by Glen Cook
Mist suspected it was time to watch that girl more closely. She herself had started getting into mischief at that age.
On the up side, no one was out to eliminate Eka because her existence was inconvenient, nor did the world include anyone Eka favored for death.
Hell, practically everybody she knew was here, now, and considered her a weird, shy mascot or queer little sister.
No time for all that. Varthlokkur was at the map, muttering with Scalza. The Star Rider remained conspicuously invisible in a region that the Winterstorm, attenuated by distance, could barely touch.
Mist joined them. Lord Yuan, too, caught some etheric cue and came to the map.
Varthlokkur said, “He’s gone to ground in the Place of the Iron Statues. My recollections of that are vague but I think they’re good enough for me to fashion a baseline strategy.”
Scalza said, “I’ll bet the Old Man went there lots of times.”
“We’ll see what he has to offer.”
Mist asked, “Are we involved in something that you’ll tell us about?”
He smiled. “Suppose I pose the identical question to you?”
Mist forced a smile. “I am striving to move ahead vigorously while not catching the devil’s eye. I want him to overlook me till I stab him in the back.”
“While he’s concentrating on me.”
“Stipulated. You haven’t kept a low profile.”
“All part of the plan, which continues to evolve. Lord Yuan, I have a special need for your assistance.”
“Again.”
“It’s the curse of being the best. Here is my current thinking.”
The wizard’s strategy was based on his estimation of Old Meddler’s character as profiled by the mental specialists. Their assessment rested on what they had learned from Ethrian, the Disciple, and the Old Man, the latter in the main. The Old Man was entirely vindictive toward his one-time comrade.
Varthlokkur admitted, “He keeps doing the unexpected. He may be grinning from ear to ear because I’m about to strut into a big swamp full of crocodiles.”
Mist checked the Old Man. If that one got a hold on reality often enough… Old Meddler had lost his allegiance the night that her father died and had worsened his odor with his unhappy actions on that eastern island.
The Old Man did not hate his erstwhile ally. He just wanted an end to his own and the world’s torment.
Varthlokkur beckoned the specialist handling the Old Man. “Couple of things. First, get him into a shogi game with the boy. They feed off each other. Once they’re engaged try to find out if he ever revolted before. Details don’t matter, just the yes or no. Then feed his antagonism. Find out anything about the Place of the Iron Statues. I need to know how to get in.”
The specialist glanced at his employer, who nodded graciously. “I’ll get on that right away, sir,” without asking if Varthlokkur wanted anything else. “Is speed essential?”
“It certainly would be useful.” Varthlokkur turned to Mist. “This a good man.”
“Those who aren’t good men don’t get to work for the Empress.” She watched her daughter. Eka had heard. She moved closer to Ethrian, presumably to prepare him. Lord Kuo gestured with two fingers of his left hand. He would work on his friend.
After a second look at Wen-chin, Varthlokkur asked, “What’s become of Shih-ka’i? He hasn’t been around much.”
“He has responsibilities elsewhere, including covering for me while I’m involved in this.” Which was absolute truth but not whole truth. Nor did the wizard accept it as whole truth. He took a cynical attitude toward such claims. And, of course, his cynicism was justified. Mist added, “He isn’t as enthusiastic about this as I am so I’m letting him do what he can to free me to indulge my passion.”
“That makes sense.”
She observed, “I expect you’ve prepared for a raid by the old villain.”
“Yes. But I’m afraid that won’t be good enough. I can’t trust anyone but Radeachar to do what needs doing without jumping into the process.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that, if I give you an assignment you would probably decide you saw a better way and would try to use it, which would abort the process. I have to be two places at once to make what I want to do succeed. I haven’t figured out how, yet, let alone how to manage supposed helpers.”
“You could always attempt the absurd.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning you could explain what you’re trying to do so people understand why it’s important that they don’t innovate. I know obsessive secretiveness is the norm for our kind, usually with good reason. But survival imperatives should trump old habits, shouldn’t they?”
“Possibly.”
“Particularly when these others are being asked to share the risks.”
“It’s hard to find the needful capacity for trust.”
Mist asked, “How much time do we have? Any guesses?”
“Anywhere from a few days to forever. I think he’ll try to end the threat I represent directly and forcefully. I don’t think he’ll waste time. He has to believe he’s vulnerable and can’t afford to be subtle. He operates inside a cloud of ignorance. I’m counting on that to make him vulnerable.”
He surveyed his surroundings, added, “He doesn’t know about these people and can’t possibly be prepared to deal with every secret they might give up. But he does know about the Winterstorm and I expect that he’s given that lots of thought.”
“Two days might be enough, just barely, to drag in an arbitrator-director to manage the crisis. I’m thinking Bragi even though he doesn’t like either one of us much right now and is probably convinced that he has weaseled out of his turn in the barrel.”
She watched him swell with resistance.
“Exactly. And you can expect plenty of attitude from him if either of us comes out ahead because of this.”
The wizard took nearly a minute. “I am repelled to the point where I suspect that you have identified a workable design.”
“It needs only persist for as long as it takes to succeed or be flayed.”
She expected the latter to be the more likely outcome. Once reason placed her eyeball to eyeball with that she just got more obstinate. There would be a grand showdown. Potential hurdles rolled off the duck’s back of her determination.
What had become of that Poles of Power project meant to identify them and locate them? She had handed that off to Kuo Wen-chin, had she not? Then she had not followed up. Wait. No. She had not given that to Wen-chin. She had not given it to anybody. She had gone and forgotten the whole damned thing herself. It was too late to work that angle. The crisis was just around the corner, beyond her ability to delay.
Old Meddler would operate from inside a miasma of ignorance but would know that survival was table stakes. Weak, he would shun cat and mouse diversions. He would attack with ferocity and vigor.
She peered hard at the Old Man, then Ethrian. Could they really provide the tools she needed?
Doubt declared otherwise.
Doom was on its way.
TWENTY-EIGHT: WINTER, YEAR 1018 AFE
RUN IN CIRCLES
Al Rhemish remained chaotic. Whenever the confusion began to settle, some fresh dollop of rumor brought the turmoil back to life. The King really was dead. His remains had been found. The site was grisly but there was evidence enough to identify the dead. One man, with the pack animals and mounts, was missing. Anyone who knew Boneman had a good idea what had happened.
Then came news that Haroun bin Yousif and the Empire Destroyer had carried off El Murid and his daughter.
How anyone could actually know that never got explained. Varthlokkur’s participation was based on circumstantial evidence, Haroun’s on less. That there had been kidnappings at all remained uncertain. The Disciple’s medical team was missing, too. There were no actual witnesses.
Those left behind were determined to believe what they wanted to be true.
The chaos at Sebil el Selib beggared that at Al Rhemish. The Faithful were not accustomed to life without established leadership—though that might be as corrupt as any on the Royalist side.
Elwas al-Souki and his intimates did what they could, though they suffered continual sabotage by Adim al-Dimishqi’s clique. The latter saw a God-granted chance to push the Believers onto a more traditional path.
The situation was juice-dripping ripe for exploitation by Old Meddler.
Old Meddler was preoccupied. He had wind of a huge threat, possibly the worst in fifty generations. He had pushed too hard. The push-back had devoured his resources. He was weak. He had no friends. Without, he was close to blind.
Too much happened beyond his ken. There were a thousand places he could not look without spending hours and vast reserves of energy. There were some into which he could not look at all, however hard he tried. A thousand glittering spears were headed his way but he could make out the shimmering razor edges of only a few.
He could not recall when he had felt this uneasy. And malaise rested entirely on intuition, not on facts already determined.
He could not sit tight and let events unfold, improvising responses. He had to act. His character demanded preemption.
His only real choice was what direction to strike.
Once he started he would, ironically, operate through improvisation anyway.
It might turn grim. He lacked allies. His arsenal had been depleted. The Poles of Power were beyond his control. One had vanished completely, as though Fate itself had chosen to tamper.
All effort would be wasted, anyway, whatever the world looked like on the other side. Success would win neither reprieve nor parole. Death itself might be no escape.
Even so, it was time. Definitely time to go shove his hands into the pie. After all these ages he could do nothing less.
Ragnarson delayed his appearance before the Thing for as long as he dared. Days and days, till Michael warned him that Haida said the delegates were out of patience. The rumor accusing the castle of stalling out of greed had gained considerable momentum.
Haida Heltkler made friends easily. She moved amongst people comfortably, taking the popular pulse. She could be flirty when she wanted, which was no handicap amongst the unwashed.
That did not become a problem amongst the more frequently washed of the castle once Carrie Depar and Michael Trebilcock each took a moment to counsel Babeltausque. That gleam in his eye had best disappear. No telling which Babeltausque heard more clearly but he did take the message to heart. Haida was too ripe, anyway. And he was damned happy with Carrie. That was going far better than he had any right to expect.
Ragnarson’s main reason for stalling had been a hope that Babeltausque would discover a working transfer portal. A live one would provide the impact he wanted.
The sorcerer had one hell of a time finding one, though, despite knowing that it had to be out there somewhere. He found one at last, in Fiana’s tomb, fourth time he looked, when Ragnarson insisted that he try it yet again.
The Thing met in full, with numerous native and foreign observers crowding into every otherwise unclaimed space. That whole end of the world, kings and commons, wanted to watch history in the making. And history would be made. History happened where King Bragi went.
First order of business, declaration of a requirement for order, manners, and good behavior inside the Thing hall. Misbehavior would not be tolerated. Following his minute of stolen glory each transgressor, whatever his station, should expect harsh penalties, from the stocks to public whippings. Colonel Gales would enforce good manners at his own discretion.
Ragnarson expected to make examples. People did not believe you till you hit them hard enough.
Silence gathered quickly once Ragnarson moved past his grim prospects cautionary speech.
He leaned on the rostrum, surveyed the assembly. Inger and Kristen were with him, a step back and one to either side, Inger on the right. Neither was happy. Each had suffered abiding disappointments. Each felt humiliated and betrayed.
Neither Fulk nor the younger Bragi were present. Each woman still wondered if she could fully accept what Ragnarson meant to announce.
Neither saw any other choice. The legal monarch was back. No one else minded him asserting his rights. Popular sentiment was plain. Common folks were thrilled. He had screwed up, back when, but the kingdom had enjoyed unprecedented internal security before that, and ferocious chaos in his absence. Things could only get better.
Nostalgia always ground off the bloody, jagged edges and wafted away the bad smells. The old days were ever better times, ever sweeter than the hells folks were slogging through nowadays.
Even so, Ragnarson sensed resentment. The people here were sure he was wasting their time. But they wanted the measure of the new him. They were no longer stunned beyond calculation. They were about to start knitting conspiracies tailored to whatever strengths he betrayed.
He offered a brief, brisk, insincere apology for the delays. “What I’m going to show you was more cunningly hidden than I expected. But, before that, I want to deal with the succession, which has caused too much friction and confusion.”
That got their attention. Scores, possibly hundreds, had perished in those squabbles, rancor stirred by Dane of Greyfells and traditional prejudice. Though weary of the fighting the survivors all retained strong opinions.
“When it looked like I was gone for good this assembly designated my son Fulk to succeed me, a cynical choice pushed through in hopes that Inger would prove a weak regent, easily manipulated, while Fulk’s constitution would betray him quickly.”
That caused a stir. Some thought the Queen appeared stricken by the bald statement, though Dr. Wachtel’s prognoses certainly supported it.
“I confirm the will of the Thing. Fulk will be my successor, with his mother as Queen Regent.”
A buzz began. Elation. Disappointment. Wonder. Surprise that he would favor Fulk over his grandson. That emotional connection was stronger.
“However,” Ragnarson said, portentously. “Practically, though, I must face the fact that Fulk is sickly. He probably won’t enjoy a long, peaceful reign. An intercession of evil won’t be necessary to end the disappointments he may cause you who have black hearts. So, though I want Fulk and his mother to follow me, I also want my grandson, Bragi, and his mother to follow Fulk—even if Fulk produces his own son. And, Kristen, you will be patient. Michael has assured me that you will.” He paused to allow reflection, then, “I want this made law. The Queen will herd it through and Michael Trebilcock will enforce it.”
Ragnarson stood silent momentarily, then boomed, “The Crown will not tolerate any more squabbling amongst its subjects.”
He did not say how he might enforce his will with no income or army. He had no idea how he could. He was winging it again, but reminding them that Michael was out there, watching. Few Kaveliners did not dread Michael’s ire—though there were, in fact, few certain instances of that ire having been expressed directly.
Michael Trebilcock, the terror, was mostly perception.
Since the Great Eastern Wars perception had been enough. For most people, perception and truth were identical.
Trebilcock had arrived with Ragnarson but had disappeared right away. He was a spook now, rarely seen as he prowled the Thing. His eyes were hard. He was looking for something.
Which was Michael doing what Michael did, while hundreds sensed him watching, calculating, noting faces and names.
Ragnarson lifted a hand.
A tall, wide swath of canvas swept aside. Babeltausque clomped onto the floor of the Thing leading a tired-looking donkey and cart. The animal looked like it had mange. The cart carried a tall black box which, at first glimpse, resembled a one-hole outhouse. It produced a faint hum and random tweets. The tweets followed crackling sparks like those snapping between your fingertips and cold metal on a dry winter day.
Some onlookers knew it was no shit
ter, though it could scare the crap out of someone of questionable courage. It was a Dread Empire transfer portal and it was alive. There was, in fact, something wrong with it. It should not crackle and hum while on standby.
No one, including Ragnarson, actually understood that.
Ragnarson explained, “This was concealed inside Queen Fiana’s mausoleum, masked by one that we deactivated before.” He tried to sound more distressed than he really was. He was willing to exploit his own pain and vulnerability.
He experienced a tweak in time with a tweet. He was becoming an apprentice Greyfells, cynical and pragmatic. He wanted to look back but feared what he would see reflected in the faces of the women.
Babeltausque worked his cart round so that the donkey faced back the way that it had come. Four garrison soldiers lifted the portal down, settling it where all the delegates could see it, a dark, oily, interstellar black thing that the gaze either fell into and lost focus or slipped off and did likewise, partly why it had been so hard to find.
Ragnarson made random comments during the unloading. He wanted the onlookers distracted while the soldiers grunted and strained.
The portal seemed heavier than it should be.
A bear of a man in black armor emerged from the black, oily face. A twin came after, followed immediately by two more. Three of the four garrison soldiers demonstrated the better part of valor. The fourth fainted.
Yet another pair of giants emerged. Heart pounding, near panic, Ragnarson nevertheless did note that the Imperial Lifeguards were not arriving with their weapons bared.
He noted, as well, Babeltausque drifting away, eyes huge, leading donkey and cart at a glacial pace, stricken by this ugly turn of events, no doubt desperate for something to do and failing to think of a thing.
Had Mist’s gang chosen to infiltrate when their portal was in exactly the worst possible location for their purpose?
The Empress herself stepped into the Thing hall. No doubting who she was. Most delegates remembered her from her exile. Her visual impact remained immense. The rising panic peaked. The screams and curses of men clambering over one another to win first escape eased up immediately.
