by John Dalmas
And if not this year, surely next.
Meanwhile, now he could afford to set SUMBAA to work producing all three new SUMBAAs. No doubt it had the construction plans ready. It was undoubtedly a matter of constructing modules that could be assembled aboard the selected ships.
Forty-two
The Year of The Prophet 4725
Prophet's Day marked the beginning of the year. It was also the major celebration of the year. The assigned anniversary of the Blessed Flenyaagor setting out on his wandering mission to make known the Truth of Kargh.
The actual date was only approximately known-the end of spring in The Prophet's native Arvendhi, the end of autumn at Ananporu, if one defines autumn astronomically instead of meteorologically. For of course, so near the equator there was no meteorological autumn. It was celebrated on the day following the solstice-in the more populous and culturally dominant southern hemisphere, the date when the sun began to return. Symbolically it was the beginning of recovery: in the one case of life and growth, in the other, humankind's intended spiritual recovery.
Popularly it was also a day of omens for the new year.
At Ananporu it fell within the major rainy season, but whether through the intervention of the deity or not, the great parade was usually completed without rain, or with only sprinkles. It was widely considered that a storm on the parade was an expression of Kargh's disapproval of the reigning Kalif. During the nine-year tenure of Kalif Gorsu Areknosaamos, the parade had been stormed on seven times, a percentage unmatched in the 1,490 years of the Kalifate, or so it was said. Kalif Coso Biilathkamoro had so far been in office for three Prophet's Days without a drop to spoil the event.
This year there were predictions both ways. The Forecast Office, releasing SUMBAA's evaluation, spoke of "scattered thundershowers, locally heavy." The Kalif's opponents forecast rain, feeling that if not Kargh, then the "law of averages," was bound to catch up with him; they'd be delighted to attribute it to Kargh's displeasure. Most of them, technically unsophisticated, were unfamiliar with the actual workings of probability.
The Kalif's supporters, on the other hand, said that if it stormed, it would be the Kalif's opposition who brought it on. This dodge had a feeble ring, being at odds with tradition.
Floats had never become part of Prophet's Day parades in Ananporu, perhaps because of the season and its storm threat. But there were marching bands from every world; teams bearing banners; open limousines bearing dignitaries; mounted formations, civilian, military, and police; gymnasts and clowns bounding and cavorting (along the margins, away from the horse droppings). And of course, there were the million or so spectators, far more than the city's population, who lined the right-of-way.
Normally the Kalif would ride a limousine, too, but almost no Kalifs had been active men in their mid-thirties. Paralleled by two mounted guardsmen, and a hundred feet above the avenue by watchful marksmen in open floaters, Kalif Coso rode a magnificent red stallion. He was preceded and followed by cheering that comprised a rolling roar of sound along the thoroughfare, a roar that could hardly be missed by the noble delegates following a little distance back in their limousines.
Well into the parade, thunder rumbled, with a few booms not far off, and once, for eight or ten seconds, great drops, hard and cold, spattered sparsely on the parade. Then the Kalif's opponents knew hope and joy. But it cut off as suddenly as it began, and while it rained hard half a mile north, and also two miles south, the parade went on unwetted. As if Kargh had changed his mind. Or perhaps he'd only wanted to remind the crowd of what he might have done.
When the last band had marched by, and only the sanitation crews were still to come, to clean up the final horse droppings, the crowds dispersed, to feast and party through the rest of the day and night.
***
The largest party of them all was the grand party in the Hall of the Estates. It was a very different kind of affair from the opening reception three months earlier. It was a gala, centered in the reception hall, and replete with noble ladies proudly dressed. There was dancing, too, in an adjacent ballroom, though most of the guests preferred to mix and talk.
The Kalif was there, with his kalifa.
He'd shown her the notorious book, as she'd asked, and she'd been hurt by it, though less than he'd feared. For two days she'd kept to their apartment, in a depression that, despite occasional silent tears, seemed to him more like despair than grief. It occurred to him that some of her mood might be due to her pregnancy, of which she'd shown few identifiable side-effects beyond a pair of nauseous mornings.
Mostly he'd tried to act as he normally would, but finally, thinking it might help if she talked about it, he'd asked her what troubled her most. She'd answered, that someone would so spitefully hurt and humiliate a person who hadn't harmed them, and whom they didn't know.
Then she'd wept in earnest, sobbing and hiccuping that she'd brought anger and hatred and opposition on him, and that she wished she'd been killed on Terfreya. He'd held her and let her cry, and when she'd finished, he'd kissed her, then kissed her some more, and unexpectedly they'd made love before going to sleep.
In the morning she'd seemed much happier, as if the weeping had helped.
In fact, her depression had passed, and her beautiful complexion bloomed to a newer glow, while her mood was more than happy. Often it was playful, which delighted him. It was as if the lingering disillusionment she'd felt with him, weeks earlier, had finally, totally passed.
So he was taken by surprise when she asked if she might skip the great party of Prophet's Day. She felt uncomfortable, she admitted, about being in a crowd some of whom-perhaps many of whom-had read the book.
He didn't urge, but pointed out that non-attendance would gratify those who'd hoped the book would lastingly wound and humiliate its targets. And minutes later she told him she wanted to go after all. Thus they were there together, she astonishingly beautiful in a sheer, light blue gown with white underlining. She had not swelled at all yet, that he could see. The only symptom was her glow. Within minutes she was swept away with pleasure at the attention she received. It seemed that almost everyone wanted to talk to her.
Large as it was, the great reception hall grew somewhat crowded, for no invitation was required. The mark of nobility was enough for admittance. Finally, the security chief, in his wisdom, decided the place held all the people it safely could. They lined the buffet; circulated with plates in their hands, talking; accepted drinks from waiters.
A surprising number of nobles, mostly strangers to him, came up to the Kalif and told him they approved his planned invasion. That it would be the stimulus the empire needed to reverse its long decline. Invariably the Kalif thanked them, and suggested they give their message to the delegates, who were recognizable by their capes. (It was not a "robed affair.")
It seemed to him that the numerous approvals constituted the kind of omen he could accept, one that reflected an identifiable reality.
Inevitably, of course, some of the crowd drank too much. But it was the tradition at official affairs that those who became conspicuously tight were handled by their friends. And occasionally someone would be helped to leave by one or two or three of the quiet security personnel in their colorful uniforms. But that was infrequent. If a noblewoman became troublesome, security kept hands off entirely. She was her husband's responsibility and embarrassment.
None within memory had made a scene like this one though. She was tall for a Vartosu woman, handsome, and much younger than her husband. Her condition hadn't been conspicuous until he asked if she might not like to meet the kalifa, who was talking with people a few yards away.
"The kalifa? That bitch in heat?" Her bugled scorn carried well through the hubbub of voices. "She's a slut! You men all act as if she's so beautiful! You'd all like to get in her pants! Yes! You, too!"
All eyes for a dozen yards around turned to the woman. Her husband was too stunned to act.
"She'd like it, too! Give her half
a chance and she'd be in the nearest bedroom, with a line outside the door!"
Her husband pulled on her arm then, trying desperately to quiet her and rush her out, but his efforts made her louder. The crowd sounds died in a widening ring.
"Look at her!" She was actually yelling now. "The Sultan's Bride! The Kalif's Bride, but old Rashti fucked her, too! You can bet on that! What do you think she…"
It was the Kalif that cut her off. Within earshot at the start, he'd plowed through the crowd like an angry bull, and his hand gripped her shoulder from behind, fingers like hooks. Her yell changed to one of surprised pain as he turned her around, and she slapped his face, hard, would have slapped it again if he hadn't caught her hand.
For a long moment they matched glares. "You foul devil!" she shouted. "Get your filthy hands off me! I'm not your slutty wife that you can-"
He slapped her once, not as hard as he might have, but it snapped her head to one side, and she wilted, tears starting. Her husband stood as pale as a Vartosit could get.
"Sergeant!" The Kalif's voice was as cold as ice. "Get this excrement out of here. Into a cell. Tomorrow we'll see how she likes cleaning public latrines on her hands and knees."
"Your Reverence!" Her husband had reflexively stepped back when the Kalif had strode up. Now he stepped forward. "Please! She, she didn't know what she was doing. Now and again she…"
He stopped at the Kalif's cold gaze. "You would make excuses for the things she said?" The man was unable to answer, and the Kalif began to realize how out of control he'd been himself. "Well then. If she'll apologize." He turned his eyes back to her. "What do you have to say?"
She didn't straighten, but tipped her head sideways, looking at him as if from beneath something. Her voice was quiet now, but so was the room. "You are Shatim incarnate," she said, "and that-" She turned and spat phlegm toward Tain. "That is Shatim's bitch in heat."
The Kalif's eyes bulged, and he slapped her again, the sound like a gunshot, sending her sprawling, screaming. Her husband reacted like a spring uncoiling, starting at the Kalif, then somehow stopping in mid-move. Two bodyguards were on him in an instant, grabbing his arms, jerking him back.
The man sagged, and when he spoke, his voice was thick and hoarse. "I, Lord Siisru Parsavamaatu, demand satisfaction at arms for your attack upon my wife."
The challenge brought the Kalif out of his own brief psychotic break, and he looked at the man: perhaps fifty-five years old, not decrepit by any means but no longer fit, and undoubtedly no match for him. The challenge had been an act of despondency; the man fully expected to be killed.
And suddenly the Kalif felt very tired. "I do not wish to fight you, sir," he said. "Each of us has reacted badly to this-" He groped. "This occurrence."
The man's head slowly shook. "It's a matter of honor. You struck my wife, knocked her down. The challenge stands."
The Kalif exhaled audibly through rounded lips. "Well then. If it must be."
"Please! Coso!" Tain had come up, but though he heard her, he ignored her. "Please! Don't do it! She…"
He cut her short with a chopping motion. His eyes were not angry however, only bleak. "We have no choice," he told her, then turned back to Lord Siisru. "Who will be your second?"
"My cousin, Lord Gromindh Parsavamaatu." A man who'd come near stepped through the circle of watchers now, to stand waiting. "And yours?" Siisru asked.
Coso almost answered Jilsomo, but Jilsomo was not noble, would not have been acceptable. It would have been taken as an insult. It occurred to him that he had no real friends among the nobility, outside the College. "Alb Tariil," he found himself answering. "If he's here, and if he'll consent to. Otherwise, Lord Roonoa Hamaalo."
Tariil was either out of earshot, or reluctant, and it was the tall and powerful Maolaaro who came forward.
"It was my challenge," Siisru said. "What weapon would you use?"
The Kalif shrugged heavily. "Sabers."
Siisru nodded. "Sabers then. Where?"
"The choice is yours."
"I am not familiar with this locality. Name a place."
"The drill field in the Sreegana. The ground is bare there, and sandy. The footing is good."
"So be it."
"The location was mine," the Kalif said then, following the ritual. "Name the time."
"At once."
He nodded. "As you wish."
No one followed them except their seconds and the Kalif's two bodyguards; it would have been totally outside protocol. The square seemed huge, their crossing a slow movement through a dark, deserted, dismal space. At the great gate, the guards watched them approach with idle curiosity, then with silent foreboding as they saw their faces, and wondered what this was about.
While the duelists waited silently on the dark drill ground, the senior guard signed out two sabers, both honed razor sharp, and at the Kalif's order, offered Siisru his choice. The nobleman tested the balance and feel of both, shrugged and chose. The Kalif took the other.
He bowed then to Lord Siisru. "You issued your challenge in extreme circumstances. I wish it had not been given, and would gladly see it retracted."
"It stands. I have no honorable alternative."
The nobleman's words had neither force nor indignation. He sounded like a man already dead.
"And if I refuse to fight you?"
The answer came tiredly. "Then I will kill you, for you would never run."
"Very well. Are you ready?"
The man's sword came up. "Ready."
Both took the guard position. "Lord Gromindh," said the Kalif, "you may give the command."
After a long reluctant moment, Lord Gromindh croaked the word: "Begin!"
To the Kalif, the "duel" was a macabre mockery, for Siisru moved slowly, as if under water. Clearly the man had not invited him to fight, but had chosen this as a form of suicide. The Kalif himself fought listlessly, as if hoping for something-Kargh perhaps-to intervene before he had to kill the man.
Then Siisru stepped back, lowered his sword and waited for a stroke. After eight or ten ludicrous seconds of nothing happening, he suddenly set upon the Kalif with furious energy, not skillful but dangerous.
The Kalif fended his strokes with a certain sluggishness, till the man's blade sliced his swordarm. Abruptly he reacted, and in a moment Lord Siisru lay crumpled on the packed and sandy ground. The Kalif stepped back, gripped his arm to stanch the bleeding, and turned to Gromindh, Siisru's second.
"It is done," he said quietly. "You can tell them he died with honor, my blood on his sword."
Gromindh met his eyes. "Did he now?" he muttered, then half-turned to look at nothing.
"Sergeant," said the Kalif, "call your regimental surgeon for me. Tell him to come tend to Lord Siisru's body. And to arrange for a mortician. Lord Gromindh can inform him if he has any particular wishes. Lord Gromindh?"
The nobleman made no response, gave no sign that he'd heard. The Kalif shrugged and turned to the big Maolaaro. "Good Roonoa, I am going to my apartment. The kalifal physician will tend to me there. You will do me a favor if you return to the celebration and tell them what happened. Ask Jilsomo to bring the kalifa. Make sure she knows my injury is not dangerous."
Roonoa bowed slightly and left without answering.
The Kalif wondered, as he walked to his apartment with a single guardsman, what would grow out of this. Nothing good, he felt sure of that. Meanwhile, tomorrow he'd have to find out who, in Siisru's family, he needed to meet with regarding reparations. To negotiate directly with the widow was out of the question.
Forty-three
The Kalif's physician had been at the party, too, but he'd been in the ballroom, dancing, and hadn't learned of the affair in the reception hall till after the principals had left. As soon as he'd heard, he'd hurried to his clinic to wait for a call.
He was there when his commset trilled, listened to the Kalif's description of his wound, then grabbed his emergency kit and left trotting, his night-duty ass
istant following with a folded emergency table. That damnable, bullheaded Kalif had refused to be brought to the clinic where he could be treated under proper conditions; he wanted to be at home when his wife arrived!
The physician had just finished prepping the arm when the kalifa came in with Alb Jilsomo. She was whiter than anyone he'd ever imagined, her blue eyes huge at the sight of the five-inch gash in her husband's arm. It wasn't deep though, just enough that tonus made it gape; no separate bonding of individual blood vessels was necessary. They stood watching, she and the exarch, as he injected bonding fluid into the anesthetized cut, cross-banded it, then sprayed a transparent wrapping on it, to support it till the sides of the cut cohered. Finally he put the arm in a sling, immobilized it against the patient's torso, and left.
The kalifa hadn't said a word, but she hadn't fainted, either, although she had sat down.
***
When the physician left, Jilsomo left, too. The Kalif opened his mouth to call him back and question him-ask what had happened and been said at the party, after Siisru and himself had left. But he changed his mind. He'd hear all he needed to in the morning, and it was more important now to talk with Tain, if she wanted.
She didn't, though. She seemed dazed, shocked, and he decided to leave her be for now. When she wanted to talk, she would.
***
Gromindh left the Sreegana with Lord Roonoa. His mind seeming turgid, too full for active thought. He supposed he should see to his cousin's wife, though he'd as soon she hung herself. With luck she would.
Honor indeed.
Then it occurred to him what needed to be done first, before something even more unfortunate happened; he went at once to a public comm in the Hall of the Estates, to call Siisru's son. They needed to get together man to man, right now, tonight, so Vilyamo could hear all that had happened, all of it, by other than second hand.