Wrath of Kings

by Glen Cook

  Then Ethrian began following his grandfather. Why? Something had changed. Ethrian was intrigued by the world outside Ethrian now. And his mother was thrilled.

  “What are we going to do today, Uncle?” Scalza asked. “Spy on our mother again?”

  “That part of ‘we’ constituted by you will remain out of the way and quiet while the part that is me performs some excruciatingly dull maintenance on the Winterstorm.”

  “Oh, good! When are you going to start teaching us?”

  “Never, and a day.”

  Scalza primed himself for an argument. Before he started Nepanthe arrived. Smyrena was awake and cooing. The youngsters lost interest in anything but her.

  That left Ethrian as a puzzled human island. After brief indecision he drifted toward his mother.

  Varthlokkur watched in amazement. Nepanthe had a bottomless store of warmth and love for the children. He never got over that. How did she do it?

  The children did not bother him again. Nepanthe was that good a kid wrangler. It did not hurt that the baby seemed interested in learning to crawl. Everyone found that immensely entertaining.

  In time, Nepanthe left Smyrena to the youngsters and came to look over Varthlokkur’s shoulder.

  He said, “I’ve been looking for Haroun. I can’t find a trace. He must be somewhere on the foreshore east of the Mountains of the Thousand Sorcerers.”

  “What does he want to do? His whole life changed when he killed Magden Norath. I’m sure he didn’t plan to go round stabbing famous sorcerers.”

  “I hope not. I don’t want him headed our way.” He grinned.

  “If he is on the coast he’s not interested in what’s going on in Al Rhemish.”

  “Exactly. Before al-Habor he was heading that way by stages. After al-Habor he headed southeast, for as long as I was able to track him.”

  “So he has a new interest. What could that possibly be, Mr. Wizard?”

  He chuckled. “You’re probably right. If he isn’t after his throne he must be after the woman he loves.”

  “Let’s hope he doesn’t poison himself.”

  “Haroun bin Yousif won’t let old love drag him into mortal peril.”

  “You take the romance out.”

  “I try.”

  “I never liked him much. He was always drama and trouble. But he was one of Mocker’s best friends.”

  That name brought on the silence. Varthlokkur refocused on finding bin Yousif. Nepanthe returned to the children. That nerve was still tender.

  Varthlokkur gave up looking. Bin Yousif would surface eventually. He shifted his attention to the west.

  It was the time of year for armies to march.

  The Lesser Kingdoms were a-simmer with vigorous political disinterest. The weather was the best in a generation. People whose lives revolved round agriculture were taking advantage. Even in chaotic Kavelin most every tillable acre had gotten plowed. The retired soldiers were all at work in forest or field.

  The Crown spent no money because it had none and lacked any means of collecting revenue. The Nordmen barons were in little better shape. But commoner Wesson entrepreneurs were digging into their secret caches. They were building things. Varthlokkur discovered new grinding mills and granaries, new sawmills and stone cutting mills. Small caravans moved through the Savernake Gap, both directions. The Marena Dimura, though disinclined to participate in the broader community, had missions out looking for engineers to help reopen mines hidden in the deeps of the Kapenrungs.

  “So,” the wizard mused. “People inside Kavelin will be too close to this and not understand that things are getting better. But there it is. If the political situation doesn’t explode.”

  As ever, what Kavelin needed most was freedom from the ambitions of those convinced that they ought to be in charge.

  “Varth?”

  He did not acknowledge her. Nepanthe touched his shoulder lightly. He started. “What?”

  “You’ve been staring into that for two hours. It’s time to eat.”

  “Oh.”

  “You didn’t find Haroun?”

  “I gave up. I went looking at Kavelin.” He needed help getting up. He had remained seated too long. “Good things are starting to happen in the Lesser Kingdoms. How good will depend on Inger and Kristen. They could ruin everything with a civil war.”

  There was another potential source of despair. Michael Trebilcock.

  Varthlokkur had had no success finding Michael, either.

  Most people thought Trebilcock was dead. Varthlokkur was not convinced. He thought Michael had pulled his hole in on himself but was out there somewhere, watching and waiting.

  Trebilcock was no sorcerer but had a personal magic unique to himself. He might be the most important man in the Lesser Kingdoms now. If he was alive.

  Varthlokkur wished he knew how to get in touch.

  He could find Michael. He could find Haroun. By a means as subtle as a thunderstorm. By sending Radeachar to look. The Unborn could be stealthy when the target was fixed and known but in a search it tended to attract attention.

  Varthlokkur wanted to remain forgotten.

  Nepanthe asked, “Why is that? Have Radeachar tow a banner across the sky warning Michael.” She had a soft spot for Trebilcock. He had spent months of his life, risking a cruel death, in order to effect her rescue, once upon a time. “Or whoever took over for Michael if he’s dead.”

  “Aral Dantice.” The response was instantaneous. “Dantice is protecting Kristen and her children. That’s worth a closer look.” Then he asked, “What do you think about my putting risers under the legs of my chairs so I don’t have to work so hard to get up?”

  The conjure man moved to Souk el Arba but did not stay there long. He established his existence in a few hundred memories. He did not render himself notorious. He seemed too honest to succeed.

  Soon he began to drift westward, spending a few days in each foothill town, moving ever deeper into the mountains. He came to al-Khafra. That village marked the limit where the law prevailed. It would not be reasonable to proceed into the higher mountains alone.

  Rootless men waited around al-Khafra, hoping for work as drovers or guards on caravans crossing the mountains. Master caravaneers did their hiring there so they did not have to pay men not needed in the peaceful country farther east.

  Haroun found the youngest fellow he could, one Muma al-Iki, hired him to look out for his goats and donkey. Then he shed his tattoos and got himself work as a caravan guard. The master was happy to acquire what looked to be a skilled sword arm. He was escorting someone or something of high value. Haroun made a point of showing no curiosity.

  He made himself accepted amongst the guards and drovers through his entertainment value instead of his skills with sharp steel. He had no opportunity to demonstrate those. No wickedness rolled down out of a shadowed side canyon intent on taking plunder and slaves.

  The caravan master bemoaned his wasted protection expenses.

  An Invincible called al-Souki had been teaching harsh lessons to the little tribes scrabbling for survival in the high range.

  The traveler recalled having seen a few high-range people when he was a boy. They were small and wiry and darker than the peoples of the desert and the coast. Their languages, related to one another, were linked to none outside the mountains—unless, remotely, to those of the Marena Dimura in the Kapenrung Mountains.

  The conjurer’s first view of Sebil el Selib, from a crotch between tall, round-backed foothills still a day away, struck him dumb.

  A camel drover asked, “First time here?”

  “No. I came once when I was a boy,” he lied. “It was different then.” There had been no sprawl of farmland, no eye-searing green miles of pasture. No flocks so vast they looked like gulls on their nesting islands. In those days there had been little more than a couple of ugly stone fortresses that he had not seen with his own eyes. He had been too young to join in the raids.

  “It’s changed a lo
t in my lifetime. And I’m way younger than you.”

  “I’m not older than you, I’m just married.”

  Which made the drover laugh so hard his comrades came to investigate.

  “He said it so deadpan!” The others were amused but nothing more. “I guess you had to be there.”

  “It’s all about the timing,” the traveler said. “And the unexpected. I caught Isak by surprise. You all came to find out what was so funny. You had expectations.”

  Isak was impressed. “Man, you got some kind of brain in your head.”

  “When you have a wife like mine you get a lot of time to think.”

  Someone asked, “If you’re married what’re you doing out here?”

  “Taking time off to do some thinking.”

  That amused the drovers. One observed, “I know. You married your cousin. Now you can’t get out.” A reasonable explanation. The desert peoples typically married closely. But none of these men really believed that. They knew about his sketchy career before he joined the caravan. Muma liked to talk.

  No one cared.

  The traveler might be a rogue but he was a rogue who did his share. He had undertaken dangerous assignments without quibble. He had helped the injured when the hazards of travel overtook someone. He had a way with animals. Horses, in particular, were nervous in the thin, electric air of the high Jebal but they calmed down when he was around.

  Oddly, not once did he hear anyone wonder if he was a spy. That would have been his own first suspicion of someone like himself.

  Maybe that was because, in some way he did not recognize, he made it clear that he was something else.

  “We need to get back to work,” one of the drovers said. “The Pig has noticed us lollygagging.”

  The Pig was the lead drover, a partner in the enterprise. He was neither a bad man nor a harsh boss but he did have expectations. And was cursed with a face reminiscent of a porker.

  Haroun looked for his own boss, the partner in charge of defense. He did not see the man. In any case, guards were free to wander and dilly-dally so long as they did not collect in one place.

  Still, it was time to start doing things in a way that would leave no outstanding memories once the caravan broke up.

  The enterprise would reform in a new shape, leaving some behind and gathering others, before it moved on into the desert. Haroun told some folks he meant to stay at Sebil el Selib. Others he told he would move on after he visited the holy places.

  He hoped for confusion—or that no one would care.

  There was no reason anyone should. He was just another traveler.

  Muma accepted the balance of his pay. “What will you do now, Aza?” Aza being the name Haroun had worn while crossing the mountains.

  “I don’t know. All I ever thought about, till now, was how to get here. This is the place where things begin. This is God’s home. This is the goal. I never thought about what to do next.”

  The boy was surprised. “I always thought you knew exactly what you were doing. You seem like you’re more than just you.”

  “That makes me a good actor, I guess. What about you?”

  “I’ll stay with the caravan. Pig liked how I handled animals and stuff.”

  “Good luck, then. I need to find a place to camp. I have some money, now. I can lay around a few days.” Telling fortunes and selling charms might not work here. Hardliners took literally El Murid’s declaration that such things were the handiwork of the Evil One.

  Muma said, “The field below the New Castle is where pilgrims camp. Just ask for directions. And good luck, Aza.”

  The boy left with a parting wave.

  They had been close for weeks but Haroun had learned nothing about Muma, other than that he was dishonest about himself, too.

  No matter. He was no threat.

  Haroun found the ground reserved for pilgrims. The field was vast. Thousands had camped there in the past. Today there were only a few hundred. There was grazing for animals, water, and little of the stench common when too many people crowded into too small an area.

  He got his tent up, used sticks from his cart to make a pen for his animals, then got busy making himself into a new man.

  Travel had left him looking too much like the fellow who had murdered a wizard in al-Habor.

  He discovered that he lacked sufficient firewood to build a cook fire.

  Then the Invincibles arrived.

  There were two. They were old. One lacked part of his right hand. The other had had the left side of his face ruined by a sword or ax. He was absent an ear and an eye. An island of bone shone where his left cheek ought to be. No doubt he and pain were long time brothers.

  There was a specific form of address due these veterans but Haroun could not remember it. When they asked what he was doing here, he tapped his ears and shook his head. He pressed his tongue against the roof of his mouth and did not move it when he said, “I am a children entertainer. I came here hoping to see the Disciple for his blessing. Maybe God will see me here and restore my hearing.”

  The Invincibles had him repeat himself several times. His story sparked neither commentary nor sympathy. They heard its like too often. They were going through the motions, bothering at all only because they were bored.

  One of them probed Haroun’s possessions with little interest. The cards did not trouble him, nor did the dicing paraphernalia. He was apologetic. This was the only work he was fit for anymore. Haroun found nothing to offend him. The Invincible shrugged and turned away. The other man gestured at the empty fire pit.

  “The wood seller is down where the banners are. He’s reasonable. If you want to collect your own he’ll tell you where that’s permitted.”

  Haroun bowed and slurred, “A thousand thanks, Gracious One.”

  The man frowned, then. “You look familiar. From a long time ago. Were you at Wadi el Kuf?”

  Haroun could honestly answer, “No. But my father was.”

  “Maybe that’s it.”

  “Possibly. He’s gone now.” Thinking the man must have been a boy at the time if he was a survivor of that disaster.

  The Invincible was inclined to visit further. His companion was not, though. He waved the ruined hand and strode away.

  There was daylight left when Haroun got back from seeing the wood seller. His situation intimidated him. He would have to deal with a lot of people here. His time on the eastern littoral had not been preparation enough. He had spent too much of his life alone.

  He would meet the challenge.

  He would befriend other pilgrims, visit the shrines and the former monasteries now housing religious offices, and even go see the Malachite Throne.

  His father had seen the Malachite Throne once. He had come within moments of killing the Disciple in front of it.

  He would ask questions, as a pilgrim might, hoping to run into people who could not help showing off how much they knew.

  He took a last look round in the twilight.

  The only woman he ever loved was just half a mile away.

  He wrestled the temptation to use the Power to spy. He knew better. Someone would be watching for a wakening of the Power where it was curst and condemned.

  He had no need to hurry. He was safe. He was in the last place where anyone would expect to find the King Without a Throne.

  TWELVE: YEAR 1017 AFE

  KAVELIN: SHADOW DANCING

  Nathan Wolf and two Wesson men-at-arms awaited Babeltausque. Wolf introduced the soldiers as Erik and Purlef. Neither appeared to be especially bright. They would execute their assignments without wasted soul-searching.

  Any man smart enough to look ahead had left the soldiering trade already.

  They pushed into the Twisted Wrench. The place was moribund. It boasted three customers where sixty could crowd in. One had passed out at a table in back, amidst a copse of pitchers. The other two occupied a table for six between the bar and the doorway. They were awake but beyond being understood by one another
or anyone sober.

  There was no wait staff. The publican, a man about fifty, who had no outstanding physical characteristics, eyed the newcomers with both hunger and trepidation. He was desperate for business but recognized Nathan Wolf.

  “What can I get you gents?”

  “On me tonight,” Babeltausque told his companions. “Order up.”

  Erik and Purlef were not slow to respond. Wolf was scarcely a beat behind.

  “And for you, sir?”

  “Tell me my choices while you draw for them.” The others had asked for dark ale.

  “We’re not so fancy here as you’re probably accustomed to, sir. Especially in these times. We have the dark ale, small beer for the kiddies, and a piss pale barley beer mostly drunk by the women. We don’t get many of them or the kiddies. They mostly call theirs out.”

  As though to underscore his statement a girl, maybe a young fourteen, shoved through the street door carrying a tin pail. She frowned as she looked around.

  Babeltausque laid a crown on the bar. “I’ll try the barley beer.” He was not much of a drinker, which he found surprising himself, considering how he had been treated over the years. “Keep my friends topped up.” He watched the girl. She was small. He imagined the sweet nubbins beneath her rags, wondered if she had given it up yet.

  She handed her pail to the barkeep along with some coins. The barkeep handed Babeltausque his tankard, then filled the pail with dark ale.

  Babeltausque turned for a better look. The girl flinched away. She was frightened now. She took the pail and left as fast as she could go without spilling precious cargo.

  Wolf set his mug down. “That was strange.”

  The publican said, “That girl ain’t never been right.”

  Erik said, “I figure she’ll be fine, she ripens up.”

  Babeltausque faced the bartender. “Show me your hands.”

  “Sir?” The man wanted to argue but recognized the sudden intensity of Babeltausque’s companions. “Customer is always right.”