A Path to Coldness of Heart

by Glen Cook

  The pig farmer’s son, then. She needed his stabilizing support. But how to make him a believer?

  That would be a challenge. She was no fanatic herself.

  She wanted to do this. She saw it as worthy work that could change the world. But she did not want to become a martyr to her cause.

  “Still no one?” She looked at Shih-ka’i directly. He did not respond. “Very well. Some questions, then.”

  She meant that not as a call for questions but as a prelude to presenting several topics. But Michael Trebilcock spoke quickly. “Here’s one. Why am I here?”

  “The question intrigues me as well. Consult the wizard. I didn’t invite you. Of this gathering you’re the man I know the least and trust the least, but it’s too late to evict you. I won’t rail against what I can’t change, though I suppose I could always kill you. I would caution you but I do know you well enough to understand that that would be pointless. You thrive on danger. You seek it the way the Disciple seeks opium.”

  Varthlokkur volunteered, “I brought Michael because he has unique intelligence resources and can provide priceless support if you do return the King to Kavelin. I thought it would be useful if Michael understood what is going on and why.”

  Mist nodded. That exposed a problem sure to rear up again. Some of these men were used to thinking for themselves. They would do what they thought needed doing without asking.

  This would be the hardest thing she had done yet. She might be doomed to fail simply for having made the choice to try.

  Old Meddler had survived forever. No doubt he smelled this taking shape. Given his oft-demonstrated talent for suborning even those with everything to lose by assisting him, she would not be amazed to discover that someone here was his agent already.

  The Old Man? He and the Old Meddler had worked together for ages. Their falling out might be more apparent than real.

  Or it could be Michael Trebilcock, just for the thrill? Michael loved complex conspiracies.

  Someone said, “Illustrious?”

  Varthlokkur said, “Gentlemen, our leader just underwent a severe paranoia spasm.”

  Mist glared as he continued, “That’s his most insidious strength. He makes you waste time looking over your shoulder. Your own class relies heavily on the same power.”

  She forced a smile. “Well. You haven’t declared yourselves out. So. All right. Are any of you prepared to declare yourselves in?”

  Lords Ssu-ma and Yuan did not lift their hands. Lord Yuan she understood. This was political. He was not a political person. He would do as he was told once the political choices had been made. He would go baying after the research possibilities.

  The only way Old Meddler could suborn Lord Yuan would be to promise him all the secrets of the transfer streams, which was beyond his power to do. Every historical indicator suggested that those streams were divine artifacts not only alien to the Star Rider but possibly even actively inimical.

  Her researches had been limited but she had found no reference to any interaction between the Star Rider and the transfer streams, yet that digging had her thinking that the Windmjirnerhorn had to operate on a related principal. The riches that thing spilled had to come from somewhere.

  She said, “During our wars with the west the entity we will not name once thwarted everyone by using the Poles of Power to kill all sorcery for a brief time. Do any of you know anything about them?”

  No one volunteered anything. She peered at Varthlokkur, sure he must know more than she did. He said nothing.

  “All right. The thinking used to be that the Windmjirnerhorn was one of the Poles. That’s probably not true. I can find no reason to believe it. It is certain though, that one is something called the Tear of Mimizan.” She surveyed both attentive and marginally bored faces.

  “My late husband and his brothers served the Monitor of Escalon during Escalon’s war with Shinsan. Once it became obvious that defeat was inevitable the Monitor slipped the Tear to my brother-in-law Turran. There is nothing on record to explain how or why the Tear came into the possession of the Monitor. My suspicion is, he got it from a certain old villain who thereby created false hope that extended the struggle and guaranteed a good deal more destruction. Turran had the Tear smuggled west to Bragi Ragnarson’s first wife, Elana.” It would not be politick to mention that Turran had had a considerable affection for Elana. Bragi would not be pleased by any public reminder that she had been murdered while in bed with Mist’s brother-in-law “She didn’t know what she had. Others suspected, though not how important the trinket might actually be. But never mind all that. I want to know what became of the Tear.”

  Lord Yuan lifted a hand tentatively.

  “Lord Yuan?”

  “You proffer an essentially traditional view of the Poles. It may not be correct.”

  “Lord?”

  “A strong case can be made for the transfer streams being one of the Poles. Possibly the more important Pole. Leakage may be what all sorcerers feed on. Leakage could be the Power itself.”

  Mist was not about to debate Lord Yuan. He knew this subject better than the rest of the room combined. “Will you explain that in words fit for a simpleton? I don’t follow.” Near as she could tell, neither did anyone else, excepting possibly the Old Man. And his nod might be due to sleepiness.

  “As you wish, Illustrious. I believe the Power we use in our sorcery is actually leakage from transfer streams that have become old and inefficient through lack of care, just as irrigation or navigation canals will become porous and leaky if not adequately maintained. Mathematically, we shouldn’t be able to access the Power at all, nor even the transfer streams. Those are, I am convinced, far more complicated than commonly assumed. We see them only in the workaday dimensions, like a network of creeks and canals we use to row our boats from place to place. They may, in fact, be the bones of the universe. Or something beyond anything the human mind can imagine. The Tear of Mimizan and, possibly, the Windmjirnerhorn, may be keys or control devices.”

  The ancient may have suffered an epiphany. Or a stroke. He did go still and silent. It was plain that he did not plan to say anything more right now.

  Mist said, “Excuse Lord Yuan. He does this. Anyone else care to contribute? Lord Ssu-ma? You’ve been particularly subdued. Would you like to explain?”

  “I have no thoughts of consequence, Illustrious. I am a pig farmer’s son. It is beyond my capacity to encompass how this proposition can benefit the Empire if we pursue it with a vigor actually necessary to bring us to confrontation with him so terrible we dare not name his name.”

  He had a point. “I see. You so fear the potential cost to the Empire that you concede defeat beforehand.”

  “Considering the historical evidence, that temptation is there.”

  “Would you have felt the same about the Deliverer had you not been ordered to take charge of a campaign already begun?”

  She waited while he gave the unfair question honest consideration.

  “I might have had I known the full story of the monster behind the Deliverer while not knowing that we had no choice but to fight.”

  Mist said nothing. She wanted more. She thought he could not help but fill a vacuum now. And so he did.

  “I spent my life teaching the Empire’s most promising youngsters, knowing that nine of ten would die badly. I did not think that it had to be that way. The Empire did not need to be at war every day, all the time. Our unreasoning passion for conquest drove us to where we are today, exhausted and on the brink of collapse.”

  Mist nodded. Shih-ka’i exaggerated but she did not disagree with his sentiments. The Empire had paid an awful price for its recent successes. But it was true that now there were no longer any enemies who could do the Empire serious harm, other than the Star Rider.

  Old Meddler always acted through proxies. The collapse of the Pracchia conspiracy had left him with few of those. Magden Norath had been the last of any significance.

  Today’s most
terrible danger might still be ambition in the Tervola class. The respected old men said they were reining the madness in, because it had cost Shinsan so dearly, but the treachery disease would continue in a certain kind of heart. And Old Meddler might pluck those strings to compose some nocturne where the empire once again turned upon itself.

  Mist grimaced. She would have to be as harsh as her father and grandfather had been. Nothing less would serve.

  Some people just asked to be killed.

  She said, “You took up the struggle against the Deliverer because you were directed to do so. I understand. I’ll rely on a similar formula in the matter of him who toys with the world.”

  She paused. She had begun to improvise. And that had hatched an interesting notion. “Lord Kuo. You will assume responsibility for the staff side. Plan. Coordinate. Find resources. You know the staff role. Lord Ssu-ma will be responsible for execution.”

  None of the Tervola missed the significance of her calling Wen-chin “Lord.” Good.

  Lord Ssu-ma bowed, resigned. “As you command, so shall it be, Illustrious. That settled, may I ask about the others gathered here?”

  “I hope to employ their skills, genius, and knowledge. I am counting on Lord Yuan to improve our arsenal substantially.” Did that sound too rehearsed?

  She had had little to do with Lord Yuan till recently. Lately, though, he had begged frequently to be freed from workaday responsibilities so he could concentrate on ferreting out secrets of the transfer streams. Which inevitably preceded an appeal for more funds.

  In that he was not unusual.

  Mist said, “I will step aside and let you brainstorm now. Or complain, or argue, according to your nature.”

  She paid little attention. There was not much to hear. No one wanted to say anything. Mist began to contemplate Lein She and her lifeguards.

  Michael Trebilcock told her, “Don’t give in.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Ignore that temptation. They’re good men.”

  Had he been reading her mind?

  “You don’t need to trust them. Watch them. If they fail you they may lead you somewhere interesting.”

  Or not. They had been selected randomly, excepting Lein She, and the tower raid would have weaned him from any service to an outside agency—assuming Old Meddler was the ultimate cause of all that blood.

  It would cost little to follow Michael’s advice.

  ...

  Varthlokkur told Mist, “I should take the Old Man to Fangdred and put him together with Ethrian.”

  Ragnarson glanced from the wizard to the Empress. Was something going on in the shadows, there? Both seemed guarded.

  Mist responded, “No. Because I think he’ll be safer here.”

  Though the wizard looked inclined to argue, he said only, “You may be right. The only way in here is by transfer. He never… Oh! Stupid.”

  Ragnarson swallowed a temptation to mention winged horses and flying evil familiars. He needed to stay small, his ears not taken into account.

  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.”

  †

  CHAPTER

  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.