The Kalif's War Read online

  "The major points are, their fleet is little or no bigger than ours—that's pretty definite—and they don't seem even to know about force shields. Which means they wouldn't stand a chance against an imperial fleet in a fight. And if we destroyed their fleet, it wouldn't make much difference how good their ground forces are. We could concentrate overwhelming attacks wherever we liked, and mop them up piecemeal."

  Veeri fielded a number of questions over the next half hour, but mainly his answers just elaborated what he'd already said. When it became apparent that they'd pretty much exhausted his data fund, the conversation drifted to other matters. Then a captain asked why their war prisoners hadn't answered some of the unknowns and uncertainties. "I can understand civilian officials not knowing some of these things," he said. "Especially on a minor, backward world. But a military officer should have."

  Veeri nodded. "And no doubt would have. But as I said, they refused to surrender; fought to the death. And early on, our men discovered that what looked like a wounded and unconscious enemy was likely to be one feigning unconsciousness. With an armed grenade ready to release when someone got close. So—Well, you know peasants. Our troops routinely shot up any enemy casualties not obviously already dead. Sometimes even those that were."

  There was a moment without comment, some of the Vartosu officers finding it hard to accept that at least a few war prisoners hadn't been taken.

  "I understand one prisoner was brought back," the Vartosu colonel commented. "A female, whose memory was burned out in an accident during interrogation. In an equipment malfunction, as I heard it."

  Turning cautious, Veeri only nodded. "So I'm told," he said. Which wasn't a blatant lie; merely misleading.

  "I heard that, too," Meksorli said. "She's supposed to be very beautiful."

  Captain Simnasaveesi had something to add. "I've heard," he said, "that the Kalif plans to marry her."

  The Vartosu colonel grunted. "Sounds like someone's wild imagination."

  The captain shrugged. "I heard it from a member of Lord Fakoda's staff. Apparently the matter came up in a session of the Diet yesterday, and the Kalif didn't deny it."

  "Beautiful, you said," someone else commented. "It's a shame to let beauty go to waste."

  The subject was dropped then. There was too little information. After another hour or so, and a couple more drinks, Veeri excused himself, saying he needed to be back at his desk at 9 a.m.—his first outright lie of the evening.

  He didn't pay a lot of attention to the scenery on the way back down. He was thinking about the rumor—about the Kalif and Tain. Not doubting it for a moment. He knew, he told himself, what Tain Faronya could do to a man's judgment.

  He also knew that the Kalif was supposed to marry only a virgin. Over the centuries, several had made mistresses of women who hadn't qualified. Which had led to abdications or impeachments.

  Apparently this Kalif had decided to exercise subterfuge to have his way. And had sacrificed him as part of it, destroying his marriage, his position, his future.

  He couldn't, just now, see anything to do about it, though—anything that didn't amount to suicide.

  Twenty-two

  The curtains of the Kalif's study were drawn back and the doors slid wide to the garden, letting in the morning sun. He entered through them, his hair still slightly damp from the needle shower that had followed his workout and brief massage, and he smelled faintly of soap. A guard stood at ease beside the garden door, and the Kalif exchanged greetings with him. As he sat down, he keyed on his commset and spoke. "Partiil, if Alb Jilsomo is there, I'll see him now."

  "He just came in, Your Reverence. And Mr. Balcaava is also here."

  "Good! Send them both in."

  A moment later the two men entered. "Good morning, Jilsomo," the Kalif said, then gave his attention to the other, who bowed deeply. "Good morning, Balcaava. You have the plans?"

  "Yes, Your Reverence." He handed a sheaf of papers to the Kalif. "I believe they are as you specified when we talked yesterday."

  The Kalif looked them over quickly but thoroughly, then handed them back. "They're fine. Do them."

  "Thank you, Your Reference." Balcaava bowed again, then turned and left, almost hurrying, as if anxious to get on with them.

  "You're carrying through on your intention that the wedding be small," Jilsomo said.

  The Kalif nodded. "We both want it that way. The traditional kalifal wedding ties up the Kalif for a week, and costs a great deal of money. And Tain is shy of crowds."

  "Of course, Your Reverence." Jilsomo paused, then went on. "I wouldn't feel so concerned if you were having a royal reception afterward. People feel they should have an opportunity to see their new kalifa."

  The Kalif smiled slightly. "What people?"

  "Sir?"

  Instead of answering, the Kalif touched his commset. "Partiil, I will see no one till further notice. It may be half an hour." He turned then to his bodyguard. "Mondar, I need to speak privately with the exarch."

  He watched the guard out the garden door and saw it close before he said anything more. Then he turned to Jilsomo again. "What people feel they should have an opportunity to see the new kalifa?"

  "A great number of nobles and numerous well-to-do gentry. Also any prelates that could reasonably be here, and no doubt many of the Pastorate as well. There may well be more interest in Tain Faronya than in any kalifa ever."

  The Kalif grinned. "Well then, my friend, I say let anyone see her who has access to television."

  Jilsomo stared. The Kalif nodded.

  "That's right. I've ordered the ceremony broadcast."

  The exarch stared for a moment, then looked at the idea thoughtfully. "It's unprecedented, Your Reverence. It's like inviting all of Varatos. The entire gentry will be watching. Even peasants."

  The Kalif's eyebrows arched. "Surely you don't object to gentry watching. Or peasants. I know you too well. And I'm Kalif to all of them. Peasants included."

  "You are indeed, Your Reverence. But there are those who will object—undoubtedly some in the College, and any number of nobles. It seems to me—impolitic. At this time. Considering the battles you expect on the invasion issue."

  The Kalif's lips pursed; then he smiled. "On the contrary; it is highly politic. Consider. Those who would criticize for broadcasting the wedding will be those who would oppose my plans anyway. With perhaps scattered exceptions on both sides. On the other hand... What is the kalifa called, Jilsomo?"

  "Why ... The mother of the empire."

  "Indeed. And are not mothers held inviolate? What is one of the worst curses?"

  "Motherless scum. And mother curser. But that... Your Reverence, people do not really think of a kalifa as their mother. That's only a figure of speech."

  "Because they do not know the kalifa. Kalifas have been remote from their people. This one, my friend, they will see close up, at her wedding, and they will not forget it. They will see a very beautiful kalifa, with a face like an angel." He shook his head. "Marvelous that The Prophet described angels as golden-haired.

  "No, it is politic indeed to let them see her." He peered quizzically at his lieutenant. "What is her surname?"

  "Um—Faronya."

  "How many syllables?"

  "Three, Your Reverence. But..."

  "Indeed. And while no gentry who gives thought to it will say she is one of them, they will receive her as one of them anyway. Accepting the label as the item."

  The Kalif had been leaning toward Jilsomo. Now he sat back, relaxing, and lowered his voice as if in confidence. "Good friend, you, and the others of the College, and the House of Nobles—all those involved in politics—overlook the gentry because they have no vote. You take them for granted; even you. But the gentry have strong potential influence, and I will tap it."

  Jilsomo's fat face was sober with thought. Gentry outnumbered the nobility by more than four to one. "Your Reverence, The Prophet, although he was gentry, and the Church ever since, have stress
ed that the commons must obey the nobility in all matters under the law."

  "And the Church has long taught that they must obey any lawful orders of the Kalif. In this case, a Kalif who has looked to their welfare more than most have."

  He shook off the argument impatiently. "Look. It's likely that I can get the Diet to finance an invasion. But there will be give and take. Compromises. Deals. Realignments.

  "And when the invasion fleet sets out, I'll be recognized as the most powerful Kalif ever." He thought he saw doubt on Jilsomo's face. "I will be! And that will be the time for reforms. What good is power if I don't use it? For the good of the empire.

  "Maolaari will have its permission to export loohio! The Pastorate will have more than a voice in the Diet; they will have votes! And the gentry will at least be heard there."

  He realized he'd been talking more loudly, and lowered his voice. "For the empire to continue as it has would be deadly to it. We can either change it, or by inaction damn it. And action is my native state."

  He sat quiet then. Action indeed, Jilsomo thought. "Your Reverence, I will support you in this as strongly as I'm able. But you must not be surprised if I am troubled by it at times. I am not a—revolutionary."

  The word took the Kalif by surprise. Revolutionary. He's right; that's what I am—a covert revolutionary. He sat for a long moment regarding the fact. It seemed to him important that Jilsomo had pointed it out.

  * * *

  The noon sun was hot, but a breeze was blowing. Tain and the Kalif ate outside, in the garden beneath an awning.

  "Only six more days, my darling," said the Kalif, then felt self-conscious for it. He hadn't learned to read her emotions, except for those she displayed openly, and to her it might seem like only six days left of freedom. But no. Here there was no freedom for her.

  She nodded. "Only six," she said, then looked at him and found his eyes. "I am glad."

  I am glad! The simple words touched him. "Are you still going to the library?" he asked.

  Tain nodded. She'd been using the collegial library in the Sreegana, learning about Varatos and the Vartosi, and the empire. "I'm still on the Abstract of History," she said, "following the syllabus without calling up elaborations much. It seems awfully long. When I've read through it once, I'll start over again." She paused. "What have you been doing?"

  "Um, nothing very memorable," he answered. "The broad business of government is interesting, but the details can be tiresome. I work too often on details." Actually I've been planning the invasion of the Confederation, he thought. The place you come from; the home of your childhood, of your family. But that I'll tell you after we're married, when you know me better.

  Yes, he answered himself, wait till she's married to you. Then, when she learns about it, she'll hardly have a choice. For a moment it seemed to him he was about to tell her after all, but he didn't.

  "Let me tell you where I thought we'd go after the wedding," he said instead. "If it doesn't sound good to you, I'll make other plans. It's an island in the ocean, very beautiful, very private. My sister's husband owns it. It's six miles long, all high hills covered with forest. And there are beaches, and sparkling clear brooks with waterfalls. We can stay for five days, unless you want to leave sooner. The main house is large, but we'll use the small one because we'll have no guests. And the help there is very good. We can swim and boat and walk, and lie in the sun. Do you think you'll like that?"

  Tain reached across the table and put her hand on his. His loins stirred at her touch. "I will like it," she said. "It will be new and beautiful, and I will be coming to know my husband."

  Hearing her say that, it seemed to Chodrisei Biilathkamoro that he was the happiest man in the world.

  It also sparked faint fear in him, for it seemed to him that loving made him vulnerable.

  * * *

  Tain lay dreaming and tossing. She was with a tall, handsome boy in uniform. They were in a forest, a jungle, and when they came to a special place, they took their clothes off and began making love. She felt a climax start to build, but then something happened, and it wasn't him anymore. It was a hairy man, Veeri, and he wore a military cap as he humped and thrust. She told him to stop, but he wouldn't. Then a girl came up behind him, a slim girl with red hair, and chopped off his head with a sword. Tain watched the head go bouncing across the ground. The red-haired girl helped her up.

  "He didn't harm you," the girl told her, and Tain realized she still had her trousers on, loose-fitting military field pants mottled green. And boots. Veeri hadn't harmed her after all. Then the girl was leading her across a field, toward a sort of tall doorway with no wall. Just a doorway, standing there by itself. They stopped when they came to it. "That's the place," the girl said pointing. "You need to go through there. Otherwise we'll all be killed."

  Tain looked into the door, but all she could see was roiling cloudy blackness, and suddenly she was very afraid.

  Then there were soldiers with the girl. One was the tall handsome boy. "You have to go through it," they all said to her, "through the gate, or we'll all die." They took hold of her and began to push. She held back, and it wasn't her friends that pushed her, but strangers, men of the ship. They gripped her with hard biting hands, pushing. She tried to scream, but nothing came out, and suddenly, on her own, she found herself lunging at the doorway.

  And woke up, panting, sweating, staring into the darkness above her. Shaking, she got up and dialed a cold drink, then went to the bathroom and back to bed. Before she slept, she tried to remember the dream, but all she remembered was how frightened she'd been when she woke up.

  Twenty-three

  The land was rolling but not steep—old glacial drift at 45° south latitude. Except on flood plains, the last sparse woods had been cleared a millennium earlier, and the only trees to be seen stood in single rows along the grassy roads, and around the occasional groups of farm buildings. The fields held different crops, but wheat predominated.

  What was called "wheat" on Varatos was not what their ancestors had named wheat some thirty thousand years before. But a pre-dispersion taxonomist, examining the florets with a hand lens, would have found glumes and barbed lemmas, and assigned the plant to the family Gramineae, the grasses, which includes wheat, corn, and the other grains, and done it without hesitation. Though he'd have had to declare a new tribe and genus, for it would not have keyed to any taxon in his compendium. Clearly it was not Triticum—the true wheats—or anything else in the tribe Hordeae. Had he examined the roots, he'd have become confused or excited or both, for they had abundant nodules that resembled those on legumes. And which did, in fact, convert atmospheric nitrogen into nitrogenous compounds within the plants, as those on the legumes did.

  Thus what was called wheat, on Varatos and over most of the empire, was a nitrogen-fixing grain, providing a relatively low-cost, high-yield food crop that did not require expensive nitrogen fertilizer. It was also not a rowcrop; it germinated promptly; the seedlings established quickly, rooted deeply, and were winter hardy; all of these contributing to excellent soil protection. Uniform crop height permitted leaving tall stubble for erosion protection prior to disking, and even after disking provided a matrix that left the soil resistant to erosion until final harrowing, immediately prior to seeding.

  On the negative side it was subject to occasional catastrophic outbreaks of harvester beetles, which could wipe out not just a field but a district. There were fully effective treatments, but they were either unacceptably expensive or had unacceptable ecological side effects that kept them off the market. Hail was another source of crop destruction. And ordinarily, destructive rust fungi that built up in the disked-under crop residues dictated that other crops be raised on a field every third year. The rotation crops normally alternated between forage crops and some crop that required intensive cultivation, permitting the exposure and destruction of most harvester beetle broods while hoeing.

  And hoeing it was. Machine cultivation could have been used
, but hoeing permitted the visual discovery of harvester beetle broods, and their fuller destruction. And at least as important, hoeing was cheap—peasant labor was cheap—and helped provide employment for the large peasant population.

  The farm of Lord Favrami Gopalanaami was a rather modest one—a thirty-peasant operation. So far he'd managed to keep all six of his gentry work bosses—men who'd been with him since he'd inherited the place six years earlier—though it would be advantageous economically to let one or two go. Even four bosses could conduct the work force about as well as six, if the crew tasks were organized properly.

  The week was eight days long. The farm workweek ended at noon on Sevenday, except for the evening feeding of livestock, dunging out the dairy barn, and milking. In the cottage of work boss Peleea Ravalu, the entire household sat over the last of the midday meal, watching the video of a great event more than six thousand miles northwest in Ananporu.

  On their screen the Chapel of the Exarchs was banked with flowers. Its benches were fully occupied, and the guests not entirely segregated; benches designated for prelates, nobles, and pastors were interspersed, rather than assigned in blocks.

  A murmur of muted music flowed from the organ's great speakers.

  The cameramen and production chief had absorbed well the briefing the Kalif had given them on the affects he wanted. Cameras set well back and inconspicuous, slowly scanned and occasionally zoomed, providing viewers with a quiet picture of the guests, cutting to close shots—studies—of faces well-known or interesting. A few were stiff, as if with disapproval, a few groggy with waiting. Most seemed agreeable, however, interested or at least respectfully curious.

  The music changed and swelled, alerting guests, viewers, and crew, became a promenade, rich and measured. On cue, the picture cut to the open doors at the rear of the chapel. Robed in white and wearing a jeweled crown, Alb Bijnath entered, his gait dignified but not pompous, and walked down the aisle to the altar, followed by two altar boys.