by Glen Cook
Anyway, Varthlokkur had remembered without having to be prompted.
Mist said, “I can keep him from coming in from above. The horse is immortal but not invulnerable. Bring the boy here.”
Varthlokkur sighed. “I don’t see Nepanthe letting us do that. She did a stint as a guest in these parts.”
“That wasn’t me or mine. Remind her that we have the world’s best healers, including those who heal damaged minds. I will put together a team to work with the Old Man.”
Ragnarson thought Mist’s project insane and doomed. The allies would have to make sudden decisions and act quickly to keep up with an enthusiastic Star Rider. They did not trust one another enough not to waste time looking for hidden agendas any time anyone made a suggestion.
Another edge Old Meddler had.
Varthlokkur said, “Nepanthe might listen if you argued convincingly. Expect her to insist on staying with him, though.”
Mist nodded, then beckoned. “Lord Yuan.”
Varthlokkur gave Ragnarson a searching look, then Michael Trebilcock, who was eavesdropping, too.
Yuan arrived. “How may I be of service, Illustrious?”
“I asked you to dig into the past of your shop to see if it played any part in the incident that claimed the lives of the Princes Thaumaturge.”
“I did that.”
Ragnarson and Varthlokkur were puzzled. What could that signify now?
Lord Yuan said, “As I told you before, Illustrious, I played no part personally. Neither your father nor his brother would have approached me about participating in such crimes. That stipulated, there is no doubt that someone younger and politically more ambitious might have seen an opportunity. I searched the records exhaustively. It would appear that transfer portals were not used to put the Princes into Fangdred that night. I hope you aren’t disappointed.”
Mist sighed. “I’m not. That’s what I suspected.” She glanced at Varthlokkur, who shrugged, and at the Old Man, who was focused on the shogi board. “Demons, I suppose.”
Lord Yuan said, “Almost certainly, Illustrious. Though I found notes indicating that the Windmjirnerhorn may have been active at the time.”
His remark was a big, “So what?” to Ragnarson but obviously meant something to Varthlokkur, who seemed almost excited.
Mist was having original thoughts of her own, though Ragnarson doubted that they matched the wizard’s. She said, “I see a solution to the problem…”
Varthlokkur started to ask Lord Yuan something at the same moment. He stopped, deferring.
Mist said, “If we placed a portal in Fangdred, positioned so you could be comfortable about controlling it, Nepanthe and Ethrian could move back and forth to suit themselves. Scalza and Eka, too, if they wanted. The Old Man could go there and still be able to duck out if danger threatened.”
She spoke tentatively, evidently intent on going easy on Varthlokkur’s paranoia. The wizard just nodded. “That might be useful. Lord Yuan, can you detect the Horn in use?” Not using its full name for the same reason no one named the Star Rider.
“Not it, per se, but the power echo when it’s in use.”
The wizard’s excitement dwindled.
Lord Yuan went on, “The device has a unique signature. It reverberates in the transfer stream rather like water dancing in a tumbler when a tuning fork is struck close by.”
Even Varthlokkur frowned, not following.
Mist interceded. “You two talk that out later. It sounds like something we can use.”
Lord Yuan shook his head. “I haven’t found a way. It’s not even directional. It’s on or it’s off, in use or not in use, the latter so infrequently that there is no point wasting man-hours watching for it.”
Varthlokkur said, “Even so…”
Ragnarson had begun to feel like the man whose job it would be to watch for the Windmjirnerhorn to announce itself. He could not focus. Michael listened intently, memorizing every word without understanding a one, in case it proved useful later, but his eyes had glazed over. Mist observed with benevolent exasperation. Elsewhere, a raging game of shogi roared along with distressed commentary from Lord Kuo Wen-chin.
Ragnarson met Mist’s eyes. She said, “I have sown the seeds.”
“They appear to have quickened, too. Where do we go now?”
“I have a master plan. If I say one word more than I have already, though, the Fates will rip it apart like jackals devouring a week-old carcass.”
TWENTY-THREE: AUTUMN, YEAR 1018 AFE
WEATHER DEVELOPING
Josiah Gales and Queen Inger, with toddler-king Fulk between them, entered the converted warehouse where the Thing had indulged in rowdy deliberations since its inception. The Crown never had possessed wealth enough to raise a purpose-built structure. Josiah’s health had not improved. He limped. He carried a cane. He leaned on it heavily when no one was watching. The little king was doing better.
Inger said, “This place is a sty. Pray the weather has the grace to let us air it out.”
Preparations for the Thingmeet had raised obstacles entirely unforeseen, as, here, where enterprising livestock dealers had used a vacant building as an indoor feed lot, thinking it a sin that so much sheltered space should go unused—especially when the inattentive administration at the castle never visited the property.
People had squatted there, too. Many had been the sort who could not grasp such basic concepts as taking it outside when they need to vacate their bladders or bowels.
Three ragged soldiers trailed Inger and Josiah. Two had helped Babeltausque and Nathan Wolf at the Twisted Wrench. They constituted a significant percentage of the remaining castle garrison.
Still, optimism was in the air. The Thingmeet was a stroke of genius, so far, though neither Kavelin nor Vorgreberg yet understood that. The classes and factions just saw an opportunity to air grievances and defy chaos.
Gales saw it. A respect for order had been hammered into the people during the last three reigns despite a tradition of immaturity and factionalism. The King had been lost. Kavelin had followed up with a prolonged tantrum. Old scores had been settled—till chaos came calling another time. But peace and prosperity had been murmuring seductively all summer. People were ready.
Fickle, fickle people. How long before some self-starter felt comfortable enough to resume being unpleasant?
Vorgreberg’s folk were pleased, if reports could be trusted—though some frugal early Thingmeet arrivals had found a loophole and were tenting on fallow ground outside the wall.
Even they had to buy food and services.
Inger’s popularity was rising, locally.
Scanning the progress volunteer cleaners had made, she declared, “We may yet pull this off. If we do, we may yet survive.”
“If Kristen remains passive.” There had been little news from Sedlmayr. The Mundwiller strategy appeared to be losing its popular appeal. Inger, at least, was doing something.
“They will send a delegation.”
“Of course. You guaranteed universal safe conduct. We’ll see a lot of old friends who abandoned us earlier this year: Sir Arnhelm, Sir Rengild, Quirre of Bolt, lots of others. They’ll drool and fawn and spin tale tales about how they had no recourse.”
“You give them too much credit. They won’t care what we think. They’ll be safe.”
“Yes. I’m surprised so many took you at your word.” She was, after all, a Greyfells.
It irked Inger that even Josiah could not get past his expectations.
Fulk vigorously proclaimed something in toddler. She did not understand. Josiah hoisted the boy onto his hip, wincing. “That better, Short Stuff?”
Fulk burbled happily. He leaned against Gales’s shoulder, shut his eyes. He was ready to nap. Gales said, “He needs to get out more. He tires too easily. He needs exercise and exposure to people, too.”
Inger stepped into the box whence she would deliver a brief speech declaring the Thingmeet convened. “We should all be doing lo
ts of things. But I’ve pretty much lost the drive.”
“And here comes Nathan looking determined to lead us deeper into the slough of despond.”
Not quite true. Wolf announced, “We’ve found a transfer gate. Babeltausque says he can clear the booby traps in time.”
Inger asked Josiah, “That’s good news, isn’t it? So why so glum? You too, Nathan.”
Wolf said, “The sorcerer never gave up hope of finding that missing treasury money, Majesty. He really wanted to please you. He kept digging—when he wasn’t playing with his girl toy or looking for a replacement who isn’t as overdeveloped.”
“That was unkind, Nathan.”
“Apologies, Majesty. It was, though probably not untrue.”
Gales observed, “We might all be less uncomfortable if we spent less time judging Babeltausque.”
Wolf nodded. “Of course. We do have to work with him. And we can’t fault his work. Or his effort. But, still, what I wanted to say is, Babeltausque says he found the exact place where Mundwiller and Prataxis hid the stuff that night.”
Inger felt hope explode—and then fade. Nathan would hardly be so dour if the news was positive. “And?”
“And we got the best part already. They unloaded it into the creek twenty yards upstream from that farm pond. Babeltausque found just about as much more as two old men could have carried. The Crown Jewels were there. They were all crappy reproductions that melted. I’d bet that Mundwiller and Prataxis didn’t know. They wouldn’t have gone to all the trouble if they had. Maybe nobody knew. Maybe some crook swapped everything out ages ago.”
Inger sighed, already resigned. Dredging the pond had left her without hope. Still, she did slump some. “There went a rare good day. So what’s the deal? Was there any money at all?”
“It was under the mud in the creek feeding the pond. Babeltausque says the mud probably built up after the stuff was dumped. The boxes we found in the pond probably got washed down during a storm. After we cleaned the pond that mud had somewhere to go again…”
“Money, Nathan?”
“Copper and bronze. Less than twenty pounds by weight, all corroded. The jewelry boxes might be worth more if we get them restored. They’re antiques.”
Inger borrowed some lower class invective and explored it creatively. Then she beckoned a soldier. “Hassel, take Fulk before the Colonel collapses.”
“Yes, Majesty.”
“Nathan, tell Babeltausque I appreciate his efforts, and yours, too. I need you both here, now, though. We need to set this up.”
The commission from Sedlmayr formed an entire caravan. Ozora Mundwiller was in charge and was less discomfited by the rigors of the road than sons and grandsons half or even a quarter her age. She proudly said it herself: she was one tough old buzzard.
If she could do something, youngsters ought to be able to follow suit while hopping on one foot and playing the panpipes.
Kristen, Dahl, and young Bragi were there, tempting fate. Haas remained steadfastly opposed to Kristen taking the risk. He was sure Inger would not refuse such a fine chance to respond ignominiously, safe-conduct be damned.
She was a Greyfells and there were ample precedents. Dahl did, however, understand that trying to change Kristen’s mind was a waste of air.
He and she settled down to a cold lunch, beside the road, with Bragi napping and most of the caravan bustling around taking the animals to water, preparing food, doing all the things that had to be done during a rest stop.
Kristen mentioned the heavy traffic, moving both directions on the road. Lone drummers, tinkers, and caravans great and small, kept the air laden with dust.
Haas grunted. He had little to say. He was hanging in there, sullenly awaiting his chance to declare, “I told you so!” Or so Kristen teased.
Bight Mundwiller and the Blodgett girl settled close enough to be overheard. Bight carped, “I just don’t get what her problem is.”
“She doesn’t like me anymore.”
“Well, duh! But I don’t get why. She thought you were great before.”
“It’s because of who I was staying with. Something happened between her and some enThal when she was our age.”
“That’s stupid.”
“Sure it is. But old people just hold grudges.”
“She doesn’t know you.”
“Hey, neither do you. Not really. I could be some kind of monster. Right? But it doesn’t matter. She don’t want me getting my paws on the Mundwiller fortune. She can’t believe that I’m not interested. She thinks she sees Ozora in Haida. Be patient, Bight. It’ll all work out. Think about Vorgreberg. We’re almost there. Aren’t you excited?”
“Some. But mostly because you are. I’ve been there. It isn’t any big deal. Sedlmayr is nicer.”
“Cleaner and friendlier, anyway.”
“What?”
“That’s what you all keep telling me, anyway. So it must be true. Right? Or will we find out something different when we see the real thing? Only…”
“Only what?”
“Only, it is the capital! Right? Come on, Bight!” She scooted closer, leaned against young Mundwiller lightly. “Come on! You know…”
Ozora Mundwiller shouted for Bight.
Kristen whispered, “That old raven does have it in for the girl now. What changed? What did she mean, Ozora sees a lot of herself…?”
“Ozora wormed her way into the clan by seducing Aram Mundwiller when he was younger than Bight is now. Then along came Cham. They couldn’t run her off, then.”
“It worked out good for the tribe. In the long run.”
“You know Ozora can’t think that way.” Then Dahl shrugged. He did not much care. He watched a caravan trudge past, westbound. It included a dozen camels, which excited the Blodgett girl tremendously. She ran off to pester the drovers. Haas grumbled, “Girl, don’t give those men the wrong idea. I’m feeling too lazy to rescue you.” Then he grunted and hastily turned his back on the road.
“What?” Kristen asked.
“I know some of those guards. I don’t want them to recognize me.”
He need not have worried. The Blodgett girl was not unattractive. Without stirring any deep fantasies she captured the attention of the caravan men, then was clever enough to leave them all smiling when she walked away.
Kristen whispered, “Check the old woman. She was hoping they would carry her off.”
“Really, Kristen? You’re not being fair to her now.”
Ozora finished ragging Bight. She barked orders meant to get the party moving again.
“Oh, my,” Kristen murmured. “Dahl. Look there.” She indicated a solitary traveler headed east. He was ragged. He shuffled dispiritedly. He looked like the last of the displaced persons who had trudged every road just a year ago. “Isn’t that Aral?”
“Him or his handsome twin. You get stuff ready here. I’ll catch the little sh… bugger.” He bounced up and trotted after the traveler, who appeared not to have noticed the resting Sedlmayrese. Being that far gone in thought was begging Fortune to poke you in the eye.
So. Inger’s Thingmeet was drawing a broader-based crowd than the Queen anticipated.
This could turn interesting.
Bragi settled on a weathered block of limestone, exhausted after clambering out of the ruined temple—or whatever it was in its time.
“Damn! I’m still out of shape! I thought I was getting it back. I was so wrong!”
“It’s not just that,” Michael Trebilcock said, settling nearby. “The transfer had something to do with it. Look at this guy. And he does it every day.” He indicated the Tervola Tang Shan, who was just oozing through the gap in tumbled stone masking the stairway down to the hidden portal. “He’s about twelve and he’s woofing for air.”
The Tervola was, likely, older than either of them but had not suffered the wear and tear. He said, “The drain was caused by a filter Lord Yuan installed. It keeps the unnamed from tracking who is going where. Lord Yuan will am
eliorate that effect when he has time.” Tang went to assist two bodyguards having trouble getting through the gap because of their size.
Bragi surveyed the world into which they had emerged. It seemed comfortably Kavelin come autumn, after the leaves began to fall, yet he recognized nothing. “Where are we? This don’t look right.” By which he meant that everything was too clean and tame to have been abandoned long. The surrounding fields had yet to return to nature. The forest, more than two hundred yards downhill in every direction, had not yet begun to encroach on the cleared land. The fields boasted tangles of wild grasses and late wildflowers but none of the scrub and thorny brush that invaded abandoned fields almost instantly elsewhere. Insects buzzed even though the season was late and the nights had to be chilly.
Tang Shan, laboring to make himself understood in a language he did not know well, explained, “This ruin is eight…miles?…south-southeast of your Vorgreberg.” He extended an arm to point. Ragnarson could just make out smudgy air in that direction. The Tervola continued, “Our instructions are to accompany you partway. We should reach a main road in an hour or two. We will leave you there, hoping that Destiny has no more cruel tricks in her sack.”
Ragnarson frowned at Trebilcock. Trebilcock shrugged. “Some idioms don’t translate.”
Tang Shan said, “This was once a temple, important to its cult. It has been abandoned for a century but the consecrating power has not yet faded. It is a good place.”
Ragnarson felt that. “I didn’t know it was here.” Something this close to Vorgreberg ought to be common knowledge and part of the local folklore.
Tang said, “You will have a hard time finding it from outside. Protective glamours turn you aside gently beginning so far away that you wouldn’t notice except to think you were getting confused the way people can in the forest. Our troops found it while hunting partisans during the occupation. The partisans were unaware of it despite exploiting the surrounding forest for cover.”
Ragnarson grunted acknowledgement. He had encountered similar “outside” islands when he was young and living by his wits and blade. Those, though, had not been sweetly benign. He said, “We should get moving. These places are never as tame as they try to make you think.”