by Glen Cook
He knew.
How long before everyone did? How long till the bad end came?
With marvelous caution Habibullah observed, “All is not lost. You are a married woman.”
Who had a husband only she loved, whom her people all wanted to stay dead.
She shuddered, afraid.
“We will cope,” Habibullah promised.
She could not believe him. Her hours were numbered.
“I’m just not comfortable,” Mist said. “But there is no undoing what’s already done.” She tried to follow three things at once: Scalza manipulating his scrying bowl so he could spy on people at Sebil el Selib; Ekaterina and Ethrian, just staying close enough to warm one another with their presence; and Haroun bin Yousif, who was straining to follow developments in Al Rhemish. Skilled as he had become, Scalza had difficulties due to distance, and had no sound. When they did anything other than vegetate Ethrian and Eka usually only observed the shogi wars. Bin Yousif spent a lot of time muttering and being confused. He was not pleased about the troubles in Al Rhemish but could not form a solid opinion because he did not understand them, either. Nor was he even a little relaxed in the company of so many strangers, some of whom had held him prisoner not so long ago.
Mist was uncomfortable with his presence. Varthlokkur had not been forthcoming on how bin Yousif fit his own form of the Plan.
There were several of those, puffing along in parallel. The upside was, if Old Meddler knocked one down others would keep on rolling. The downside was, she and Varthlokkur kept tripping over one another’s feet.
Haroun concluded that Varthlokkur was right. Most of these people were supposed to be dead. He had been shocked to learn that some were still alive, Ragnarson in particular—though he had gone off to create excitement in Kavelin.
Despite explanations from Varthlokkur and the eastern empress, Haroun remained unsure where he stood. Mainly, he did not understand why they were so determined. Why try to thwart the storm?
The Star Rider was weather. Historical and social weather. You planned ahead and did what you could to endure. Prepared, you could ride it out. You did not tempt fate by trying to control the storm.
Old Meddler was no deity but he was the closest thing Haroun ever saw. The God of his childhood was a god of storms.
He could never be comfortable around so many people, in such a tight space. He did especially poorly with children. They recalled times he would rather forget.
The insanity in Al Rhemish was most worrisome. Angry people kept destroying things, venting frustration caused by years of incompetence. Men of standing kept their heads down and their mouths shut. Beloul barricaded his door once Lalla eliminated outside evidence that the place was occupied by a hero of the old days. He had chosen to weather the storm, then live with whatever coalesced under subsequent rainbows.
Haroun did not miss the parallels between Beloul’s attitude and his own.
There were no hours of the day when either Mist, Lord Ssu-ma, Lord Kuo, or Lord Yuan were not engaged in advancing some fraction of the eastern plan. Lord Yuan worked harder than any of the others. Their scheme was more complex than Varthlokkur’s, which risked little more than self and family, huge enough in his mind but trivial by rational comparison.
Another transfer portal arrived, again by means of the Unborn. It would connect to the transfer stream but none of its parts would be tainted by having passed through that poorly understood realm. So Lord Yuan had decreed.
Grinding her teeth against secret panic, Mist instructed Lord Yuan to key that portal to the life harmonics of Lord Kuo and the Old Man so they could escape but no one and nothing wicked could follow.
A third portal arrived. Mist had it keyed to Nepanthe and Ethrian. Ethrian and the Old Man were her most valuable assets. Scalza and Ekaterina were precious but did not have the power to save an empire. Their mother had to consider countless millions of lives.
She did not suppress maternal emotion indefinitely. When Radeachar delivered the next escape portal she had it keyed to her children. The elderly Tervola executed his instructions sullenly, making it clear that he thought her mind was clouded by personal concerns.
She had the escape portals provided with secondary keys that would allow selected others to use them if their primaries were not. Those designated as secondary did not see much hope for themselves if Old Meddler did launch a sudden thunder and lightning assault.
The mind specialists worked hours as long as anyone. They concluded that forming a useful information inventory necessitated rooting secrets out of minds other than those of Ethrian and the Old Man. There were three surviving witnesses to Old Meddler’s raid on the Wind Tower. The Old Man was the least reliable. The others were both available.
Varthlokkur came close to physical confrontation with Mist when those two proposed the research. He wanted no return to that night’s emotional storms. The Empress demurred.
Once again Varthlokkur was prepared to round on his allies and chuck everything down a well in order to protect his wife. As he defined protection. In truth, he was striving to appease his own insecurities.
His memories of that night were not pleasant. He thought that Nepanthe had suppressed hers. He did not want them resurrected.
But she snapped, “Varth, stop that right now! Am I an infant? You wouldn’t treat Eka or Scalza with the kind of condescension you show me.”
Startled, “Darling…”
“Stop! I made it past my fourth birthday. Yes. I’m more emotional than some. I get upset about things that don’t bother other people. But I am a big girl.” She touched his cheek gently. She did appreciate his concern. “I remember more than I want. But some of it might be useful—if I let the experts dig.”
“But…”
“Stop! I won’t hear any more nonsense.”
He suppressed a flood of the blistering, unreasoning rage that had swept him to the brink with King Bragi. That anger, unrestrained, was the reason today’s ugly world had come to be.
He clamped his jaw, went on with his work. He spent time with the mental specialists as needed. They proved deft at panning nuggets he did not know lay hidden in the lowest sands of his mind.
He left Fangdred, though, so he would not have to watch while Nepanthe endured the process.
He was sure he would lose his composure if he stayed.
He took bin Yousif with him.
TWENTY-SIX: LATE AUTUMN 1018 AFE
BEYOND THE RESURRECTION
Ragnarson bellowed, “Silence!”
He had the voice of command still, and it was loud, yet the effect was neither quick nor comprehensive.
“I will have you beaten if you don’t stop running your mouths.”
Those people knew he was not given to idle threats. They knew, too, that there was no precedent for him doing anything of the sort. Only…
Only this was, clearly, not the man whose arrogance had driven him to disaster beyond the Mountains of M’Hand. This man had been chastened and tempered.
He had a harder feel, and, maybe, a new disdain for past tolerance. He might even have developed a streak of cruelty.
He had been in the thrall of the Dread Empire. Only the shell might be Bragi Ragnarson now. Best not to irk the possible monster concealed inside. Though, still, he was just one man.
Even so, the Thing hall so quietened that the proverbial pin would have sounded like a clash of cymbals. It seemed, almost, that everyone had stopped breathing.
In that desolation of sound a small voice asked, “Daddy?”
The tiny question had more impact on Kavelin than did all the murder and maneuver of the year just passed. Bragi Ragnarson, startled, looked down at the boy in the old-fashioned clothes, who looked back with puzzled hope.
The hard man changed. He scooped the boy up, settled him onto his left hip. He peered into the Sedlmayrese delegation, beckoned Kristen, shook his head slightly when Dahl Haas started to follow.
Ragnarson settled his grandson on his other hip, t
hen declared, “The bullshit will stop.” That sounded certain as death. That made it plain who would be in charge. Special pain was in store for anyone who disagreed. All of which he sold without having one soldier behind him.
“I made a big mistake. It cost me more than I can calculate but it cost Kavelin even more. It almost cost everything that three monarchs did to make this a principality where every subject could be proud to live. I will not repeat that error. I vow that here, now.”
He was improvising, promising what many wanted to hear but meaning it. His intensity permitted no questions, however much future and established enemies might want to know about his relationship with the Dread Empire.
His piece said, he spoke past Kristen to Inger, “Give them the rest of today to get their minds around this.”
Inger managed a nod. She looked to Josiah Gales, who nodded in turn. “Don’t we all? Need time?”
Bragi Ragnarson carried his son and grandson down to the floor of the hall, followed by Kristen Gjerdrumsdottir. He set the boys down, took each by the hand, walked out, headed for Castle Krief. He was not armed. Today he had no need.
He was improvising still, going on instinct. For the moment instinct and timing were enough.
The news had gotten out already. People came to see. Most remained quiet and respectful. There was almost supernatural awe in their attitudes.
There was, as well, hope.
Nature had blessed Kavelin. A tide of economic improvement was rising. But the political situation remained calm mainly because the contenders were exhausted and, in Inger’s case, impoverished. Ordinary folk dreaded the day she obtained fresh resources.
This might herald the possibility of avoiding all that.
A wondrous hope it was.
Inger stared at Josiah Gales as the excitement oozed out of the Thing hall. He said nothing. Neither did Babeltausque, nor did Nathan, who had rejoined them, still shocked. Dr. Wachtel fidgeted but kept his mouth shut.
“What do we do?” Inger murmured. “What do we do?”
She harvested no advice. Josiah, though, looked like a man who had shed a huge moral burden. Nathan was afraid. His future no longer looked as sweet as it had—that age of bitter almonds. Babeltausque stared in the direction the Heltkler girl went as Ozora Mundwiller led her tribe away.
Inger was worried about the sorcerer. Something was going on with him. Something obsessive. It might be a harbinger of a darkness to come.
She hoped she was wrong. She hoped she was imagining it. She hoped he was not just one trivial mishap of an emotional trigger short of crossing over into the night land that had claimed Father Ather Kendo.
She hoped, but, this morning, she had no confidence that she would ever see anything good again. Hell had become impatient. Hell was coming to her.
Josiah said, “What do we do? How about we go home, hunker down, and see what happens next?”
Bragi was back. He had come in like some natural force, gathering the ley lines of power and expectation to himself. Nothing would happen ever again without his hands being on it, in it, or taken into account. He had managed it so easily, so instinctively.
Bragi was back but he had changed. He was the nostalgically recalled hard case but there was more to him now. Inger thought it might be a new maturity.
She said, “You’re right, Josiah. Let’s just ride the lightning and see where it takes us.” Bragi’s behavior suggested that would not be the hell she might have expected.
He was not a Greyfells.
Though the day was advancing and it should have been getting warmer, a scatter of snowflakes fell during the transit to the castle. The flakes melted instantly but did proclaim the imminence of winter.
Inger realized that the trees had shed most of their leaves. When did that happen? She had been too preoccupied to notice. That was sad. Autumn was her favorite season. She loved to see the colors.
“Josiah, the leaves are gone.”
“Uhm?”
“We’ve been missing the good things.”
Gales grunted agreement despite having no real idea what she was thinking. He was good that way. Nathan and Babeltausque contributed supporting nods despite being even farther in the dark.
After sixteen days in hiding, while rumors of his death abounded—though no body ever surfaced—Megelin made a run for safety, into the desert north of Al Rhemish. He was accompanied by Misr and Mizr, an ancient chamberlain called abd-Arliki, and a grizzled, one-eyed rogue called Hawk in his presence and Boneman behind his back. Boneman was a villain of no special stature. He was involved with Megelin’s court through the twins, who had used him to protect their area of corruption. He was dangerous but was known amongst the low mainly because he often bragged that he was evil.
That declaration did not come from the heart. He did it to intimidate.
But for the uprising Megelin would never have crossed paths with Boneman. In the most dangerous hours of the riot, as the good people let themselves vent ancient frustrations, those whose lives might be forfeit had to support one another. The twins brought Boneman in because he was strong, desperate himself, and lacked a conscience. He agreed not just because of the generous pay but because he knew hard men might use the chaos to mask writing a bloody final sentence to Boneman’s tale.
Boneman spirited his charges away with considerable finesse. “It’s what I do,” he bragged, not pleased about having to do it with feeble old men, a weakling king, and a score of donkeys with a mass of cargo.
Megelin wondered why the twins insisted that so many animals were needed.
The party headed north, the direction pursuers were least likely to look. Megelin did not initially realize that they were following the track that his father had taken when fleeing Al Rhemish at an even younger age. Unlike his father, Megelin did not have a horde of enraged Invincibles behind him. There was no pursuit at all. All Al Rhemish thought he had been killed. Even Old Meddler thought him lost and was distressed. Megelin bin Haroun was a feeble tool, blunt, bent, and cracked, but had been, even so, the best blade left in a dwindling set.
All went well for several days. Panic faded. Fear drew back. The pace slackened. The band moved on more through inertia than from a need to escape.
Then the dread returned tenfold, with the king badly shaken.
Mizr demanded, “What is the matter, Majesty?” He and his brother were so worn down that neither attended much beyond their own exhaustion. Abd-Arliki was worse. He was fading. Only Boneman remained strong enough to help him. Boneman did not want to bother. He eyed the old chamberlain like he was contemplating getting rid of the burden.
Megelin gasped, “I know where we are! From my father’s stories about when he was fleeing from the Scourge of God. A little farther on we’ll find a ruined Imperial watchtower that’s haunted by a hungry ghost,” using ghost to mean a ghoul or devil. “My father was trapped there for a while. He wasn’t ever sure how he got away.”
Never saying so, he admitted that he was not the man his father had been. “We’re probably dangerously close already. If we camp around here the ghost will come get us.”
He thought that was how it had worked. It had been fifteen years since he had heard the story and he had not paid close attention at the time.
“No matter,” Mizr said. “We have treasure. No one is after us. We don’t have to stick to this obscure road.”
“Treasure?” Megelin asked.
“Misr and I brought the household funds. We will live well wherever we settle. I suggest we turn west.”
Misr agreed. “Going west will give us a better chance to find help for abd-Arliki.”
Megelin looked north. There was nothing there to draw him, really. He thought he could feel the demon waiting, insane with mystical hunger. “West we go. Tomorrow. Or now, even. I want to get farther from the hungry ghost.”
Why had the twins not mentioned the household treasury before? Because they wanted it all for themselves? Obviously, but now they unders
tood that they could not get out of this on their own.
The real truth was, Mizr mentioned the money only because he was too tired to remain cautious.
No ghoul came that night but death was not a stranger.
Though Megelin was not surprised he did see something odd about abd-Arliki’s eyes. They had the buggy look of a hanged man.
Even Misr and Mizr betrayed guilty relief because the old man no longer hindered them. Megelin was not sure why they had brought abd-Arliki in the first place, but neither did he care. He was busy being exasperated with Boneman, who refused to move on until he interred the old man in a substantial freestone cairn.
“Hey, show the dead some respect…Majesty. The courtesy don’t cost nothing. You’d appreciate it if it was you. They’s plenty a things out there that’d gnaw on you.”
Misr and Mizr helped impatiently. Boneman thanked them graciously, then gave his sullen, nonparticipating monarch a black look. “Nobody can’t say I disrespect the dead.”
Later, the survivors hit an old east-west trace. Following that, they found some shepherds beside a small oasis. Those people had no news from Al Rhemish—nor did they care. They were not sure who ruled there.
Megelin got his feelings bruised. He was not a hunted fugitive. No one cared enough to bother. He asked the twins, “Did we mess up by running? Should we have stayed?”
“We did the right thing,” Mizr insisted. “Otherwise, we would’ve beaten abd-Arliki into the darkness. They were coming. It is possible that we ran too far, though.”
Misr added, “We should have stayed close by and just gone back after everybody finally calmed down.”
His twin nodded. “Indeed. Panic is never good. I think that it may not yet be too late. We should go back. What say you, Hawk?”
Megelin felt like a crushing weight lay on his chest. He surged into panicked wakefulness—and found that there was a weight atop him. It was a large, flat rock half as heavy as he was. Other rocks surrounded him. He could get no leverage to get out.
A grinning, one-eyed face appeared above, Boneman straining under the weight of another large rock. “Good morning, Majesty.” The villain settled his burden onto Megelin’s groin. “Looks like it’s going to be a wonderful day.”