Wrath of Kings

by Glen Cook

  “As you will, Majesty.”

  Damn. He was having serious moral difficulties.

  She understood. He had delivered what might be the one tool she needed to turn completely nasty, at a moment when she had Kristen and her brat in grabbing range.

  That move would alienate Babeltausque—and, possibly, Josiah and Nathan, too.

  “Everyone, please handle your assignments.”

  Inger took herself to the wall. She stared westward, toward the part of the kingdom least likely to support her if she seized this day.

  The Kavelin disease stirred. Anything she did to aggrandize herself could succeed only after savage cost to the kingdom. It would mean a return to the situation of a year ago, when Kavelin had been ready to indulge in a suicidal frenzy.

  She reflected briefly. Ozora Mundwiller would not suffer what she was tempted to try. Neither would Abaca Enigara. The Guild would stick a few spears in. And Bragi would be out there somewhere, unpredictable, with supremely dangerous allies.

  Michael Trebilcock was with him, wherever. Aral Dantice had turned invisible but rumor had him nearby and watching.

  So, layer dire practical considerations atop the Kavelin disease and one might even overcome one’s own worst nature.

  Mist told her daughter, “This isn’t something I’m qualified to help you with, dear. I’ve never been in your situation. I’ve never even seen anything like it.” She would not devalue Eka’s trauma. Puppy love or not it had to be taken seriously. It could shape a girl who might torture the world later on, trivial as this might seem to a jaded adult right now. “Talk to your Aunt Nepanthe.” Hardly an expert herself, of course, but Nepanthe had had more than one man in her life. She had navigated some fierce emotional waters.

  Mist added, “Don’t be angry. I do want to help. I just don’t know how. The only man… Only your father… I was just hopeless.”

  Ekaterina delivered a tortured sigh worthy of a girl a little older and much more put upon by an indifferently cruel world. “I guess I understand.”

  “I do know that you can’t force things to be what you want. The harder you try the worse they get.”

  “I know that much, Mother.” Another millennial sigh. “So when will all this stuff be over? I’m sick of this place. I want to go home.”

  Mist maintained her composure. She did not ask where Eka thought home might lie. “I can’t even guess anymore, dear. Our opponent might have accepted defeat.”

  “He’s up to something. Scalza and I can both tell that.”

  “That’s his nature. We’re as prepared as we can be.”

  She saw Eka grasp the loophole, then choose to ignore it. “I’m just tired… No, I’m really depressed.”

  “Here’s a thought. Just blue-skying. Did you ever tell Ethrian how you feel? Yes. I know. It’s dangerous. He might say what you don’t want to hear. But he might surprise you, too. And if the wound is waiting, putting it off won’t help.”

  Eka’s response was instant outrage that gave way quickly to her dangerously grounded, deadly rational core.

  Ekaterina set free a different species of sigh, the sort that eased tension before one commenced a risky venture. She went to where Ethrian was playing a sleepy game of shogi with Lord Kuo, whispered into his left ear. Puzzled, the boy excused himself. He let Eka lead him outside.

  Dread rising, Mist whispered, “She’s too young.” Then started.

  Michael Trebilcock was scarcely a yard away, one eyebrow raised. He shrugged. “I don’t know. The body may be. But it feels like there’s a very old soul inside.”

  She nodded. She understood, though she did not agree. Eka could be unsettling to adults who expected her to be like others her age but half as bright and raised in ordinary family circumstances. “She’ll be all right, though. Nepanthe is a good mother.” Which was painful to say. “Can you do me a modest favor?”

  “Within reason.”

  “Keep an eye on Eka till she comes back.”

  “Any special instructions?”

  “No. You’ll know if something needs doing. Just be Michael You till it does. If.” He bowed slightly. “All right.” He went out.

  Mist turned back to her personal war, having realized that Eka was better liked than either of them had believed.

  She leaned on the back of Scalza’s chair. He tended to be off-putting. Other than Ethrian people had to work at liking him. Ethrian liked everybody. Oh, and the Old Man. The Old Man considered Scalza a kindred soul. They both felt isolated but that isolation was self-induced. Scalza was young enough to be lured out. People here would care for him if he would let them.

  Yasmid felt lost in space and time, and culturally, too. Maybe she was too old to adapt. She had been flexible when she was young. Look what she had survived…

  Now she clung to Haroun, watched Sebil el Selib through the enhanced scrying system Lord Yuan had generously created, and waited while the child within her grew. The daughter within.

  She knew. There were many months to go but she knew. And Haroun was not pleased, though he never admitted that. He hoped she was wrong.

  Elwas was holding it together at home, better than she would have thought possible. He had harnessed Ibn Adim ed-Din al-Dimishqi, somehow. Jirbash and Habibullah added their own genius. Overall, the movement remained healthy. With no sound Yasmid could not determine how Elwas kept the reins on a people who now lacked their Lady and Disciple. That he did so was pleasure enough.

  Old Lord Yuan had observed, “There did have to come a day when you and your father passed the mantle.”

  She had been surprised the first time he spoke her language, then learned that he had been one of Varthlokkur’s teachers when the wizard was young. He had discovered a few truths about the mechanics of the world and time.

  “True, but it isn’t something we face well.”

  The old man offered a slight bow and moved on.

  Her husband found nothing to encourage him when he took his occasional glance at history in the making in Al Rhemish.

  That city remained chaotic. It looked like the Faithful meant to stay away till the insanity of factionalism devoured their enemies. Al-Souki and his ilk would move only after those idiots spent themselves, bringing welcome order.

  Yasmid asked, “Can we just forget everything? Leave it to the next generation?”

  She was not pleased by his answer, which was no answer. He was not yet ready to step away, though his struggle had been poisoning his soul for two generations. But he did not reject her suggestion, either.

  Ragnarson tracked events in Kavelin when he could get a seat at a scrying bowl and help from somebody who knew how to work it. He strove to be nicer than was his nature. These folks knew him now. His strained smiles and schooled friendliness were suspect, but still they helped. The combination of close quarters and external threat had created a camaraderie unlikely to survive the threat’s conclusion for long.

  Mist joined him as he followed developments in Vorgreberg with his oldest surviving friend. Bin Yousif was as animated as Bragi had seen him since their reunion.

  Hunger for a killing was upon him.

  Ragnarson grunted his acknowledgement of her presence. She said, “We’ll be sending you home soon. Lord Yuan has made a connection with a portal out there.”

  “So you don’t need me to…”

  “None of this went the way I expected. Nothing ever does conform to plan but this has been… unusual.”

  She seemed distracted. She kept looking around, nervous about something.

  Ha! Daughter and boyfriend had disappeared. As had Michael.

  Could that be a big deal? Had he missed some big change completely?

  “I’m not sure I’m that excited about going back. There’ll be a lot of work waiting.”

  Bin Yousif said something softly, without turning.

  “Yeah. I know. It’s my fault so it’s my job to fix it.”

  Ouch! That seemed to tweak Haroun’s wife.

&n
bsp; Haroun made his decision. “Light of My Heart.” He beckoned Yasmid, indicated the scryer Bragi Ragnarson was watching. Centered was a one-eyed man in a cold and dirty cell: Boneman. “There is one more thing that I need to do.”

  Her face hardened. “I understand.” Some seconds later, she added, “The Evil One has found a home in my heart. I cannot forgive.”

  Micah al-Rhami no longer considered himself anyone or anything else. What he had been was lost, nor could it ever be recovered. The Evil One had done his wicked best. But God had won His point as well. The Message had been brought to the world. There were Believers who would carry on. He hoped God would let them remember him as el Murid, not what, in unconquerable weakness, he had become afterward.

  His entire world was a tiny, icy cell. He was not quite sure where that was. The air was thin. He had never been so cold. He sniffled constantly. He could find no good in anything there. But he had gained something he had lacked for years: a friend. The heathen Phogedatvitsu, who had no agenda and no desire to use the Disciple to further it.

  They spent a lot of time discussing mutually alien philosophies. And Micah was content to be this new, unknown worm of a worn out old man. He was content to have the world think that the Disciple had gone to his reward, if it was so inclined, because, in a way, that was true.

  And, if he understood right—things were always confusing—he had a grandchild coming at last.

  Michael did not get close enough to hear what passed between Ekaterina and Ethrian. The latter looked startled and confused. He stood there with mouth agape, unable to respond—especially not the way the girl hoped.

  Michael had played both roles in this scenario in his time, most recently, in absentia, with Haida Heltkler. He had not had serious designs on the girl but he had taken her for granted. Had thought Haida the perfect mate, other than that she was so young. She was Michael Trebilcock in a gender mirror, all he was and a girl besides. But, as with what had been happening between Eka and Ethrian, theirs had been a dance of the clueless and the deluded exacerbated by militant mutual dread of the potential consequences of straightforward communication.

  In his absence and perceived indifference Haida had been swayed by the determined and bluntly declarative courtship of Bight Mundwiller—to the not entirely uncompromising despair of Bight’s great-grandmother.

  There was every chance that Eka had stated her case the most oblique, arcane, and confusing way possible in order to minimize her own emotional risk.

  Would the possibility that the relationship she wanted had not occurred to Ethrian hurt Ekaterina more than outright rejection? In the names of all gods, let the boy not make a joke of this.

  Thanks be, he did not. After several stunned seconds he extended a hand, took Eka’s, that she had raised uncertainly, and drew her into an embrace.

  This part Michael did not follow. This was what he should have done with Haida, if he had wanted her, but he had not done it. Nor did he hear what the boy whispered to please the girl.

  It might not have been what she wanted to hear but it was close enough. For the moment.

  Everything would be all right. For the moment.

  Michael headed for the chamber in the Wind Tower. He would report one less threat likely to arise at this most inopportune of times.

  He found Varthlokkur fixated on the Karkha Tower and in a state of agitation. The wizard expected Old Meddler to do something ugly any minute now.

  Haroun bin Yousif, his bride, and King Bragi were gone. “Home,” Nepanthe told him when he asked the air. “You and I and Smyrena will go after the portals cycle.”

  Another glance at the wizard explained why Nepanthe and the baby were to leave. Varthlokkur expected big trouble. The symbols floating in the Winterstorm danced as though stirred by an unseasonable whirlwind.

  Michael asked, “Where is Mist?”

  Nepanthe said, “We don’t know. She got a wild hair and took off. Said she’d be right back. Where are Eka and Ethrian? We have to get them out of here, too.”

  The other living clutter had begun leaving soon after the Karkha Tower went.

  Mist’s wild hair lured her to Lioantung, where night had fallen already. Lords Ssu-ma and Chu were startled when she turned up, unaccompanied by lifeguards. Lo Kuun could find no words. Shih-ka’i babbled, “Illustrious?”

  “You captured the horse. And the Horn. I couldn’t stay away. I had to see them, up close, before…”

  “Before?”

  “The grand old villain is finally ready to attack. I wanted my successes fresh in my mind beforehand.”

  “I see.” She meant that she did not expect to survive the night. She wanted to go into the darkness sure that she had come closer to victory than had anyone before her. She wanted to go out believing that she had damaged Old Meddler so badly that he would not be able to go on for long. “What did you do about the children?”

  That, she sensed, might be the most important question that this man had ever asked her. Somehow, it held personal meaning.

  “They will go to Kavelin for now. They will not be at risk when my doom arrives.”

  “Very well. I shall stand behind them, then.” Meaning he would become their guardian should she truly be taken.

  “Thank you, Shih-ka’i. You can’t imagine how much that means to me. I’ll face the night with much more confidence.”

  “Come, then. I’ll show you.”

  They had the winged horse suspended in a custom harness on a huge wagon. Hanging there, it could not escape. Neither would it suffer further damage as it traveled west toward the heart of the empire. A senior Tervola veterinarian had treated its injuries. The animal was half hidden inside casts and bandages. It was awake despite having been given medications for pain. It eyed Mist intelligently.

  “Has it tried to communicate?”

  “No, Illustrious. I believe it is content, though.”

  Lo Kuun said, “As content as any creature can be after having been rattled by the blast from a thaumaturgic long shaft, followed by hitting rocky ground going fifty miles an hour.”

  She considered the beast. “Yes. I suppose. What about the Horn?”

  Shih-ka’i said, “Over there. You’ll be disappointed.”

  He was right. The Horn was mashed, broken, burned, and melted in places. What had been recovered lay strewn about on one long table. Beyond and around it lay tons of random material that it had spewed across the countryside after it was hit.

  “They’re still bringing stuff in by the wagonload,” Lo Kuun said. “I doubt we’ll ever find it all.”

  Mist said, “I am disappointed but I understand. I’d better get back. Just to make sure my orders are unambiguous and being carried out exactly.” Her children might not be entirely accepting of their new role, which was to get out of the way and stay alive.

  “It is truly that close to happening, Illustrious?” Lord Ssu-ma asked.

  “It is. It may have begun already, though I hope he delays for a few hours more.”

  “That being the case, I have to get a move-on myself.”

  Mist wondered what that meant. He volunteered nothing.

  Ragnarson stepped out of the portal feeling giddy, with an inclination to throw up. A voice said, “Keep moving. You don’t want to be in the way when the next traveler arrives.”

  Ah. That antique, Lord Yuan, was managing this exercise personally.

  Ragnarson stumbled a half-dozen steps before he realized where he was—because when he focused he found himself looking at Fiana in her casket, radiant as ever she had been in life.

  He wanted to be mad because they were still using her tomb to hide their portals, but he was too sick and there were too many things that had to be done. He kissed his fingers, laid them on the glass over Fiana’s beautiful face, then staggered toward the light.

  One of Yuan’s henchmen had the door to the mausoleum partway open. It was late afternoon in Vorgreberg. Bragi stepped out far enough to look westward. The descending su
n had settled behind the hill already.

  Haroun and Yasmid emerged. Bin Yousif said something about the milder weather.

  Minutes passed. Ragnarson began to frown. The others should have come through by now… Ah. Here came Scalza, indignant about having to miss the impending battle, but without much real vigor. Michael Trebilcock was two minutes behind the boy, patiently chivvying Ekaterina, who was thoroughly put out. Nepanthe followed, with the baby. Smyrena was terrified.

  Nobody looked like they had come through without feeling terribly ill. Yasmid appeared especially sick, and troubled by concerns about how the transfer might have affected her unborn child.

  “All right,” he growled. “We’re all freaking unhappy to be here and we’re all hung over. But we are here and they aren’t going to let anybody go back till the excitement is over. I’m going to be hungry when my gut settles down. I reckon the rest of you will be, too, so let’s go someplace where we can find food and fire.”

  Lord Yuan came outside. “Please hurry, Majesty. To the castle. And send our people back out here. We have a task for them.” He paused several beats before adding, “And we will do our best to leave this memorial in at least as good a condition as we found it.”

  He sounded quite sincere.

  “Thank you. I’ll send them right away.”

  Josiah entered Inger’s private quarters using the secret passageway. He seemed particularly uncomfortable. “Josiah? Are you…? Should you be with Wachtel?”

  “Ah…probably. Though I think this is more mental than physical. A rider just came in. The King is back, with a party that appears to include…” He suffered a spasm of some sort. He pulled himself together, offered several unlikely names in addition to that of Michael Trebilcock. “They could be at the gate by now.”

  “Damn.” Said without any real fire. “We can’t run them off so let’s bring out Nathan and Babeltausque and deal with it.”

  Mist felt ill and was nearly exhausted when she left the darkness for the orderly quiet of the Wind Tower, where Varthlokkur was half lost inside the Winterstorm. The others were just waiting. The Disciple and his Matayangan friend, whom she continued to pretend not to recognize, crowded a shadowed alcove, shivering. Ethrian, Lord Kuo, and the Old Man sat around the shogi table. A game was in progress but nobody was paying attention.