A Path to Coldness of Heart

by Glen Cook

  Inger paced. She muttered. She cursed. She was certain fate had handed her another cause for despair. Josiah was almost all she had left.

  Not many months ago she had been ready to abandon Fulk’s claim to Kavelin’s crown. Then Bragi got himself killed. Most of the people who wanted rid of her then turned round to support her—except that witch Kristen, whose brat’s claim had no legal foundation.

  Here she was again, abandoned by another man, ready to shriek, “To hell with it!” and leave Kavelin to anyone who wanted the heartache.

  She watched Fulk nap, for once in rare good health. The boy seemed angelic, lying there in a splay of blond curls. Neither she nor Bragi had curly hair but her mother said she had had curls as a toddler. One of her few remaining women came into the nursery. “Yes, Garyline?”

  “That unpleasant Wolf person is here, Majesty. He says he has the information you wanted.”

  Inger rolled up her nose. She avoided Nathan Wolf as much as she could. But when Josiah dropped off the face of the earth she had nowhere else to turn.

  “Send him in.” She had no choice.

  Sometimes she felt sorry for Wolf. The man was never anything but what he ought to be. He never did anything wrong. But he radiated something that made everyone wary and distrustful. Only Dane actually liked him. Inger suspected that Wolf did not like himself much. What others thought reflected back and made him think he deserved the negative responses.

  Wolf’s manners were perfect. Inger did not face him. She did not want him to see the revulsion his presence sparked. “You found something?” She stroked Fulk’s hair, praying his good health would last.

  “Colonel Gales spent the evening at a tavern, the Twisted Wrench, which is frequented by the garrison. He drank so much he wet himself. The last anyone saw him, he was going out the door.”

  “That’s it? That’s all?”

  “It is, Majesty. And I would like to point out that the men and I have done almost miraculous work, coming up with that so fast.”

  True. Inger reined in her emotions. Wolf had developed that information so fast she wondered if he had not been involved somehow. “You’re right, Nathan. That was good work. Can you even guess where he is now?”

  “No, Majesty. But these things usually end with a corpse. Or an embarrassed soldier who has been rolled by a prostitute.”

  Josiah would not have taken up with a prostitute.

  Wolf stepped to the door. “I can keep on squeezing the men who were there, but…”

  “Almost certainly a waste of time. Nathan, you’ll have to do what Colonel Gales was supposed to do today.”

  “I am at Your Majesty’s command.”

  Exactly the answer she wanted from every man in her service, but from Wolf it seemed somehow both sinister and darkly suggestive.

  Poor Nathan could not talk about the weather without making people think he was an oily, wicked pervert.

  Inger gave Wolf his instructions, which were exactly those she had given Gales. Though her stomach tightened, she allowed a hint of a suggestion that a substitute who handled the Colonel’s work well might expect some of the Colonel’s perks.

  She felt filthy when Wolf left.

  She did wonder why the man seemed so slimy, creepy, and repulsive. He did nothing to validate that.

  ...

  Nathan Wolf, wounded, reached the Breitbarth castle two days later than he should have without having run into trouble. He was afoot. He was the second member of his band to get through, and the last. He arrived to find that the cavalryman who had preceded him had expired before he could explain what had happened.

  The Duke himself came to see Wolf. The sorcerer Babeltausque was dressing his wounds. “What the hell happened, Nathan? The other guy thought he was the only survivor.”

  “An ambush, Your Grace. I didn’t get a good look. Marena Dimura bandits, I guess.”

  Babeltausque said, “He’ll be fine if there’s no sepsis. Gister Saxton told the same story.”

  “The Marena Dimura haven’t done anything since Abaca died. Why change now?”

  Wolf mumbled, “I don’t know, Your Grace.” He tried to explain why he had come instead of Gales.

  “Ah. Possibilities suggest themselves. Gales either stepped out of the equation deliberately, was ordered out by Inger, or was removed by someone else. That seems most likely. So. Why? To get rid of Gales? Or to move Nathan up a notch?”

  The sorcerer said, “That is a pathetically long stretch.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I believe in the malicious mischief theory of providence. My hypothesis? Gales went out drinking and got mugged, or killed, by somebody who didn’t know who he was.”

  “A twist on ‘It’s not conspiracy if it can be explained by stupidity’?”

  “Exactly.”

  Greyfells stared at Wolf. “Nathan has done well, Babeltausque. Remove the curse.”

  Wolf frowned, confused, as he slid away into sleep.

  The sorcerer frowned, too, but his scowl was born of irritation.

  Nathan Wolf had offended Babeltausque years ago, without knowing it. He never did figure out why the whole world suddenly found him repugnant.

  The sorcerer was not happy but he carried out his Duke’s will. He had too grand an idea of his own worth. He would not have survived with the Greyfells family if they had been able to attract a man with more talent and a better character.

  Babeltausque schemed, but only in small-minded, personal ways. He did not put his employer at risk.

  Dane of Greyfells appreciated that. “Babeltausque, you’ve served my family long and well. We should show our appreciation more fully. Do you have secret aspirations that we could make come true?”

  The sorcerer was startled. He squinted at the Duke. Was he being set up for torment? The man was capable of amusing himself by baiting a dog.

  Yet he could not keep from blurting, “I do, Lord. But I dare not state it. Punishment would be swift and harsh.”

  “Come, now.” The Duke assumed his sorcerer had a secret vice. The breed had that reputation. And Dane of Greyfells had vices he dared indulge only rarely. “Go on. I guarantee your safety. And no one else will know.”

  “Lord, I was obsessed with your half-sister Mayenne before we left Itaskia.” He cringed, anticipating a blow.

  “Well. You can surprise me. I expected something darker. She’s a little young, though, isn’t she?”

  “She’s almost fourteen.” Too old for the sorcerer’s taste, now, but so delectable…

  Mayenne was one of a dozen children the previous Duke had fathered on the far side of the blanket. He had been fond enough of this one’s mother to acknowledge her and her sisters.

  The Duke was amused. “Babeltausque, I’m glad you spoke up. This can be arranged.” Sudden cruelty edged his voice. “The little bitch needs to learn her place.” She had resisted his own advances more than once. She deserved to be thrown to a beast like Babeltausque.

  The sorcerer continued to look amazed.

  How his fortunes had turned!

  ...

  Nathan Wolf, on crutches, made the rounds of the Duke’s soldiers, telling them what Inger wanted them to hear—with the Duke’s blessing. A band of three were allowed to slip away. Two days later an eight-man group moved out. Both groups consisted of genuine deserters.

  A third band, twenty-six strong, were not the real thing. They included the Duke disguised as an archer and the sorcerer as a muleteer. The archer’s guise suited the Duke. He was skilled with the longbow.

  Six miles east of Breitbarth an outrider discovered human remains as vultures and ravens made a getaway. Flies were dense despite the season. There had been several days of warm weather. Maggots were at work. The ravens did not go far. They clustered in nearby trees and cursed.

  The remains could still be recognized. They were the men who had deserted first. They had been attacked by archers.

  “Bandits?” Greyfells asked the air.

 
; “Hard to tell, Your Grace,” a soldier replied. “The broken arrows are the Marena Dimura type.”

  Babeltausque, unhappy about being in the field, said, “It hardly matters now.”

  “True enough,” the Duke admitted. “Sorcerer, here is where you earn your sweet cunny. Make sure it doesn’t happen to us.”

  Babeltausque soon had his chance. “We’re being stalked. Four men. In the woods to our left. A dozen more are hiding up ahead, in the brush around that lone chestnut.”

  Greyfells had been looking forward to this. His troops were all afoot. Each carried a strung bow with an arrow laid across. “The finer you determine where they are the happier I’ll be.”

  “Keep moving like you’re ready for trouble but don’t really expect it. I’ll give you my best.” He would. He had a reason to live.

  Greyfells halted at the extreme range of the short bow favored by the Marena Dimura. He laid flights of arrows into the ambush area. Shrieks and curses responded.

  The frustrated ambushers rose to loose their own shafts. That made the Itaskians’ work easier.

  Those ambushers still able to do so ran.

  The Itaskians found eight wounded men. They recovered their arrows, left seven dead to their more fortunate brothers. They took one youth along for questioning. His wound was not life-threatening. He was not nearly as tough as he imagined.

  Watching Babeltausque booby-trap corpses, Greyfells said, “Sorcerer, I’m developing a whole new appreciation of you. I may give you all of my bastard sisters.”

  “Mayenne will be sufficient, Your Grace.” Then greed reared up. “Though Jondelle would make Mayenne a fine companion.”

  Greyfells laughed. “Wicked man. But be cautious with Jondelle. She is insane.”

  The party smashed three more ambushes. Babeltausque’s stock soared. Years of maltreatment and disdain went by the wayside. Soldiers tended to give respect to those who saved their asses.

  Babeltausque was no empire destroyer but he was handy on the killing ground. That carried plenty of weight with the sloggers.

  The prisoner was worthless. He had no idea why the forest people were active again. He did what his father told him.

  The Itaskians left him alive but in horrible pain. Whoever tried to help would regret his empathy. Babeltausque included a nasty booby trap.

  ...

  Twelve days. Still no sign of Josiah. And no word from Wolf. Things were falling apart. Gales’s disappearance had shaken the garrison. He had been more important than Inger had imagined. Once they suspected that the Colonel was not coming back the native garrison began to evaporate. Changes for the worse were evident daily. Those regiments that had remained loyal soon became paper tigers.

  The vanishing soldiers were not shifting allegiance. They were just leaving.

  Inger had no reliable intelligence about what was going on outside Vorgreberg. It did seem that the pretender’s soldiers were deserting, too.

  The nobility began abandoning Vorgreberg, finding excuses to return to their holdings. They did not want to get crushed in the coming collapse.

  Inger knew she needed to make a show of strength. But she had none to show. Her enemies had brought her to the brink by walking away or by ignoring her.

  Then came the six deserters from Damhorst, four of them injured. They had lost one on the way. They had hurt the bandits back.

  Bandits. There had been no banditry when Bragi was king.

  The lead sergeant informed Inger that, “The Duke and a bigger band are behind us. He means to disguise himself as an archer. The sorcerer will be with him.”

  “Whitcomb Innsman, isn’t it?”

  “Your Majesty’s memory is excellent. It’s been years.”

  “It is good. This time, though, I was told before you came in. I need to know my cousin’s real situation. What did he leave behind? Can he count on help if I ambush him?”

  That startled the soldier. Evidently no one had considered the possibility that she would try to turn things around herself.

  Excellent.

  “Innsman, your situation won’t improve much here.”

  “It’ll be better than it was.” He described increasingly erratic and ugly behavior by the Duke. Nothing was ever his fault. He was not well, and had become a monster toward those Kaveliners within his power. He abused their younger teen daughters.

  “Surely you exaggerate.”

  She knew that was true, though. It was no secret inside the family.

  “Believe what you please, Majesty.”

  “Forget it. Find yourselves places in the barracks. And ask Dr. Wachtel to treat your injuries. He has plenty of time.”

  Inger rested her head in her hands. It just got worse. She was doomed. She had only a handful of men, too few to succeed here and not enough to manage an escape. While Dane kept on making sure that Itaskians were hated as much as possible.

  This kingdom was insane. It turned good people bad and bad people worse. It ate them all. Then it sucked in more.

  General Liakopulos may have demonstrated a burst of genius by escaping. If he was not lying in a shallow grave somewhere.

  This was all Michael Trebilcock’s fault.

  She had no evidence. Not so much as a rumor. But she was ready to bet her soul that Trebilcock was out there tugging strings.

  There was some comfort in being able to blame an invisible external devil for all one’s woes.

  ...

  A blunted arrow struck Dane of Greyfells’ helmet as his purported deserters entered Castle Krief. The soldiers laid down their arms before their Duke finished collapsing. They had no skin in the game.

  Babeltausque revealed himself immediately. He had failed to detect the ambush. Inger’s men had not given it away. There would be no sweet Mayenne cunny now.

  There might be no getting back home at all.

  Babeltausque did not need to indulge in the formal, scientific astrology necessary to predict the future. With Greyfells imprisoned, the man’s following would disappear. His fever dream was dead. Once this news escaped Kavelin the Greyfells family would cease to matter in political equations.

  Babeltausque, hands bound, feared there would be no live Itaskians in Kavelin come New Years.

  Chaos would take complete charge.

  ...

  Inger intercepted the sorcerer before he could be shoved into a cell. “Remove his gag, please.”

  The soldiers were her last Wesson loyalists. They knew what Babeltausque was. They thought Inger touched for not having him killed right away. But they followed instructions.

  Inger looked Babeltausque in the eye. “You know how grim my situation is. Our situation, if you include Dane.”

  The sorcerer nodded.

  “Can you abandon him? Can you come over to me?”

  Babeltausque nodded repeatedly.

  “Unless you’re better than I think we’re likely to get run out of Kavelin. If we’re lucky. If they let us go. You’d have to explain yourself back home.”

  “As would you.”

  “I no longer care. I’m not ready to run yet, though. I have a little fight left. I’d have more than a little if I had your help.”

  The sorcerer nodded some more.

  “I’ll work you harder than Dane ever did. You’ll be a lot more than a pet astrologer.”

  Babeltausque went slightly grey. “At last. An opportunity to make use of my talents.”

  The soldiers snickered.

  Inger said, “Turn him loose.”

  They did so with obvious reluctance.

  She told them, “If he becomes a problem you can say you told me so while you’re roasting him. Sorcerer. Come along. I’ll show you where to work.” Which would be in the suite Varthlokkur used when he resided in Castle Krief. “You’ll get one servant. There’ll be no touching. Understand?”

  “I gather that fierce temptation will be set so as to test me.”

  “You don’t want to fail.”

  The sorcerer adopt
ed his most blank expression.

  “Let me know when you’re ready to start.”

  “How soon do you need me?”

  “Today, if you can.”

  The sorcerer sighed and strove to keep up.

  †

  CHAPTER SIX

  YEAR 1017 AFE:

  KING WITHOUT A THRONE

  The fugitive walked the plain alone, striding purposefully. The caravan job had not lasted. Despite peace looming there was little trade. No caravans were headed this way.

  He glanced to his right. The riders still paced him. Occupying his attention while others closed in? The plains tribes were not populous but were the reason caravans needed guards. They would steal anything from anyone. Nobody was too poor not to be robbed.

  He sensed no other presence, though. They must be keeping track till they could summon help.

  There were two of them. They were cautious. They did not like the odds.

  They must suspect that he was more dangerous than he looked.

  He strode on, sling in hand in case he kicked up a hare or game bird. If those two tried nothing sooner he would visit them after dark.

  He could use a good plains pony.

  A grouse flushed. He did not react fast enough. His bullet fell short. He produced another stone and walked on. His homeland was only days away. He should decide where to go first.

  He had to arrive as a wanderer, not as himself. He would go where rootless men gathered. There he could discover what he needed to know to cope with today’s kingdom.

  The land grew more arid, the grass shorter and scruffier, soon revealing patches of dun earth. The grass sea was about to give way to mild desert. Not far ahead, though not yet visible, lay mountains which masked the heart of Hammad al Nakir.

  The riders had to make a decision soon. Tomorrow he would reach country where they would not be welcome—though they were not likely to be noticed. He considered what he would do in their position.

  He would move in the middle of the night.

  He moved as soon as it was dark. There was no moon. Pitfalls seemed to multiply.