“A wife rules through a husband’s weakness.” Uda Con.

Besh marveled at the glass walls as he was led into a richly appointed throne room. Upon passing through the double doors, Besh noticed the room was long, supported by columns on either side of a lengthy, decorated carpet. Rich drapes adorned the walls with bright colors, while torches burned in sconces arranged on the supporting columns.

Sposh stopped Besh before a small food-laden table halfway between the double doors and an audacious throne. Besh hitched up his belt line and looked around. The sandwiches on the table seemed homemade. He noticed electric lights above the throne. Sposh stood on one side of the throne and another guard stood opposite. To the left was a podium on which sat an open tome.

Without fanfare, the Pope walked in from a side room. He was dark and wore a sumptuous red robe. He walked to the other side of the small table and smiled up at Besh.

He spoke. “So, here we are.”

Bowing at the waist, Besh intoned, “Your Grace.” Then, lifting himself with a smile, he said, “I'm impressed by your magnanimity.”

The Pope replied, “Sir, you are a Terry after my own heart. Please eat.”

Besh lifted a fat sandwich and took a bite. He nodded politely, set the sandwich down, and sipped a tart wine from a golden goblet. The Pope stood in piqued anticipation. Besh inspected a slice of fruit as he considered his approach.

“The perfect combination of dry bread and fatty meat,” said Besh. “The mayo is unique.”

“Wonderful,” enthused the Pope. “Now, I have brought you here for a delicate matter.”

Besh inserted fruit and chewed. “Anything,” he replied.

“Good. Good,” said the Pope. Alabow turned and paced. “How best to say this?”

While the Pope’s back was turned, Besh peeked quickly inside the sandwich to see what he had eaten. He took a napkin and wiped the grease from his fingers. Alabow spun suddenly.

“I desire Terry tech,” said the Pope.

Besh cleared his throat. “If it's trade relations you seek, you should really be speaking with the Consortium negotiator.”

“The woman?” asked the Pope in a strained voice.

“Yes, Your Grace,” answered Besh. “She has come to you expressly to cut a deal. If you are after technology, she’s your golden ticket.”

The Pope turned and paced thoughtfully. He returned to the table and asked, “Is she easy to entreat?”

Besh answered, “Faith sees through all duplicity. She is far from easy. However, it is common practice for the Terrans to share their tech generously.” Besh chose another slice of fruit over the dubious sandwich.

The Pope rubbed his palms together vigorously. “Good. Good,” he said with a smile.

“If I may say,” continued Besh. “You have yet to make a good impression on her.”

“Oh?” The Pope’s voice registered alarm.

Besh said, “To get the most out of trade negotiations, you need to wow her. Show her just how magnanimous you are.”

“Go on.” prompted the Pope.

Besh took another bite of the greasy sandwich. He chewed slowly and watched the Pope’s anticipation build. Besh swallowed and said, “Our accommodations are less than continental. Check-in was fast and discreet, but I noticed there were no after dinner mints on our pillows.”

“Oh?” asked the Pope, wringing his hands.

Besh noted an acceptable level of anxiety in the Pope’s manner. He continued. “We can make do without a spa, but Terran women have,” he leaned over the table and lowered his voice, “certain needs.”

The Pope nodded blankly, his mouth agape. Besh pressed forward.

“Pamper her,” said Besh. “Give her everything she needs. Set her up in a manner appropriate to a Terran woman, and I dare say, you’ll get everything you desire in trade.”

The Pope inhaled and snapped to. “You’re right,” he said. “You’re absolutely right.” The Pope turned in circles, scratching in his dark fur thoughtfully. He wheeled and walked back to the table.

“Do you think,” asked the Pope, “I can get one of those flying ships? Something with lasers and guided missiles?”

Besh answered cautiously, “Terran ships are not built with the Tappish in mind. In a best-case scenario, they would sell you the parts to build your own.”

The Pope turned toward Sposh and snapped his fingers. Turning back to Besh, he said, “Excellent! Right, then, lodging.”

Besh added, “And access to their ship.”

“I will make immediate arrangements,” said the Pope. “Bread Box!” bellowed the Pope.

A voice issued from the shadows. “Your Eminence.” A small graying beaver in a uniform emerged.

“Get me a list of vacant manors,” demanded the Pope. “Chop chop.”

The elder beaver answered, “At once.” Besh turned to follow the slow departure of the senior.

When Besh turned back to the Pope, the small black beaver in the heavy robe nodded satisfaction. “Leave everything to me,” he said.

Besh said, “The Pope is a wise leader.”

The Pope replied, “You're a discerning Terry.”

Alabow seated himself on the throne with inflated pomp. He stroked his hairy face thoughtfully. Besh spoke into the silence.

“I was looking through the cell window out into the market,” said Besh. “I saw children playing, and adults speaking to their neighbors in a joyous manner. I was impressed. The Tappish are a wonderful people; I would really like to get out and meet them.”

Alabow answered, “The Tappish way is instilled from youth. The Dour tax keeps them in line.”

Besh smiled at Sposh, saying, “I was very pleased with the friendly nature of your guard, Sposh. It really speaks well of the Pope’s leadership.”

The Pope turned to Sposh, snapped his fingers, and pointed meaningfully. Turning back to Besh, the Pope said casually, “He’s my cousin. It runs in the family. Sposh got more of the friendly end of it while I was blessed with an abundance of leadership.”

Sposh sighed and looked straight ahead. At this rate, he thought, the Pope would tell everyone that he was his cousin. He seemed poised to announce the matter to the worlds of the aliens with casual disregard. Sweeping at Mister Drop’s stimulatory was looking better by the minute. The Pope stood from the throne, and Besh sensed the return of the elder Widgin.

Shuffling slowly, the Widgin moved with a sedate sense of urgency in his transit to an impatient Pope. “Well! Well!” snapped Alabow.

“Your Eminence,” replied the Widgin breathlessly. “There are, at present, no unoccupied manors. There is at your disposal the unfinished melon exchange. It is a small building, but suitable for its high ceiling. Two Terries could easily be accommodated.”

“If I may say,” Besh added, “that would make an excellent Embassy.”

“It shall be,” said the Pope, “where the Tappish people haul themselves into the technological age. Grand!” he enthused. “Absolutely grand!”

Besh said, “Any place is fine with me. I don’t take up much space.”

“I know just the place,” said Alabow.

“With the Pope’s permission,” said Besh, with a slight formal bow of the head, “I would like to take the good news to my friends. Also, if it’s no trouble, I would like to wrap this deliciously fatty sandwich and share it with my Terran colleagues.”

“Of course,” said the Pope, rubbing his palms together. “I will ply her with Tappish delicacies. She can ply me with Terrytech in return. Bread Box, make sure my friend has all he can carry.”

Besh and Sposh walked down the long hall with arms filled. Sposh struggled under the Pope’s sudden generosity. Negotiating a balance between the three bottles of Takee milk and his spear was increasingly difficult. Besh reached out with a pinky and hooked the cord of one bottle.

“I can carry that for you,” said Besh.

“Obliged,” said Sposh, with an embarrassed grin.

When at last, they padded softly to the cell, Besh saw that Faith leaned against the wall with her back to them. He could see Marken’s boots extending past the end of the bench near the door. Faith looked as disturbed as ever; Marken, at least, seemed to be relaxed.

“I’m back,” called Besh in a happy voice. “And I have food.”

Sposh set his load aside and searched for his key. Faith wheeled in surprised delight, and gripped the bars, looking hungrily at the food Besh carried. Marken bolted from the bench and took a cautious position near Faith. The side of his face was purple and swollen.

“My,” said Besh. “That’s some shiner.