An Ill Fate Marshalling

by Glen Cook

  “Not many, son. I don’t know what you’re up to. I’ll tell you this. Keep your head down. And watch what you say. These people aren’t very tolerant. Megelin is running scared. He doesn’t have much popular support anymore, so he comes down hard on critics. Try to mind the law. They don’t accept ignorance as an excuse. Guess that’s a holdover from El Murid’s time. That old boy was a tough nut.”

  Michael had heard his King reminisce about the El Murid Wars. He admired the idealistic El Murid of twenty-five years ago. He was himself too young for clear memories of those days. “It’s a pity the man went mad,” he said.

  The caravaneer’s eyebrows rose. “El Murid? He was always batty. What you mean is, it’s a pity he got hooked on opium. That’s what ruined him. Yeah. He wasn’t all bad.

  Not for the desert. Too bad he wanted to convert the rest of the world.”

  They reached the causeway. Michael saw fish in the water below. On the island side, some of the landscaped inlets still survived, with their patches of water lilies and the tiny, colorful gardens surrounding them. Many of those gardens had become weed patches. Stately homes, in a unique blend of western, desert, and Imperial architectures, spotted the waterfront. Michael supposed they had belonged to the Disciple’s more influential followers, and had fallen into the hands of Megelin’s when El Murid had been driven from the holy city.

  “You’re in here pretty regular. What’s your estimate of Megelin’s survivability? Where will he be going the next few years?”

  The master smiled thinly. “Son, you’ve asked me that question six different ways the last couple days. Why don’t you just back off, make up your mind to ask what you want to know, then come at me with that? Ain’t no guarantee I could answer, or that I would if I could, but this beating around the bush ain’t getting you nowhere. Be cautious with them. I’m on your side.”

  Michael considered that while the caravan cleared the causeway and began wending through snake-track streets. “All right. I came to find out a couple things. Most of it I can get by observation. One thing I need to know for sure is if a mysterious wizard, maybe named Lord Norath, has attached himself to Megelin.”

  The caravan master turned slowly. He studied Michael through narrowed eyes. “Lord North.”

  “I heard one brief mention from a friend. A panicky mention, maybe three months back. Then nothing. Just a protestation about having a too active imagination.”

  “I see.”

  A sudden chill ran down Michael’s spine. The master had changed. He had become cold and remote.

  Had he made a fatal mistake?

  After a time, the caravaneer said, “Son, don’t ever say that name. I’ve never seen any such person. Neither has anybody else. Like you say, a few months ago there were rumors. They stopped. Bam! People who said that name tended to disappear. Maybe no such man exists. But if he does, it’s safer to pretend he don’t.”

  “I see.” Trebilcock relaxed a little. His hand drew an inch farther from the hilt of his sword. “Back when there were rumors, did anybody say where the creature does his non-existing?”

  The caravaneer smiled. “You’re getting the knack. Best not to talk about it at all, though. And now you’ve named the name, best you don’t show your face on the street at night. That’s when the talkers disappear.”

  “Then there’s no night life here?”

  “I didn’t say that. There’s plenty for them as haven’t said a certain name, or don’t care who sits the Peacock Throne. Those as stands against Megelin also have a way of disappearing.”

  “Nice trick. Would you say there’s a hint of wizardry in the air?”

  “Me? No. I wouldn’t say anything that foolish. If there was, it might come down on me.”

  Michael smiled. He now had most of what he wanted. And he could have learned it in Tamerice. If only he had thought to ask his questions there!

  What he wanted to know now, though, he could learn nowhere but here. What was the connection with Liakopulos? The learning process looked more dangerous than he had expected.

  “Does Sam’s place here have a room with doors and locks? I assume the men sleep in a barracks.”

  “They do. You’ll have to ask Mister Chordine’s brother if you want locks. He runs the show here.” The master guided the caravan into a side street, and soon into a staging compound of vast size. It was structured as a small fortress, with only one gate penetrating its twelve foot adobe walls. Stables lined the walls inside, and in the center of the compound stood several three-story buildings, back to back, like a group of men facing out toward their enemies. Michael went and presented his letter of introduction to Sam Chordine’s brother.

  Three days passed. Michael learned almost nothing. The people of Al Rhemish were tight-lipped and grim. They spoke to one another less than they did to foreigners. Most vigorously pretended that their King did not exist.

  Michael saw little evidence of Megelin’s presence, other than the ubiquitous fear. Few Royalist soldiers patrolled the city. They seemed unnecessary. Then, too, Megelin’s army was still scouring the wastes for El Murid’s followers. The little Michael heard indicated the King was having no luck. Hammad al Nakir was vast. There were too many places where guerrillas could hide. The Scourge of God had proven that a generation ago, during El Murid’s sweep to power.

  Night had fallen. Michael lay on his pallet, staring at the ceiling, wondering how he could penetrate the veil surrounding Norath. One candle wanly lighted his room. He thought he heard a creak from the tower stair. He rose quietly, made sure his door was secure. It was a massive thing of thick oak planks. Only a battering ram could break it down.

  The door was fine. He turned to the window, which was sealed by heavy shutters. He had rigged them so he could fling them open if he had to make a hurried exit. They, too, were secure. He returned to his pallet.

  The stair creaked again. He took hold of his sword, rested it across his chest.

  Michael Trebilcock continuously amazed his friends with his lack of fear. The emotion was alien to him. He only vaguely understood what others felt because his sole touchstone with terror was stage-fright. When asked to speak before a group, he choked. That was the deep-down essence of his secretiveness. He avoided uncomfortable moments by keeping his secrets and remaining unavailable.

  He just plain hated explaining.

  His door creaked. He lay still, waiting. Something fumbled at the outside latch. Michael smiled. That would do his visitor no good. The door had to be opened from within.

  The fumbling stopped. The door creaked under tremendous pressure. Michael’s eyes widened slightly. “What the hell?” The timbers crackled. Bits of adobe fell from around the door frame. The whole thing seemed ready to go. Michael rose and opened the shutters, studied the darkness outside.

  Something had disturbed the animals stabled along the south wall. Caravaneers with lamps and torches were calming them. Elsewhere, the compound was as peaceful as a graveyard.

  He had a grim suspicion. He went to the door. The pressure had withdrawn. He sniffed, caught a hint of animal odor. A thin smile crossed his pale lips.

  He had put it together right. There was a Lord North and his true name was Magden Norath. The Escalonian renegade had survived Palmisano.

  Trebilcock had smelled that odor at Palmisano and a dozen other battles. It was the scent of savan dalage, a monster of the night, created in the laboratories of Ehelebe by Magden Norath. They were almost indestructible, and incredibly savage and powerful.

  He backed away from the door, mind whirling. This news had to be gotten to the King. It cast light on half the mysteries plaguing Kavelin. Megelin was under the spell of the Escalonian. Only Norath could have created the men who had attacked Liakopulos.

  Why? a little voice asked. And that he could not say. There was nothing between the general and the sorcerer to warrant murder. There was nothing between Megelin and Liakopulos.

  He could guess, but he dared not guess aloud. His frien
ds would not want to hear his suspicions. And the suspected would try to kill him if they thought him too knowledgeable.

  Whatever, the King had to be alerted to the darkness lurking in Al Rhemish.

  The caravan would not leave the holy city for another week. Could he survive that long? With the savan dalage stalking him? With someone sufficiently irked by his presence to want him destroyed? He doubted it. He had to make other arrangements.

  He looked into the compound again. The caravaneers had gotten the horses settled down. They were standing around scratching their heads and cussing.

  Something hit Michael’s door. The oak planks exploded inward. He glimpsed a dark shape wriggling through. He swung his sword in a two-handed stroke, felt it bite deep.

  He hurled himself backward, over the sill of his window.

  As he fell, the building reverberated to a shriek like that of a tiger-sized tomcat. Trebilcock twisted, managed to land on his feet and one hand. He twisted an ankle, but not severely. He hobbled toward the astonished caravaneers. “Torches!” he gasped. “Get those torches up. They hate the light.”

  He heard the whump of a great weight hitting ground behind him. He did not look back. Nor did he turn when he heard claws tearing the compound soil, gaining fast. He seized an oil lantern, whirled, and flung it at a darkness streaking out of the darkness.

  The savan dalage twisted aside. The lantern missed its snout, smashed against its shoulder. Michael seized a torch.

  The caravaneers scattered-except those rooted in fear.

  Trebilcock flung himself forward, reached for the turning beast, touched it with the torch.

  The oil caught. Fire spread along a lean, ebony flank. The beast howled. The stables turned riot. The horses began kicking down their stalls.

  The savan dalage forgot its mission. A third of its long, hard body ablaze, it streaked across the compound. It reached the roof of the stables with a single powerful bound. It vanished over the wall.

  Michael sat in the dirt with head bowed, panting. He felt around for his sword. A thin smile crossed his lips. “Well, you survived their first try, me boy.”

  The caravaneers gathered round him. “What the hell was that?” one asked.

  Michael looked up into eyes grown huge and faces grown waxy with fear. “Where were you during the wars?”

  Another whispered the name. “Savan dalage. Here.”

  Michael raised his left hand. Someone helped him up. “Let’s get those horses settled. It’s gone. It shouldn’t be back tonight.”

  He might not have to worry about it again, he thought. Norath might take another approach next time. The most logical would be to arrest him.

  He had to get the message out quick. There was only one way. He would have to contact one of his local agents, a man no longer reliable. Obviously, Norath had found him and turned him, and had used him to send soothing reports to

  Vorgreberg. The man would have to be turned back, if only for a minute.

  Darkness still ruled Al Rhemish when Michael roused his former agent. Dawn was barely a threat when he killed the man and took to the streets again, hoping he could swim the lake and vanish into the desert before Norath found his trail.

  Survival was a wan hope, he thought as he eased into the cold water. It depended on his message getting through, and his remaining at large long enough for his friends to invent a way to save him.

  The air was hot already. It would be a miserable day to be afoot in the desert. He drank all the water his stomach would hold, and filled the wineskin he had taken from the agent he had retired. Then he started up the slope of the valley, picking a few ripe fruits as he went. His boots sloshed with every step. He was going to develop one hell of a crop of blisters.

  9 Year 1016 AFE

  Rising Tide

  RAGNARSON, PRATAXIS, EANREDSON, and Varthlokkur argued for two hours, while waiting for Dahl Haas to collect the Chatelaine Mist. Ragnarson ducked out once to order more chairs. Then, twenty-five minutes before Mist was expected, Slugbait came to the door. Ragnarson stepped outside.

  “What is it, Slug?”

  “There’s a woman down to the gate says she needs to see you. Ordinarily, we just send them away, but this one maybe you should see.”

  “Who is she? Do you know?”

  “I seen her around. She said tell you her name is Sherilee.”

  Ragnarson stiffened. “What’s she want?”

  “I don’t know. She didn’t make sense. You know women when they’re scared.”

  “Scared?”

  “Petrified. She’s worked up about something that happened out to Lieneke Lane.”

  “Let’s go.” Bragi leaned back into the room for his sword. Slugbait had spoken the magic words. Ragnarson seldom showed it in any demonstrative way, but his children meant more to him than Ravelin or his crown. If anything had happened to them.... They were all he had left.

  Slug was puffing when they reached the gate. Bragi told him, “Send her to the guardroom. I’ll clear it out. Thanks, Slug. You thought right this time. I won’t forget.”

  “Thank you, Sire. Just doing my job.”

  “Right. Keep at it and you’ll make sergeant. Bustle her in here.”

  The girl was half-hysterical. She threw herself at him. He did a little hugging and shoulder-patting. He soon realized that half her hysteria was intentional.

  Little by little, he got her talking. She and Kristen had seen Aral Dantice and another man go to Mist’s house. They had worked one another up with dares. Before she knew it, she was sneaking across Lieneke Lane, through Mist’s hedge, and crouching beside the house under a window that had been covered by bookshelves inside.

  “Why you?”

  “I’m smaller. Nobody could see me over the hedge. Anyway, there were four people in there. They were doing some kind of sorcery. After a while I knew they were spying on you. From what they said. Then they got all excited. Then one of them started talking who didn’t talk before. One we didn’t see go in or come out. But he left somehow, because they said he was gone. They talked about him, and that’s when I figured out he was a Tervola.”

  She started crying again.

  “Tervola, eh?” He was not entirely surprised.

  “Yes! Here in Vorgreberg. You believe me, don’t you?”

  He sighed thoughtfully, took her hand and led her to a chair. “Sit down. I’ve got to think.” He sat facing her. He did not release her hand. She stared at their joined fingers with a kind of awe. After a few minutes he grunted and stood again, pulling her up.

  “Mist is coming. Stay out of sight till she’s inside. Otherwise you might meet her and give her an idea how I know what I know. I think Slug will enjoy looking after you.”

  She turned on the tears. “I’m so scared.” She moved against him, pushing her arms around him. He felt the fear in her, the animal quivering. It was real enough. Its object was the question.

  He signed, thinking he had seen bigger twelve year olds. He patted her shoulders again. After a moment of closed eyes and another fatalistic sigh, he held her shoulders and pushed her away. “I’m scared too, little girl.” He let go and raised her chin till she looked him in the eye. “And not of Tervola. You go looking for trouble and you’re liable to find more than either one of us can handle.”

  Her jaw trembled. She opened her mouth slightly and closed it, twice. Her gaze kept darting to one side, then she would force it back.

  Ragnarson shifted subject. “I want you and Kristen to stop playing spy. This isn’t any game.” Then, “Do you know what we’re getting into?”

  She did not reply. She sniffled once.

  Her chin still rested on his hand. He drew her toward him. Her jaw trembled more. Her eyes narrowed and glazed. Her lips parted and puffed as she turned her face up to meet his kiss.

  Oh, gods, he thought. The fire raced through him. It was just what he had thought it would be. He pushed gently. She clung for an instant, then stood there downcast, eyes still clo
sed.

  “I want you to think about it some more,” he whispered. “Please?”

  She folded her lower lip between her teeth and nodded like a child receiving a scolding.

  “Everything is against it....” Enough of this, he thought. “Go back to Kristen after Mist gets here. And stop playing spy.” He whirled and got out of there. He ran up the steps to the battlements overlooking the gate, trying to distract himself. Looking out, he spied a carriage turning into the road through the park. “Mist?” The outriders might be Dahl and Aral. He raced back down and hurried to the chamber, quickly clued the others to Sherilee’s report.

  Mist arrived ten minutes later, accompanied by Dantice. “Sit down,” Ragnarson said. He studied the couple. There was a new shyness between them. Damn! It must be catching. “I’ve been cooped up here all day, so I don’t feel like playing games. We made a decision. You know what it is. Let’s decide what I can do to help. But first I want to know who the Tervola was and why he was in Kavelin without my permission.”

  Dantice made a sound like a cross between a belch and mouse’s squeak. His eyes widened. And Mist, for one of the few times Ragnarson remembered, was taken completely off guard.

  “I have my resources too. The Tervola is important. Call it a gesture of good faith. You’ve been playing your game behind my back. I don’t want that in Kavelin. I’ve got trouble enough with my enemies, without having to watch my friends.”

  Mist recovered her aplomb. She spoke at length.

  Ragnarson decided she was being forthright. “Sounds good overall. Assuming Kuo isn’t in on the planning. What’s your timing?”

  “That’s the other iffy part. We move when Lord Ch’ien thinks the Matayangan attack has peaked and Lord Kuo is completely distracted. We seize the key points of the empire. We leave Southern Army alone till the Matayangan attack ebbs. Then we relieve Lord Kuo himself.”