A Cruel Wind

by Glen Cook

  “Bet the Lord caused an uproar.”

  The woman laughed musically. “They’re still petrified, thinking Shinsan’s coming again. They’re chasing their tails. They don’t know there’s a new order here, that Ehelebe has come.”

  “What happened?”

  “The one called Haroun got away. Lord Chin punished the others.”

  “Bin Yousif would. He’s slippery.”

  “He can’t run forever. Ehelebe has come. None shall escape the justice of the Pracchia.”

  Even in his dazed state Mocker thought that a little preachy. Perhaps the woman was a fanatic or recent convert.

  “What were they trying to do?”

  “Lord Chin thinks they were preparing him as a weapon against Shinsan. The man called Ragnarson is paranoid about it… Get that cotton and the bottle. He’s waking up.”

  People stirred. Mocker smelled something sweet.

  “How much longer?”

  “A month, maybe. The Lord…”

  There were more, shorter episodes, quickly ended by sharp-eyed physicians and nurses.

  Then came the day when they didn’t put him back under.

  “Can you hear me?”

  “Yes,” he whispered. His throat was dry and raw, as if his screams had never stopped.

  “Keep your eyes closed. We’re going to remove the bandages. Ming, get the curtain. He hasn’t used his eyes for months.”

  Hands ran over his face. The cold back edge of a scalpel dented his cheek. “Don’t move. I have to cut this.”

  The cloth slipped away. “Now. Open your eyes slowly.”

  For a while he saw nothing but bright and dim. Then shapes formed and, finally, vaguely discernible faces developed. Three men and five women surrounded him. They seemed anxious. One man’s mouth became a hole. Mocker heard, “Can you see anything?”

  “Yes.”

  A hand appeared. “How many fingers?”

  “Three.”

  The women tittered.

  “Good. Inform Lord Chin. We’ve succeeded.”

  They ran more simple tests, and freed him from the restraints. The speaker told him, “You’ve been laid up a long time. Don’t try getting up without help. We’ll start exercising you later.”

  The group fell silent when the Tervola entered. A man in black, wearing a mask. Black on gold, rubies, the cat-gargoyle.

  Mocker shrank away.

  A soft laugh escaped the mask. The Tervola sat on his bed, folding the sheet back. “Good. The burns healed perfectly. There won’t be much scarring.”

  Mocker stared at the mask. This one had jewels where the other had been open.

  “How…?”

  “My fault. I apologize. I miscalculated. Your enemy controlled more power than I expected. He proved difficult. You were burned in the process. For that I offer my deepest apologies. You had suffered enough. A year of torture. Amazing. You’re a strong man. Few of my colleagues could have endured.”

  “Self, being short of memories of interval incarcelated, am wondering, question being, where is same? Self.”

  “Ehelebe.” The man examined Mocker’s eyes. Mocker noted that he used his left hand. The Man in the Mask had been right-handed. Haroun was right-handed.

  “Same being? Have never heard of same. Is where?”

  “Ehelebe isn’t a ‘where.’ It’s a state of mind. I’m not being intentionally obscure. It’s a nation without a homeland, its citizens scattered everywhere. We call ourselves The Hidden Kingdom. Wherever there are enough of us, we maintain a secret place to gather, to take refuge, to be at peace. This’s such a place.”

  “Being same system known for cult of Methregul.”

  Methregul was a demon-god of the jungle kingdom of Gundgatchcatil. He had a small, secret, vicious following. The cult was outlawed throughout the western kingdoms. Its bloody altars were well hidden. Today it was a dying creed. It had been more widespread in Mocker’s youth.

  “The structures are similar. But the ends are as different as day and night. Our goal is to expunge such darknesses from the world.”

  Mocker was regaining his wits quickly. “Self, self says to self, what is? Tervola saying same has mission to combat evil?” He laughed. “High madness.”

  “Perhaps. But who better to alter the direction of Shinsan? You’d be surprised who some of us are. I often am myself, when my work brings me into contact with brothers previously unknown to me.”

  Mocker wanted to ask why he had never heard of the organization. Old habit stifled the question. He would wait and watch. He needed data, and data not volunteered, on which to base conclusions.

  “You’ve recovered remarkably. With a little wizardry and a lot of care from these good people.” He indicated those watching. “You’ll see when you get to the mirror. They repaired most of the damage. The bones and the flesh are fine now. You’ll have a few scars, but they’ll be hidden by your clothing. The only worry left is how you are up here.” He tapped Mocker’s head.

  “Why?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Have been told self was saved from wickedry. Am not ungrateful. But many persons labor many hours to repair ravishes—ravages?—of mad cruelty of captor who never says why self was imprisoned. Am wondering.”

  “Ah. Yes.

  My

  motives. No, they aren’t entirely altruistic. I hope I can convince you to commit your talents to our cause.”

  Mocker sniffed. “Talent? Self? Lurker in dusty streets unable to support wife and child? Of morals only wafer thickness better than Tervola class? Of gambler habit capable of possessing self to point of self-destruction?”

  “Exactly. You’re a man. Men are weak. Ehelebe takes our weaknesses and makes them strengths serving Mankind.”

  Mocker wished he could see the man’s face. His voice and apparent honesty were too disarming. He began reviewing everything that had happened from the moment he had received Bragi’s invitation to the Victory Day celebration.

  His mind froze on Nepanthe. What was she doing? Had she given up on him? What would become of her if Bragi and Haroun really were in cahoots against him?

  “No. Self, have had gutsful of politics in time past. Year in dungeon with torturer for lover is final convincer.”

  “Sleep on it. We’ll start your therapy when you wake up.” Chin led everyone out.

  Mocker tried to sleep, and did doze off and on. A few hours later, a slight sound brought him to the alert.

  He cracked one eyelid.

  His visitor was a bent old man.

  Is Old Meddler himself, Mocker thought. Is infamous Star Rider.

  The Star Rider’s legends were as old as the world, older, even, than those of the Old Man of the Mountain, whom Mocker suspected was but the Star Rider’s catspaw. Nobody seemed to know who this man was, or what motivated him. He moved in his own ways, keeping his own counsel. He was more powerful than the masters of Shinsan, or Varthlokkur. Bragi claimed he had made it impossible for sorcery to influence the course of battle at Baxendala. He meddled in human affairs, from behind the scenes, for no discernible reason. He was the subject of an entire speculative library at Hellin Daimiel’s great Rebsamen university. He had become a mystery second only to the mystery of life itself.

  So what the hell was he doing here?

  Once is accident, twice coincidence. Three times means something is going on. This was Mocker’s third encounter with the man.

  He continued pretending sleep.

  The bent old man stayed only seconds, considering him, then departed.

  Was the Star Rider a sneak visitor? Or was he involved in this Ehelebe business? In times past, insofar as Mocker knew, the man had always meddled on behalf of the people Mocker considered the “good guys”…

  Twice before the Star Rider had entered his life. Twice he had benefited. It was an argument favoring Lord Chin—assuming the old man wasn’t here screwing up the clockwork.

  A few weeks later, once he was able to get around a
nd do some spying. Mocker overheard someone informing Chin that Bragi had just dumped Nepanthe and Ethrian into the old dungeons beneath Castle Krief.

  He returned to his quarters and thought. The Star Rider had saved his life years ago. Varthlokkur had told him the man wouldn’t have bothered if he hadn’t had use for him in some later scheme. Was this the payoff?

  Of one thing there was no doubt. Bragi and Haroun weren’t going to get away with a thing.

  N

  INE:

  S

  PRING, 1011 AFE

  A

  S

  HORT

  J

  OURNEY

  “Damned saddles get hard,” Oryon grumbled. He, Bragi, Ragnar, and the wizard had just ridden up to the Bell and Bow Inn.

  “Change of horses,” Ragnarson told the innkeeper. “On the Crown Post.” He showed an authority he had written himself. “We’re over halfway there, Colonel. Twenty more miles. We won’t make it till after dark, though… In time?” he asked Varthlokkur.

  “You ready to tell me what this’s about?” Oryon demanded. Ragnarson had told him nothing.

  “Trust me, Colonel.”

  Oryon was a short, wide bull of a man Bragi had first met during the El Murid Wars. He hadn’t liked the man then, and felt no better disposed toward him now. But Oryon was a stubborn, competent soldier known for his brutal directness in combat. He led his troops from the front, straight ahead, and had never been known to back down without orders. He made a wicked enemy.

  Oryon neither looked it, nor acted it, but he wasn’t unsubtle. Dullards didn’t become Guild Colonels. He realized that a crisis was afoot, that Ragnarson felt compelled to separate him from his command.

  Why?

  “Something to eat, landlord. No. No ale. Not with my kidneys. Still got to make Baxendala tonight.”

  “Papa, do we have to?” Ragnar asked. “I’m dead.”

  “You’ll get a lot tireder, Ragnar.”

  “Uhn,” Varthlokkur grunted. “You know how long it’s been since I’ve ridden?”

  The innkeeper mumbled, “Five minutes, sirs.”

  Only Oryon seated himself immediately. Despite his complaint, he was more accustomed to saddles than the others. Oryon was, as he liked to remind Ragnarson, a field soldier.

  Varthlokkur took up a tiny salt cellar. “A trusting man, our host.” Salt was precious in eastern Kavelin.

  Varthlokkur twitched his fingers. The cellar disappeared.

  It was a trick of the sort Mocker might have used. Pure prestidigitation. But even the High Sorcery was half lie.

  Ragnarson suspected the wizard was making a point. He missed it himself. And Ragnar merely remarked, “Hey, that was neat, Mr. Eldred. Would you teach me?”

  Varthlokkur smiled thinly. “All right, Red.” His fingers danced in false signs. He said a few false words. The salt reappeared. “It’s not as simple as it looks.” The salt disappeared. “You need supple fingers.”

  “He doesn’t have the patience,” Bragi remarked. “Unless he can learn it in one lesson. I gave him a magic kit before.”

  “I’ll do it slowly once, Red. Watch closely.” He did it. “All right, what did I do? Where is it?”

  Ragnar made a face, scratched his forehead. “I still missed it.”

  “In your other hand,” Oryon grumbled.

  “Oh?” Varthlokkur opened the hand. “But there’s nothing here either—except an old gold piece. Now where did that come from?”

  Oryon stared at the likeness on that coin, then met Varthlokkur’s eye. He had grown very pale.

  “Actually, if you’ll check behind the boy’s ear, and dig through the dirt…” He reached. “What? That’s not it.” He dropped an agate onto the table. Then a length of string, a rusty horseshoe nail, several copper coins, and, finally, the salt. “What a mess. Don’t you ever wash there?”

  Ragnar frantically checked the purse he wore on his belt. “How’d you do that?”

  “Conjuring. It’s all conjuring. Ah, our host is prompt. Sir, I’ll recommend you to my friends.”

  “And thank you, sir. We try to please.”

  Ragnarson guffawed. Somber Oryon smiled.

  “Sirs?” asked the innkeeper.

  “You don’t know his friends,” Oryon replied. Bragi read concern, even dread, in the taut lines the Colonel strove to banish from his face.

  The innkeeper set out a good meal. It was their first since leaving Vorgreberg.

  “Colonel,” Ragnarson said, after the edge was off his hunger and he was down to stoking the fires against the future. “Any chance we can speak honestly? I’d like to open up if you will, too.”

  “I don’t understand, Marshall.”

  “Neither do I. That’s why I’m asking.”

  “What’s this about, then? Why’d you drag me out here? To Baxendala? To see the Queen?”

  “I brought you because I want you away from your command if she dies while I’m there. I don’t know what you’d do if it happened and you heard before I could get back to Vorgreberg. The Guild hasn’t given me much cause to trust it lately.”

  “You think I’d stage a coup?”

  “Maybe. There’s got to be a reason why High Crag keeps pressuring me to keep your regiment. They know we can’t afford it. So maybe the old boys in the Citadel want a gang on hand next time the Crown goes up for grabs. I know you have your standing orders. And I’ll bet they cover what to do if the Queen dies.”

  “That’s true.” Oryon gave nothing away there. It took no genius to reason it out.

  “You going to tell me what they are?”

  “No. You know better. You’re a Guildsman. Or were.”

  “Once. I’m Marshall of Kavelin now. A contract. I respect mine. The Guild generally honors its. That’s why I wonder— One word. Wasn’t going to tell you for a while. But this is a good enough time. Your contract won’t be renewed. You’ll have to evacuate after Victory Day.”

  “This’ll cause trouble with High Crag. They feel they have an investment.”

  “It’ll bring them into the open, then. Every king and prince in the west will jump on them, too. High Crag has stepped on a lot of toes lately.”

  “Why would they? The legalities are clear. Failure to fulfill a contract.”

  “How so?”

  “Kavelin owes High Crag almost fifteen thousand nobles. The Citadel doesn’t forgive debts.”

  “So you’ve said during our negotiations. They want payment now? They’ll have it.” He laughed a bellybreaker of a laugh. “About four years ago Prataxis started applying a little creative bookkeeping at Inland Revenue, and some more in Breidenbach, at the Mint. We’ve been squirreling away the nobles, and now we’ll pay you off. Every damned farthing you’ve imagined up.” His smile suddenly disappeared. “You’re going to take your money, sign for it, and get the hell out of my country. The day after Victory Day.”

  “Marshall… Marshall, I think you’re overreacting.” Oryon’s wide, heavy mouth tightened into a little knot. “We shouldn’t be at cross-purposes. Kavelin needs my men.”

  “Maybe. Especially now. But we can’t afford you, and we can’t trust you.”

  “You keep harping on that. What do you want me to admit?”

  “The truth.”

  “You were a Guild Colonel. How much did they tell you?”

  “Nothing.”

  “And you think I’m told more? Once in a while I get a letter. Usually directions for the negotiations. Sometimes maybe a question about what’s happening. Marshall, I’m just a soldier. I just do what I’m told.”

  “Well, I’m telling you. To march. Kavelin’s in for rough times. The signs are there. And I don’t need to be watching you and everybody else, too.”

  “You’re wrong. But I understand.”

  Varthlokkur continued demonstrating his trick to Ragnar while they argued. The wizard occasionally glanced at Oryon. The soldier shivered each time he did.

  “You may not need a regi
ment after all,” Oryon muttered at one point, nodding toward Varthlokkur.

  “Him? I don’t trust him either. We’re just on the same road right now. Innkeeper. What’s the tally here?”

  “For you, Marshall? It’s our pleasure.”

  “Found me out, eh?”

  “I marched with you, sir. In the war. All the way from Lake Berberich to the last battle. I was in the front line at Baxendala, I was. Look.” He bared his chest. “One of them black devils done that, sir. But I’m alive and he’s roasting in Hell. And that’s the way it should be.”

  “Indeed.” Ragnarson didn’t remember the man. But a lot of Wesson peasants had joined his marching columns back then. They had been stout fighters, though unskilled. “And now you prosper. I’m pleased whenever I see my old mates doing well.”

  He often found himself in this situation. He had never learned to be comfortable with it.

  “The whole country, sir. Ten years of peace. Ten years of free trade. Ten years of the Nordmen minding their own business, not whooping round the country tearing up crops and property with their feuds. Marshall, there’s them here that would make you king.”

  “Sir! For whom did we fight?”

  “Oh, aye. That was no sedition, sir. The only complaint could be raised ’gainst Her Highness is she’s never wed and give us an heir. And now these strange comings and goings of a night, and rumors… It worries a man, Marshall, not knowing.”

  “Excuse me,” Ragnarson told his table mates. “Sir, I’ve just had a thought. Something in the kitchen…” He placed his arm round the innkeeper’s shoulders and guided him thither.

  “You whip up something. A dessert treat. Meanwhile, tell me what you don’t know. Tell me the rumors. And about these comings and goings.”

  “Them others?”

  “Not to be trusted. The boy’s all right though. My son. Too bullheaded and big-mouthed, maybe. Gets it from his grandfather. But go on. Rumors.”

  “Tain’t nothing you can rightly finger, see? Not even really a rumor. Just the feeling going round that there’s something wrong. I thought you might ease my mind. Or say what it is so’s I got the chance to be ready.”