A Path to Coldness of Heart

by Glen Cook

  The children, Scalza in particular, had self-limited patience for obligations familial. The boy broke the rhythm to report, “Aunt Nepanthe found that Haroun man you were looking for. A while ago, actually. We wanted to let you know but you didn’t leave instructions on how to get hold of you.”

  Varthlokkur set his teacup down, surveyed faces. Only Smyrena, who had grown dramatically and was walking, in his lap and sleeping right now, showed no degree of accusation. “Proof we never get too old to learn.”

  Several things had left him unable to think of something so basic, the greater being a centuries-deep habit of living alone. Add his determination to protect Nepanthe from the cruel eyes of reality, and there you went. The home folks could not contact him, whatever their need.

  He said, “That won’t happen again.”

  Ekaterina considered him with right eyebrow raised. His gaze slipped aside as he admitted, “No doubt I will find some other, more creative way to fail you all.” He could not help noticing that the girl had begun to mature. She would not have the advantages her mother had but would be a stunner, even so. He thought of Babeltausque, which stirred a frisson of horror. That girl of the sorcerer’s, Carrie Depar, was only slightly older than Eka—though, because she was who she was, Ekaterina might just ambush the beast.

  Or, maybe not. Eka had no true concept of the ugliness prowling the broader world.

  “Uncle?”

  “Never mind. My head is on sideways today. I keep thinking about the awful things that can happen instead of the good. Which just makes me a sad old pessimist who doesn’t deserve such wonderful people around him.”

  A younger pessimist grumbled, “Better put our old shoes on, sis. It smells like it’s going to get deep.”

  Varthlokkur gawked. That kid was too damned young to be cynical or scatological. What was he doing when his aunt was not there to observe? The staff were not all refined people.

  The wizard said, “Enough, then. Let’s go spy on bin Yousif.”

  ...

  Radeachar brought a purpose-built transfer portal to Fangdred on Mist’s behalf. Later, the monster delivered a sobbing Tang Shan, soaked in urine and feces. The Tervola suffered from a bone-deep terror of heights. He got passing out drunk right away. Twelve hours later, bathed, calmed by the lady of the castle, hung over, he began the work he had been sent to do. By then Varthlokkur and the Unborn had gone away on a secret journey.

  The portal delivered was designed to put two people through in quick succession before it lay fallow for several minutes. That effect was the result of Lord Yuan’s efforts to prevent outside tampering or espionage.

  First to come through were Mist and a massive bodyguard. The man was painfully uncomfortable in the cold, thin air.

  Nepanthe saw the remoteness of Mist’s children nearly break the woman’s heart, though she did a grand job of hiding her disappointment. In a private moment, though, she asked Nepanthe, “What can I do to kindle the affections of those two?”

  Nepanthe was snuggling Smyrena. Scalza was hunched over his scrying bowl. Ekaterina had isolated Ethrian near the Winterstorm and was talking a mile a minute, yet shyly, probably saying nothing at great length. The women watched, Mist puzzled, Nepanthe pleased and hopeful. Ethrian sometimes talked back when no one was close enough to hear. Eka claimed he said nothing of substance even on good days. Mostly he asked what had become of Sahmaman.

  Nepanthe thought there was more. Eka was guarding a special relationship jealously.

  Nepanthe had become a devotee of the stroke theory. Stroke was in the family. It had claimed some elder relatives and an aunt. She was terrified for Ethrian. What if he was still a fully functional, thinking being imprisoned inside a brain and body that would not let him interact with the outside world?

  The horror.

  When she dwelt on that possibility she became dreadfully claustrophobic. If not soon distracted she became physically ill.

  She answered Mist’s question. “Your best tools are patience and perseverance, plus rigorous devotion—when your Imperial role allows you the time.”

  Nepanthe thought the recent outbreak of peace ought to free Mist for occasional personal moments.

  Mist sighed. “Nepanthe, I miss Valther. Gods, I miss that man.”

  “As do I.” Amazed because there were actual tears in the eyes of the most powerful woman in the world.

  A bell clunked. The transfer portal hummed, then groaned. The Old Man stepped out, took two steps, froze, looked round in wonder. He remembered. He had come home.

  The ancient’s companion came through right behind him, stumbled into him, held him up, gawked himself. He turned slowly.

  Nepanthe muttered, “Maybe we shouldn’t have put that transfer thing in here with Varth’s other stuff.”

  The most recent arrival focused on the Winterstorm, awed. Nepanthe thought he might start drooling.

  Mist reassured her. “Be confident that he made sure surrendering to temptation can’t possibly turn out well.”

  “Oh. Of course.”

  Ethrian finally looked past Ekaterina to see what the activity was all about. His face went blank and pale. Several seconds later it revealed signs of intense internal stress followed by an explosion of inner light.

  Nepanthe gaped when Ethrian seized Eka’s left hand, as though needing an anchor, and headed for the Old Man.

  The Old Man sensed his approach, rounded toward the Winterstorm. Ethrian stared down into his eyes from scarcely two feet away.

  The same light exploded inside the Old Man.

  His companion joined the women. “This appears to have been the perfect strategy, Illustrious.”

  “It has begun well, Lord Kuo. Nepanthe? What do you think?”

  Nepanthe’s focus was on Ethrian’s right hand. He had grasped Ekaterina’s left so firmly that the girl was grimacing. She did not protest, however, and did not try to shake loose. If anything, she moved closer, possibly so she would be in the same visual frame as Ethrian, insofar as the newcomer could see.

  Ethrian said something to the Old Man. Nepanthe was too far away to make it out but believed that he had expressed a complete and coherent thought.

  Man and boy stared at one another. A slow smile formed on the Old Man’s lips. He said something, too. Nepanthe thought he looked like a man who had just won a great victory, against impossible odds.

  The joy in both soon faded. Neither was in a sound enough state to go on interacting at any more complex level.

  Nepanthe’s long sorrow burst through in a trickle of tears.

  Mist told her, “Don’t be sad. That was a huge success. It was proof that neither one of them has lost his past. Bringing them back may just require perseverance.”

  “I know. I understand. But the mother in me was hoping for more.” And maybe something less, too.

  Ekaterina had her hand back, now, and was rubbing life into still pale flesh.

  Was Mist blind? She had not noticed the hands part at all.

  The portal bell clunked. That had been a longer delay, that time, Nepanthe suspected.

  The portal hummed like a big, happy beehive. Two men came through, disoriented and frightened. Nepanthe found both unfamiliar. Neither was Tervola. Both were frightened.

  Mist explained, “These are the mind specialists. Let me go tell them how Ethrian and the Old Man reacted when they first saw one another.”

  Now they seemed to have forgotten one another. Lord Kuo had produced a shogi set. He and the Old Man were looking for a place to set up.

  Nepanthe beckoned Ekaterina. “Did Ethrian hurt you? Let me see your hand.”

  The girl extended it. “It’ll be all right. Maybe a bruise. It was worth it to see him light up like that, even if it was just for a minute.”

  “Yes.” Not so sure. Wondering how she could be jealous of this child. “What did he say? It looked like he actually expressed a thought.”

  Ekaterina nodded, eyes a tad remote. “It was almost a conversation
. He said, ‘I swam. All the way. The dolphins helped. Sahmaman was waiting. Where did she go?’ Then the Old Man smiled like he just got the most wonderful gift. He said, ‘I’m so glad.’ And then he said, ‘I don’t think she was ever more than a happy dream, even when I loved her.’ Then the light went out and he was just confused till his friend came and said they should go play shogi.”

  “My,” Nepanthe said. “Oh, my. I didn’t know it was that big a breakthrough.” She let go of Ekaterina’s hand. “Ice will help keep the swelling down.” And, “Your mother was right about bringing them together.”

  Warmth and shared happiness left the girl. She shoved her hand behind her, retreated to where Ethrian watched the drifting, glowing symbols in the Winterstorm.

  “What just happened?” Nepanthe asked in a whisper, lost.

  The bell on the portal clunked. Lord Yuan came through. His companion was several hundred pounds of equipment instead of another human being. Only his Empress seemed inclined to greet him.

  Scalza let out a yelp. “Hey! Some excitement is about to start.”

  Nepanthe went to watch over the boy’s shoulder.

  ...

  The King Without a Throne had been within visual range of Al Rhemish for weeks, lurking, eavesdropping, staying out of sight as resolutely as he had while coming out of the Dread Empire. He knew he was being cautious at a level explicable only by raging paranoia.

  He reminded himself that he was alive because he trusted nothing.

  He was not pleased by what he saw.

  When the Disciple was master there Al Rhemish had enjoyed a renaissance. Aqueducts had been built to bring water down from the southern hips of the Kapenrungs, into the great crater where the city sat. A lake, which became a broad moat—and, unfortunately, a cesspool—came to life in the deepest part of the basin. The crater walls had been terraced for crops or planted in orchards. The entirety had become green and gardenlike. Haroun had seen that at its peak.

  Megelin bin Haroun had not seen fit to maintain what his enemy had created. The young king lacked all foresight.

  Some orchards and farms had not yet gone to waste but that would happen considering the inadequate care shown the land and the aqueduct system. Given the rains and snows of the past year there was no excuse for Al Rhemish not being amply wet.

  Haroun, looking nothing like any king Royalists would remember, grew increasingly bold. Cleanly shaven, facial tattoos restored, wearing a tiny glamour meant to make him look older, he made brief appearances in places outsiders would be expected to visit, such as the Most Holy Mrazkim Shrines. He listened attentively.

  He stayed away from places where he could run into someone who knew him. He failed at that but did avoid recognition and confrontation. He heard himself mentioned once in a while, nostalgically, not in any “The king walks among us” context. In the main the commentary denigrated the fool who insisted that Haroun bin Yousif had murdered Magden Norath.

  Haroun bin Yousif had to be dead. If Haroun bin Yousif was alive he would not be missing. He would be in the middle of everything, imposing his will. He would be breathing life into the Royalist cause. He would have ended Megelin’s feckless reign. He would not have wasted a moment once he took the wicked Norath down.

  Haroun did not run into it himself but there were veteran minds less fixed in attitude, a few old men who had been around for ages who recognized the possibilities of deeper concerns.

  The amateur yammer smiths never plugged the Star Rider into their calculations. Nor did they consider the fact that the King Without a Throne had a wife who actually meant something to him.

  No one expected to see Haroun in Al Rhemish so no one saw him.

  An old hero named Beloul lived in Al Rhemish, amongst other retired heroes. Once a general, Beloul’s pitiful pension and the bile of the current king forced him to live in an adobe hovel shared with an equally decrepit former aide and that man’s middle-aged illegitimate daughter. Beloul had been one of Haroun’s most devoted and brilliant commanders. He had been the same for Haroun’s father before him. Haroun was amazed to see how poorly Beloul was treated but more amazed to find him still alive. He suppressed the urge to contact Beloul immediately.

  There were few rootless men around Al Rhemish. The current regime discouraged the presence of the crippled of mind, body, or soul. Megelin found those people distasteful. Those who pandered to the king drove off anyone so dim or ill-starred as to have become disfigured in service to his cause.

  Haroun liked his offspring less every day but not once did it ever occur to him to put the boy aside.

  He made quite sure that neither Megelin nor his henchmen were watching before he went to visit Beloul.

  Trouble was, he could not shake the fear that he was being watched himself. He suffered this constant, creepy paranoid certainty that never discovered a fleck of sustenance. It went way back. Random and seldom during his flight from Lioantung, lately it had become a fixture, and much more aggressive. It had to be a product of his insecurities, grown fatter after the Norath incident and his wastrel spending of good luck during the sojourn at Sebil el Selib. Not once, even employing all his shaghûn skills in the privacy of the erg, had he apprehended any genuine observer.

  In bleak humor he wondered if God Himself was not the watcher.

  Reason suggested that a genuine observer would have to be Old Meddler but the sense of being watched antedated that point—the encounter with Magden Norath—when the revenant would have garnered the interest of that old devil. Before that Haroun bin Yousif was dead to the world.

  One cool evening, while street traffic was heavy, bin Yousif went to the general’s door. A woman answered, which rattled him totally. Women did not do such things. They did not show themselves to strangers. Their men folk did not allow it. But… Here she was just another fellow in the household?

  Beloul and El Mehduari must have been poisoned by outside ways while they were in exile.

  The woman looked him straight in the eye, bold as any warrior confident of his prowess. She intimidated him. He was amazed.

  “Well? Can you speak? No?” She began to close the door.

  “Wait. I’ve come to consult the general.”

  “The general is retired. He doesn’t contribute anymore. He isn’t allowed to contribute. In return for his silence we are provided a stipend sufficient to hold starvation at bay. I will not jeopardize that. Go away. Consult someone else.”

  “Beloul ed-Adirl! Present yourself!”

  She had rattled him that much. And now she was about to make him hurt.

  “Admit him, Lalla,” came from the gloom beyond the woman, in a voice like dead insects being rubbed across one another.

  The woman did as instructed, eyes locked with Haroun’s, assuring him that he faced plenty of pain if he gave her an excuse.

  Wow. Never had he encountered anyone whom he knew, instantly, was as hard as this woman. She might be as hard as him.

  The setting sun had been in Haroun’s eyes. He entered the house as good as blind, but eventually did make out an amorphous shape amongst cushions against a far wall, too small to be Beloul or El Mehduari—though, at this remove, he surely remembered them larger than life.

  That shape extended a pseudopod, gestured, suggesting he take a seat. “I have heard your voice before. Who are you?”

  Beloul became more clear as Haroun’s eye adapted. He did not like what he saw. Beloul in his mind was Beloul thirty years ago, powerful, confident, a champion fit to contend with the Scourge of God. This Beloul…

  “You do not know me?”

  “I cannot see you. These eyes betray me.”

  That might explain the darkness, some, though not for the fierce woman.

  “You rode with my father. You were too indulgent with me and my brothers when we were boys. You’re still too indulgent toward my son.”

  “Do you have a name?” There was an edge to the general’s voice, now, as the old steel surfaced.

  The w
oman rested a hand on the hilt of the curved dagger at her left hip. Haroun was sure she knew how to use it.

  “I do. I won’t say it here, in this city.”

  “Now I know you. Come closer. I have never conversed with a ghost.”

  That did not reassure Haroun. Did Beloul want him inside grabbing range? It would take but an instant for the woman to… He stepped forward. The old man swept a hand at him, hard, sure it would meet no resistance. “Ouch!” He began massaging his wrist.

  “Damned solid for a spook,” the woman observed. “He must be a demon instead.”

  Beloul chuckled, a dry old man’s laugh. “You aren’t far wrong.”

  “Would this be who I think it must be, then, Uncle?”

  “Yes, Lalla. The revenant who untangled the curse of Magden Norath. Be seated, youngster. Tell me tales of the years. Tell me what brings you here in my end times.”

  The woman asked, “Is there anyone I should inform? Someone I should summon here?”

  “That will wait. Let’s hear his story first.”

  Haroun settled onto a ragged reed mat. Nothing lay beneath that but dirt, which would become mud during any persistent rain. He faced Beloul. The man had been a personal hero when Haroun was a boy. He was saddened by the way time and Megelin had treated Beloul.

  Haroun did note that Beloul offered him no honor as king.

  He was just another man, possibly not in good odor—though Beloul was not one to be seduced away from the grand Royalist strategy by side issues. Beloul owned a conscience that was unique.

  Had Beloul been making ultimate decisions back when, today’s world might wear a different face—though that would in no way resemble the world that Beloul had hoped to see. Old Meddler, the Pracchia, and Shinsan would have sucked the blood out of Hammad al Nakir and the West despite Beloul. The Disciple had been just another torment.

  That water had sunk into the sands. The world that existed now was the world in which everyone had to struggle, including every survivor on the other side.

  After some silence the general asked, “Well? Why are you here?”