Wrath of Kings

by Glen Cook

  “Even a fast rider needs a week to get from Gog-Ahlan to Baxendala. We want to make some noise while there’s still somebody to see us.”

  “I have a bad feeling about this,” Gjerdrum said. “Something doesn’t smell right.”

  “What?”

  “Just a hunch. Nothing I can put a finger on.”

  “Ahead of us or behind us?” Ragnarson had the same feeling, but his intuition hadn’t told him which way to jump.

  “Can’t say. There were those riots the other day.”

  The news had arrived quickly, via the watchfire telegraph running from Maisak to the capital.

  “That don’t seem like a problem. Credence cleaned up on them.”

  “Maybe it’s because there are too many variables. The factionalism at home. Megelin and Norath. Yasmid. Hsung. Mist. Too many people pulling too many directions.”

  “That may be. Even so, we move up tomorrow. Try to look fierce, eh?”

  Aral cantered to where Michael awaited him. This would be their first ride since last week’s riots. “Long time no see,” Michael said cheerfully. Aral scowled and grumped. “What’s the matter? It’s a beautiful day. Was the storm yesterday more your style?”

  “I was up late last night.”

  “You have a partner. Let him run things. You’re supposed to be staying respectable, anyway.”

  “Wasn’t that. I was talking to some smugglers. Some back from delivering your weapons, some in from Throyes.”

  “And?”

  “They say it’s going to blow up out there. Hsung has his mind made up. He’s going ahead despite orders and good sense.”

  “Not a lot we can do about that, is there? So why the long face?”

  “I’m scared the King will get another wild hair.”

  “Come on.”

  “He’s changed, Mike. He’s making the long bets without thinking. He’s getting arrogant about his luck. Taking chances when he doesn’t have to. Maybe being King has gone to his head.”

  Michael couldn’t disagree. “He does tend to ignore advice when it isn’t what he wants to hear.”

  “I’ll let you in on something, Mike. Our organization isn’t betting on him. We’re moving our money out of Kavelin. We don’t think he’s going to last.”

  “Why not? Everything is under control. I have the troublemakers spotted. In a month or so….” He dropped it. Aral didn’t need to know about the Harish.

  “I’m saying that one more long bet and a lot of people are going to give up on him. And a lot more will try to make something out of it. He needs to take a more realistic approach to dealing with people, too. He’s got to make them want to work with him. He did that while he was Marshall.”

  “The mess isn’t all his fault. There are some people sabotaging everything they can. They’re doing their damnedest to make him look bad.”

  “I can guess who. There’s a lot of Itaskian gold floating around my part of town. But I say that’s his fault. He should have stopped it before it got out of hand.”

  “That’s partly my fault, Aral. I was suspicious a long time ago. I didn’t tell him. I figured he’d do something when he was ready. I didn’t want to hurt him. He’s already lost almost everybody who ever meant anything to him. That’s probably part of his problem. He’s sublimating it all into a devotion to Kavelin that’s becoming pathologically unrealistic.”

  “Hey, Michael.”

  “What?”

  “Look here. Look at me. This is Aral Dantice, the caravan outfitter’s son. Not your roommate at the Rebsamen.”

  Michael laughed. “Sorry.”

  “I know what you’re saying even if you don’t say it in words ordinary mortals can understand. And you’re probably partly right. But only partly.”

  “Well, damn. We’re around already. And that’s all the time I have for today.”

  “You’ll pass the word about Hsung?”

  “Of course.”

  “Mike? Just an idea.”

  “What?”

  “Go see the Queen while you’ve still got her scared.”

  “What for?”

  “To negotiate. Let her buy her safety by getting out of Kavelin.”

  “Ooh. That’s dangerous, Aral. The King would have a fit.”

  “Even if you and Prataxis and Mundwiller were all in on it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You’d better do something before the hammer falls. Because like I said, I’ve got a hunch he’ll try the long odds one more time.”

  “I’ll think about it, Aral. I’ll talk to Prataxis. That’s all I can promise.”

  It was pure fate. Gales was at the Ministry visiting an old friend and happened to be looking out a window. He spied someone familiar marching toward the building. “Dahl Haas. What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Josiah?” his friend asked.

  “Uhm?”

  “You look green around the gills.”

  “Must be coming down with something.” He tried to be entertaining, amusing, whatever, to buy time, but failed. So he simply overstayed his welcome till Haas left the building.

  The young Captain wasn’t alone. His companion was one of Itaskia’s top agents. “I’ll stop boring you now,” he said. He hit the street as quickly as he could. Mortin of Greyfells was at his town villa. He headed that way.

  He became aware that he was being followed. He realized that some of the faces he now noticed had been around for days. Well, let them follow. He wasn’t doing anything extraordinary. Extraordinary procedures would begin once he reached the villa and was able to command the Greyfells resources.

  How had the kid managed to track him…? No. The important question was, how had he become intimate with someone high in the King’s favor here? How much had he passed on? Was the Kavelin operation compromised?

  That, Gales supposed, depended on how much Haas had been told before departing Vorgreberg.

  I should have expected this, he thought. I should have made more effort to see if I was followed.

  Mist examined Lord Ssu-ma’s field charts. “They’re up-to-date?”

  “Unless he’s cleverer than we think. The Throyens are massed for the attack. He has one legion in line behind them and the other trickling in from Gog-Ahlan. He’s going to do it.”

  “How soon?”

  “Tomorrow? The next day? It won’t be long.”

  “What kind of reaction can we expect?”

  “His assessment is that the Disciple’s troops will collapse. He expects residual partisan activity, and some trouble in Throyen territory with followers of the Disciple. He expects his Aspirators to clear that up within two weeks. He intends to push south to Souk el Arba, establish a line, then drive into the Sebil el Selib Pass. The Disciple will be captured there or will flee westward, to be captured by Royalist forces.”

  “I recall a previous assessment of his going sour. What are the chances this time?”

  “He might carry it off. In spite of himself.”

  Mist tapped the map where the Savernake Gap snaked through the Mountains of M’Hand.

  Lord Ssu-ma nodded. “Ragnarson is at Maisak with the bulk of his army. He’s posturing. He won’t move.”

  Mist agreed, but asked, “Why not?”

  “He has severe problems at home. He hasn’t called anyone to the colors except a few militia units in outlying areas. If he were serious he would have ordered a full call-up. He’d want his rear protected from his enemies at home.”

  “Why is he making the gesture? Is there a connection with El Murid’s people?”

  “There must be. Obviously not an alliance. That’s politically unfeasible. But some sort of cooperation. Else how would he be alert to Lord Hsung’s activities?”

  “Michael Trebilcock. In his way Michael is as dangerous as Varthlokkur. He’s deadly. He’s afraid of nothing. And he has hundreds of friends in unusual places. He seems to know everything.”

  “I’ve seen estimates from Lord Hsung’s s
taff which say otherwise. His reputation is bigger within Kavelin than without. Most of his coups relied on Varthlokkur’s help. He doesn’t have that anymore.”

  “That was my reason for thinking Ragnarson wouldn’t attack. He doesn’t have the wizard to cover him anymore.”

  “What are your plans for Lord Hsung?”

  “Let him run free. Let him damn himself so thoroughly the Council will unanimously censure him. The Matayangan thing has them scared enough to be very short-tempered with disciplinary lapses.”

  “How goes the war?”

  “Well enough. The encircled armies should collapse soon. Once they do, we’ll be able to take the offensive.”

  “The situation is no longer critical?”

  “No. Just serious. But it could go bad again.”

  “Give Lord Hsung another week, eh? Even if he goes?”

  “At least. Maybe longer.”

  In the high, wild mountains called the Dragon’s Teeth, Varthlokkur turned away from a mirror which could reflect images of anything anywhere. He sighed. He had predicted it, but had hoped he would be wrong. He no longer had that hope.

  “What’s wrong, Varth?” Nepanthe asked.

  “I was right. The wolves are going to pull Bragi down, unless the apparently stupid things he’s done are part of a plan I can’t fathom.”

  “You’ll help him, won’t you?”

  “I won’t. And don’t argue. The break is complete. No matter what happens.”

  “You’re a stubborn old man. And you’re just as foolish as he is.”

  “Maybe.” Privately, he agreed. But his pride wouldn’t let him make peace with Ragnarson.

  Children’s voices echoed up from below. Nepanthe said, “I’d better settle them down before they waken Smyrena.”

  “Send Ethrian up. I’ll work on him some more.” He sighed again. Mist’s children were driving him to distraction. Sometimes he wished they were as vacant as Ethrian had become.

  The boy had survived, but his mind was gone, lost in the shadows of his brain. He drifted around in a dream, able to communicate only the simplest wants. He was as helpless as his sister.

  There had to be a way to free him. There was a way, damn it. Somewhere in these old books.

  He glanced at the mirror. “Damn. There it goes. Don’t the fools ever learn?”

  A puzzled soldier told Inger, “My Lady, Captain Trebilcock is here to see you.”

  Her heart jumped. Trebilcock? Here? What was it? A trick to get close enough to kill her? “He’s alone? Did he say what he wanted?”

  “No, My Lady. He didn’t. Yes, he’s by himself. And he’s not armed.”

  She debated sending him away with a few defiant words. But that wasn’t wise. Seeing him might at least buy time.

  She had to buy time. Time for Dane. Time for Bragi to get back from the mountains. Especially time for that. His intercession was her only real hope.

  Maybe a reconciliation wasn’t impossible. She could break with her family and try to win him all over again. She was the mother of his son.

  Don’t be a fool. You’ve completely destroyed his trust.

  She peeped into the sitting room where the soldier would bring Trebilcock, hoping to get some sense of Michael before he saw her.

  He was the same old Michael, sans weapons. Tall and pale and cool, unacquainted with fear. She considered the mad notion of having him killed. He scared her so much. He was like Dane, especially in his lack of conscience.

  She screwed up her courage and stepped into the chamber. Guards snapped to attention. Michael bowed. He pursued the courtesies due her station. “Your Majesty. You look well. We’d heard you were ill.” He acted like there was no enmity between them.

  “I’m recovering.” Was this going to be a play of double meanings and pretense? No. She wouldn’t allow it. “What’re you doing here?”

  Michael didn’t respond as she expected. He simply replied, “I have a proposition for you. A way to break this deadlock and avoid its unpleasant potential.”

  She sat down, studied him. He didn’t react to her scrutiny. He said, “You look unhappy. I’ve always thought that your most endearing quality was your ability to smile no matter the circumstances. I’ve always envied you that. I’m sorry to see you in a position so tight the smile has died.”

  She was taken aback. “Stick to the proposition.”

  A smile flickered across Trebilcock’s lips. “All right. One. You yield your claim to Kavelin’s throne. Two. Fulk surrenders his claim to succeed. Three. The marriage is annulled. Four. You return to Itaskia, with all your people, and forget Kavelin exists. In return, we’ll see that you get away safely and compensate you for any properties you’ve acquired here.”

  “That isn’t a very exciting proposal, Michael. I’d have to give up everything I’ve lived for.”

  “It means you’ll live.”

  “What?”

  “In plain words, Your Majesty, it’s the only chance you and Fulk have of getting out alive. I would hate it if it came to the other extremity. I wouldn’t want to face my conscience afterward. Fool that I am, I’ve always had a soft place in my heart for the King’s unattainable lady. I’d hate to be forced to make a choice between my heart and my duty.”

  Inger sprang up. “What?”

  “You do have the most marvellous smile.”

  Inger strode to the nearest window and stared out without seeing the roofs and spires of Vorgreberg. What was this? She couldn’t have been more confused had Derel Prataxis come courting. It had to be a lie. Some part of their plan.

  “Your Majesty,” Michael said, “there was a rumor that somebody tried to poison you. I got Doctor Wachtel to tell me about it. Unfortunately, I haven’t been able to find the party responsible. I do know that you’ve made a lot of enemies among the King’s friends. I know that if the Estates try to instigate another riot, your life won’t be worth a farthing. I barely restrained Colonel Abaca last time.”

  She turned, stared at him, totally baffled.

  “Your absence from the picture would simplify everything. It would draw the teeth of the Estates. They wouldn’t have a figurehead behind which to rally. You see? So I’d rather have you safely out of Kavelin than dead here.”

  She opened her mouth, closed it again. What could she say?

  Michael moved toward the door, then paused. “My people can get you out. We can pretend that you’re here till you’re safely away. But if you don’t fulfill the other three points, they’ll keep after you. I’m not the only man in Vorgreberg who has a long reach.”

  Again she opened her mouth and closed it.

  “Let me know soon? Please?” The emotion in his voice sounded genuine.

  He stepped out. A soldier closed the door. Inger returned to her chair and the wild turmoil rampaging through her mind.

  Fortress Maisak, which guarded Kavelin against encroachment from the east, clung to the side of the mountains in the narrowest section of the Savernake Gap. At that point the pass was a steep-sided, twisting canyon, and Maisak commanded all movement through it. The fortress itself was nearly invulnerable. Only Shinsan had ever been able to reduce it.

  Ragnarson had completed a thorough inspection brought on by boredom. Sir Gjerdrum and Baron Hardle stood by nodding as he observed, “The place is in first class condition. I can’t see a thing that needs improvement.”

  The garrison commander beamed. Ragnarson turned, looked out at the canyon. His army was camped on the canyon floor, facing the first eastern checkpoint, which lay just a few miles east of Maisak. He felt a tingly eagerness to be doing something, an almost suicidal impulse to charge ahead.

  A messenger appeared. He looked pallid. “Signal from Vorgreberg, Sire. From Captain Trebilcock.”

  “Well?”

  “Throyen troops have entered Hammad al Nakir. The fighting is savage. Lord Hsung had to commit his own troops to effect the initial breakthrough.”

  That tingle grew to a buzzing in Ragnarson’s
bones. Damn! His bluff hadn’t worked. He said, “We’ve been sitting here for nothing. Mist…. Mist….” He didn’t know quite what to say about her. “Messenger. Did Captain Trebilcock say how old his news is?”

  “No, Sire.”

  Bragi stared into the canyon. Assume Michael had gotten the word through Aral’s smugglers. That meant it had been hand-carried across the mountains along rugged game trails. At least a week in transit. Meaning Hsung had been rolling at least that long.

  “Gjerdrum. Send a recon party down to that checkpoint. See how they react.”

  Sir Gjerdrum looked worried. “You want me to engage them, Sire?”

  “Yes. Push them good. I want to see what happens.”

  Gjerdrum looked at him askance.

  “Go on. I want to know before dark.”

  “Yes, Sire.” Gjerdrum’s voice was taut. And Baron Hardle had gotten an odd look.

  Bragi said, “Not to worry. Border skirmishes happen all the time. Nobody gets excited about them.”

  “We’re supposed to have a deal with Lord Hsung,” Hardle said.

  “Supposed to have. He didn’t live up to it. He’s imprisoned five hundred of our people. So we should feel guilty?”

  Hardle kept looking at him strangely. Irritated, he went down to his quarters. He tried to eat, to nap, and could do neither. His nerves were aflame. He prowled restlessly.

  Gjerdrum returned. “The post was abandoned,” he said. “They were down there four days ago. I sent scouts on down the canyon.”

  “Good. What do you think?”

  “About what?”

  “The situation.”

  “I don’t want to think about it. I get bad feelings.”

  “Suppose we moved up again? Just enough to rattle Hsung.”

  “I don’t think you can shake him. He doesn’t care what you do.”

  “No. I think he decided I was bluffing. If we went down and occupied Gog-Ahlan….”

  “He’s committed, Sire. He’s Tervola. He isn’t going to back down. Not from us.”

  “You’re probably right. Should just pack up and go home. But damnit, the man makes me mad. I’d like to give him a good kick in the ass.”

  “You don’t want him down on us.”