by John F. Carr
Kostran sniffed the air. “That’s not your usual blend. It smells like that Kalvan’s Time-Line weed.”
Verkan laughed, then lit his pipe. “I got used to it--I like the flavor now. But getting back to Xentos, he’s both a true-believer of Dralm--which means he can’t be trusted to act in a rational manner--and he’s very ambitious, which he won’t admit to himself--”
“Which makes him a good candidate for the Bureau of Psychological Hygiene.”
“Or Roxthar’s Investigation! Unfortunately, even Xentos doesn’t know which way he’s going to blow next, so Kalvan’s whistling into the wind if he’s depending upon the Primate and the League of Dralm for support to solve his Kingdom’s problems. The next round is Kalvan’s and it’s going to be up to him to come up with another one of his ‘miracles,’ if he plans to knock Styphon’s House out of the game.”
FOUR
Welcome, Harmakros,” Prince Ptosphes said as he opened the door to his bedchambers. “Sit down and make yourself comfortable.”
Since Ptosphes was in a nightshirt, Harmakros sat on a stool and started pulling down his thigh-high black cavalry boots. After he shucked them off, he wiggled his toes for a few moments and sighed. “Damn, that feels good!”
Ptosphes wrinkled his nose, fumbled for his flintlock tinderbox and struck a flame to light his pipe. “Those feet of yours stink almost as bad as my chamber pot!”
“If it bothers you, I’ll put my boots back on.”
“No, I’ve been in far too many battles to be offended by the smell of honest feet. You’ve been in the saddle for almost two days, for Dralm’s sake. I wanted to talk to you about something before you fell asleep.”
“I’m not very tired. I stopped at the Royal Foundry last night, on the way back from Beshta, and slept there.”
Ptosphes smiled. “Any luck with the ladies?”
“No. That wasn’t the kind of sleep I had in mind! Not that I didn’t steal a few looks at that redhead--Sirna isn’t it? I could sleep on her pillows any time!”
Ptosphes laughed and picked up a flask of Ermut’s brandy and began to fill two goblets. “Then a few drops of Ermut’s Best won’t stretch you out on my bedchamber floor. Now, have you noticed any change between Rylla and Kalvan since your return from the Sastragath?”
“Yes, on the few occasions I have seen them together, the air in the audience chamber is as chill as the north wind’s breath. Every time the Great King is about to relax, Rylla harrumphs, and his face turns as hard as stone. Where formerly I enjoyed being in their presence, I now find myself looking for excuses to return to Tarr-Locra. Although, Dralm’s truth be known, Colonel Democriphon is doing an exemplary job and if I show up unannounced on another of Kalvan’s ‘fact finding missions’ one more time Democriphon will take it as personal criticism of his command.”
Ptosphes emptied half his goblet before speaking. “Kalvan still is fretting about the loss of Tarr-Veblos. As far as Colonel Democriphon is concerned, he’s going to be unhappy anyway; Hestophes has run afoul of Baron Sthentros and his daughter and I’ve already sent him to take Democriphon’s command.”
“The vixen?”
Sthentros had been part of the baggage his beloved wife had brought with her from Pygron, a small Hostigi town on the border with Sask, when she’d agreed to be his betrothed. Rumors suggested that Sthentros had been one of Demia’s father’s bastards, but Ptosphes had never believed them until the Baron’s daughter--who was the spitting image of Rylla-- was born. The bloodlines in those small border towns were often too close for comfort.
Ptosphes had met Demia when she’d become a Lady in Waiting for his older sister, ten winters deceased now. Where has all the time gone?
Sthentros was what Kalvan called a “shirt-tail relative”--the nephew of Demia’s much older sister’s husband. When Ptosphes had married Demia, she had requested that her cousin be given an estate and title. Her father and most of her family had died in one of the border raids that had almost turned into an invasion. Sthentros, although not close, was one of Demia’s few surviving male relatives. Ptosphes had never been able to say no to his beloved wife.
He could still remember his first glimpse of Demia--his heart had come to a halt, she was so beautiful--like her daughter Rylla. He wasn’t the only one who’d fallen hard for Demia; Xentos, Chartiphon and several others had made court. He liked to think that it was his innate qualities that caused her to choose him as mate, but she’d always been very ambitious, a lot like Lavena . . . He shouldn’t think of her that way--
Ptosphes felt the stabbing chest pain that Kalvan had told him was angina--a strange word that sounded nicer than it felt. Kalvan had also told him that if he had some nitro-something-or-other he could cure Ptosphes’ stabbing pains to the chest. Then Kalvan had stopped, laughed wildly, then slapped his forehead. “If I knew how to make nitro I wouldn’t have to worry about my really big pain--Styphon’s House!” Obviously, this nitro-something-or-other was powerful medicine. Maybe my grandchildren will live long enough to use it.
“Are you all right?” Harmakros asked.
Ptosphes shook his head. “Just thinking about Demia.” Harmakros had been a young man when Demia had died, trying to give birth to his son. Kalvan was right to be worried about fester devils; many women in Hostigos died of childbed fever, but fewer since Kalvan had come to stay.
“Yes, Lavena is Demia’s looking-plate likeness, but only in appearance. She could be Rylla’s younger sister as well. I have heard that where Rylla uses manly arts in war, Lavena uses the womanly arts of love.”
Ptosphes bowed his head. “I fear, I have heard likewise. It’s a stain on my dear Demia’s memory.”
“Has Lavena used these wiles on Hestophes?”
“I believe so, Harmakros,” he answered. “For the first moon-quarter since his return from Eython, Hestophes acted as if he’d been gut-shot.”
“How did this happen?”
Ptosphes laughed. “How does any man fall in love? For me it was as if I saw color for the first time, or had been struck on the side of the head with a mace!
Harmakros shook his head in disbelief. “I consider myself fortunate to have missed this vision or war wound. I had thought Hestophes was a man of solid temperament, as I am.”
“Don’t make a fool of yourself, Harmakros. There’s a Demia, if he’s lucky, or a Lavena, if he’s not, for every man. Apparently Lavena encouraged Hestophes--that’s what he told me--and I’ve never known him to lie. Then dropped him like a stone when her father told her about his humble origins.”
Harmakros shook his head. “She has a fool for a father!”
Ptosphes paused to knock the bowl of his pipe against the heel of his hand. “I agree. I should have sent Sthentros packing after Demia’s death. I’ve never liked or respected him, that’s why I put him in a barony far from Hostigos Town.”
“How is Hestophes taking love’s ill wind?” Harmakros asked
“Hestophes has been down in the privy ever since he returned from Tarr-Eython. Kalvan’s decided to put Hestophes in command of the Royal Army of Observation to keep him away from his new estate.”
“Yes, his barony borders Hyllos.” Harmakros shook his head. “As you remarked, Colonel Democriphon will not be pleased.”
“Kalvan will soften the blow; he has told me that he will invest him with a title and some lands.” Ptosphes paused to refill his pipe.
“Well, that takes care of one romantic misadventure; what about our Royal couple?”
“This fight of theirs is bad for everyone’s morale. Even the soldiers’ drills are listless.”
“This is not any time for slacking now that Captain-General Phidestros is filling Tarr-Veblos to the bursting with stores and arms for next year’s campaign season.”
Ptosphes finished filling his bowl with tobacco. “Any new intelligence to report, Harmakros?”
“Colonel Democriphon has been sending patrols and raiding parties into Arklos for two moons now. They
appear to have done little to halt the flood of victuals and armament into Tarr-Anibra and Tarr-Veblos. There are more of Styphon’s vessels at the wharves of Harphax than harlots in the Sask Army train!”
Prince Ptosphes laughed.
“The Harphaxi used the better part of the last two moons to build a new outer courtyard and have brought the garrison up to about ten thousand men, most of them untested troops and militia but who are receiving daily drills. To my eye Tarr-Anibra appears to be the staging ground for a major invasion force.”
“Harmakros, what do you think of investing Tarr-Anibra before the big rains? Not only would it upset Lysandros’ and Styphon’s House’s invasion plans, but it would serve to bring Kalvan and Rylla together, united against a common enemy. Who knows, after the siege, they might forget their quarrel.”
“There are three problems with that plan. First, while Phidestros has built quickly, he has built well. The new outer walls at Tarr-Anibra are three to four lances thick at the base; we would have to bring our biggest guns into Arklos to make a breach. Secondly, we would have to conquer Tarr-Veblos to protect our rear. Thirdly, Phidestros has two thousand mercenaries billeted at Tarr-Syrax and another thousand encamped outside Arklos Town. Both are less than a two-day ride away. We might step into a hornet’s nest if we aren’t careful, my Prince.”
“This is very bad business for Hostigos. Especially with my daughter and Kalvan waging their own war. We have to do something to bring those two back together. They are both so desperately unhappy, Dralm damnit! If Xentos were here he would know what to do.”
“Have you tried to suggest to Rylla that she apologize--”
Prince Ptosphes started to laugh and then began coughing.
“Are you well, Prince?”
“I’m fine, old son. I’ve just been short of breath lately. Old age catching up to me.” Ptosphes took several deep breaths before he continued. “My daughter believes her actions in Phaxos were completely justified and cannot, or will not, try to understand any other view. Her deepest feelings have been hurt and nothing short of a full-blown apology by Kalvan will get her to change her course. Not that my son-in-law is acting any better! You’d think she’d chopped off the heads of Araxes’ five children with her own sword the way he is acting. Dralm save us all from their folly!”
Harmakros took a long draw on his pipe and exhaled a cloud of smoke before answering Ptosphes. “As Kalvan says, Dralm helps those who help themselves.”
Ptosphes sputtered. “You might be right. They both suffer from an excess of pride and stubbornness. What they need is a neutral place and something to take their minds off this mess so that their love for each other can bloom again. Maybe if we can get them talking again, they can sort it out between them. It’s that cursed silence of theirs that is driving a wedge between them.”
Harmakros leaned forward. “What about Aspasthar’s adoption ceremony? I had planned to make Kalvan Aspasthar’s godfather--it was Kalvan’s idea, surely he can’t refuse! Maybe I can ask Rylla to be his godmother.”
“Unusual, but not unheard of, considering you are still unmarried.” Ptosphes paused to load his pipe with fresh tobacco. Aspasthar was Harmakros’ bastard son, only recently discovered, when the boy’s mother took ill and died. “Kalvan won’t like it when he’s found out what we’ve done, but to Regwarn with it! It’s time for action, not more talk.”
“Good.” Harmakros nodded. “I will have my scribe write out a letter in the morning inviting both of them. I know we are doing the right thing. I pray for Dralm’s Blessing and that our plot works.”
“Yes, and soon. Rylla is growing displeased about all the time Kalvan is spending at the University--even if she’s the reason he’s living there! When she finds out that Kalvan has admitted woman students there, she’s going to go off like one of Kalvan’s rockets?
“Women students?” Harmakros shook his head. “You don’t think--”
“No. Not yet anyway. But there are days when I feel as if I’m sitting on a barrel of fireseed in the midst of a raging battle. And it’s neither Lysandros or Styphon’s House that is holding the match, but my own daughter!”
“Here let me pour us another drink. A toast! To Kalvan and Rylla putting this silliness behind them and getting back to their real work--putting Styphon’s Foul Den of Demons out of business!”
They clanked their goblets together to Ptosphes’ “Aye, aye!”
II
Kalvan watched as Queen Rylla’s Own Bodyguard trailed after the towering Sastragathi warchief, Vanar Halgoth. The Queen’s Beefeaters were tall for Zarthani, all over a lance--which was about six foot, two inches, as far as Kalvan would venture guessing without a yardstick. Rylla had her recruiters scouring Hos-Hostigos for the tallest and broadest men they could find for the Queen’s Bodyguard. They reminded Kalvan of Fredrick the First’s, or was it the Second’s, Potsdam Guard; now that three years had passed since he’d been snatched from otherwhen, he was beginning to forget such small details. He suspected that in another decade, nothing would remain of his former life as a soldier and policeman except a few dreamlike remembrances.
The Sastragathi berserker, in his Viking-style horned helmet, stood half a head taller than any of Rylla’s Beefeaters except for Captain Xykos. Halgoth approached the throne and bowed, a major concession from any freeman Sastragathi, which Kalvan recognized immediately. “Please, do not bow on Our behalf, Warchief Halgoth. We are pleased to recognize you as a friend.”
Kalvan stood up and offered his hand, which quickly disappeared inside a hand the size of a baseball mitt.
Halgoth smiled, showing a mouthful of teeth, in surprisingly good shape for a man in his late forties here-and-now. “Once again, Your Majesty honors me.”
Kalvan smiled, appreciating Halgoth’s directness and straight shooting; he was sure Halgoth could be a wonderful friend, or a terrible enemy.
“Your Majesty, I have words from my king, Var-Wannax Ranjar Sargos.” Halgoth reached into his cloak to draw out a folded packet.
“High King,” Kalvan translated ‘Var-Wannax’ from the Urgothi/ Zarthani bastardized tongue that was spoken in the Sastragath. He’d picked up quite a few Urgothi words in his all night drinking bouts with Sargos, Halgoth and Great King Nestros.
Halgoth grinned. “My king is as much a Wannax as Nestros and can field more warriors.”
Kalvan nodded, thinking to himself, and a much better companion and strategist, too! “Come with me to my private audience chamber where I can read my friend Wannax Sargos’ letter.” The two of them left the chamber, in a wake of shocked silence from the assembled court. Kalvan was pleased; it would give the court something to think about other than the strained relations between their king and queen.
Once the two of them were comfortably seated in front of a roaring fire, Kalvan offered the Urgothi giant his tobacco pouch.
Halgoth pulled out a pipe with a bowl twice the size of Kalvan’s and filled it to the top. He paused to smell the leaf. “Hmmm. This is good tobacco.”
Kalvan motioned to his body servant, Cleon, who had unobtrusively followed them into the audience chamber. “Cleon, please bring us a cask of Ermut’s Best.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
While they waited for their drinks, they both smoked as Halgoth shared amusing anecdotes about their journey from the Sastragath into Hos-Hostigos. After Cleon had returned and drinks had been served, Halgoth passed Kalvan King Sargos’ letter.
The parchment was inscribed with Zarthani runes and Kalvan suspected some scribe had improved upon Sargos’ choice of phrasing, since it was both wordier and more polite than any words he remembered coming out of the blunt-spoken Warlord’s mouth.
To Great King Kalvan of Hos-Hostigos,
our Good Friend and Ally from across the Pyromannes:
We hope this letter finds you in both good health and spirits. As my clansman and confidant, Vanar Halgoth, has no doubt already told you, I have agreed to become Var-Wannax of both
the Upper and Lower Sastragath. It is my hope to permanently unite both provinces under my rule and leadership. Since our last meeting, I have pondered over your words and have taken actions based on many of them.
You have convinced me that for the outer provinces to survive the Fireseed Wars, we will have to become both united and familiar with the modern warfare as practiced in the Northern Kingdoms. The fireseed artificers and gunsmiths that you promised have arrived and have been greeted as befits their Great King’s friendship and trust. We will guard them well.
Kalvan didn’t doubt that for a moment; it was the other stuff, the advice he had given to Sargos in their madcap all-night drinking bouts that worried him.
I have taken heed of your words and greatly enlarged the Clan by granting membership to all Urgothi widows, clanless men and orphans. As you have done with your own mercenary troops in Hos-Hostigos and swelled the ranks of your own Royal Army, so the Tymannes have prospered--even far beyond my wildest imaginings. The Clan now numbers over eighty times a thousand clansmen and three times as many women and children.
Kalvan whistled to himself. If Sargos was not exaggerating, and swelling the truth was not among his faults, the Wannax could field an army better than twice the size of Kalvan’s own Royal Army, with his Princes’ and liege lords’ troops thrown in for good measure!
While taking your advice about taking only fellow Urgothi warriors and womenfolk into the Clan, I did decide to include any and all children left fatherless and homeless by the War of Three Kings. As a result, we now have many thousands of Ruthani children of all ages who I am finding difficult to place among the tribes and women of our Clan.
Kalvan didn’t doubt that for a moment. The Urgothi--descendents of the second wave of Indo-European migrations into the North American hemisphere--were lifelong enemies of the Ruthani from the Sea of Grass, and only the threat posed by the Knights had united these great enemies into a temporary alliance.