by Glen Cook
There were cries of protest. Ragnarson wanted to keep them there himself, but kept his mouth shut. He had abdicated his child-rearing responsibilities to Kristen. He wasn’t going to tamper with her routine or discipline.
He had made that mistake only once. She had told him what she thought. She had a spirited tongue when she was right.
And, obviously, she wanted to talk without little ears being there to hear.
Curious, he reflected. I hardly ever really talk with anybody anymore. All my real friends, male friends, are dead. Or have drifted away somewhat, like Michael, so there’s a chasm between us. It isn’t just Inger I can’t open to. It’s everybody.
Not long ago, coming up Lieneke Lane, he had been wondering if what he needed was a lover. Not just some woman to tumble. One he could fall for head over idiotic heels like he had Fiana. Now he realized he wasn’t just missing a lover. He lacked friends, too. To-the-death, put-up-with-anything friends like those he had brought to Kavelin for the civil war. His circle now consisted of people bound by common interest. The common interest seemed to be diverging with the decline of direct survival pressure. Tomorrow’s defeat might be hiding behind yesterday’s victory.
Derel Prataxis was the closest friend he had these days. And that might be only because he was Derel’s abiding interest. The Daimiellian scholar was writing the definitive modern history of Kavelin, from the inside.
Bragi wondered if he could manufacture a crisis to force a closing of ranks….
Michael. Was that his angle? Had he seen the consequences of a too secure peace? Was he stirring the pot in response? What had he said about a problem in the making?
Sounded like a good possibility. It reflected Michael’s kind of thinking.
“Has something happened?” Kristen asked. “You’re not just tired.”
“It’s not anything I can put a name on. Just a feeling that something is wrong. A resonance. People I’ve been talking to, they feel it too. It feeds on itself.” He glanced around. The children had made their retreat. Little Bragi apparently wasn’t interested in his grandfather tonight. Nor was Ragnarson’s youngest boy, Ainjar, interested in his father. He had not made an appearance either. “Forget it. Let’s talk about what’s bothering you.”
She took him from the blind side. He was mustering the troops for a squabble about the succession, and she said, “I’m not getting any younger. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life being Ragnar’s widow.”
His first reaction was a startled “Hunh?” He stared. The muscles in her neck were taut. Tension stiffened her body. She was pale. She was milking the fingers of her left hand with her right.
“I’m nineteen years old.”
“Over the hill for sure.”
“Come on. I’m serious.”
“I know. I’m sorry. You have a different perspective on nineteen when you’re my age. Go on.”
“I’m nineteen. Ragnar has been gone a long time. I don’t want to spend my whole life being his memorial.”
“I see.” This was a problem he had not foreseen. Different backgrounds, he supposed. Kaveliners had customs he would never understand. “Why are you telling me? It’s your life. Go ahead and live it.”
She relaxed a little. “I thought you would…. I thought you might….”
“You found somebody you’re interested in?”
“No. Not that. I wouldn’t do that. It’s just…. I feel locked up. I don’t mind keeping this place, and taking care of the kids—in fact, I love it—but that isn’t all there is, is there? All of my friends are….”
“I said it’s your life. Do what you want. You’re a sensible girl. You won’t make you or me any problems we can’t handle.”
The tension left her completely. So completely she looked limp. Am I that intimidating? he wondered.
“I was so afraid you’d think I’m some kind of traitor.”
He snorted. “Crap. The gods didn’t make pretty girls to waste on dead men. If I wasn’t old enough to be your father, and if you hadn’t been married to Ragnar, I’d be out here chasing you myself.” He stopped there. That wasn’t quite the way he should say it. Too much subject to misinterpretation.
She knew his style well enough to accept it in the spirit in which it was meant. “Thanks. It’s good to hear I’m not an old hag yet.”
“You’ve got two or three good years left. Speaking of your friends, what ever happened to that tiny little one? The blonde. Sherilee. Something like that.”
Kristen smiled saucily. “Interested?”
“No. I…. Uh…. I haven’t seen her around. I just wondered.”
“I’ve seen the way you look at her. The game you’re thinking about doesn’t have anything to do with running through the woods.”
He grinned weakly, unable to articulate a protest. The woman in question had stricken him speechless the few times he had encountered her. He did not know why. That is, he understood his glandular response, but not why the particular female should have initiated it.
“I’m not shopping, Kristen. I just wondered. She’s your age, after all.”
“Be twenty-two in a couple months. Don’t let Inger see you looking at her like that. She’ll cut your throat. Yes. She’s still around. I see her maybe once a week. You just haven’t been around much. She’s a little scared of you, you know. You’re so quiet and broody, you make her nervous.”
“I’m that way because she makes me nervous,” he admitted. “I’m supposed to be old enough that women don’t affect me that way. I shouldn’t even notice them when they’re that young.”
“I’m not going to say anything. Just keep talking yourself in deeper.”
“Don’t laugh, either. It’s not funny to me. You said Aral comes to see Mist when she’s in town. Tell me about it.”
“You’re changing the subject.”
“You noticed. You’re too damned smart for a female. Can’t put anything past you.”
“All right. I’ll back off. All I can tell you is that he goes to Mist’s house every day when she comes to the city. I saw him go by this morning. He was pretending he was interested in the park. I recognized him anyway.”
“He doesn’t seem to be sneaking, though, eh?”
“I don’t know.”
“He wouldn’t just ride out Lieneke Lane if he was, would he?”
“I don’t know him well enough to guess.”
A servant signalled Kristen. She led Bragi to the kitchen, where he devoured most of a chicken. “Been eating so much chicken lately, I’m going to turn into one. Guess I’ll have to see Mist for sure. Find out what the hell is going on. Going to be embarrassing if they’re just playing a little push-me pull-you.”
“She’s ten times as old as he is!”
“She doesn’t look it. And Aral’s still that age where he does most of his thinking below his belt.”
Kristen gave him an arch look. “Do men ever outgrow that?”
“Some. Some of us take longer than others. Old Derel probably outgrew it when he was twelve. Which reminds me. He should be back by Victory Day. We’re going to have a wingding Victory Day night. I’ll send a carriage for you…. It don’t seem possible that it was that long ago. You must have been a snotty-nosed kid in pigtails.”
“I remember. Mother and I went out to meet you coming back from Baxendala. To meet Dad, really. You were all so dirty and ragged, and…glowing, I guess. I remember my father broke ranks to grab me and squeeze me. I thought he was going to break my ribs. It’s still hard to believe. We beat the best they had.”
“Not without luck. Should I send that carriage?”
“If I can find something to wear.”
“Good. I’d better go if I want to catch Mist before she goes to bed.”
But before he left he toured the bedrooms, to look at his sleeping children and grandson. He ventured into the Vorgreberg night feeling better about his role as King. It was for such as they he was struggling. Yesterday’s little ones were tod
ay’s Kristens and Sherilees. Today’s children needed their chances too.
Mist met him in her library after keeping him waiting twenty minutes. She didn’t apologize. “You’re out late.”
He scanned her quickly. She was as cool as ice. He wondered why her beauty didn’t demolish him the way it did so many men. He was conscious of it, but never overwhelmed or intimidated. “I was at the house. I wanted to see you. Thought I’d save a trip and do it now.”
“You look exhausted.”
“I had a rough day. Excuse my manners. They may not be what they should.”
“What’s on your mind?”
“I’m curious about what you and Aral are up to.”
“Up to?”
“I see some things coming together. Thought I’d get an explanation before I jump to conclusions.”
“So?”
“There’s an exiled princess minus the tempering effect of a husband who fell at Palmisano. A young merchant of wealth and influence. And on the staff of Lord Hsung’s Western Army, Tervola who remain supporters of the exiled princess.” He watched closely, saw no reaction. She was good.
“It’s curious that these ingredients should come together just when it looks like there might be war on Shinsan’s Matayangan border.” Again, he awaited her reaction. This time she seemed a little twitchy.
She seemed to go off somewhere inside herself. He spent several minutes trying to decipher the titles on the spines of her books.
Finally, “You’re right. I’ve been in touch with people inside Shinsan. A traditionalist faction displeased with Lord Kuo. They think I can restore stability and traditional values. It’s just talk. Nothing will come of it.”
“Why not?”
“These groups don’t have enough power or influence.”
Bragi steepled his fingers under his nose. “What’s Aral’s part?”
“The trading climate would improve if a friend ruled the east. He’s been trying to gather financial backing.”
Bragi stared at the books. Her explanation sounded plausible. As far as it went. Was she yielding two-thirds of the truth to mask the remainder?
“Sounds like a good idea to me. It would benefit Kavelin, surely, if the historical inertia of Shinsan could be shifted. Otherwise it doesn’t matter who’s in power.”
Again she made him sit through an extended silence. He did not let it distract him.
“What are you saying?”
“That I wouldn’t be averse to a scheme. But I want an understanding up front. You’re Chatelaine of Maisak. I don’t want to worry about my hold on the Savernake Gap.”
“I see. You want guarantees. What did you have in mind?”
Bragi smiled. Her attitude betrayed her thinking. “Not now. Not here. We need time to think. And I want witnesses. Varthlokkur and the Unborn.”
“You don’t trust anyone, do you?”
“Not now. Not anymore. Why should I? Your scheme is just one of my problems. I’m going to walk light and careful till it’s all under control.”
She laughed. He responded with a smile. She said, “It’s too bad you were born a westerner. You would have made a great Tervola.”
“Possibly. My mother was a witch.”
She seemed startled. She started to say something, but was interrupted by a servant who announced, “My Lady, there’s a gentleman here looking for His Majesty.”
Bragi looked at Mist and shrugged. “Send him in,” she said.
Dahl Haas bustled through the doorway. He still looked fresh. “Sire, I’ve been looking all over.”
“What is it?” Bragi had a bad feeling. Haas looked grim.
“An emergency, Sire. Please?” He gave Mist a meaningful glance.
What is this? Bragi wondered. “We’ll talk later,” he told Mist, and followed a frantic Dahl out of the house. “Come on. Spill it, Dahl.”
“It’s General Liakopulos. Somebody tried to kill him.”
“Tried? He’s all right?” Kavelin’s army was the foundation of Ragnarson’s power. Liakopulos was one of his most important officers.
“He’s in bad shape, Sire. I left him with Doctor Wachtel. Doc said he didn’t know if he’d make it. That was three hours ago.”
“Let’s ride, then. Who did it? A brawl?” The General frequented rough dives. He had been warned, but warnings did no good.
“No, Sire. Assassins.” Haas kicked his mount into a trot beside his King. “He was riding outside the palace. They ambushed him in the park. He got one of them, but they cut him up pretty bad. Gales found him and brought him in.”
“Who was the dead man?” Wind streamed past Bragi’s ear. It bore a smell of rain.
“Nobody recognized him. There wasn’t anything on him to identify him.”
“Harish?”
“No. He was fair. Possibly from the north.”
“Find Trebilcock when we get back.”
“He was with the General when I left, Sire.” Haas kicked his mount again. The animal had been pushed hard for a long time. Bragi recognized its fatigue and eased the pace. Dahl added, “He seemed to take it personal. Like it was an attack on him.”
“Good.” Bragi eased the pace even more. It had been a long day for his animal, too.
And this long day was not over yet. Not for him.
FIVE: YEAR 1016 AFE
MYSTERY ATTACKERS
Ragnarson pushed into the room where General Liakopulos lay. The Guildsman was as pale as bone china. “How is he?”
Doctor Wachtel, a grizzled old man who had been Royal Physician forever, replied, “He’s resting.”
“Will he make it?”
“It could go either way. He lost a lot of blood. The wounds aren’t that bad. Nothing vital injured. But when you’ve been cut so many times….”
“This the dead man?”
“The assassin? Yes.”
Ragnarson lifted the linen covering. He saw an unprepossessing young man of medium height, slightly overweight. He tried to imagine the man on his feet, moving around. He reminded himself that they looked smaller and meeker when they were dead. “Where’s Trebilcock?”
“The General came to an hour ago. He described his assailants. He’d cut the other two. Michael went looking for wounded men.”
“Uhm. You talk to Varthlokkur about this?”
The doorway sentries stirred. Wachtel shrugged. “He may know. I haven’t told him. Didn’t see any need.”
“Maybe he could give you a hand.”
The old man scowled. “Am I incompetent?” He was the best physician in Kavelin, and jealous of his reputation.
“Guards. One of you get the wizard. He’s in the brown guest suite.” To Wachtel, Ragnarson added, “Who better to question our friend?” He indicated the dead man.
“Uhm.” Wachtel put a world of disgust into his grunt. He and the wizard had collaborated before. He had a profound loathing for sorcery in every form, though he grudgingly admitted that Varthlokkur was a master of life magicks, and occasionally offered hope when his own science failed him.
He did not protest much. He was a truly good man, incapable of a spiteful or wicked act. If there had been no other hope for Liakopulos, he would have summoned the wizard himself.
It would not have occurred to him, though, to yield the corpse to the sorcerer. He only concerned himself with the living.
He was quite civil when a sleep-fuddled Varthlokkur arrived. He quickly accounted the locations, depths, and severity of his patient’s wounds. He controlled his scowl as Varthlokkur ran his hands over the General, making another examination.
“You’ve done all you can? Hot broth, and so forth? Herbs for the pain?”
Wachtel nodded.
“He ought to recover. Might have trouble using the one arm, and there’ll be scars. No point me getting involved.”
Wachtel’s scowl lapsed into a somber smile. He turned it on Ragnarson.
“Check this one,” Bragi told the wizard. “This’s the man Liakopulos ki
lled.”
“One of the assassins?” Varthlokkur peeled back a lid and stared into an eye.
“Presumably.” Of the room in general, Ragnarson asked, “There couldn’t be any mistake, could there?”
“The General identified him while he was conscious,” Wachtel replied.
Varthlokkur looked at Bragi, said nothing. Ragnarson’s skin felt crawly. “The Unborn?” he suggested softly.
The wizard nodded. “That’s the easiest way. Down in one of the closed courts where we won’t disturb anybody.”
“Guards. One of you find your sergeant. Tell him I need four men and a stretcher.”
Four Guardsmen came. One was Slugbait. He gave Ragnarson a big grin and rattled a pocket filled with coins before assuming a more businesslike manner. He was a soldier here, not a Captures captain. He and his companions rolled the corpse onto the stretcher and awaited instructions.
“The back exercise court,” Ragnarson told them. “Just take him down and leave him.”
Their eyes went to Varthlokkur, slid away. The color left their faces. They had guessed what would happen.
“Did anyone interrogate Gales?” Bragi asked.
“Trebilcock,” Wachtel replied. “I didn’t pay attention. Varthlokkur. Does his breathing seem easier?”
The wizard bent over the General. “I think so. He’s definitely past the worst. He’ll make it.”
Ragnarson and the wizard followed the stretcher-bearers. Bragi said, “I saw Mist tonight. I’d stumbled across a couple things I was curious about. She answered my questions, but she was evasive.”
“And?”
“She’s involved in some scheme to get her throne back. She claims a group of Tervola approached her, but nothing would come of it. She’s in deeper than she’ll admit.”
“And?”
“You’re not contributing much.”
“What do you want me to say?”
“Your best guess about her. Is she really involved? Can she do anything if she is? What would the consequences be, from my viewpoint? Both if she pulled it off and if she lost out.”
“Is she involved? Of course. Once you attain a throne, you don’t give it up without a fight. She felt constrained while Valther was alive. Now she doesn’t. Consider her viewpoint. There’s nothing here for her since Palmisano. There once was there. Her need for a feeling of self-worth will make her grasp for what’s hers by right.”
