John Carr - Kalvan Kingmaker

Kalvan sure hoped so. He was running out of parchment, some of which had been scraped so often it could pass for lampshades, and he'd collected enough pine boards to create a fire hazard. If it got any worse, he was going to have to re-invent the Sumerian clay tablet

"I give you Tranth's Blessing, Master Ermut," said Kalvan, referring to the god of guilds and craftsmen, "because there's not a lambskin left in the Kingdom and the shepherds are threatening to mutiny if we butcher anymore of their sheep!"

Everyone laughed.

Ermut answered, "Yes, the Great Queen tells me you use parchments up as fast as you use up Styphon's troops, Your Majesty." Mouths gaped at Ermut's effrontery, but Kalvan laughed. A good leader wouldn't remain one for long once his confidants feared to speak their minds, and Master Ermut had come a long way from his days as a temple-farm slave to be able to make an open jest before his Great King, even one as feeble as that.

As Kalvan laughed the tension level dropped. "Speaking of Queen Rylla, she wanted me to ask you for more soap. Her ladies-in-waiting are losing' it faster than you can make it!"

"I'll see that you have a basket full of soap before you leave. Production is way up, now that we have a good source of lye."

Ermut's perfumed soap, another of Kalvan's ideas, was catching on quickly among the nobility and upper middle class, especially now that Queen Rylla was now bathing daily. Soon it would be an export commodity; Kalvan was gifting every ambassador and head of state with a basket of soap before they left Hostigos Town. He was making little progress among the lesser townsfolk, but they had little disposable income.

Ermut began to speak again. "While our paper project lags behind, one of our other projects has born surprising fruit." Ermut motioned to an apprentice by the door holding a large jug. The apprentice approached the table and at Ermut's direction filled a flask with a deep burgundy colored liquid.

Ermut carefully held up the glass flask so all could see the liquid's rich color. Glass was in short supply and made only in far-off Hos-Ktemnos. Kalvan thought, Note: Work out a rough formula for glass and give it to Ermut to work on.

Ermut brought the flask over to Kalvan and indicated he should drink up. Kalvan hesitated for a moment, then thought, when the time came he needed a food-taster to take a drink among friends, then he was long overdue for another trip on a cross-time flying saucer. The first sip tasted like strong winter wine until it reached his throat and then he knew full well he'd just tasted the first here-and-now brandy.

Kalvan took another longer sip and that clinched it. "Master Ermut, you're a genius! How did you do it?"

The big man blushed to the roots of his blonde beard, while wiping his hands on his green robe. "Your Majesty, it was your idea and his," pointing to his apprentice, "device. I was listening to Apprentice Antros talk about the distillation of petroleum spirits for heating oil-he's only arrived several months ago from the Princedom of Kyblos to join the University-when I recalled something you had said about the strong spirits of wine, berries and corn mash you called liquor. Since you sounded quite fond of these spirits, I thought I would keep my experiments to myself and see if I could come up with this liquor. I suggested some ingredients and turned Antros loose; these are the results."

"Well, in truth," Antros broke in, momentarily forgetting that he was in the presence of his Great King, University Rector, and several masters, "these liquor spirits are much easier to conjure, because they don't require the high temperature of the oils we make in Kyblos. Oh, excuse me, Your Majesty!"

"You're excused, Antros. It's not everyday someone brings me a miracle such as this!" Kalvan took another long drink. "It even tastes good!"

Antros blushed so deeply he had to hide his face. He quickly began to pour goblets of brandy for all the assembled masters and in moments their words echoed Kalvn's.

"I think we might want to change the University coat-of-arms to include the noble grape vine," said Master Phylo.

"That may be going too far," said Kalvan, "but I would like to make a toast with the first fruit off the University vine. To the University of Hos-Hostigos, long may it prosper!"

"To Great King Kalvan, without whom there would be no University-or Hostigos!" toasted Rector Mytron, his fair skin turning red as he quaffed another goblet of brandy.

"To Pandros, God of Wine and Song," said Master Thalmoth, whose red nose was now burning like a hot coal.

"To Pandros!" echoed Phylo and several others.

After a dozen more rounds, two of the masters were slumped over the table and Thalmoth had wandered off singing ribald songs in search of less coarse company. Gasphros, a troubadour who had been attracted by the noise, had found a lyre, of some sort, and was strumming along in accompaniment to a song about marching into Hos-Harphax. It was a good thing the University wasn't coed yet, thought Kalvan, shaking his head.

As Antros re-filled his flagon, Rector Mytron said, "I am glad to see our labors bring pleasure for a change. I grow weary with all this talk of war and machines of warfare."

"Yes it's nice just to relax. Enjoy the fruits of your labor!" Kalvan started to laugh, until he noticed no one else got the allusion, but, of course, it was not a here-and-now bromide.

"Come here, Mytron. Sit next to me. Antros, pour us both another glass."

"By doing Galzar's work at the University, we are making the world safer for Dralm and the freedom to worship all gods. Here have another drink."

Clearly not used to strong spirits, Mytron's head bobbed like an apple on a stick. "Maybe you are right."

"War is a terrible thing, but a necessary thing if people are to live their own lives instead of being enslaved by some tyrant-like Styphon's House, or Prince Balthar. You've seen the lash marks on Master Ermut's back."

Mytron's face blanched, and not just from strong drink. Ermut was a former Styphon's House Temple slave and his back was living proof of Styphon's House's corruption and cruelty.

"There is a lot of truth to your words, my Great King. Let me toast your health and say a prayer to Dralm that you may continue your reign for many years!"

Dalla walked into the smoky bar at Constellation House, looking for Tortha Karf's comforting presence. She was still exhausted out from her visit with her brother, Tharn. She paused to take out a cigarette and three different men approached her to light it. She smiled graciously and used her own lighter. Verkan would have been proud.

"Over here, Dalla." She heard Tortha's familiar and comforting gravely voice.

She sat down at the booth and asked the robot bartender for a bourbon and cola. Unlike most First Level citizens, Dalla preferred the unobtrusive mechanical servants to the status enhancing proles that many of her contemporaries preferred. Possibly, it was because her adopted Sister, Zinganna, was a former prole, but she liked to think it was that she had more respect for outtime people than to use them as personal servants, no matter what the cachet.

Tortha was wearing breeches and a well-filled civilian tunic; his hair was streaked with gray and thinning in front. He was too practical and too much a stick-in-the-mud to have a hair treatment. He reminded Dalla of a big old cross bear, with a soft heart. She offered him a cigarette and was surprised to note that instead of a lighter he used one of the peculiar Kalvan time-line flint tinderboxes to light it. She wondered if it was significant, he probably missed palling around with Verkan and the other boys.

"Thanks, Tortha, for coming to see me on such short notice. I know you just arrived from Fifth Level, but Verkan's so busy and I really need-"