Wrath of Kings

by Glen Cook

  Inger demanded his attention again. “You haven’t made clear what you hope to accomplish personally, nor have you given us any convincing reason why we should put up with you trying to do it here.”

  There it was, on the table, not bluntly, but insistence that he make a case for his right to stroll in and take charge.

  The suggestion that he had lost that right caught him on the wrong foot—despite his having spent months wanting to make war on his own people. But that had been a lust for draconian vengeance, not an assertion of a right to rule. Not even his enemies could argue that he was not king. Could they?

  He said it. “I am the King.”

  And Michael said, “There it is. The gauntlet thrown down, without fore-thought, in an unfavorable venue. Majesty.” The latter spoken with an edge.

  “Huh?”

  Oh.

  Babeltausque suddenly wore a bland, inane, innocent expression.

  Not good, that.

  Bragi had trotted right into a diminutive version of his disaster in the east. Once again he had moved without thinking, never really considering the chance that these people would not accept him.

  Well, yes, he had thought about it, some, but not seriously. He did have that blind spot. Why would they resist? He was the King.

  But it was clear that Inger’s men would resist if she wanted that. They could make this as unhappy a day as the one on that hill.

  Castle Krief’s dungeon would not be as comfy as the Karkha Tower.

  Babeltausque, Gales, and Wolf awaited their cue from Inger. Even the babysitter seemed ready to act. And her potential was entirely unknown.

  Michael did not look ready to sacrifice himself. The others, Kristen included, showed little interest in anything but watching. Which was exceedingly irksome.

  He tried to remain calm. “I didn’t come here looking for a fight.”

  Inger said, “Of course you didn’t. It never occurred to you that anyone would do anything but jump when you barked.”

  He was perplexed. Maybe Inger was not articulating clearly.

  She continued, “I’ll take a passive approach. I’ll give you your head. A dole out the rope strategy. Will you embarrass yourself?”

  She was less frightened and rattled than she had been. She had a plan. She would let him strangle himself. He had shown that he could.

  Would her thugs try to nudge him off the precipice?

  She said, “I paid attention back when I was your new bed bunny.”

  That hurt. He had not thought of her as a toy, ever. He never thought that about any woman he loved.

  He nearly broke a smile. Some of his lovers might not agree. Women saw things through different eyes.

  Inger said, “So I will defer, publicly. I’ll be the dutiful wife. I won’t make your road any rockier. I’ll help where I can and I’ll remain blind in the matter of that…girl. Your mistress. Purported.”

  Kristen hissed. There was no readiness to forgive in her.

  Inger said, “I had nothing to do with what happened.”

  Ragnarson nodded. “I know. I got to interview the assassin, courtesy of Varthlokkur and the Unborn.”

  Kristen hissed again.

  “I’ve made my peace with that, as much as I can.” He had made arrangements to bring Sherilee to Vorgreberg. She would lie not far from Fiana and Elana… Where their ghosts might meet?

  Inger’s henchmen were more relaxed now. Wolf seemed mildly disappointed.

  Inger said, “Let’s stay focused on the Thingmeet. You can explain Shinsan’s plans then.”

  “No. Mist wants to be remembered as the one who saved the world from its worst ever plague. We can’t just shout out and let him know it’s coming.”

  Babeltausque asked, “Will her feelings be hurt if you don’t convince us?”

  “I think that if what it takes to win is her having to look like the bad guy lurking in the weeds she’ll put on the ugliest mask she can find, then sing weird songs while she prances and postures… Michael?”

  Trebilcock was laughing. “Sorry. I was imagining her putting her dignity aside far enough to dance where somebody might actually see her.”

  “Villain. You have a filthy mind.”

  “Hey. She is a good-looking woman.”

  Ragnarson grinned himself once the image got inside his head. “She would be a vision, wouldn’t she?”

  Ekaterina asked, “Do you have a dancing girl outfit, Mother?” deliberately provocative.

  Mist glowered.

  In her most naïve voice Nepanthe said, “You’d look good. Not like me. Twenty years ago, maybe. Now I’m all doughy.”

  Lord Yuan was past being interested in women in scanty attire. “Ladies, can we focus?”

  Mist turned away from spying on Ragnarson, irked but also arching the back of her vanity like a cat inclined toward more petting. She was disappointed, though Ragnarson had achieved more than she had expected. He could have concerned himself more with her mission and less with her physical form, however.

  Even so… No. Good as it felt, the effect would fade. “Lord Yuan?”

  “The instrument favored by that one is now in frequent play.”

  “You said it isn’t worth tracking, yet you have been keeping watch?”

  “Yes. I have men underemployed because of the peace. It keeps them occupied. The old devil did get busy. For a while he was up to something involving the man who killed the king of Hammad al Nakir.” He checked the proximity of the desert people. “Once he finished…”

  “He headed east. Scalza has been tracking his mount, which has been giving him trouble. It acts like it’s coming down with something.” Louder, she asked, “Anyone know if horses get arthritis?”

  Swami Phogedatvitsu responded, “Probably. Most domesticated animals do if they live long enough.”

  Snide Scalza asked, “Does that mean people are domesticated?”

  “A strong argument can be made for just that, youngster.”

  Ekaterina flashed a ha-ha! face from where she hovered over Ethrian.

  Mist grumbled, “Worry about that some other time. What is the villain up to right now? Anyone know? Where is he headed?”

  Scalza said, “He’s already there, Mother. He was headed east-northeast, avoiding towns and cities. He’s missing now, but there’s no obvious destination out there. It must be somewhere hidden.”

  “Show me on a map. Varthlokkur has a whole raft of those things around here somewhere.”

  He had scores. It took just minutes to root out one of a scale small enough to show the world from the ocean in the west to the barren shores of the east. It was particularly detailed where the Dread Empire was concerned. Mist was not pleased.

  A dozen people crowded round, Ethrian and the Old Man among them. The latter indicated an archipelago off the eastern coast. “Ehelebe.”

  Ethrian added, “Nawami.”

  “Nawami,” the Old Man agreed. “That way,” indicating the nothing beyond the eastern edge of the map. “Yesterday. Long time.”

  “Where is Sahmaman?”

  The specialists attached to them crackled with excitement.

  Lord Yuan had to be the killjoy. “Intriguing matters but not what we should concentrate on right now.”

  Scalza wiggled his butt and waggled his elbows enough to win some space. He deployed a straight edge, adjusted its lie. “I’m resisting the temptation to mark this out with a pen. The target started here, in the desert. He flew along this line. He’s somewhere around here, now, in the steppe in the east of the upper Roë basin. There’s a town about here. He probably spent a night there.”

  Impressed, his mother asked, “He’s definitely not moving now?”

  “No. He has disappeared. Wherever he got to, we can’t watch him there. Maybe it’s where he goes when he isn’t making trouble. I can’t even find the horse, now, so I’m going to look for boundaries.”

  The Old Man’s eyes bugged. His face reddened. Was he choking? Explosively, he blu
rted, “Wacht Musfliet!” He staggered to the shogi table, assisted the last few steps by his mental coach.

  The others strove not to distress him by pressing for details.

  Mist demanded, “Where the hell has Varthlokkur gotten to?”

  The wizard was home. He had not left since he brought the Disciple in. He had kept Radeachar close, too, once the monster finished scouting in Hammad al Nakir. But Varthlokkur was not in evidence. He did not like the crowds in the Wind Tower.

  No one knew where he was. Mist said, “Someone find him. Eka. Someone is you. I expect you know every hiding place in this rock pile.”

  That caught Ekaterina off guard. She seemed fearful that her mother had penetrated some deep secret. Then she turned bland. “As you wish. No guarantee I can find him if he doesn’t want to be found, though.”

  Mist smiled, nodded. “Anyone know what Wacht Mustflit means?” She hashed the pronunciation. No one noticed, nor did anyone do anything but shake heads.

  There were plenty to shake. The Wind Tower was packed with a crowd that now included translators added to help Yasmid and her father get by. The one assigned to the Disciple grumbled plenty because he had so much nothing to do. Today’s Disciple was not entrancing. When he spoke at all he preached, without passion or energy, in a mumble. He believed that minions of the Evil One had imprisoned him in the antechamber of Hell.

  The mental experts said opium had damaged his mind too much. He would never recover.

  “The Place.”

  Mist looked at Ethrian, who stood over the shogi board, shivering without Eka there to support him or to intercede. He spoke declaratively, though, in a tight voice. Everyone nearby shut up, hoping for more.

  “Ethrian? I didn’t hear you clearly through the noise.”

  “The Place of the Iron Statues. Wacht Musfliet is its name in…” Ethrian stopped, perplexed. In what language?

  The Old Man made gurgling noises. He agreed but added nothing.

  Ethrian went on, “That is a name. It does not mean Place of the Iron Statues. It means Stronghold Lonely. Or Fortress of Solitude.”

  All right. Mist understood. “Thank you, Ethrian. We should find that useful.” Though how she did not at that moment see.

  Nepanthe practically pounced on her son, drowning him in hugs of happy approval.

  Mist felt the air move. Varthlokkur was beside her. “I arrived in time to hear him.”

  “Good. Where is Eka?”

  The question puzzled him.

  “I sent her to find you.”

  “She’s still looking, then. I didn’t see her.” He pushed up for a better look at the map. “Good work, Scalza.”

  “Scary good work,” Mist opined. The truth of her children had begun to leak through their clever masks.

  Mist had carried them inside her for nine months. She could not harm them, however they threatened. Well, she could do no physical harm. Injury of the emotional sort she had inflicted already.

  Varthlokkur considered the map as if entranced. His face went through changes, as though illuminated by lanterns shaken by a vigorous wind. He started, muttered, “Whoa. That was…” He recalled that he had an audience. “Sorry. I had an attack of the reminiscences.”

  Mist eased forward a foot, more directly into his line of sight. “And?”

  “I’ve been there. A long time ago. I was someone else at the time. Probably Eldred the Wanderer…though that doesn’t feel quite right. It was after the Fall.”

  Mist waggled fingers at her mental specialists. This might rate a closer look.

  The wizard mused, “That may have been when I first met Nepanthe.”

  A patent impossibility, though no one challenged him. That would have been centuries before she was born. Still, it was no secret that Varthlokkur had discovered Nepanthe in prophetic visions ages before she was entered into the lists of the world.

  The idea that he might have been in thrall to Old Meddler once did nothing to comfort anyone now, himself included.

  Mist asked, “Can you recall anything else about that?”

  “Things are in there, a little rowdy, a little shy, rambling around just outside the firelight. I’ll try to lure them in.”

  “Have these two help.” She indicated her specialists. “And don’t waste time. I’m sure that the old devil being there isn’t good.”

  “Probably not. But let’s don’t focus on the past so much that we miss what’s happening now.”

  Ethrian had to be pried loose from his mother and probed while his mind remained connected to realities beyond the usual. Likewise, the Old Man required a closer look. He showed signs of having had memories broach, too.

  She wished she had additional reliable mental experts. And she dared never forget that her empire was managed by fractious, powerful aristocrats who did not appreciate the fact that she was female.

  Ekaterina took the opportunity of being unsupervised to snatch a few minutes with Radeachar. Her friendship for that thing was nothing like her feelings for Ethrian. This was rooted in empathy. The Unborn was far more of an outsider than she was—though her status in that realm had more substance in her own mind than in the quotidian world. The feedback she got suggested an unlikely family pet—as she imagined the devotion of a dog might be.

  She had not interacted with an actual dog in years. There were none in Fangdred. The supply situation would not support the luxury of unproductive mouths.

  So. Radeachar was, by an order of magnitude, the most alien entity she had ever encountered, yet she was comfortable around it. Even Varthlokkur sometimes got the creeps. Never Ekaterina.

  Him. She should give Radeachar that. Radeachar would have been “he” had he been produced by a normal pregnancy and regular infancy.

  Radeachar liked being near her. It was a cunning monster, though. It understood that she could not be seen being close or she would suffer. She was too young to sustain the emotional burden of being a great dread.

  Too, the thing could not become as devoted as it might prefer. Its abiding obligation was to the Empire Destroyer. Varthlokkur had preserved it—him!—when the rest of the world just wanted the demon-spawn to burn.

  Was she under some compulsion to attach emotionally to crippled cousins?

  When you zeroed in on strict fact, she and Radeachar were related. Her grandfather was his father, so he would be her uncle if she had her facts straight.

  Sudden laughter ripped free.

  A glow of pleasure illuminated Radeachar. He was pleased that she was cheerful even though he did not understand.

  She brushed her fingertips across the membrane separating the bizarre embryo from the world, then kissed it, too. “Thank you. I feel much better, now.” Maybe because she had been reminded that her own situation was far from as awful as it could be.

  More pleasure radiant from Radeachar.

  She returned to the crowded workroom in the Wind Tower prepared to apologize because she had been unable to find Varthlokkur, discovered that her mission had been unnecessary. The wizard had found his way back on his own.

  “Where have you been?” her mother demanded. Like she had some right.

  Ekaterina accepted no such claim but offered only an insidiously insubordinate counter-challenge. “I took a long journey to a far place, Empress. A philosophical pilgrimage. An expedition of epiphanic conceptual discovery.”

  “Wait for it,” Scalza sneered, loud enough for half the crowd to hear. “We’re in for some vintage Eka.” He seemed eager to see how his mother handled that.

  “You’re gonna get your turn, Worm. And you’re gonna love it. Did you realize that Radeachar is our uncle? He’s Mother’s little brother.”

  Mist gawked. That was true but it had not occurred to her, ever.

  A melodic tinkle of amusement escaped Ekaterina. Something odd, there, though. It started out light but quickly became creepy. “He never needs changing so she still won’t have to learn how to deal with babies. She’ll never have to get her
fingers dirty.”

  Her tone left all her audience disturbed.

  Mist realized that Ekaterina’s remarks would make no sense even to her if she thought about them, but, still, they served up a steaming dollop of emotional truth. Not once had she gotten her hands soiled serving the needs of her infant children. It had been a rare and remarkable hour when circumstance or deliberation found her in the same room with either or both before they could walk and talk. But that reflected of her own earliest years—and most of the years that followed. She did not remember her mother. Her father had been a huge, grim, infrequently suffered manifestation more fearful than any kami or demon. She had anticipated his rare visits with massive anxiety.

  These whiners endured a childhood far more family-intimate than hers had been.

  Ekaterina’s remarks appeared to amuse Varthlokkur and Scalza while baffling everyone else. Those closest to being in the know, Lords Kuo and Yuan, were indifferent.

  They did not care if the blood of Tuan Hoa filled the monster’s veins, if blood the thing even had. There was no sign that it ever took sustenance in tangible form. They had noticed that. It did not eat; neither did it shit.

  That was scary once a Tervola reflected on the implications. It troubled Mist now that it occurred to her.

  Eka had gotten a reaction big enough to encourage her to go on being absurd. “So not only is Radeachar our uncle, he’s probably ahead of us in Shinsan’s succession. He should be king of Kavelin, too. He has the blood-right. Queen Fiana was his mother. Uncle Bragi only got the job later, by being elected.”

  Mist snapped, “Eka, stop being ridiculous.”

  “I know. Nobody would want him, despite his claims. He isn’t pretty enough and he doesn’t have good social skills.” Scalza grinned broadly, enjoying the vintage Eka. “But his legal claim is solid.”

  Varthlokkur settled a hand on the girl’s shoulder, startling her. “Eka, the law, in most cases, isn’t what’s in compendiums. It’s what the man with the most swords says it is on any given day.”

  Eka countered with a demoniac grin. “Oh, I know, Uncle. I’m just making old people squirm.” Another amused tinkle, without the dire finish. She headed for her cousin, frown hatching because he was engaged in an actual conversation without her there to monitor, manage, and protect.