The Kalifs War l-3

by John Dalmas

  His voice shifted tone and volume, became less loud but scathingly sarcastic. "In case you have failed to notice, in your noble self-righteousness, this Kalif has been forebearing beyond most of his predecessors. Yet when Gorsu perpetrated his atrocities, there was no outpouring of indignation in this chamber, from either College or House. You lacked the courage, most of you who served here then! Your fear of impalement lent caution, if not cowardice, to your lips. But today your sense of justice has been totally inadequate to temper your words. The lesson seems to be that in your noble house, fear is more compelling than justice. Certainly integrity has been a virtual stranger among you today.

  "You repay your Kalif's long record of civility with attacks you wouldn't dare make if he were truly what you accuse him of. With one exception, your performance here today has been without principle, without insight, without justice. Your hypocrisy is an embarrassment to the empire!"

  Once more he paused, a pause that seemed to stem from tiredness, but when he spoke again, his voice was hard. "The people of every estate, when they hear of your poor display today, will judge you. They will judge you harshly. And who will suffer from it? This nation. This empire. Because their respect for you will have dropped-again. A process that can only go on so long before you are bankrupt with them."

  His hand went to the mark of nobility on his own forehead. "I disdain you all!" he finished. "Except for Lord Roonoa. I can only hope that Kargh will open your eyes."

  When he sat down, no one said a word for perhaps a long half minute.

  Great Kargh but old Dosu's an orator! the Kalif told himself. I had no idea! In a way he was as stunned as the nobles, and not simply by the Elder's eloquence. Historically the Pastorate was-if not jealous of the Prelacy, at least touchy at the Prelacy's seniority, and of their own lack of a vote in the Diet. Too, they'd often proven bristly at the behavior of a Kalif.

  As for himself, he'd tried always to treat their delegates with care and respect. It seemed to him that if the Kalif and the College acted as the mind of the Church, the Imperial Assembly of Elders spoke for its soul. And too few nobles, or Kalifs, had appreciated sufficiently the influence the Pastorate had on the people-both gentry and the nobility at large.

  Roonoa stood. "I call for a roll-call vote on Lord Agros's proposal," he said.

  Thoga seconded. Tariil called their names, one after another. Only six voices answered yea, four of them the delegates from the LRP. Agros voted against his own proposal. Riisav voted nay without hesitating.

  The Kalif had intended that when the discussion was over-or perhaps when the vote was over, depending on how the discussion went-he'd apologize for his actions on that misbegotten night. But Dosu's sermon changed his mind. Self-flagellation was rarely a proper act-for a Kalif less than anyone. Certainly this wasn't the time for it.

  Then it struck him with a sense of lightness and certainty: The time had come to do something else-something he'd had in mind three years earlier and lost sight of. In fact he was sure of it. It was risky, but what wasn't, in a universe full of surprises. And it would gain him very influential allies.

  He'd try it on Jilsomo when they got out of here; see what he'd say.

  Forty-seven

  The Kalif had gone directly from the Diet to his office, Jilsomo following. When they'd sat down, the Kalif described his plan. His intention would be a better term: there was no plan behind it.

  The exarch tried not to stare; to him it was unbelievable that the Kalif could be serious.

  "Your Reverence," he said cautiously, "It sounds-unwise."

  The Kalif looked troubled. Not angry, not stung, simply troubled. He'd begun to see the flaws himself, even as he described the idea. Jilsomo continued, moving to take advantage of what appeared to be uncertainty.

  "Prior to the unfortunate events on The Prophet's Day, you'd made real gains toward the funding of your invasion. You pointed that out to me yourself. Then, when it seemed you'd had a major setback, a critical one, Elder Dosu's speech gained back much of the lost ground for you. Possibly all of it. True?"

  Possibly. The Kalif nodded. He thought he could see where Jilsomo was going with this: Continue the successful actions he'd been pursuing before. Continue, then perhaps dicker when it came down to it, offering to accept a lower level of support than he'd heretofore talked about publicly. A level which SUMBAA still considered satisfactory. By next year at this time, preparations might well be for along, new divisions training, new ships under construction. Everyone would have jobs. Attention would be outward, not inward. Two years after that, the fleet would be on its way. It would amount to the birth of a new empire, a new people extroverted from old attitudes, old troubles-old traps. It made excellent sense, it seemed to him; much better than the idea he'd just described. Yet…

  "To proclaim the Pastorate a voting estate will truly outrage the House," Jilsomo went on. "They'll never go along with it; they wouldn't even if they were in love with you. And you're talking about a change in the Charter of Establishment! With a vote of sixty percent of their own members, they can repudiate your proclamation without the College even having a vote on the issue! And the odds are, they'd be unanimous.

  "Nor will they forgive you for it. Unlike the duel, and the killing of Nathiir, this would attack the very seat of their power. As a result, you'd have no chance at all with your invasion, or the legalization of loohio-or anything else you might espouse!"

  The Kalif's mouth twisted liplessly in painful thought. Jilsomo continued.

  "Beyond that, it will antagonize the College. Some of them because they'll like the idea no more than the House will, for much the same reasons: prejudice and the dilution of their power."

  Halfheartedly the Kalif tried to muster a defense. "The dilution would not be great," he said. "I'm only proposing to give the Assembly five votes. Five, which the twelve can elect to cast as a block or distribute as they see fit. The House has twenty-seven and the College eighteen."

  "You'd undertake to give them five; they'd get none of them." Jilsomo paused. "Why not try to give them twelve? One per delegate? It would hardly anger the House more than five. And the result would be the same: No votes for the Pastorate-and no votes for anything else you wanted. You'll be fortunate to escape impeachment! Or perhaps unfortunate to escape it."

  The Kalif groped. Why had the idea seemed so brilliant when it came to him? There had to be a reason behind it somewhere. Jilsomo kept relentlessly on.

  "And suppose, through some miracle, they let your proclamation stand. Five votes. What assurance would there be that the Pastorate would vote with you on invasion? They'd hardly vote with you on loohio; I remember what Elder Dosu said about that, early in the session. You'd be diluting your own power and the College's, as well as the House's. And this is not the time for that."

  "But they should have a vote," the Kalif said. "You agree with me on that. Or you did."

  "I did and I do. But they won't get it this way. Not now." Jilsomo paused, and when he went on, it was with a new note in his voice, the growth of an underlying excitement. "Your Reverence, you've given me an idea. Let me tell it to you. It is time to start toward a vote for the Pastorate. But first build a base of support…"

  ***

  As Jilsomo talked, both men scribbled ideas, diagrams, notes of things to do. The Kalif took time off to call Tain on his commset and tell her he'd be late to supper.

  When they finished, both men felt exhilarated.

  ***

  That night they lay down to sleep, one on a broad LG bed beside his beautiful wife, the other on a narrow, solitary bed in his bachelor apartment. Then each of them, as he waited for sleep, recalled the Kalif's original idea, so strange in its irrationality. And wondered about the Kalif's mind.

  The possibility of a brain tumor occurred to the exarch, and the idea chilled him. Chilled him more strongly than he might have expected. Entirely aside from the vaguely sexual attraction the Kalif had once had for him, an attraction that seeme
d to have died at the man's wedding, this Kalif was a man whom he loved for reasons entirely aside from physical attraction of any kind. It seemed to him, now that he looked at it, to be a blend of the man's charisma, his loyalty to principle-and the Kalif's love for humankind. He also wondered if it wasn't a recognition of that love, perhaps an unconscious recognition, that had inspired old Dosu's fiery defense.

  Tomorrow he'd asked the Kalif when his last medical examination had been. And bring the matter up to Neftha. If there was something organically wrong with the ruler, it needed to be handled before it became severe, perhaps debilitating.

  Forty-eight

  The young man stood trying to look firm, but a person less perceptive than the Kalif could have seen his discomfort at being there: He'd been assigned this task by someone higher in the family.

  The Kalif's voice was calm and mild, but his words were blunt. "So, Lord Paalu. Why did they send you to beard me? You're an attorney, true, but green, lacking experience. I've researched your family, you see. I'd expected your Uncle Meelor."

  "Your Reverence, my Uncle Meelor is a tempestuous man."

  The Kalif's eyebrows raised. He was tempted to ask if his uncle was afraid he'd end up assaulting or challenging his Kalif. Instead he asked, "As tempestuous as his now notorious cousin, the Lady Nertiilo?"

  He waved off any reply, almost as he said it. "I don't expect an answer to that. The question was rhetorical. Do you have authority to make an agreement? Otherwise you're wasting my time."

  The young attorney stiffened somewhat, as the Kalif had expected. "I have the authority in writing," he answered, and opening his belt purse, handed a rolled paper to the Kalif, who opened it, looked it over, and handed it back.

  "Good. What figure did your uncle give you?"

  His uncle Meelor had indeed set the price. Cousin Nertiilo had not become rational again, even after she'd metabolized the alcohol in her bloodstream. Thus she'd been interned by the family to hide the shame of her madness, and was in the care of an alienist. Apparently, the young man thought, the Kalif knew these things, too.

  "Two hundred and fifty thousand dromas," he said.

  "That much, eh? If I paid that much, I'd sue her in return, for slander. Probably for a quarter million. How would that look in the fax? That and other matters?"

  "Your Reverence has bereaved her; left her a widow."

  "True. And even if she recovers her sanity, she's unlikely to wed again, despite her good looks. After her public performance of ten days ago, any would-be suitor would investigate, and what he'd learn would cool his interest. But she's quite an affluent widow: I'm aware that her husband's will left her almost all of his estate, and his children remarkably little."

  The Kalif examined the young man for visible reaction. "It would be interesting to know how she managed that," he added.

  The young man darkened somewhat; apparently there was a story there, the Kalif decided. One he'd leave well enough alone, unless forced to pursue it.

  "Well. I have a counter offer for you," he said briskly. "Based on several facts: one, that she and her family are not in need; two, that while I bear a major responsibility for her bereavement, she bore an equal one, or greater; three, that she caused my own wife pain and suffering; four, that such a person deserves little in the way of solace from her victims; and five-Well, hear my proposal."

  His eyes pinned the young man. "Your uncle can accept this or not, but given the circumstances, he cannot call it stingy. I have already made reparations to Siisru's son and daughter, reparations they regarded as generous. But that was before I, and they, knew the terms of their father's will. So I herewith offer your cousin a reparation of 10,000 dromas."

  He saw the expected flinch in the young man's face, and continued. "A sum greater than the annual income of most gentry families today, and in these times, greater than that of too many noble families.

  "Besides, it's the sum that Siisru left to each of his children.

  "At the same time I will offer to Siisru's two children an additional reparation of 40,000 each, money they should have gotten from their father." He reached inside his robe and took out a scroll of his own. "It's all there, on the scroll. Agreed?"

  "My uncle will be wroth."

  "Your uncle's wrath is chronic, and no secret among those who know him. Or so I'm told. In fact, it's a matter of public record, in the courts. You're a fortunate man not to share that sometime family trait. With regard to myself, he's well advised to keep his wrath closely reined; I'm disinclined to be tolerant with his niece's uncle. As for you-Weigh well your decision. And if your uncle is too upset, tell him what I would have done, if you'd refused these terms. Which is, I would have-and will if you're difficult-publicize the whole affair, certain pertinent aspects of your family history, and the miserable bequests to Siisru's children.

  "Now. I will have your answer."

  The young man looked to Jilsomo as if for support; the exarch's round face showed no trace of sympathy.

  "It seems-I must accept."

  The Kalif stood, removed a small scroll of his own from inside his robe, and held it out. The young man took it, pulled his chair closer to the desk to sign, and discovered that the sum on the agreement was 20,000, not ten. He wasn't sure what the Kalif's motive might have been for misleading him, but he signed both halves quickly, and handed it back. The Kalif separated them and gave one to him.

  The young man stood to leave.

  "One moment."

  He stopped.

  The Kalif's voice was mild. "As you know well, young attorney, it is customary to shake hands on such an agreement, unless one side feels there is serious injustice in it. Do you honestly- honestly -feel there is?"

  The young man blew softly through pursed lips and shook his head. "No, Your Reverence, I do not honestly feel there is. Though I cannot speak for my uncle in that."

  The Kalif extended his hand; they clasped and shook.

  "Good. Go with Kargh, and may you prosper, both in wealth and in the spirit."

  "Thank you, Your Reverence."

  As the young man left, the Kalif looked at the clock on his wall. Almost time for his appointment with Neftha. I might as well go now, he told himself, and have done with it.

  Forty-nine

  Lord Rothka Kozkoraloku sat tapping his stylus on his work tablet. His intention was no problem, but implementing it would take some doing. His eyes re-underlined it at the head of the first page:

  ***

  COUP

  THE KALIF DEPOSED AND IMPALED (the short stake?); THE COLLEGE OF

  EXARCHS DISCONNECTED FROM GOVERNMENT; THE HOUSE IN CHARGE OF IT.

  ***

  Below that he had written two actions which he considered prerequisites: (1) Greatly increase the disaffection of the nobility for the Kalif. (2) Gain the support of some key part of the military. Assuming he accomplished them, they might or might not be sufficient to his purpose, but without them, his chances would be poor.

  Earlier, his purpose had been simply to prevent the Kalif from mounting his invasion. Now, though, it seemed to Rothka that a coup ending with the Greater Nobility in power was the correct goal. In fact, he'd felt so good when it first occurred to him, there'd been no room for uncertainty. As long as the Kalif was in power, the man would strive until he had his way. If not this year, and that now seemed impossible, then next year or the year after, or the year after that.

  Simply to have him assassinated would throw dark suspicion on his opponents in the House, most particularly the Party, risk a serious public reaction and a possible purge. At the least it would virtually ensure that one of Biilathkamoro's supporters, probably the gentry exarch, Jilsomo, was given the throne as his successor.

  No, a coup was the only correct action. But it would help greatly, in establishing order afterward, if the man's popularity was sufficiently weakened in advance. Give people an excuse to tell themselves that the coup might be for the best.

  The things already don
e had provided a certain groundwork toward that. True the Kalif had come through most of them remarkably well. But it seemed to Rothka that by now the kalifa's questionable past must be stuck ineradicably in the back of people's minds, as was her husband's penchant for personal violence. Break down his credibility in other matters, and people would remember, begin to question his suitability.

  Up till now, Rothka told himself, his own mistake had been in trying to discredit the Kalif with a single action. Which the Kalif had then focused on and more or less neutralized. Until this last business, the man had shown a talent for saying or doing the right thing to minimize damage. It had been a stroke of genius when Coso had released the cube of the Diet session in which he'd killed Nathiir. No one, except possibly the Kalif himself, had anticipated the widespread public approval it had gotten.

  Finally, when it seemed he'd damaged himself seriously, old Dosu had rescued him. And while he might have been tempted to release the cube with old Dosu's scathing defense, he hadn't. To do so would have alienated the House, beyond recovery for this session and probably for sessions to come. As the man had foreseen.

  Rothka frowned. Or was that little scenario still a possibility? It would be a dangerous project, but the potential…

  He set it aside, at least for the time.

  He'd learned some things from all that. One was to look toward volume, another to focus on issues. The pamphlets he planned to release would be numerous, brief, pithy, and politically relevant. Also they'd carry no actionable attacks on the Kalif. A pamphlet would attack some single element of the invasion plan, and dismantle or discredit it. The arguments didn't need to be valid, as long as they were convincing, at least superficially. They'd stress practical matters: economics, civil disorders, and other gut-level issues. Play the factions: the lesser nobility feared the ambitions of the gentry; the gentry worried about the peasantry encroaching on their privileges. Keep the pamphlets coming, one after another, too many and too plausible-seeming to counter. And keep them legal.