audibly. The Pope gave a sour look to the Widgin, then turned to Spike.

“Have the crawlers been cleared from cell four?” asked the Pope.

“Most of them,” answered Spike.

Suddenly, the Emissary produced a small book, and said, “I can write a draft on my account.”

The Pope’s grand smile returned. “Ah! There’s a good lad,” said he. The Pope found a second pamphlet and pressed it into the sweating palms of the Widgin. “And, here’s one for that infidel you serve, mind you, through no fault of your own.”

The Emissary took the second pamphlet with a look of trepidation on his young face. “Yes, sir,” he said.

Alabow lost his smile, stared hard into the Widgin's eyes, and said, “I’m afraid there’s no professional courtesy discount on the second pamphlet. That’ll be ten riffmarks.” The Widgin wilted in defeat. Giving a kindly pat to the Emissary’s free shoulder, Alabow concluded with a dismissive wave as he turned away. “Now, you just follow Spike to the secretary. Pay the cashier and have a really nice day.”

The Pope sat on the throne with his fat arms spread expansively. His eyes shone like new coins in a cash drawer. His broad fat smile dripped with self-satisfaction as he fingered the fake encrusted jewels on the arms of his throne.

“Sposh! Sposh!” said Alabow. “My laconic myrmidon. How goes it, cuz? How’s the missus? Etc., etc.”

“Sir, please!” Sposh responded.

The Pope laughed; his big belly rolled. He slapped the yellow tassels that depended from the throne’s canopy. He stood and turned to Sposh with a happy sigh.

“Cuz! I’m happy,” said the Pope. “I feel good today.”

Sposh stole a guilty glance at the guard on the right of the throne. As dull as Inverder Brate was, he had, nonetheless, caught the reference. Inverder drank at the Drafter’s pub; word was sure to get around. Sposh would be laughed to shame. Sposh would surely get a beating in a back alley. As if life wasn’t difficult enough!

Alabow called loudly, “Bread Box!”

A wizened crackling voice answered from the shadow of a broad pillar. “Yes, Your Eminence.”

The Pope commanded in his most stately and imposing voice, “Open the book.”

Bread Box, an old Dalop twice removed, hobbled to the podium on which sat a large Terry tome and cleared his throat as an indication of readiness. Pulling the standard Terran dictionary open to its midpoint, Bread said, “What does His Eminence wish to know?”

Alabow drummed his fat fingers while he thought. “Let’s see,” he said. “Marken Pierce is an engineer. Faith Armature is an Envoy for the Consortium. That leaves the stowaway. I want to know what a stowaway is.”

The elder Dalop coughed lightly, licked a thumb, and made quick work of finding the word. He cleared his throat again, and said, “A person who secrets himself aboard a vehicle as a means of obtaining transportation.”

“So,” said the Pope, “his position is no position at all.” Alabow paced thoughtfully. He stopped before Throne Guard Brate and said, “He stole a ride. But why steal a ride here? Political asylum perhaps?”

Brate answered, “Don’t know, sir.”

Alabow snapped, “Of course, you don't, Brate. Why don’t you say something useful now and then?”

“I try, sir,” Brate replied.

“Pah!” said the Pope. “Lack-witted dizzards.” Alabow returned to the throne with a deep sigh. “It’s so lonely at the top.” He checked his manicured claws and continued. “Fortunately, I’m the top dog. With power comes great supremacy, and that, my boys, is what keeps you at the bottom.”

Can’t get any worse than this, thought Sposh. Sposh briefly entertained the notion of sweeping floors at Mr. Drop’s stimulatory. That would please Chic, at any rate. She was always telling him to get a real job. Perhaps that would loosen the edge.

The doors opened, and a short Polop trooper entered bearing a folded note on a silver tray. The Pope dismissed the trooper with a curt wave and shook open the note. He hummed beneath his breath as he silently read the note. Then he turned to Sposh.

“Seems it’s for you, Sposh.”

Sposh froze in place. Such things were inconvenient. Such things placed his only paying job at risk. He could feel the sweat beading beneath the fur on his brow. He could not think of a response.