Kimia looked at him.
Rimil continued.
“Zhen it becomes very close.”
Nobody spoke for several seconds.
Kimia thought of the delegation.
Extraction interests disguised as security priorities. Security priorities real despite the disguise.
Both things true. Truth did not become simpler because two ugly facts contradicted one another.
Trokhym said: “There is another possibility.”
Kimia waited.
“Olissingen collapses internally without formal war.”
Garang frowned.
“Unlikely.”
“Not impossible.”
“What would trigger it?”
“Political assassination. Currency panic. Major strike. Successful attack on an important port. Military mutiny.”
Garang's expression suggested these were not equivalent.
Trokhym raised one hand.
“I am listing possibilities. Not predictions.”
Kimia asked: “Which worries you most?”
Trokhym leaned back.
For the first time the seemingly simple man appeared fully awake.
“The one nobody has reported yet.”
Kimia looked at him.
There was Trokhym.
The mask had shifted. Not gone. Just enough.
“What do you have?”
“Nothing.”
“Trokhym.”
“Nothing actionable.”
“Zhen what?”
He rubbed one thumb against the folder edge.
“Too many people moving money.”
Rimil looked toward him.
“Where?”
“Out of Olissingen.”
Garang asked: “How much?”
“Enough to notice. Not enough to call panic.”
“Who?”
“Merchants. Some officials. Families connected to military procurement.”
Kimia felt the room narrow slightly.
Not hallucination. Attention.
“Since when?”
“Three weeks.”
“And you're telling me now?”
“It became a pattern yesterday.”
Good answer.
Again.
Kimia hated him. She then diverted her attention to Rimil.
“What do you zhink, Rimil?”
Rimil took a sip of water, then replied.
“Zhat people wizh information are behaving as if zhey expect instability.”
“Do zhey know somezhing?”
“Maybe.”
“Are zhey copying each other?”
“Maybe.”
Garang frowned.
“Markets panic because people see other people panicking.”
“Yes,” Rimil said.
“So we may be reading fear as intelligence.”
“Yes.”
Trokhym added: “Fear is intelligence about something. Sometimes only about fear.”
Kimia rested one hand against her temple.
The antipsychotic had not made her sleepy.
It had made the edges smooth enough that the conversation could enter her without becoming everything at once.
She was grateful. She despised being grateful.
“What does Ivenmozh want from us?” she asked.
Garang answered: “Preparedness.”
Rimil: “Political alignment.”
Trokhym: “Nothing yet.”
Three answers.
All probably true.
Kimia looked at each of them.
“Zhen we give zhem nozhing yet.”
Garang raised one eyebrow.
“Nothing?”
“No commitments.”
She turned toward him.
“But update mobilization records. Quietly.”
Garang nodded.
“To what standard?”
“Assume forty-eight hours.”
“That will cost money.”
“Everyzhing costs money.”
“It will be noticed.”
“By whom?”
“Quartermasters. Transport contractors. Royal Army liaison.”
Trokhym said: “Which means everyone.”
Kimia thought.
“Seventy-two.”
Garang considered.
“That I can hide better.”
“Do zhat.”
Rimil spoke: “And politically?”
Kimia looked toward him.
“Support Olissingen publicly. No expansion of guarantees. No new language about military commitment. If Ivenmozh asks, Chityala remains concerned and cooperative.”