Wrath of Kings

by Glen Cook

  Looks were deceiving. Trebilcock was all wire and stubborn endurance. He had carried out several harrowing missions during the Great Eastern Wars. His successes had won him a reputation as a super-agent. Some of the inner circle were more awed by him than were the enemies he watched and hunted.

  “Michael,” Bragi murmured, “are you one of the problems I’m going to face down the road?”

  Trebilcock was one of Ragnarson’s most competent people. He had a strong, fatherly affection for the youth. But Michael was prone to go his own way, within his shadow world. He was an embarrassment occasionally.

  Ragnarson settled at the table. For a while he wandered memories of the events that had led him to this moment, this place, this position. He reiterated his losses…. He shook like a hairy old dog after swimming a creek. Enough of that! A man could go whacky worrying about what he should have done differently.

  “Got to see the kids tonight,” he muttered. “If I don’t come in too sore to drag over there.”

  Michael coaxed his mount out the castle gate. He slouched in the saddle. The drizzle pasted his hair to his head in strings.

  Guardsmen rendered indifferent salutes from the gate house. “That one is a real spook,” one whispered.

  “Looks like he’s late for his own funeral,” another observed. “Who is he?”

  The first shrugged. “One of the King’s people. Don’t see him around much anymore.”

  They would have recognized Trebilcock’s name. His reputation burned into the deep shadows. The belly side of society watched for him over their shoulders. He was tight with the wizard Varthlokkur, whose creature the Unborn looked into the darks of men’s minds. The plotters of great crimes and treasons invariably caught Michael’s eye. Then the pitiless hammer fell.

  Trebilcock had extended himself to create his nasty image.

  Aral Dantice met him on the cobbled way linking the castle with the surrounding city. They turned their horses into the parkland encircling the palace. Cherries and plums were in bloom.

  “Late start this morning,” Michael observed. For years they had ridden the park when they could. Usually they shared the bridle trails with others from the castle. This morning they were alone with the drizzle.

  “Would have been nastier earlier,” Dantice replied.

  They talked out old times and finished gossiping. Now they grew guarded.

  Aral was a squat, wide man in his middle twenties. He looked more street thug than prominent merchant. Before his father’s death he had been more the former than the latter. Since, he had turned his father’s nearly bankrupt caravaneer outfittery around. He had become a major supplier of tack and animals to the Royal Army.

  “I suppose.” Trebilcock swung a hand. His gesture took in their surroundings. “I’d like to redesign this. At the Rebsamen I had this adviser. His hobby was landscaping. Whoever did this didn’t have any imagination. It’s nothing but a damned orchard.”

  Aral looked at him askance.

  “I’d move all these fruit trees out. Scoop out a lake. Make a reflecting pool. Put a line of poplars down each side, yea and yea, to frame the castle. Maybe put some shrubs and flower plantings in front for spring and summer color. See what I mean?”

  Aral smiled. “Be interesting to see what you could do.” He scanned the castle. “You’d either have to knock down Fiana’s Tower or build another one over on the left. To give the palace balance.”

  Trebilcock looked puzzled. “Balance? What do you know about balance?”

  “What’s to know, Mike? Stands to reason, don’t it? You don’t want it to look lopsided. What did he want, anyway?”

  “What did who want?”

  “The King. When he had you stay behind.”

  “You won’t believe it. I still don’t. He wants me to play side to his right point in the Guards’ Captures game this afternoon.”

  Aral studied him, one cheek crinkling questioningly. “Really?” He laughed. “That’s right. It’s the Guards and Panthers today, isn’t it? Battle of the undefeateds. The old fox is trying to sneak in some better players.” Dantice leaned, punched Michael’s biceps. “Put your money on the Panthers, Mike. Charygin Hall recruited the best men money can buy. Nobody will beat them for years.”

  “What’re the odds? Is there a spread?”

  “You can get five to one if you’re stupid enough to bet Guards. Two goal spread. You can get ten to one if you bet the Guards to win.”

  They rode another fifty yards before Trebilcock mused, “Think I’ll have my bankers cover a couple hundred nobles. On the Guards.”

  Dantice and Trebilcock went way back. It was Aral’s opinion that Michael was a fool with money. “What the hell for? It’s your money, and you’ve got more than you could throw away, but why the hell waste it?”

  “Your class chauvinism is showing, Aral. The Guards are undefeated too. Remember who’s on their team when you make your bets. The King don’t believe in losing.”

  Michael felt Dantice studying him. He felt the question in his friend. Had he meant more than he had said?

  “Mike?”

  “Uhm?”

  “You still messing around with those Throyens? I got the feeling he was sniping at you.”

  “Maybe he was. I keep in touch. I don’t want to burn any bridges. Situations change. We might need them next year. What are you into, Aral?”

  “Me? Nothing but the sutler business anymore. I’m not sure why he had me come.”

  Trebilcock nodded. This had become a duel of half-truths and outright evasions. “Maybe he wanted you to pass the real story to your friends. About the Gap maybe opening. So the rumors don’t get too crazy.”

  “That’s all I could figure. How long you going to be in town? I was thinking maybe we could get down to Arsen Street some night. Remember the Fat Man’s? They’ve done the place over. Gone class. Got in some girls from the coast. We could go tear the joint up some night, like old times.”

  “I don’t think I’ve got the energy to keep up anymore, Aral.”

  “Come on, hey? You can’t live forever. Might as well have fun while you can. You’ve got to come out of the shadows sometime.”

  “I’ll be around till Prataxis gets back. I’ll let you know.” They had ridden halfway round the palace. Michael said, “If you did it right, you could lay out lakes in each direction. Like the arms of a cross.”

  Dantice could be infuriatingly practical. He asked, “What are you going to do for fresh water? You’d have to run it in steady, wouldn’t you? Else your lakes would go stagnant or dry up.”

  “Damned! I’m just dreaming out loud, Aral. You want to cut me down with practical, make me tell you who’s going to pay the workmen.”

  “Hey! Mike. I was only joking.”

  “I know. I know. I’m too touchy. My people tell me all the time. I don’t want to come here in the first place, then the King drafts me to play Captures. I hate Captures.”

  “Why didn’t you beg off?”

  Michael just looked at Dantice. That hadn’t occurred to him. The King would not have asked had there been no need.

  “What do you hear out of Hammad al Nakir, Mike? You got anybody reliable down there?”

  The question sounded almost too casual. Trebilcock snapped, “Why?”

  “You are testy, aren’t you? Because I’ve got a long-term arrangement for remounts with one of Megelin’s generals. Because I’ve been hearing whispers about El Murid maybe trying a comeback. They say Megelin hasn’t turned out. They say he’s getting more unpopular every day.”

  “Then your sources are better than mine. All I hear is how the honeymoon is still on. I’ve got to run. I want to get some bets down before I head for the woods. I’m staying at the palace. I’ll be riding mornings. Send a message if you want me to wait on you.”

  Aral smiled. “Don’t forget about the Fat Man’s. I think you’ll be surprised.”

  Michael brushed the rainwater off his forehead. He hated hats. Sometimes
you had to pay for your quirks. “I’ll think about it.”

  Ragnarson was crossing a courtyard to the stables when he spied Varthlokkur atop the castle wall. He shifted course.

  The man was staring at the east as though it might bite. And he’d behaved strangely earlier. “Is it something you can talk about?”

  “What? Not really. It’s nothing concrete. Something in the east. Not entirely with the flavor of Shinsan.”

  “You didn’t mention it this morning.”

  “Nepanthe. She’s lost too much. I wouldn’t want to crucify her with a false hope.”

  “Oh?”

  “It’s Ethrian. He might still be alive.” Ethrian was Nepanthe’s son by her first marriage, lost during the Great Eastern Wars.

  “What? Where is he?” Ragnarson owed his godson a huge debt. A cruel fate had compelled him to slay the boy’s father.

  “It’s just a touch of a feeling I get sometimes. I can’t track it down.”

  Ragnarson babbled questions. The wizard didn’t respond. He thought Bragi overly romanticized his one-time friend, Mocker, and the events surrounding the man’s death. Bragi had had no choice. It had been kill or be killed.

  Ragnarson mused, “We never saw any proof that Ethrian died. Is there anything else?”

  “Anything else?”

  “Something you didn’t want to bring up before. Everybody was hiding from everybody else. Your claim to be preoccupied was unconvincing.”

  Varthlokkur turned slightly, shifting his gaze from the distance to the man. The corners of his eyes crinkled in amusement. “You grow bold. I recall a younger Bragi who shook at the mention of my name.”

  “He didn’t know that even the mighty are vulnerable.”

  “Well said. But don’t bet your life on it.”

  Ragnarson grinned. “I’m going to try this conversation sometime when you’re less in the wizardly mood. When you’re ready to answer questions.” He nodded slightly, left the wizard to his meditations.

  Josiah Gales was a frustrated man. He could not cut the Queen out of her herd of courtly matrons. Even once she was aware of his need she could not disengage herself easily.

  The moment arrived at last. She stepped into a curtained alcove, beckoned. That mocking, tormenting smile danced across her lips. He ducked in after her.

  “What did they talk about, Josiah?” No one else called him Josiah.

  “Practically nothing.”

  “They had to talk about something, didn’t they?”

  “They did. It wasn’t worth me skulking around through a lot of dusty passageways, My Lady. A lot of ‘Hello, how are you, long time no see.’ Some ‘How come Prataxis scored so easy this year.’ A little ‘What the hell is going on in Shinsan these days.’ Then His Majesty sent them on their ways. He says they’ll get together again when Prataxis gets back. He’s got me wondering if maybe he isn’t some suspicious.”

  “He’s always suspicious, Josiah. He’s got good reason.”

  “I mean more than your everyday suspicion. It was something he said.”

  “Which was?”

  “He had Trebilcock wait till the others was gone. Told him to come play Captures with him. That’s when he said it.”

  “Said what?” A wrinkle of frustration danced across the Queen’s brow. She peeped round the curtain. Her flock had not yet missed her.

  “That even the walls have ears.”

  Inger’s smile vanished. “Uhm. That bears thought. Thank you, Josiah.”

  “I’m your slave, Lady.”

  She left the alcove wearing a curious little frown. Her charges would find her a less gracious hostess than before.

  Gales nibbled his lower lip. Had he spoken too boldly? Had he betrayed too much?

  Josiah Gales was a victim of love. It was a hopeless love. There was no chance it would be consummated in any manner more intimate than what had just taken place.

  He had resigned his head to the limits long ago, before Ragnarson ever entered his lady’s life. It was his heart that would not admit there were insuperable barriers between a lady of quality and a middle-aged foot soldier.

  He let imagination run with the moment just fled. Fantasy chided him for not having been sufficiently daring.

  THREE: YEAR 1016 AFE

  CAPTURES

  Kavelin’s king interrupted his ride at Vorgreberg’s cemetery. He had left the city early so he would have time before the game.

  He first visited the mausoleum of the family Krief. They had ruled Kavelin before him. He leaned over the glass-faced sarcophagus of his predecessor and former lover. Queen Fiana’s clay had been cunningly preserved by Varthlokkur’s art.

  “Sleeping beauty,” he whispered to the cool, still form. “When will you waken?” Imagination insisted that her chest was rising and falling slowly. His heart wanted to believe it. His mind could not conquer the lie.

  He had loved her. She had born him a daughter he had hardly known. Little Carolan lay interred nearby. This jealous kingdom had pulled them down….

  There had been fire in their loving. It had been that once in a lifetime perfect physical match, where all the needs and likes had meshed to perfection. The remembered heat of it made him doubt his commitment to Inger now. He was a little afraid to let himself go, to owe this latest woman completely. Fate had a way of striking down everyone for whom he cared.

  He kissed the glass over Fiana’s lips. For an instant imagination supplied a ghost of a smile.

  “Be patient with me, Fiana. I’m doing the best I can.” After a minute, “Trying times are coming. They don’t think I suspect. They think my head is in the clouds. They underestimate me. Like they underestimated you. And I’ll go on letting them think I’m just a dumb soldier till they fall into the pit I’ll dig for them.”

  She seemed to nod her understanding.

  They worried about him in Vorgreberg. He did not come here often, but they thought it strange that he visited the dead at all. They thought it stranger still that he spoke to the dead.

  He let them think what they would. This was one of his away places, his thinking places, his refuges for those moments when he had to be alone.

  He went outside and sat on the moist grass near a freshly filled grave. The rain had stopped. For a time he did nothing but sit and chuck the occasional soggy clod at a nearby headstone. It had begun to add up. To what he did not yet know, but a whisper here, a rumor there, and news of something strange from beyond the mountains…. It all meant something.

  As a boy he had made one passage reeving with his father. They had sailed from Tonderhofn with the ice floes, and had been one of the first dragonships through the Tongues of Fire. A few days into the ocean they had become becalmed. The sea had taken on the look of polished green jade. The crew had been in no mood to man the oars. Mad Ragnar had taken the opportunity to teach his sons a bit of his philosophy.

  “Look around, boys,” said the man called both Mad Ragnar and The Wolf of Draukenbring. “What do you see? The ocean’s beauty? Its peace? Its serenity?”

  Not knowing what was expected, the young Bragi nodded. His brother Haaken refused to go that far.

  “Think of the sea as life.” Ragnar seized a maggoty chunk of the pig they had sacrificed before hazarding the treacherous currents of the Tongues. He drove a spear through it, leaned over the gunwale, swished it through the water. Then he leaned against the ship’s side, meat poised inches above the glassy sea. He waited.

  Soon Bragi saw something moving through the green glass. Another something passed beneath the dragonship. A fin cut the surface fifty yards away.

  Something exploded out of the deep. It took meat, spear, and very nearly Ragnar as the sudden jerk yanked him against the rail. The water boiled, then became still. Bragi never saw what took the rotted flesh.

  “There,” Ragnar said. “You see? There’s always something down there. When it’s calmest is when you’ve got to watch out. That’s when the big ones hunt.” He pointed.

&
nbsp; A vast dark shape drifted past the dragonship, too far down to be discerned as anything but a shadow in the green. “That’s when the big ones hunt,” Ragnar said again. He began kicking and cursing his men. They decided rowing was less unpleasant than their captain’s tireless sound and fury.

  Bragi flipped a clod at a weed stalk left from last year. Luck made a contact. The stalk went down.

  He rose. “When the big ones hunt,” he murmured, and began walking across the hill.

  He went to a rank of graves. They contained his first wife and the children he had lost in Kavelin.

  Elana had been a special woman. A saint, to have followed him through his mercenary years, to have born him a child a year, to have endured his wandering eye and affection without protest. She had been the daughter of an Itaskian whore, but she had been a lady. She remained stamped upon his soul. He missed her most when he was troubled.

  There was some barrier in him that prevented his sharing with Inger that way.

  Fiana had been both passion and a symbol of commitment to a greater ideal. Elana had been solid, simple, family, perhaps representing that tightest, most intense and basic of human allegiances.

  Strange, he thought, staring at the line of headstones. He had not given either woman his all. He was giving Inger nothing he had given them. How vast were the resources within one man?

  He was not sure what he was giving his wife-queen. Something, to be sure. She seemed satisfied most of the time.

  He stood there a long time, remembering his years with Elana, and the friends who had given their days that special touch.

  All that was gone. He had come to the grey days, the soft, colorless days, to which his acquaintances contributed little.

  Maybe he was aging. Maybe, as you grew older, the highs and lows and color faded away, and it all got so oatmealy you just decided it was time to lay down and die.

  He glanced at the sun. Time had stolen away while he stretched himself on the rack of his yesterdays. Best quit fooling around, he thought. Wouldn’t do for the King to be late for his game of Captures.

  He encountered the Panthers on the road. Had he been anyone else, they would have ragged him mercilessly about the Guards’ chances. The Panthers were young and exciting and on a hot streak. They were the darlings of the sweet young things who devoured winners and scorned losers. They expected to be on top for years.