The Kalifs War l-3

by John Dalmas

  ***

  The Kalif awoke from a feverish dream, with an arm that hurt savagely. Hurt so badly, he rolled out of bed in a daze, thinking to call Neftha and find out what was wrong.

  Instead of calling, though, he stumbled out, mostly naked, into the garden, holding his injured arm, grinding his teeth. He'd probably been lying on it, he told himself. He couldn't believe how badly it hurt.

  The dream came back to him. He'd been emperor-not a Kalif, apparently, but simply emperor-and one of his staff, a trusted man, had confronted him in anger. About something in an earlier dream, he thought. Had drawn a crystal knife from inside his jacket, a knife that became a saw-toothed sword, and had swung it at him. He'd fended it with his arm. Then a guard had shot the man with a beam gun, cut him into pieces that writhed on the floor.

  The blood had been red; he remembered that clearly. He seldom dreamed in color.

  Remembering the dream brought chills to replace the fever; or was it the cooling night breeze on his sweaty body? At any rate the pain had receded a bit. He walked still clutching the arm, aware now that he'd come out without a repellent-field generator; some mosquitoes had found him. He turned to go back, and there was Tain, following, pale in the darkness.

  "Are you all right?" she asked.

  "My arm. Nightmares."

  Her face reflected her concern.

  "I'm going back in," he added, and chuckled thickly without humor. "The mosquitoes will take more blood from me than good Siisru's sword."

  They walked back to the apartment together, her repellent field driving the mosquitoes from him. He remembered the dream again. It was as if he'd watched the attack from an external viewpoint, and he, the emperor in the dream, had been fat. Not as big as Jilsomo, but fat. Back in the apartment, and again without talking, he and Tain had a drink of brandy together, his a large one, before going again to bed. By then the pain was just a heavy ache, and after a bit he drifted into a sleep with no dreams that he'd remember afterward.

  Forty-four

  Coso Biilathkamoro had known, the evening b. efore, that ill would grow out of his duel with Siisru. The next morning he began to learn the specifics. The newsfacs had kept carefully to the witnessed facts, and from them, from the one he read, he learned that Siisru Parsavamaatu had been a popular member of the Industrialist Party in Kalasoor State, a delegate to the party caucus there. And ironically, a supporter of the Kalif and his proposed invasion.

  On the other hand, the newsletters faxed by the offices of the noble delegates were unhappy with him, at best. He forced himself to read them, to know what was said.

  From one of these he learned that Siisru had a son, Vilyamo-and that Vilyamo was the commander of the Kalifal Guard!

  How, he wondered, had he missed the surname?

  He owed blood reparations to Vilyamo. Grimly he turned to his commset. The colonel's yeoman answered: The colonel was inspecting B Company's quarters; he'd send someone to find him right away. The Kalif left a message: he wanted to talk with the colonel at 1100 hours, in the private garden.

  That left thirty-five minutes, allowing Vilyamo time to complete his inspection and arrive; given the circumstances, he would not rush the man.

  It left him thirty-five minutes, too, half an hour he didn't know what to do with. It seemed doubtful he could concentrate. He opened a drawer, intending to take a stunner from it and clip it on his belt, for he would allow no bodyguard to overhear their conversation, and who could say what might happen?

  Then slowly he closed the drawer without taking anything from it. This was something he would not go into armed, even with a stunner. Instead he picked up a report on Maolaaru fisheries and went into the garden to wait.

  He'd overlooked the possibility that the kalifa might be there. She was sitting at one of the marble tables, beneath a large, colorful umbrella, with a folding library reader before her. He went to her.

  "Good morning, darling," he said gravely. "I'm to meet someone here in half an hour. Would you leave before then? It must be just he and I; it's a very sensitive matter."

  She looked questioningly at him, so he went on. "It's Lord Siisru's son. I've-taken his father from him, and need to discuss blood reparations."

  She nodded, worry furrowing her forehead. Then her eyes moved to her husband's belt.

  "Will there be no guard? You wear no weapon."

  "Either would be inappropriate."

  "But he might…"

  He shook his head. "I think not. If he wishes to challenge me, of course, he may." And that would truly be a tragedy, he thought, for if he does, to deny him would be unthinkable, and I'll have to kill him. If I'm able.

  The look Tain gave him was bleak, as if she'd read his mind. She folded her reader and went into the apartment, and he sat down where she had been. Unexpectedly the report he'd brought with him proved interesting. Commonly he merely scanned the lead abstracts of reports like this one. In this case, though, when he'd finished that, his quick eyes moved on through the pages, slowing here and there to digest a paragraph or table. If the empire was managed by the Maolaari , he told himself, we'd all be better off. Presumably they made more use of their SUMBAA, or better use, but that was obviously only a small part of it. They cooperated more, politicked less, and put far less value on prerogatives of class, family, and wealth.

  It occurred to him to wonder how the Confederation regarded these things.

  Suddenly he became aware that someone was there, waiting, and he looked up, then stood.

  "Colonel," he said.

  "Your Reverence."

  The reply was stiff, with a stiffness that seemed not of hatred, the Kalif thought, but from awkwardness with the circumstances. There were dark semicircles beneath the colonel's eyes, suggesting he'd released his grief in private when he'd heard, probably the night before.

  "You know what happened of course."

  "My cousin told me. Last night. Lord Gromindh, my father's second."

  "Ah." The air seemed full of some dark and sluggish energy, an energy that would not readily discharge. "I must begin by stating my profound regret. I wish it had not happened; I wished it then."

  "My cousin said as much."

  "I-" It was difficult to say it, but he had to. "I hope that your mother is not-"

  Vilyamo's retort cut him short. "My mother died twelve years ago. The woman who so vilely slandered the kalifa was my father's second wife-may her soul wander endlessly in Hell!"

  The unexpected bitterness startled the Kalif, though he did not show it. What followed explained even more.

  "Perhaps he loved her," the colonel went on. "Although my sister and I have wondered if there might have been some other reason. After the first few visits, we rarely went home; Nertiilo made it impossible for us there. He'd stop to see me when he was here in Ananporu, unless she was with him. I'm told-I'm told she was not usually unpleasant to him when we weren't there."

  The Kalif nodded slowly. What he'd heard weighted him, although it made his task easier. "I see. Well. Your stepmother has family, I presume. No doubt I'll hear from them. Are you to be your sister's agent in the matter of reparations?"

  "Gromindh called her last night, and she called me this morning. She lives with her husband near Maldiro opal, our home city. Reparations were not mentioned. It was my father's challenge."

  "True. Would a hundred thousand dromas constitute a suitable reparation?"

  "That's 50,000 each," Vilyamo answered. "Considering whose the challenge was, that would be generous.'

  The Kalif had had in mind 100,000 each, an amount that would drastically deplete his modest personal wealth. If 50,000 each would satisfy… There was, after all, the stepmother to deal with yet.

  "And now, Your Reverence, I offer you my resignation from the Guard."

  "Of course," the Kalif said. "If you're an only son, you'll need to manage the family enterprise."

  "That's not it, Your Reverence. My brother-in-law is the man to manage it; he's been my fath
er's administrative aide for years. But it seemed to me you might feel ill at ease, with me in command of your Guard."

  "Um. You're sworn to defend my life. If that now seems unreasonable, or if you prefer not to be near me… Both are easily understood. But I'll be pleased if you stay."

  The colonel nodded, a short head bow. "Then I will stay. Meanwhile I'll call my sister, telling her your reparation offer. If she wants another agent than myself, I'll let you know, and he can get in touch."

  The two men parted and the Kalif went inside, his mind sorting impressions. Now, it seemed, he knew what Gromindh had meant by "did he now?", when he'd commented that Siisru had died with honor. What had it been like, married to that? Seemingly enough to drive someone to seek death.

  Forty-five

  The Diet took its regular eight-day break, which began on The Prophet's Day, but the College met on the third of them. The Kalif attended with his arm in a sling. The meeting was short, because there was no Diet business to prepare for and because no one wanted much to talk. But afterward, Jilsomo told him that a letter of deprecation had been circulated, a proposed collegial reprimand of the Kalif. It had come to Jilsomo last. Seven exarchs had signed it, including Alb Riisav, who'd drafted it. With less than a majority willing to sign, Riisav had then withdrawn it.

  That even seven were willing jarred the Kalif. It was bad enough that it had been drafted and circulated at all. "I realized," he told Jilsomo thoughtfully, "that Riisav was no friend of mine, but I hadn't realized he was my active enemy."

  "Your Reverence, he may possibly consider himself your enemy; to draft a letter of deprecation was a drastic step to take. But in fairness, your actions of the other night, which he enumerated in it and took exception to, are worth your review."

  The Kalif's lips thinned. "My actions were well justified. I wish they hadn't been necessary, but… You were there. You heard."

  "But they were not the only honorable actions available to you. And arguably not the wisest."

  The Kalif's jaw set. Jilsomo continued.

  "I took the liberty of copying his letter verbatim, adding my comments. I'll leave it with you, in case you care to look at it; it contains food for thought." He laid it on the Kalif's desk. "And now, by your leave, I'll return to my desk. It's amazing how much work there is on it, considering the Diet is on break and a third of the bureaucracy on leave."

  He bowed slightly and left. The Kalif scowled, then picked up the sheets Jilsomo had left with him, his unfriendly eyes assaulting the contents. It was addressed to him, with LETTER OF DEPRECATION centered and capitalized at the head. After the stiffly formal Your Imperial Majesty, instead of simply Your Reverence, there was a list.

  ***

  1. You engaged publicly in an unseemly verbal and physical brawl with a woman. [One who allows himself to become involved in excrement throwing must expect to get excrement on him.]

  ***

  The bracketed comment, he decided, was Jilsomo's.

  ***

  2. The woman was obviously not responsible for her actions. She was either crazy or drunk, and probably both. This was apparent to everyone who saw and heard her.

  3. It was obvious that her husband was willing and eager to apologize for her as her agent. Clearly, insane as she was, she was unlikely to apologize for herself. You rejected harshly and with an abusive tone his attempt to conciliate, invited her further vituperation, and virtually forced her husband's challenge. [Here you let go your best opportunity to close the matter without killing.]

  4. The law explicitly states that dueling is a felony unless the parties have met before a magistrate and possible alternatives thoroughly discussed. The magistrate must approve the duel. You totally omitted and ignored the law on this. [It has been argued repeatedly, by past Kalifs and their apologists, that a Kalif is above the law, except as stipulated by the Charter. Those who so acted, particularly those who so acted either openly or chronically, have left empire, government, and the people the worse for it.]

  5. Accepting the duel without the proper legal steps was a serious transgression of law, but to then fight it on the Holy Day showed a serious disrespect for The Prophet. You should have insisted on a later date, by which time one might hope some alternative would have commended itself to you or to Lord Siisru.

  ***

  The Kalif's scowl had moderated, become a frown, and he tapped the sheets on his desk. His deflating anger left him sitting heavily like a much older man. He punched a code on his commset, and after a moment spoke to it.

  "Jilsomo, thank you for bringing this letter to me. I appreciate it… I have a question for you: Was Thoga one who signed it…? Ask him!" For just a moment anger flashed at Jilsomo's response; then it passed. "I will," he said thoughtfully, and disconnected.

  A shame Jilsomo never married, he told himself wryly. He'd be an excellent father.

  A question nudged him then: why had he asked Jilsomo about Thoga? He'd surprised himself with that. The reason struck him: Thoga's newly found courage and integrity. With Kargh's light, the little exarch had had the courage to examine and question his entire mode of life and thought, his very motives. And then had had the integrity to accept what he found. If Thoga had signed the letter, it would have been that much more damning.

  Well, he would not ask Thoga. He'd ask Kargh, as Thoga had, and accept what Kargh showed him.

  ***

  The Kalif left his bodyguards, forbidding them to follow, telling them he needed privacy, and walked alone across the grounds to the chapel. The Chapel of the Exarchs had a number of small private rooms, not much more than closets, each with its padded kneeling stool, and to one side, a narrow stained glass window that admitted a limited amount of colored light. He went into one of them, set the lock behind him, and knelt.

  He prayed to Kargh to help him, then waited. Thoughts formed, proliferated, were banished. More came into being. After a little he itched. Despite the pads, his knees and shins began to hurt, not severely but enough to distract. Grimly he stayed, back straight, hands on thighs, in the prayer posture he'd been taught as a boy.

  The light rays shifted with the wheeling of the sun, till finally, darkening, they spent themselves on the side of the stone window casing. Slowly, stiffly, the Kalif got to his feet. Kargh had not come to him, had not chosen to show him anything. Perhaps he'd been abandoned.

  Unnoticed, he left the chapel. He'd have to do and see Right for himself as best he could. He remembered what SUMBAA had said about humankind having to solve its own major problems. Perhaps Kargh had placed the same responsibility on him.

  At least Riisav and Jilsomo had cast light on his actions for him. Perhaps Kargh had had something to do with that. He decided, though, to give the credit to the two exarchs, whether or not they were tools of Kargh.

  Forty-six

  When the Diet met again, the Kalif was there, sitting among the exarchs and swept by the glances of the nobles, some of them hostile, some cold, some merely grim. Seemingly none were sympathetic toward him.

  He wasn't there to promote his invasion or anything else. He'd come this day to face the fire.

  It was Lord Agros, not Rothka, who proposed a formal denunciation of him-definitely not an encouraging sign. Agros had been against an invasion all along, but seemingly hadn't been hostile toward the Kalif himself. Now, thought the Kalif, it seemed he was. It was hard to know for sure, though. Agros was motivated far less by emotions than by practicality. Or more accurately, by principles which were limited and distorted by expediency and opportunity.

  In the oratory-it was no debate-the points brought up by the House were much like those that Riisav had listed, but phrased and rephrased with greater animosity. And almost no one, nobles or exarchs, seemed prepared to argue with them. Only Roonoa Hamaalo spoke in the Kalif's behalf, pointing out his unwillingness to actually begin the fight, and once the fight began, his reluctance to end it with his challenger's death. Roonoa's words made little difference to what followed, h
owever, merely gave the more hostile something further to fang and claw.

  The delegates of the Pastorate had stayed out of it entirely, until their leader's hand went up. Alb Tariil, who was chairing the meeting, recognized him, and Dosu got to his feet.

  He waited just long enough to draw their eyes, then began. "Your criticisms," he said, "have a certain validity. One might indeed have hoped for more composure, greater forbearance from the Successor to The Prophet. But no mention has been made of the extreme, the truly astonishing provocation he underwent." The old man looked around him. "Has everyone forgotten that old saw attributed to the wise man, Shamaragoopal? 'It is better to tell a man that his father mates with sheep than to tell him his wife's nose is too wide.' The shocking, indeed the stunning insults to the kalifa, shouted within the hearing of hundreds the other night, were far worse than that. They were public insults unprecedented in their coarseness."

  Dosu paused to stare around as if challenging them to gainsay him. " Almost unprecedented. There has been one to equal it. A vile and evil precedent committed by a member, a late member, of the House of Nobles! I refer to the disgusting book of Lord Nathiir's, which also targeted the kalifa, and which served to greatly sensitize the Kalif, make him react more strongly to additional insults."

  Again he paused, then shocked them further by shouting with a force incongruous to his aged frame. "An act which shamed the House of Nobles and threatened the very concept of nobility! Something that none of you seemed able or willing to recognize! Let alone publicly lament!"

  Once more he paused, his sweeping gaze fierce, his old mouth clamped like the beak of a reef dragon. "All you could think of to do, that earlier time, was attack the Kalif for his unfortunate response. While today-today you've attacked him like a pack of wild dogs! In my youth in the pulpit, if one of my peasants had acted as shamelessly as most of you have, here today, I'd have laid a penance on him to bring tears to his eyes and a groan from his lips. I trust and recommend that your chaplain serve you similarly."