by Glen Cook
Could it be fear? The mob would not stop to listen if he tried to explain that Carrie was with him by choice.
He knew that no one really listened even at the best of times. No one wanted to be reminded that they had failings of their own.
It was dark. A sliver of autumn moon drifted toward the western horizon. The air was brisk but not yet outright cold.
Something burred past Babeltausque. He thought it must be a big bug, yet experience made him dive into the ditch beside the road. That bug had to be a sling bullet.
There was water in the ditch. It was cold and rank.
A voice grumbled. Another, closer, said, “Nah. I think I missed.”
Babeltausque slithered forward, quietly as he could. The ditch would debouch into a wet weather creek just ahead. That passed through a culvert under the road. He should fit. Holed up, he could plan his counterattack.
He listened to them grumble as they searched. He did not recognize their voices. They did not know the terrain. They did not have a light by which to find his obvious trail.
This must be political. They must want to strip Inger of her most dangerous ally.
Babeltausque’s heartbeat settled some. He plied his sorcerer’s skills. He did not counterattack but, rather, marked the men with little spells that would betray them later, hoping they could be traced back to whoever sent them.
He waited for them to give up. That took another miserable half hour. He had time to reflect. He had become so predictable that enemies were able to set an ambush. That had to change. Then he thought about the geography between Castle Krief and Mist’s old mansion. There were other culverts. There was an abandoned well. There were several cesspools, including a dried up pit behind Mist’s mansion. There were improved springs, cisterns, and fish ponds. Few of those had been examined by treasure hunters. People figured that a Rebsamen don like Derel Prataxis would not hide anything in unpleasant places.
Babeltausque suspected that he and Nathan would be getting wet and filthy soon.
Tonight, though… Tonight was for Carrie.
The fire had returned.
Babeltausque inched toward the stairway down to his beloved. How bored was she? How much would she whine about being cooped up here with nothing to do but wait till he felt the need?
He had only a moment to realize that he was not alone. An exotic beauty emerged from broken wainscoting and rose in front of him, bits of broken wood sliding off her.
She was more surprised than he. That allowed him a running start.
He hit the night with arms and legs flailing.
This was the first time he had seen that woman but he knew who she was.
He was too focused on covering ground to notice the Unborn descending behind him.
NINETEEN: YEAR 1017 AFE
CHAOS IN PEACE
Mist shoved the broken woodwork aside, duck-walked a step, rose to find herself face to face with a chubby man in black. He smelled like swamp water. He squeaked and ran. She followed, hoping to keep him from reporting her presence. That hope died when she stepped outside.
The Unborn came down from the night as though it had been waiting just for her.
Reason suggested that it must have been tracking the man now in such enthusiastic flight.
The Unborn settled at eye level, a dozen feet away. It was unafraid.
Mist wondered if it was capable of fear.
It shot upward, then whipped away toward Vorgreberg.
Mist’s lifeguard stepped out in time to watch it dwindle. “Is there a problem, Illustrious?”
“I don’t think so. Though there was a man here when I left the portal. He ran away. We should have time to poke around.”
Wait! Here that man came, a pale witch light burning over his left shoulder.
“Illustrious?”
“He doesn’t seem belligerent.”
The pudgy fellow approached till he was three yards away. His light grew stronger. Mist’s bodyguard stepped out to her left, watching the man’s right hand.
Mist asked, “What are you doing?”
“Waiting.”
“For what?”
He faced Vorgreberg. “It won’t be long.” The Unborn reappeared. “Not long at all.” He turned back. “I am Babeltausque, a wizard. Mouse size, relatively speaking.”
The Unborn closed fast. It was not alone. Varthlokkur dangled beneath it.
“Illustrious! Get behind me.”
“There is no point. Either we are in no danger or it is too late to protect ourselves. You. Sorcerer. What is he doing here?”
“Helping find an ugly and elusive child-killer.”
“Tell me.”
He was still talking when the Unborn deposited the Empire Destroyer beside him. Mist felt tension rise in her companion.
Varthlokkur smiled. “You were the ghost in the graveyard, too.”
So. The squatters had talked. And so had the Unborn. “I’m told you’re hunting an especially horrible villain.”
“A clever or lucky one. My skills at divining the past have been inadequate, though he made no deliberate effort to hide from my sort.”
An outsider might have suspected that there was more than verbal communication going on. Both were deceitful in appearance. Both were ages older than they looked, though not necessarily wiser.
“I’m willing to contribute,” Mist said. “This young man told me a great deal. He lied a lot, too, but I’ll forgive him. He was protecting his principal.”
“Oh?”
“I have a daughter.”
Mist wondered what she was doing.
Both wizards were calculating, too.
She had to buy time. Varthlokkur had identified her only other entrance into Kavelin. She needed to get more set up quickly. Just in case.
She repeated herself. “I have children, too. I might be able to help.”
That knocked Varthlokkur off balance.
Her lifeguard had sense enough to keep his mouth shut.
The chubby man was horrified, though.
Varthlokkur said, “My colleague believes that you must be the darkness distilled. His attitude will improve if you give us a means to prove that the child-killer isn’t him.”
Mist eyed the pudgy man. He had a creepy quality. Most western sorcerers did. They were all twisted somehow.
A chill touched her. She had lost friends who were weird western wizards. Another chill. No one she knew ever died a natural death.
Varthlokkur asked, “Are you all right?”
“I think too much. Comes of having too much time on my hands. Tell me about your killer.”
The wizard did so, adding, “I came up empty when I tried to divine the dump. The killer kept his features hidden. And he was lucky.”
“How so?”
“Ley lines intersect near the site. Their resonances interfere with the scrying.”
“You can get around that.”
Her bodyguard made a sound that was not a word.
“Of course. I have an empire to manage. I have the Old Man to reclaim. There’s no time for hobbies.”
“Your suggestion?”
“Track the girl, not the killer. You know who she was. You know where she lived. Go back to when she was safe. Follow her forward.”
Varthlokkur offered a nod of respect. “That’s sure to travel some ugly road.”
“No doubt. You westerners tolerate…” She stopped. She did not know that her own people were less wicked. “I should go.”
“Any luck with the Old Man?”
“No. How about you with the Deliverer?”
“Ethrian. His mother’s optimism seems justified but the process will take longer than she hopes.”
“Let me know what works.”
“Does Old Meddler know?”
“I don’t know. What do you think?”
“I think not. Not yet. Will you free Ragnarson?”
“I haven’t decided.”
“Kavelin has begun to reco
ver. Him being here might do more harm than good.”
“I must go.” She dared not say that they had made a huge mistake.
Inger would know that Bragi lived before sunrise. All Kavelin would know within days. It might no longer matter if she sent him home. The possibility would alter the political climate anyway.
The chubby man looked bland and indifferent and small. He understood what he had overheard.
Almost idly, he told Varthlokkur, “Two men tried to kill me on my way out here. I didn’t recognize them. They were Wessons. They didn’t have unusual accents and they didn’t say anything that explained why. I marked them with tracer spells.”
Varthlokkur said, “You’re good at that, aren’t you.”
“Everybody has to be good at something.”
Mist retreated into the house. That was the last she heard.
“The Vorgreberg portals have to be considered compromised,” Mist told her technicians. “I expect them to be destroyed. Get replacements into place before that happens.”
She dismissed her bodyguard. He needed rest and family time, unlike his Empress. She relaxed a few hours herself, then chose another lifeguard to accompany her to the Karkha Tower. She was not surprised to find Lord Ssu-ma visiting. He had a lot of free time. He spent much of it with Kuo. She invited herself to join him, Wen-chin, and the Old Man.
They were surprised to see her so early in the day.
She said, “They don’t see it themselves but things are coming to a head in Kavelin. And Varthlokkur is in the middle of it.” She explained.
Shih-ka’i asked, “Might his slips have been deliberate?”
“No. He’s lost the habit of caution. He doesn’t need to watch himself at home. The news should cause fundamental shifts but I can’t guess what those might be.”
Shih-ka’i suggested, “Ask Ragnarson.”
“He’s farther removed from today’s reality than I am.”
Wen-chin and Shih-ka’i were playing shogi. Each had made one move since the Empress arrived. It was Wen-chin’s turn. He spoke for the first time. “Ask anyway. You know him well. You judge his response.”
“I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
“There is a shift underway,” Wen-chin observed.
“Uhm?” Shih-ka’i focused on the board. He was the superior player but was in a bad position this time around.
“Just years ago we were all playing games of empire. That ends tomorrow, when you execute the treaty with Matayanga. The whole world will be at peace.”
“You think?”
“Consider. In Kavelin one pretender’s ambition is to catch a criminal. The other waits like an ambush predator, showing no ambition whatsoever. Rather the same situation prevails in Hammad al Nakir.”
“True. As far as we know. The west is caught up in the doldrums of peace. North and south, they’re interested only in harvests and their burgeoning mercantile ventures.”
“Peace?”
That came from the Old Man, who drowsed in a western-style chair while disinterestedly watching the game. He began to shake. He made a brief whimpering sound, then slipped away to hide inside himself.
Shih-ka’i said, “His fear could be justified. Old Meddler must be livid. But even he can’t chivy an exhausted world into another round of butchery. Generations have to pass.”
“Let that be true. Will you yield?”
Ragnarson was at his little desk when Mist arrived. He did not look up. “I can’t remember the color of my mother’s eyes.”
“Blue, I expect. They’re all blue up there, aren’t they?”
“You’d think. But my mother wasn’t Trolledyngjan. My father brought her back from a raid on Hellin Daimiel.”
“Then they were brown, or darker. Does it matter?”
“Not in the history of empires. I wanted to capture what I remember about the people I’ve lost. The memories have begun to get away. Those people shouldn’t be forgotten. So. To what do I owe the honor?”
“I visited Kavelin last night. When I came back I rested till people would be awake here.”
“Did something happen?”
“A lot of nothing. But Varthlokkur was there, helping Inger hunt somebody who tortured and raped a little girl. Kristen’s faction is sitting in Sedlmayr, waiting for Inger to eliminate herself. Nobody is talking politics anymore.”
“Same here. I don’t like being locked up but the lack of pressure is nice. They’ve stopped killing each other, haven’t they?”
“Yes. Do you want to spend the rest of your life here?”
“No. But I don’t want to be the man you locked up, either.”
“I’ll see you soon.”
Once she was gone, he added, “I won’t be your tool, either.”
Mist found Shih-ka’i tearing his hair, figuratively. He and Wen-chin were involved in the same game. He would not yield.
Mist said, “Ragnarson seems indifferent to what’s going on in Kavelin, evidently because everything has collapsed into peace. He seems inclined to stay away.”
Shih-ka’i said, “Amazing, the impact a good harvest can have.”
Mist nodded. The world was drifting into pacifist indifference.
She would not complain. She was fond of peace herself.
Something was happening, down below the level of consciousness. The world and all its warlords were putting their swords aside.
That contradicted human nature.
Mist left the Tervola to their game and the attention of the now unnaturally alert Old Man. She went to an empty apartment, told her lifeguard, “Wake me in three hours.”
She had to rest before meeting with the Matayangans.
Mist wakened with the future fixed in her mind.
TWENTY: YEAR 1017 AFE
PEACEABLE KINGDOMS
Varthlokkur had gone to bed, supposedly exhausted. Babeltausque dragged the Queen out of Josiah Gales’s arms to report.
Inger looked old and tired when she came out. Nathan Wolf arrived moments later. Colonel Gales pretended to arrive from his own quarters less than a minute behind Wolf.
Babeltausque said what he had to say concisely. “I did my best to remain invisible.”
Never mind somebody tried to murder her sorcerer, Inger fixed on the critical point. “Bragi is alive?”
“And they’re thinking about dropping him on us.”
“Should I cheer or cry?”
“Your Grace?”
Inger said, “Tell me your new ideas for finding the treasury.”
He told her. And began to grow mildly disaffected because she showed no concern about the assassination attempt.
She was a Greyfells for sure.
The meeting did not last long. Bed called out to everyone.
Babeltausque did not fall asleep immediately. He ought to be hunting those killers. And caring for Carrie. He had to get her out of there. He should move her in here. She was no secret, now. Why should he hide her?
They would talk but nobody would do anything. Inger needed him too much.
Josiah Gales perched on the edge of a chair beside Inger’s bed. He had not yet recovered enough to do much but hold her. He did not recall being beaten while captive but he had a testicle that would not stop hurting. There were occasional blood spots on his small clothes. His urine sometimes had an odd brown color to start. When he sat to defecate, dark, dense blood leaked from his penis. He was frightened.
Inger asked, “What do you think about what Babeltausque said?”
“About the King? We should keep that quiet. About new places to look for the treasure? Some of those have been checked already, the well several times. Throwing money down a well was the kind of thing Derel Prataxis would have considered funny.”
“Derel wasn’t by himself. You always ignore Cham Mundwiller. He had a bizarre sense of humor, too.”
“Which is why we’ll drain the sewage deposits.”
“Nobody has done that yet. Right?”
“Not yet.
I need to go. I’m feeling weak.”
“If you must. I so miss you. But I don’t want to lose you. Take care of yourself, Josiah.”
Only five people were supposed to know what had happened between Varthlokkur and Mist. The wizard was one. He discussed it with no one. The others would claim that they had told no one. They would not be lying.
There were, as ever, those who lurked within the castle walls, eavesdropping. Word that the old king was alive got out via a maid whose politics were those of indifference.
King Bragi’s survival was not all she reported. Treasure hunting enjoyed a surge in popularity. That ended when the Queen’s men began harassing the hunters. One stubborn band gave up only after the Queen’s sorcerer demonstrated a willingness to boil them inside their own skins.
Varthlokkur followed Mist’s suggestion.
Phyletia Plens had lived a life of constant sorrow. Little good ever happened to her. Because he had suffered the childhood that he had, Varthlokkur felt all of her pain.
Sad Phyletia had not been strong. Not like the son of the woman burned in Ilkazar. Phyletia did not fight back. The one time she found the will to take charge of her destiny she ran off with the man who became her death.
Varthlokkur’s new line of investigation did not take him where he expected. It exonerated the butcher Arnulf Black, in part. Again. He had used Phyletia but had not been involved in what happened to her later. Likewise, the apothecary Chames, whose behavior was so odd and shrouded and deceptive that he needed interrogation out of sheer curiosity.
The true villain was known to the neighborhood as a good man. He was a priest at the only church. Phyletia Plens was one of dozens of children who had found refuge in his rectory. Most had survived. Many remained in the neighborhood. Interviewed, most refused to talk.
Varthlokkur followed the Plens story minute by minute till he found the night when the priest lost control, hurt her badly, and had to be rid of her in a hurry. Other children might wonder about the noise.
Varthlokkur had Radeachar collect the priest, then let Inger know what he had learned.
Father Ather Kendo confessed to fourteen murders. Thirteen involved the torture deaths of girls between eleven and thirteen. The other had been a boy who stuck his nose in, wrong place, wrong time, and saw something he should not have. Of surviving victims there were scores.
