Kalvan Kingmaker

by John F. Carr

  "Well, old friend, so that is my son—I'm not sure Olbia would have approved; she always was a priest lover."

  Sestembar chuckled.

  "He's a fine figure of a man, but, alas, I saw little welcome in Phidestros' eyes for a father first seen."

  Sestembar could see that this was a question whose honest answer would find no welcome here. The Duke could not expect to receive more than he was willing to spend. Sestembar suspected that this long-overdue meeting had as much to do with a father's begrudging curiosity as a search for information on the mysterious King Kalvan, but the Duke would die before letting such words pass his lips. The son, too.

  "What is your measure of this Captain Phidestros?"

  "A good captain, as this old mercenary would know. Maybe even a great one, only time will tell. These are the times for it. Were I young and a free companion again, I would follow that one just as I followed his father thirty-five winters past."

  "Do you have any regrets, my old friend? Do you feel any dismay for battles missed and glory un-won? Have the years been good to you?"

  This melancholy line of questioning was completely out of character for the Duke, meeting his son had unsettled him far more than Sestembar had suspected. Maybe the encounter had been too much like a visit to the past; the Duke seeing himself thirty winters ago with so many paths stretching before him. Paths, now worn or closed, and each year diminishing them in number.

  "Yes, my Duke. They have been very good years. Had I survived the passing year's battles and treacheries—always the free swords lot—I would be retired now, a used-up old man. A castaway drifting from tavern to tavern. Here, I am a trusted advisor to the Royal family, a man with his own lands, titled and with coins in his purse and some small honor from his friends."

  "Well answered and the honor of your person is held in higher esteem than even you know. But enough of this twaddle," the Duke interjected, shaking his head as if awakening from a deep sleep. "What of this Kalvan? How heavily shall we weigh my son's words?"

  "They ring true to these old tired ears. Styphon's House has been hammering chains around the Five Kingdoms like a Sastragathi slave trader. How many times had Great King Sopharar's pleas for more fireseed been turned to a stony ear by the Archpriests? Too many, I say. Now, thanks to this Kalvan—be he demon or man—we make our own fireseed and can use our cannons to cut that chain. For good. I say let them fight each other till both are past this realm. It's not our war. Yet, if Kalvan wins, he may forge bracelets of his own making."

  "True words, Sestembar. Your thinking echoes my own. I will whisper these words into my brother's ears. For too long, he has been under the sway of Highpriest Lathrox and if we are not careful Hos-Zygros will become the Council of Dralm's toy. Lathrox has been counseling my brother to renounce Styphon's House and join the League of Dralm. The League may well prove to be Kalvan's device, just as the Holy Host is Grand Master Soton's."

  "Denounce Styphon and we may face a war that we can't win once Kalvan is gone, Sestembar said. "That is, if Phidestros is to be believed—and I believe he is. Better to join the League, but not denounce Styphon. Let the League and the Fireseed God work us with promises and gold from their treasuries."

  The Duke nodded, his eyes red-tinged pools in the flickering candlelight. "Yes, and we will need a voice in their councils. The Council of Dralm has been yammering at the Agrys Temple for moons now. At court, we get daily harangues from Archpriest Idyol, one day ordering, the next demanding, we gather an army to join Styphon's Holy Host, while Highpriest Lathrox asks for my brother or myself to attend the Council of Dralm and give it Our Blessing."

  "It would be a mistake to attend—it might force the Inner Circle's hand against us. But, it might also be a good idea to have a 'secret' meeting with the highpriests of Dralm and woo them with promises of future support and gold. If we can get our voice heard at the Council, we may be able to stop any rash support for the Usurper or the League of Dralm."

  "An excellent idea, my friend! You are the only mouth I trust for such a sensitive mission."

  Sestembar bowed. "I will make preparations to leave for Agrys City in the morning."

  "Not so quick," Lysandros said. "I will talk with my brother this evening and tell him to inform Highpriest Lathrox that we intend to send a secret emissary to meet with the Council of Dralm—of course, he will have to accompany you! Never would Lathrox allow any secret meeting with his fellow priests that he was not privy to."

  Sestembar laughed. "Yes, that will please your brother. His ear must be torn ragged from all this priestly jawing. Archpriest Idyol will be happy because he will have King Sopharar's ear to himself to fill with promises of Styphon's gold and mercenaries. Meanwhile, I will accompany Lathrox to the Council and advise them to use caution in their dealings with Kalvan and make them airy promises that we will only fill at our convenience—if at all."

  Duke Eudocles grinned. "Your advice and stratagems are worth more than two regiments of cavalry and may save Hos-Zygros more in spilled blood, if we can keep this balance beam from landing on either side! Let the blood flow in Hos-Ktemnos, Hos-Harphax, Hos-Agrys and Kalvan's false Kingdom of Hos-Hostigos. While they fight, we will build our army and when their wars are over we can resolve some long-standing debts."

  Count Sestembar smiled wolfishly. "After Great King Demistophon's poor showing in Nostor, some of the border princedoms in Hos-Agrys may well find it wise to seek sanctuary from the Daemon Kalvan at our breast!"

  "We do think alike, old friend. I only hope my son is as lucky in these coming battles as he's been proved to be in the past. My heir, Artiblos, could find many uses for a talented Captain-General when all the smoke has settled."

  So this is where Phidestros' pattern was being woven within his father's great tapestry , thought Sestembar. Much, of course, depended upon the health of Great King Sopharar's grandson, who spent more time in bed these days than he did afoot. And, the Count suspected that if nature didn't take its timely course, the Duke would not be above helping it along its way. So, at last, the great pattern he had for so long suspected was emerging from the murky mists of unrelated incident and deeds.

  The Count wondered what his own reward might be. A sizable one he was certain, for was he not the loom? Phidestros might well be a useful design, though not too useful—there were enough ambitions in this family for three dynasties.

  "Yes," the Count said, "We shall have many uses for our Captain, though I suspect you do ill in placing your children's welfare before their father's. After all, were Allfather Dralm's sons' Ormaz and Hadron thankful when he put his younger son Appalon up as his successor? No, I think the father should look to himself first, then the sons. Does the old gray wolf turn aside and let his get rule the pack? No, he lets them run on their own until his own time has passed."

  "Sestembar, I do believe there are times, even after all these years, when I underestimate your wisdom. Pour me a royal flagon of ale—and one for yourself, too. We have much to work out, as well as a few toasts to make."

  "Willingly, your Grace. Most willingly."

  III

  Styphon's Voice On Earth shivered, tossing and turning on his thick goose down feather mattress. Sesklos' body was covered by a mountain of quilts and furs and still the chill cut through his thin flesh into his bones. He had awoken quite suddenly from a dream where thousands of white-robed skeletons chased after him. His breathing was shallow and he could feel a lump the size of Grand Master Soton's fist inside his chest. Was Styphon Himself reaching out from his lair in Regwarn, trying to revenge himself for Sesklos years of faithless service? "Forgive me, Styphon!" he called out, in a rasping voice.

  "What is it, Master?" a querulous voice asked from outside the gilded door.

  "A bad dream, Tythos," Sesklos replied. A long and rasping cough shuddered through his thin aged body. What would his fellow highpriests think if they were told that he prayed to Styphon in his sleep? His body shuddered again, this time from revulsion, n
ot cold.

  Highpriest Tythos was one of the godless non-believers who had made Styphon's House rich and powerful. He did what he was told, was not bothered by qualms of conscience or belief. Why weren't there more of him? What had happened to the upper priesthood of his youth as a novice, priest and later highpriest, when they were all like Tythos? And how had it changed on his watch? The Daemon Kalvan! It was Kalvan who'd rent the Temple asunder with his heresies and theft of the fireseed secret.

  That was where it all had started, when the true rulers of the House of Styphon had been maneuvered into dealing with the true believers! He leaned over the bedside and spat into a spittoon. "A curse on all True Believers!" he called out loud, not even realizing it. And a special curse on that daemons spawn Kalvan. Roxthar, too, and his legion of followers! Sesklos was still awake enough to keep his thoughts of Roxthar to himself. He had heard rumors that some of Roxthar's white-robed acolytes were purging the Great Temple of Balph itself. How could this be? How had this vile True Believer elevated himself so high and so fast? It was true that even Archpriest Anaxthenes, the most ambitious and cold-blooded arch-priest of the Inner Circle, feared Roxthar's wrath.

  And, even worse, Styphon's Own Voice on Earth now feared the sniffing noses and sharp teeth of Roxthar's hounds. After ninety-one winters, had the gods cursed him with so long a life that he would live to see true believers fill the Inner Circle? If Sesklos survived the coming winter and lived through another, he was sure he would. The question that disturbed his sleep tonight was: would he die in the kind hands of old age, or upon Roxthar's unholy rack?

  Sesklos had a sudden vision, as though he were a bird, flying higher than any feathered beast had ever gone, peering down below at the Five Kingdoms, boiling with fire and black roiling clouds of fireseed. Bodies lay in courtyards, stacked like cords of firewood. The only creatures alive and moving in all this chaos and destruction were the white-hooded followers of Archpriest Roxthar.

  His body went into spasms. I have to stop this madman. But how? He curled up, pulling his thin shanks together, trying to keep the chill at bay. There had to be a way to stop Roxthar. Or, Dralm-damnit was Roxthar really in the service of Styphon! Had they all been wrong about their god? Sesklos felt his head spin. If they were wrong and Styphon was a true god, had Styphon sent Roxthar to manifest his anger with his false priesthood?

  I must be sick , Sesklos thought, to even think such thoughts . If any of the gods were real, this "Investigation" Roxthar was promoting would be like a picnic compared to the rewards he—and all the other non-believers who paraded in Balph as priests—would receive in Regwarn!

  "TYTHOS! Bring me another brazier; I need warmth. And call my healer."

  I

  Chief Verkan sat at his horseshoe-shaped desk, watching the viewer replay the takeover of the Memphis conveyer-head on a minor Fourth Level, Nilo-Mesopotamian time-line in the Alexandrian-Roman sector. The Nile delta had been suffering from a famine due to a series of aqueducts built over a period of centuries that had finally reduced the flow of the major river to a trickle. Raising damns upon the Nile river was not unusual; it had been done on First Level and most Second Level sectors, even some of the more advanced Europo-American sectors had completed, or were finishing major dams. The result, of course—regardless of Level—was always the same; too little silt and too little water, leaving the Nile valley an agricultural wasteland. Famine was not the surprise, the real question was: Why had the populace decided to attack the Consolidated Outtime Foodstuffs conveyer head?

  The battle was fierce and the prole defenders were disadvantaged by having to employ local weapons. Despite using a motley collection of clubs, cutlery and agricultural implements; the populace extracted numerous casualties among the Paratime staff. A few of the attackers were armed with swords and spears and were probably members of the local constabulary. The soldiers didn't arrive until the buildings had been looted and burned. The Consolidated Outtime Foodstuffs' First Level employees had gotten out before the doors were blown apart by battering rams. Most of the proles had died, but five of them had gotten to the conveyer in time. Verkan made a note that he wanted copies of all the interrogations and would like to talk to at least one of the surviving proles. As he recalled, Outtime Foodstuffs had been peripherally involved in the Wizard Traders case.

  Verkan looked up when he heard his secretary's voice announce, "Inspector, Skordran Kirv, to see you, Chief."

  "Tell him to come," he replied, wondering why one of his top men had arrived unannounced.

  He motioned for Kirv to take a seat, as he shut off the viewer. "Kirv, I've got a question for you."

  "Yes, Chief."

  "Why would half the population of Memphis, Fourth Level Alexandrian-Roman, attack our local conveyer head?"

  "What were we exporting and what were the conditions?"

  Verkan answered, "Consolidated Outtime Foodstuffs runs the facility and there's a famine in all of Egypt."

  "Humming bird tongues, ibex steaks, crocodile livers—there's a good market here for all of that here in Dhergabar. Probably someone got careless and let some of the indigenies watch them bring food into the building. People are starving in the streets—isn't that one of the sectors where they built dams on the Nile, or some such nonsense?"

  "Yes," Verkan said, enjoying the way Kirv reached almost the identical conclusion he had after watching the clip.

  "It's almost always carelessness that brings disaster. Someday, someone is going to slip up and one of these more advanced Second Level, or even Fourth Level, time-lines are going to figure out that they're nurturing a colony of vampires at their breast and the big bill will finally come due."

  The Paratime Secret: the one inviolate Home Time-Line secret that had to be protected at any cost. Not only to preserve First Level society in all the luxury it had become accustomed to, but also because it wasn't right to let the poor outtime devils know that they were secretly being taken to the cleaners, as his friend Kalvan might have put it, by a secret race of parasites. But sometimes the parasites got careless and mistakes got made and then it was up to the Paracops to clean it up. This looked like it was going to be another one of those times. Sure, a few careers might be uprooted at Consolidated Outtime Foodstuffs, but the real losers would be the families of the proles who'd died defending a place they neither built nor profited from.

  Verkan shook his head. He'd have to think of a more appropriate punishment for these First Level incompetents; maybe a posting to that new Second Level Ashthor Rammis subsector, where the locals shaved off all body hair, practiced ritual self-flagellation, were strict vegetarians and believed the highest state of being was to forgo all pleasure. That might be just the place for these miscreants to cool their heels for a century or so.

  "Good analysis, Kirv," Verkan said. "I've got something pleasant in mind for those in charge, for a change."

  "I don't like that look, Chief."

  "How does a penal sentence to the Ashthor Rammis Subsector strike your

  "Just rewards, comes to mind." Kirv said, with a laugh. "But let me change the subject, for a moment. I have news you need to hear: Dalgroth Sorn is getting ready to announce his retirement at Year-End!"

  Verkan bolted upright in his chair. "Dalgroth!" The Paratime Commissioner for Security was one of Verkan's and the Paratime Police's staunchest allies. Dalgroth Sorn, was said to be older than time, but Verkan—pre-occupied with events on Kalvan's Time-Line had not considered his retirement, certainly not so soon after former Paratime Chief, Tortha Karf's. It appeared that all the men he'd looked upon as mentors and old friends would be gone from active service by the end of the year. That left Verkan not only feeling alone, but also isolated and with more weight upon his shoulders than any man should have to bear.

  Kirv added, "It wasn't unexpected. He is half a century older than Tortha, and they are good friends."

  "I know," Verkan said. "I should have anticipated this and had a candidate all ready to step forwar
d."

  Skordran Kirv winced. "The Opposition Party has put forward Councilman Aldron Ralth as their candidate."

  "So fast!" Verkan shook his head in exasperation. Ralth was the Opposition leader who had replaced Salgath Trod—who was assassinated during the Wizard Trader blow-up. "He's a good figurehead and helped rebuild Opposition after the Wizard debacle, but he's probably the worst person—other than Hadron Tharn—to head the Paratime Security Commission."

  "Ralth's sycophants in the Executive Council are saying that it's time the Commissioner was his own man, rather than the Chief's pet stooge! Ralth's been getting a lot of media attention. Everyone knows that Dalgroth is a big Paratime Police booster."

  "Sure, he's a former Police Inspector. But he doesn't take my orders. He has always had a very clear agenda: protect the Paratime Secret and keep the Force strong and independent of the Executive Council. I've gotten more than one bawling out from Dalgroth, when he didn't agree with my policies or actions."

  "You'll never convince the media or Executive Council of that."

  Verkan shook his head wearily. For not the first time, nor for the last time, he wondered how Tortha Karf had run the Force for over two hundred and fifty years. "Who do we know that has the right background to serve as Paratime Commissioner?"

  Skordran Kirv looked nervous. "We do have one exemplary candidate, Chief."

  "And who might that be?"

  "Tortha Karf. He's got the best background, great contacts and would back us to the hilt."

  Verkan stood up. "Tortha's not about to give up his retirement, besides his nomination—after what Ralth has been saying—would stink all the way to Mars. Is there anyway we can talk Dalgroth into staying in office for a few more years?"

  Kirv shrugged his shoulders. "Maybe you could have a talk with him, Chief. I don't know anyone else, other than our ex-Chief, whom he'd listen to."