The Kalif's War

by John Dalmas

  No hand was raised.

  "Does anyone care to say anything about it?"

  Ilthka stood. "What has the book to do with you? The title is The Sultans Bride, not The Kalif's Bride."

  "Ilthka, if I took your question seriously, I'd have to conclude you're feebleminded. And whatever I might think of you, I do not think that. The kalifa's unique appearance is too well described, and unusual features of her captivity too closely paralleled, to admit of anything except the deepest and most despicable insult to the throne, to myself, and to her."

  He paused for a moment, blowing softly through pursed lips. "Truly, I'm amazed to think that anyone who knows me at all could imagine I wouldn't ferret out who was behind it.

  "On the second day we found out who printed it, one Namsu Pasarijiios. He is in prison now, awaiting sentence. So are owners or managers of 212 bookstores that displayed and sold it. I will comment on their sentences now, and get that part of it over with.

  "I find no malice in the printer, simply the lack of any morals in matters of profit. Therefore, after communing with Kargh, I have decided to be lenient. He will spend the rest of his life in common prison. As for the booksellers, 212 is far too many for me to examine and pass sentence on. They will be examined by their prelates in ecclesiastic court, and sentenced as deemed appropriate."

  Again he paused, a pause no longer than four or five seconds, but pregnant with meaning. "From there we followed certain threads of evidence, and found a man named Elyasar Ranjagethorith, whom we arrested yesterday. He's a young attorney from Meekoris, who's been working on his qualifications for solicitor. Unfortunately, he will never complete them."

  The Kalif's gaze moved briefly to Lord Nathiir, whose guts had frozen in his belly.

  "I see that Lord Nathiir knows the name. Elyasar had some notoriety in their home province, Meekor State, with the unfortunate result for Elyasar that his face has appeared in the newsfacs here, and the printer remembered.

  "Elyasar was the legman for the project, and the key to all the rest. From him we learned who wrote the book: a young author named Klonis Balenthu. Klonis was arrested yesterday evening, here in Ananporu, and confessed everything. Both Elyasar and Klonis I hereby sentence to life at hard labor on the prison planet Shatimvoktos. For their cooperation, however, this is remanded to two years on Shatimvoktos, with the remainder of their life sentence to be served in the common prison at Kharmansok.

  "Klonis's wife, a talented young artist, had done the cover. After instrumented questioning, it is clear that she hadn't read the book, but had simply followed her husband's verbal description of what the woman on the cover needed to look like. She has been found not guilty of any wrongdoing.

  "That was not the end of it, of course. Using information from Elyasar, we were able to find the source of the account from which the shipping company was paid, information that was only verified late this morning."

  There was another pregnant pause, and everyone became aware of uniformed bailiffs filing down the aisle on the right side of the chamber, taking positions near the front. Again the Kalif's eyes moved to Lord Nathiir. "Klonis told us who hired him to write the book. More than that, he gave us a rough story sketch that had been given him to write from. A handwritten story sketch, in a hand whose identity we easily verified. The author of that sketch is also the man who provided the money to pay the shipping company, the man from whom all the arrangements flowed. A man we all know well.

  "Sergeant, arrest Lord Nathiir on charges of deepest insult to the Throne, to the Successor of The Prophet, and to the kalifa; and of conspiracy to..."

  Nathiir leaped to his feet, shouting imprecations at the Kalif, till a bailiff jerked him from the row of seats and shut off his obscenities with a throat lock. All eyes watched the nobleman's struggles, till he slackened in the bailiff's strong grasp, to glare at his accuser.

  The Kalif continued. "This man of ugly and vicious mind, this noble without nobility, has undertaken to cause irreparable grief and harm to myself and even more to my wife. He thought to send us through life with a smear of unearned shame. He intended that, whenever anyone looked at us, or looked away from us, we would imagine a sneer or snicker.

  "That was his clear intention. But we are stronger than that, and the people of our empire are wise enough to see where the shame truly dwells... It dwells in you, Nathiir!"

  The Kalif stood quiet for a long moment then, and when he continued, his voice was soft. "It was no accident that Kargh caused the kalifa to look like an angel. He made her so, and sent her across three hyperspace years to wed The Prophet's latest successor. Why, we do not know yet. And from whom came the clues that enabled us to find this criminal who so vilely maligned her? Who else but Kargh?

  "So, Nathiir, we come to the matter of your sentence. From your sometime friend Gorsu, it would have been impalement. Not simple impalement, with its more or less quick if gruesome death, but impalement on the short stake, carefully done so you would sit in living agony in the center of the square, raised high so all could see. For hours while you died slowly.

  "But I am not Gorsu. Nor am I Nathiir. I prefer to be just without cruelty. Nathiir, what would you say in your behalf? Release your grip enough, Sergeant, that his lordship may speak."

  For a long moment, Nathiir said nothing. When he did speak, it was in a voice like tearing metal. "Whatever I did, it was less than you deserve! You are false, a false Kalif! You are murderous! You murdered the Kalif before you! You are a tyrant, who would stand there and sentence a noble delegate to death without trial! You are arrogant—you, a military man, imagining we could accept your posturing as the Successor to The Prophet! You are..."

  The Kalif's face darkened. It even seemed to swell. He gestured, a chopping motion, and the sergeant cut off the flow of accusations. For a long moment then the Kalif didn't speak, didn't trust himself to. When at last he did, he spoke more loudly than before, though his voice still was calm.

  "I will answer Lord Nathiir. I am not a false Kalif. The Prophet said that his successors should be chosen by the apostles he appointed, and in time by the successors of the apostles. In our time, the exarchs are those successors. And the exarchs elected me Kalif by majority vote.

  "I did not murder Gorsu. I was chosen by the College to execute him, and it was they who gave me the instrument of execution. Because they had possession of a document written in Gorsu's own hand, in which he claimed to be not the Successor to The Prophet, but his very incarnation. A document in which he proposed to abolish the Diet, to rule as tyrant by his own whim.

  "By that time, Gorsu's degenerate behavior, his taste in little girls, his cruelties and mass executions, were a matter of public observation. No libels were necessary to defame him; he defamed himself."

  The Kalif looked them over, every eye on him. "I am no tyrant. Unlike Nathiir's friend Gorsu, I have ruled by law, and without abrogating any rights of this Diet. Unlike Gorsu, I have not declared martial law and slaughtered hundreds of my opponents, nor any of them, nor dissolved a Diet even once, let alone three times, to send it home with its rights ignored, its duties unfulfilled.

  "Nathiir waited till almost the end to complain about Gorsu. Stood by the tyrant longer than almost any. Because Gorsu, whatever else he did, was a champion of Land Rights. Thus, as far as Nathiir was concerned, Gorsu could murder and tyrannize as he pleased."

  Coso Biilathkamoro exhaled forcefully, audibly, releasing emotion. "And there is no arrogance in a warrior becoming Kalif," he went on. "The Prophet himself began not as a churchman. He was a mariner till in his forties, a man who fought not only the sea but pirates, with his cutlass, and took pride in it. A military man when the need arose."

  He shook his head. "No, my friends, from Nathiir we have no reasoned and honest judgment. We have an evil man, caught in his vileness, who hoped to blind you here with his vicious accusations.

  "Now—" The Kalif's voice softened. "As Successor to The Prophet, my judgment on Nathiir is that he
must die. Today. Not by impalement, or beheading, or quartering, but at the hand of a man he has wronged. I will execute him myself, with the sword. And to honor his rank, though not his person, he will be given a sword to defend himself.

  "If Kargh does not support me in this judgment, may he give Nathiir the strength and skill to kill me instead.

  "In his student days, Nathiir was saber champion of his fencing club, a thing he liked to mention now and then. Well, the edges were round, the points blunted, and the cost of defeat was bruises. Here he and I will face each other with sharp points and razor edges, and if Kargh does not help him, he will surely die.

  "Sergeant! Help the prisoner to the rostrum. Two of you draw your sabers and give him his choice of them; I'll take the other."

  The Diet sat transfixed. On the rostrum, the sergeant at his elbow, Nathiir shook himself as if to loosen his muscles, then stretched his legs, his arms and shoulders. He'd grown suddenly calm. It had been years since he'd fenced, but he had been good; here was a chance to kill this Kalif.

  He declined the sergeant's saber and took that of a corporal. The sergeant gave his to the Kalif. The duelists faced off. By tradition and the rules of dueling, they were to touch swords first, then fight. Nathiir, attempting surprise, thrust at the Kalif instead, but the Kalif anticipated him, and parrying, laid Nathiir's bicep open, then with a flicking backhand slashed the man's cheek and brow to the bone. The nobleman screamed, dropping his saber to clutch his face and blinded eye. The Kalif took him below the sternum, the blade going through his heart, and Nathiir lay dead on the rostrum scarce seconds after his treacherous first move.

  As if he'd been punctured himself, the Kalif seemed to deflate. For long seconds he stood slumped, eyes down, the tip of his saber on the floor. Then, inhaling deeply, he straightened. No one had spoken. Blood was spreading in a circle through the carpet, and unconsciously he stepped back from it, then looked at the bailiff whose saber he held. "Thank you for your weapon, Sergeant," he said, and after wiping the blade thoroughly on his scarlet cape, handed it grip first to its owner.

  A murmur began among the delegates and exarchs, then a voice spoke loudly through it—Rothka's voice.

  "Chodrisei Biilathkamoro! By the authority as magistrate vested in every noble delegate here, I arrest you for dueling without authorization or proper procedure! And for murder! Bailiffs, take him! Kill him if necessary!"

  No one moved, bailiffs or otherwise, and after a moment the Kalif replied. "Rothka," he said tiredly, "you overreach yourself." Then, gazing at the nobleman, he seemed to take strength, and his voice sternness. "Surely you know that great spiritual drama: The Birth of the Kalifate. Recall then that scene when Kalif Yeezhur, recently empowered as emperor, confronted Lord Yilmat before the Diet. 'I do not love thee, Lord Yilmat, nor trust thee,' he said. 'For thou hast long made clear thy hatred of me. Yet I have not had thee encumbered nor watched, for thou art a member of that fellowship which has labored to govern the empire by reason and law.

  " 'Yet guard thy tongue against excess, and speak not treason against the Church. Or against myself, remembering that the Kalif, by definition, is Successor to The Prophet, and Kargh's chief emissary on the planets. If thou hast argument with me, pursue it correctly and without gratuitous insult, else thou mayest discover to thy sorrow that thou hast gone too far.' "

  Chodrisei Biilathkamoro's gaze became less severe, his voice milder. "All of that applies to the circumstances between you and me, Lord Rothka. Your charges of a minute ago might be taken by some as beyond tolerance. But I do not intend to take action against you this time."

  He scanned the chamber broadly, raising his voice. "Why do I exercise restraint? Because I am particularly virtuous? That is not mine to judge. It is reason enough that Kalifs who are arbitrary, who are ruled by their own hubris and force their will on others—such Kalifs will in time destroy the empire and its people.

  "We are one fellowship, you and I, charged with the safety and prosperity of the human worlds. And we can succeed only insofar as we work together. Being human, we disagree on various matters, sometimes strenuously, even bitterly. But we must try our best to reach agreements that are for the good of the empire and its people. While realizing that often, some will be discontented, in this Diet and beyond it, with the agreements come to."

  He shrugged. "As The Prophet said, 'Kargh made the world and men imperfect, that we might be tested, and grow in virtue.' "

  The Kalif looked down at the body of Lord Nathiir on the bloody carpet, and heaved a sigh. "Well. It has been a difficult day, a trying day, and it's not yet five o'clock. And while I would not cut short your season here, I am going to cut short today's meeting."

  He looked at the Leader of the House. "Lord Agros, please see to arrangements and notifications regarding the deceased. Lord Rothka, you will want to notify your party quickly, and arrange a caucus to choose a pro tem successor to Nathiir, so you are fully represented here."

  Then, turning to the archdeacons, he said, "Elder Dosu, will you please give the benediction?"

  There was a long pause before the elderly archdeacon began to intone: "O Lord Kargh, the one god, lord over men and judge of our souls, Who guides the acts of those who will listen—Bless Thou these men, these senior prelates, these respected noble delegates, these humble pastors, this—earnest Kalif. Help us to reject the temptation to spite, to bitterness, to destruction and killing. Help us to embrace honesty and good will and justice. Help us to be worthy of Thee. Thank Thee, O Kargh. Thou rulest."

  * * *

  The eighteen exarchs crossed the square in a loose and clumpy column, saying little, a rainshower pattering on their umbrellas. The air was warm and humid, and they'd begun to sweat beneath their tunics and light capes. The Kalif and Jilsomo tagged behind the others, the Kalif pensive.

  As they entered the great main gate of the Sreegana, he glanced at Jilsomo. "You look troubled, good friend."

  "I am troubled, Your Reverence."

  "Tell me about it."

  The fat shoulders were hunched. "I am worried about the House of Nobles, Your Reverence."

  The Kalif frowned. "Why so? More than usual, I mean. I thought I handled things well today, considering what I had to deal with."

  Jilsomo stopped, the Kalif following suit. "Your Reverence, I do not think you did. I'll admit your actions were arguably legal. Arguably, not unquestionably. And the points you made were at least more valid than not. Given your viewpoint, I even grant that you acted with restraint, certainly toward Rothka.

  "But I consider that you erred severely in killing Nathiir yourself. For it put all the rest of it in a different light, even your remarkably accurate recital from The Birth of the Kalifate."

  His expression was as much irritated as troubled. "When you walked in there, after lunch, you had a victory in hand. Had you given the charges against Nathiir to the House, for a hearing by his peers, there is no doubt in the universe that they'd have condemned him. Themselves. Taken away his seat and sent him to prison. Do you deny it?"

  The Kalif was surprised at Jilsomo's challenging tone. "I neither deny nor assert it," he answered. "But it seems very possible, yes. Even likely."

  "And his party would have had to disown him or lose its friends in the House. You'd have weakened seriously your chief opposition. As it is..."

  "Yes?"

  "As it is, the noble delegates, both your enemies and to a degree your friends, fear you now. And their attention will be more on that fear, and what you might do next, than on why and how to support your proposals."

  The Kalif studied his friend intently for a long moment, then lowered his head and walked on, Jilsomo keeping pace, and neither said anything more until, inside the palace, the Kalif stopped at Jilsomo's office door. "Thank you, my friend, for your honesty. Perhaps you are right in what you said; I will meditate on your words. Perhaps they will leaven my actions in the future.

  "But the act cannot be undone, and if it could, I would stil
l follow my own wisdom. Meanwhile I must make the best of it. Have the video recordings of the afternoon's session prepared for a thirty-minute public release. Beginning with my account of the investigation, and being sure to include Nathiir's derogation of my military background. Then have it shown to me for my approval before releasing it. The House will like me even less for it, but it will help me strongly, I think, with the public and the armed forces."

  Jilsomo stood dumbfounded.

  "Can you do that in good conscience?" the Kalif asked him. "If you can't, I won't insist. Someone else can do it in your stead."

  Jilsomo shook his head. "No, Your Reverence, I can do it. I may feel you err in this, but I do not doubt your honesty or intentions."

  "Thank you, good friend."

  Then the Kalif turned and walked on toward his own office. Leaving his lieutenant standing there thinking public? Armed forces? And for the first time uncertain about those intentions after all.

  * * *

  Rothka and Ilthka left the Diet feeling shocked and angry, but even more, relieved. And justified. Shocked because it hadn't occurred to them that Nathiir's multiple precautions might fail. Enraged at his death. And relieved because he'd been the only person, other than themselves, who knew they'd taken part in the planning and had promised to reimburse him for thirds of his expenses. Had he been questioned under instrumentation, their careers if not their lives would have been over.

  And justified because surely Chodrisei Biilathkamoro had overreached himself in his response.

  They would see this false Kalif destroyed yet, one way or another.

  Thirty-four

  Ordinarily, Coso Biilathkamoro planned without making a project of it. He tried always to be informed on things—read or listened to reports of many kinds that provided a data base for the workings of his subconscious. Then, when it was time to plan, or to act on short notice, he let his subconscious creativity act, with or without conscious editing. As he had the day before in the Diet, for better or worse.