Great Kings' War (7 page)

Europo-American Sector was now the home of the a brand-new subsector, the Kennedy Subsector, which included those time-lines where the major ruler of the Northern Continent, Lesser Land Mass had survived an assassination attempt. John F. Kennedy's assassination had left other Hispano-Columbian subsectors moving quickly into instability.

"I'm beginning to think we're going to have to close the entire Hispano-Columbian Subsector," Verkan said, as he paused to pick up his pipe and light it. "It's only a matter of time before this new undeclared war on the Major Land Mass has the two major powers in a missile-throwing contest. When that's finished, there won't be much that passes for civilization on that Subsector—just a long dark night. And this is getting to be a continuing danger throughout most of Hispano-Columbian, especially those dominated by the Nazi and Communist sects."

"I agree. I've had my eye on that Sector ever since the first Big War to Free the World. I only held back because of pressure from the Executive Council. Some of the biggest outtime trading firms—Sharmax Trading, Paratime Petroleum, Holnyt Art House, Consolidated Outtime Foodstuffs and Synthax Spectacles move a lot of product out of that Subsector. Before you make up your mind, I suggest you have a talk with Councilman Lovranth Rolk to see what kind of support he can drum up from management in the Executive Council.

Verkan Vall's face, normally as expressionless as a pistol-butt, relaxed visibly. "That's good advice, Tortha. I'm glad you came in today. I don't want to tell you how to live your new life any more than you want to tell me how to do my job, but I have this to say: I think you may have left for Sicily too fast and stayed too long. I could have used your advice a few times."

"I'm sure you could have," Tortha said. "That's why I went. I might have yielded to the temptation to give that advice. Then where would we be?" He answered the question with a Sino-Hindic phrase from a time-line extraordinarily rich in scatological allusions.

"It's not just the people who have some real grievance against you, Vall. It's everyone in and out of the Paratime Police who isn't happy with the youngest Chief in five thousand years. One who has appointed his wife as Chief's Special Assistant—" Tortha held up his hand to stop Verkan's objections. "I agree Dalla was the best-qualified candidate, but not everyone knows her as well as I do. Even you have to admit, her record is spotty.

"Not to mention that you're an aristocrat with a rather peculiar hobby time-line that's going to make or break the careers of a lot of Dhergabar university professors. I'd rather desecrate a temple to Shpeegar Lord of the Spiders than beard a professor who thinks he's lost a publication opportunity because the Paracops meddled!"

Verkan laughed, but Tortha could hear the strain in it. Guiltily he realized he'd been doing exactly what he'd left for Sicily to avoid—giving unasked-for advice. He also realized that Verkan looked—older? More strained? Tired? None of the words seemed completely wrong, or completely right either; all implied more emotion than Vall was letting show even now. He finally decided that Vall really looked like nothing more than a handsome man just into his second century who also happened to have the most nearly impossible and by far the most thankless job on Home Time Line.

"Vall, tell the computer and the limpet mines to wait. Or put a limpet mine on the computer, for all I care. I'm taking you and Dalla out to dinner at the Constellation House—"

"But I can't—"

Tortha drew himself up into a posture of mock attention and saluted with the precision of a new recruit who hadn't learned which superiors insisted on salutes. "Sir, if I can't obtain your cooperation, I'll be obliged to inform Chief's Special Assistant Doctor Hadron Dalla that you have refused."

Verkan pulled his face into an expression of mock horror. "No, no, anything but that!" He emptied his drink and set the glass back on his desk while reaching for his green uniform jacket with the other hand.

Sesklos, Styphon's Own Voice and Supreme Priest of Styphon's House, sat alone in his private audience chamber, wondering why fate had permitted him to live so long and rise so high, only to fall so low. He sat shivering before his charcoal brazier; Sesklos would have cursed all twelve of the so-called true gods—had he believed any of them were other than humbuggery. Wasn't it bad enough the Daemon Kalvan had fallen upon Styphon's House On Earth like a blazing rock out of the night sky? Did he need to hear from the lips of Archpriest Dracar that First Speaker Anaxthenes, his most trusted advisor and one he considered like a son, was the head of a conspiracy that threatened to turn priest against archpriest?

The Styphon's Great Council of Balph, already halfway through its second moon, seemed as interminable as the winter wind and just about as likely to abate.

Just thinking of the howling wind outside brought on a fit of shivering to his frail body. He quickly added more charcoal to the brazier. The additional heat stopped his tremors, but did not reach his fingers or toes. These days they were always cold; the price of ninety winters. Despite his discomfort, he hoped it would not be his last—the grave would be far colder.

Sesklos' eyes lovingly caressed each of the treasures that furnished his private chamber in Styphon's Great Temple: a rainbow-colored feather tapestry of a plumed serpent from the Empire of the Mexicotal; a Thunderbird buffalo skull layered with hammered gold and turquoise from the Great Mountains; a twisted ivory narwhal horn from the White Lands beyond farthest Hos-Zygros; a great stone battleaxe from the time of the Ancient Kings; a sacred golden bull from the Ros-Zarthani of the Western Sea; a fist-sized gold torc from a long-dead Urgothi Warlord in the Sastragath...

Too many priceless objects to count even on a hundred lonely nights; the treasure of kingdoms, yet only the merest fraction of Styphon's House's great wealth. How could it be that one man, arriving out of nowhere, could place all this wealth and power in jeopardy? Or had he? Was it possible the golden throne of Styphon rested upon mere sand?

Treasure was only one of the Temple's strengths. Styphon's House was as rich as any two Great Kingdoms combined. The Temple ruled the trade in corn, chocolate, cotton and tobacco. Owned the Five Great Banking Houses. At sea, Styphon's House had two fleets of galleasses and galleys and more merchant ships than a scribe could count beans in a long summer day. Granaries filled to bursting, armories with enough pikes, bills, halberds, swords, arquebuses, calivers and muskets to fill a valley. Magazines filled with tons of Styphon's fireseed—perhaps not as good as this new Hostigos mixture, but good enough.

In soldiers, Styphon's House could count twenty-five thousand of Styphon's Own Guard, forty thousand Zarthani Knights, and enough gold and silver to buy every free companion in the Five Kingdoms; Sesklos refused to count Hos-Hostigos as a
true
Kingdom. Plus scads of rulers, from petty barons to Great Kings—one and all in Styphon's pocket.

A sharp rap at the door brought Sesklos out of his musings. "Enter."

First Speaker Anaxthenes came through the door in his yellow robe, followed by two of Styphon's Own Guard in their silvered armor with Styphon's design etched in black on the breastplate, matching silvered glaives and bright red capes.

Sesklos gave a nod of dismissal to the Guardsmen. When they had departed, he asked, "What are these rumors I hear about you and the One-Worshippers?"

"Father, they are true. Yet, there is more to be said than you have heard."

Sesklos winced at the First Speaker's use of the term "Father" now, although it was surely true that he was Anaxthenes'
spiritual
father. Sesklos had been Father Superior of the Temple Academy when the young Anaxthenes, the youngest son of a destitute noble, had been brought to the Academy to be raised as one of Styphon's Own. There was little to recall now of that tow-headed adolescent in the broad shouldered, shaven-headed Archpriest who faced him now; only the piercing, startlingly blue eyes were the same.

Like that outcast of thirty years ago, Sesklos too had come a long way. After twenty-five years as Father Superior, few had considered him as a candidate for the Inner Circle, much less Styphon's Own Voice. But he had been given the authority to mold the minds and hearts of young priests-to-be, and mold them he did. When he had at last entered the Archpriesthood, his rise had been meteoric. Even now half the Archpriests of the Inner Circle were his former charges. Anaxthenes had been his best and brightest pupil, as well as his most willful. His body had grown straight and tall, but his ambition had grown even greater.

Anaxthenes don't fail me now!
he thought. He was too old, too burdened with past sorrows to see the son of his heart burned at the stake or buried alive in the catacombs beneath Old Balph. Styphon's House needed all her strongest sons now more than ever. For a moment he could see all the young priests he had raised over the years march through his chamber, starting out young and growing into to old age as they passed through the room.

"Father, are you all right?"

Sesklos shook his head to clear if of ghosts from the past. Old age was like a thief, at first stealing those things rarely used, then growing bolder and more daring, until nothing was left but oblivion.

"Why, my son, in our hour of need have you helped rend the very fabric of the Temple?"

"That cloth has already been rent asunder, first by the Usurper Kalvan who violated the secret of the Fireseed Trinity, then by the traitors Archpriests Zothnes and Krastokles. The old ways are doomed; our House must rebuild itself, or die."

"These are strong words, my son. Yet, true. There is a new wind in the air, one so strong it shakes Styphon's Own Throne. Are you so certain the blocks of Roxthar and Cimon are strong enough to build a new foundation for his Temple?"

"I believe so. They are the only clay of this House that does not crumble at Kalvan's words. There is far too much sand in the clay of Dracar and Timothanes."

"And what of the clay of Sesklos?"

"Like rock, but deeply etched by the winds of time."

Sesklos had to fight to keep a smile from his lips. Anaxthenes always had a way with his old teacher, like a favorite concubine with an old king. "I fear you are right. But the One God worshippers are like a flame in the breeze. Only the Weather Goddess knows which wind will fan them or willy-nilly blow the fire into your face."

"Yes, Father, but is also true that only they have roots that dig deep into the soil itself. The others but live on the surface and are buffeted by every zephyr. And it is a strong and ill wind blowing our way."

"What if I agree? What can I do?" he asked.

"My Father, place your hand upon mine in the Council."

"Dracar will denounce us both. His lust for my chair blinds him even to the weather."

"Then promise him that which is his innermost desire."

Sesklos felt an invisible hand clench his heart. "But I have saved that gift for the son who is not of my loins but of my heart. Does he value it so little?"

"Father, as a sign of your love, I value it above all things. But of what value is the chair when the body lies prostrate and unmoving?"

Sesklos sighed, and rubbed the sudden goose bumps on his arms. He was too tired and cold to resist. "I will do as you ask, my son. It is all I have left to give. I only hope the Temple you build will be stronger than the ruins I fear I will be leaving behind."

Grunting with effort, two workmen and an underpriest of Dralm pulled the heavy door of the pulping room shut. The noise from the pulping room faded from an ear-battering din to a distant rumble, although Kalvan could still hear the vibration of the horse-powered pulper through the stone floor. The other sounds—the thump of the horses' hooves, the squeal of un-oiled chains and green-wood bearings, and the shouts of the foremen as they drove the ex-Temple slaves of the work crew to keep things going—were no longer clearly distinguishable.

Kalvan turned to Brother Mytron. "How are the horses bearing up under this work?

"Better than men would," Mytron replied. His tone hinted of problems best not discussed here in the open hallway. Had Mytron been listening too long to Duke Skranga, who saw Styphon's spies everywhere? Or was he just been naturally cautious about speaking within the hearing of men he didn't know? Kalvan hoped it was the latter; Skranga's zeal to prove his loyalty to the Great Kingdom (and therefore his innocence of any part of Prince Gormoth's murder) was leading him to see Styphoni lurking under every bed and urge others to do likewise.

Meanwhile, Kalvan decided against mentioning his plans to make most of the paper mill equipment water-powered. Apart from the matter of security, it would involve either moving the mill or a lot of digging of millponds and building of dams and spillways. There was no guarantee the men and money would be available when spring came and the ice melted, and it would be pointless to even make the effort if the winter's work hadn't discovered how to produce usable paper. So far all the mill had produced was mush that smelled like the Altoona drunk tank on the Sunday morning after a particularly lively Saturday night.

"How goes the rag room?"

"Well enough, Sire, but no one is working there now. We've chopped all the rags as fine as necessary and no more have come in the last moon-quarter."

This was no surprise. There wasn't too much difference between the rags the mill was cutting up for paper and the clothes the poor of Hostigos were wearing this winter.

"I'll see what the quartermasters can do about providing you with something." The quartermasters would probably say they couldn't do anything, but Kalvan's experience of supply sergeants led him to expect they would be holding back more than they'd admit to anyone. A platoon sergeant was "just anyone," the Great King of Hos-Hostigos was somebody more.

Brother Mytron led the way down the hall and through a freshly-painted wooden door into another hall, with log walls and a roughly-planked roof. It was cold enough to make Kalvan wrap his cloak more tightly. Wind blew through chinks between the logs and planks, and dead leaves crunched underfoot. About all that could be said for these hastily-carpentered passageways between the buildings of the mill was that they were better than wading through knee-deep snow in a wind that made five layers of wool seem as inadequate as a stripper's G-string.