Wrath of Kings

by Glen Cook

  He was a soldier. Just a soldier. He had no business ruling.

  Vorgreberg shivered with gentle excitement. It was not the great dread-excitement foreshadowing dire events, it was the small, eager excitement that courses before good things about to unfold.

  There had been a messenger from the east. His tidings would touch the life of every citizen.

  The magnates of the mercantile houses sent boys to loiter by the gates of Castle Krief. The youths had strict instructions to keep their ears open. The traders were poised like runners in the blocks, awaiting the right word.

  Kavelin, and especially Vorgreberg, had long reaped the benefits of being astride the primary route connecting west and east. But for several years now there had been little exchange of goods. Only the boldest smugglers dared the watchful eyes of Shinsan’s soldiers, who occupied the near east.

  There had been two years of war, then three of peace occasionally interrupted by furious border skirmishes. Easterner and westerner perpetually faced one another in the Savernake Gap, the only commercially viable pass through the Mountains of M’Hand. Neither garrison permitted travellers past their checkpoints.

  Merchants on both sides of the mountains railed against the neverending, knife-edged state of confrontation.

  Rumor said King Bragi had sent another emissary to Lord Hsung, the Tervola proconsul at Throyes. He was to try again to negotiate a resumption of trade. The whisper had raised almost messianic hopes among the merchants. No heed was paid the fact that past overtures had been rebuffed.

  Warfare and occupation had shattered Kavelin’s economy. Though the kingdom was primarily agrarian and resilient, it had not yet come all the way back in the three years since liberation. It needed resumption of trade desperately. It needed a freshened capital flow.

  The King’s henchmen had gathered. Michael Trebilcock and Aral Dantice stood at the foot of a long oak table in the gloomy meeting room, chatting in soft voices. They had not visited in months.

  The wizard Varthlokkur and his wife Nepanthe stood before the huge fireplace, silent. The wizard seemed deeply troubled. He stared into the prancing flames as though studying something much farther away.

  Sir Gjerdrum Eanredson, the army’s Chief of Staff, paced the parqueted floor, smacking fist into palm repeatedly. He was as restless as a caged animal.

  Cham Mundwiller, a Wesson magnate from Sedlmayr and King’s spokesman in the Thing, puffed on a pipe, a fashion recently introduced from far southern kingdoms. He seemed engrossed in the arms of the former Krief dynasty hanging over the dark wood of the chamber’s eastern wall.

  Mist, who had been princess of the enemy empire till she was deposed, sat near the table’s head. Exile had made of her a quiet, gentle woman. A knitting bag lay open before her. Needles clicked at an inhuman pace. A small, two-headed, four-handed imp manipulated them for her. Its legs dangled off the table’s side. One head or the other muttered constantly, apprising the other of dropped stitches. Mist shushed them gently.

  There were a dozen others. Their backgrounds ranged from sickeningly respectable to outrageously shady. The King was not a man who selected friends for appearance. He made use of the talent available.

  Sir Gjerdrum mumbled as he stalked. “When the hell will he get here? He dragged me all the way from Karlsbad.”

  Others had come farther. Mundwiller’s Sedlmayr lay near Kavelin’s far southern border, at the knees of the Kapenrung Mountains, in the shadow of Hammad al Nakir, beyond. Mist, now Chatelaine of Maisak, had descended from her fortress eyre in the Savernake Gap. Varthlokkur and Nepanthe had come from the gods knew where, probably Fangdred, in the impenetrable knot of mountains known as the Dragon’s Teeth. And pale Michael looked like he’d just returned from a sojourn in shadow.

  He had. He had.

  Michael Trebilcock mastered the King’s secret service. He was a man largely unknown personally but his name was a whisper of dread.

  The King’s adjutant entered. “I just spoke with His Majesty. Stand by. He’s on his way.”

  Mundwiller harumphed, tapped his pipe out in the fireplace, began repacking it.

  Ragnarson arrived. He surveyed the group. “Enough of us are here,” he said.

  Ragnarson was tall, blond, physically powerful. He had scars, and not all on the flesh, to be seen. A few grey hairs peeped through the shag at his temples. He looked five years younger than he was. Captures kept him fit.

  He shook hands, exchanged greetings. There was no majestic aloofness in him. King he was, but here just another of a group of old friends.

  Their impatience amused him. Of Sir Gjerdrum he asked, “How do the maneuvers look? Can the troops handle the summer exercises with the militia?”

  “Of course. They’re the best soldiers in the Lesser Kingdoms.” Eanredson could not remain still.

  “Youth and its fury of haste.” Sir Gjerdrum was yet in his twenties. “How goes it with the beautiful Gwendolyn?”

  Eanredson growled something.

  “Don’t worry. She’s young, too. You’ll outgrow it. All right, people. Gather round. I’ll only take a few minutes.”

  There were more henchmen than chairs. Three men ended up standing.

  “Progress report from Derel.” Bragi placed a ragged sheet of paper on the distressed oak tabletop. “Pass it around. He says Lord Hsung accepted our proposal. Subject to approval from his superiors.”

  A soft ripple swept round the table.

  “Completely?” Sir Gjerdrum demanded. His scowl became one of incredulity. Mundwiller sucked at his pipe and shook his head, refusing to grant belief.

  “To the letter. Without significant reservations. Without much dickering. Prataxis says he barely looked at our offer. He didn’t consult his legion commanders. The decision had been made. He knew his answer before Derel got there.”

  “I don’t like it,” Eanredson grumbled. “It’s too dramatic a turnaround.” Mundwiller nodded and puffed. Several others nodded, too.

  “That’s what I’m thinking. That’s why you’re here. I see two possibilities. One is that there’s a trap in it. The other is that something happened in Shinsan during the winter. Prataxis didn’t speculate. He’ll be back next week. We’ll get the whole story then.”

  He surveyed his audience. No one wanted to comment. Odd. They were an opinionated, contentious bunch. He shrugged. “They’ve given us the runaround so long. Demanding impossible tariffs and arguing over every word of any agreement, but suddenly they’re wide open. Gjerdrum? You have a guess why?”

  Eanredson flashed his scowl, his adopted expression of the day. “Maybe Hsung’s legions are up to strength again. Maybe he wants the Gap open so he can run spies through.”

  Ragnarson said, “Mist? You shook your head.”

  “That’s not it.”

  Varthlokkur gave her a venomous look that startled Ragnarson. She caught it, too.

  “Well?” the King asked.

  “It doesn’t make sense that way. They have the Power. They don’t have to send spies.” That was not entirely true, Ragnarson knew it, and she knew he knew. She amended the remark. “They can see whatever they want to see unless Varthlokkur or I shield it.” She exchanged glances with the wizard, who now seemed satisfied. “If they wanted an agent physically present they would send him in over the smugglers’ trails.”

  Something had passed between sorcerer and sorceress and Ragnarson was aware of that fact only, not what. Puzzled, he chose to let an explanation wait. “Maybe. But if you kill that reason what do you do for one that makes sense?” He glanced around. Dantice and Trebilcock looked away.

  Ragnarson was uneasy. There were undercurrents here. Mist, Varthlokkur, Dantice, and Trebilcock were his most knowledgeable advisers in matters concerning the Dread Empire. They seemed unusually disinclined to advise. They looked like people with their fingers on a pulse both shifty and strange, unwilling to commit themselves to an opinion.

  “I’m not sure.” Mist’s gaze flicked to Aral Danti
ce. Though Dantice had no official standing he was a sort of minister of commerce by virtue of his friendships with the Crown and members of the business community. “Something is happening in Shinsan. But they’re hiding it.”

  Varthlokkur nearly smiled.

  Bragi leaned forward, cupped his chin in his right hand, stared into infinity. “Why do I get the feeling that you do know but that you don’t want to tell me? It doesn’t cost anything to guess.”

  The woman stared at her knitting. The wizard stared at her. She said, “There might have been a coup. I don’t feel Ko Feng anymore.” Her tone became cautious. “I did have a few contacts with old-time supporters last summer. Something was in the wind, but they refused to be pinned down.”

  Trebilcock snorted. “Tervola, no doubt! Wizards always refuse to be pinned down. Sire, Ko Feng was stripped of titles, honors, and immortality late last autumn. They practically accused him of treason because he didn’t finish us at Palmisano. He was replaced by a man named Kuo Wen-chin, who had been commander of the Third Corps of the Middle Army. Everybody who’d had anything to do with the Pracchia or Feng got transferred to safe and obscure postings with the Northern and Eastern Armies. Ko Feng vanished. Kuo Wen-chin and his bunch are all younger Tervola and Aspirators who had no part in the Great Eastern Wars.”

  Trebilcock steepled his hands before his pallid face, looked at Mist as if to ask “What do you think of that?” then shifted his attention to Aral Dantice. His expression was tense. He hated groups and loathed having to speak out in front of them. Stage fright was the one chink in his armor against fear.

  Trebilcock was a strange one. Even his friends thought him weird and remote.

  Bragi said, “Mist?”

  She shrugged. “Apparently my connections aren’t as good as Michael’s. They want to forget me over there.”

  Ragnarson glanced at Trebilcock. Michael responded with a tiny shrug.

  “Varthlokkur. What do you think?”

  “I haven’t been watching Shinsan. I’ve been preoccupied with matters at home.”

  Nepanthe stared at the tabletop and blushed. She was eight months pregnant.

  “If you’re convinced it’s important I could send the Unborn,” the wizard suggested.

  “Not worth the risk. No point provoking them. Cham? You’re quiet. Any thoughts?”

  Mundwiller drew on his pipe, belched a blue cloud. “Can’t say as how I know what’s happening yonder, but your occasional smuggler’s rumor crosses my path. They say there’s been riots in Throyes. Hsung maybe wants to shift the yoke so he can head off a general uprising against his puppets.”

  The King’s gaze flicked to Trebilcock again. Michael did not respond. As a gesture of good faith Ragnarson had instructed Michael to stop supporting Throyen partisans and to break with their leaders. Had Michael defied orders?

  Michael had genius and energy but could not be broken to harness completely. The espionage service had become too much his fiefdom. But he was very good, very useful. And he had a knack for making friends everywhere. They kept him posted. Through Dantice he used Kavelin’s traders to gather more intelligence.

  The King scanned the group through narrowed eyes. “You’re a moody bunch today.” No response. “All right. Be that way. If you’re not going to talk to me there’s nothing else till Derel gets home. Meantime, think about what’s happening over there. Check your contacts. We have to hammer out a policy. Gjerdrum. If you think you really need to keep an eye on Credence Abaca go back to Karlsbad. Just be back here when Prataxis gets in. Yes? General Liakopulos?”

  The General was on permanent loan from the Mercenaries’ Guild, helping improve Kavelin’s army.

  “Not to the point of the meeting, Sire, but important. I’ve had bad news from High Crag. Sir Tury is dying.”

  “That is sad news. But… He was an old man during the El Murid Wars.” Musingly, “I first met him the night we broke out of Simballawein. Gods. Was I only sixteen…?”

  He drifted away on a memory-cloud. Sixteen. A refugee from Trolledyngja, where a war of succession had devastated his family. He and his brother, with nowhere else to go, had enlisted in the Guild and almost immediately had been thrown into the boiling cauldron of the El Murid Wars. They had been dumb kids then, he and Haaken, but they had earned names for themselves. So had their friends Reskird Killdragon, Haroun, and the funny little fat man, Mocker.

  He turned his back on the company. Tears had come to his eyes. They were gone now, those four, and so many more with them. Reskird and his brother had fallen at Palmisano. Haroun had vanished in the east. Mocker…. Bragi had slain his best friend himself.

  The Pracchia had used its hold on the man’s son to turn him into an assassin.

  I’m a survivor, Ragnarson told himself. I got through all that. I lifted myself up from nothing. I hammered out an era of peace. The people of this little wart on the map made me their King.

  But the price! The damned price!

  Not only had he lost a brother and friends, he had lost a wife and several children.

  Everyone in that room had lost. Loss was one of the ties binding them. He brushed his eyes irritably, thinking he was too sentimental. “You all go on now. Keep me posted. Michael, wait up a minute.”

  People began to file out. Bragi stopped General Liakopulos briefly. “Should I send someone to the funeral?”

  “It would be a mark of respect. Sir Tury was your champion in the Citadel.”

  “I will, then. He was a great man. I owe him.”

  “He had a special feeling for you and Kavelin.”

  Bragi watched his people go. Most had not spoken at all, except to exchange greetings. Was that a portent?

  He had a bad, bad feeling down deep in his gut. He was headed for a season of changes. Fate was marshalling its forces. Dark clouds were piling beyond the horizon.

  TWO: YEAR 1016 AFE

  CONVERSATIONS

  “There goes a long-term problem in the making,” Michael Trebilcock observed. “But you’ve got time to head it off.”

  “What?” the King asked.

  “There were what? Twenty people here today? The insiders who make Kavelin work. Hold up a hand. Count the natives. Gjerdrum. Mundwiller. Aral. Baron Hardle. That’s all. Who wasn’t here? The Queen. Prataxis. And Credence Abaca. That’s one more native, and Abaca is only Marena Dimura.”

  “What are you trying to say?”

  “Undue foreign influence. Nobody worries about it now. We’ve got Shinsan on the brain. Suppose this deal goes through? We cuddle up to the Dread Empire. Trade turns the economy around. When people stop worrying about making it, and about Shinsan, what’s left? Us. They haven’t lost their ethnic consciousness. You could end up in a tighter spot than the last Krief.”

  “College boy,” Bragi grumbled. But Michael had a point.

  Kavelin was the most ethnically mixed of the Lesser Kingdoms. Four distinct groups contributed to the population: Marena Dimura descendants of ancient natives, Siluro descendants of the civil managers of the days when Kavelin had been a province of the Empire of Ilkazar, Wesson descendants of Itaskians the Empire had transported from their homeland, and Nordmen descendants of the people who had destroyed the Empire. Friction between the groups spanned the centuries.

  “You might have a point, Michael. You might have a point. I’ll think about it.”

  “Why did you want me?”

  “Got a Captures game this afternoon. I’m playing right point. I want you as my side.”

  Trebilcock grunted in disgust. He disliked games and loathed any exercise more strenuous than his morning rides with friends. Captures was demanding. It could go on forever if the teams were evenly matched. “Who are we playing?”

  “The Charygin Hall Panthers.”

  “The merchant boys. I hear they’re good. There’s money behind them.”

  “They’re young. They have staying power. But not much finesse.”

  “Speaking of young. Aren’t you getting a
little old for Captures? Meaning no offense, of course.”

  Captures was a Marena Dimura game originally played over vast expanses of forest. They settled inter-village squabbles by playing—though the dirth of rules left casualties all over the woods.

  The citified version was played on more limited ground. Vorgreberg’s “field” covered one square mile north of the city cemetery. There were forty players to a team. There were rules intended to make the game fun.

  Everyone cheated.

  Captures resembled Steal the Flag. The teams tried to capture balls from their opponents and carry them to their own “castles.” Each started with five ox-head-sized balls. Each tried to prevent opposing players from seizing its own balls, or to recover them once stolen. The game was played in two forms. In the short the first team to convey all its opponent’s balls to its own castle won. In the long, the winner was the team which acquired all the balls. The long could continue for weeks. Round Vorgreberg they played the short form.

  “I don’t have the wind I used to,” Bragi admitted. “And the legs get tired faster. But it’s the only fun I have anymore. It’s the only time I can get off by myself and think. There aren’t any distractions out there.”

  “And on the point there’s no one to listen if you want to have a little heart-to-heart with your side?”

  “Even the walls have ears here, Michael.”

  Trebilcock groaned. He did not want to waste an afternoon running through the woods…. He grinned. He could get himself thrown out of bounds. A player could not return to the game if his opponents ejected him in front of a judge.

  That was the crucial point. A judge had to witness any infraction. Creative cheating was the soul of the game.

  “Meet me out there,” Bragi said. “We drew the west castle. Try to show up by noon.” He smiled. He knew how Michael felt about Captures. “Wear something old.”

  “Your wish is my command. Can I go?”

  “Head out. We’ll talk there.”

  Trebilcock slouched away. Bragi watched him go. The tall, lank spymaster looked like a caricature of a man. His skin was so pale it seemed never to have seen the sun. He appeared to be a weakling.