by Glen Cook
It was a close thing, still. Mist lost her bodyguards. Two of the kitchen crew survived only by hiding in the larder. Lein She made it, too, but was wounded badly defending the transfer chamber.
He apologized for the disaster. “I should have anticipated an effort to free the prisoners.”
The Empress touched the Candidate gently. “The fault was mine, Lein She. How many escaped?”
“I don’t know.” He went to sleep.
Mist studied her fingertips. Lein She might never waken if she could not summon a healing specialist. The portals were down.
She had not taken stock of the full tragedy yet. There had been damage to the transfer portals despite Lein’s heroic stand. That may have been the thrust of the attack.
Nine attackers had died trying to ruin them.
The raid seemed too sophisticated for local malcontents.
Her mind made a grand leap. Somewhere amongst the Tervola was a man who wanted to bring her down.
Phsaw! Of course there was. But no Tervola would recruit, arm, and inform a band of guerrillas. It would be beneath his dignity. Nor would any Tervola believe that cat’s-paws like these stood a chance against her.
Again, she was not supposed to have been here. The attack must have had another point.
She bullied the surviving staff into securing the tower, starting with the ladder and door. A census of prisoners followed.
There had been no escapes. Evidently, liberation had not been the intent. Three prisoners were dead. Another prisoner had been mauled. Three remained undisturbed, including Ragnarson, who had remained unaware of the attack.
Mist focused on the transfer chamber.
Her paranoia did not fade because she was occupied. She considered the possibility that Varthlokkur was behind the assault.
Unlikely, though. Varthlokkur would be direct. He would send his familiar monster.
The raiders had had a close knowledge of the inside of the tower but had lacked real-time intelligence. They had not been ready for her.
She moved to the door of the staging chamber. “Bring the dead raiders to me here! Without damaging them!”
None had gotten away and none had been taken alive. But the dead had not been dead for long. Some could still bear witness.
First, though, she had to make contact with her headquarters.
Ragnarson heard a click. He faced the door, uneasy. Neither breakfast nor lunch had come. Mist must be messing with him.
The Empress came in carrying a tray. He stifled a rude remark. She did not look healthy. “Are you all right?”
“No. I just spent three hours talking to the dead.”
“What happened?” That she was still here and bringing him food told him it was something bad.
“Persons as yet unidentified may be aware of your survival.”
“What?” Was she frazzled enough to give something away?
“There was an attack on the tower. By local people. Those I could make talk hoped news that our portals were out would encourage a general uprising. But there were hints that they wanted to free the prisoners held here, too. They expected to suffer heavy casualties. Someone here must have been worth it.”
“Me?”
“Maybe. There were other prisoners. Some of those got killed.”
“You didn’t take any of the raiders alive.” Which explained her remark about talking to the dead.
“No. And I didn’t get to the dead fast enough to squeeze out everything I wanted. But I can’t help thinking some clever soul with a different agenda conned some malcontents. I don’t know that. It’s intuition. Maybe somebody wanted to get you out.”
Michael Trebilcock?
He did not say the name. But no one else they knew had the connections. Or the gall.
“Trebilcock does seem plausible,” she said. “Or maybe just someone who enjoys a good framing.”
“Old Meddler? Why would he sink to that low a level?”
“For the drama?”
“With all the grand drama in this world, he wants to stir up skirmishes?”
“The drama is fading. The war with Matayanga is guttering. I intend to avoid war afterward. It will take Shinsan a generation or two to recover. The Tervola see that. Whatever their feelings toward me, they want to nurture the Empire first. Even dedicated old troublemakers want a healing time.”
“So you’re getting comfortable.”
“Never while I’m a woman trying to control cruel men awed by nothing but superior power. My point is, Shinsan is headed for a time of peace. The whole world is exhausted. There was a battle in Hammad al Nakir recently. Yasmid routed Megelin. She could not follow up. Magden Norath is in Al Rhemish. He could become a tool of the Meddler again. Kavelin is chaotic and getting more so. If the Meddler was behind the raid here his intent might have been to inject you into that chaos to see the fur and blood fly.”
“You said you were thinking that way yourself.”
“I was. Because of my fondness for you and my fondness for Kavelin, which was my home for so long. And because it would be useful to me, as Empress, to have a stable, reliable, friendly monarch there.”
“You walked out.”
“I did. You’re no longer the Bragi Ragnarson who built Kavelin. You wouldn’t go back and make things right. You would work the Meddler’s mischief.”
Ragnarson started pacing. He said nothing. He did not trust himself to control his rage.
“As you will.” Mist moved to the exit. “Do try to use this time more fruitfully. This has to be a life sentence only if you insist.”
Ragnarson’s lips pulled back in a snarl.
Nepanthe, with Smyrena in her lap, leaned against her husband. “Why is Bragi that way?” The baby cooed and kicked. “What happened to him?”
Varthlokkur knew a broader question was being asked. Identical stubbornness, on his part, had caused the breach with Ragnarson. That rift underlay all the evil that had befallen Kavelin since. “‘And the Wicked flee where none do pursue.’”
“What?”
“A not quite apposite quotation from a forgotten book. As to the question, I don’t know why Bragi changed. There’s always a temptation to think such shifts are sparked externally.”
“Somebody cast a spell.”
“Possibly. But it’s also possible that massive bad cess just twisted his mind.”
Smyrena needed burping. Nepanthe moved the infant to her shoulder. She gave Varthlokkur a hard look as she did.
He said, “When you’re the one behaving badly you blame outside forces. Unless you’re emotionally invested in being too strong-willed to be influenced.”
“You’d then have an adventure justifying yourself.”
“You would.” The wizard leaned in for a better view of what Ragnarson would do now that he was alone.
Nepanthe said, “Ethrian had a good day. I think he’s starting to get better.”
“Excellent. Excellent.”
“I wish we could resurrect that Sahmaman. He really loved her.”
“I’m sure he did. Her behavior showed that she loved him, too. But we can’t ignore one iron truth. The real Sahmaman died thousands of years ago. We saw a memory given flesh by godlike power.”
“I know. I’m wishful-thinking. I just want Ethrian to heal.”
“I understand.” The wizard would not dismay her by saying that the boy would never escape his raging insanity.
FIVE: YEAR 1017 AFE
SPRING THREATENING
The Queen’s liaison with the commander of her bodyguard was an open secret. Everyone inside Castle Krief knew. Everyone gossiped and almost everyone pretended complete ignorance to outsiders. Unaware, Inger and Josiah Gales kept going through the motions of a strictly professional relationship.
Inger asked, “Is it time for Dane?”
Gales, never entirely committed to anyone, said, “He could give up and go home. Family interests have suffered. Money is running short. Desertions and ambushes have his
force down to three hundred.”
“I admire your desire to keep faith with Dane. He doesn’t deserve you. Tell his soldiers they could come here. I’d like more Itaskians around me.”
Dane of Greyfells was not well. He was pallid in the extreme. Any movement caused pain. Gales had been cautioned against taking notice. He expressed strong gratitude when offered a chair beside the Duke, in front of the fire.
“This is so much better than Castle Krief. Inger won’t waste fuel on heating.” Countless economies were under way. The Crown had a very limited income.
“What news, Josiah? Is there any hope? If not, I should cut my losses. Go home with my tail tucked, to jeers and mockery. I cast the dice but they didn’t love me.”
“Lord, they don’t love anyone here. Kavelin keeps right on heading downhill, taking everyone with it.”
“So it seems. Answer my question. Any hope?”
“She asked me to poll the soldiers to see if any would come work for her.
Her Wessons are walking away, mainly because she can’t pay them. Her Nordmen become less supportive by the day, too. She’ll have lost all support outside Vorgreberg soon. Each town, each village, each lord, and each guild that deserts reduces her income further.”
“So the enterprise is doomed from both directions. And still she won’t let me in.”
“She remains adamant, My Lord. She will not trust you.”
Greyfells remained quiet. His frame went rigid momentarily. Recovering, he asked, “Why, Josiah?” His voice had gone plaintive.
“She has a touch of the illness that ruled Ragnarson, the Krief, and Fiana.
She fears what you will do to Kavelin if you get control.”
Greyfells tittered, startling Gales. His normal laugh was an all-out, full-bodied roar. Now the Duke ended up wracked by deep, sobbing coughs. Gales feared for the man’s life, briefly.
“Sorry you had to see that, Josiah. No. Never mind. I’ll be all right. I’ve survived all this before. Go ahead. Poll the men. Tell them I’ll let them go if that’s what they want. Might as well let her not pay them as not pay them myself.” He contrived a small, controlled laugh. “Take her an honest answer.”
“About eighty men are willing to come over, Highness,” Gales reported. “That’s all?”
“Some wouldn’t give a straight answer. They thought the Duke was testing them. Others said that since they wouldn’t get paid either place they’d as soon stay put and save the walk. Most everyone said they intend to head home after the weather turns and the rivers go down.”
“And you told Dane what?”
“I answered the questions he asked. I volunteered nothing.”
“What will he do?”
“He talked about doing the same as his soldiers. About cutting his losses and heading home.”
“But?”
“He will, likely, make one more try, doing what you expected. He’ll come in disguise with soldiers who want to switch allegiance. They’ll actually be men willing to stick with him.”
“I see. Will he expect me to expect him?”
“I couldn’t say. My mind can’t encompass so much complexity.”
Later, Inger asked, “Did you see Babeltausque out there?”
“No. Why?”
“He’s been keeping his head down. That’s curious. He could be useful here. He might be able to find my missing treasury.”
“He’s the Duke’s man.”
“You think he wants to be? I don’t. He’s been with the family through several Dukes, each one worse than the last. I can see him being loyal to the family but having an abiding distaste for its heads.”
“I’ll talk to him.”
Kristen’s flight from Kavelin took seven weeks. The Royal party crept from one Aral Dantice acquaintance to another, often enduring cold nights in the forest between times of warmth and decent food. Dantice was determined to proceed with caution, concealing the identities of his companions.
Kristen considered his precautions a waste. The party was too big and too burdened with women and children to be anything but what it was. But she was seeing it from the inside.
Dantice told her, “Only folks I trust with my life see you. I tell them nothing because they might be questioned someday.”
“Where are we headed?”
“A safe place. If I don’t talk about it no one will hear about it.”
“Aral, I appreciate everything. You’ve gone way out of your way. You’ve practically given up your regular life. I don’t understand why.”
Dantice avoided a straight answer. “The travel will be over soon. So will the cold and the hunger. You’ll be safe. No one will know where you are. You’ll be ready when Kavelin is ready.”
“What about my father-in-law? What about the true king?”
“He still lives. We know that. We also know they’ve stashed him where he won’t be able to escape.”
Kristen noted his “we” but did not question it. Aral Dantice was much too useful to be challenged.
He said, “This shouldn’t last long. Kavelin should be eager to proclaim Bragi by next fall. By then even the Marena Dimura and Nordmen should be sick of the chaos.”
“All right. We’re in your hands. Be gentle.”
The party reached an encampment deep in the mountains of southern Tamerice. It differed little from the one where Credence Abaca died. This one was not Marena Dimura, though. The forest people were scarce in Tamerice. The camp had been created by Royalist refugees from Hammad al Nakir as a base for raids across the Kapenrungs. Refugees had gathered there during the Great Eastern Wars.
Dantice told her, “You and the children should stay out of sight if strangers turn up. Let Dahl and Sherilee deal with them.”
Kristen thought Sherilee would attract any man who came within a mile.
Aral said, “I’ll give you letters saying you belong here and are under my protection.”
“Aral is gone,” Sherilee said. The suffering of the journey had wakened her resilience. She was now the optimist of the band. “Next time we see him he’ll tell us it’s time to head home to Vorgreberg.”
“I hope so,” Dahl said. “I wasn’t made for this life.”
Kristen snapped, “No one is. It’s a life that comes looking for you.”
Sherilee said, “This is a nice place. It must have belonged to one of the high muckety mucks.”
The structure, partially log, partially stone, was large and had potential for being made comfortable. There were stores in the camp, tools, and even weapons. Dahl said, “Let’s don’t touch anything we don’t need to. We don’t want any smugglers upset because we got into their stuff.”
“Smugglers?”
“Smugglers. It’s what Aral does. Remember? This is a way station on the route into the desert. We’ll see plenty of travelers once the weather gets better.”
“Then we’d better get the kids educated about what to do when strangers come.”
That proved to be no problem. The first travelers were not inclined to socialize, either. Some never showed their faces.
That was both a comfort and discouraging. No discourse meant no news from outside.
There had been innumerable dislocations in city life the past ten years. No Vorgreberger knew all his neighbors anymore. The situation suited spies and criminals and anyone else who wanted to go unnoticed.
Espionage was a thriving industry. Crime was less lucrative, other than for smugglers. Smuggling was just commerce where the Crown failed to extort any taxes. Gang crime had fallen on hard times. Some invisible force saved the body politic the added friction.
Dark tales circulated in the underworld. They insisted that dire forces were at work. Things came in the night to collect those who preyed on their fellows.
It was true: evil men did disappear.
Crimes of passion remained common. What could be done to curb those?
There was an apothecary shop in Old Registry Lane. It had been there for decad
es. An elderly fellow had run it till recently. He had been a permanent grouch. When his son took over people noted that the younger chemist was less cranky.
He was about fifty. He may have been a soldier once. He had a bad right knee. He dragged that leg sometimes. He was slow with his customers but was tolerated because he dispensed good advice. He would help those who could not afford a physician. He was more of a talker and gossip and was curious about everything.
His most popular foible was that he sometimes extended credit.
Some said he was the official apothecary to the palace, provided old Wachtel with the specifics he used to keep the Royals hale and hearty—whoever they might be this year.
The popular jest was, Castle Krief had been built around Dr. Wachtel. The ancient physician was a national hero.
The apothecary would not discuss the connection. The favor of the doctor might be charity. A story that gained traction supposed that the chemist was Wachtel’s son by a married patient.
No one really cared. The apothecary was not colorful. He was just there.
Strangers visited frequently. They brought medicinal ingredients from far places or wanted concoctions crafted for some distant consumer. None of this attracted any but the most minor notice. It was unremarkable.
“I think it’s time,” Queen Inger told Colonel Gales.
Gales blanched.
“I’m sorry, Josiah. I no longer have a choice. So I insist that you make one of your own.”
“Your Majesty?”
“You know. You see the reports. You can add two and two. I won’t be able to hold on here without Dane’s men. In two months they’ll be the only real soldiers left.”
The old regiments were dissolving. Whom they had supported before no longer mattered. Kristen had vanished, the gods knew where. The intelligence system was falling apart faster than the army.
Inger continued, “Kristen’s friends can’t pay soldiers, either. And I won’t be able to pay the palace staff much longer.”
“I understand.” He had seen the estimates. The Queen’s friends had stopped making donatives.
“Before long Dane will be able to ride in and take it all, Josiah. I won’t be able to stop him. I need to make a move or kiss it all goodbye.”