by John Dalmas
On the other hand, a Kalif couldn't let himself appear weak or soft. It was better to be overbearing than flabby. But it was better still to seem reasonable while strong.
Neftha arrived in less than five minutes, and was let in. "Your Reverence wanted to see me."
"Right. I need a statement from you. Given orally to Alb Jilsomo. About Tain Faronya."
"Yes, Your Reverence?"
"You will tell him you've made a physical examination of Miss Faronya. You will not tell him when. He'll assume it was later today."
"Yes, sir."
The Kalif's eyes fixed the man. "And you will tell him you found no evidence that she is not a virgin."
The physician had trouble answering. "Your Reverence… I-"
"Good friend, I do not ask you to lie. Truly, you found no evidence that she is not a virgin. You simply failed to find evidence that she is. Surely you see the distinction?"
Neftha avoided his eyes. "Yes, Your Reverence," he said unhappily.
"So then. What will you tell Jilsomo when he sees you at four o'clock?"
"I-That I have examined Miss Faronya. And found no evidence that she is not a virgin. But, Your Reverence-What do I say if he asks me further questions? He's an exarch!"
The Kalif raised an eyebrow. "Further questions are unlikely, if you speak positively enough. Practice if you need to. And seem busy, slightly impatient. Above all, speak firmly. As if you were telling him he must stop eating so much."
He grinned at Neftha, surprising the man. "Do not expect further questions and you're less likely to get any. And if he does ask, simply repeat what you'd already said; tell him that should be plain enough for anyone. Sound exasperated."
When the physician had left, the Kalif's mood slumped. He got to his feet and went into the garden feeling troubled, depressed. It seemed to him he wasn't handling things as well as he should: council, physician, even Jilsomo.
Well, to rule had never been easy, even for kalifs who'd held the throne in uneventful times. Having known Tain, it seemed to him he could never marry anyone else, and if marrying her made the next months more difficult, they at least would pass quickly.
***
When it came down to it, Neftha couldn't face possible questions from Jilsomo. So he lied to the exarch, telling him the alien woman was indeed a virgin.
***
"I've spoken with Neftha," Jilsomo said. "Ill reassure the council tomorrow. There's no need for them to wait till Fourday, and it will free their minds of the question."
Alb Jilsomo Savbatso was harder than most men for the Kalif to read; his face was mobile only in the service of his mind, and his eyes were not transparent. But it seemed to the Kalif that the fat exarch must suspect, given what he already knew.
"A question, Your Reverence, if I may."
"Ask."
"Why did you bring up the matter of marriage this morning in council? Or have you decided to wed her sooner than you'd planned?"
"We'll marry in three weeks. She'll receive tutoring from a bride's aunt next week; I wanted to bring it up to the council before that."
Jilsomo's eyebrows questioned the apparent non sequitur.
"At this time," the Kalif went on, "no one knows of my plans except the council and Neftha. Except of course for Tain and I. If there's a traitor, an untrustworthy member in the council, this may well be something he'll pass on to my opponents in the House. And if he does, it will come forcefully to my attention in the Diet."
Jilsomo nodded. In the past, almost all kalifs had named to their councils men who would not disagree chronically or sharply with them. Coso Biilathkamoro, different in so many things, had named, along with others, the conservative Alb Tariil, who opposed him more often than not and who was very influential in the College. And the irascible Alb Thoga, whose hostility could be depended on. "To keep an eye on their actions and a finger on their pulses," was how the Kalif had explained his appointments.
It seemed unlikely though, to Jilsomo, that there was a traitor in the council.
"The bride's aunt will make an examination of her own, will she not?" he asked.
"Of course. That's part of it. But anything she has to say, besides to the bride, she'll say only to the groom, and nothing to him of any substance."
Jilsomo nodded. Whatever she could say, other than to the bride, she wouldn't. A "bride's aunt" was a professional advisor and tutor to brides, and rarely their actual aunt. By tradition and professional ethics, they were utterly discreet. This was true also of the "groom's uncle."
It would probably be all right. He hoped so. Certainly he'd do everything he could to make it so. Because whatever his flaws, this Kalif was the best for a long time, Jilsomo told himself. A very long time.
Twenty
Fourday had come and gone, and Fiveday. Now it was Sixday, the day when, in its season, Kalif Coso Biilathkamoro customarily chaired a session of the Imperial Diet. He gaveled it to order, and himself gave the invocation. After the prayer, the secretary read a summary of the previous session, prepared by SUMBAA and printed out by his primary terminal in the office of the Leader of the House.
When the summary had been read, the Kalif scanned the assembly. It met in a large chamber shaped like a half bowl, with the rather small, slightly tilted bottom holding the exarchs, the noble delegates, and the twelve non-voting delegates of the Pastorate. Separated from them by a marble railing, the sides curved up with row on row of seats, empty now, empty usually. Only on special occasions were invited spectators permitted. Nor did the automatic cameras record the sights and sounds there for broadcast; they recorded for the archives: that is, for SUMBAA.
"At the close of the last session," the Kalif intoned-the sentence was traditional-"it was agreed that the subject then under discussion would be given priority this morning. That subject being the request by the senior delegate from Maolaari for the export of loohio."
Simply mentioning the subject raised hackles and color among the members. He continued:
"Does any member have another subject they would ask priority for, before we proceed?"
A hand shot up, its owner also rising, which was unusual but not out of order.
"Lord Rothka," said the Kalif, "what is your suggestion?"
The narrow mouth opened. "Your Reverence," said Rothka, and the words came sour from his mouth, "I move that we discuss-" He paused then, a pause long and deliberate to draw their attention. "I move that we first discuss Your Reverence's intended marriage."
"I second!" said another, quick beyond chance.
"Indeed?" said the Kalif dryly. "I need not entertain such a motion unless it's a matter falling within the purview of this assembly. And clearly any marriage plans I might have do not."
"Not so," Rothka said. "Let me quote Scripture."
"Be my guest."
The Kalif's seeming willingness broke the noble's certainty. His gaze faltered for just a moment, then hardened. The Prophet's words, as he recited them, were measured, almost stately: "I will not always be with you in the flesh, for the flesh is mortal. And there are those who hate godliness and the godly, wanting them dead. Thus not only will I pass from this world, but also will he who follows me. Probably before our time. And the believers will need to choose a new leader not once, but many times over the centuries."
Rothka's back was stiff as a marshal's. "Therefore I give to you rules to choose by, for the protection of the Church, and of its people, and of righteousness. And of Kargh's words. You must choose leaders who are righteous. He who would lead must be one who steadfastly eschews greed, and sensuality, and all unrighteousness. One who has consorted with lechers, or the tight-fisted, or has sought the company of lewd women, cannot lead the Church. And if one who has been chosen would marry, the woman he chooses must be-" Rothka paused, then said the final words slowly, deliberately: "Chaste and virtuous."
The rest of the list of requisites for Successors to The Prophet, Rothka left unrecited, as irrelevant to his argument. H
e fixed the Kalif with his eyes then, as if challenging him. The Kalif nodded.
"Thank you, Lord Rothka, for renewing The Prophet's message for us. Especially the phrase about the tight-fisted."
Rothka flushed; he had a reputation for stinginess, and was sensitive about it. The Kalif looked around. "Lord Rothka's subject may not have been relevant to the day's business, but the words of the Blessed Flenyaagor are worth listening to on any subject. Does anyone else wish to display his memory of The Book before we return to the request of Lord Roonoa?"
Rothka, still flushed, subsided onto his seat.
"If not…" said the Kalif.
Another hand stabbed upward, another member of the Land Rights Party stood. "You are evading the issue, the matter of the woman you want to marry. The alien woman brought to the empire by the Klestronu expedition."
"My dear Ilthka." The Kalif's voice held reproof. "You are on the wrong side of the chamber to discuss that; it's a matter for the Prelacy, specifically the College. And let me remind you that there is a proper form for addressing your Kalif.
"Now. Does anyone have an appropriate subject to propose? If not, we will return to the matter which the senior delegate from Maolaari brought up yesterday-that is, his request for approval of the export of loohio."
Ilthka too sat back down.
"Lord Roonoa, the record shows that your presentation speech did not address The Prophet's command to be fruitful. How can we reconcile your proposal with that command?"
Roonoa stood, bowing slightly to the Kalif. "Your Reverence," he said in his rich bass, "we should consider when it was that The Prophet spoke those words, and the apparent reason for them. The first burning plague had swept Varatos little more than ten years earlier, killing more than one in three of all the people, taking children and women even more than men. Of those who'd sickened and recovered, some were left witless, and many women who had been sickened and not died had proved sterile. Cribs stood empty. Fields lay fallow for lack of men to work them. Looms stood silent, forges cold."
The Maolaaro looked around at the delegates; so did the Kalif, though not as plainly. "So of course The Prophet told the people to be fruitful. But one might wonder what he would say today, when all the worlds but Maolaari are crowded. With many gentry unemployed, competing with peasants for work as day laborers. With food riots on nearly every world."
He looked around, meeting gazes thoughtful and gazes hostile. So far as he knew, no one had come forward with such an argument before. One did not think such things. "The Blessed Flenyaagor was a holy man," he went on. "A saintly man. But he was also a practical man who had guided his ship through storms, around dangerous reefs and shoals. He'd fought pirates, fled pirates, even paid extortion to pirates. He'd bargained with men over cargoes and prices, and took satisfaction in the high price he'd gotten for his ship, that he could print The Book and have money to support him in his ministry."
The Maolaaru noble shook his head as he continued. "I do not believe, Your Reverence, that permitting the export of loohio from Maolaari would offend The Prophet if he were here today. Indeed, if the poor should eat it, who can hardly feed their children, I wonder if The Prophet would not actually praise it."
An angry hand stabbed the air. Roonoa ignored it as he sat down.
"Alb Thoga," said the Kalif, and the exarch got to his feet.
"Your Reverence, I am outraged by the insolence of the delegate from Maolaari! It is bad enough that a layman presumed to analyze The Prophet's reasoning. But to stand there and presume to tell us what The Prophet would think or say if he were here today-That is unforgivable!"
"Thank you, Alb Thoga." You are chronically outraged, the Kalif added silently. To you, nothing is forgivable.
Other hands had raised, and the Kalif pointed. "Lord Panamba."
The delegate for Niithvoktos stood. Unlike Jilsomo, from the same world, Panamba was rather slender, remarkably so for someone from Niithvoktos with its 1.17 gravity. He looked as if, beneath his clothes, he'd be sinewy. "Your Reverence, I will not comment on The Prophet's words, except indirectly: What Lord Roonoa said makes sense, whether or not he accurately described what The Prophet might think. We have a major population problem, not only on Niithvoktos but on Varatos, and Klestron, and any other world you'd care to name. Except Roonoa's own."
Panamba too sat down then, and the Kalif called on Lord Agros. The Leader of the House spoke seated. "Your Reverence, it is unthinkable that the Diet approve Lord Roonoa's proposal. We nobility dare not eat loohio because we dare not reduce our birthrate. Even now we constitute less than eight percent of the population. The gentry constitute barely thirty-three percent, and we rely on them to control and supervise the peasants, so we cannot have fewer gentry either.
"As for the peasants, most of them would love to eat loohio daily, I have no doubt. Then they could copulate endlessly without having to feed children, and the raising of children is the only self-accepted responsibility the peasants know. It is all that makes them more than beasts. Besides, without enough peasants, who would work the fields? Dig the ditches? Clean the streets? True, it might be desirable to reduce their births somewhat. But if we decide to, it should be by legalizing birth-control pharmaceuticals, for use in programs planned by SUMBAA and controlled by the government."
"Thank you, Lord Agros."
A hand had been popping up at the close of each comment, and the Kalif now recognized Lord Fakoda Lamatahasu, speaker for the Industrial Party. Fakoda, a short, somewhat chubby man, managed somehow to be self-important and self-effacing at the same time.
"Your Reverence, I do not pretend to be deep on matters of religion, though I have read The Book through a number of times. But from a purely practical view, a purely practical view you understand-if we should allow the Maolaari to import their loohio, and the number of peasants should decrease as a result… Well, machines could be built to do many kinds of jobs that peasants do-do them better and faster. And gentry could find employment tending the machines that would make the machines. Perhaps operating the machines themselves."
He shrugged, shoulders and hands. "Of course, these things can't be worked out overnight. But then, the population of working-age peasants would not go down overnight, either. Loohio would be no problem-no practical problem. Certainly much less a problem than those it would relieve."
Among the demanding hands, the Kalif then recognized that of Elder Dosu Sutaravaalu, Archdeacon of Ananporu and Leader of the Assembly of Elders. An old man, nearly ninety, he arose without effort, though with a certain care. He bowed first to the Kalif, then slightly to Lord Fakoda.
"Your Reverence, we have heard from men here who have been blessed by Kargh above other men. We have heard about 'practical considerations.' " He said the two words as if they were distasteful. Then he bobbed a slight bow toward Lord Agros. "The morals of peasants have even been mentioned.
"But none of these have meaning except as they fit within the prescriptions and proscriptions of The Prophet. And The Prophet truly said, 'Be fruitful.'
"It is not ours to judge his words and say that they still hold or do not hold. He said them. They are ours to obey. As for the number of people-The problem is not the number of people. The problems are sufficient jobs, sufficient food. And it is our duty to solve them. But to solve them within the limits demanded by Kargh and written down for us by His Prophet."
***
After a little, it was agreed to shelve, for the present, the question of approval for the exportation of loohio. Lord Roonoa felt comfortable with this. Opposition had not been as vehement as he'd expected, and some year soon he might be willing to push things to a vote. When the prognosis was suitable.
The Kalif too was pleased with the session. Lords Rothka and Ilthka had been discouraged more easily than he'd expected. And Rothka's challenge made clear that there was a leak in his council; very probably Thoga. Meanwhile, of course, his marital plans would now leak to the public at large. Well, let them get a look
at Tain. The public would approve, it seemed to him.
Beyond that, the discussions of Roonoa's proposal had shown him a possible fulcrum to gain support for an invasion. And accomplish other things; maybe even approval for the limited sale of loohio in areas of serious food shortages. He'd have to sort out the dynamics of the situation-see what the potentials were, the possibilities and cross-purposes.
During the discussion, another question had occurred to him. About SUMBAA. The giant artificial intelligence held virtually all the significant data there was, and supposedly had an unparalleled capacity to segregate, correlate, analyze, and integrate those data. And to create with them, at least within limits.
So why hadn't SUMBAA solved the problems of jobs and food? He could understand why it hadn't solved the question of population: religion was involved. But the others?
Surely it had been asked. Or had it? People didn't seem to wonder about SUMBAA, or even think much about it. It had been around for so long, doing what it did without consulting anyone. And really, apparently, without being much consulted by them except for the enormous volume of more or less routine bureaucratic needs.
Why? Why hadn't SUMBAA volunteered solutions? Could it be that, with the burden of routine, SUMBAA didn't have enough capacity left over? Somehow he didn't think that was it. Perhaps solutions didn't lie in the analysis of data. Perhaps they required some ability SUMBAA didn't have.
Sometime soon, he told himself, he'd go to the House of SUMBAA and discuss these things with him. With it. Tomorrow. Seven and Eightdays made up the weekend, and there'd be fewer demands on his time then.
Twenty-one
An Imperial Army captain stepped into Veen's office. "You're Colonel Thoglakaveera?" he asked.
Veeri looked up from paperwork. "That's right."