"Your job, Klestreus," Kalvan said. A diplomatic assignment would be just right for him, and would keep him from combat command without hurting his feelings. "Leave with it for Beshta Town tomorrow. You know what Balthar will believe and what he won't; use your own judgment."
"We'll get the letters written tonight," Ptosphes said. "In the morning, we'll hold a meeting of the Full Council of Hostigos. The nobles and people should have a voice in the decision for war."
As though the decision hadn't been made already, here in Princess Rylla's smoke-filled boudoir. Real democracy, this was. Just like Pennsylvania.
THE Full Council of Hostigos met in a long room, with tapestries on one wall and windows opening onto the inner citadel garden on the other. The speaker for the peasants, a work-gnarled graybeard named Phosg, sat at the foot of the table, flanked by the speaker for the shepherds and herdsmen on one side, and for the woodcutters and charcoal burners on the other. They graded up from there, through the artisans, the master-craftsmen, the merchants, the yeomen farmers, the professions, the priests, the landholding gentry and nobility, to Prince Ptosphes, at the head of the table, in a magnificent fur robe, with a heavy gold chain on his shoulders. He was flanked, on the left, by the Lord Kalvan, in a no less magnificent robe and an only slightly less impressive gold chain. The place on his right was vacant, and everybody was looking at it.
It had been talked about-Kalvan and Xentos and Chartiphon and Harmakros had seen to that-that the Princess Rylla would, because of her injury, be unable to attend. So, when the double doors were swung open at the last moment and six soldiers entered carrying Rylla propped up on a couch, there were exclamations of happiness and a general ovation. Rylla was really loved in Hostigos.
She waved her hand in greeting and replied to them, and the couch was set down at Ptosphes' right. Ptosphes waited until the clamor had subsided, then drew his poignard and rapped on the table with the pommel.
"You all know why we're here," he began without preamble. "The last time we met, it was to decide whether to have our throats cut like sheep or die fighting like men. Well, we didn't have to do either. Now, the question is, shall we fight Sarrask of Sask now, at our advantage, or wait and fight Sarrask and Balthar together at theirs? Let me hear what is in your minds about it."
It was like a council of war; junior rank first. Phosg was low man on the totem-pole. He got to his feet.
"Well, Lord Prince, it's like I said the last time. If we have to fight, let's fight."
"Different pack of wolves, that's all," the shepherds' and herdsmen's speaker added. "We'll have another wolf-hunt like Fitra and Listra-Mouth."
It went up the table like that. The speaker for the lawyers, naturally, wanted to know if they were really sure Prince Sarrask was going to attack. Somebody asked him why not wait and have his throat cut, his house burned and his daughters raped, so that he could really be sure. The priestess of Yirtta abstained; a servant of the Allmother could not vote for the shedding of the blood of mothers' sons. Uncle Wolf just laughed. Then it got up among the nobility.
"Well, who wants this war with Sask?" one of them demanded. "That is, besides this outlander who has grown so great in so short a time among us, this Lord Kalvan."
He leaned right a little to look. Yes, Sthentros. He was some kind of an in-law of Ptosphes… had a barony over about where Boalsburg ought to be. He'd made trouble when the fireseed mills were being started-refused to let his peasants be put to work collecting saltpeter. Kalvan had threatened to have his head off, and Sthentros had run spluttering to Ptosphes. The interview had been private, nobody knew exactly what Ptosphes had told him, but he had emerged from it visibly shaken. The peasants had gone to work collecting saltpeter.
"Just who is this Kalvan?" Sthentros persisted. "Why, until five moons ago, nobody in Hostigos had even heard of him!"
A couple of other nobles, including one who had just sworn to wade to his boot-tops in Saski blood, muttered agreement. Another, who had fought at Fitra, said:
"Well, nobody'd ever heard of you in Hostigos, either, till your uncle's wife's sister married our Prince."
Uncle Wolf laughed again. "They've heard of Kalvan since, and in Nostor, too, by the war god's mace!"
"Yes," another noble said, "I grant that. But you'll have to grant that the man's an outlander, and it's a fine thing indeed to see him rise so swiftly over the heads of nobles of old Hostigi family. Why, when he came among us, he couldn't speak a word that anybody could understand."
"By Dralm, we understand him well enough now!" That was another newcomer to the Full Council-the speaker for the fireseed makers. There were murmurs of agreement; quite a few got the point.
Sthentros refused to be silenced. "How do we know that he isn't some runaway priest of Styphon himself."
Mytron, present as speaker for the physicians, surgeons and apothecaries, rose.
"When Kalvan came among us, I tended his wounds. He is not circumcised, as all priests of Styphon are."
Then he sat down. That knocked that on the head. It was a good thing the Rev. Morrison had refused to let the doctor load the bill with what he'd considered non-essentials when his son had been born. He'd never say another word against Scotch-Irish frugality. Sthentros, however, was staying with it.
"Well, maybe that's worse," he argued. "It's flatly against nature for anything to act like fireseed. I think there are devils in it that make it explode, and maybe the priests of Styphon do something to keep the devils from getting out when it explodes… something that we don't know anything about."
The speaker for the fireseed makers was on his feet. "I make the stuff, I know what goes in it. Saltpeter and sulfur and charcoal, and there aren't any devils in any of them." He didn't know anything about oxidization, but he knew that the saltpeter made the rest of it burn fast. "Next thing, he'll be telling us there are devils in wine, or in dough to make the bread rise, or in…"
"Has anybody heard of any devils around Fitra?" somebody else asked. "We burned plenty of fireseed there."
"What in Galzar's name does Sthentros know about Fitra?-he wasn't there!"
"I'm going to have a little talk with that fellow, after this is over," Ptosphes said quietly to Kalvan. "All he is in Hostigos, he is by my favor, and my favor to him is getting frayed now."
"Well, devils or not, the question is Lord Kalvan's place among us," the noble who had sided with Sthentros said. "He is no Hostigi-what right has he to sit at the Council table?"
"Fitra!" somebody cried, from a place or two above Sthentros; "Tarr-Dombra!" added another voice, from across the table.
"He sits here," Rylla said icily, "as my betrothed husband, by my choice. Do you question that, Euklestes?"
"He sits here as heir-matrimonial to the throne of Hostigos, and as my son-adoptive," Ptosphes added. "I hope none of you presume to question that."
"He sits here as commander of our army," Chartiphon roared, "and as a soldier I am proud to obey. If you want to question that, do it with your sword against mine!"
"He sits here as one sent by Dralm. Do you question the Great God?" Xentos asked.
Euklestes gave Sthentros a look-what-you-got-me-into look. "Great Dralm, no!"
"Well, then. We still have the question of war with Sask to be voted:' Ptosphes said. "How vote you, Lord Sthentros?"
"Oh, war, of course; I'm as loyal a Hostigi as any here."
There was no more argument. The vote was unanimous. As soon as Ptosphes had thanked them, Harmakros was on his feet.
"Then, to show that we are all in loyal support of our Prince, let us all vote that whatever decision he may make in the matter of our dealings with Sask, with Beshta, or with Nostor, either in making war or in making peace afterward, shall stand approved in advance by the Full Council of Hostigos."
"What? " Ptosphes asked in a whisper. "Is this some idea of yours, Kalvan?"
"Yes. We don't know what we're going to have to do, but whatever it is, we may have to do it in a hurr
y, and afterward we won't want anybody like Sthentros or Euklestes whining that they weren't consulted."
"That's probably wise. We'd do it anyhow, but this way there'll be no argument.
Harmakros's motion was also carried unanimously. The organization steamroller ran up the table without a bump.
VERKAN, the free-trader from Grefftscharr, waited till the others-Prince Ptosphes, old Xentos, and the man of whom he must never under any circumstances think as Calvin Morrison-were seated, and then dropped into a chair at the table in Ptosphes's study.
"Have a good trip?" Lord Kalvan was asking him. He nodded, and ran quickly over the fictitious details of the journey to Zygros City, his stay there, and his return to Hostigos, checking them with the actual facts. Then he visualized the panel, and his hand reaching out and pressing the black button. Other Paratimers used different imagery, but the result was the same. The pseudo-memories fed to him under hypnosis took over, the real memories of visits on this time-line to Zygros City were suppressed, and a complete blockage imposed on anything he knew about Fourth Level Europo-American, Hispano-Columbian Subsector.
"Not bad," he said. "I had a little trouble at Glarth Town, in Hos-Agrys. I'd sold those two kegs of Tarr-Dombra fireseed to a merchant, and right away they were after me, the Prince of Glarth's soldiers and Styphon's House agents. It seems Styphon's House had put out a story about one of their wagon-trains being robbed by bandits, and everybody's on the lookout for unaccountable fireseed. They'd arrested and tortured the merchant; he put them onto me. I killed one and wounded another, and got away."
"When was that?" Xentos asked sharply.
"Three days after I left here."
"Eight days after we took Tarr-Dombra and sent that letter to Sesklos," Ptosphes said. "That story'll be all over the Five Kingdoms by now."
"Oh, they've dropped that. They have a new story, now. They admit that some Prince in Hos-Harphax is making his own fireseed, but it isn't good fireseed."
Kalvan laughed. "It only shoots half again as hard as theirs, with half as much fouling."
"Ah, but there are devils in your fireseed. Of course, there are devils in all fireseed-that's what makes it explode-but the priests of Styphon have secret rites that cause the devils to die as soon as they've done their work. When yours explodes, the devils escape alive. I'll bet East Hostigos is full of devils, now."
He laughed, then stopped when he saw that none of the others were. Kalvan cursed; Ptosphes mentioned a name.
"That story has appeared here," Xentos said. "I hope none of our people believe it. It comes from Sask Town."
"This Sthentros, a kinsman by marriage of mine," Ptosphes said. "He's jealous of Kalvan's greatness among us. I spoke to him, gave him a good fright. He claimed he thought of it himself, but I know he's lying. Somebody from Sask's been at him. Trouble is, if we tortured him, all the other nobles would be around my ears like a swarm of hornets. We're having him watched."
"They move swiftly," Xentos said, "and they act as one. Their temples are everywhere, and each temple has its post station, with relays of fast horses. Styphon's Voice can speak today at Balph, in Hos-Ktemnos, and in a moon-quarter his words are heard in every temple in the Five Kingdoms. Their lies can travel so fast and far that the truth can never overtake them."
"Yes, and see what'll happen," Kalvan said. "From now on, everything, plague, famine, drought, floods, hailstones, forest-fires, hurricanes-will be the work of devils out of our fireseed. Well, you got out of Glarth; what then?"
"After that, I thought it better to travel by night. It took me eight days to reach Zygros City. My wife, Dalla, met me there, as we'd arranged when I started south from Ulthor. In Zygros City, we recruited five brass-founders-two are cannon-founders, one's a bell-founder, one's an image-maker and knows the wax-runoff method, and one's a general foundry foreman. And three girls, wood-carvers and pattern makers, and two mercenary sergeants I hired as guards.
"I gave the fireseed secret to the gunmakers' guild in Zygros City, in exchange for making up twelve long rifled fowling-pieces and rifling some pistols. They'll ship you rifled caliver barrels at the cost of smoothbore barrels. They'd heard the devil story; none of them believe it. And I gave the secret to merchants from my own country; they will spread it there."
"And by this time next year, Grefftscharr fireseed will be traded down the Great River to Xiphion," Kalvan said. "Good. Now, how soon can this gang of yours start pouring cannon."
"Two moons; a special miracle for each day less."
He started to explain about the furnaces and moulding sand; Kalvan understood.
"Then we'll have to fight this war with what we have. We'll be fighting in a moon-quarter, I think. We sent our Uncle Wolf off to Sask Town today with demands on Prince Sarrask. As soon as he hears them, they'll have to chain Sarrask up to keep him from biting people."
"Among other things, we're demanding that Archpriest Zothnes and the Sask Town high priest be sent here in chains, to be tried for plotting Kalvan's death and mine," Ptosphes said. "If Zothnes has the influence over Sarrask I think he has, that alone will do it."
"You'll command the Mounted Rifles again, won't you?" Kalvan asked. "It's carried on the Army List as a regiment, so you'll be a colonel. We have a hundred and twenty rifles, now."
Dalla wouldn't approve. Well, that was too bad, but people who didn't help their friends fight weren't well thought of around here. Dalla would just have to adjust to it, the way she had to his beard.
Ptosphes finished his wine. "Shall we go up to Rylla's room?" he asked. "I'm glad you brought your wife with you, Verkan. Charming girl, and Rylla likes her. They made friends at once. She'll be company for Rylla while we're away."
"Rylla's sore at us," Kalvan said. "She thinks we're keeping that bundle of splints on her leg to keep her from going to war with us." He grinned. "She's right; we are. Maybe Dalla'll help keep her amused."
Vall didn't doubt that. Rylla and Dalla would get along together, all right; what he was worried about was what they'd get into together. Those two girls were just two cute little sticks of the same brand of dynamite; what one wouldn't think of, the other would.
THE common-room of the village inn was hot and stuffy in spite of the open door; it smelled of woolens drying, of oil and sheep-tallow smeared on armor against the rain, of wood smoke and tobacco and wine, unwashed humanity and ancient cooking-odors. The village outside was jammed with the Army of the Listra; the inn with officers, steaming and stinking and smoking, drinking mugs of mulled wine or strong sassafras tea, crowding around the fire at the long table where the map was unrolled, spooning stew from bowls or gnawing meat impaled on dagger-points. Harmakros was saying, again and again, "Dralm damn you, hold that dagger back; don't drip grease on this!" And the priest of Galzar, who had carried the ultimatum to Sask Town and gotten this far on his return, and who had lately been out among the troops, sat in his shirt with his back to the fire, his wolfskin hood and cape spread to dry and a couple of village children wiping and oiling his mail. He had a mug in one hand, and with the other stroked the head of a dog that squatted beside him. He was laughing jovially.
"So I read them your demands, and you should have heard them! When I came to the part about dismissing the newly hired mercenaries, the captain-general of free companies bawled like a branded calf. I took it on myself to tell him you'd hire all of them with no loss of pay. Did I do right, Prince?"
"You did just right, Uncle Wolf," Ptosphes told him. "When we come to battle, along with 'Down Styphon' we'll shout, 'Quarter for mercenaries.' How about the demands touching on Styphon's House?"
"Ha! The Archpriest Zothnes was there, sitting next to Sarrask, with the Chancellor of Sask shoved down one place to make room for him, which shows you who rules in Sask now. He didn't bawl like a calf; he screamed like a panther. Wanted Sarrask to have me seized and my head off right in the throne-room. Sarrask told him his own soldiers would shoot him dead on the throne if he ordered it, which they
would have. The mercenary captain-general wanted Zothnes's head off, and half drew his sword for it. There's one with small stomach to fight for Styphon's House. And this Zothnes was screaming that there was no god at all but Styphon; now what do you think of that?"
Gasps of horror, and exclamations of shocked piety. One officer was charitable enough to say that the fellow must be mad.
"No. He's just a-" A monotheist, Kalvan wanted to say, but there was no word in the language for it. "One who respects no gods but his own. We had that in my own country." He caught himself just before saying, "in my own time"; of those present, only Ptosphes was security-cleared for that version of his story. "They are people who believe in only one god, and then they believe that the god they worship is the only true one, and all others are false, and finally they believe that the only true god must be worshiped in only one way, and that those who worship otherwise are vile monsters who should be killed." The Inquisition; the wicked and bloody Albigensian Crusade; Saint Bartholomew's; Haarlem; Magdeburg. "We want none of that here."
"Lord Prince," the priest of Galzar said, "you know how we who serve the war god stand. The war god is the Judge of Princes, his courtroom the battlefield. We take no sides. We minister to the wounded without looking at their colors; our temples are havens for the war-maimed. We preach only Galzar's Way: be brave, be loyal, be comradely; obey your officers; respect yourselves and your weapons and all other good soldiers; be true to your company and to him who pays you.
"But Lord Prince, this is no common war, of Hostigos against Sask and Ptosphes against Sarrask. This is a war for all the true gods against false Styphon and Styphon's foul brood. Maybe there is some devil called Styphon, I don't know, but if there is, may the true gods trample him under their holy feet as we must those who serve him."
A shout of "Down Styphon!" rose. So this was what he had said they must have none of, and an old man in a dirty shirt, a mug of wine in his hand and a black and brown mongrel thumping his tail on the floor beside him, had spelled it out. A religious war, the vilest form an essentially vile business can take. Priests of Dralm and Galzar preaching fire and sword against Styphon's House. Priests of Styphon rousing mobs against the infidel devil-makers. Styphon wills it! Atrocities. Massacres. Holy Dralm and no quarter!
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