by John F. Carr
It was inevitable the wolves would turn on the hunters, then on travelers, then on isolated farms and even small villages. Men who might risk a blizzard and death from exposure wouldn't face being dragged down and eaten alive by starving wolves.
He knew that for this winter, the main enemy wasn't Styphon's House. It was the wolves, which were going to gnaw his Kingdom out from under him if they weren't stopped. That was what had brought him to swear a public oath two days ago that he would bring an end to the wolves' reign of terror. Hunting parties would go out everywhere the wolves were a problem. Which also meant leading one himself, to set an example, which was why he was out here tonight, slowly freezing in his saddle and doing a cavalry lieutenant's work.
"We took seven wolves as the price of your heifer," Kalvan told the farmers. "You may have the skins, and the bounty for them."
Wolf-bounty was five ounces of silver, or five talos—a silver coin about the size of a silver dollar, with a stamped image of a young King Kaiphranos on the face and a two-headed battleaxe on the obverse. Kalvan had recently added an official gold coinage, a one-ounce gold piece called a Hostigos crown, minted from the loot taken from Styphon's temples.
Maybe the silver from the bounty would keep the farmers alive until spring, maybe not. "Also, I will have soldiers come and rebuild your barn. In the spring," he added; there was no hope of finding fresh thatch in the dead of winter.
"Dralm Bless you, Your Majesty!" the father said. He bowed his head. "It has not been easy this winter, Sire. We have prayed to Dralm and Yirtta Allmother..." His voice trailed off as the baby started crying again.
"Go on praying," Kalvan said. "When you can spare a prayer for someone else, pray for Queen Rylla—she's with child, too."
The three men managed a smile at that news, which lasted until the ridgepole of the barn cracked and fell into the fire. Sparks flew up again, geese squawked and they dashed madly for the buckets and sacks they'd left to greet Kalvan.
He thought of writing out his promise and leaving it with the farmers, and then he remembered they most likely couldn't read. Only nobles, priests, scribes and clerks read here-and now; like the Middle Ages back home. Also, parchment was scarce and expensive. Which reminded him to stop off at the paper mill on the way back to Hostigos Town to give those poor bastards some encouragement! They were working hard with what little knowledge of papermaking he'd been able to dredge up out of his memory. Unfortunately, to date, all their results were still various grades of foul-smelling mush.
That too would eventually change; there were already quite a few people learning their way around Kalvan's new world: Rylla, of course. Ptosphes, First Prince of the new Great Kingdom of Hos-Hostigos. Count Harmakros, Captain-General of the new Royal Army. Trader Verkan the Grefftscharrer. Master Ermut, here-and-now's first experimental scientist. Count Phrames. Chancellor Xentos, also Highpriest of Dralm. Brother Mytron, the healer priest who had listened with great interest to the lecture on antiseptic techniques Kalvan delivered the day after he learned Rylla was pregnant.
There would doubtless be more. And the child who would be born in late summer, he or she would grow up with all these changes, learning to ride the runaway horse from the cradle. Now that he had a real stake in the future here-and-now, Kalvan was determined to be even more careful about what changes he introduced. After all, he didn't want to start a stampede, just save Hostigos from Styphon's House and Great King Kaiphranos of Hos-Harphax. Kalvan's own history was full of examples of technology changing the world faster than peoples' ability to adapt to those changes.
He was going to make mistakes, of course. Probably already had, but only because he'd been running hard on his feet ever since he'd arrived. Maybe when—if—this Styphon menace were ended, he'd have time to think of ways to help his subjects adjust to the changing world around them better than the people he'd been snatched away from had done. Regardless, even uncontrolled social upheaval was better than the nasty type of theocratic despotism Styphon's House was using to enslave the peoples of the Five Kingdoms—well, Six Kingdoms now. Much more of that, and the people here would be worse off than the Chinese under Mao!
Right now he knew more than anyone else here-and-now. So he had to be out in front, leading the battle against Styphon's tyranny, even if he barely knew what to do himself.
There wasn't anybody else who knew it at all.
Kalvan was glad to turn his mind from that thought, to concentrate on getting his horse down the hill without its stumbling and rejoin his escort.
II
In the flickering torchlight Archpriest Anaxthenes, First Speaker of the Inner Circle of Styphon's House, searched the faces of his fellow conspirators to see if they shared his growing anxiety. Only Archpriests Cimon and Roxthar looked comfortable in the white robes of village underpriests; if caught, their disguises would mark them as conspirators fit only for burning.
Archpriest Neamenestros was more than a candle overdue, and the atmosphere in the cellar of the abandoned winery in Old Balph was damp and oppressive. At least they were away from the chilling wind that tore through the cheap robes like daggers. At any moment Anaxthenes expected to hear the tramping feet of Temple Guardsmen coming to arrest them. He knew that half the Inner Circle would have smiled to see visible discomfort written on his usually expressionless face.
"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 Ol
d 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 ener
gy, 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.