by Roland Green
"How much longer do we wait?" Archpriest Euriphocles asked, a trace of hysteria raising his already high-pitched voice.
"Another quarter," he replied, pointing to the notched candle flickering in a niche within the rock wall. We must know if we can count on Archpriest Heraclestros' support."
As Highpriest of the Great Temple of Hos-Agrys far in the north, Heraclestros was a man of some influence within the Inner Circle, especially among the uncommitted moderates-the group the conspirators needed most to court if they were to save Styphon's House from the winds of change banging on the Temple's doors. Archpriest Dracar already saw himself in the flame-colored robe of Primacy, as Supreme Priest Sesklos voice grew weaker. Dracar! He wanted to spit out the name so foul was its taste in his mouth. Were Dracar to become Styphon's Own Voice, he would quibble and quiver until the Usurper Kalvan had the Temple drawn and ready to quarter.
It was the mistaken belief of Dracar, and too many others among the Inner Circle, that King Kaiphranos the Timid should be the principal agent of Kalvan's destruction. Witless fools! Didn't they realize that Kalvan was a warlord of the stature of King Simocles the Great, who had led the Zarthani people to victory over the Ruthani Confederation of the Northern Lands. They would have to scourge the Hostigi heresy with fire and sword as Simocles had the Northern Ruthani-until as a people they were exterminated.
Were it not that Kaiphranos employed so many food tasters, Anaxthenes would have solved this problem long ago with one of Thessamona's little vials. Not that Great King Kaiphranos' sons were any improvement; the elder was too rash, while the younger was a debauched witling! Grand Duke Lysandros, the old king's brother, was the only man in the dynasty with any mettle.
Suddenly the candle flared brightly and there was the squeal of a door opening upstairs. Anaxthenes began to rise from the barrel he'd been using as a seat when he heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs leading to the basement. He grasped the hilt of his poniard and, without willing it, found himself holding his breath.
There was an audible sigh of relief throughout the chamber when the bent and white-hooded figure of Archpriest Neamenestros entered the room, throwing off his cowl. "I'm sorry, Brethren. I was followed so I took a longer route through the streets."
"Did you lose them?" Euriphocles asked.
"Are you certain you were not followed?" Anaxthenes asked, as his fingers tightened on the handle of his dagger.
"Yes, First Speaker. I lost him in the ruins of the Old Temple of Dralm." All the Archpriests, but Anaxthenes, made the sign of Ormaz's forked tongue with the first two fingers of both hands. "As your foresaw, Speaker, my follower thought the Old Temple was my destination. After I slipped out the back I waited for two quarters and no one followed."
Using the deserted Old Temple of Dralm as a decoy had been another of Anaxthenes' ideas. As always when one of his plans went well, he felt a sudden surge of pleasure. For him, the joy of a well-wrought scheme brought to a successful conclusion overshadowed the lust for gold, or even the willing women other men prized so highly.
"Is Archpriest Heraclestros with us?" Euriphocles asked, no longer able to contain his anxiety.
"Yes, he knows King Kaiphranos the Timid from Great King Demistophon's court. Not even with all of Styphon's Host and treasure would Kaiphranos be able to smite the Daemon Kalvan. He will support our policies even though he distrusts our fervor."
Anaxthenes shared Heraclestros' reluctance even as he used the True Believers for his own ends. They were useful tools as long as one remembered they were sharp and double-edged. Before the man called Lord Kalvan had arrived out of what seemed to be nowhere, the followers of Styphon's Way had attended their worship in private, fearing the ridicule and persecution of their peers. Who in their right mind would trust Styphon's House's business to the devout? Not when there were storehouses filled with gold, silver, jewels, and wonders from all over the lands-even the deadly and mysterious southern lands of the Mexicotal.
Before Kalvan the only known True Believers in the Inner Circle had been Cimon, the Peasant Priest, and Roxthar-the self-proclaimed Guardian of Styphon's Way. Cimon had proved a useful spokesman to the Outermost Circle, while Roxthar had his own small fanatical following, and ill luck was known to befall those who blocked his path. The most feared man in the Temple, Roxthar was not only surviving but also prospering since the Daemon's arrival.
As long as Styphon's House was strong, feared and respected, it was able to survive the disbelievers and cynics within the high priesthood. Then Kalvan had appeared, out of nowhere, disclosed the Fireseed Mystery and turned the wretched backwoods Princedom of Hostigos into a Great Kingdom! Yet it was not Kalvan's military victories, nor his disclosure of the Fireseed Trinity that had shaken the very foundation of Styphon's House On Earth; it was the callous and self-serving defection of two members of the Inner Circle-Archpriests Zothnes and Krastokles.
How could Styphon's House expect the laity to put out the Temple's fire when its own highpriests fought their way out of the back doors?
That both of the venal Archpriests had accepted baronies and a share of the gold looted from Styphon's temples from the Usurper Kalvan had only made matters worse. Even the most faithful of Ktemnoi peasantry were beginning to question their faith, as well as the rule of Styphon and his earthly representatives.
Neither gold nor armies could return that which Krastokles had stolen from Styphon's House. Only the physician's lancet would bleed the Temple of all the corruption that threatened its doom and destruction. As the only servant of Styphon who clearly saw what must be done, it was up to Anaxthenes to act as that healer-even if it meant dealing with the most repugnant and unpredictable of true believers.
When Styphon's House was restored to health, Kalvan could be disposed of as a minor headache. Next the Temple would be lanced of its cankers and boils. Then, with Kalvan out of the way, the time would be right to consolidate Styphon's dominion over the Northern Kingdoms-and someday even the Middle Kingdoms of Grefftscharr, Thagnor, Dorg, Volthos, Wulfula and Xiphlon.
"Heraclestros' support in the Great Council of Styphon's House is indeed good news," Anaxthenes proclaimed. "It will go a long way toward convincing the moderates that we need a better weapon than the blunt sword of Kaiphranos to rend the army of the Usurper. Now, Archpriest Roxthar, have you been able to clear the vision of our blind brother, Dimonestes?"
Roxthar was a tall man, well over half a lance in height, thin to the point of looking gaunt but known to be almost supernaturally strong. But it was his eyes that were his true strength; they burned with a light not of this Earth. Of all the Speaker's tools, Roxthar had the sharpest blade, although there were times when even Anaxthenes was not sure whose hand gripped the hilt.
"I have restored his vision," Roxthar said with a grin that made him look even more cadaverous. "He now sees what must be done, although one eye had to be sacrificed to save the other."
Archpriest Dimonestes was a physical coward, so Anaxthenes wasn't sure just how literally Roxthar's words were to be taken. Nor did he really wish to know. Roxthar had no peer among those who understood the mastery of fear and pain over other men. Had he understood the power of loyalty and love as well, it would be Roxthar who ruled this conspiracy.
"I hope the others have done as well," he said. There were a few confirming nods, but most of the Archpriests averted their eyes.
Anaxthenes turned to Highpriest Theomenes, who was Great King Cleitharses' palace priest and their window into the royal chambers of Hos-Ktemnos.
"Where does our Great King stand in the fight against Kalvan, Theomenes?"
"The Infidel's disclosure of the Fireseed Mystery has sorely tested our Great King's faith in the True God. The weakness shown by Styphon's traitorous Archpriests has weakened his faith even further. Where he once was certain, he now doubts."
Anaxthenes had to clench his teeth to keep from grinding them to the nubs. King Cleitharses was one of the major secular pillars of Styphon
's House On Earth. "Did you tell the Great King that the traitor Krastokles is now dead?"
"Yes, First Speaker. However, his thoughts are still troubled and he questions what was once unquestionable."
Roxthar's harsh voice sliced through the growing clamor inside the cold chamber like a sword blade. "Anaxthenes, why do you not release your viper upon the Daemon Kalvan, as you did with Krastokles, and thus remove the sting from the impious armies of Hostigos?"
Anaxthenes cursed silently at having to reveal any knowledge that might uncover his best-kept secret, a jealous relative of Prince Ptosphes who valued gold and glory above family. "It is because my snake values its skin too much to commit itself wholly to either one side or the other. Archpriest Krastokles was old and not in the best of health; his death was easily accepted. Furthermore, as a member of the Inner Circle, his knowledge of our secrets was more a threat than all of Kalvan's armies."
"Yet, Zothnes was spared?"
"Zothnes was only recently Elected to the Inner Circle and not yet privy to all the Inner Mysteries. He was but an infant to the adult Krastokles. Yet were my snake not so coy I would have had him silenced as well. But enough of this, Theomenes, will Great King Cleitharses release the Sacred Squares of Hos-Ktemnos upon the Daemon Kalvan?"
"Cleitharses has little love for mercenaries parading as Great Kings. The Usurper Kalvan vexes him mightily. Yet Hostigos is far away, while rumors say the Mexicotal will soon march on Xiphlon, stirring up the barbarians in the Sastragath. I have weighed his words and do not believe our Great King will march upon Hostigos unless so directed by the Great Council of Balph."
"Then our own path is clear. Brothers, we must impose our will upon the Council, or this time next winter it will be our heads upon the walls of Balph!"
TWO
I
Former Paratime Police Chief Tortha Karf stepped through the sliding door into the outer office of the Chief in the Paratime Police Headquarters. The door hissed shut behind him, cutting off the drumming of the rain on the landing stage. He unhooked his cloak and presented it to one of the green-uniformed Paratime Policemen on guard duty. It dripped water as the policeman headed for a closet, and the janitorial robot in one corner let out an electronic whimper as it detected damage to the carpet.
For at least the hundredth time, Tortha wondered why First Level civilization couldn't manage weather control. A handful of Second Level civilizations and one or two Third Level ones managed it; it was talked about and sometimes experimented with on a few of the more advanced Fourth Level time-lines. On First Level, however, they'd conquered space, controlled gravity, converted mass directly into energy, learned the ultimate secret of paratemporal transposition, and still endured rain dripping on rugs.
Also for the hundredth time, Tortha Karf came up with the answer almost at once. Any agreement on what the weather should be over a whole planet could only be a fragile, artificial one, sure to break down sooner or later. The human animal wasn't made to come to enduring agreements. The best Tortha had seen it do, in more than three centuries of watching its behavior on thousands of different time-lines, was to limit the extent of its disagreements.
He'd also seen the ruins, usually radioactive, of a good many civilizations that hadn't even gone that far.
First Level humanity had at least outgrown a higher percentage of the silliest delusions about itself than any other level. Not that this made it well behaved, let alone completely trustworthy-otherwise both Tortha Karf and the man he'd come to see could have spent their lives as something other than policemen. Yet a race that knew avoiding artificial agreements was worth a few wet rugs wasn't completely hopeless.
That, Tortha reflected, was probably about as high as the human animal could reach, at least until the next evolutionary step was achieved. Waiting for that day to arrive would keep the Paratime Police busy for the next four or five hundred millennia.
Ex-Chief Tortha straightened his neckcloth as he approached the familiar secretary's desk beside the door to his former office. He wore a civilian tunic and breeches, although as a former Chief Tortha had the right to wear the uniform of the Paratime Police for the rest of his life. However, it was only thirty-two days since people had stopped calling him "Chief" and started calling him citizen. The less he wore his uniform, the faster they would think of him as citizen and remember the man they now called "Chief."
Before he could reach the anteroom, Tortha was bumped aside by the stocky figure of Barton Shar, Deputy Inspector in charge of Stores and Equipment, his face beet red and all but puffing steam.
Tortha used his own not inconsiderable girth to bump back and Barton turned, with fist raised, until he recognized his former boss. "Oh! Sorry, Chief."
Barton had once thought he was on the fast track to being the new Paratime Chief, but Tortha had gradually shunted the bean-counter aside for Verkan, who was as good in the field as he was in the office-maybe better. Tortha had never liked nor trusted Barton Shar, and had assigned him to a place where he thought he couldn't do any harm-Stores and Equipment. Somehow Barton, over the past century, had managed to turn it into a rather large fiefdom.
"In a rush, Inspector? What's the emergency? I don't see any Code Yellow or Red signal?"
"No emergency. I was just in to ask Verkan for a budget increase, and he turned me down flat! With all the credits flying down the exhaust hole with his Kalvan Project, I'm forced to make appropriation cutbacks in other Sectors. It's not fair!"
Fair, thought Tortha, now there's a novel view of the world. He'd stopped believing in fair about the time he passed his sixth birthday, when his father had given his younger sister his favorite stuffed animal because she could wail louder than him. In retrospect, it was a valuable lesson: there was nothing fair about the universe; indifferent and inexorable certainly, but fair-never!
Maybe he'd made a mistake in not dealing with Barton a long time ago, but as Chief in charge of a hundred thousand Paracops, it was tough to get to know even the men you depended upon.
Barton's face tightened up as if he realized he'd said too much. He gave Tortha a sticky sweet smile and said, "How's life on your plantation? Enjoying your own time-line?"
That was another thing Tortha hadn't liked about Barton; he was an inveterate rump sniffer. He also spent a lot of his time in the company of politicians. "It's been different."
Barton stiffened at the rebuke, spun on his heels and left the room.
Same old Barton, he thought. He'd fawn over you at the drop of a hat, but if you didn't preen he took it personally. I really should have fired him a long time ago; saved Verkan the trouble!
As he entered the room, the secretary was already on the screen, informing Chief Verkan Vall about his visitor. A familiar but slightly distracted voice replied, but there was no picture with it. "Tell the ex-Chief to come in, if he can entertain himself for a minute or two."
The secretary was red in the face as he turned to face his former Chief, but Tortha only chuckled. "Sounds as if the Chief has the right spirit. Finish the job, even if the world's about to fall down on your head."
The office hadn't changed much since Tortha Karf last saw it, a ten-day after leaving it to Verkan Vall. Most of the movable furniture had been his private property and had gone with him; most of the fixed furniture, except for the horseshoe-shaped desk, was data-processing equipment intended to resist any effort to move it without using chemical explosives.
Verkan Vall was seated at the Chief's desk, apparently watching a visiscreen with one eye and a keyboard with the other. Both arms of the desk had acquired the inevitable litter of papers, photographs, discs, data wafers, charts and filmspools. Without raising his eyes from his work, Verkan waved him to a chair that gave him a clear view of the whole office and one of the transparent walls.
A luxurious couch squatted by the rear wall; it was made from carved dark wood with leather upholstery and had a Fourth Level Europo-American look to it. It was hidden from the outside by an obviously I
ndo-Turanian ornamental screen of ivory plaques set in lacquered bronze frames.
Another artificial alcove held several overstuffed reclining chairs, probably from Fourth Level Julian-Roman or Macedonian Empire Sector. They looked comfortable, although Tortha Karf wasn't prepared to be as charitable about the colors. Above the chairs several elaborately woven decorative hangings draped a carved wooden screen. He recognized the work of Vall's adopted sister-in-law Zinganna, who'd been raised from prole to citizen because of her help in breaking up the Wizard Traders. (Or at least in breaking it up as much as it had been broken up, Tortha added by way of a mental footnote.) She now had a happy marriage to Paratime Police Inspector Kostran Galth and a growing reputation as an artist.
At one end of the screen was a wooden liquor cabinet of the sort that seemed to be universal in every civilization that reached the level of inventing distilling. At the other end was a long case with transparent sides and several glass shelves. He walked over to it and studied the contents, then began to laugh softly.
The rest of the decorating showed the firm hand of Verkan Vall's wife Hadron Dalla. This case was Vall's, the souvenirs from some of his most important outtime cases.
There was the.357 magnum revolver from Fourth Level Europo-American, Hispano-Columbian he'd used to kill an escaped Venusian night-hound. One the second shelf were two thumbscrews from Fourth Level Spanish-Imperial, where Verkan had once rescued a missing Paratime damsel from the Holy Office of the Inquisition. To the right was an ugly jade idol of a crocodile with wings like a bat and knife blades for a tail from the Crocodile-God Case. On the next shelf were a knife and a more sophisticated solid-projectile pistol Vall had used on a Second Level Akor-Neb time-line when Dalla (then between marriages to Verkan) got herself into trouble over a reincarnation fracas.