by Glen Cook
Things had turned bad again late in the fourth year, when drought east of the Silverbind had driven men from Prost Kamenets into a brigandry their government ignored as long as its thrust lay across the river. Near the rear of the house, the granary stood in charred ruins. A half-mile away the men were rebuilding the sawmill. There were contracts for timber to be delivered to the naval yards at Itaskia. Those had to be met first.
Counting wives and children, there had been twenty-two pioneers. Most were dead now, buried in places of honor beside the greathouse. She and Bragi had been lucky, their only loss a daughter born dead.
Too many graves in the graveyard. Fifty-one in all. Over the years old followers of Bragi’s and friends of hers had drifted in, some to stay a day or two out of a journey in search of a war, some to settle and die.
The grain was sprouting, the children were growing, the cattle were getting fat. There was an orchard that might produce in her lifetime. She had a home almost as large and comfortable as the one Bragi had promised her during all those years under arms. And it was all endangered. She knew it in her bones. Something was afoot, something grim.
Her gaze went to the graveyard. Old Tor Jack lay in the corner, beside Randy Will who had gotten his skull crushed pulling Ragnar from between a stallion and a mare in heat. What would they think if Bragi threw it up now?
Jorgen Miklassen, killed by a wild boar. Gudrun Ormsdatter, died in childbirth. Red Lars, brought down by wolves. Jan and Mihr Krushka. Rafnir Shagboots, Walleyed Marjo, Tandy the Gimp.
Blood and tears, blood and tears. Nothing would bring them back. Why so morbidly thoughtful? Break yourself out, woman. Time goes on, work has to be done. What man hath wrought, woman must maintain.
Maxims did nothing to cheer her. She spent the day working hard, seeking an exhaustion that would extinguish her apprehensions.
In the evening, as twilight’s pastels were fading into indigo, a huge owl came out of the east, flew thrice round the house widdershins, dipping and dancing with owls from beneath the greathouse eaves. It soon fled toward Mocker’s.
“Another omen.” She sighed.
iv) Mocker and Nepanthe of Ravenkrak
Mocker’s holding lay hip by thigh with Ragnarson’s. Both were held under Itaskian Crown Charter. On his own territory each had the power and responsibility of a baron—without the privileges. Though neighbors, both found distance between homes a convenience. They had been friends since the tail-end years of the El Murid Wars, but each found the other’s extended company insufferable. The disparity in their values kept them constantly on the simmering edge. A day’s visit, a night’s drinking and remembering when, that was their limit. Neither was known for patience, nor for an open mind.
Ragnarson covered the distance before dinner, pretending that once again he was racing El Murid from Hellin Daimiel to Libiannin.
Mocker wasn’t surprised to see him. Little astonished that fat old reprobate.
Ragnarson reined in beside a short, swarthy fellow on his knees in mud. Laugh lines permanently marked his moon-round brown face. “Hai!” he cried. “Great man-bears! Help!” Tenants came running, grabbing weapons. The fat man rose and whirled madly, dark eyes dancing.
A boy the age of Bragi’s Ragnar ran from a nearby smokehouse, toy bow ready. “Oh. It’s only Uncle Bear.”
“Only?” Bragi growled as he dismounted. “Only? Maybe, Ethrian, but mean enough to box the ears of a cub.” He seized the boy, threw him squealing into the air.
Wiping her hands on her apron, a woman came from the nearby house. Nepanthe always seemed to be wiping her hands. Mocker left a mountain of woman’s work wherever he passed. “Bragi. Just in time for dinner. You came alone? I haven’t seen Elana since…” Her smile faded. Since the bandit passage last fall, when Mocker’s dependents had holed up in Ragnarson’s stronger greathouse.
“Pretty as ever, I see,” said Ragnarson. He handed his reins to Ethrian, who scowled, knowing he was being gotten rid of. Nepanthe blushed. She was indeed attractive, but hardly pretty as ever. The forest years had devoured her aristocratic delicacy. Still, she looked younger than thirty-four. “No, couldn’t bring the family.”
“Business?” She did most of Mocker’s talking. Mocker had never mastered the Itaskian tongue. His vanity was such that he avoided speaking whenever he could. Ragnarson was not sure that inability was genuine. It varied according to some formula known only to Mocker himself.
“No. Just riding. Spring fever.” Shifting to Necremnen, an eastern language in which Mocker was more at home, he continued, “Strange thing happened this morning. Old man appeared out of nowhere, mumbled some nonsense about girls who act like women. Wouldn’t answer a question straight out, only in riddles. Weirdest thing is, I couldn’t find a trace of him on the road. You’d think there’d be fresh droppings, coming or going.”
Nepanthe frowned. She didn’t understand the language. “Are you going to eat?” Pettishly, she brushed long raven hair out of her eyes. A warm breeze had begun blowing from the south.
“Of course. That’s why I came.” He tried charming her with a smile.
“Same man,” Mocker replied, proving he could mangle even a language learned in childhood, “beriddled self. Portly pursuer of predawn pissery, self, rising early to dispose of excess beer drunk night before, found same on doorstep before sunrise.”
“Impossible. It was barely sunup when he turned up at my place…”
“For him, is possible. Self, having encountered same before, know. Can do anything.”
“The Old Man of the Mountain?”
“No.”
“Varthlokkur?”
They were at Mocker’s door. When Ragnarson said the latter, Nepanthe gave him a hard stare. “You’re not mixed up with him again, are you? Mocker…”
“Doe’s Breast. Diamond Eyes. Light of life of noted sluggard renown for pusillanimity, would same, being contender for title World’s Laziest Man, being famous from south beyond edge of farthest map to north in Trolledyngja, from west in Freyland, east to Matayanga, for permanent state of cowardice and lassitude…”
“Yes, you would. How’d you get known in all those places?”
Mocker continued, in Necremnen, “Was famous Star Rider.”
“Why?” Ragnarson asked.
“Why what?”
“Oh, never mind. That’s why you weren’t surprised to see me?”
The fat man shrugged. “When Star Riders come calling on fat old fool sequestered in boundless forest, am surprised by nothings. Next, Haroun will appear out of south with new world-conquering scheme in hand, madder than ever.” This he said sourly, as if he believed it a distinct possibility.
“If you two can quit chicken-clucking for a minute, we can eat,” said Nepanthe.
“Sorry, Nepanthe,” Ragnarson apologized. “Some things…”
She sighed. “As long as it’s not another woman.”
“No, not that. Just a minor mystery.”
v) Another strange visitor
The mystery soon deepened. Ethrian returned from the stables and, after having been scolded for being as slow as small boys will, said, “There’s a man coming. A funny man on a little horse. I don’t think I like him.” Having so declaimed, he set about devouring his dinner.
Mocker rose, went to a front window, came back wearing a puzzled frown. “Marco.”
It took Ragnarson a moment to recall anyone by that name. “Visigodred’s apprentice?” Visigodred was a wizard, an old acquaintance.
“Same.” Mocker looked worried. Ragnarson was disturbed himself.
A clatter and rattle at the front door. “He’s here.”
“Uhn.” Both men looked at Nepanthe. For a moment she stared back, a little pale, then went.
“About goddamn time,” came from the other room, then, “Oh, beg your pardon, my dear lovely lady. Husband home? I hope not. Seems a shame to let a beautiful chance meeting go to waste.”
“Back here.”
M
arco, a dwarf with the ego of a giant, came strutting into the kitchen, not a bit abashed about having been overheard. “Timing was right, I see.” He pulled up a chair, snagged a huge hunk of bread, smeared it with butter. He ignored inquiring looks till he had gorged himself. “Suppose you’re wondering what I’m doing here. Besides stuffing my face. So am I. Well same as always, doing the old man’s legwork. Got a message for you.”
“Humph!” Mocker snorted. “No time. Am occupied with profound compunctions—Computations? Constructions?—philosophic. How to get lentils in earth without straining back of and mud-bespattering self of, portly peasant, self. Am no wise interested in problems and peculations of old busybody who would interfere with ponderations on same.” He looked at Nepanthe as if for approval.
Ragnarson was irritated. Did Nepanthe control Mocker that much? Once he had been a wild-eyed heller, game for any insane scheme Haroun concocted. Bragi met Nepanthe’s eyes across the table. Why the laughter there? He thought, she knows what I’m thinking.
“What the boss wanted me to tell you was this: ‘In a land of many kings trust no hand but your own, nor allow you the right far from sight of the left. Men there change loyalties more often than underwear. Stand wary of all women, and tamper not with the place, and name, and cloak, of Mist.’ What the hell that means I don’t know. He’s not usually that hard to pin down. But he’s got a stake in it somehow. I guess his girlfriend is in. Well, got to go. Thank you for a delightful meal, my lady.”
“Hold on,” Ragnarson growled. “What the hell, hey? What’s going on?”
“You got me, Hairy. I just work for the man, I don’t read his mind. You want to know more, you check with himself. Only he won’t see you. Told me to tell you that. I forgot. He said there’s no way he can help you this time. Did all he could by sending me. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll be getting along. There’s two, three little birds at home might pine away if I don’t get back to them soon.” Refusing to answer further questions, he returned to his pony. The last they saw of him, he was entering the forest at a brisk trot, a bawdy song trailing behind him.
“You’d think a man like Visigodred could find an apprentice with a little more couth,” Ragnarson said. “Well, what do you think?”
“Self, am bamboozled. Befuddled by dearth of sense.” Mocker’s eyes flicked toward Nepanthe. One chubby brown hand made the deaf-mute’s sign for “Be careful.”
Ragnarson smiled, glad to see the spark of rebellion.
It did not occur to him that, were Mocker visiting him, he would have seemed as henpecked. Ragnarson was not an empathetic person.
“Heard from informant Andy the Bum,” said Mocker, returning to Necremnen. “News of Itaskia. Andy was pestilential mendicant always beside entrance of Red Hart, intelligent behind ubiquitous flies and filth. Sometimes remembers old contributor, self, with missives relating Wharf Street South street talk.”
Mocker was talking as plainly as he could. Must be important. “Month past, maybe more counting time for letter to make tortuous way from correspondent to recipient, Haroun visited Itaskia.”
Nepanthe caught the name. “Haroun? Haroun bin Yousif? Mocker, you stay away from that cutthroat…”
Ragnarson wrestled with his temper. “That’s not charitable, Nepanthe. You owe the man.”
“I don’t want Mocker involved with him. He’d end up using us in one of his schemes.”
“It was one of those that got you together.”
“Elana…”
“I know what Elana thinks. She has her reasons.” Elana was the first real friend Nepanthe had ever had. In a sort of pathetic, desperate way, she tried to secure that friendship by making herself a mirror of Elana. Even Mocker had less influence than Ragnarson’s wife.
His curtness upset Nepanthe. Usually he was gentle beyond the reasonable. He was secretly afraid of women.
Nepanthe sulked.
“What about him?”
“Was putting finger in nasty place, coming out dirty. Was talking to scurriliousest of scurrils of Wharf Street South. Brad Red Hand. Kerth the Dagger. Derran One Eye. Boroba Thring. Breed known for stab-in-back work. Very secretive. Went off without visiting friends. Accident Andy discovered same. Whore friend, also friend of Kerth, relayed story.”
“Curious. Men he’s used before. When he wanted murder done. Think he’s up to something?”
“Hai! Always. When was Haroun, master intriguer, not intriguing? Is question like Trolledyngjan, ‘Does bear defecate in wilderness?’”
“Yeah, the bear shits in the woods. The question is, does he have plans for us? He can’t manage on his own. I wonder why? He’s always so self-sufficient.” Faced with a real possibility of becoming involved, Ragnarson’s lust for adventure perished quickly. “Andy have anything else to say?”
“Men named vanished, no word to friends or paramours. Seen crossing Great Bridge. Nervous, in hurry. Self, expect communication from old sand devil soon. Why? Haroun is one-man nation, yes, but must justify villainous activities of self to self. Must have associates, men of respected morals. Kingship thing. Must have mandate of, license from, men with values, with judgments of respect. He respects? You see? Itaskian knife swingers are tools, not-men, dust beneath feet, of morals to spit on. Hairy Trolledyngjan and fat old rascal from east, self, not much better, but honorable in mind of Haroun. Men of respect, us. Comprehend?”
“Makes sense in a left-handed way. An insight, I think. I always wondered why he never put the knife work on us. Yes.”
Mocker did a most un-Mockerlike thing. He pushed his chair back while food remained on the table. Ragnarson started to follow him to the front of the house.
“Don’t get involved with Haroun,” said Nepanthe. “Please?”
He searched her face. She was frightened. “What can I do? When he decides to do something, he gets irresistible as a glacier.”
“I know.” She bit her lip.
“We’re not planning anything, really. Haroun would have to do some tall talking to involve us. We’re not as hungry as we used to be.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.” She began clearing the table. “Mocker doesn’t complain, but he wasn’t made for this.” With a gesture she indicated the landgrant. “He stays, and tries for my sake, but he’d be happier penniless, sitting in the rain somewhere, trying to convince old ladies he’s a soothsayer. That way he’s like Haroun. Security doesn’t mean anything. The battle of wits is everything.”
Ragnarson shrugged. He couldn’t tell her what she wanted to hear. Her assessment matched his own.
“I’ve made him miserable, Bragi. How long since you’ve seen him clown like he used to? How long since he’s gone off on some wild tangent and claimed the world is round, or a duck-paddled boat on a sea of wine, or any of those crackpot notions he used to take up. Bragi, I’m killing him. I love him, but, Gods help me, I’m smothering him. And I can’t help it.”
“We are what we are, will be what we must. If he goes back to the old ways, be patient. One thing’s sure. You’re his goddess. He’ll be back. To stay. Things get romanticized when they slide into the past. A dose of reality might be the cure.”
“I suppose. Well, go talk. Let me clean up.” She obviously wanted to have a good cry.
vi) An owl from Zindahjira
Ragnarson and Mocker were still on the front step when darkness fell. They were deep into a keg of beer. Neither man spoke much. The mood was not one suited to reminiscing. Bragi kept considering Mocker’s homestead. The man had worked hard, but everything had been done sloppily. The patience and perfection of the builder who cared was absent. Mocker’s home might last his lifetime, but not centuries like Ragnarson’s.
Bragi glanced sideways. His friend was haggard, aging. The strain of trying to be something he was not was killing him. And Nepanthe was tearing herself apart, too. How bad had their relationship suffered already?
Nepanthe was the more adaptable. She had been a man-terrified, twenty-eight-year-old adolescent when firs
t their paths had crossed. She was no introverted romantic now. She reminded Bragi of the earthy, pragmatic, time-beaten peasant women of the treacherous floodplains of the Silverbind. Escape from this life might do her good, too.
Mocker had always been a chimera, apparently at home in any milieu. The man within was the rock to which he anchored himself. What was visible was protective coloration. In an environment where he needed only be himself, he must feel terribly vulnerable. The lack of any immediate danger, after a lifetime of adjustment to its continual presence, could push some men to the edge.
Ragnarson was not accustomed to probing facades. It made him uncomfortable. He snorted, downed a pint of warm beer. Hell with it. What was, was. What would be, would be.
A sudden loud, piercing shriek made him choke and spray beer. When he finished wiping tears from his eyes, he saw a huge owl pacing before him.
He had seen that owl before. It served as messenger for Zindahjira the Silent, a much less pleasant sorcerer than the Visigodred who employed Marco.
“Desolation and despair,” Mocker groaned. “Felicitations from Pit. Self, think great feathered interlocutor maybe should become owl stew, and tidings bound to leg tinder for starting fire for making same.”
“That dwarf would be handy now,” said Ragnarson. Both ignored the message.
“So?”
“He talks to owls. In their own language.”
“Toadfeathers.”
“Shilling?”
“Self, being penurious unto miserhood, indigent unto poverty, should take wager when friend Bear is infamous as bettor only on sure things? Get message.”
“Why don’t you?”
“Self, being gentleman farmer, confirmed anti-literate, and retired from adventure game, am not interested.”
“I ain’t neither.”
“Then butcher owl.”
“I don’t think so. Zindahjira would stew us. Without benefit of prior butchery.”
“When inevitable is inevitable… Charge!” Mocker shouted the last word. The owl jumped, but refused to retreat.
