by Glen Cook
Disturbingly, the wizard suggested, “You know, there’re scholars who claim the Star Rider is some sort of avatar of Justice. Maybe he judged all of us, not just the Princes.”
“You mean?...”
“Yes. The Old Man could’ve been the only one of us who really got rewarded. The rest of us got dumped right back into the middle of whatever’s going on.”
Mocker cocked a dubious eye his way, but didn’t let up on the chicken he was gnawing.
Nepanthe looked sour. “Sometimes I have premonitions,” she said. “And I’ve gotten one from this. There’re hard times coming. A lot of pain and sorrow for my husband and I.”
Varthlokkur hadn’t yet performed a divination to see what the future looked like unobscured by the interference of the Princes Thaumaturge. He had been putting it off, afraid of what he might foresee.
It would have done him no good. Other Powers were afoot, and had their eyes upon him.
“No doubt,” he replied to Nepanthe. “I believe the real reason we’re here is that we’re expected to be useful again.”
Behind the mindless glutton mask Mocker was critically alert, weighing every nuance both of what the wizard said and the way he said it. He was hunting the false note. Father or not, he just didn’t trust Varth-lokkur’s forgiveness.
It was time, he decided, to give the hornets’ nest a gentle poke, to see what buzzed, time to cast a stone to see what rose from the turgid deeps of this falsely pacific pond. Hand on sword hilt, he belched grandly, leaned back in his chair. Eyes closed, conversationally, he observed, “If memory doesn’t prevaricate, same being impossible in steel-trap brain of genius like self, time was, man once promised fat trickster and friends vast emoluments for doing small deeds for same. Being possessed of elephantine memory already noted, can say with certainty promissory was: gold double shekel pieces, mintage of Empire, one thousand four hundred. Same gentleman aforementioned advanced mere eighty. Self, considering distance to home of same, touch purse, and cry, ‘Woe!’ Fingers feel nothing. Not even bent green copper. Foresee great hunger...”
Nepanthe, understanding at last, gasped. “Why not add in what you lost in Iwa Skolovda?” she demanded, amazed by his nerve.
Mocker grinned. His eyes popped open, wide with innocence. “Silver: three hundred twelve kronen. Copper: two hundred thirty-four groschen, of Iwa Skolovda. No gold. Of other realms, various, maybe five silver nobles, of Itaskia, total. Conservative estimate, but self is renowned for generosity, for lack of pinch-penny heart, for interest only in minimal income accommodating subsistence of same. Am, at moment, considering same in new wife, newly impoverished.”
He had a point there. The wealth of Ravenkrak had vanished utterly. Someday bits and pieces might begin surfacing when Haroun’s soldiers began pawning plunder.
Nepanthe was as destitute as her husband.
Varthlokkur laughed till tears ran down his cheeks. “You’ve got to be the most brazen footpad since Rainheart, who slew the Kammengarn Dragon.”
Mocker grinned again. Nepanthe kicked him beneath the table. He ignored her warning. “In coin of Ilkazar, please. With interest being ten percent from date due on wages, same being morning when soldiers of crafty associate impregnated impregnable fortress Ravenkrak.”
“Well, why not?” Varthlokkur mused as he recovered his composure. “I’ve got buckets full. I do owe you, technically. And there’s your friends, who may give me no peace... Nepanthe, you help yourself too. As a wedding present.”
Mocker’s eyes narrowed. Something was going on here. After all his trouble, Varthlokkur was backing down this easily? He didn’t believe it. There was a catch somewhere. A trick or a trap...
But, “Buckets?” His eyes widened. Avarice banished any other consideration. “Am permitted to pick and choose?”
So greedy, this man. Properly marketed, the right coins, the rare ones, would bring a hundred times intrinsic value from rich collectors. He could parlay a moderate fortune into a huge one. He knew the men who would buy and which coins were in demand. He had once had a go at counterfeiting them-till he had found the necessary research and marketing too much work.
The point passed over Varthlokkur’s head. “Of course.” To the wizard one coin was like another. Puzzled, he said, “I’ll show you the strongroom.”
Mocker spent the day there, becoming intimately familiar with every gold piece. Varthlokkur soon lost interest and went about his business. Then Mocker set about filling every pocket he had in addition to putting aside what was “due” himself and his friends. They, Varthlokkur told him, were alive and well, though chastened by close brushes with doom.
After all, as Mocker asked Nepanthe later, what good was gall if he let it go to waste?
Four days ground away. Mocker eventually had to concede that Varthlokkur really meant to let Nepanthe go. He didn’t understand why, and remained thoroughly suspicious till long after they made their departure, following friendly farewells.
While traveling, Nepanthe dwelt on her agreement with Varthlokkur. She couldn’t quite put it into perspective. Doubts remained. Would the wizard maintain his end? Was it fair to Mocker? Had it placed him in jeopardy? Would he live with the unknown threat of a knife in the dark henceforth?
The gods knew she loved her husband. Shame overwhelmed her whenever she recalled her behavior in the Shadowland. Her heart hammered when she reflected on how close she had come to massacring his feeling for her...
But there was this newly recognized feeling for Varthlokkur to reconcile with that for Mocker, against the romantic schooling of twenty-nine years.../did it for you, she lied to herself, looking at her husband.
But it had all worked out, hadn’t it? Everyone had-though compromised-approached his or her desire. The world was rid of several old evils. Maybe the future would bring the fulfillment of a few dreams.
Varthlokkur still hadn’t performed a divination. Possibly some subliminal premonition compelled him to avoid looking whither bad news might lie. Whatever, Nepanthe rode westward armed with hope-however forlorn it might be.
“Mocker, I love you.”
He flashed her the old Saltimbanco grin. But his mind was far away, haunting the labyrinths of schemes founded on his newly acquired wealth-however foredoomed they might be.
The End
