Jilsomo paused, as if gathering himself for something worse. "Also, from something said in front of the printer, print-control cubes were apparently podded to the other planets when the book was printed here. We don't know to whom. I've had orders sent in your name to the planetary ministries of justice to take care of it, but I presume the planetary governments will take action to get them out of the stores before they get the order, when the book is brought to their attention by local persons."
Action whose effectiveness will depend on planetary politics, the Kalif told himself. "Earlier you said 'selected booksellers.' Selected how?"
"Apparently if a bookseller had any connections with the Land Rights Party, it was sent to him. With some exceptions; apparently people they thought wouldn't use it. Some others got them who are known to have anti-government or anti-kalifate sympathies.
"Quite a few shops didn't display the books, though. They opened the carton, saw what they had, and left them in the storeroom."
"Um. Those who displayed them for sale-you had their doors locked, you say. What were the charges?"
"Insulting the throne. The solicitor imperial is preparing a list of alternative charges, to be used should you prefer one of them."
The Kalif sat frowning. "Tell me, Jilsomo: How is it that people insult me who would not have dared insult Gorsu, or any number of other Kalifs in their time?"
"Your Reverence, you'd have to ask them to know with any certainty. Assuming they'd tell you the truth. Most have said they didn't realize that the-the fictional sultan was a parody of yourself, with intent to defame. Probably most of them dislike the government and yourself enough that their judgment was seriously hampered when they thought they could hurt you badly.
"As to why you more than Gorsu and so many others: I suspect there are those who consider you weak and unwilling because you've ruled by law. And impaled no one."
The Kalif's brows arched at that. "Indeed! Well. Bring the printer in here and let me question him."
The printer was literally pale with fear, and the Kalif's expression did not reassure him.
"Your name!" the Kalif snapped.
"Sir, Your Reverence, it is Namsu Pasarijiios."
"How would you like the name Dead Meat?"
The printer's mouth opened, closed, opened again. Finally he husked an answer: "I would not like that, Your Reverence."
"Perhaps Live Meat On A Stake would suit you better. Tell me, Meat, who hired you to print this criminally insulting book?"
The man seemed to shrivel, and would have fallen if the constables hadn't held him upright. It took several seconds before he could speak. "Your Reverence, truly I do not know! I would tell you without hesitation if I knew! Truly I would! Truly!"
"I trust you realize you'll be questioned further under instruments. If you lie to me now, we'll find out, and you'll have lost whatever chance you have for a painless death.
"Now, who delivered the money?"
The printer seemed almost in tears, his manacled hands twisting together in front of him as if he were trying to wash them. "Your Reverence, I don't know! It's a face I'd seen before, but not one I know. They must have picked someone they thought would be a stranger to me."
The Kalif looked long and hard at the man. Finally he said, "Jilsomo, have this man questioned closely again. By someone competent; I've already picked up something they missed. He says the face was familiar to him; find out whose it is. Use hypnotism first, drugs if necessary. I know hypnotism's illegal, but get a hypnotist. There must be some on the police records, supposedly reformed. Do whatever you have to, but learn the identity of the man who paid this-" The Kalif gestured. "Meat."
"And you-" He glowered at the printer. "Pray to Kargh that you remember."
The man nodded, quick little head jerks. He looked as if he might faint at any moment. Then they took him away, and the Kalif sat alone.
It could have been worse, he told himself. At least the kalifa hadn't seen the book.
Thirty-three
The investigation took only three more days, and was confidential. But those behind the book suspected that some of their secrecy precautions had broken down, because a certain man had disappeared.
Still, there was no sign that they'd been implicated, and they'd purposely built in several layers of secrecy. The missing man might simply have gone into hiding. Thus, though a bit uneasy, they didn't feel seriously threatened.
When they entered the Chamber of the Estates among their peers and saw the Kalif there ahead of them, in his place on one side of the Rostrum, the twinge of anxiety was only momentary, replaced by interest in what he might have to say: Would he mention The Sultan's Bride or not?
When the delegates and exarchs all were seated, Alb Jilsomo, as chairman, gaveled for quiet. Following the opening ritual, certain old business of the Diet was brought up and discussed. Reports were read. Motions were made, and there were votes. The Kalif took no part in any of it-one might almost forget he was there-and whatever unease they'd felt, dissipated.
Finally Jilsomo looked them over and said, "Now we'll address new business." He turned to the Kalif. "Your Reverence has something to say."
The Kalif stood. "Thank you, Mister Chairman, I do indeed." He spoke in something of a monotone, almost a drawl, his eyes running over the House of Nobles. "Some of you, I believe, are aware of a recent criminal insult to the throne, to myself, and to the kalifa, a small book, lewd and cowardly, entitled The Sultan's Bride. Who here is not aware of it? Raise your hand."
No hand was raised.
"Does anyone care to say anything about it?"
Ilthka stood. "What has the book to do with you? The title is The Sultans Bride, not The Kalif's Bride."
"Ilthka, if I took your question seriously, I'd have to conclude you're feebleminded. And whatever I might think of you, I do not think that. The kalifa's unique appearance is too well described, and unusual features of her captivity too closely paralleled, to admit of anything except the deepest and most despicable insult to the throne, to myself, and to her."
He paused for a moment, blowing softly through pursed lips. "Truly, I'm amazed to think that anyone who knows me at all could imagine I wouldn't ferret out who was behind it.
"On the second day we found out who printed it, one Namsu Pasarijiios. He is in prison now, awaiting sentence. So are owners or managers of 212 bookstores that displayed and sold it. I will comment on their sentences now, and get that part of it over with.
"I find no malice in the printer, simply the lack of any morals in matters of profit. Therefore, after communing with Kargh, I have decided to be lenient. He will spend the rest of his life in common prison. As for the booksellers, 212 is far too many for me to examine and pass sentence on. They will be examined by their prelates in ecclesiastic court, and sentenced as deemed appropriate."
Again he paused, a pause no longer than four or five seconds, but pregnant with meaning. "From there we followed certain threads of evidence, and found a man named Elyasar Ranjagethorith, whom we arrested yesterday. He's a young attorney from Meekoris, who's been working on his qualifications for solicitor. Unfortunately, he will never complete them."
The Kalif's gaze moved briefly to Lord Nathiir, whose guts had frozen in his belly.
"I see that Lord Nathiir knows the name. Elyasar had some notoriety in their home province, Meekor State, with the unfortunate result for Elyasar that his face has appeared in the newsfacs here, and the printer remembered.
"Elyasar was the legman for the project, and the key to all the rest. From him we learned who wrote the book: a young author named Klonis Balenthu. Klonis was arrested yesterday evening, here in Ananporu, and confessed everything. Both Elyasar and Klonis I hereby sentence to life at hard labor on the prison planet Shatimvoktos. For their cooperation, however, this is remanded to two years on Shatimvoktos, with the remainder of their life sentence to be served in the common prison at Kharmansok.