John Carr - Kalvan Kingmaker

Phrames stepped aback. "With you, of course, My Queen. I was only offering you the benefits of knowledge I gained from my close association to the border princedoms of Hos-Harphax. I am in no position to dictate Royal policy."

"Good. Now, tell me how many men you can spare from your border castles. Sarrask and I have already raised eight thousand men, but we can use more in case Phidestros takes exception to our campaign."

Phrames face paled. "Since Beshta is far closer to Harphax City than Phaxos, it would be more useful to have the Beshtan Army waiting in reserve should any punitive force be led out of Tarr-Harphax."

"There is wisdom in your words. After the false-prince Araxes has been punished, maybe we will meet you outside the walls of Harphax City,

Prince Phrames." Rylla pretended not to notice the shudder than ran down Phrames body. Why are the men I care most about so afraid of getting their hands dirty? Rylla wondered. This time, however, she had the upper hand. Kalvan, old Chartiphon and her father were hundreds of miles away, and Xentos was no longer Chancellor of Hostigos. She would get her way, and when the dust settled they would see how she had done the right thing-regardless of cost.

Warntha Swarn placed his palm over the portal plate and the door to the warehouse slid open. Inside the room was a large silver-mesh dome about fifty feet in diameter, large enough to hold the two score of level runners and smugglers moving around the storeroom. Most of them were dressed in homespun wool, leather and buckskin garments appropriate to Kalvan's Time-Line.

Warntha wore the full-length, hooded orange robe of a Styphon's House highpriest. He couldn't help but notice how even the smugglers quickly moved out of his path, as though the trappings of a Styphoni priest had a sinister aura. Upon reflection, the big man decided it wasn't much different than the usual way Citizens usually acted around him-just more pronounced.

As a counter-military specialist, Warntha had spent over a century on the Industrial Sector, Fifth Level worlds, where he had infiltrated and helped to neutralize prole resistance groups. Warntha had liked this work and had been very good at it. Unfortunately, he had single-handedly killed the top two leaders of a Prole Independence Movement cell unaware that there had been another active agent in the cell. Command had judged him as 'over-zealous' and given him the choice of Psycho-Rehab or retirement at half-pay. He had taken the latter. Had Hadron Tharn not seen some value in his services, he would be living on Home Time-Line at about the economic level of the proles he had once spied upon.

In the farthest corner of the warehouse, all by himself, Warntha spotted Jorand Rarth, wearing a battered back-and-breast-that hid most of his potbelly-a large floppy black hat and buckskin trousers with fringe. He approached Jorand from his blind side to gain the maximum advantage of surprise. Warntha hoped this fool proved as useful as Hadron Tharn anticipated. If not, his existence would come to an abrupt and permanent end.

"By Dralm's white beard!" Jorand cried upon seeing Warntha in his Styphoni robes. He quickly reverted to First Level language when he recognized Warntha as Hadron Tharn's bodyguard. "What are you doing here?"

"Councilor Tharn decided I should accompany you on this mission as a Highpriest of Styphon's House. I'm responsible for overseeing the narco-hypnosis memory overlays for the trading team's cover. Then we will stay at Mythrene, the seaport where we're meeting Arch-Stratego Zarphu and his army, until the expedition leaves for the Sea of Grass."

"I thought my cover had already been prepared."

"It's getting more difficult to make unscheduled drops. There will be no stop at Balph, which is why I'm joining the party as an archpriest. The Paratime Police are paying more attention to the University's use of Transtemporal conveyers. The University doesn't like it, and neither do we. But, it's the way things are now."

Jorand nodded wryly, as though he understood, but didn't like it much. Warntha suspected Jorand enjoyed his company about as much as he enjoyed spending time with the former Dhergabar crime boss.

"I've got some additional instructions for you as well. Instead of guiding the Arch-Stratego to the Marias River, and going by keelboat to Dorg and disembarking there like a 'normal' trading mission; we're going to lead the Ros-Zarthani over the Old Iron Trail into Grefftscharr."

"But why?" Jorand asked. "It'll not only add at least a full moon to the trip, but it might draw us into a fight with the Grefftscharrer. They're not going to look kindly at what they could easily perceive as a nomad invasion."

Maybe Jorand wasn't so stupid after all. "That's what the Councilor wants. The Ros-Zarthani haven't fought against gunpowder weapons before. It's important they have the opportunity to test their mettle before fighting Kalvan. If they break, then we abort the mission-"

The fat man turned pale. "Yeah, but where does that leave me? In Greffa as a prisoner of war or a galley slave on the Great Seas?"

"Then I guess it's important to see they don't break, Jorand-since it is our necks that are on the block." Warntha wasn't the least bit worried, either he'd get killed-in which case all his problems were over, or he'd find a 'job'-probably as a bodyguard, since they were always in fashion-in Greffa. "If the Ros-Zarthani prove their worth, maybe King Kalvan will have a big surprise next year."

"I guess it wouldn't help Chief Verkan's position in Greffa either, if his patron, King Theovacar, loses a major battle to a bunch of barbarian spear chuckers. Nor would he be in a position, the following year, to help Kalvan with men and supplies."

"Very good. You're beginning to pick up the lay of the land. Just look at these kings as syndicate bosses and you'll get along just fine."

"When can I come home?"

"After we get the army safely into Dorg City, or when it has ceased being an effective fighting force; then our job is over. We'll make our way to Balph where Highpriest Prysos will take us to the Balph conveyer-head and back home again. That should give our friends all the time they need to establish a new cover and you'll be able to go back to leading a civilized life on First Level."

Jorand appeared so pleased by this news that Warntha had to choke back a laugh. If Jorand really believed that anyone on Home Time-Line would go to that much expense and trouble for a drone like himself, then he deserved his fate. The fat, smarmy prole. Warntha stroked the hilt of the dirk hidden in his gold and leather girdle and repeated to himself, Your time will come, my fat little friend. Yes, it will come-I promise that.

"How many men does Kalvan now lead?" Grand Master Soton asked. He knew his voice was as high-pitched as the squeak of a newly hatched quail chick. He did not care. The number he thought he had heard could not be what Knight Commander Aristocles had actually said.

"More than a hundred thousand men," Aristocles replied. He sounded like a messenger bringing news so bad that he hardly cared if he was punished for bringing it.

Any gods worthy of the name know that the news is that bad. There is no fault in Aristocles for being unmanned by it. Forgive me old friend.

"A hundred thousand," Soton repeated meditatively. "Is that the grand sum, or only those bound by oath to one of the three supreme leaders?"

"The second, Grand Master. The number of those who will march against us without being oath-bound is not small. It may exceed thirty-five thousand."

"That is very nearly all the rest of the great horde," Soton said. "Also, if the subjects of"-he could not shape his tongue to Nestros' presumptuous new title-"the Pretender Nestros need not fear the nomads, all their garrisons will march south, so add another fifteen thousand men. Everyone will wish to be in at the death of the Zarthani Knights."