Windhaven Two men, the last two men in the gaslit city (with the students away from the summer, Windhaven lacks the bar scene that Ayr or even Dalmyre have), shuffled up the empty High Street from Highlanders Stadium, up the Capitoline Hill, occasionally stepping over the goose shit that inspired some Gunnishman of yore to borrow the name of that more famous prominence in Tibur. They had spent an evening watching baseball, eavesdropping on the Engellachian dictator Karl Heydendahl, and talking about who would rule the new empire. "Julian will be empress, and you'll be her chief police-spy in Chagny." Padraig laughed. "Zero chance. The kaiser can pick four ministers in two ways.""Jocks. Diplomats. Judges. Bobbies. Aye?" "We provide most of the jocks, so it's a given that MacGarry will be field marshal.""Well they'll be tickled, he's so mild-mannered." "So either it's a Gunnish foreign minister, and the courts and police are Elbeners...""It's no secret Mellenthin can't stand the risks we take..." "...or Schlabrendorff gets the promotion, the Trousers the courts, Elbener bobbies.""Depends on what they think of our backchannels to Ivar." The heavyset police chief halted at his graystone townhouse, not far from the philosophical faculty of Marian University known as the Capitollium. Their mood was glum. Their intra-Integrity Party rivals, the Trousers, appeared out of nowhere to control imperialization. Robert Gunn was dead. He and Walter were what was left of the old guard. Walter started on his long walk home, down the Alexander Rex north of the river, to his family's home in the opera district. Suddenly he turned on his heel, pulling the Zolotaya out of his mouth. His friend was fumbling with his keys, turning sideways to fit his huge body through his narrow doorway. "Make them take the courts." Padraig squinted in the dark, "What?""It solves everything." Wedged in his doorframe, Padraig considered the matter while he watched the cigarette-ember turn down the hill and walk towards the river.