by Roland Green
They were cantering up a slight rise when the Horseguards who'd already reached the crest shouted warning of a party of horsemen on the road ahead, coming fast. Kalvan reined in and drew his sword. The Holy Host wasn't supposed to be raiding this far north any more, but it if was The leading horseman, wearing a welcome red sash, was Prince Ptosphes. Kalvan sheathed his sword and rode to meet his father-in-law, not quite wishing he had a Styphoni patrol to fight instead but very much aware that too many eyes and ears would be taking in everything he said-or left unsaid. It was part of the job of being a Great King, he told himself firmly as he reined in and waited for Ptosphes to ride within conversational distance.
Ptosphes wore his well-battered combat armor and the expression of a man who's mortally ill but trying to hide it from the family. The dead eyes and all the new gray in the bushy beard spoiled the act for Kalvan.
"Your Majesty," Ptosphes began. "I have failed you and the Realm of Hos-Hostigos. It is within your right-"
Kalvan's determination to choose his words carefully vanished, and he said the first thing that came to mind. "I have the right to tell you not to talk nonsense, Father. You didn't fail me or anybody or anything. You just had the bad luck to be up against Styphon's varsity."
Ptosphes looked blankly at him, and Kalvan realized that he must have been more shaken by Ptosphes' appearance than he'd realized: for the first time in months, he'd spoken in English. "The varsity-it's a word in the language of my homeland. It means men who have sold themselves to evil demons in return for great skill in war or athletic games."
"Ah. Well, that is certainly one way of-explaining-the Zarthani Knights. We have all heard tales of their battle prowess, but facing them…" His voice trailed off, but some of the deadness was gone from his gray eyes.
Kalvan gripped Ptosphes by both shoulders. "We'll talk of this later. Thank you for coming out to meet me." He didn't know what Ptosphes had been about to offer, although he could guess. He hoped the matter would never be brought up again.
Ptosphes managed a thin smile and turned his horse.
Kalvan was about to do the same thing when he heard a familiar a voice saying cheerfully, "Welcome home, Your Majesty. Now we can start kicking those Styphoni dogs back to their kennels in earnest!"
The voice was Prince Sarrask of Sask's, except that it seemed to be coming out of thin air, because there was nobody in sight who looked like Sarrask except "Great Galzar's Ghost!"
The gilded armor was scraped and hacked almost down to bare steel, the ruddy face was tanned and lined and the jowls were barely respectable shades of their former selves. Kalvan tried not to stare, then gave up. A world in which Sarrask of Sask had grown thin was one in which all the laws of nature had been suspended.
No, not quite thin-there was still a lot of Sarrask. Still, he looked like a real warrior Prince instead of an overweight and overage character actor playing one.
"I hear you've been doing good work yourself, Sarrask."
Sarrask veritably beamed, a sight Kalvan had never thought he'd see.
Then more formally, he said, "You have Our gratitude, and you will have a lot more as soon as We are in a position to give it."
Sarrask grinned. "Thank you, Your Majesty. One thing you can do is come to a banquet I'm holding tonight. It's for the wives and children of my castellans, who sent them to Hostigos Town for their safety. They'd be greatly honored if you could attend."
And so will you, thought Kalvan. The idea of a banquet right now seemed like fiddling while Rome burned, but after some thought Kalvan decided to attend. He couldn't expect all of his loyal followers to have the moral fiber of old Chartiphon or noble Phrames. Besides, the castellans' families were hostages for their loyalty to Sarrask, and therefore to him. Knowing Sarrask, it couldn't be any other way. They probably knew it too, and they were far from home after being dragged up hill and down dale at the tail of a beaten army. At the very least, the families deserved a visit from their Great King.
"I'll be happy to attend, Prince."
"Wonderful, Your Majesty! My subjects will be most pleased."
"How's Rylla?" he asked, to change the subject to what he was really concerned with.
"As well as any woman who's the shape of a melon can be," Sarrask answered. "Despite her condition, she wants to go out and strangle Styphoni with her bare hands." Despite his customary rough speech, there was a note of fatherly pride in Sarrask's voice. Kalvan wondered how Rylla viewed her former hereditary enemy's new solicitude.
With great sufferance, undoubtedly. Kalvan forced back a laugh.
He also couldn't help thinking that Rylla might have to do exactly that if they lost another battle, and it must have showed on his face.
The next words out of Sarrask's mouth were: "You look as if you need a banquet."
Sarrask lowered his gravelly voice to avoid being overheard by Ptosphes, some twenty yards in front. "Try to get Ptosphes to come, too. He needs it even worse. The first thing he heard when we crossed the border into Hostigos was some woman crying, 'Ptosphes, Ptosphes, give me back my man,' and he looked as if he were dying from a gut wound for the next three days. I hope he hasn't taken a fever on this campaign."
No, Sarrask, he's just a better man than you'll ever be, was what Kalvan wanted to say, but he knew it wouldn't make any sense to the Prince-and maybe wouldn't even be just. Sarrask would never be very likable, but by here-and-now standards he wasn't a particularly bad man-not a bad one at all, if you considered his loyalty to Hostigos had already cost him a good deal of treasure and men. And might yet cost him his crown.
Mental memo number three thousand, six hundred and two (give or take fifty): Put Sarrask of Sask on the next Honors List. Think about something appropriate like the Order of the Garter or the Order of the Golden Fleece to reward subjects who already have lands, titles and wealth-something useless but flattering to their sense of whatever they call honor.
TWENTY
I
"Urig, one silver, two phenigs."
The workman wiped his hand on a tunic that was even dirtier, then put it out for the money Sirna was holding in her hand. "One silver, two phenigs," he repeated, then took his knife out to scratch into the silver coin to make sure it wasn't counterfeit.
Sirna smiled at his surprised look when he discovered he hadn't been cheated by the new pay mistress. The Royal Foundry couldn't pay more than prevailing wages; over-paying would make even more trouble with the local guildmasters, to say nothing of contributing to an inflation problem that was already going from bad to worse. They could at least use their outtime resources to make sure their workers were paid in good coin that gave them a fighting chance of not starving when winter came.
In her role as pay clerk, she paid off the other eight workers from the Foundry warehouse and was going over the scribe's soapstone tally when she heard Eldra calling her.
"I'll be back in a little while," she told the scribe. "Don't put it on the parchment until then."
"Yes, ma'am."
Sirna hoped the scribe wouldn't disobey her orders by way of trying to see how much he could get away with under the nose of a new clerk. She didn't feel like punishing him or any other Hostigi when they might all be dead in a week, or arguing with the senior members of the University Study Team over her "weakness." Professor Lathor Karv would be leading the pack; to hear him talk, you'd think he'd invented the concept of wages.
As Sirna approached Eldra, she noticed that several other members of the Study Team were standing with her, and that a band of horsemen was cantering toward the Foundry from the direction of Hostigos Town-or Bellefonte as it was called on Kalvan's Time-Line. As she recalled, there was a university town just about where the Foundry was-it was some completely unoriginal name, State College, Pennsylvania-that was it!
She moved behind her teammates to keep them between her and the horses. She'd have to get used to those big beasts before too much longer, but right now the memory of the spill she'd taken when he
r barely controlled mount shied at a fast-moving field gun was much too vivid.
Eldra had remarkably little sympathy over her distaste for horses, but then Eldra loved the perverse beasts and had an outtime Fifth Level ranch where she raised the big devils in equine form. There was even a tale about how on one Fourth Level Franco-Byzantine time-line, Eldra had disguised herself as a man to win a famous cross-country horse race-the tale ending, naturally, with how the man who came in second found himself getting an unexpected but agreeable consolation prize.
The leading rider in the group was the Great King himself. Verkan Vall-Colonel Verkan-was just behind him, and on Kalvan's right! Her scream was strangled into a squeak, but it was still loud enough to make Eldra turn.
"What the Styphon?"
Sirna pointed with a hand she was proud to see wasn't shaking. "That-it's the Prince Sarrask of Sask! The Sarrask who sacked Hostigos Town-"
Eldra used First Level hand signals to signal her to silence, then stared hard at the big man in well-hacked armor that must have once been gilded. "It can't be-well, I'll be Dralm-damned! It's our Sarrask all right, the one who belongs here, but he's trimmed down to the twin of the one you saw on the Control Time-Line. Oh well, stranger things have happened outtime… And they'll happen to you, so get used to them and don't be so jumpy."
"Yes, ma'am."
Eldra ran her eyes over Sarrask again. "Definitely trimmed down. If he lost another twenty pounds, he'd be almost handsome. Not like Kalvan, of course, but not bad… And this Sarrask is exuding a definite masculine vitality."
The two rulers, unaware they were being discussed like a couple of prize bulls, sat on their horses while Kalvan's dismounted bodyguards took positions all around him. Half stayed mounted, but all looked very alert; some quietly drew their pistols without aiming them at anybody.
The two rulers, Verkan, and a man who seemed to be Verkan's bodyguard remained mounted and conducted a long discussion that seemed to involve lot of hand waving. The few words she overheard were all military technicalities, so she concentrated on studying the Great King Kalvan without appearing too disrespectful. "A cat can look at a king," was a saying that she'd encountered, but she wasn't so sure about the rights of free-traders' daughters.
Kalvan appeared tired but still in fine shape physically; he obviously wasn't hiding any wounds or sickness from the campaign in Hos-Harphax. The face was certainly handsome, although it looked better when he smiled, which wasn't very often, but then why should he be smiling at all, with everything he had to worry about? It was hard to tell much about his body, as he was wearing a back-and-breast, an open faced, high-combed helmet-a morion if she remember the term correctly-and bulky riding boots with pistols in them. A light cavalry trooper's outfit, from what she recalled, and probably the best combination of comfort and protection he could manage.
At last the Great King signaled, and guards came to hold horses as the four men dismounted. Kalvan turned to the Foundry people.
"I'm sorry to have kept you from your work so long," he began. As if a Great King needed to apologize for anything-but then Sirna recalled that Kalvan had lived most of his life on a time-line with all sorts of myths about equality. Maybe he thought he was being gracious-although Sirna had to admit that if he thought so, he was right.
"The Royal Foundry is going to be part of a second line of defense we're building to meet the Holy Host, as the Styphoni are calling themselves. We're also fortifying Hostigos Town itself, of course, and this side of the Tigos Gap. Tarr-Hostigos will keep anyone from getting through the Gap from the other side.
"We'll be wanting the Foundry workers to dig trenches and gun positions, proof against cavalry. We'll also be using the new warehouse to store supplies. No fireseed, naturally, so you'll be able to go right on working."
She thought it was polite and politic of Kalvan to act as if he were soliciting their cooperation, as though they were in charge of the Foundry, when in fact its status as the Royal Foundry made it quite clear who was in command. True, their credentials were as foundry 'contract' workers from Zygros City and Grefftscharr. Still, Kalvan didn't have to worry about any of them packing up and leaving for home-not with an army of Styphon's fanatical soldiers some thirty thousand strong out there!
"In fact," Kalvan continued, "I expect you'll be able to go right on working through the entire battle. We don't intend to let Styphon's Unwholesome Host reach the second line or anywhere near it. However, even Great Kings' intentions do not bind the gods. We will have to prepare for the worst and work for the best.
"Colonel Verkan of the Mounted Rifles has very kindly offered one of his best officers, Captain Ranthar, to command the defenses of the Foundry. He will choose positions for the trenches, train workers in arms and take command if it does come to a fight.
"I'm trusting the loyalty you've all shown so far to continue until Styphon's wolves are driven from the land."
"Down Styphon!" a foundry worker cried. The workers all repeated the cry, then someone-it sounded like Eldra-shouted, "Long Live King Kalvan!"
It started up another round of cheers from the Foundry workers; the Team Members joined in, not wanting to be conspicuous; although Sirna could see that several of them-particularly Varnath Lala and Lathor Karv-were having problems making the proper cheering noises and their faces looked as if they were chewing bitter lemons. A good thing the Hostigi workers weren't paying attention to anything but their gods'-anointed Great King. Still, not even Allfather Dralm could help them, if Kalvan saw those faces-being accused of treason would be the least of the Team's problems. And nothing Kalvan would do to them would compare, later, to what Paratime Chief Verkan Vall would do!
Kalvan acknowledged the cheers with a half salute, half wave, then Colonel Verkan helped him remount. A moment later the royal party was riding back the way they'd come, except for Captain Ranthar and his groom, who stood holding the reins of two horses with one hand and roll of parchment under the other arm.
Ranthar dismissed his groom, directing him to the stables, then turned to the assembled Study Team members. "The first thing to do is find a room where we won't be overheard-"
Talgan Dreth, the Outtime Studies Director and Team Leader, interrupted him. "The first thing you can do is explain by what authority-oh," he broke off suddenly when he saw the hand signals "Captain" Ranthar was making.
Eldra laughed out loud at the older man's embarrassment, and even Sirna couldn't help smiling. The Director took himself so seriously, even though it wasn't particularly funny that the Kalvan Study Teams were now under the watchful eye of one of Chief Verkan's most trusted-say observers, to be polite. Talgan must have thought he was an outtimer appointed by Kalvan! For the Director's peace of mind and the state of his health, it was a good thing that Captain Ranthar was undercover Paratime Police…
Sirna wondered how long Ranthar Jard had been Captain Ranthar on Kalvan's Time-Line. Some time, obviously, or he wouldn't be an officer in the Mounted Rifles. That was most likely a clue about what he'd been brought here to do-or prevent, but she couldn't be sure which.
She began to think that perhaps she should have insisted a little harder with Hadron Tharn that she wasn't the stuff of which good spies are made.
II
A moon-quarter after the meeting at the Royal Foundry, word reached Hostigos Town that the Holy Host was on the march again. Kalvan's General Staff held its Council of War at Prince Sarrask's temporary residence, an inn called the Silver Stag. The improvised council chamber, if not regal, at least had enough benches, as well as a table that if not exactly groaning was at least muttering darkly to itself under the weight of food and drink piled upon it. Sarrask, it appeared, was determined to be a gracious host to the end, if this was the end-and Verkan Vall was unpleasantly aware that it might be.
Not just for the Hostigi and Kalvan, either. This was the kind of situation that had killed many a Paratimer-a fast-moving battle that could go either way on very short notice. The only sure w
ay to be safe was to leave so soon you'd obviously be deserting your friends. If they won, you'd lose all chance of working with them again, apart from the risk of being executed for treason or desertion. If they lost, you still might not be able to deal with the victors-and you'd have to live with yourself whether you could or not.
All this was true even if you hadn't developed any deep loyalties to your outtime comrades. That happened more often than the Paratime Commission like to admit; in fact, it most often happened to the best outtime operatives-one reason why Verkan Vall had been Tortha Karf's third choice to succeed him. It was small consolation to Verkan that at least he'd never assumed he was immune to Outtime Identification Syndrome (as the Bureau of Psychological Hygiene's jargon called it) so he hadn't been surprised when he realized that his body might very well be one of those picked up after Kalvan's Last Stand.
Prince Sarrask was the only member of the Council present when Verkan arrived. He was seated at the far end, munching his way through a large plate heaped with sausages; it appeared he was well on his way to gaining back most of the weight he'd lost on the road back from Tenabra.
Sarrask waved Verkan to a chair, finished a sausage, then grinned. "I saw one of your new girls at the Foundry giving me the eye the other day," Sarrask said. "You know, the tall redhead with the big nose and the big-" His hands out outlined in the air two of Danar Sirna's most prominent features.
Verkan tried hard not to laugh. "I have to warn you, Your Grace, that Sirna is the daughter of a blood-brother of my father. So she must be considered under my protection."
Sarrask chuckled. "Under your-protection? Whatever would your wife Dalla say about you protecting Sirna?"
