Kalvan Kingmaker

by John F. Carr

  The Great Hall became so quiet that the only sound to be heard was the labored snore of Styphon's Voice. Archpriest Roxthar looked Anaxthenes right in the eye, as if to say get on with it. Anaxthenes felt his heart freeze; Roxthar owned Dracar and the rest of the Inner Circle—the only remaining question was, did he own him too? Anaxthenes looked to the other Archpriests for support but most would not meet his eyes.

  Did the fools not realize the implications of Roxthar's latest demand? If Roxthar were granted the power to place his own captains in charge of the Temple Guard, the Holy Inquisitor would from that time forth be immune to any action the Inner Circle might take against him. It would make him Tyrant of Styphon's House and he would rule the Temple as no Archpriest had before him in Styphon's House's history. Already many of the Temple Bands supported Roxthar and his Investigation; if this proclamation passed, they all would.

  What should he do? What could he do—even Grand Master Soton had deserted his ranks? It would probably pass even if he made a suicidal gesture and opposed it. The world he had known all his life was changing and he didn't like the form it was assuming. Maybe most of all, because he no longer had a say in how it changed.

  Ever since Kalvan the Usurper had appeared out of seeming nowhere, turning the backwater Princedom of Hostigos into a Great Kingdom, everything had begun to fall apart—turn sour. And, yet, if any man could alter Kalvan's destiny, Roxthar was that man; the only priest in Styphon's House who could face up to Kalvan and mobilize the full resources of the Temple. Yet, he could also end it with his fierce determination to cleanse the Temple and its followers.

  Yet, Roxthar already owned power enough to defeat the Usurper. This time he had gone too far, and it was up to Anaxthenes to try and stop him. Anaxthenes spoke loudly into the farhailer, saying, "No. The martial arm of the Temple has always been under the direct control of the Inner Circle. There is no evidence of treachery or impropriety within the ranks of Styphon's Own Guard. The Holy Investigators have all the power they need to do their Investigation. The Guard is needed to fight the Daemon Kalvan, not question peasants and farm priests of Dralm.

  Anaxthenes noticed the other archpriests were sitting taller in their seats, watching him with interest. Maybe all was not lost. As Thessamona had said, Roxthar could never rule the Temple. Sesklos was only a winter or two away from his last breath. Who else was there to lead the Temple? This was a perfect opportunity to rally his supporters and show the Inner Circle that Roxthar did not yet own Styphon's House.

  "I, First Speaker, move that this Proclamation be denied. I will vote nay. Who will join me?"

  "Halt!" Roxthar's voice shattered the air. "Styphon's Own Guard only exists to serve Styphon's Will and Styphon's Will is that my Investigators root out all priests guilty of heresy and disbelief in the True and Only God—Styphon, Be Praised!"

  Every archpriest in the Great Hall turned and looked away from each other's eyes. In Roxthar's own words they were all guilty. Anaxthenes felt a flutter of hope inside his chest. The Investigator had gone too far this time. Did he not truly realize they were all unbelievers?

  "Earlier, did not Archpriest Dracar say, it was Styphon's Will that we gather the Temple's gold and fireseed to defeat the Usurper Kalvan? The Kalvan who stole our Fireseed Mystery and 'gave' it to every bandit and horse thief in the Five Kingdoms! I say Styphon's Will is fighting the Holy War against the Infidel Kalvan and the Rogue Princedom of Hostigos. Not Investigating Styphon's Own priests."

  Anaxthenes looked into each and every archpriest's face. They were coming around. Starting to realize that if they gave Roxthar and his faction any more power, someday it would be the Inner Circle that would be Investigated. And, only one archpriest—other than Roxthar—would survive that purge, Cimon the Peasant Priest.

  "Again, I, First Speaker, move that this Proclamation be denied. I will vote nay. Who will join me?"

  There was a moment of stunned silence, then a sudden babble of voices, then dozens of heads slowly nodding affirmation. There were many who voted aye, but enough who voted nay to doom the proclamation. Roxthar himself gave a look to Anaxthenes that would have turned his flesh into stone had Roxthar been a god. This was Roxthar's first defeat since his rise; he hoped that it would not be the last.

  "So be it, the Proclamation has been denied. The Council's will has spoken, Praise Styphon!"

  The world had just tilted and nothing would ever be the same. Anaxthenes dismissed the Council for the day, and surely and steadily walked past Archpriest Roxthar. It was a small victory, but a needed one to maintain what little was left of his self-respect and the Temple's independence.

  II

  Accompanied by Xykos and his aide, Colonel Krynos, Kalvan rode his horse through the mild winter snow to the University. Xykos knocked at the plank door and announced his presence. Ramakros, the big Hostigi Uncle Wolf, with dark brown hair and Indian skin-tone—evidence that Erasthames the Great had not killed all the Indians, or Ruthani as they were called here-and-now, in the northeast—opened the portal. "Come in, Your Majesty."

  There was a roaring fire in the big stone hearth and Kalvan greeted it like a long lost lover. It was near freezing outside and an hour horseback ride had left him chilled, despite his silver-fox fur cloak and warm undergarments.

  "Your Majesty, I'm sorry, but Rector Mytron is no longer here to greet you. He is in Hostigos Town at the Temple . He left several days ago. He is studying under Patriarch Xentos for his position as Highpriest of the Hos-Hostigos Temple of Dralm."

  "I know Ramakros. Bring Master Ermut, unless he's asleep."

  "Ermut sleep—that one! No, he says he still has three years of slavery to make up for before he spends more than a few hours a night in his bed. I'll get him. Is it about the glass?"

  "No. We have other matters to discuss." It was amazing how scientific and scholarly thought brought out the egalitarian instinct in people who formerly hadn't even known the meaning of the word. The hierarchy of the University was really quite simple; those with knowledge and learning were the aristocrats. And anyone with brains, who aspired to find truth and the mysteries of the universe, could join the faculty and reach their own level of excellence. He wondered when it was that universities back on otherwhen stopped operating on that level, and instead became hotbeds of academic intrigue.

  While he was waiting for Ermut, Artillery Captain Waklos came over to the hearth and started talking enthusiastically about his attempts to master and teach Morse Code. "It's not all that difficult, Your Majesty, it's just that it requires a new way of seeing words."

  "Yes, it's called substitution. As the runes form written words, the dots and dashes form traveling words."

  "Traveling words—I like that, Your Majesty. I will use that with my next class."

  "Oh, Thalmoth has you teaching now?" Captain Waklos had been one of Brigadier-General Alkides under officers before he'd surrendered to the army of Hostigos last year—or was it the year before last.

  Note: reform the Zarthani calendar.

  "Oh yes, Master Thalmoth says his most important job is to be there at the birthing of new guns at the Royal Foundry."

  "How does he get along with the Zygrosi foundry workers, Waklos?" Kalvan asked, wondering if Thalmoth was becoming a nuisance. He couldn't afford to alienate his Zygrosi specialists, until he'd trained several more crews; one of the reasons he wanted the Nostor Royal Foundry started right away.

  "Quite well. They appear not to enjoy firing the guns and are quite happy to let Master Thalmoth shoot them to his heart's content. I fear he's not as impressed with the Zygrosi workers themselves; he says they argue in their tongue all the time. The women, too, take liberties with the male servants and treat men of lower class as lesser beings. He thinks they all need a good beating! Well, not all of them, he speaks fondly of the red-haired lady—Sirna, I believe she is called. And the other one that rides horses all the time."

  "I hope he keeps this to himself, as all those ladies are part of the
Royal Household."

  "Oh, yes. When they talk loudly to him, Thalmoth pretends not to understand. Now, they treat him as a dumb beast, who has listened to too many guns, which he much prefers to their full attention and bad humor!"

  They both laughed. "Thalmoth must have a wife somewhere."

  "Oh, yes. He married late, a few years ago. His wife lived in Hostigos Town. She ran off with a cavalry officer during one of his terms of service. Master Thalmoth still says it was the best thing that ever happened to him, saying she only married him for a trip to Agrys City!"

  "Fortunately, he does love his guns. I suspect he would court a Sastragathi fire-walker, if she brought him a brass twenty-pounder!"

  "Oh yes," Waklos said, laughing. "They would both have much in common!

  "How is the semaphore project coming along?"

  "Captain Nathros is still out in Beshta scouting out where to locate the signal towers. He left me in charge, while he's away," Waklos said proudly. "He would love to perform miracles and have the towers built before spring, but the early snowfall has made this impossible. And we will need at least fifteen hands worth of signalmen, and I'm still training the second class. I have two students who are already proficient in the code and I will use them for the next round of classes."

  "Good. I knew it would have taken Dralm's Own Miracle to have the semaphore to the Harphaxi border ready before the beginning of campaign season, but we should have at least the branch to Beshta complete by next winter." Kalvan had meant to build the semaphore posts the year before, but didn't have the trained men to oversee the prisoners-of-war building the Great Kings Road, teach the codes and build the semaphore stations.

  Waklos looked at the ground as if not having it finished was his fault. "We will have it done, by then. The Sask branch as well."

  "That is more than I have any right to ask for. When it is done, we will be able to pass messages from General Hestophes' Army of Observation to Hostigos Town in a matter of a few candles!"

  "Truly, a miracle. Praise Dralm." Waklos was about to say more, but was interrupted by the arrival of Master Ermut.

  "You Majesty, why aren't you at the palace? Have Styphon's dogs found a way to travel through snow?"

  "No. I came to tell you that Rector Mytron has resigned from the University faculty. He will be the new Highpriest at the Hostigos Temple."

  Ermut rocked back and forth nervously. "He's been troubled of late, by spiritual matters. With Xentos moving to Agrys City in the spring, he is the senior priest. None of my business; I got more than enough of gods and priests at Styphon's temple farm! I was not aware he was leaving the University—we will miss him."

  "We all will," echoed Kalvan. "But, I bring good news as well. It is Our wish that you become the new Rector. This was Mytron's wish as well."

  "Please, Your Majesty, you have already honored me enough for one lifetime. Just being able to do this 'work' makes my life complete. Please, I must ask you to find another director. My 'experiments' take up all my time; there are others who can tend schedules and fill slates better than myself."

  Kalvan was taken aback. Not many people turned down prestigious appointments, either in otherwhen or here-and-now. He could tell by the set of Ermut's mouth and body that this decision was not subject to further consideration. "I accept your decision, although I am disappointed. You would have made a good Rector, but you would have had little time to experiment—that much is true. Who do you suggest for the post?"

  "Highpriest Uncle Wolf Tharses. His hospice is now running itself and he's been spending his nights at the Crossed Halberds with old companions, drinking too much of my Brandy!"

  He's not the only one, thought Kalvan pensively.

  "Good choice. I will inform him in the morning. I've got some suggestions on how we might improve the glass, but it can wait until later."

  "Why wait? I'm getting ready to make a new batch, which was why I was so long in obeying your summons. What do you suggest, Your Majesty?"

  Kalvan was secretly pleased; he didn't want to return to the palace right away. The endless talk of war and great kingdom politics was giving him a headache. This great kings' game was awful dirty at times, and the burden resting on his shoulders was getting as heavy as the nearby Bald Eagle Mountains.

  Kalvan took out his pipe and refilled the barrel. "It's the lime—we might be using to much. And maybe a touch more potash."

  Ermut nodded thoughtfully. "We could try less. Come into my laboratory, and we'll work up several new test batches."

  TWENTY THREE

  I

  Dhergabar Metropolitan Police Chief Vothan Raldor came into Chief Verkan's office with several spools. He was not only tall, but also thick like a gnarled oak; his iron-gray hair was cut short in a Metro buzz cut. " Verkan, I think you're going to want to see this."

  "What is it Raldor?" Chief Vothan Raldor was a good administrator and very good cop. He'd been Metro's best Investigator until he was promoted to fulltime desk job some fifty years back. Vothan had been appointed Metro Chief three years ago and was in the middle of straightening out a mare's nest of corruption and police malfeasance. He'd always had a good working relationship with the Paratime Police and Verkan was pleased to give him any help he needed. These days Verkan was not only running short of allies, but friends, too.

  "You know yourself, that Year-End Day has always been a busy time for us. A few times we had to borrow officers from your former boss, Tortha Karf."

  "Is this your way of telling me you think you are going to need help tomorrow?"

  "Think it. No, I know it. And, yes, thank you very much; I'll take you up on your offer.

  Verkan laughed. "What offer? Here's my viewer. Let's see what your problem is. Then we can figure out how many officers I can loan you."

  "First, have you heard of The Leader?"

  "Yes, the Commissioner was telling me about him. A pocket Hitler, a real third-rater, who won't even identify himself. Other than that I haven't heard anything—but then I haven't spent a lot of time in the City lately."

  "You won't hear about The Leader in the places you frequent, Vail. The sleazy dives, ecstasy palaces and tranq bars, those are his levels. We've been having a lot of problems with the young folk—not kids, but young adults. Mostly from families on the dole. I know we like to pretend that all Home Time-Liners have good jobs and work hard—and most do. But, the average Citizen doesn't realize there are millions of technologically unfit non-citizens and genetic culls on the streets and in the warrens. Old Dhergabar is full of them. And, despite the prohibitions, they have children—in some cases lots of them. In the past, they managed to either work at servile jobs or just disappear into the woodwork, but this new 'servant' fad that is bringing in tens of millions of Fifth Level Service Sector Proles is upsetting the status quo.

  "Our non-citizens are getting their faces rubbed in the fact that they're not working members of First Level. It's gotten worse recently, since many of the second-generation proles are becoming Citizens. They have become the real underclass. Despite, the dole and their aimless lives, they've always felt superior to outtimers. But now, when they see former outtimers getting jobs and doing things they couldn't hope to do—well, it's an open fire in a drought area. Fortunately, no one—until now—has come up with a way to mobilize the growing anger and discord among the non-citizens. The Leader appears to be doing just that."

  "Do you have any clues as to his identity?"

  "No. We don't have any clues. He's a ghost walker. Take a look at this!" Raldor pushed in one of the spools and immediately the viewer was crowded with hundreds of marching young people shouting, "Hail, to The Leader. Hail, to The Leader." Most were dressed in blue clothing, a few in what appeared to be blue uniforms. The scene had been taken in Old Dhergabar, where there were still ground level streets and crowded buildings; many of them underground so they wouldn't be visible to citizens. Some of the youths were carrying truncheons and bats of some sort. The marchers came to a st
op in front of a small grog shop, the One-Eyed Lady. "Death to Proles! Go home wogs!" shouted the voices. Someone tossed a stone against the window, which deformed and then popped back into shape sending the fragment back into the crowd.

  The marchers went wild with fury, tearing the doors off their hinges and charging inside. There were screams from the grog shop. Suddenly about seven or eight people, men and women, with ripped clothing and bloody noses, were pushed through the door. The crowd fell upon them with their makeshift weapons. Even Verkan was forced to look away.

  "It goes on like this for a while. The crowd scattered when my first squad arrived. All the proles, except one, were dead. Most of them weren't even proles! We got this recording from a neighbor who was out on a walk. We've already picked up two hundred of the rioters. All of them went under narco-hypnosis. None of them know anything. Someone overheard someone else talking about some prole at the One-Eyed Lady forging false ID for proles so they can pass as Citizens—that kind of stuff." Raldor laughed harshly. "As if proles could actually counterfeit First Level documents; it shows how ignorant and uninformed this bunch really is."

  "Ignorant they may be, but in the wrong hands they could become a potent weapon."

  "That's what I'm afraid of, Chief. This is a black eye for the City and not the kind of outtime nonsense I ever thought I'd see on the streets of Dhergabar."

  "Any of them know anything about The Leader?"

  "Not a thing. Sometimes people get real messages on their coms from him, but they really don't know who he is."

  "This whole operation is very similar to a Fourth Level racket I ran into a few years back. It's called fascism—a state sponsored free-for-all at some minority's expense. Mass murders in the name of racial cleansing, and other aberrations. When the fascists won, we had to make that entire Sub-sector off-limits." Verkan, thinking back to his talk with the Paratime Commissioner, shook his head in disgust. "Didn't think I'd ever see its like here on Home Time-Line. The Commissioner warned me about The Leader, but I didn't take it seriously enough. What does Bur Psych-Hygiene have to say about it?"