by Glen Cook
Nepanthe asked, “Can we see him? Is he here?”
The fat man frowned. He thought for a moment. Then, in Wesson worse than Scar’s, he said, “Not here. Gone now. On to Argon. You go there too. Yes?”
Nepanthe sagged. “Oh, no. Really? I can’t travel another foot.”
“You rest. Yes? One, two day maybe. Arrangements to make. Trustful guards.”
The fat man spat on Scar’s backtrail. “Unable to do simple job. Two men lost.”
“You’re lucky any of us got through. Bandits were after us for days.”
The fat man spat again. “Inside. You stay out of sight. Eyes of enemies everywhere these days.”
Eager as she was to see Mocker, Nepanthe was disappointed when it took only two days to assemble a new escort.
“My god,” Ethrian said. “Mother, it’s huge.” They were wending their way over pontoon bridges and low delta islands, slowly approaching the city Argon, which stood on an island near the mouth of the River Roë. The high city wall reared in the distance, and just grew more massive as they drew nearer.
Nepanthe came out of her preoccupation with weariness, heat, and humidity long enough to be properly awed. She tried distracting herself by telling Ethrian what she knew about Argon. That didn’t help.
The wall was sixty feet high where they crossed a last pontoon and entered a city gate. Ethrian was so bemused he lost all thought of his father. Nepanthe was too miserable to feel more than the smallest flutter of excitement.
Their escort guided them through densely peopled streets to a huge fortress-city within the city. Nepanthe guessed this to be the Fadem, the citadel from which the Queen who called herself Fadema ruled the great city-state. Mocker seemed to have found powerful friends.
They were expected. A platoon in livery met them. The gentleman in command spoke flawless Daimiellian, the lingua franca of the western educated classes. “Welcome to Argon and the Fadem. I hope you find our hospitality warmer than that of the road.”
“Just point me toward a bath and a bed.”
“Can we see my father now?” Ethrian demanded.
The gentleman looked puzzled. “I know only that you’re guests of Her Majesty, young sir, nothing of your business here. Someone closer to the throne will deal with that. My Lady? If you’ll accompany me? An apartment has been prepared. I’ve been bid tell you that once you’ve bathed, eaten, and rested, dressmakers and tailors will be sent to help you form a new wardrobe.” They all walked while he talked. Nepanthe soon became lost in the complexities of the fortress.
Ethrian asked another impertinent question. She hissed, “You behave yourself. Understand? We’re guests here, and this isn’t the Quarter.” The Quarter was the slum where Bragi had found them living before he’d dragooned Mocker into undertaking some harebrained mission.
The apartment was high in a squarish tower. It reminded Nepanthe of her childhood. She’d had her own tower then. This apartment, though, came with a staff of five servants, one of whom was a cook and none of whom spoke any language Nepanthe knew. The gentleman commanding the escort bowed his way out. The servants closed in, using gestures to indicate that a bath was waiting. Nepanthe told Ethrian to go first.
She stood at the one window and stared out over the city’s sprawl, now splashed all orange and red and shadow with the light of a setting sun. She was eighty or a hundred feet above street level. In an apartment with its own staff, none of whom spoke a familiar tongue. It was almost as if she were a prisoner.
She slept only a few hours. Awareness of a subtle, unidentifiable wrongness set her to pacing the floor.
Someone tried the door, pushed through. Nepanthe settled onto the edge of her bed. The visitor stepped out of shadow, proved to be a woman.
“Good evening, Madame. I’m sorry you had to wait so long.” The woman’s Wesson was abominably accented.
Nepanthe rose. The words gushed. “Where is he? When can I see him?”
“Who?”
“My husband.”
“I don’t understand.”
“The men who brought me to Throyes. They said they were taking me to my husband. That he sent for me. They had a letter.”
“So that’s how they managed it. They lied.” The woman smiled mockingly. “Permit me. I am Fadema, Queen of Argon.”
“Why am I here?”
“We had to remove you from Vorgreberg. You might have embarrassed us there.”
“Who is us?”
“Madame.” Another visitor entered.
“Shinsan!” Nepanthe gasped. She’d seen enough booty after the battle at Baxendala to recognize a Tervola. “Again.”
The Tervola bowed. “We come again, Madame.”
“Where is my husband?”
“He’s well.”
“You’d better send me home. You lied to me… I have Varthlokkur’s protection, you know.”
“Indeed I do. I know exactly what you mean to him. It’s the main reason we brought you here.”
Nepanthe raised merry hell.
“Madame, I suggest you make the best of your stay. Don’t be difficult.”
“What’s happened to my husband? They told me they were taking me to him.”
“I haven’t the faintest idea,” the Fadema said.
Nepanthe drew a dagger from within her bodice, stabbed at the Tervola. He disarmed her with ease. “Fadema, move the boy elsewhere. To keep her civil. We’ll speak to you later, Madame.”
Nepanthe shrieked. She kicked. She tried to bite. She tried threats and pleas.
Silent as death, the Tervola held her. The Fadema took Ethrian away. Once the woman was gone, he said, “Your honor and your son are our hostages. Understand?”
She did. All too clearly. “I understand. Varthlokkur and my husband…”
“Will do nothing. That’s why you’re my captive.”
Nepanthe could not stifle a wan smile. He was mistaken. He didn’t know the men he wanted to control. Mocker would run amok. Varthlokkur couldn’t be blackmailed. He would accept his losses, if need be, and utterly destroy those who had inflicted them.
She was scared. With reason. “I’m your captive. Isn’t it her city?”
“She seems to think so. Amusing, isn’t it? One year. Behave and you’ll be freed. Otherwise… you know our reputation. Our language has no word for mercy.” He turned briskly and marched out.
Nepanthe dropped onto her bed, softly let run the tears she’d held at bay during the interview. “What a fool I’ve been,” she murmured. “I should’ve known when the letters said Bragi was trying to kill him.” Was Mocker dead or alive?
“Ssst!”
The Tervola had said he was well. What did that mean? Nothing, really. They were notorious liars.
“Ssst!”
She tried to recall details of the Tervola’s mask. Each mask was unique, they said. The time might come when she would want to identify this one.
“Ssst!”
This time the sound registered. It came from the window. The window? It was eighty feet above nothing. She rose and approached fearfully.
There was a man out there, peering in at her. And he looked familiar. “What? Who are you? I… I know you.”
“From Vorgreberg. My name is Michael Trebilcock. My friend and I followed you here.”
She was astonished. Followed her here? All the way from Kavelin? “Why?”
“To find out what you were up to. Those men were the same sort who killed the Marshall’s wife. And your brother.”
My god, she thought. What was the matter with me? He was right. Exactly right. Scar fit the description perfectly. How could she have been so blind? She became extremely angry with herself. All her life she had had this knack for fooling herself.
The man who called himself Michael had a hard time calming her down. Finally, he said, “You’re in no real danger while they think they can use you to blackmail the wizard and your husband.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I
thought about bringing you out the window. But they’ve got your son. You probably wouldn’t go…”
“You’re right.” The gods themselves wouldn’t pry her out of this place while Ethrian was being held here.
“There’s nothing I can do for you, then. I can only go home and explain what happened. Maybe the Marshall can do something.”
Not likely, she thought. Bragi might try, for friendship’s sake, but Kavelin had very little diplomatic clout east of the Mountains of M’Hand. And even less with Shinsan. If he was smart he’d forget her and get on with Kavelin’s business.
She leaned out the window. “The rain’s stopped. It’s getting light.”
Trebilcock groaned. “We’ll have to spend the day on the ledge out here.”
They spoke again before he left. He promised to ride straight through. She gave Michael and his friend a kiss apiece. Poor sad fools. What chance had they? “Good luck.”
“We’ll be back. That’s a promise.” There was a playful gleam in Trebilcock’s eye.
She couldn’t stifle a smile. “You’re bold. Remember, I’m a married lady.”
Though in her heart she knew nothing would come of it, she could not kill her hope. For months there was a defiant bounce to her step which puzzled and even worried her captors.
She had given up on Michael Trebilcock. Surely he and his friend had fallen trying to get back to Kavelin. It was a miracle they had made it here. And if they did get home, what could be done? Not a damned thing.
Her nights were long and often sleepless. Insomnia had plagued her most of her life. It was worse now, aggravated by her concern for her son. They let her see him so seldom… He was always healthy when she did see him, if a little frightened and confused by their situation.
She paced, looked out at the night, paced. “You’re a damned fool,” she told herself for the thousandth time.
Something rattled and clanged outside. She leaned out her window, saw nothing but rain clouds… Wait. That looked like a big fire up on the north end of the island. She ducked back inside, stricken by déjà vu.
Years ago, briefly, her brothers had established her as ruling princess of Iwa Skolovda. There had come a winter night when she had looked out and seen her city burning….
A fat shadow piled through the window. Metal went shang as a sword left its scabbard. A man grabbed her.
She panicked, started to scream. A hand covered her mouth.
“Yah! She bit me!”
“Nepanthe! Settle down!”
Several voices talked all at once. “Find a lamp.”
“Damn!”
“Marshall, I’m going to clout her.”
“Easy, son. Nepanthe, it’s me, Bragi. Behave yourself.”
She went to the floor with the man holding her, spitting and kicking. Someone struck a light. Someone else seized her hair and yanked her head back. Bragi? Here?
“Can you stay quiet now?”
The panic vanished as fast as it had appeared. She knew she was making no sense, but could not stop babbling.
“Take a minute,” Bragi said. “Get yourself together.”
She did get hold of herself, and told her story. She was not gentle with herself for her part. “What are you doing here, anyway?”
“I’m here because you are.” Just like that. And she had been able to believe he was a threat to her husband.
“But… you’re only one man. Three men.” She told Michael Trebilcock, “Thank you. And you. Sorry I bit you. I was scared.”
Aral Dantice sucked his injured hand. “No matter, ma’am.”
Bragi said, “I didn’t come alone. That racket out there is Kavelin’s army kicking ass.”
“Bragi, you’re making a mistake. Argon is too much for you.” But, oh, did she love him for coming. Just as much as she had hated him for doing things just as crazy for other friends.
Kavelin’s Marshall Ragnarson proved her wrong. He hadn’t come without sufficient strength. The army of Necremnos, Argon’s great rival upriver, was on the attack as well. The Argonese couldn’t withstand the twin hammer blows.
She stayed out of the way till she could no longer stand not knowing what was happening. Then she hunted Bragi down. His troops controlled most of the Fadem by then. Only one citadel remained untaken, and he was on the brink of assaulting that. “Have you found out anything?” she asked. “Anything at all?”
“About Ethrian? Some. He’s in there.” He indicated the target tower. “With the Fadema and the Tervola. We should have him for you in a few hours.”
“What if they…” She couldn’t say it. Couldn’t even think it.
“Why should they hurt him? If there’s nothing they can gain?”
She didn’t feel reassured. “Spite.”
“Hmm. The Fadema might be capable of it. But she isn’t in charge. The Tervola has more sense. Why don’t you find yourself a place out of the way and wait? We’re going in in a few minutes.”
The waiting was almost intolerable. The wizard Varthlokkur came and shared it for a while, till he was called into the fighting. His presence was comforting. Though he and she hadn’t always gotten along, he had been part of her life since childhood. He represented one of the few stable elements in her life.
The fighting went on for a long time. Far longer than Bragi expected. Despite herself, she nodded off.
Ragged cheering wakened her. She sprang up, rushed to where victorious soldiers were leaving the captured tower. She grabbed at every man she recognized. “Have you seen my son?” Some just looked at her with tired, blank eyes. Others shook their heads and trudged on.
Then Varthlokkur came out, looking more exhausted than any of the men. He was fussing over a man on a stretcher. “Bragi!” Nepanthe gasped. “Varth, what happened? Where’s Ethrian?”
In a voice barely above a whisper, without emotion, the wizard replied, “Gone. They escaped at the last second. Through a transfer portal. Just when we thought we had them. They took Ethrian with them.”
“But… couldn’t you stop them? Why didn’t you stop them?” She heard the hysteria creeping into her voice but couldn’t quell its growth.
“We did everything we could. Bragi may have lost his sight trying. We failed. That’s all there is to it.”
The hysteria receded as she looked at Bragi. Lost his sight? Trying to rescue Ethrian? She started crying.
Her world consisted solely of shades of grey. First Mocker had gone, then Ethrian. Her brothers had fallen long before. There was nothing left. No reason to go on. Why even live in a world so cruel?
Varthlokkur was doing his best to soften her despair, and paying gentle court, just as he had done for years. She wasn’t ready for that, but hadn’t the heart to push him away. And there was comfort in being able to reach out to that one touchstone he represented.
She wasn’t alone. Never alone. Varthlokkur wasn’t what she wanted, but so long as he lived there would be someone. There was that much security in her world.
Someone knocked. Her security stepped into her room. “We’re going to pull out today. Bragi is going to visit the Necremnen King, but that’s just smokescreen. We’ve made a deal with the Argonese.” He chuckled.
They were going to leave the Necremnens holding the bag? Good. Recent intelligence indicated that the Necremnens planned to loot Bragi’s men as soon as they’d finished their share of Argonese. By seizing the Fadem Bragi’s men had managed to appropriate Argon’s richest concentrations of wealth.
“How soon?” she asked.
“As soon as you’re ready. There’s a barge waiting down at the water gate. Do you need any help?”
“Help? With what? I don’t have much more than the clothes on my back.”
“Well, I’ll wait and walk you down. If you don’t mind.”
She didn’t mind. She didn’t mind much of anything these days.
The barge was a great fat thing manned by Necremnen rivermen. Michael Trebilcock and Aral Dantice were aboard, along with the
majority of the Marshall’s henchmen. The two youths spent the morning trying to flirt her into a better mood. By the time the barge tied up near the Necremnen headquarters she was feeling a little gay.
She almost felt a traitor to Ethrian because she was enjoying herself.
She stayed aboard while Bragi and Varthlokkur visited the Necremnens. Michael and Aral tagged after him, two young men milking their moments near the center of power. Bragi’s brother Haaken joined her for a while, trying to express regrets on her behalf, but he wasn’t an articulate man. He was a soldier to the bone, a man who had been fighting almost constantly since his fifteenth year. He’d never learned to express his feelings. She touched his hand lightly and thanked him for his concern. She felt a great sorrow for him. He’d had less joy of life than she.
There was a sudden clash of weapons ashore. Men shouted. Haaken bolted toward the action. A fight was something he could handle. Nepanthe followed him.
She came upon the duel and nearly fainted. Michael had gotten into a fight—with her missing husband! “What happened?” she asked Aral.
“He was hiding in the bushes watching us. When we went over to him, he came out fighting.”
What was he doing here? Where had he come from? Why hadn’t he made his presence known? Surely he had been able to see her at the rail of the barge.
Ragnarson bulled through the onlookers. “Enough! Michael! Back off.”
Trebilcock stepped back, dropped his guard. His opponent spun around, face painted with the fear of the hopelessly trapped.
Nepanthe ran into him, closed him in her arms and buried her face in his throat. “Darling. What’re you doing? Where have you been?” And so on. She knew she was babbling, that he couldn’t answer if he wanted, but she couldn’t get her mouth to slow down.
“Back to the barge,” Bragi said. “Time to move out. Nepanthe, keep hold of him.”
She did. She didn’t let go even when it became obvious that her joy in their reunion far exceeded his.
There were long days together on the road home, catching up, remembering when, sharing chagrin at the way the Tervola called Chin had made fools of them both. Mocker didn’t speak much about what had happened to him during their separation. She deduced that it had been grim. He had new scars. And the old wild, unpredictable exuberance had abandoned him. It was impossible to get him to laugh.
