And with fourteen yeas in the College, eighteen House yeas on invasion funding would give it approval!
Thus hope flared in the Kalif's chest when the last vote, a yea, was voiced. Perhaps the invasion would be funded this year.
Support was growing among the lesser nobles, and if the gentry had their way, he'd have his appropriation already. Patience seemed to be the key; patience, moderation, and ask for a vote on the last week of the session.
And if not this year, surely next.
Meanwhile, now he could afford to set SUMBAA to work producing all three new SUMBAAs. No doubt it had the construction plans ready. It was undoubtedly a matter of constructing modules that could be assembled aboard the selected ships.
Forty-two
The Year of The Prophet 4725
Prophet's Day marked the beginning of the year. It was also the major celebration of the year. The assigned anniversary of the Blessed Flenyaagor setting out on his wandering mission to make known the Truth of Kargh.
The actual date was only approximately known-the end of spring in The Prophet's native Arvendhi, the end of autumn at Ananporu, if one defines autumn astronomically instead of meteorologically. For of course, so near the equator there was no meteorological autumn. It was celebrated on the day following the solstice-in the more populous and culturally dominant southern hemisphere, the date when the sun began to return. Symbolically it was the beginning of recovery: in the one case of life and growth, in the other, humankind's intended spiritual recovery.
Popularly it was also a day of omens for the new year.
At Ananporu it fell within the major rainy season, but whether through the intervention of the deity or not, the great parade was usually completed without rain, or with only sprinkles. It was widely considered that a storm on the parade was an expression of Kargh's disapproval of the reigning Kalif. During the nine-year tenure of Kalif Gorsu Areknosaamos, the parade had been stormed on seven times, a percentage unmatched in the 1,490 years of the Kalifate, or so it was said. Kalif Coso Biilathkamoro had so far been in office for three Prophet's Days without a drop to spoil the event.
This year there were predictions both ways. The Forecast Office, releasing SUMBAA's evaluation, spoke of "scattered thundershowers, locally heavy." The Kalif's opponents forecast rain, feeling that if not Kargh, then the "law of averages," was bound to catch up with him; they'd be delighted to attribute it to Kargh's displeasure. Most of them, technically unsophisticated, were unfamiliar with the actual workings of probability.
The Kalif's supporters, on the other hand, said that if it stormed, it would be the Kalif's opposition who brought it on. This dodge had a feeble ring, being at odds with tradition.
Floats had never become part of Prophet's Day parades in Ananporu, perhaps because of the season and its storm threat. But there were marching bands from every world; teams bearing banners; open limousines bearing dignitaries; mounted formations, civilian, military, and police; gymnasts and clowns bounding and cavorting (along the margins, away from the horse droppings). And of course, there were the million or so spectators, far more than the city's population, who lined the right-of-way.
Normally the Kalif would ride a limousine, too, but almost no Kalifs had been active men in their mid-thirties. Paralleled by two mounted guardsmen, and a hundred feet above the avenue by watchful marksmen in open floaters, Kalif Coso rode a magnificent red stallion. He was preceded and followed by cheering that comprised a rolling roar of sound along the thoroughfare, a roar that could hardly be missed by the noble delegates following a little distance back in their limousines.
Well into the parade, thunder rumbled, with a few booms not far off, and once, for eight or ten seconds, great drops, hard and cold, spattered sparsely on the parade. Then the Kalif's opponents knew hope and joy. But it cut off as suddenly as it began, and while it rained hard half a mile north, and also two miles south, the parade went on unwetted. As if Kargh had changed his mind. Or perhaps he'd only wanted to remind the crowd of what he might have done.
When the last band had marched by, and only the sanitation crews were still to come, to clean up the final horse droppings, the crowds dispersed, to feast and party through the rest of the day and night.
The largest party of them all was the grand party in the Hall of the Estates. It was a very different kind of affair from the opening reception three months earlier. It was a gala, centered in the reception hall, and replete with noble ladies proudly dressed. There was dancing, too, in an adjacent ballroom, though most of the guests preferred to mix and talk.
The Kalif was there, with his kalifa.
He'd shown her the notorious book, as she'd asked, and she'd been hurt by it, though less than he'd feared. For two days she'd kept to their apartment, in a depression that, despite occasional silent tears, seemed to him more like despair than grief. It occurred to him that some of her mood might be due to her pregnancy, of which she'd shown few identifiable side-effects beyond a pair of nauseous mornings.
Mostly he'd tried to act as he normally would, but finally, thinking it might help if she talked about it, he'd asked her what troubled her most. She'd answered, that someone would so spitefully hurt and humiliate a person who hadn't harmed them, and whom they didn't know.
Then she'd wept in earnest, sobbing and hiccuping that she'd brought anger and hatred and opposition on him, and that she wished she'd been killed on Terfreya. He'd held her and let her cry, and when she'd finished, he'd kissed her, then kissed her some more, and unexpectedly they'd made love before going to sleep.
In the morning she'd seemed much happier, as if the weeping had helped.
In fact, her depression had passed, and her beautiful complexion bloomed to a newer glow, while her mood was more than happy. Often it was playful, which delighted him. It was as if the lingering disillusionment she'd felt with him, weeks earlier, had finally, totally passed.
So he was taken by surprise when she asked if she might skip the great party of Prophet's Day. She felt uncomfortable, she admitted, about being in a crowd some of whom-perhaps many of whom-had read the book.
He didn't urge, but pointed out that non-attendance would gratify those who'd hoped the book would lastingly wound and humiliate its targets. And minutes later she told him she wanted to go after all. Thus they were there together, she astonishingly beautiful in a sheer, light blue gown with white underlining. She had not swelled at all yet, that he could see. The only symptom was her glow. Within minutes she was swept away with pleasure at the attention she received. It seemed that almost everyone wanted to talk to her.
Large as it was, the great reception hall grew somewhat crowded, for no invitation was required. The mark of nobility was enough for admittance. Finally, the security chief, in his wisdom, decided the place held all the people it safely could. They lined the buffet; circulated with plates in their hands, talking; accepted drinks from waiters.
A surprising number of nobles, mostly strangers to him, came up to the Kalif and told him they approved his planned invasion. That it would be the stimulus the empire needed to reverse its long decline. Invariably the Kalif thanked them, and suggested they give their message to the delegates, who were recognizable by their capes. (It was not a "robed affair.")
It seemed to him that the numerous approvals constituted the kind of omen he could accept, one that reflected an identifiable reality.
Inevitably, of course, some of the crowd drank too much. But it was the tradition at official affairs that those who became conspicuously tight were handled by their friends. And occasionally someone would be helped to leave by one or two or three of the quiet security personnel in their colorful uniforms. But that was infrequent. If a noblewoman became troublesome, security kept hands off entirely. She was her husband's responsibility and embarrassment.