by Glen Cook
“Clever,” he said. “He can pull it off in broad daylight and we can’t squawk. He’d just claim he was meeting his treaty obligations. If we try to stop him, we’re the aggressors.”
“Exactly.”
“What can we do?”
“Several things. We can let it run its course and hope it fails by itself. We can ignore the opprobrium and launch a pre-emptive attack if the Matayangan situation deteriorates. Or we can play Hsung’s own game. We don’t have the resources, but we have the minds.”
“Those first two choices aren’t squat. Tell me what you mean about having the minds.”
“You have some very intelligent and byzantine associates. Take Michael. He can be devious. He can be merciless. He’s more intelligent than he pretends. And the people he’s recruited are the best. Your greatest strength, though, is possession of a legitimate pretender to Shinsan’s throne. That should be exploited. Then you consider Hsung’s disadvantages. He has to garrison the whole Roë Basin. Western Army is down to five legions. The best are at Gog-Ahlan, guarding the Gap, and in Throyes. One is at Argon. There’s another at Necremnos. The fifth is scattered among the smaller cities.”
“That’s still thirty thousand of the best soldiers there are, Derel.”
“Sure. A lot to you. But not so many when you consider the population of the Roë Basin. What they become then is a symbol of the power of Shinsan, not the power itself. They’d disappear in a general uprising.”
“They’d do a lot of damage.”
“Certainly. But they’d be overwhelmed anyway.”
“I’ve been on Michael not to roil things up. Now you’re saying I should stir the pot.”
“Hsung won’t back off poking at you. Don’t let him get away with it. Poke right back.”
“Then he hollers foul.”
“Don’t involve your own people. Not directly. There’ll be nothing he can do. He operates under constraints, too. He has a peace-loving image to maintain. That means putting up with provocations. What it boils down to is, you play their game, only nastier. Because of the trouble with Matayanga, they’re in a tighter spot than we are.”
“When you back off and look at it, Derel, it all seems kind of pointless. What difference will it make a hundred years from now?”
“Maybe none. Some of my colleagues subscribe to a futility theory of history. Even so, there are turning points. They’re usually invisible except in retrospect. One of the great moments in Kavelin’s history took place in Itaskia. We’re still feeling the consequences.”
Ragnarson grinned. “You’re zigging when I’m zagging, Derel. You lost me that time.”
“The day you left your homestead to complain about a little trouble you’d had. You’d barely heard of Kavelin. Six months later you were leading Fiana’s army. Now you’re King.”
“By that reasoning, Haaken and I changed history by running out of Trolledyngja instead of fighting the Pretender.”
“Absolutely. You’d be twenty-five years dead if you’d stayed. Other men would be alive. The El Murid Wars would have had a different shape. Something different could have happened in Freyland. Duke Greyfells might have become Itaskia’s King. Kavelin’s civil war could have gone the other way. There might have been no Great Eastern Wars at all.”
Prataxis’s talk made Ragnarson nervous. It made not only life but history itself sound fragile. He had been taught differently as a boy. Trolledyngjans were determined believers in fate. “We’re getting away from the point.”
“No, we’re not. Not from mine. I want you to understand that, every time you make a move, you’re shaping tomorrow. You shape it even when you don’t do anything. Your best chance to shape this the way you want it is to stay aggressive. There’ll be more ramifications. Some might be exploitable.”
“Okay. I get the message. I’ll get out there and keep the cauldron boiling. We don’t want your thesis getting dull.”
“Sire…!”
Bragi grinned. “I couldn’t resist. You take yourself too serious sometimes.” Ragnarson rose, surveyed the gathering. Hundreds had come. This was the biggest turnout since the war. Most of the Thing and their women. All of his own clique, except Michael and Mist and Varthlokkur, who avoided all functions. Many of the old Nordmen nobility, who now called themselves the Estates because they controlled the largest landholdings. Influential members of the merchant class. Representatives of the silent, seldom seen, and absolutely essential Siluro civil servant class. Credence Abaca and a clutch of Marena Dimura chieftains who formed a human stockade in a corner. They reminded Ragnarson of cattle in winter, standing nose to nose, their tails turned to the wind. Drink might bring them into the exchange of thought these functions sometimes precipitated.
He looked for Trebilcock. Michael still had not shown, and had not been seen since the attempt on Liakopulos’s life. Ragnarson had begun to worry. He wanted to talk to the man.
They were still arriving. The hall was getting crowded. If all the invitations were accepted, he would have trouble packing people in.
Mist arrived, escorted by Aral Dantice. The effect of her was like a numbing gas spreading from the doorway. Men stopped talking. They stared in awe or hunger. Women stared in awe, envy, and outright hatred. The woman’s impact was incredible. Even the musicians faltered.
And how well she carried off her act of being unaware of the effect she produced!
Behind Mist and Aral were Kristen and several friends. His daughter-in-law had been free with the secondary invitations, he saw. Each of her guests was unattached and lovely.
That startled him. He dropped back into his seat. “Derel, I just noticed something.”
“Sire?”
Bragi folded his hands under his chin. Thoughtfully, he said, “There are a lot of unattached women these days. Good-looking women. That’s unnatural.”
“Adopt the marriage laws of Hammad al Nakir.”
“What?”
“Let a man have more than one wife.”
“Gods! One is trouble enough.” He glanced round the room. He saw a lot of unmarried younger women. Most were the daughters of guests. Each had a huntress’s gleam in her eyes.
“The war claimed a lot of young men,” Prataxis observed. “Kavelin’s single females probably outnumber single males five to one.”
“What am I doing married?”
“Definitely a tactical mistake, Sire. Michael appears to be prospering. But it’s a game with few survivors. The huntress knows how to net her prey.”
“It’s something I never really thought about. An imbalance like that is going to have effects.”
“Absolutely. It’ll strain the traditional mores. What you have to do is make the girls having illegitimate children all have boy babies. After a while there would be husbands to go around, though they’d be a little young.”
Bragi gave Derel a sour look. That was a Prataxis joke.
“It’s not a problem unique to Kavelin. One way or another, one place or another, the west has been at war since the Scourge of God broke out of Hammad al Nakir. We’re into our second generation of sexual imbalance. One more and the die-hard guardians of the old morality will be gone. Changes in female attitudes will accelerate….”
“I’ve got a question, Derel.”
“Sire?”
“Do you have a lecture for every topic?”
Prataxis looked bewildered, then a little hurt.
“Just joking. Every time I notice something, you already know about it. And you go on forever about how it happened and why, how and why it works, what it means….”
“I’m a don of the Rebsamen,” Prataxis replied stiffly. “I was taught to observe and reason. There’s nothing mystical about that. You do it yourself, though on a less premeditated level. That’s why you make correct decisions more often than not.”
“I didn’t mean any offense, Derel.” Why was the man so damned humorless and touchy? He had asked to come live among the barbarians…. No. Derel would ob
ject to the wording. Insufficiently precise. He would prefer something encompassing self-righteous ignorance.
“Father?”
He glanced down. His daughter-in-law stood at the foot of the dais supporting the party thrones. “Kristen! You found something to wear. And I thought you weren’t going to make it.”
“Liar. You knew I’d be here if I had to come mother naked. These are my friends.” She indicated the girls still with her. “It’s okay, isn’t it?”
“The more the merrier. I’d rather look at them than bald old men with beards. But maybe you should show a little respect for your King in front of people.” He smiled. Kristen’s girlfriends had performed their deep curtsies immediately.
“Oh. Yes.” Flustered, she bent a leg.
“Good enough. Now. Who are all these beautiful ladies?”
Kristen pointed. “Anya. Tilda. Julie. And Sherilee. You met Julie and Sherilee before.”
The girls nodded shyly. Except the tiny blonde. She looked him in the eye. But her hands were white and shaking. She clasped them and continued looking at him. That look did not read invitation, but neither did it contain disgust.
“Enjoy yourselves, ladies. Kristen, would you honor an old man with a dance?”
The request surprised her, but only momentarily. “Not that old, I think.” She glanced at the blonde. “All right. If it’s a Royal command.”
His smile declined to a ghost. “It is.” He left the dais, caught Inger’s puzzled look from the corner of his eye. He wasn’t a dancer.
He quickly proved it. He could not follow the steps. “Ah, hell,” he gasped. “I just wanted to talk, anyway. Come over here and taste this fizzy wine Cham brought from Delhagen. He tells me it’ll become a big export item.”
“Talk?” Kristen’s eyes sparkled more than did the wine.
“You said something to that Sherilee.”
“I? Father!”
“She’s young enough to be my daughter.”
“I thought men liked women young and fresh. The Krief was fifty years older than Queen Fiana.”
“I’m a married man. A king. Whatever. That’s a trap I don’t need to get into.”
“Sounds like you’re convincing you.”
He grinned half-heartedly, glanced across the hall. The girl was watching through breaks in the crowd. Her timorous look made her more appealing. “So I’ve got to convince me first. So what? Honest, Kristen. Don’t push it. It’s too much temptation. I don’t know about her, but I couldn’t handle it.”
Kristen’s amusement faded. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”
“Yeah. Really. I can tell just by looking at her, and from what I know about her, and about how I work inside, that I’d fall like a rock. I’d make a complete fool of myself. That’s fun once in a while, but I don’t have the time now. I can’t handle two mistresses at once. My main lady is headed for some hard times, I think.”
She asked her question with a raised eyebrow.
“Kavelin.”
“Oh. You think there’s going to be trouble?”
“Maybe. I’m trying to head it off. You’ll get a feel of it tonight. Listen to what people are talking about. The big subjects this year aren’t crop yields and mine production.”
“Does it have anything to do with General Liakopulos?”
“It may. Sic her on Michael, why don’t you?”
“She’s not interested in Michael.”
“Damn you. What did you have to say that for? Excuse me.” He glanced at Sherilee again. So tiny. Like a toy. And every curve and line of her a match for a fantasy-lover’s template. He shook his head viciously. “Damn me, too.” He left Kristen looking bemused.
Inger joined him on the dais. Her perpetual mocking smile had shrunk to a minimum. “What was that about?” She did not like Kristen. They were both mothers of candidates for Kavelin’s throne.
“Household allowances. She wants a separate tutor for Ainjar and Bragi. She tried her jolly-the-old-man-along approach.”
“Grasping little witch. It never fails. The commons….”
“Inger?”
“Hmm?”
“Hold my hand.”
She reached over. Her smile returned. He squeezed once, gently, reassuring himself. “Inger. Don’t take this as a shot. But you’re holding the hand of a common foot soldier who did a lot of grasping. And you married him.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t think it makes much difference who our parents were. We all take what we can get. Switch a Marena Dimura baby with a Nordmen child and when they’re adults they’ll act like the people who raised them. Blood doesn’t have anything to do with it. Be quiet, Derel.”
He and Prataxis had had the blood versus environment argument before. Derel was perfectly willing to take either side. Argument was a game with the scholar.
Inger said, “I try to believe in what you’re doing, but it’s hard. The most you can make out of a peasant is a peasant in pretty clothes.”
“What about his children? It’s the children that interest me. And the peasant himself, for that matter.” Before she could reply, he added, “I’m indifferent to the quality of a man’s speech and table manners, dear. It’s what’s up here that counts with me.” He tapped his temple. “And how well he does his job.”
“Like Abaca?” Her sarcasm was thick. She loathed Credence Abaca.
“Exactly. He has a foul mouth, abominable habits, and the best tactical mind I’ve ever seen. Ever. Given time, I think we can housebreak him.”
“He doesn’t even have the qualities of a peasant. Those disgusting people eat insects….”
“Dear, if blood counts for that much, you and me, we’re headed for a heap of trouble.”
Her eyes narrowed. Her fighting smile vanished. She leaned forward. A string of blondeness fell over her left eye. “What do you mean?”
“You’ve got the Greyfells blood. The Greyfells have been traitors, treachers, murderers, and rebels since my grandfather was a pup. If blood tells, then I’d better have you watched by my fifty most faithful men.”
Her face lost expression. The color drained away. She surged to her feet. Crimson replaced her pallor. She sputtered in anger.
“Sit down, darling. I was just trying to show you the hole in your argument.”
“I don’t think that was a very nice way.”
“Maybe not. But I think you’ll have to concede.”
She looked at him hard. “I suppose. If I don’t, I might end up sharing my life with your cronies from the Captures team. The Baroness Kartye wants to see me. I’ll be back.”
“You didn’t change her mind,” Prataxis said.
“I know. We open the Thing tomorrow. Anything you want to tell them?”
“The discussions were fruitful. The legion in the Gap will allow passage of traders beginning two weeks from tomorrow. Transport and sale of weapons won’t be permitted. Caravaneers will be allowed customary defensive arms. Western caravans won’t be allowed east of Throyes. Dealings with Argon, Necremnos, and their tributaries have to be handled through Throyen intermediaries. And we’re advised that trade with Matayanga is contingent on the daily military situation.”
“Don’t sound all that unreasonable to me.”
“There’ll be squawkers. It’s weighted toward the Throyens.”
“In this country somebody is always crying about something. Their caravans will be in the race to get through the Gap anyway.”
“Anyone who can afford to assemble a caravan has one put together already. They’ll trample each other when I say the magic words.”
“Then I wasted a lot of people’s time, having them hang around to talk to you.”
“There are thoughts to be aired. Viewpoints to share.”
“They weren’t sharing anything with anybody last week.”
“Let me make them mad. They’ll say what they’re thinking.”
“I don’t….”
Women screamed near
Abaca’s Marena Dimura group. Men shouted angrily. Ragnarson heard steel meet steel.
He flung himself off his throne. “Get the hell out of my way!” he roared as he pushed through the crowd. Taller than most of his guests, he saw the surge as the Guards moved in. Good. They had been on their toes. He had not expected to get through the evening without at least one fracas. “Will you get the hell out of my road?” he snarled at a heavy old matron. She promptly threatened a faint.
The Guards had the men separated when he got there. One was Credence Abaca. The other was a young gentleman of the Estates, the son of a baron in town for the Thingmeet. The Baron himself was shoving through the crowd.
Abaca and the youth both shouted accusations. “Shut up!” Ragnarson snapped. “You first.” He indicated the younger man.
“He made improper advances to my sister.” The young noble was sullen and defensive. It was an attitude increasingly common to his class.
“Credence?”
“I asked her to dance, sir.” Abaca had regained his aplomb. Perhaps he had not lost it. He was a tactician in more than the military sense. He was a master manipulator and could be as heartless as a spider. There was no apology in his manner.
“That’s all?”
“On my honor, Sire.”
“You have no honor, you….”
“Shut your mouth, boy,” Ragnarson snapped. “You’re in up to your ears now.” He looked for the woman in question. Her father had driven her away from the confrontation. The man wore a thin smile of anticipation. Ragnarson wondered if it hadn’t been Abaca who had been maneuvered this time. The Estates remained mortally offended because a Marena Dimura had been appointed second in command of the army. Only the most trustworthy Nordmen were permitted to participate professionally.
Ragnarson turned to the youth. “You dared draw a blade in the palace? Against one of my officers?”
The Nordmen would not keep his mouth shut. “Somebody has to teach these…these…animals their place. I challenge!”
“You don’t have a right to challenge,” Ragnarson told him.