by Glen Cook
"Scanga heads my second faction. Him and the guy who shot off his mouth about the witch."
"Tetrault. Arnd Tetrault. He has a reputation as a hothead and troublemaker. Kargus has only been King for a couple of years. He's been trying to break the old cycle of constant skirmishing over rich cities and counties. Tetrault has been more harm than help."
Rogala silenced him. "I don't need to know all that. Two more. The Empire and the Brotherhood. The Blue faction of the Brotherhood sides with the Emperor. Part sides with Mulenex. Part looked like it didn't want anything to do with anybody."
"The spokesman for the Blues was Bogdan Ellebracht. He's related to Emperor Elgar, and he's tight with Misplaer and Eldracher. I can't tell you much about the Yellow, Green or White Orders, except that they claim to be what the Brotherhood was really all about when it was founded."
"Son, you're proving a favorite point of mine."
"What's that?"
"That everybody knows more about everything than they think they know. I have a pretty good picture of the lineups now. Motives . . . . They're still a little shadowy. The trouble with trying to map them is, most people don't really know what they want themselves."
"What do you mean?"
"Think about it. Even when you think you know why you're doing something, is that always the real reason? Is that the reason you admit? No. Not very often. Here. What about the old man? The Imperial soldier. I have a feeling the Empire is going to become very important before we're done."
"I didn't hear anybody say who he is. He's not the Emperor, though. Elgar is supposed to be so fat he can't get out of the palace."
"Make a guess."
Gathrid drew a blank. He could not recall Plauen having talked much about the modern Empire, except to label it a weakling, lost in fantasies of its past, battling for life in a hostile age, constantly stalked by hostile intrigues.
"The ones to watch are him and Mulenex," the dwarf mused. "Mulenex is ambitious, but only in a small-minded, predictable way. Dangerous only if you don't keep one eye on your back. The other, though . . . I couldn't read him at all."
Rogala's head jerked up. "What's that?" His ears almost wriggled. He whispered, "Get the Sword."
"What is it?"
Rogala tapped his ear.
Then Gathrid heard the stealthy feet, too. The tent was surrounded. Men were closing in.
Someone cut a rope. The tent began to topple. Gathrid swept Daubendiek round in wild strokes that ripped fabric away, negating the trap. He attacked out of the ruin. Two lives fed the Great Sword. Other attackers fled.
"Short and sweet," Rogala said. "That's the way I like it. You're learning, boy. Got any idea who sent them?"
"In broad daylight." The sun stood directly overhead. "No. They didn't know. What should I do? Where are you?" Rogala had disappeared. The youth saw flickers of hairiness between tents as the dwarf dogged the fleeing assassins.
Ignoring bystanders, Gathrid dragged the bodies together, then attacked the apparently vain task of restoring the tent. He kept a wary eye out for would-be plunderers. He wanted to examine those corpses before anyone else touched them.
I'm starting to think like Theis, he thought. Always suspicious.
The jangle of panoplies approached. He turned toward the sound. And smiled puzzledly. The Emperor's man had come visiting.
He would have expected Mulenex first.
The crowd evaporated. Gathrid turned to the bodies. He doubted they would tell him anything, but a search had to be made.
His doubts were well-founded. Each man carried gold minted in Bilgoraj, but that told him only that they had been paid exceedingly well, not who their paymaster was. Only a fool would have paid them in self-damning coin.
"Trouble, son?" the Imperial officer asked.
Gathrid glanced up, looked around. Imperial soldiers surrounded him, facing outward. Protecting him? Or? . . . "Only for these two." He was becoming accustomed to his role. "Rogues from Torun, disguised as soldiers."
"What happened?"
Gathrid sketched the story.
"So. It's begun. They're after the blade already. Rather sudden, eh?"
"They were here on retainer," Gathrid said, retrieving snatches of their memories. "They expected to be used in an assassination attempt, but not this one. As to what they expected to accomplish with me . . . I don't know." They had not known that themselves. Their leader may have, but he was one of those who had gotten away. "Could it be they were sent to get Rogala out of the way so somebody could talk to me alone?" He locked gazes with the old soldier, could not tell if he had hit the mark. The man had a face of stone.
He did not believe his suggestion. His had been a random bolt loosed to see what might flush from the brush.
"I know whom you represent," Gathrid said. "But your identity has escaped me so far."
"Yedon Hildreth. Count Cuneo. Commander of the Guards Oldani and Chief of the Imperial General Staff."
"Ah. I should have guessed, shouldn't I? The former mercenary. Battle of Avenevoli, and so forth. You're a Count now? You've done well for yourself. Yes, I should have guessed." Yedon Hildreth was the most widely known Imperial soldier, and a man with a hard reputation. Gathrid was astonished by his own temerity. The Sword was making him bold. "Yes. Who else would the Emperor have sent?"
"The Imperium rewards those who serve it with trust." Hildreth showed the same humor as during Mulenex's discomfiture. Gathrid had an unpleasant suspicion the man was divining his thoughts.
Hildreth's reputation made him appear capable of the maneuver Gathrid had suggested. But he would not fling assassins into the breeze, the way Gerdes Mulenex might. He would be careful and cunning. He would do nothing that could be laid at the Emperor's door. He was said to be Elgar's, heart and soul, and a devout advocate of Imperial resurrection. He was believed by many to be Elgar's chosen successor.
The Imperial crown did not pass down patrilineally. Since time immemorial Emperors had chosen their successors from among their most able subjects, usually with the consensus of the people of Sartain. When the latter did not accept the choice, the Imperial capital would rock with civil strife till some strongman elected himself and squelched the rioting.
"Now we know who I am," Hildreth said. He chuckled as if at a weak joke. "So tell me, who are you? What are you?"
"Sir?"
"Look at the situation from another viewpoint, son. You came out of a land under Ventimiglian dominion. You bear a blade that should have stayed buried. We don't have the slightest guarantee that you're not an agent of Ahlert. That little show at the border could have been staged."
"But . . . . " On second reflection, Gathrid saw Hildreth's point. They did have nothing but his word. His and Rogala's, and for ages Rogala's had been worth nothing.
Hildreth continued, "I accept you at face value, proof or no. But does that make any difference? Not really. Your show in council only betrayed your essential ignorance of what's really going on west of Gudermuth. Obviously, you see politics only at its most primitive level. You dared chastise Kings and mock princes of the Brotherhood without knowing what you were talking about. That worries me."
"Sir?"
"It makes me wonder how wise you are, son. About whether or not you're in the dwarf's thrall. Are you another Grellner? Another Tureck Aarant?"
"I'm what you see, Count. Becoming Swordbearer wasn't my idea. Rogala didn't like it much either. In fact, he was more disappointed by the Sword's choice than I was. Yes, I'm naive. I wasn't trained for this. I didn't plan to take up the Great Sword."
"Neither did Tureck Aarant."
"I repudiate the paths of Grellner and Aarant, Count. Yes, I know the old tales. My path will remain honorable." A small weakness, a touch of his fear, leaked through as he added, "If Suchara wills it."
"That's the catch, isn't it?"
"It looks like it from here."
"You're a likable sort, it seems. I'll give you that. A word, then. To you. To Rogal
a. To Suchara herself if she can be bothered. The Imperium won't let itself be ruined again."
Gathrid smiled. He forbore observing that Anderle had no power to threaten. He said only, "Let's not become enemies over possibilities, Count. We all have too many realities to face right now. Don't worry about Daubendiek."
"But I have to, son. The thing has a cruel history."
Gathrid hoped he concealed his feelings as he remarked, "So it does. I hope it's less so this time."
"And the Empire?"
"A dream that slumbers. I don't believe it'll waken in my lifetime. I don't really care either way. Gudermuth is my main concern." The youth congratulated himself for having fashioned a sound noncommittal answer.
"Good enough. For now." Hildreth stared piercingly, then led his retainers back toward the center of camp.
Rogala appeared a moment after the Count departed. "Well done, lad. You're learning fast."
"I thought . . . "
"I turned back."
"Why didn't you? . . . "
"Wanted to watch you handle yourself. You did fine. Get some sleep. We'll have to be on our toes tonight. They'll try again. Once isn't enough to convince that sort. Here. Let me take care of this mess. That's what an esquire is for."
The sun had not drifted far westward when Gathrid was wakened by an argument. One voice was Rogala's. The other was unfamiliar, and spoke too softly to be understood. When the dwarf slipped inside their resurrected tent, the youth asked, "What was all that?"
"Messenger from Gerdes Mulenex. Old fatty summoned us to his presence. Ordered us to attend him. Whatever you say about him, he's not short on nerve."
"What did you say?"
"Told him he knows where to find us if he wants to talk."
"Sounded like you said more than that."
Rogala laughed. "A little. The man's attitude irritated me. The others were at least polite."
"Others?"
"Sure. Heard from almost everybody in camp. Some of them had some interesting propositions. But they all had nothing but their own gain in mind. You'd think they never heard of Ventimiglia."
"Depressing, isn't it?"
"There are times when I think the gods ought to scrub the whole human race and start over. Go lie down. Night will get here all too soon."
Chapter Seven
Gudermuth
A gentle hand wakened Gathrid. Another covered his mouth. "It's time," Rogala whispered.
It was dark. He had been more tired than he had thought. His haunt had not bothered him.
How did Rogala manage?
They crept from the battered tent, concealed themselves in a firewood dump nearby. The camp was still. The fires had burned low. Crickets and night birds called against the darkness. Scurrying clouds masked the moon.
Gathrid reflected on himself while he waited. He had changed. He had grown, had gained self-confidence. He had begun looking for ways to seize the helm of his own destiny.
For instance, he had decided to do something about Anyeck. And he still owed Nieroda. There would be an accounting with Ahlert's Dark Champion.
Anyeck puzzled him. He thought he knew his sister. He believed himself free of illusions about her character. He had been her confidant. How could she have possessed the Power and have kept it hidden?
Maybe he was wrong. Maybe he had jumped to a conclusion only because he thought he knew her. She could not have kept the Power hidden. She was too greedy and compulsive not to have used it. Wasn't she?
Who else could the witch be, then?
His thoughts drifted back to childhood years, to silly, blind years of games and little pleasures, when the most difficult moral dilemmas had been the decision whether or not to tell the truth when a question about Anyeck's conduct arose . . . . There had been a noncom in the garrison who had informed their father of one of her misdeeds. Gathrid had forgotten the exact circumstances. He did recall that the soldier had, immediately afterward, been stricken dumb. No one had been able to explain. Then there had been the time . . .
"Here they come," Rogala whispered.
Gathrid chivied himself out of the wilderness of memory, peered round the woodpile. Men with drawn swords were stealing toward their tent. He took the Sword's grip . . . .
Rogala's touch stayed him. "Let them be disappointed. Let's see who they run to."
"Good thinking."
Finding no prey, the assassins withdrew. They did not panic, nor did they forget to cover their backtrail.
The army had begun stirring. It was to move out at dawn. Tracking the assassins proved difficult. A series of interlocutors made tracing the heart of responsibility almost impossible.
"Levels," Rogala muttered. "He's no fool."
Between them they managed to maintain contact. The trail ended at the pavilion belonging to Gerdes Mulenex.
"Tit for tat," Rogala promised solemnly. "But we have to wait our turn. We've got to move with the army."
"Thought we were letting them fight their own battles."
"We are. But I want to be there to watch."
The camp crawled like an anthill as the noncoms turned their men out early.
Gathrid's homeland had changed. The smoke had cleared. The birds sang across the countryside, celebrating the gods knew what. The few Ventimiglians he and Rogala saw were hurrying toward Katich. The Mindak was gathering his forces outside the capital's walls. "He knows the Alliance is moving," Rogala averred.
He and Gathrid did not move with the army itself, but parallel to it, within a few hours' ride. They avoided Ventimiglians, Alliance patrols, and all but one group of refugees. Those they quizzed. They learned that Ahlert had bragged he would reduce Katich and destroy the Alliance army the same day.
"That much arrogance might become its own reward," Rogala observed as they rode off to well-wishes from folk with whom Gathrid had shared his meager supplies. "A man makes brags, he'd better deliver. A couple failures and some ambitious general will take a shot at snatching his job."
"He could have the power and know it."
"Of course he could. He obviously thinks he does. But a wise man does his deed, then he brags. There's less chance of looking a fool that way. What's kept him out of Katich so long? A quick victory there might have awed the Alliance into backing down again."
Gathrid returned to an argument they had been pursuing since he had revealed his suspicions about Anyeck. "Theis, I meant it about stopping my sister. It's something I have to do. I don't care if it is free help for the Alliance."
He kept bouncing back and forth between that and his question about what profit he could expect for his misery as Swordbearer. Rogala answered curtly when he would talk at all. At that moment he entered his sour and silent phase again.
"All right. All right. A man does what he has to. Do what you want. You won't listen to me, and I'm getting sick of listening to you."
Gathrid grinned. The dwarf's scolding reminded him of his mother's . . . . The memory left a bitter taste. They had been close, he and she.
Vengeance was necessary.
Alliance patrols became more numerous. They saw more bands of Ventimiglians. Occasionally they came across the wrack of skirmishes, then a field where a small, fierce battle had been lost by Malmbergetan infantry.
"One of the Toal was here," Gathrid said. A trail of corpses marked its path through the action. "No ordinary blade would have cut that deep."
His Toal-shadow, lurking at the edge of consciousness, became excited by the supposed proximity of its fellow.
Rogala shrugged. "There hasn't been much sorcery so far. I find that interesting."
"So far. Maybe it hasn't been needed. Weren't we here before?"
"Yes. There's a plain the other side of that ridgeline. I'd guess they'll meet there. A set battle. Lots of blood. Victory to the stubbornest. No strategy, no finesse. The only soldier I saw in that lot was Count Cuneo, and they gave him command in name only. They'll interfere all the way down the line. Politicians!" He
snorted, shook his head, growled. "If war is too important to trust to generals, then policy is too important to trust to politicians.
"Well, that's neither here nor there. Right now I want a look from yon hill. Katich is only ten miles on."
"Where's the desolation?"
"You'll see plenty from the hill."
Rogala, Gathrid reflected, had a remarkable memory. "Has the land changed much? I mean, since the Imperium?"
