by Glen Cook
“Leave the smelly man there. Bring Elwas. Habibullah, stand as my witness.” She could not become comfortable with al-Souki. It was not a sexual tension thing, either. It was a creepiness thing. There was something wrong about that man, though no one else could see it.
Elwas al-Souki presented himself with his usual rectitude. His pursuit of form and manners only made Yasmid more uncomfortable.
Her mood shone through when she said, “If you’re here to describe the Disciple’s progress Habibullah beat you to it.”
The ghost of a puzzled frown, then an even fainter, more fleeting touch of hurt, crossed al-Souki’s face. “That is something else, Blessed One. There has been a dramatic development amongst the Royalists. The news just came. The man nearly killed himself getting it here fast.”
Blessed One? “Yes?”
“The sorcerer Magden Norath is dead. He was killed in a town called al-Habor, in an attack so sudden that he had no chance to defend himself.”
“I know al-Habor. But, Magden Norath? Dead?”
“Yes, Sacred Voice. Our spy was an eyewitness.”
Not possible. Could not be. Magden Norath had attained near demigod status during the Great Eastern Wars.
“Dead,” she said again, dumbfounded. “But… That’s not… There’s more. Isn’t there?”
“Much more. The rest is not so joyful.”
“No. After that I suppose there would have to be something awful to balance the scale. What is it?”
“The witness believes the assassin was a ghost. Or some revenant, undead thing. He swears the killer was Haroun bin Yousif.”
Her body turned to water. For an instant she got caught up in the ridiculous question of whether or not Elwas knew about her and Haroun. Of course he did. That had been no secret for a long time.
“Impossible!”
Equally stunned, Habibullah said, “We never really knew that, did we? I never heard tell of anyone actually seeing a body. He just stopped being seen alive.”
“But…”
“Chances are a million to one against it. This spy just wants to see ghosts.”
Al-Souki said, “He doesn’t want to believe it, either. He desperately wants the assassin to be something supernatural instead.”
Yasmid buried her head in her hands. “This will get exaggerated into total insanity.”
Al-Souki said, “I may have overstepped, Lamp of God, but I did move to make sure the mullahs don’t whip up the fanatics.”
Yasmid stared, astonished.
“Have I overstepped?”
“No. This news could spark a new round of wars. Tribal warlords won’t be scared of a Megelin without Magden Norath behind him.”
Elwas coughed, looked reluctant, but went on after a pause. “Megelin may have acquired a more powerful protector.”
This would be the really bad news, saved for last.
“Light of the Ages, the Faithful have numerous friends in al-Habor. The water remains sweet and reliable. The crossroads needs to be watched. Royalists on secret missions often pass through.”
“I’ve been there. Get to the point.”
“Norath and Megelin went there to meet someone.”
“Megelin, too?”
“He was not harmed. His bodyguards kept him safe. They moved him into the local Sheyik’s stronghold.”
Megelin and Norath had gone to al-Habor for a secret meeting? Were the Tervola eying the west again?
Elwas said, “The Faithful in al-Habor say that Megelin came to meet the Star Rider.”
Much worse than a visit with Tervola, then.
Yasmid released a long sigh. Somewhere in scripture there was an appropriate verse that ran something like, “And the thing we dread befalls us.”
“Stop. Habibullah, clear everyone out. You and Elwas stay.”
Habibullah did as he was told, as ever, without understanding. He shut doors then came close so she need not speak loud and be overheard by eavesdroppers.
She asked, “Elwas, how strong is your faith today?”
“Shaken, Shining One. Badly shaken.”
“Stop giving me titles. Habibullah? How about you?”
“I am no fanatic but I am a Believer. My faith today is the same as it was yesterday. Why should it change?”
“Elwas. How widely known…”
“Only a handful know now. In a month the world will know.”
Habibullah said, “I’m confused. Why is the death of Magden Norath a tragedy for the Faith?”
“It isn’t. Him and Megelin having a secret meeting with the Star Rider is.”
Habibullah looked no less confused.
“Old Meddler, Habibullah. Behind half the evils of history. He was the angel who saved and educated my father. He wasn’t an emissary of God. My father did God’s work but he was set on that path by a devil who wanted a world filled with warfare and chaos.”
What Yasmid said was nothing new. El Murid’s enemies had made those claims for years. She watched Habibullah perform the mental acrobatics needed to avoid angry denial. He converted to sublime acceptance quickly. “God, in His Wisdom, used His Enemy to instigate the Disciple’s Great Work.”
“Exactly. And that will be dogma from now on. Elwas?”
“The logic is irrefutable. God has Written everything already.”
“Good. I want the imams and mullahs gathered for evening prayers with me. I’ll also want the Invincibles available to deal with those old men if they give me any grief. We’ll establish an official position before the rumors get crazy. Elwas, can I trot my father out?”
“Go see him. Make that judgment yourself.”
...
Yasmid was alone, except for Habibullah, whose proximity she seldom shook. Habibullah waited for her to face the most troubling aspect of the news.
Finally, softly, she asked, “Is there a chance that Norath’s killer really was…?”
She could not say the name.
“It must have been. It would have to be. Who else? Dramatic unity.”
“Excuse me?”
“That would be God having a chuckle at our expense. For even more drama He should’ve brought the assassin face to face with the King.”
“Oh. My.” Yes. If that was Haroun he must have come within yards of their son, with neither knowing.
“Habibullah, I feel too old and too tired. Find me a place to leave the world behind.”
“I feel that way myself, quite often. Then I remind myself that the only one who ever managed that is your father.”
Yasmid wanted to bark and snarl. But what point? Whatever she said, Habibullah would have an answer. And it would make much too much sense.
†
CHAPTER NINE
SPRING, YEAR 1017 AFE:
THE LESSER KINGDOMS
Inger stalked into the room where Babeltausque waited. Only a day had passed since his conversion. Already he insisted on seeing her.
She hoped a quick response did not make her seem desperate. “You’re ready to go to work?”
“Majesty, first, I want to say that last night I enjoyed my best night of sleep since I came to this wretched kingdom. This morning I enjoyed my finest breakfast since we left Itaskia. I’m in an excellent mood. I’m eager to start work. So let’s review what you want me to do.”
“I want you to root through shadows. To turn out hidden secrets. To find things. To find people. Can you do all that?”
“Maybe. Tell me what you’re looking for.”
“All right. First and most critical: find Colonel Gales. Dead or alive. See Nathan Wolf. He’s done all the looking so far.”
“What else?”
“The treasury money. I’ll give you ten percent.”
“Most every minute I bless anew the fate that brought me to you.”
“Let’s hope you feel that way a year from now. Others I want found: General Liakopulos, Michael Trebilcock, and that bitch Kristen Gjerdrumsdottir.”
“The Duke had her killed.”
&nbs
p; “He tried. He might think he was successful. But she’s still alive and scheming to make her brat king.”
Babeltausque did not argue. Dane of Greyfells had become the tenant of a dungeon cell because of his ineffable ability to believe anything he wanted to be true.
Inger said, “The money is the most important thing. Then Josiah Gales and any looming threats. Especially threats to you. You’ll become a target for folks who don’t like me. The rest you can deal with when you find time.”
Babeltausque said, “As you want it, so shall it be.”
“Sweet talk, sorcerer. But these are desperate times. Talk won’t help make us the people doing the grinning at the other end.”
“You’ve changed.”
“I have. You won’t find this Inger nearly as nice as the one you remember. This Inger can be quite bloodthirsty. What do you need to make what I want happen?”
The sorcerer opened and closed his mouth several times. Nothing came out.
“Tell me, Babeltausque.” Her tone suggested pain on the way if he did not buckle down now.
...
Dane, Duke of Greyfells, had a concussion. Its effects were exacerbated by his inability to accept his situation. He was Greyfells, the Duke, senior member of a noble family that, by God, deserved, by God, to rule Itaskia and several neighboring states. Only continuous, relentless evil conspiracy by lesser men kept the Greyfells line from claiming its rights.
He was not one to note what had been done to ease his confinement. He had a cot, topped by a mattress. Fresh straw covered the muck on the floor. He was not chained. He had a stool with a bucket underneath to manage his eliminations. But all he saw was an iron wall with welded straps and rivets that made escape hopeless.
Meals came regularly, through a slot three inches high and sixteen wide. The slops bucket left via its own little door, too small to pass a man.
Reality took days to dawn. He was completely at Inger’s mercy, and her mercy would be slight at its most generous.
Those who brought food and removed his wastes would not talk. Maybe they did not understand Itaskian. Maybe they were deaf. It was beyond his capacity to understand that most people hated him. Inger’s people thought she was being too soft.
He did see that if he was not heard, if no one listened, if no one understood, he would go nowhere ever again, but while he remained alive the Greyfells fortunes would remain out in the wind.
More than ever he cursed the idiot he had been when he decided that he could steal a crown for his family.
...
Josiah Gales strove ferociously to pull himself together. He could not begin to guess how long he had been like this. He wanted to assess his situation but his head would not clear.
Clever bastards. They did not feed him well. Teetering at the edge of starvation, he attacked whatever food they brought. Which was drugged. Always.
No one interrogated him. No one cared what he knew. No one explained why he was a captive.
He had been removed from the equation by a means less harsh than murder. He no longer signified. He might be turned loose later, or maybe retained as a bargaining chip.
Gales saw few of his captors. They did not talk. They did not acknowledge his existence, except that they fed him.
Drugged, it took Gales a while to fathom the rules of his new life.
If he said nothing and did nothing life proceeded with no inconvenience beyond being imprisoned and drugged. It went smoothest when he just quietly contemplated the stupidity that had brought him to this.
His captors evidently bore him no malice. They just wanted him out of the way.
...
An old man entered the apothecary shop in Old Registry Lane. He seemed almost too frail to manage the door.
A girl of fourteen was minding the shop. She was surprised to see him. He smiled a smile full of fine white teeth, shuffled forward. His body, like his teeth, was in excellent shape. Apparent infirmity was part of his disguise. “You’re looking especially nice this morning, Haida. You make me wish I was ten years younger.”
Haida flushed, flattered, flustered, but not offended. “I’ll see if Chames is in back.”
“You don’t know?”
“Not always. He comes and goes without telling me. I’m just the help.”
The girl was more than that, though not the plaything some suspected. She was the little sister of someone who had been killed, a friend of the man called Chames Marks today.
The old man watched her swish through the hangings in a doorless doorway. He thought Haida would be more than just help if Chames would let her. There was a sparkle in her eye when she said his name.
The old man smiled, turned the sign on the street door to say the chemist was out, then latched the latch.
The wait stretched, five minutes, ten, fifteen. The old man amused himself by studying the pots and jars on the scores of shelves covering all four walls. Large glass jars contained questionable items in liquids of unusual hue. Stage dressing, those, mostly. He was interested in the small phials of imported rarities. Sometimes he paused, nodded. Once he murmured, “Well!”
The hangings in the back doorway stirred. Haida returned. Her gaze flicked round, checking for spaces where something had gone missing. “Turn the sign back. People will wonder. We’re always open during the day. Then come with me.”
The old man complied. Compliance had been his first layer of camouflage for decades.
The room beyond the doorway was larger than the one out front. It was dry and dusty. It smelled of spices and mystery. The real work of the chemist took place here.
“Wait here. Touch nothing.” Haida returned to the front. The bell on the door had announced an arrival. A male voice asked a question the old man could not make out.
Minutes passed. A man came through a narrow door that was disguised as a rack of dusty shelves. The old man held fingers to his lips, pointed behind him. The newcomer nodded, whispered pointless questions about the old man being sure he had not been followed. That did not matter, unlikely though it was. “What brings you out, then?”
“The Queen has recruited the sorcerer Babeltausque. She means to take immediate advantage.”
“Really? The Duke never bothered.”
“And he’s in a cell.”
“True enough.”
“She has assigned the sorcerer five immediate tasks. Find the missing treasury money. Find Josiah Gales. Find Michael Trebilcock. Find General Liakopulos. Find Kristen and her children.”
“Can he accomplish any of that?”
“The Queen thinks so. I trust her judgment. She’s known him a long time.”
The younger man sighed. “Complications. But it’s never easy, is it? We will cope. You’d better get back. Haida will have your order ready when you go out.” He gestured toward the front of the shop.
The old man nodded. He began to move. “The sorcerer’s most important mission will be to find the money.”
“Maybe we should let him succeed.”
“You haven’t found it, either?”
“No. Those two did a hell of a job of leaving no clues.”
The doorbell rang as Haida’s customer left.
The old man said, “I’m going now.” He had to get back to the castle. He tarried only moments acquiring a package from Haida.
The younger man began to consider how best to respond to the news.
Respond he must, before the sorcerer became a threat.
The matter of the treasury, though. Working that made sense.
Why had those two hidden the money somewhere other than where they were supposed to have?
...
No one challenged Wachtel when he shuffled into Castle Krief. He went straight to the Queen’s quarters. He told the maid, “Inform Her Majesty that I’ve finally gotten the medicine for Prince Fulk.”
“That’s good news. She’ll be thrilled.”
Inger appeared while Wachtel was preparing his philter. “You found blu
e asparagus seed?”
“I did. Everyone watch how this is done. You’ll have to do it yourself in an emergency.”
“Including the grinding?”
“Including that. The seed needs to remain whole till you have to use it. The oils evaporate.”
“How did you find the seed?”
“I went to the chemist myself.” His tone was harsh. “I’m getting a little frail for that.”
Inger was flustered. “I’m sorry. There just isn’t money…”
“Never mind. The deed is done. I got enough to keep you going for three months. And so my fortune grows as feeble as my flesh.”
“I’m sorry, Doctor. Truly I am. You’ll be the first one rewarded when our fortunes shift.”
Wachtel’s skeptical expression told Inger all she needed to know about his faith in her promises.
“You’ll see.”
She had made a too-grand emotional investment in her new wizard.
...
The wizard sat with head in hands, sweating. He was overheated despite the breeze flowing through the open windows. He had made promises. Those had seemed reasonable in the heat of the moment.
Now he had to execute them.
He did not know how to start. There were no threads to pick up. Everyone knew that those who had executed the treasury raid had died in the riots. Michael Trebilcock had fallen off the edge of the world and was presumed dead, too.
But, wait! Finding Gales would be a coup! Gales had left some threads. The night of his disappearance was well-documented.
That would be the scab to pick, if only to prove that he was on the job. Whatever he stirred up would lead to something else.
It seemed reasonable to think that those who had taken Gales might be associated with the treasury raiders. And all those people had been associated with Michael Trebilcock.
It could all be connected.
Gales it was, balls to the wall.
Babeltausque grinned, drenched in cool relief. “Toby, I need you.” He had been assigned one servant, a boy of twelve, totally reliable according to Inger. Babeltausque was not prepared to bet his life on the boy, whether or not he was a descendant of the apolitical Dr. Wachtel.
“Sir?”
“You know Mr. Wolf?”
“Nathan Wolf, sir? The new Colonel?”
