John Carr - Kalvan Kingmaker

Tortha turned pink again.

She smacked him on the shoulder, playfully. "You've been with those nieces of yours for too long, Tortha. Anyway, it's gotten worse ever since rock and racket became popular. Remember when every nightclub had to have their own 'Elvis?"

"What a headache for the Paracops! They were hi-jacking them from every subsector where that crazy noise was still undiscovered. For a while we had to guard that dumb hillbilly truck driver on a thousand time-lines. I'm still surprised we never designated an Elvis Subsector!"

"Verkan's really never paid it any attention, because he doesn't hear or see what he doesn't like. I can't get through to my husband, because he's a snob-and I mean that lovingly-he just doesn't realize that everyone on Home Time-Line doesn't have his class or taste. Well, it's worse here now, since the Beatles. Not the insects, it's another noisy Europo-American singing combo. They're even noisier and louder than Elvis, if that's possible. And then there are the flat screen films and film stars-Marilyn Monroe, Clark Gable, Humphrey Bogart, and now James Dean-and art deco and all sorts of nonsense. Europo-American is-to paraphrase one of their aphorisms-the "cat's pajamas" and if Verkan doesn't quit this silly crusade of his he's going to derail his job and possibly the Paratime Police along with him."

"Wow!" Tortha replied. "Dalla, you've just given me a needler shot of reality. Maybe we have the wrong Chief! I'm even worse than Verkan, when it comes to these crazes. And I never had any children, except you two-by proxy, of course-to teach me any different. I'll try to talk Verkan into holding off on this shutdown for a few decades until all this Europo-American sheep-dip becomes old hat. It will; I've seen half a dozen of these crazes just since I've been Chief. Meanwhile, you stay on top of these committees and study groups."

"Good. I need something to keep me occupied while Verkan's glued to his Chief's chair. But what about you? What are you going to do?"

"Dalla, I don't know. Hang around the office, I guess, until Vail throws me out."

"Well, I know some other people who need some help. And you would definitely be an asset to them."

"Really. Who?"

"Rylla and Kalvan."

"I'm an ex-Paratimer. I can't deal in contamination-"

"Oh, stop being so huffy, Tortha. Hear me out. Sometimes you remind me so much of Verkan. The two of you! Anyway, you could give them moral support and be a Dutch uncle. I'm sure Verkan could come up with a suitable disguise. And don't tell me you're not interested-I see that smile."

"Dalla, that might be a very good idea. I'm curious about Kalvan and his lady, Rylla, that I've heard so much about. I would like to meet them. And, with this Styphon's House Crusade, it sure won't be boring!"

"Tortha, you've just said a mouthful!" They both laughed.

he great stone walls of Balph rose up all around him, while the air was torn apart by the boom of cannon fire. Kalvan was shackled and bound with gold and silver chains. Dozens of yellow-robed Archpriests of the Inner Circle were carrying him toward a giant hopped-iron bombard. It wasn't until they reached the barrel that he realized they meant to stuff him inside. He broke one of the golden shackles and attempted to force his escape, but the Archpriests only gripped him tighter.

Where were Rylla and baby Demia? He tried to scream but they stuffed wadding cloth deep into his mouth. The air was filled with the yells and screams of a great multitude, all chanting, "Kill the Daemon Kalvan! Kill the Daemon! Kill the Daemon!"

Again he tried to wrestle away, but the Archpriests manhandled him into the giant bombards borehole. Outside everything was suddenly still and he could hear the crackle of the burning fuse-

"Kalvan, Kalvan! Is everything all right?"

He opened his eyes to a throbbing headache and a blurry view of Rylla leaning over him. "Where am I?"

"In bed. You must have come home at dawn, my husband. It's almost mid-day and Duke Skranga is here for his audience."

Kalvan fell back into his goose down pillow and groaned. "Help me, Dralm, I have the murthering mother of all headaches, and the father, brother and sister, too. Where was I last night?"

"You were supposed to be at the new University," in a tone-of-voice that hinted if he hadn't been there, he would soon come to more than wish he had.

"Ahhh. I remember now. Master Ermut's new brandy. It must have had a higher proof than the Hostigi mint! I must warn him about over distillation. Not that I could fault the smoothness. Rylla, please bring me my pipe."

"Yes, my darling. How about your crown, too?"

"Ouch! No… thank you. I don't think it would fit. Can I cancel the audience with Skranga?"

"No. You've put him off twice already. Do it again and he'll think there's something amiss."

"Yes, and that man could read larceny in tea leaves. As usual, you're right. Maybe if I had another spot of that brandy, it might help."

"I wouldn't begin to know where to look," Rylla replied, "nor am I about to fetch and carry for his Most Debauched Majesty!"

Kalvan tried to grin, but it hurt too much. "You're only jealous because you missed out."

"It wouldn't be the first time," Rylla said, her wrist pressed back against her forehead in a pose of a long-suffering wife-something Rylla would never allow to happen. "I'll get Cleon and he can fetch you some winter wine."

"Thank you, darling." Kalvan said, as he tamped down the bowl of his pipe and then used his gold tinderbox-a gift from Rylla-to light it. "Now is Harmakros about? I'd like to have him attend this little meeting."

"Last I saw, he was waiting patiently in your private audience chamber."

"Dralm-damn it! I never thought I'd say it, but there is such a thing as being too contentious. Back home we give people like Harmakros and Prince Phrames halos. Ermut, well, the Master might win a forked tail-for the introduction of spirits, at the least, by the Temperance League. I'll have to talk with Master Ermut about shortening the distillation period of his brandy."

Rylla rolled her eyes, paused to light one of her silver-inlaid redstone pipes, and added, "Or maybe tell him to pour smaller portions."

"Hush, woman, hush. I've got to get dressed. Cleon get in here!"

After a goblet of winter wine and with his hose and breeches on, Kalvan almost felt human again. He sucked in his stomach as Cleon pulled the stays and tied up the cords to his doublet. Kalvan had been totally against having personal body servants, until the first time he'd had to put on one of these jacket-shirts, or doublets, all by himself. Rylla had laughed so hard she'd fallen to the floor and Kalvan had realized that he was going to have to have his own personal servants or face a total loss of dignity in the Royal Bedchambers.

Now Cleon was as indispensable as his sword's scabbard and he didn't know how he got along without him for so long. Kalvan tottered to his audience chamber and found Harmakros and Duke Skranga, the former horse-trader turned intelligence chief, deep in conversation. They both stood as he entered. "Sit down, sit down, both of you."

They both waited until Kalvan was finished lowering himself into the chair behind his desk before sitting down. "Is His Majesty all right?" Harmakros asked, with concern written all over his face. Skranga sat there with a knowing grin which told Kalvan that either his intelligence gathering network was better than he knew about, or that Skranga had been in his boots so often he could tell a fellow sufferer at first glance.

"Nothing serious, just a bit more of Ermut's new spirits than necessary and a spot of indigestion. Now, Duke Skranga, what's this news that's so important I had to leave my sickbed to hear it?"