by Glen Cook
“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 decades. 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.”
“You could reconcile with your cousin.”
“No.”
For Dane of Greyfells reconciliation would mean him taking over.
Gales slumped. She was right.
�
��Josiah, I won’t let Fulk become my cousin’s puppet.”
“Yes, Majesty.”
“Any men willing should come now. Admit that I can’t pay them right away but that they will eat well.” Unlike her native soldiers, the Itaskians did not have families to support. “And I want Babeltausque.”
“As you wish.” Gales did not doubt that the sorcerer would come. Greyfells would insist.
His moment of choice was, indeed, approaching. It had been inevitable for some time. He could no longer delay the reckoning. Each pole of his loyalty expected him to betray the other. Neither really trusted him. He saw no way to avoid making an enemy. Neither would the friendship of either be enduring.
He ought to desert them both. Let the snakes devour each other.
He could not do that.
His betrayal, however he bestowed it, would not define the future. Neither would rule in Castle Krief by the end of the year.
Gales believed Kavelin’s northern neighbors could not resist temptation, however much they had suffered themselves during the Great Eastern Wars.
The horrors had begun to be forgotten the way a woman forgets childbirth’s pain.
Josiah Gales had mentioned the threat to Inger and the Duke. Neither wanted to listen.
“I have chores, Majesty, and things to do if I’m going to travel.” He was sick of travel. He wished he knew some other way of life. “I’ll be back tonight.”
“I want you on the road to Damhorst tomorrow.”
Gales sighed. “As you command.”
Gales was a frugal man. He had been paid well back when soldiers received regular pay. He decided to spend some of his savings getting drunk.
...
The warlords of Anstokin and Volstokin were less tempted than Colonel Gales feared. Both kings did feel the urge. Kavelin lay sprawled like a naked virgin tied to a mattress of silver. But lurking in the shadows above those splayed enticements was a hideous guardian, a monstrous infant inside a transparent pinkish magical excuse for a placenta. A horror renowned for its evil deeds during the Great Eastern Wars.
The Unborn turned up whenever either king’s fantasies progressed to the assembling of troops. It needed do no more, so far.
Manifestation of the Unborn was not just a promise of terror. It was a clear announcement that a greater horror still had an interest.
Thus was peace assured amongst the bellicose Lesser Kingdoms. And the absence of war inflicted prosperity.
...
Josiah Gales was out of practice with ardent spirits. Handling large quantities was not a skill much admired in senior military men. Wine with dinner, small beer with breakfast, the occasional brandywine of an evening whilst relaxing with his fellows, those were his norms. Some children imbibed more in a day. His most recent falling-down-sick romance with alcohol happened the day they buried Dane’s assassinated granduncle.
People connected to Kavelin had been involved somehow.
Gales was not sure why he ended up at the Twisted Wrench. Probably because the place was a haunt for garrison troops off duty. Even if he was recognized his presence ought not to be resented.
He staked out a shadowy corner and brushed off those who tried to socialize. By not talking he would not betray his accent. Without thinking about it, though, he slipped into a character he once played undercover.
He became the quirky Sergeant Gales. That meant a shift in the set of his shoulders, in the way he held his head, a more expansive set of gestures even while being sullenly unsocial, and a lower class accent when he did have to speak.
The tavern never became crowded. The owner longed for the time when Bragi was king and there were soldiers everywhere.
There was a lot of nostalgia in the Twisted Wrench. And a lot of resentment, too.
Inger had gotten her chance. She had wasted it.
The blame was not all hers, though. The other Itaskian gang enjoyed a fouler reputation. Some folks, in fact, believed the Queen would have done a decent job if her cousin had not been undercutting.
Kristen executed a brilliant strategic maneuver by sliding out of the light when she did. She had taken no blame, only sympathy, with her. The death of Credence Abaca, which had thrilled Inger so back when, now looked like a curse. It, too, conspired to make those still visible look bad.
The Marena Dimura were no longer in a state of insurrection. They had become invisible. They could not now be blamed for all the ills of the kingdom.
Gales was well up the early slope of alcohol consumption. He was pleased to be learning so much. It might be too late to use the information to any advantage but he now had his finger on the pulse of the kingdom.
He should have made expeditions like this before. The knowledge could have kept Inger in much better odor.
It had not occurred to anyone to care what ordinary people thought. Their attitudes did not matter in Itaskia. But this was Kavelin. The monarchs here had been listening for decades. Inger might have, too. She had a mild case of the Kavelin fever.
Josiah Gales had a slight case of that disease himself. He signaled for a refill, then began to brood on that.
Then he began to worry about the time. He should have been back by now. Inger would give him bloody hell when he turned up drunk.
And now he could not leave.
Men he knew had come and gone, none paying him any heed because he timed his piss runs to avoid being noticed. The strategy had worked till an entire squad of archers stumbled in. The Wrench was not their first stop of the evening. Gales wondered how they could afford so much drink. Their pay was in arrears.
The archers settled where Gales would have to pass on his way to the jakes. And they would not move on.
The ache in the Colonel’s bladder reached a point where he had to make a decision. He chose to piss on the floor, sitting where he was, not a choice he would have made when sober.
He got urine all over himself. What made it to the floor drained through gaps in the floorboards. The odor did not stand out amongst the other stinks of the Wrench.
Then a shaggy mass of a man materialized. He headed a trio of thoroughly drenched gentlemen. In fluent drunkenese, he bellowed, “Holy fuckin’ shit! Will ya lookit! Sarge Gales, you ole cocksucker! How da fuck are you? Hey! You look like shit, man. You been eatin’ right? You got pushed out too, huh? Guess you’re lookin’ good enough for dat. Hey! Tell dese jack-offs ’bout dat time. You know. Durin’ da El Murid Wars when you got off a dat ship in Hellin Daimiel or wherever da fuck. Wit’ all da women. You guys gotta hear dis. Funniest fuckin’ story I ever heard.”
Gales began to shake. He did not recognize the man blasting dense wine breath into his face. The story he wanted had been the signature bullshit story that Sergeant Gales of the Queen’s own bodyguard had retailed back in the day.
“Come on, man! Nine women in one day!”
The entire tavern had gone quiet, at least to Gales’s ears. It seemed everyone wanted to hear the great story. Including the archers, who looked like they were trying to recall where they had heard all this before.
Gales glanced round. If anyone had a bone to pick with Colonel Gales he was well and truly screwed. “It was Libiannin. Yeah. And it was nine women. That’s no lie. I was a young man then and we was fourteen days on the transport. We hit the beach with our peckers poking us under our chins. I did nine women. In one day. You know what I mean. In twenty-four hours. Fourteen days on a transport, I never even seen a woman. Yeah. You don’t believe me. Nobody ever does. But it’s true. Nine women in one day.”
Gales did not go through the gestures and antics that had accompanied the tales of the old Sergeant Gales. He had no room and did not want his piss-soaked pants to be seen.
His unrecalled acquaintance asked, “You all right? You don’t seem to got so much energy no more. You’re ’sposed ta tell it piece by piece, man.”
Gales raised his jack. “Too many of these. Yeah.” He looked at the other men. “It’s true. You ask him. Fourteen days
at sea. I was ready. How many women you had in one day? I wasn’t showing off. I was working it. Yeah. I’ll never forget that seventh one. Yeah. Moaning and clawing. She’s going, ‘Oh! Oh! Gales! Gales! I can’t take no more, Gales! Oh! No! Don’t stop! Don’t stop!’ Yeah. It’s true. Every damn word. Nine women in one day. I was a young man then.” After a feigned bout of straining to keep everything down, he said, “I ain’t so young no more. I maybe better get outta here before somebody takes advantage of me. But one more won’t hurt.”
He pulled up a small purse. It proved to be empty. “Ah, shit. Somebody done got me already.” He faced the man who had recognized him. “You see anybody ’round me back here? Somebody plucked me.”
“We just got here, Sarge.”
One of the companions asked, “You sure you didn’t spend it all already? You didn’t get that last jack for free.”
Gales frowned as though making a grand effort to retrieve difficult memories. He decided this was the time to take advantage of the mess he had made in his lap.
Another feigned gag. He stood. “I got to go.”
The moisture was blatantly obvious. Even the drunkest drunks saw it. He staggered badly. And congratulated himself on how he had disarmed even those who had to know who he really was.
He felt awful, though. He did not have to pretend to be thoroughly soused.
He counted forty steps, leaned against a wall, looked back. Nobody had come after him. He had left them sure that he was not worth robbing, or even worth beating up for being an officer.
He faced forward. He was going to be totally miserable later on. And he had to go to Damhorst tomorrow.
A dark shape blocked his path, a big man in a hooded cassock. He was accompanied by several identically clad friends.
One stepped in behind and pulled a sack over his head. The others dressed him in another cassock. His struggles were ineffective. They had trouble mainly because he was now halfway limp.
Then he puked into the bag.
...
The sun was near the meridian. Inger wrestled a mix of panic and anger. Still no sign of Josiah. His mounts remained stabled. His possessions were in his quarters, including weapons and travel gear. The men tasked to accompany him still awaited his appearance.