by Glen Cook
“No.”
“You expect me to jump into something blind, then. Without being in any position to compel me. Bad tactics, Mist. Bad tactics. I’m the kid that owns the ball. I can pick it up and go home. And leave you twisting in the breeze. You’re almost completely committed already. But I’m not. It won’t cost me to walk away.”
Still Mist would not speak.
“I don’t plan to run through the streets of Vorgreberg screaming out the secret. No matter, I guess. You’re going to call my bluff. The old man always told me, the best way to bluff is not to be kidding. I wish you luck with your scheme. If it falls through, come back. I’ll always need somebody tough to hold Maisak.” He started to move around her, to the door to her situation room.
She eyed him, estimating, and concluded that he was not bluffing. “Wait.”
He paused. After a few seconds, he asked, “Well?”
“He’ll be furious. Maybe he’ll back out on me himself. But all right. You’re basically right. About the situation out east. It’s very tight, very dangerous, and with the war with Matayanga having broken out, doubly so. I’m not as familiar with it as I should be. Almost no one but the general commanding really knows what’s going on, and he’s too busy to gossip. But large armies employing the most grim necromantic sorceries having been attacking the empire viciously, ceaselessly, and mostly winning. They are led by someone who calls himself the Deliverer. What that is supposed to mean no one really knows. But it has been determined that the Deliverer was the son of Nepanthe and your friend Mocker.”
“Was?”
“He underwent some dramatic changes between the time the agents of the Pracchia abducted him and when he reappeared in our easternmost territories with his armies. He is not the child Ethrian anymore. He may not even recall that child. He is an instrument of destruction. He is a thing that would make you look kindly upon the most despised of my people. He is a creature completely of shadow. And I believe Varthlokkur is right. If Nepanthe saw Ethrian as he is now it would, at the very least, shatter their marriage. She would blame him for not having salvaged her child from the darkness.”
Bragi leaned against the door-frame, considering. Half a minute passed. “I think you underestimate Nepanthe. Both of you. But I could be wrong. Let’s go back to work.”
“Are you satisfied?”
“For the moment. I think later I’ll want more details.”
“You know as much as I do now.”
“I doubt that.” Ragnarson pushed inside. Varthlokkur’s iron gaze tracked him from doorway to table. He ignored the wizard. Mist joined him in examining the Matayangan front. He asked, “Have you decided when to move yet?” He surveyed his people. They knew the truth of the situation now. Abaca looked ready to explode in indignation. “Michael. Can you get a message to Throyes fast?”
“If I have to.”
“You might suggest that your friends there give Lord Hsung a hard time.”
Michael laughed. “They need me to tell them that? Go teach your grandmother to suck eggs, boss. This is what they’ve been waiting for. By now the whole middle east is aflame.”
“And Hsung probably expected it.”
“He isn’t a fool.”
Bragi returned to his seat. “Michael says Hsung might be in for a bad time.”
Mist’s smile was a hard, sharp, brittle thing. It was the uncompromising smile of an empress. This wasn’t the woman who had made punch the night before. “There were a few riots. They’re under control, except in Throyes. Those will die out once the ringleaders have been crucified.”
Ragnarson made a nasty face. “Crucified?”
“Lord Hsung can’t afford to be gentle.” After a moment’s reflection, “We have to be concerned about him. He isn’t political, but....”
“Heard he’s Kuo’s brother-in-law.”
“Not relevant. He’s always stood with established authority till the Council of Tervola acknowledged change. His allegiance goes with the vote. He’ll be a bitter opponent. We may use your men against him, too.”
“That’s all you need?”
“We have the strength we need elsewhere.”
“Why involve Dantice and Mundwiller?”
“We thought we’d have to hire mercenaries. Somebody had to collect them. Merchants use them all the time. Who’d be suspicious if the Delhagen syndics organized a big expedition now that the Gap is open?”
Ragnarson considered the map. Nothing obvious was happening. The tablemen occasionally added red sand.
“I’d better make arrangements for my people,” he said. “I’ll keep them at my place.” He eased off his chair. He told Michael, “Keep an eye out. I don’t want Hsung getting any more letters.”
Trebilcock nodded. “I should help Haas. There isn’t anything I can do in here.”
“Right.” Ragnarson collected Abaca, Liakopulos, and Sir Gjerdrum. “Take turns watching that map. See if you can spot something they don’t.”
Abaca whispered, “May I ask a question, Sire?”
“Go ahead.”
“Do you trust this woman?”
Ragnarson snorted. “What do you think?”
Abaca smiled, satisfied.
An astounded Baron Hardle lumbered in. “What in the world?” he gobbled.
Ragnarson slid an arm around his shoulders. “It’s our shot at castrating Shinsan. We’re going to overthrow Lord Kuo. The Chatelaine goes home.”
Hardle gulped air. “Isn’t that risky, Sire?”
“Very. Consider the stakes, though. Swinging it would solve half of Ravelin’s problems. I apologize for keeping you in the dark, by the way. We had to keep it tight. Hsung has a spy in the palace. Have Sir Gjerdrum fill you in. I’m going to need your help.”
“But... Sire... Who’ll keep the Thing in line?”
“They’ll manage. Probably just squabble. We’ll be done by the weekend, I hope. Derel, you coming or staying?”
“Staying, Sire. These people intrigue me. One seldom sees this level of sophistication outside Hellin Daimiel.”
“No doubt,” Ragnarson muttered as he descended the stairs. “No doubt. One of these days I’ll show you the real Hellin Daimiel, outside your university compound.”
Gawkers were collecting already. Dahl kept them across the lane. Ragnarson chose a pair of bodyguards and walked to his house. He found Kristen on the porch. She asked, “What’s going on over there?”
“Can’t tell you. We’ll be at it a few days. Think you can put up a mob of soldiers?”
“Depends.”
“Me. Michael. Dahl Haas. Liakopulos. Derel. Baron Hardle. Sir Gjerdrum. Maybe a few bodyguards. You don’t have to do anything fancy. Just feed us and give us a place to sleep.”
“I’ll have to get groceries. And somebody to help.”
“Go through the commissary at King’s Own barracks. Careful who you hire to help. They shouldn’t ask questions, answer questions, or remember anything they accidentally hear.”
“I know exactly who to get.” She grinned.
“I thought you might. All those bachelors. What did Ainjar think of the crossbow?”
“I took it away from him. He shot out a window. He hates me forever now.”
Bragi smiled. Ainjar was always hating someone forever, or ten minutes, whichever came first. “Did you see the sky this morning?”
“Yes. What was all that?”
“Matayanga and Shinsan.”
“Oh. I didn’t think they would... I didn’t think anybody had that much nerve. Except maybe you. Does what’s going on at Mist’s have something to do with it?”
“Something.”
“I can take a hint. When do you want the beds?”
“Me and Varthlokkur will need them pretty soon. We haven’t gotten much sleep lately.”
“What was it, anyway?”
“What was what?”
“The baby.”
“Oh. Didn’t you see his fireworks? No? A girl. He’s crazy-happy.
Baby and momma doing fine.”
“They decide on a name?”
“Not yet. They want to wait a couple days.”
Kristen mused, “You know, it’s funny.”
“What is?”
“Life. So much is going on. Men are killing each other over there, and I’m more interested in what somebody is going to name their baby. Doesn’t that have a kind of horrible moral smell?”
“That’s life, girl. We don’t know those men. Hell, for all we know, they don’t really exist. It might all be a big lie. If we was to decide to go watch the war, the gods might get in a panic trying to get the props set up before we got there.”
“You going a little strange on me, Father-in-law?”
“Could be. Spend too much time in strange company. Mainly my own.” There was little force to his chuckle. He did wonder about himself.
He wrote a note to the quartermaster of the King’s Own regiment, then returned to Mist’s house. There was no change in the situation map.
13 Year 1016 AFE
At the Ready
THE INTERMINABLE WAIT had become a deathwatch. The Matayangan thing went on and on and on, and still Mist insisted the time was not ripe. Vorgreberg’s rumor mill churned a thousand wild speculations. They trickled into the provinces, where they became wilder still.
Ragnarson asked Mist, “How long before Hsung’s agent puts it all together?”
“I know. I know. Pretty soon we’ll have to assume he knows. Damn the man!” she snapped. “Lord Kuo, I mean. Why doesn’t he move?”
The red sand now thrust deep into Shinsan. Mist’s informants said Southern Army scarcely existed anymore. There was a huge gap in its line.
Ragnarson was tempted to back out. Why risk his people in a coup attempt when Matayanga threatened to crush Ravelin’s enemies for him?
Baron Hardle said something. Bragi swore at him, then apologized. Everyone wanted a minute off. He did himself. But rules were rules. There would be no leaks.
Inger had sent a dozen messages. He had ignored them. The tone of the latest was strident.
Mist said, “Fifty hours. If Lord Kuo hasn’t moved, I will myself.”
“In the dark?”
“In the dark. I can’t keep my people under control much longer. If one defects, they’ll stampede. It would take ten years to put it together again.”
Dantice concealed his hurt.
“It’s late,” Ragnarson observed. “I’m going to get some sleep.”
He was leaving when Haas called, “Sire, would you remind Captain Trebilcock that he was supposed to relieve me half an hour ago?”
“All right. Sir Gjerdrum, too. He’s supposed to have relieved General Liakopulos.” He walked down the lane muttering. Kristen had brought in her friends. Now Gjerdrum, Dahl, and Michael were dodging their watches.
He spat into the dust beside the road. “Sure as hell miss Inger.” Why didn’t he feel that way when they were separated within the palace?
Human contrariness, he supposed. A month ago he was upset because he wasn’t interested in women. Now he was going crazy thinking about Inger and Sherilee.
He kicked a pebble. It hit a cobblestone, ricocheted straight up. He grabbed it on the fly. “Good reflexes, old-timer.”
He’d really fixed himself with Sherilee. Talked himself right out of it. Kristen hadn’t heard from her all week.
He eyed a distant tree trunk, snapped the stone. It hit ground short and to the right. “Damn! I can throw better than that.” He collected a fist full of pebbles, quickly discovered that he didn’t have a twenty year old arm anymore. Remembering when set him to recalling lost opportunities.
He had a whole catalog. It did not just include women he had failed to tumble. More and more, lately, he found himself irritated about every wasted moment.
Derel declared it was a normal life stage. He said most men Ragnarson’s age went through it. Varthlokkur claimed it never ended. He claimed he could not count the times he had determined not to let opportunity escape, only to let it get away almost immediately. The trouble was, a man seldom recognized opportunity till it departed.
Something popped in Ragnarson’s elbow. It left a dull ache. His next throw went nowhere.
“Damn it all, anyway!” He selected another stone, threw with his whole body. And thought his arm would fall off.
But he hit the damned tree. A glancing shot, eight feet above his point of aim, but he hit it.
“Just got to admit old time is catching up. It’s a damned shame you don’t get more.” He kicked another pebble. It rolled ten feet. “Even better would be to live the same life over, four or five times, trying it different ways.”
Was he too preoccupied with his own mortality? He had some good years left. He should worry about getting the most out of them, not how he had squandered those already gone. “Whining won’t get them back, Ragnarson.”
Michael was seated on the front steps, beside Julie. They eyed one another with an unmistakable intensity.
“Trebilcock!” Ragnarson snapped. “Knock it off! You’re late for your watch.”
Michael sprang up. He looked like a child caught red-handed at some mischief.
“Sorry, Sire. It won’t happen again.”
Kristen opened the door. “Saw you coming,” she said. Bragi eased inside. “Little short, weren’t you?”
“Probably. I’m getting worried.”
“No progress?”
“No. Where’s Gjerdrum? He’s late too.”
“In the pantry with Tilde.”
“Figured it’d be something like that. You sure know the right friends. They all set their hooks, didn’t they?”
“Just about.” She put on a brave smile. “I could always go after Derel.” A tear escaped her eye. She buried her face in his chest.
“Hey! What’s all this?”
“Always a bridesmaid, never a bride, I guess.”
“One of them steal the guy you were eyeballing?”
“No. Not really. None of them are my type. It’s just the idea. Suddenly, all of my friends have friends, and here I am, still in the audience.”
“Yeah, well. Be patient. Your day will come.”
“I keep telling myself that. You want to eat now?”
“I guess. Though what I really need is some sleep.”
“Go on upstairs. I’ll send your supper up.”
“What’s wrong with the kitchen?”
“It’s full of Guardsmen. You don’t look like you’re in the mood for them.”
“You’re right. Well, let’s see if I’ve got enough energy to make it to the third floor.”
“Want some stretcher-bearers?”
“Smart mouth.”
He was using the room that had belonged to his brother
Haaken before his death. Kristen had wanted to put him in the room he had shared with Elana. He would not so much as look through the doorway, though the room had changed since his wife had died there.
Haaken’s was the one room which held no ghosts. He had visited it rarely. Haaken had used it only occasionally. He had commanded the Vorgreberger Regiment, and had made his home at their city barracks.
It was a tiny room, about seven by ten, with the bed shoved to one end, beneath a window. There was a chair and a small table that Haaken had used as a desk, and a few mementoes. One was a locket their mother had given them before their flight from Trolledyngja. Bragi opened it. It contained a curl of his mother’s hair. Where was Helga now? Long dead, probably. He felt a vague guilt. He ought to go home, to see.
He shut the locket, dropped onto the bed, began remembering. There were a lot of years to review.
He fell into a half-sleep, recalling the bad times after the El Murid Wars. He, Mocker, and Haroun would have sold their souls for a hundredth of what he had today. They nearly had for less. If a god had told him he would become a king, he would have collapsed in sad laughter.
Funny. He wasn’t happier now than he had been then.
A soft, tentative tapping came from the door. “Bring it in,” he mumbled. Hinges squeaked as the door opened and closed. “Put it on the table.” Feet went tap-tap.
He and Mocker and Haroun. The intrepid trio. The darers of any damned foolishness. The inseparable comrades who hadn’t trusted one another farther than a dwarf could throw a bull elephant. They had had their moments, and no other lives to worry them in their games of forfeits.
I guess that’s what I really miss, he thought. The absence of pressure. The freedom from responsibility.
He hadn’t heard the footsteps depart....
He rolled, quick as a cat. His dagger sprang into his hand. He crouched, ready to spring....
Sherilee clapped a hand to her mouth, backed toward the door.
“Hah!” he snorted. “That’s hard on a man’s heart, woman.” He reversed the knife, flipped it. It stuck in the door-frame. “What’re you doing here?”
“I brought your supper. Kris said you were hungry.”
She was pale as a sheet, and shaking.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you. Sit down. What did you bring?”
In a voice as tiny as she, Sherilee replied, “Chicken.”
“Should’ve known. Chicken. I don’t think there’s a hog or cow in this whole benighted kingdom. The sheep must have died during the winter. I’ve eaten enough chicken to fill four coops this month.”
“I could get something else.” She met his eye for a second.
“No you couldn’t. One trip up those stairs is enough. We haven’t seen you all week.”
She stared at her hands. She was wringing them. “I couldn’t come right away. I had things to do.”
“But now you’re here.”
She met his eye again, smiled nervously before tucking her lower lip between her teeth. She nodded. He stared at her while tension bred butterflies the size of vultures.
There was but one subject which was safe. “Are you hungry? I’ll share, if there’s enough.” Talking about the weather seemed idiotic.
“Oh. All right.” She lifted the cloth covering the tray. It was buried in victuals and drink.
“Kris fixed the tray. I didn’t see it before.”
“She has a high opinion of my appetite.”
With a trace of sauciness, Sherilee suggested, “Maybe she didn’t expect me to come back down.”
