by Glen Cook
“Turran, could you convince Nepanthe?”
“I’ll do it,” Valther said. He and Nepanthe had always been close. “She’ll listen to me. But she won’t like it.”
Mocker grew agitated. His domestic problems were being aired…
Bragi began massaging his own face. He wasn’t getting enough sleep. The demands of his several posts were getting to him. He considered resigning as publican consul. The position made limited demands, yet did consume time he could use being Marshall and virtual king-surrogate.
“Why don’t you list your objections—take them down, Derel—and we’ll deal with them in an orderly fashion.”
Mocker was appalled. “Is end. Is perished. Is dead, absolute, friend of youth, wrapping self in cocoon of time, coming forth from chrysalis as perfect bureaucrat, all impatient and indifferent. Or is imposter, taking place of true gentleman of former time? Rising from Sea of Perdition, snakes of rules and regulations for hair—not my department, go down hall to hear same—Bastard Beast-Child of order… Enough. Self, am beloved get of Chaos. Am having business of own. Otherwheres. Open door.”
He was irked. And Ragnarson
was
tempted to apologize, except he wasn’t sure what to apologize for. “Let him go, Luther. Tell Malven to take him to his room.” One by one, he palmed the double nobles.
Part of his failure came from inside, he reflected. He
had
changed. But as much blame lay with Mocker. Never had he been so touchy.
Michael Trebilcock, one of the faces Mocker didn’t know, asked, “What now?”
Ragnarson gestured for silence.
Mocker didn’t make it past Luther. As the guard stepped aside, the fat man turned and asked musingly, “Double nobles five?” He grinned. “Hai! Might soothe conscience, same being sufficient to keep wife and son for year or two in eventuation of certain death of cretinic chaser-after-dreams of old friends.” He then railed against the Fates for several minutes, damning them for driving him into a corner from which he had no exit but suicide.
It was all for show. The mission Bragi had shouldn’t be dangerous.
They settled it then, with Mocker to leave Vorgreberg the following morning. The group gradually dissolved, till only Bragi and Fiana remained.
They stared at one another across a short space that, sometimes, seemed miles.
Finally, she asked, “Am I getting boring?”
He shook his head.
“What is it, then?”
He massaged his face again. “The pressure. More and more, I have trouble giving a damn. About anything.”
“And Elana, a little? You think she knows?”
“She knows. Probably since the beginning.”
Fiana nodded thoughtfully. “That would explain a lot.”
Bragi frowned. “What?”
“Never mind. You have trouble with your conscience?”
“Maybe. Maybe.”
She locked the door, eased into his lap. He didn’t resist, but neither did he encourage her. She nuzzled his ear, whispered, “I’ve always had this fantasy about doing it here. On the table. Where all the important laws and treaties get signed.”
There were some things Ragnarson just couldn’t say, and first among them was “no” to a willing lady.
Later, he met with Colonel Balfour, who commanded the Guild regiment being maintained in Kavelin till the country produced competent soldiers of its own. High Crag was growing a little arrogant, a little testy, as the inevitable withdrawal of the regiment drew closer. Each year the Guild grew less subtle in its insistence that the regiment’s commission be extended.
There were mercenaries and Mercenaries. The latter belonged to the Guild, headquartered at High Crag on the western coast just north of Dunno Scuttari. The Guild was a brotherhood of free soldiers, almost a monastic order, consisting of approximately ten thousand members scattered from Ipopotam to Iwa Skolovda, from the Mountains of M’Hand to Freyland. Ragnarson and many of his intimates had begun their adulthood in its ranks and, nominally, remained attached to the order. But the connection was tenuous, despite High Crag’s having awarded regular promotions over the years. Because the Citadel recognized no divorce, it still claimed a right to demand obedience.
The soldiers of the Guild owned no other allegiance, to men, nations, or faith. And they were the best-schooled soldiers in the west. High Crag’s decision to accept or reject a commission often made or broke the would-be employer’s cause without blows being struck.
There were suspicions, among princes, that the Citadel—High Crag’s heart, whence the retired generals ruled—was shaping destiny to its own dream.
Ragnarson entertained those suspicions himself—especially when he received pressure to extend the regiment posted to Kavelin.
Ragnarson had, on several occasions, tried to convince the Guild factors that his little state just couldn’t afford the protection. Kavelin remained heavily indebted from the civil war. He argued that only low-interest loans and outright grants from Itaskia were keeping the kingdom above water. If El Murid died or were overthrown, that aid would end. Itaskia would lose its need for a buffer on the borders of Hammad al Nakir.
Following the inevitable bitter argument with Balfour, Bragi spoke to the Thing, doing his best to shuffle his three hats without favoring any one. Still, as chief of the armed forces, he concentrated on an appropriations measure.
The bill was for the maintenance of the Mercenary regiment. The parliament supported its hire even less enthusiastically than Ragnarson.
Such matters, and personal problems, distracted him so much during subsequent months that he took little notice of the enduring absence of his fat friend, whom he had instructed to disappear, so to speak, anyway.
His immediate goal, Mocker decided, had to be Sedlmayr. Kavelin’s second largest city nestled between the breasts of the Kapenrungs within days of Haroun’s primary camps. He would make inquiries there, alerting Haroun’s agents to his presence. Their response would dictate his latter activities.
There were a dozen moving camps within fifty miles. He might end up wandering from one to another till he located Haroun.
The rooftops of Vorgreberg had just dipped behind the horizon when he heard the clop-clop of a faster horse coming up behind him. He glanced back. Another lone rider.
He slowed, allowing the rider to catch up. “Hail, friend met upon trail.”
The man smiled, replied in kind, and thereafter they rode together, chance-met companions sharing a day’s conversation to ease the rigors of the journey. The traveler said he was Sir Keren of Sincic, a Nordmen knight southbound on personal business.
Mocker missed the signs. He had taken Bragi at his word. No danger in the mission. He didn’t catch a whiff of peril.
Until the four ambushers sprang from the forest a half day further south.
The knight downed him with a blow from behind as he slew a second bushwhacker with a sword almost too swift to follow. Half-conscious, he mumbled as they bound him, “Woe! Am getting old. Feeble in head. Trusting stranger. What kind fool you, idiot Mocker? Deserve whatever happens, absolute.”
The survivors taunted him, and beat him mercilessly. Mocker marked the little one with the eye-patch. He would undergo the most exquisite tortures after the tables turned.
Mocker didn’t doubt that they would. His past justified that optimism.
After dark, following back-ways and forest trails, his captors took him southeastward, into the province of Uhlmansiek. So confident were they that they didn’t bother concealing anything from him.
“A friend of mine,” said the knight, “Habibullah the ambassador, sent us.”
“Is a puzzlement. Self, profess bambizoolment. Met same two nights passing, speaking once to same, maybeso. Self, am wondering why same wants inconsequential—though ponderous, admit—self snapped up like slave by second-class thugs pretending to entitlement?”
Sir Keren laughed. “But you’
ve met before. A long time ago. You gutted him and left him for dead the night you kidnapped El Murid’s daughter.”
That put a nasty complexion on the matter. Mocker felt a new, deeper fear. Now he knew his destination.
They would have a very special, very painful welcome for him at Al Rhemish.
But Fate was to deprive him of his visit to the Most Holy Mrazkim Shrines. They were somewhere in the Uhlmansiek Kapenrungs when it happened.
They rounded a bend. Two horsemen blocked their path. One was Guild Colonel Balfour, the second an equally hard and scarred Mercenary battalion chieftain. Mocker remembered both from the Victory Day celebration.
“Hai!” he cried, for, if Sir Keren had made any mistake at all, it had been leaving him ungagged. “Rescue on hand. Poor old fat fool not forgotten…” The little fellow with an eye missing belted him in the mouth.
Sir Keren’s rogues were old hands. Despite his circumstances, Mocker found himself admiring their professionalism. They spread out, three against two. There was no question of a parley.
The currents of intrigue ran deep.
The one-eyed man moved suddenly, a split second after Sir Keren and his comrade launched their attack. His blade found a narrow gap below the rim of Sir Keren’s helmet.
Balfour’s companion died at the same moment, struck down by Sir Keren’s companion. Balfour himself barely managed to survive till the one-eye skewered the remaining man from behind.
Mocker’s glee soon became tempered by a suspicion that his rescue wasn’t what it seemed. It might, in fact, be no rescue at all. He seized the best chance he saw.
Having long ago slipped his bonds, he wheeled his mount and took off.
They must be ignorant of his past, he reflected as forest flew past. Otherwise they would’ve taken precautions. Escape tricks were one way he had of making his meager living.
He managed two hundred yards before the survivors noticed. The chase was on.
It was brief.
Mocker rounded a turn. His mount stopped violently, reared, screamed.
A tall, slim man in black blocked the trail. He wore a golden cat-gargoyle mask finely chased in black, with jeweled eyes and fangs. And while words could describe that mask, they couldn’t convey the dread and revulsion it inspired.
Mocker kicked his mount’s flanks, intending to ride the man down.
The horse screamed and reared again. Mocker tumbled off. Stunned, he rolled in the deep pine needles, muttered, “Woe! Is story of life. Always one more evil, waiting round next bend.” He lay there twitching, pretending injury, fingers probing the pine needles for something useful as a weapon.
Balfour and the one-eyed man arrived. The latter swung down and booted Mocker, then tied him again.
“You nearly failed,” the stranger accused.
Balfour revealed neither fear nor contrition. “They were good. And you’ve got him. That’s what matters. Pay Rico. He’s served us well. He deserves well of us. I’ve got to get back to Vorgreberg.”
“No.”
Balfour slapped his hilt. “My weapon is faster than yours.” He drew the blade a foot from its scabbard. “If we can’t deal honorably amongst ourselves, then our failure is inevitable.”
The man in black bowed slightly. “Well said. I simply meant that it wouldn’t be wise for you to return. We’ve made too much commotion here. Eyes have seen. The men of the woods, the Marena Dimura, are watching. It would be impossible to track all the witnesses. It’ll be simpler for you to disappear.”
Balfour drew his blade another foot. Rico, unsure what was happening, moved to where he could attack from the side.
The thin man carefully raised his hands. “No. No. As you say, there must be trust. There must be a mutual concern. Else how can we convert others to our cause?”
Balfour nodded, but didn’t relax.
Mocker listened, and through hooded eyes observed. His heart pounded. What dread had befallen him? And why?
“Rico,” the stranger said, “Take this. It’s gold.” He offered a bag.
The one-eyed man glanced at Balfour, took the sack, looked inside. “He’s right. Maybe thirty pieces. Itaskian. Iwa Skolovdan.”
“That should suffice till the moves have begun and it’s safe for you to return,” said the masked man.
Balfour sheathed his weapon. “All right. I know a place where no one could find us. Where they wouldn’t think of looking. You need help with him?” He nudged Mocker with a toe.
The fat man could feel the wicked grin behind that hideous mask. “That one? That little toad? No. Go on, before his friends hear the news.”
“Rico, come on.”
After Balfour and Rico had departed, the tall man stood over Mocker, considering.
Mocker, being Mocker, had to try, even knowing it futile.
He kicked.
The tall man hopped his leg with disdainful ease, reached, touched…
Mocker’s universe shrank to a point of light which, after a momentary brightness, died. After that he was lost, and time ceased to have meaning.
F
OUR:
S
PRING, 1011 AFE
I
NTIMATIONS
Ragnarson dismounted, dropped his reins over a low branch. “Why don’t you guys join me?” he asked as he seated himself against an oak. A cool breeze whispered through the Gudbrandsdal Forest, a Royal Preserve just over the western boundary of the Siege of Vorgreberg. “It’s restful here.”
He narrowed his eyes to slits, peered at the sun, which broke through momentary gaps in the foliage.
Turran, Valther, Blackfang, Kildragon, and Ragnarson’s secretary, a scholar from Hellin Daimiel named Derel Prataxis, dismounted. Valther lay down on his belly in new grass, a strand of green trailing from between his teeth. Ragnarson’s foster brother, Blackfang, began snoring in seconds.
This had begun as a boar hunt. Beaters were out trying to kick up game. Other parties were on either flank, several hundred yards away. But Bragi had left the capital only to escape its pressures. The others understood.
“Sometimes,” Ragnarson mused, minutes later, “I think we were better off back when our only problem was our next meal.”
Kildragon, a lean, hard brunet, nodded. “It had its good points. We didn’t have to worry about anybody else.”
Ragnarson waved a hand in an uncertain gesture, reflecting his inner turmoil. “It’s peaceful out here. No distractions.”
Kildragon stretched a leg, prodded Blackfang.
“Uhn? What’s happening?”
“That’s it,” said Bragi. “Something.” Peace had reigned so long that the first ripples, subtle though they were, had brought him worriedly alert. His companions, too, sensed it.
Valther grumbled, “I can’t put my finger on it.”
Everyday life in Vorgreberg had begun showing little stutters, little stumbles. A general uneasiness haunted everyone, from the Palace to the slums.
There was just one identifiable cause. The Queen’s indisposition. But Bragi wasn’t telling anyone anything about that. Not even his brother.
“Something’s happening,” Ragnarson insisted. Prataxis glanced his way, shook his head gently, resumed scribbling.
The scholars of Hellin Daimiel took subservient posts as a means of obtaining primary source material for their great theses. Prataxis was a historian of the Lesser Kingdoms. He kept intimate accounts of the events surrounding the man he served. Someday, when he returned to the Rebsamen, he would write the definitive history of Kavelin during Ragnarson’s tenure.
“Something is piling up,” Bragi continued. “Quietly, out of sight. Wait!”
He gestured for silence. One by one, the others saw why. A bold chipmunk had come to look them over. As time passed and the little rascal saw no threat, he sneaked closer. Then closer still.
Those five hard men, those battered swords, veterans of some of the grimmest bloodlettings that world had ever seen, watched the animal bemuse
dly. And Prataxis watched them. His pen moved quietly as he noted that they could take pleasure in simple things, in the natural beauties of creation. It wasn’t a facet of their characters they displayed in the theater of the Palace. The Palace was a cruel stage, never allowing its actors to shed their roles.
The chipmunk finally grew bored, scampered away.
“If there was anything to reincarnation, I wouldn’t mind being a chipmunk next time around,” Turran observed. “Except for owls, foxes, hawks, and like that.”
“There’s always predators,” Blackfang replied. “Me, I’m satisfied here on top of the pile. Us two-leggers, we’re Number One. Don’t nothing chomp on us. Except us.”
“Haaken, when did you take up philosophizing?” Bragi asked. His foster brother was a taciturn, stolid man whose outstanding characteristic was his absolute dependability.
“Philosophizing? Don’t take no genius to tell that you’re in the top spot being people. You can always yell and get a bunch of guys to gang up on any critter that’s giving you trouble. How come there’s no wolves or lions in these parts anymore? They all went to Ipopotam for the season?”
“My friend,” said Prataxis, “you strip it to its bones, but it remains a philosophical point.”
Blackfang regarded the scholar narrowly, not sure he hadn’t been mocked. His old soldier’s anti-intellectual stance was a point of pride.
“We can’t get away from it,” said Ragnarson. “But the quiet may help us think. The subject at hand, my friends. What’s happening?”
Valther spat his blade of grass. While searching for another, he replied, “People are getting nervous. The only thing I know, that’s concrete, is that they’re worried because Fiana has locked herself up at Karak Strabger. If she dies…”
“I know. Another civil war.”
“Can’t you get her to come back?”
“Not till she’s recovered.” Bragi examined each face. Did they suspect?
