Gunpowder God (59 page)

Soton laughed. “Then he can rot in their dungeon for all I care, the lackwit. I doubt his subjects will pay his ransom. And, after his showing at the Battle of Varthon, he won’t get a bent phenig from Styphon’s House. How about the rest of those buffoons?”

“No word; this report was from a courier dispatch.”

“No one thought to flag it to my attention?” Soton asked.

“No, it came from one of the Meligos Temple post routes. Some underpriest sent it on to the coast, since no one knew where the Host would be, and it landed in Arbelon City and from there it was forwarded here.”

“Bumpkins, all of them. I’ll be glad when this war is over so I can shake the dust of Hos-Agrys off my cloak for good!”

T
he two Great Kings and their retinues met under a pavilion some four marches outside of Kelos Town. The first thing Phidestros noticed was how much older his father appeared: his beard had been trimmed down to a goatee and was no longer gunmetal blue; it was white with some gray streaks, and there were dark circles under his green eyes. Since they shared many facial characteristics, he supposed that seeing his father was like looking into a future looking glass, one of those silver-backed glass pieces that came out of Hos-Hostigos after Hostigos Town was sacked.

Underneath the pavilion tent, striped in Phidestros’ colors, black and green, there were two sets of facing chairs. The two men stood staring at each other for some time before Phidestros got a jab from Arminta’s elbow.

“Take a seat, father,” he said reluctantly, not wanting to concede a single point. He hadn’t liked calling
him
father, either, but Arminta had pressed the point home:
“If you don’t like dealing with thieves and scoundrels, maybe you should go back to your former line of work, because that’s most of whom you’ll be dealing with as Great King.”

Phidestros only took his seat after his father was firmly seated on the chair. Arminta sat next to him.

Eudocles looked at the open chair next to his, sneered and said, “I see you brought the brains of the marriage bed to do your negotiating.”

“I suggest you stop with the baiting, father. Say one mean-spirited word to my wife and I’ll see that you and your army—if they don’t all desert before the first shot is fired—are sent straight to Galzar’s Hall.”

Apparently Eudocles was well aware of the speed with which his subject princes were defecting, as well as the size of Phidestros’ army, since all he did was nod.

“My trusted aide, Duke Kyblannos, will present my demands.”

His father twisted like a fish on a sharp hook upon hearing those words, but kept his lips sealed.

Kyblannos, wearing silvered armor and a highly-etched morion helmet, stepped forward. “First, you, Great King Eudocles will abdicate your throne in favor of your son. Is this agreeable?”

Eudocles nodded.

“Please speak up. Later I will give you a written declaration to sign before witnesses.”

“Is there to be no end to my humiliation?” Eudocles spat out.

Phidestros leaned forward with a wolfish smile. “There is another more
permanent solution
, father.”

Eudocles hung his head, saying, “Yes, I agree to abdicate in favor of my bastard son, Phidestros.”

“Next, you will agree to go into exile.”

“Don’t I get to know where?” he asked, showing some rancor.

Phidestros shook his head.

Eudocles looked around him and found no relief; two Zygrosi princes were in attendance, but none would meet his eyes. “Yes, I do,” he said with resignation.

If he hadn’t known his father for the scoundrel and murderer he was, Phidestros might have felt sorry for him.
I
beat him at his own game! And we won without having to destroy the kingdom with a princedom by princedom conquest.
It was all over but his enthronement on the Ivory Throne, and that would have to wait a half-moon until they reached Zygros City.

Danthor Dras, premiere Aryan-Transpacific Scholar, was worried. He had requested some replacement equipment from the Balph Conveyor Depot and it had not arrived. His hand-phone, disguised as a golden bust of Styphon, had been cutting out during transmissions and he wanted a replacement. The technology was beyond the small staff of the Balph Depot so he’d sent an order off to Home Time Line.

The Balph Conveyor Depot was disguised as a goldsmith’s shop. The Temple’s high priests were always purchasing new jewelry and gold statuary so it was an excellent cover. This was a good time to visit the shop since the entire city was in the midst of an impromptu celebration. Word had just arrived from Hos-Agrys that Holy Investigator Roxthar had been killed in some petty Hos-Agrys princedom. It was said that deserters from the Union of Styphon’s Friends had butchered him like a cow. If so, it was a fitting end to a thoroughly unpleasant character. Danthor hadn’t run across anyone quite so reprehensible since his last visit to the Stalinist Subsector on Fourth Level Europo-American.

As part of his cover as an Archpriest of the Inner Circle, Danthor had to take along four guards. Two were locals and the other two were disguised security personnel from the University of Dhergabar. Attacks against archpriests weren’t common, but they weren’t unknown either, usually instigated by frustrated underpriests who had learned they weren’t slotted for advancement through the Temple hierarchy.

People were literally dancing in the streets, something he’d heard references to but never seen in person.
Maybe I’m spending too much time in the wrong sectors
, Danthor thought wryly. Advancing to the Inner Circle didn’t mean one could rest on his laurels, either. There was always some tedious meeting or all night banquet one
had
to attend, even if just to keep up appearances.

The only man in Balph whose head rested firmly on his neck was Styphon’s Voice; everyone else was subject to sudden job termination, or worse. It was one reason Archpriest Roxthar had attracted so many followers. Although, he noticed, there was a complete lack of under-priests wearing the white robes that had become associated with the Investigation in the broad thoroughfares of Balph.

Some highpriest’s concubine, her face painted and deep in her cups, bumped into him, saying, “Excuse me, Your Sanctity. I’m not feeling well.”

One of his guards picked her up and sat her on a street corner at one of the shrines to former Styphon’s Voice Sesklos. More and more celebrants were crowding the streets and many of them were just ordinary townsmen, not priests. Some carried effigies of Archpriest Roxthar made of broomsticks and white bed sheets. Many were lit on fire and were starting to fill the streets with smoke. Styphon’s Voice’s Sephrax Guard seemed to egg the crowd on and there were vendors at every corner selling phenig cups of ale or wine.

He saw one Styphon’s Own Guard running from the crowd, his red cape torn off by part of the fleeing mob. There was talk of burning the Guardsmen’s barracks, but Danthor had reached the goldsmith’s shop before the attack materialized. Anyone trying to attack those barracks would find a brace of musketoons and razor sharp glaives waiting for them.

The shop’s doorway was barred by four guards armed with halberds just in case the crowd got ideas. Celebrations like these could easily turn into riots and looting parties; Danthor had seen such things get out of control before on a dozen time-lines. His personal bodyguards joined the shop’s guard and he was let inside. The shop was deserted except for the goldsmith and his apprentices.

“Business off, I take it?” he asked.

The Master, another disguised Paratimer, looked up, saying, “A riot’s about to happen on the streets. You couldn’t have picked a worse time to visit.”

Danthor shrugged. “Anaxthenes has me so busy going over the Almoner’s survey of Hos-Agrys I don’t have time to relieve myself. High-priest Ruphlo was only there for a moon, but he had every Styphon’s House priest in the ten princedoms going over their accounts.”

“I thought there were eleven princedoms in Hos-Agrys.”

Danthor said, “There were until Kelos was appropriated by Great King Phidestros. Styphon’s House had already given the princedom to Phidestros’ father, Eudocles, in return for military support so there wasn’t much the Temple could do, not with Soton busy cleaning up opposition in the former League princedoms. Besides, the Temple’s already thoroughly angered Phidestros by kidnapping his wife; if they try to slap him again, they’re likely to get their head handed to them on a plate.”

“Does Phidestros have enough soldiers to take down the Temple?” the Master asked.

“Who knows, but between him and Great King Geblon they could just about ensure the end of Styphon’s House. By the time the war was over, Kalvan could come back, pick up the pieces and be back in business.”

“Whew! I see what you mean. Phidestros has the Temple by their short and curlies. What do you think his end game is?”

Danthor shook his head. “Who knows? I’ve been watching Phidestros in action for years; he never broadcasts his intentions. Instead he just does what needs to be done. By Styphon’s Brass Balls, he’s gone from mercenary captain to Great King in less time than a political hack on Europo-American can go from Governor to President.”

“I’d like to see someone like that in charge of the Executive Council. A lot of deadwood there to be cleared on Home Time Line.”

Danthor laughed. “We did have someone like that in charge of the Paratime Police and the politicos couldn’t run him out of town fast enough.”

The goldsmith sighed. “Business as usual.”

“Too much of what they call ‘monkey business’ on Fourth Level, my friend.” Danthor replied.

“On to topics less controversial, what did the Almoner uncover?”

“Bad news. The League’s princedoms that were Investigated are underpopulated and run down. The Investigators were indiscriminate and killed too many valuable farmers and craftsmen. It’ll be decades before Varthon or Glarth recover economically.”

“I didn’t know the Investigation reached that far.”

“That was the previous winter. They murdered and tortured their way through Glarth. If some unknown hero hadn’t put ‘paid’ to Roxthar’s bill, the Investigators would have depopulated and destroyed most of Hos-Agrys.”

The Master nodded. “True enough. Now, what’s this about some problem with your hand-phone?”

Danthor removed it from his pouch, holding it up for examination. “The damn thing cuts out all the time when I’m using the vocorecorder function to dictate my notes.”

The Master Goldsmith gave it a thorough examination. “What in Styphon’s Name is this dent in the back of the idol’s head?”

Danthor’s face reddened. “I got inflamed reading Professor Walmoth Vayn’s treatise on the socioeconomics of temple hierarchies. I lost my temper and threw my hand-phone against the wall.”

“It must have left one hell of a dent in the wall.”

“It was a stone wall and it just nicked some whitewash. I may have gotten a little carried away.”

“I’d say so, Scholar. This thing is built with special micro-circuitry which is supposed to self-destruct if some outtimer attempts to breach the idols integrity. Now, you didn’t hit it hard enough to trigger the circuits into self-destruct mode, but you did hit it hard enough to damage something inside. The problem is that if I try to fix it here it will self-destruct when I attempt to open the idol. So you’re going to have to wait until your requisition goes to Fifth Level University Stores and a new one is made.

“This Styphon gold idol of yours is probably the only one on this time-line. No one else has gotten far enough up into the Temple hierarchy to need one.”

Danthor let off a string of curses. “That means I can’t get any work done for—How long?”

The goldsmith shrugged. “I don’t know, Scholar. We’re having trouble communicating. We keep sending out message balls, but nothing comes back.”

“Have you tried sending out a conveyor?”

“Sure. That was two days ago; it hasn’t come back, either. Some kind of glitch in the system.”

“Well, keep after them. I’ve got to get back to my office. Do you have anything I can temporarily use to replace my hand-phone?”

“Sure. Come downstairs with me and I’ll show you what we’ve got.

In Thagnor agriculture had not advanced much over the three-field system of the early Middle Ages. One field would produce grains, barley, rye or corn, another would have squash, pumpkins or beans, while the third would lie fallow. The yields were low because the soil was never fallow long enough to recover full fertility nor did they use animal waste as fertilizer, other than by accident. Few potatoes were grown locally, as most were grown in the Upper Peninsula.

Kalvan knew that through crop rotation with legumes, farmers could keep their fields under continuous production without the need to let them lie fallow. Of course, most of the local farmers resisted changes to their way of life the way pikemen resisted using arquebuses.

There was some cultivation of wild rice, but it was not a staple. One problem the locals faced was the lack of several grains common back on otherwhen, such as wheat and oats. Neither of those grains, and a lot of familiar vegetables, had made it across the Aleutians during the Zarthani or Urgothi migrations. Nor was Kalvan that fond of flatbreads. Of all the local grains, only rye had gluten.
Mental note: introduce yeast
.

Kalvan was out in the fields, south of Thagnor City, with his team of agricultural experts, Rector Jamnos of the Agricultural College, two of his students and Elder Wolthran, a farmer of some seventy winters. The Elder was a respected headman of one of the more productive farming villages in the area south of Thagnor City. Kalvan figured if he could win him over to the new farming techniques, others would probably follow.

“Elder, what we need to do is convince the local farmers that planting different crops in the same patches is more productive than letting them grow the same crops year after year in the same field.”

The Elder nodded. “It is well known that crop production falls after several winters, Your Majesty. I have seen the Hostigi farmers and their corn is already knee-high. How is this possible?”