by Glen Cook
Bin Yousif spoke softly, turning the question. “Why do you torment the world so, Tongue of Darkness?”
The Disciple stared. His mouth moved but nothing came forth. He had only a passing acquaintance with reality still. It took him some seconds to analyze what he had heard.
Haroun took a quick look round. He had left no sign of his presence. When the Disciple’s eyes shifted away Haroun stepped through a gap in canvas wall, disappearing.
Those looking for the Disciple could be heard, now, moving closer. It was for sure time to get gone.
Haroun was within earshot when they found their man, who announced, “I wrestled the Evil One again. And once again I banished him.”
“Outstanding, Lord. I apologize for everyone. Some dared doubt you. Come. We must have the doctor make sure the demon did you no harm. Then we will celebrate your triumph.”
That fellow was skilled at playing to the Disciple’s manias. No doubt he had a lifetime of practice and habitually ignored El Murid’s delusions.
Would Elwas al-Souki be more inclined to investigate?
Yasmid visited him as he sorted through treasures he might want to take along. During his stay, killing time, he had winkled out dozens of small items overlooked by earlier, hastier thieves.
Thoughts of her sapped his will to do what had to be done.
...
Yasmid congratulated her father on his latest triumph over the Evil One. He would not stop going on about it. She dearly wished he would shut the hell up. Elwas was sure to get interested.
How could Haroun have let the old fool slip up on him?
She brushed the irritation aside. Stuff happened. Magden Norath had been inattentive. He had died for his lapse.
She slipped away from dinner, as had become her custom, leaving her father to his attendants. They never questioned her anymore.
The effort to wean the old man off opiates was successful. Sadly, the man reclaimed was not the man the poppy had conquered. El Murid restored was a spectral reminder of the firebrand of yore. Today’s El Murid was old and tired and slow.
Old was to be expected. He was old. And tired made sense. But the slow, especially on the mental side, was deeply disappointing.
This Disciple would make no impassioned speeches to the Believers. His delivery would be so tedious as to put them to sleep before he finished.
His mind, however, did not appear to have burned out entirely. Given time, he thought quite well. Yasmid had read two recent letters to the Faithful dictated after ponderous reflection. They were as closely argued as those of forty years earlier.
He did have some idea of what was going on in the world. Swami Phogedatvitsu did not feed him pabulum news.
In the more recent letter he hinted at doubts about the divinity of he who had brought him to God. It was just a whiff that suggested rational processes stirring somewhere deep under the surface of his mind.
Yasmid found Haroun quickly. She had had regular practice. They embraced. He said, “The rain won’t stop.”
“That’s good. I can leave Habibullah behind for the sake of his aching bones.”
Time passed. Neither spoke. Finally, he did tell her what she was expecting but did not want to hear. “I have to go.”
“But…”
“I know. I don’t want to. But our luck won’t last. Al-Souki is suspicious already. What happened today will set him digging.”
“I know. They all wonder. I tell them I’m looking for something.”
“Some may think you’re finding it. The Matayangan isn’t stupid.”
“But… Still… In all these years… We’ve had so little time.”
She expected nonsense about Fate and obligations to Destiny. He said only, “Yes. It’s cruel.” And held her tighter.
“Father thinks he bumped into the Evil One this morning.”
“I dozed off in the wrong place. I woke up and he was there.”
“Where will you go? No. Don’t say it. If I don’t know I can’t give it away.”
He played along, though they both knew there could be only one next destination.
Yasmid mentioned her father’s developing disenchantment with his angel. Haroun asked, “Have you asked him about that? At all?”
“No. He would tell me that, even though his angel might only be the Star Rider, he did do God’s Work. How often has he told us that God drives the wicked to advance His own Plan?”
“It’s an old argument, impossible to refute. And if you do come up with one the True Believer just reshapes the Will of God to fit.”
“So?”
“I’m wondering if your father is disillusioned enough to act against the false messenger.”
Yasmid stiffened. His embrace tightened. “I’m just thinking. Looking for ways and means.”
“Out loud? I’ve never heard that the old devil accused of being able to read minds.”
“Silence it is. But think about it.” He released her, picked through a last dozen items, stuffed a few into a battered black sack. It’s contents appeared to consist of food and souvenirs.
She said, “They say the rain may stop later tonight.”
“If I go now it will wash away my trail.”
One last embrace.
She rejoined the others before anyone came looking, though the swami scrutinized her closely. She brought several items Haroun had given her to provide evidence that she was indeed looking for something that ought still to be hidden in the tent because no thief had yet confessed to having taken it away.
Elwas turned up shortly, wet and unhappy. She was glad she had returned before he did.
Relief made her overlook his mood.
...
Nepanthe called out, “Scalza, do you have any idea how to get hold of your uncle?” She had none. Varthlokkur had foreseen no need for making emergency contact.
“No, ma’am. What’s up?”
Ma’am? Being polite? He was up to something. “It’s probably not important. I was fiddling with the scrying bowl. I found that man he’s been hunting for months.”
Fiddling indeed, getting the hang of shifting point of view, she had stumbled across the ragged traveler at the limit of the bowl’s range. The long-missing Haroun wore uncharacteristic clothing, lacked a beard, and was afoot in the desert.
Ekaterina and Scalza joined her, one to either hand. The boy said, “I do wish I could get hold of him. He’d definitely want to know. Lock the point of view so we don’t lose him again.”
“I don’t know how.”
“I think I do. Let me try.”
Scalza took her seat. He did some things she did not understand. Ekaterina made little sounds behind him. Each time she sucked spit or clicked her tongue Scalza paused, reflected, then took a different approach.
The vision locked up with Haroun fixed in its center. He stayed there no matter which direction he moved.
Scalza pulled the magical eye back. “So we can maybe tell where he is from his surroundings. Well, so maybe somebody can. I’ve never been anywhere so I can’t really recognize anything.”
“Not even your grandfather has visited that part of the world.”
Ekaterina seldom said anything. Though the brighter of Mist’s children she usually deferred to her brother. She acted like his little sister instead of being two years older, on the precipice of menarche. She startled Nepanthe. “Uncle was born there. He created that desert. He has been back a million times. He knows every rock, bush, viper, and grain of sand.”
Finished making the longest speech Nepanthe ever heard from her, Ekaterina moved to where Ethrian sat staring into the Winterstorm. Something about the boy’s body language troubled his mother. He looked ready to pounce. But she was too engaged in trying to fathom Ekaterina’s remarks, and with Haroun, to give her son devoted thought.
Watching Haroun sneak through a desert could be interesting only if you were a dedicated fan of stealth techniques.
Something passed between Ethrian and Ekat
erina. Nepanthe did not notice. Scalza caught a hint. His eyebrows bounced but he said nothing.
Scalza was, deliberately, the mask Mist’s children offered. Ekaterina was in stealth mode always. Scalza was a little frightened by her.
He enjoyed this wizard stuff. He tried to learn anything his uncle would teach. Ekaterina, though, had no need to study. She watched and caught on intuitively. She could be spooky and nerve-straining because she was determined to keep her real self hidden.
One of the Council of Tervola might observe that Ekaterina was her mother’s daughter, descended from the Demon Prince and Tuan Hoa, and those who had come before them.
Despite all that, Ekaterina had a first blush of womanhood crush on her cousin, Ethrian.
Scalza was furiously jealous but never considered acting upon that bleak emotion.
And Nepanthe, typical of adults in such circumstances, remained oblivious. Her perception of the children’s development ran well behind the actuality, especially there in the splendid isolation of Fangdred.
Ekaterina was quiet but not a dark soul, and she was wise enough already to understand that, romantic as the notion might be, she would not be the one to liberate her cousin from his prisons of grief and guilt.
“Aunt.”
Startled, Nepanthe blurted, “What?”
“Ethrian is remembering.”
Nepanthe shot to her feet. She found Ekaterina positioned to keep her from charging Ethrian, to interrupt the process at work.
Nepanthe was having a day where emotion did not rule her completely. “Oh. Yes. I shouldn’t disturb him.”
Scalza kicked in, “He’ll heal faster if you let him alone.” He shot his sister a look.
Ekaterina acknowledged the help with poor grace. She foresaw sabotage later.
She was complex. She did not understand that her brother was not. What he showed his small world was ninety percent of Scalza.
Ekaterina suggested, “Aunt, why don’t you just keep an eye on that man while Scalza thinks of a way to contact Uncle?”
She made a “Get busy, Worm!” face and body gesture once Nepanthe turned back to Haroun. Nepanthe concentrated only a moment before she turned again. Ethrian was, clearly, going through something unpleasant.
Though it hurt, Nepanthe stayed put. Ekaterina was right. Interrupting would break the train.
For a moment she understood why Varthlokkur had shielded her when her son was the Deliverer. She could have done nothing but make things worse. And she would have done so. She had managed that even while ignorant of the facts. And she would not have heard any caution offered her.
Ethrian was her baby.
Startling notion. Could she be making Ethrian’s recovery more difficult because she would not let him stop being her baby?
The possibility left her thinking poorly of herself.
She began watching Ekaterina as closely as she watched Ethrian.
The girl did not intrude upon his space. She did not distract him by trying to make him acknowledge her presence. She was just there, able to lend a hand, touching him gently when he needed calming.
Not his mother’s approach at all. Nepanthe was determined to swamp him with love.
“To smother him,” she murmured. Then, too softly to be understood by the children, she wondered, “What is he remembering?”
At that moment Smyrena announced the end of her nap, with considerable gusto, adding that, surely, it must be feeding time.
A glance showed Haroun crossing more desert.
There was plenty of that. It never did get very interesting.
†
CHAPTER
TWENTY-TWO
WINTER, YEAR 1017 AFE:
THROYES
The portal technicians requested the presence of their Empress at their headquarters. Mist put aside nonsense that was a consequence of having too much time, made her way to the home space of the Imperial Interstitial Communications and Transport Corps. If they had completed their assignment she would use their self-aggrandizing designation cheerfully.
Lord Yuan Tin Yuan welcomed her personally. Lord Yuan seemed even more elderly. And, true, he had been a boy at the same time as her departed grandfather. Like Lord Ssu-ma Shih-ka’i, Lord Yuan survived shifting political winds by remaining indifferent to the source of his orders. Lord Yuan was interested only in his own narrow realm. Existence itself was all about communication. He provided the best, most efficient tools.
Mist supposed the end of the several wars had left Lord Yuan’s corps with a lot of free time. Mischief time, Lord Ssu-ma would call it. Mischief prevention was one reason that the trainees of the Demonstration Legion were given so much make-work.
The legions themselves were, already, beginning to transition to a public works orientation. They would begin by building border fortifications to defend new borders.
“Lord Yuan, your presence graces us,” Mist said.
“I have no other diversions right now, Illustrious, so I choose to steal the glory of the clever young men who do the real work.”
“May I assume that my western adjustments have been completed?”
“You may, Illustrious. And in the most laudable fashion, I must say.”
Lord Yuan could be a talker. She ought not to offend him by hurrying him. Time was not pressing, nowadays.
“I know you have a thousand tasks, Illustrious, so, difficult as it may be for an old man with a wandering mind, I will try to be concise.”
Mist’s lifeguards stirred but did not allow their amusement any more obvious demonstration.
“Thank you, Lord Yuan.”
“The functioning portals remain in place, there to be sacrificed. To those venues we added dead portals to be discovered, too. We also positioned reconditioned damaged portals that will function without benefit of cosmetic upgrades. Those remain inert. We hope the westerners will ignore them because they look dead. We can activate them at will later.
“At the cemetery we installed portals in another two mausoleums, then a third portal, better disguised, in the rear of the tomb of the dead Queen. There are new units concealed in the ruins of your former home, too. And, finally, there is a new unit in a ruined temple in the forest southwest…”
Repetitious mention of ruins penetrated. “What do you mean, ruins? My house was damaged when I saw it but it wasn’t a ruin.”
“I speak figuratively. The natives tore it up while looking for treasure and portals. Then a girl who was living in the basement set a fire. No one knows what that was about. The place is empty, now, though.”
“They didn’t find any treasure.”
Lord Yuan added, “Nor did they find the new portals. They’ve only just begun searching the cemetery.”
“I can use the portals if I want, then?”
“Exercising utmost caution, Illustrious. Those are unpredictable people out there.”
“Yes. And the Empire Destroyer is still there with them.”
“We believe so, Illustrious. He has become invisible himself but his familiar haunts the nighttime sky.”
“Let me think about this. Oh. Good work, everyone. Thank you.”
Lord Yuan said, “I will see that you get the designator, alert, and activation codes as soon as we finalize them, Illustrious.”
...
Mist joined Wen-chin and the Old Man without warning. There were playing shogi and drinking tea. The Old Man’s color had improved. He had gained weight. There were black speckles at the roots of his hair and a twinkle in his eye when he considered her.
The man within had come back a long way if he could now appreciate what he was seeing.
She asked, “Have we been making progress?”
Wen-chin said, “I’m losing games, now. At this rate the advantage will be all his soon.”
“Any recollections?”
“Some, but it’s like the dementia of old folks. He has crystalline memories of things that happened so long ago that they don’t even echo in our mytholo
gies today. He seems especially focused on something called the Nawami Crusades. Heard of that?”
“Obliquely, during the skirmish with the Deliverer.” She considered the Old Man, who did not seem to mind being discussed. “How is his attitude toward the Star Rider?” She enunciated carefully, testing the Old Man’s hearing.
He heard her just fine. He started. Then his shoulders slumped. He shrank into himself.
“I see.” Then, “Could his dawn-time memories be more useful than anything recent? What say you?”
“An argument could be made, I’m sure.”
“Only a few of us know he’s alive. I’m sure the Star Rider isn’t one. Starting tomorrow you’ll be dogged by scribes. They will record everything, especially recovered memories. Copies will be made, distributed, and scattered as fast as possible. More copies will be made elsewhere, with some being hidden. If we suffer the fate of all of Old Meddler’s previous enemies we will, at least, leave a legacy too vast and in too many forms to eradicate. One that might be used by a future generation.”
Wen-chin rose, stretched, bowed. “So shall it be.” Then, “Make sure your scribes know how to keep out of the way.”
“They will.”
Scribes were always unobtrusive when they served those at high levels. That was a skill as critical as excellent penmanship.
Wen-chin seated himself. He made a move that pleased the Old Man. He grumbled, “Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!”
...
Ragnarson was in a good temper. He thought he had his inner conflicts worked out. He had been exercising, too. He supposed he could walk a mile without collapsing now. He asked Mist, “Has something happened?”
“Mostly not, really. It’s more like we’re winding down everywhere.”
“Calm before the storm?”
“Possibly, in my head. And maybe in Varthlokkur’s. Probably hoping that it is, the Star Rider. The rest of the world is sitting back and putting its feet up.”
“Sounds like a good thing.”
“I wouldn’t disagree. But I do know that Old Meddler is out there and he hasn’t given up his wicked ways.”
Ragnarson grunted. That was not meant to communicate anything.
