by John F. Carr
“As usual, no one knows what King Theovacar thinks, but I suspect he’s worried. Plus, from what we know about Theovacar, he’ll be spending most of his time attempting to turn Kalvan’s troubles to his advantage. He’ll use anything you tell him to advance his interests.”
“Theovacar should be worried,” Phrames said. “If Kalvan decides to move into this area, he’ll be bringing better than thirty thousand soldiers, all of them hardened veterans. I wouldn’t want to be in Theovacar’s boots.”
“Actually, from what King Kalvan told me,” Tortha added, “he’d much rather work with Theovacar than against him.”
Phrames nodded his agreement. “The Great King always prefers the path of peace, although he’s not often allowed to walk that path.”
Tortha took a minute to empty his pipe bowl and fill it with fresh tobacco. “Kostran, what’s on our agenda for today?”
“King Theovacar told me--well, ordered me--to arrange a meeting with you as soon as you arrived, and before he met with the Hostigi Ambassador.” Kostran nodded at Phrames.
“What’s your take on that?” Tortha asked.
“He wants to pump you, as a successful Xiphlon trader and potential ally, to find out what he can about what the Hostigi are up to. He’s also desperate for information on King Kalvan. Like most merchants of his acquaintance, Theovacar suspects that you’d be more than willing to sell Kalvan out for future tariff concessions and a few sweetheart trading opportunities.”
Tortha leaned back in his chair, and made washing motions with his hands. “Let’s go trade some crowns!”
Kostran turned to Prince Phrames. “Your Grace, while we’re gone, Zinna will take you on a tour of the capital. You can look at it as either a pleasant afternoon ride or a reconnaissance of a future enemy city. Your choice.”
Tortha noted that Theovacar had already scheduled him for an early morning audience. It had taken Verkan several ten-days to arrange one two years ago, but that had been before the fall of Hos-Hostigos and the mass migration to Ulthor, which bordered the Saltless Seas--Theovacar’s own ponds, as he saw them. Thus, no surprise there. Tortha’s own cover was as good as gold since Xiphlon had been under Mexicotal siege for years.
As they left the house and went back to the stables, Tortha asked, “Kostran, is there anything more I need to know before I meet with Theovacar?”
“Nothing, other than to guard your tongue. King Theovacar’s volatile and mercurial in his moods, although the dominant theme is megalomania. I’ve been interrogated by several of his agents-inquisitory--read spies. They’re desperate to learn what King Kalvan is up to. As if I would know Kalvan’s innermost thoughts, stationed some thousand miles away from him in Greffa.
“There are only a few mercantile houses in Grefftscharr that have set up trading operations in Hos-Hostigos. The House of Verkan is by far the biggest; between the fireseed works and our imports of Ermut’s Best--we’ve made a big splash. Speaking of Ermut’s Best, no one is going to be happy when our stocks run out. Is there any way that we can replenish them on Home Time Line? It’s a real moneymaker.”
Tortha shook his head. “That brandy is one of Kalvan’s innovations. While it wouldn’t be hard to duplicate, it might be difficult to explain where it came from if Kalvan were to suddenly appear in Greffa City. Maybe we can arrange for some Grefftscharrer vintners to meet with Ermut and set up a local distillery. I could put up the purse.”
“I’ll talk to my workers and see if we can find the right party,” Kostran said as they entered the stables where two saddled and bridled horses were waiting. Tortha needed a hand up from one of the stable boys, but once mounted on the saddle he settled in comfortably. He trailed Kostran and the lead guard, an undercover Paracop whose flintlock pistol contained a needler charge, into the muddy street. Three more guards followed behind. Greffa, for a pre-industrial city, was relatively safe, but much less so during the chaotic post-storm period.
They both slowed their horses to a walk as they came to a flooded intersection where the side street they’d been navigating met with one of the main avenues. There was a bloated corpse bobbing up and down where the water pooled up near the wooden walkways. Two young boys were poking it with sticks until a city watchman chased them away. It took a few minutes to navigate the horses around an overturned wagon that had spilled several dozen crates of broken pottery.
Kostran leaned in close when they were back on firm ground. “Is there any chance we’ll see Verkan this season? I know he’s got his problems on Home Time Line, but we could use some guidance here. Every day I’m half-way expecting Theovacar to arrest us and the Grerfan Study Team on trumped-up charges as agents of a foreign kingdom.”
Tortha smiled indulgently; sometimes he forgot that Kostran was still a youngster, not a day over sixty. “Don’t worry so much. Theovacar needs us even more than we need him. The House of Verkan is his only window into Hostigos as well as his only contact with King Kalvan. He’d have to go from seriously worried to raving idiot to forget that--not that it hasn’t happened outtime before, mind you. Still, I think all is well for the moment. Use some of Verkan’s financial reserves and buy some better ears at the palace; there’s always someone in every palace who can use a quick cash transfusion. I know Verkan planted some micro transmitters the last time he was in Theovacar’s private audience chamber. I’ll try to place some more today.
“However, if you even get a hint that he’s about to arrest the Greffan Study Team, get them the Styphon out of here! Chief Verkan doesn’t need another fracas with Dhergabar University about the Paratime Police not protecting its professors--even if they are complete idiots, like the former Hostigos Study Team.”
“Thanks, Tortha. The Greffan Study Team has been here since we started the Verkan Fireseed Works. Being around those professors all day at the trading house is worse than being stuck in a chicken coop. After a while, you stop thinking like a cop and start thinking like a civilian. I can’t wait until Verkan gets back and can spell me for a couple of ten-days.”
“Don’t hold your breath. Vail still has to explain to Kalvan by which god’s miracle he survived a sucking chest wound. But, before that, he’ll have to convince the Executive Committee why he should be allowed to return to Kalvan’s Time-Line at all. Frankly, I’m surprised the Paratime Commission hasn’t already grounded him from traveling outtime--probably because they’re afraid it will put another arrow into the Opposition Party’s quiver.”
The storm had loosened more than tiles, as Tortha discovered as they approached the center of the city. They had to let their horses pick a slow path around shutters, doors, dead dogs, barrels and barrel staves, and what had once been a set of scaffolding three stories high, with all the masons’ tools but apparently none of the masons themselves.
Fortunately the main or “royal” streets of Greffa were wide. The city had been laid out as the permanent camp of a tribal confederation of mounted warriors, and it was still an offense to narrow a royal street so that two large wagons could not pass in either direction. The route to the palace lay mostly along the royal streets, which were not only wider but mostly paved either with granite blocks, or at least with split logs. Some of the logs had sunk out of sight overnight, but they were still better than the side streets which had mostly turned into quagmires.
Tortha passed one spot where half-a-dozen small boys were swimming back and forth in a sinkhole before a leaning tenement building.
A brisk wind was still blowing, driving away the reek of curing leather in the Street of the Tanners and the smell of tar in the Street of the Coopers. At the far end of that street a small temple had collapsed completely except for part of one wall. Rubble as high as a man’s waist blocked half the street and lay scattered across the other half, leaving only a narrow meandering path for mounted traffic. A gang of men had already dug out the votive image and were setting it upright. He recognized Lytris--or Lystris as the Weather Goddess was called in the Middle Kingdoms--carved with a w
oman’s head (not a falcon’s as the Zarthani carved her) with a mocking, even cruel expression on her face.
Tortha reached for his purse, to make a donation toward the rebuilding of the temple, but Kostran stopped him. “Those are just ordinary workers, not temple people. Wodan knows where the silver would end up if you gave it to them, Master.
“And don’t worry about the priests finding money to rebuild, they’ll get enough to rebuild three times over--once from the farmers, once from the sailors and once from the gamblers, who consider her their patroness.”
Tortha had been amused to find Lystris in that role the first time he heard of it, but after studying the climatic history of Greffa he was no longer amused or even surprised. Like every city at the foot of the western sea, on every time-line, Greffa City had a reputation for extremes of heat and cold, and for mercilessly changeable weather to make things worse. There was a brief period of stable weather in the spring, but beyond that, one might as well pray to a weather goddess and make her temples and shrines rich. Nothing else seemed to do any good.
Greffa had a lot of equivalents across the levels, too. In any time-line where the local inhabitants had developed so much as the canoe, it commanded the shortest overland route between the Saltless Seas and the great mid-continent river system. So in some time-lines the city made the priests of the weather deity rich, while in others scientists tried to predict what the weather would be tomorrow. In both the man-in-the-street wound up cursing and either sweating or freezing and usually giving the city a rude name.
Tortha kept quiet on a more serious thought until they were out of hearing of the workers at the temple. “Do you think anyone will call this an evil omen?”
Kostran Galth frowned. “Only the gods know their true minds, though the priests do the best that mortal men can do. Yet I would not say that the whole day is made inauspicious for conducting one’s affairs. We do not know how the worship of Lystris may have been lacking, or even whether. Nor is the temple likely to be the only building cast down in Greffa last night.”
He looked around and added in a near-whisper, “Besides, the College of Priests has scattered to their home temples.”
Tortha nodded, considerably relieved. He didn’t know how devout a believer in the gods Theovacar was, but suspected the king was a follower of most local superstitions. The Greffan College of Priests met regularly four times a year and its next meeting was a moon away. It could meet at other times only with the consent of the king--or if it was willing to fling down a challenge to a really nasty church-state confrontation. According to his briefing, the College hadn’t done that in two hundred years; with the horrible example of the Styphons House war tearing the Great Kingdoms apart, he doubted the College would do anything of the kind over a minor matter such as a fallen temple.
Reaching their destination, they dismounted and gave one of the conveniently placed horse holders a small silver coin to watch their mounts. All the nearby hitching posts were already in use and the other posts were “guarded” by retainers. Most of the posts were “leased” by the Royal Treasury to wealthy merchants and nobles who spent a lot of time at the White Palace, and having “possession” of one of them was considered a valuable property that was passed down through generations. Only those who were ‘favored’ were allowed to use the Royal Stables.
While they might be considered unofficial ambassadors from Hostigos, they were not favored ones, which did not bode well for the morning audience, Tortha decided.
The Great Circle, a giant circular plaza with the White Palace at the center surrounded by a huge park, was one of the marvels of the Middle Kingdoms. The White Palace itself had two huge wings, faced with white marble at who knows what cost in gold and labor, which housed the functionaries and bureaucrats who ran the kingdom’s government. Even Tortha who was used to seeing monumental buildings, like those of Berlin on Fourth Level, Europo-America Hitler Victory Belt, was impressed. “So this is where all the gold brought back across the Iron Trail went.”
“A lot of it,” Kostran said. “About a thousand years ago, when trade with the west coast Ros-Zarthani over the Iron Trail petered out, the capital was moved from Ult-Greffa to this location. King Frydrik IV spent half the treasury building the White Palace and Great City Buildings that surround it. It took him and his son almost fifty years to complete the public works and move the capital of Ult-Greffa; they say the number of barges carrying granite blocks and marble that sailed past the Great Mole outnumbered the horses on the city’s streets.”
“Those were the days when the Iron Kings were made of steel,” Tortha said.
“Yes, but things have changed a lot in the interim. After the post-Iron Trail economic depression, which hit both the Upper Middle Kingdoms and the Lower Middle Kingdoms, the succeeding kings had to make a lot of sacrifices to keep their thrones. The money the two Frydriks blew on city improvements could have been used to stabilize the economy. Instead, their successors had to face city-wide insurrections, forcing them to make deals with their princes, nobles and merchant lords. They ended up giving them political freedoms that have shackled the succeeding rulers.
“When the present dynasty ascended the Iron Throne, they went overboard in the other direction. Now, the Greffan Treasury has more gold and silver than it had a thousand years ago. King Theovacar would love to turn back the clock and restore the old powers held by the previous dynasties, all without depleting the Treasury surplus. His high taxes and import duties have caused a lot of bad will between him and his people both in Greffa and in her territories.”
“Another reason why Theovacar’s probably not happy to see an invasion from Hostigos,” Tortha added.
“Yes, this is a volatile time in Upper Middle Kingdom history, and dropping Kalvan into the mix is like throwing a grenade into a fireseed works.”
Tortha nodded. He would have his work cut out for him.
Up close Tortha noted that the palace had undergone at least five or six successive stages of major rebuilding and additions. At the gates, the guards were King’s Companions, dressed in black and white colors, wearing lobster-pot helms, back-and-breasts and carrying bell-mouthed musketoons and short swords. The Companions also carried oval buffalo-hide shields, heavy enough to turn a light bullet or almost any edged weapon. Painted on the shields’ black face were the crossed white thunderbolts of Theovacar’s device, representing Thanor the God of Thunder.
They addressed the gate keeper and presented him with their parchment invitations from the King. He sent a messenger to the palace. The fact that they had to wait less than a quarter of an hour for their two Companion guides demonstrated that King Theovacar was very interested in whatever they might have to tell him. Since Tortha had already seen a model of the palace interior at the Greffan Study Team’s depot, based on Verkan and Kostran’s observations, his First Level recall made their guide’s twists and turns through the palace passages superfluous. He noted the dim lighting and smoke from the oil lamps placed in notches along the walls.
When they reached the antechamber to the presence chamber, the Companions left to announce their presence to the king. After a short wait a herald opened the door at the end of the antechamber and cried:
“Enter, all ye who seek audience with Theovacar, Fourth of that name, King of Grefftscharr, Prince of Greffa, Protector of Chiefs and Champion of Sharn.”
The herald led Tortha and Kostran into a short, broad corridor with three more carved wooden doors on the far side. Between the doors were equally lavishly carved wooden benches, and on each bench sat three Companions, in full armor, carrying shields and spears that looked perfectly efficient in spite of their silvered heads.
Tortha went through the ritual of disarming, giving up his flintlock pistol. He did not offer up his sword or dagger, as Kostran had told him “no free trader or Grefftscharrer not outlawed could be made to give up his steel, even in the king’s presence.”
After the Royal Herald summoned him forward throug
h the left-hand door, Tortha noted five more armed Companions in the room beyond. King Theovacar was seated on a carved and gilded wooden throne. The famed Iron Throne of Grefftscharr was used only for ceremonial occasions or to greet visitors of great importance. No one else was in the chamber but the guards. Theovacar’s ruddy face was framed by a blond beard; it didn’t appear that he spent much time out-of-doors. Still, the sturdy arms coming out of his mink robe showed serious blade scarring, probably from weapons practice. It had been a long time since the King had needed to lead his troops in battle. He wore doeskin trousers covered with complex embroidered symbols and snakeskin boots. On his left arm was a wide gold armlet with more of Thanor’s thunderbolts etched into its surface and on his head he wore a wolverine fur cap-of-state sewn with gold wire and pearls. It was designed to impress and it did.
Prowling next to the throne was a full grown jaguar with a golden chain attached to a metal loop in the floor. No one had told Tortha about the big cat. Is this something new?
Tortha went down on one knee, Kostran on both. “In obedience to Your Majesty’s will, the Trader Tortha is here to answer your questions.”
“The Trader Tortha is welcome.”Then Theovacar signaled the Trader’s party to rise.
One of the Companions brought up a silver platter with three gold goblets and offered them to the King. He took one, then nodded. Next, the Companion presented the other two to Tortha and Kostran.
Tortha nodded his thanks and carefully let his signet ring brush the liquid. It absorbed a micro-sample, analyzed it against all known poisons and toxins; the blue stone briefly turned a deeper shade of blue, indicating it was safe to drink. He took a deep sip of ale--a very strong brew, to say the least. Until it entered his mouth, he hadn’t realized how dry it had gotten. I’m getting too blasted old for this business!