Bosquinha gave him a sharp-eyed look. "And here I thought you had just proved yourself to be nothing but a gossip-monger."
She might have been joking. Or she might not. "If you think that what I just did was gossip-mongering, you're too stupid to lead this community in anything." He smiled.
Bosquinha spread her hands and shrugged. "Pois e," she said. Of course. What else?
"Will you have the meeting?"
"I'll call it. In the Bishop's chambers."
Ender winced.
"The Bishop won't meet anywhere else," she said, "and no decision to rebel will mean a thing if he doesn't agree to it." Bosquinha laid her hand on his chest. "He may not even let you into the Cathedral. You are the infidel."
"But you'll try."
"I'll try because of what you did tonight. Only a wise man could see my people so clearly in so short a time. Only a ruthless one would say it all out loud. Your virtue and your flaw--we need them both."
Bosquinha turned and hurried away. Ender knew that she did not, in her inmost heart, want to comply with Starways Congress. It had been too sudden, too severe; they had preempted her authority as if she were guilty of a crime. To give in smacked of confession, and she knew she had done nothing wrong. She wanted to resist, wanted to find some plausible way to slap back at Congress and tell them to wait, to be calm. Or, if necessary, to tell them to drop dead. But she wasn't a fool. She wouldn't do anything to resist them unless she knew it would work and knew it would benefit her people. She was a good Governor, Ender knew. She would gladly sacrifice her pride, her reputation, her future for her people's sake.
He was alone in the praca. Everyone had gone while Bosquinha talked to him. Ender felt as an old soldier must feel, walking over placid fields at the site of a long-ago battle, hearing the echoes of the carnage in the breeze across the rustling grass.
"Don't let them sever the ansible connection."
The voice in his ear startled him, but he knew it at once. "Jane," he said.
"I can make them think you've cut off your ansible, but if you really do it then I won't be able to help you."
"Jane," he said, "you did this, didn't you! Why else would they notice what Libo and Miro and Ouanda have been doing if you didn't call it to their attention?"
She didn't answer.
"Jane, I'm sorry that I cut you off, I'll never--"
He knew she knew what he would say; he didn't have to finish sentences with her. But she didn't answer.
"I'll never turn off the--"
What good did it do to finish sentences that he knew she understood? She hadn't forgiven him yet, that was all, or she would already be answering, telling him to stop wasting her time. Yet he couldn't keep himself from trying one more time. "I missed you, Jane. I really missed you."
Still she didn't answer. She had said what she had
to say, to keep the ansible connection alive, and that was all. For now. Ender didn't mind waiting. It was enough to know that she was still there, listening. He wasn't alone. Ender was surprised to find tears on his cheeks. Tears of relief, he decided. Catharsis. A speaking, a crisis, people's lives in tatters, the future of the colony in doubt. And I cry in relief because an overblown computer program is speaking to me again.
Ela was waiting for him in his little house. Her eyes were red from crying. "Hello," she said.
"Did I do what you wanted?" he asked.
"I never guessed," she said. "He wasn't our father, I should have known."
"I can't think how you could have."
"What have I done? Calling you here to speak my father's--Marcao's death." She began weeping again. "Mother's secrets--I thought I knew what they were. I thought it was just her files--I thought she hated Libo."
"All I did was open the windows and let in some air."
"Tell that to Miro and Ouanda."
"Think a moment, Ela. They would have found out eventually. The cruel thing was that they didn't know for so many years. Now that they have the truth, they can find their own way out."