John Carr - Kalvan Kingmaker

The Count wondered what his own reward might be. A sizable one he was certain, for was he not the loom? Phidestros might well be a useful design, though not too useful-there were enough ambitions in this family for three dynasties.

"Yes," the Count said, "We shall have many uses for our Captain, though I suspect you do ill in placing your children's welfare before their father's. After all, were Allfather Dralm's sons' Ormaz and Hadron thankful when he put his younger son Appalon up as his successor? No, I think the father should look to himself first, then the sons. Does the old gray wolf turn aside and let his get rule the pack? No, he lets them run on their own until his own time has passed."

"Sestembar, I do believe there are times, even after all these years, when I underestimate your wisdom. Pour me a royal flagon of ale-and one for yourself, too. We have much to work out, as well as a few toasts to make."

"Willingly, your Grace. Most willingly."

Styphon's Voice On Earth shivered, tossing and turning on his thick goose down feather mattress. Sesklos' body was covered by a mountain of quilts and furs and still the chill cut through his thin flesh into his bones. He had awoken quite suddenly from a dream where thousands of white-robed skeletons chased after him. His breathing was shallow and he could feel a lump the size of Grand Master Soton's fist inside his chest. Was Styphon Himself reaching out from his lair in Regwarn, trying to revenge himself for Sesklos years of faithless service? "Forgive me, Styphon!" he called out, in a rasping voice.

"What is it, Master?" a querulous voice asked from outside the gilded door.

"A bad dream, Tythos," Sesklos replied. A long and rasping cough shuddered through his thin aged body. What would his fellow highpriests think if they were told that he prayed to Styphon in his sleep? His body shuddered again, this time from revulsion, not cold.

Highpriest Tythos was one of the godless non-believers who had made Styphon's House rich and powerful. He did what he was told, was not bothered by qualms of conscience or belief. Why weren't there more of him? What had happened to the upper priesthood of his youth as a novice, priest and later highpriest, when they were all like Tythos? And how had it changed on his watch? The Daemon Kalvan! It was Kalvan who'd rent the Temple asunder with his heresies and theft of the fireseed secret.

That was where it all had started, when the true rulers of the House of Styphon had been maneuvered into dealing with the true believers! He leaned over the bedside and spat into a spittoon. "A curse on all True Believers!" he called out loud, not even realizing it. And a special curse on that daemons spawn Kalvan. Roxthar, too, and his legion of followers! Sesklos was still awake enough to keep his thoughts of Roxthar to himself. He had heard rumors that some of Roxthar's white-robed acolytes were purging the Great Temple of Balph itself. How could this be? How had this vile True Believer elevated himself so high and so fast? It was true that even Archpriest Anaxthenes, the most ambitious and cold-blooded arch-priest of the Inner Circle, feared Roxthar's wrath.

And, even worse, Styphon's Own Voice on Earth now feared the sniffing noses and sharp teeth of Roxthar's hounds. After ninety-one winters, had the gods cursed him with so long a life that he would live to see true believers fill the Inner Circle? If Sesklos survived the coming winter and lived through another, he was sure he would. The question that disturbed his sleep tonight was: would he die in the kind hands of old age, or upon Roxthar's unholy rack?

Sesklos had a sudden vision, as though he were a bird, flying higher than any feathered beast had ever gone, peering down below at the Five Kingdoms, boiling with fire and black roiling clouds of fireseed. Bodies lay in courtyards, stacked like cords of firewood. The only creatures alive and moving in all this chaos and destruction were the white-hooded followers of Archpriest Roxthar.

His body went into spasms. I have to stop this madman. But how? He curled up, pulling his thin shanks together, trying to keep the chill at bay. There had to be a way to stop Roxthar. Or, Dralm-damnit was Roxthar really in the service of Styphon! Had they all been wrong about their god? Sesklos felt his head spin. If they were wrong and Styphon was a true god, had Styphon sent Roxthar to manifest his anger with his false priesthood?

I must be sick, Sesklos thought, to even think such thoughts. If any of the gods were real, this "Investigation" Roxthar was promoting would be like a picnic compared to the rewards he-and all the other non-believers who paraded in Balph as priests-would receive in Regwarn!

"TYTHOS! Bring me another brazier; I need warmth. And call my healer."

Chief Verkan sat at his horseshoe-shaped desk, watching the viewer replay the takeover of the Memphis conveyer-head on a minor Fourth Level, Nilo-Mesopotamian time-line in the Alexandrian-Roman sector. The Nile delta had been suffering from a famine due to a series of aqueducts built over a period of centuries that had finally reduced the flow of the major river to a trickle. Raising damns upon the Nile river was not unusual; it had been done on First Level and most Second Level sectors, even some of the more advanced Europo-American sectors had completed, or were finishing major dams. The result, of course-regardless of Level-was always the same; too little silt and too little water, leaving the Nile valley an agricultural wasteland. Famine was not the surprise, the real question was: Why had the populace decided to attack the Consolidated Outtime Foodstuffs conveyer head?

The battle was fierce and the prole defenders were disadvantaged by having to employ local weapons. Despite using a motley collection of clubs, cutlery and agricultural implements; the populace extracted numerous casualties among the Paratime staff. A few of the attackers were armed with swords and spears and were probably members of the local constabulary. The soldiers didn't arrive until the buildings had been looted and burned. The Consolidated Outtime Foodstuffs' First Level employees had gotten out before the doors were blown apart by battering rams. Most of the proles had died, but five of them had gotten to the conveyer in time. Verkan made a note that he wanted copies of all the interrogations and would like to talk to at least one of the surviving proles. As he recalled, Outtime Foodstuffs had been peripherally involved in the Wizard Traders case.

Verkan looked up when he heard his secretary's voice announce, "Inspector, Skordran Kirv, to see you, Chief."

"Tell him to come," he replied, wondering why one of his top men had arrived unannounced.

He motioned for Kirv to take a seat, as he shut off the viewer. "Kirv, I've got a question for you."

"Yes, Chief."

"Why would half the population of Memphis, Fourth Level Alexandrian-Roman, attack our local conveyer head?"

"What were we exporting and what were the conditions?"

Verkan answered, "Consolidated Outtime Foodstuffs runs the facility and there's a famine in all of Egypt."

"Humming bird tongues, ibex steaks, crocodile livers-there's a good market here for all of that here in Dhergabar. Probably someone got careless and let some of the indigenies watch them bring food into the building. People are starving in the streets-isn't that one of the sectors where they built dams on the Nile, or some such nonsense?"

"Yes," Verkan said, enjoying the way Kirv reached almost the identical conclusion he had after watching the clip.

"It's almost always carelessness that brings disaster. Someday, someone is going to slip up and one of these more advanced Second Level, or even Fourth Level, time-lines are going to figure out that they're nurturing a colony of vampires at their breast and the big bill will finally come due."