by John Dalmas
Rothka frowned. Or was that little scenario still a possibility? It would be a dangerous project, but the potential...
He set it aside, at least for the time.
He'd learned some things from all that. One was to look toward volume, another to focus on issues. The pamphlets he planned to release would be numerous, brief, pithy, and politically relevant. Also they'd carry no actionable attacks on the Kalif. A pamphlet would attack some single element of the invasion plan, and dismantle or discredit it. The arguments didn't need to be valid, as long as they were convincing, at least superficially. They'd stress practical matters: economics, civil disorders, and other gut-level issues. Play the factions: the lesser nobility feared the ambitions of the gentry; the gentry worried about the peasantry encroaching on their privileges. Keep the pamphlets coming, one after another, too many and too plausible-seeming to counter. And keep them legal.
Although he wouldn't stay entirely on practical issues. He'd already ordered the printing of a pamphlet saying that The Book of Shatim, announced by the College of Exarchs as having been found in a provincial archives, was rumored to be a forgery, produced by the College to help them hold onto power. The pamphlet would question how it could possibly help them do that, while not questioning the idea that the book was spurious. As if the origin of the book was certain, and only the College's supposed rationale was in doubt.
There was a polite knock on his study door, and with a button on his chair, Rothka released the lock. It buzzed quietly, and his gentry serving man entered.
"Your lordship, there's a young man to see you."
"Young man? What young man?"
The servant came over and held out a card to Rothka, who took and examined it. Neethoon Ralakhon, it said. Administrative Aide. The Informer. He looked up sharply at his servant. "You know I don't receive journalists at home."
"He claims to be here on his own behalf, and not on business of The Informer, your lordship. He says he has certain information, ah, for sale. Information that his publication would quash if they had it."
Rothka's brows knotted. It had to be something unfavorable about the Kalif, otherwise the newszine would hardly quash it. Scandal was The Informer's bread and butter.
"Neethon Ralakhon." Rothka said the name aloud, as if tasting it. "I'll speak with him, Ilavi. Send him in."
A little thrill shivered through him. Somehow it seemed to the nobleman that he had something here. Something big.
Fifty
Protocol was permissive in some cases. These particular visitors would not arrive as petitioners, nor as foreign functionaries on the business of their sultan. They would be there at the Kalif's invitation—indeed at his request. Thus he could receive them in his study as well as in the receiving room, and he liked his study better.
Jilsomo was with him as usual. In this case, though, the exarch's role was not that of silent lieutenant, because the guests would be Elder Dosu, leader of the Assembly of Elders, and the four members of his executive council.
And Jilsomo had begun in the Pastorate. Further, he'd been the first man in 560 years to enter the College of Exarchs after beginning in the Pastorate, and from provincial Niithvoktos, at that. Add to that his gentry origins... In the Niithvoktu Pastorate he'd made his name as a negotiator—a diplomat, so to speak, a bringer together of factions. And a man of integrity and justice as well as intelligence.
He'd graduated from seminary at the unusually early age of nineteen, receiving his own parish at the even more remarkable age of twenty-one, an age when most pastoral candidates were still students. At twenty-six he'd become the youngest dean in the history of Niithvoktos. At twenty-nine he'd been appointed archdean, and liaison between the Niithvoktu Pastorate and the Niithvoktu Synod of Archprelates—the sultanate's equivalent of the Imperial College of Exarchs.
While Jilsomo was still short of his thirty-first birthday, a major Niithvoktu prelacy had been shamed by scandal and vacated by a declaration of anathema. Specifically, its prelate had extorted money from well-to-do gentry charged before him with crimes of character, some of which had been fabricated for the purpose.
As partial punishment, the sultan had stripped the family of its long-standing rights to a prelacy, and with the concurrence of the Synod of Archprelates had appointed the young Archdean Jilsomo to the diocesan throne, in part to ameliorate the deep offense felt by the gentry there.
Being an experiment, so to speak, he'd been under the continual scrutiny of his sultan, and the remarkable recovery of the diocese under his direction brought him an Archprelacy at thirty-four. At thirty-seven he'd been called to Varatos to serve as Collegial staff, and at thirty-nine appointed exarch by old Kalif Parthaalu, and assigned to the College. Every seminarian training for the Pastorate knew Jilsomo's name and honors.
Although the junior member of the College, he'd been the exarch most ready to disagree with, and even occasionally lecture Kalif Gorsu. And survived not only with his life but his position, presumably because of his non-censorious, matter-of-fact manner of criticism. Gorsu even seemed to hold a certain fondness for the exarch who was fatter than himself.
Thus Jilsomo knew intimately both sides of the Church: The Pastorate—that hierarchy responsible for the spiritual instruction, guidance, and welfare of the people from peasants to nobles; and the Prelacy—that parallel senior hierarchy responsible for the administrative and judicial governance of Kargh's empire and individual worlds. He was the Kalif's spokesman in any dealings with the Pastorate.
The five pastors came into the Kalif's study carrying umbrellas. Outside the thick glass garden doors, hard rain was a steady mumble on the canopy. The curtains had been drawn back, showing the downpour dancing violently on the patio.
"Your Reverence," Elder Dosu said, and bowed slightly. The bow was not required. If he'd wished to show disapproval of the Kalif, or even reserve toward him, he would have withheld it, and two of his council did.
The far younger Kalif bowed slightly in return. "Thank you, honored Elders, for coming. Would you like refreshment?" The offer was an especial courtesy, implying that he would not rush them, that his business with them had priority over any audiences scheduled to follow.
"No thank you, Your Reverence. We appreciate your generosity, but we have breakfasted, and we know your time is precious. We are also very curious as to why you asked us here."
The Kalif gestured at his aide. "Alb Jilsomo will tell you. I'm aware that not all your Assembly trusts me."
Their attention shifted to the exarch. "Kalif Coso has a proposal for your consideration," Jilsomo said. "In the second week of his reign, he told me that one of the things he wanted to accomplish during his tenure was to change the status of your estate in the Diet. From non-voting to voting."
He had their attention.
"Recently we discussed how it might be accomplished. He can, of course, simply proclaim it, but it falls under the Charter of Establishment, and thus would not take affect until the next autumnal equinox, when the new Diet is seated. And it can be blocked for an entire session by a majority voice vote of the House—blocked in the session proclaimed, or in the first meeting of the session following. Then, without the concurrence of the College, the House of Nobles by itself can repudiate the proclamation, or any proclamation that would alter the Charter, by a roll-call vote of sixty percent of its delegates."
Jilsomo looked around at the pastors. "You know, of course, the record on these things. Only one such proclamation has ever survived: the proclamation which provided the Pastorate its voice in the Diet, a voice without a vote. And that proclamation was issued by no less than Papa Sambak.
"In the few other instances when a Kalif has proclaimed a change in the Charter, it has been repudiated. And afterward, the noble delegates have felt it a point of principle to thwart and frustrate him. Under Kalif Kambara, this so crippled government that the College impeached and dethroned him.
"Thus, wishing a vote for the Pastorate and accomplishing it
are two very different things, and in the press of kalifal operations, Kalif Coso lost sight of it at times. As did I. Elder Dosu's oratory the other day reminded us.
Jilsomo turned and nodded to the Kalif, who stood up then and spoke.
"You can see, I believe, why I requested that you not talk about this meeting to anyone outside yourselves. If the House learns of it, it will be more displeased with me than it already is."
He paused, looking them over. "If we succeed in gaining the vote for you, it will be because the stage has been set for it. The Pastorate must preach for it, from the pulpit in every house of worship, from the lectern in every school.
"Speak of it not only to the nobility, but to the gentry. It is the Elders, more than any, who speak for their interests in the Diet; now let gentry voices speak for you in the marketplaces and taverns. And speak occasionally of it to the peasants, for you are their principal friends, and it will gladden them to think that you may gain the vote."
He stopped and looked at them, his gaze direct. "And in time—not at the beginning—tell them you have a friend in the Diet. Tell them their Kalif is favorable to your aspiration. And when you preach to the nobles, tell them to tell their delegates to support you.
"In five years, or ten, or perhaps only two, you will have a large body of supporters in the work places and the marketplaces. And in the House of Nobles, the delegates will have gotten used to the idea. You'll have supporters among them, too, by then, and I can proclaim you a voting estate with some likelihood that the House will not repudiate it and punish me with recalcitrance."
He spread his hands. "I presume you have questions; I'll try to answer them."
A bald, thickly bearded Elder spoke from his chair. "You propose this only for your own purposes. There are millions of pastors on Varatos alone. By positioning yourself with us in this, you will draw strength from us—strengthen yourself in the Diet, and strengthen the prospect of obtaining funds for your proposed invasion."
The Kalif answered him mildly. "Friend Gwampala, I look toward a vote on invasion funding well before my name is associated with this project."
The man grunted. "And if the vote goes against you, as it will, there will be next year. And no doubt the year after. You are taking the long view here."
Another Elder spoke. "How many votes would the Pastorate have in the Imperial Diet?"
"It will depend on public support and the strength of opposition in the House. Not less than five, though."
"Five?" It was the bald Elder again. "Five would be like spitting in the ocean."
Another Elder interrupted. "I can think of numerous times where five votes have decided a matter. And five will be a precedent. Eventually it will be twelve."
The bald Elder grunted. "Eventually can be a very long time. But five would be a start." He turned to the Kalif. "Now here is an observation for you. I don't believe you'll find a pastor who will not like the thought of our estate having votes in the Diet. Even if it is only five. But there are many pastors, doubtless most, who do not like your desired invasion. And I for one will not support it. In conscience I cannot. Some who will speak fervently for votes in the Diet, will speak against invasion."
The Kalif inclined his head for a moment, than looked at the man again. "In that, at least, we agree. I have no doubt that some will speak against it.
"But tell me, Elder Gwampala, why you, for one, dislike the invasion. I presume that part of it is the men who will die in the war. But what are your other reasons?"
Gwampala's scowl furrowed his forehead into the area where hair once had grown. "That is reason enough!"
The Kalif's eyebrows shot up. "The Prophet wrote that one must be ready to give one's life to spread the word of Kargh. And proved with his own death that he meant it. As others have done since. How terrible is death, if the soul goes to Paradise?"
He paused. "Well, what you support, and your reasons for it, are a matter between you and Kargh, and perhaps Elder Dosu. I am not so naive as to think I can buy loyalty, or that honest men will sell it." He scanned over the five, then settled his gaze on Elder Dosu again.
"I have said what I asked you here for. And while I could say more, I've said what's necessary. Perhaps you'll assign someone as liaison, to keep me informed. Or perhaps you'll decide that's not necessary.
"Now, unless one of you has something further you need to tell me at this time..."
No one spoke until, after three or four seconds, Elder Dosu did. "On next Threeday I will issue a writ, authorizing and urging the Pastorate empire-wide to request support for a voting Assembly of Elders. Meanwhile, we five will have discussed possible objections which our pastors may face, and provide guidance in answering them.
"I'll have a copy hand-carried to you."
He got to his feet with the help of his umbrella. The rain still danced on the patio outside, almost as hard as before. "And now we will leave. It is eleven-fifteen, and while the Diet will not convene till one-thirty, I prefer to lunch at my leisure when I can."
With Jilsomo at his side, the Kalif walked with them down corridors to the front entrance of his palace. Making only a little small talk, saying nothing further about his proposal. It seemed to him the meeting had gone reasonably well, and that this was not the time to say more.
Also, it occurred to him that these past few days he'd performed as well as ever, mentally. Apparently his strangely shortsighted idea, following Dosu's speech in the Diet, had been an isolated and ephemeral aberration.
He hoped he'd reassured Jilsomo, too, he and the clean result of Neftha's medical examination. He'd realized from the physician's overly casual request that the two had colluded.
Fifty-one
Supper for the royal couple, that evening, was a chopped salad, a salad as aesthetic visually as in flavor. There were green and red vegetables of several sorts, and cubes of tender-flavored fish, with a clear, delicately tart dressing. As usual, they ate to the evening news, watching intermittently as it took their attention.
The kalifa had recovered readily from the events of The Prophet's Day. Probably because Nertiilo Parsavamaatu had been a certifiable madwoman, while by and large, the guests had been friendly and admiring. Equally important to the Kalif, the hurt she'd felt from his invasion plan was in abeyance, at least now that the subject wasn't prominent.
It helped greatly that Tain was good at directing her attention to other things. She was on her second reading of An Abstract of History, this time calling up elaborative material she'd passed by on her first reading. He wondered if her avidity for the subject was partly due to having lost her own history, and that of her home world and empire.
"It seems to me," Tain was saying, "that the empire would be better off if the peasants were taught to speak Imperial. And read it. Especially since it's not so different from their own speech.
The Kalif grunted. The observation wasn't unique to her, but it got angry reactions from most nobles, or at least most noble politicians. "Arguably true," he said. "But to impose a change would offend the nobles more than I care to just now. They're mad enough at me over the invasion issue." Damn! There he was, bringing it up! "Along with other matters. And when the Pastorate starts promoting the pastoral vote from the pulpit..."
He stopped in mid sentence; the news anchor had taken his attention.
"...Kalif Coso has released the cube of last Five-day's Diet session. A session in which the House castigated him severely over his duel with the late Lord Siisru Parsavamaatu."
He stared at the wall screen, unbelieving. He'd released no such thing!
"Their criticisms," the man went on, "were interrupted by a spirited defense of the Kalif by Elder Dosu. We'll show you excerpts of the House's verbal assaults, beginning with a motion by Lord Agros for formal denunciation, then show you Elder Dosu's defense in its entirety."
The man had Tain's attention now, too, and they watched, the Kalif in a state of near shock. Dosu's speech had stunned and embarrassed the nobles,
and broken their indignation. But played before the public like this, it humiliated them. They'd be angry now with Dosu, and enraged at himself for its release. But he hadn't released it! Nor did he have any idea who could have; it was something only he had the authority to do!
Tain, engrossed in what she was watching and listening to, didn't notice his reaction till he got up from the table. "Darling! Is anything the matter?"
"That was not supposed to be released. I gave no such order, but the House isn't going to believe me when I tell them. They're going to want my body on a stake!"
He realized by her expression then that she'd taken his words literally. "Not literally on a stake," he added quickly, "but they're going to be very angry with me. I have to make some calls, and try to patch this up as well as I can."
Then he hurried from the dining room, leaving her with the television.
* * *
He placed a call to Lord Agros, who hadn't watched the news, telling him absolutely that he'd had nothing to do with it. After that he called several others. Finally he called Alb Thoga, who'd seen the news and wondered if the Kalif had taken leave of his senses; Thoga promised to make some calls, too, and to assure the Diet tomorrow that the Kalif was truly upset by it. Next he called Jilsomo, who'd also watched and been stunned by what he'd seen. Jilsomo would call Elder Dosu and make clear to him that the Kalif had had nothing to do with the fiasco. And that an investigation was being started to find out who had.
After talking briefly with Jilsomo, the Kalif called the Minister of Justice and told him he wanted the affair investigated. Starting that night, with questioning of the producer of the evening news. The ministry was to call him with every piece of information they got, till midnight. If possible, he wanted to attend the Diet tomorrow with something more than unsupported denials to offer.
Without supporting evidence, though—at least a little bit—he'd stay away from the Diet, he told himself. His failure to show up would bring angry ranting, he had no doubt, and quite possibly an actual, formal denunciation. Those he could live with. If he did show up, things would be shouted in his face that could hardly be retracted and would make future collaborations extremely difficult. There might even be a walkout by part of the House—a much greater possibility in his presence than if he wasn't there. Historically that had happened several times, blocking even minimal appropriations and largely stalling government. The first two times it had happened, the reigning Kalif had declared himself dictator "for the duration of the walkout," and the result had been insurrections, one expanding into armed revolt, the other into a civil war whose ravages on several worlds had taken decades to heal.