A Path to Coldness of Heart

by Glen Cook

  The wizard took nearly a minute. “I am repelled to the point where I suspect that you have identified a workable design.”

  “It needs only persist for as long as it takes to succeed or be flayed.”

  She expected the latter to be the more likely outcome. Once reason placed her eyeball to eyeball with that she just got more obstinate. There would be a grand showdown. Potential hurdles rolled off the duck’s back of her determination.

  What had become of that Poles of Power project meant to identify them and locate them? She had handed that off to Kuo Wen-chin, had she not? Then she had not followed up. Wait. No. She had not given that to Wen-chin. She had not given it to anybody. She had gone and forgotten the whole damned thing herself. It was too late to work that angle. The crisis was just around the corner, beyond her ability to delay.

  Old Meddler would operate from inside a miasma of ignorance but would know that survival was table stakes. Weak, he would shun cat and mouse diversions. He would attack with ferocity and vigor.

  She peered hard at the Old Man, then Ethrian. Could they really provide the tools she needed?

  Doubt declared otherwise.

  Doom was on its way.

  †

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  WINTER, YEAR 1018 AFE:

  RUN IN CIRCLES

  Al Rhemish remained chaotic. Whenever the confusion began to settle, some fresh dollop of rumor brought the turmoil back to life. The King really was dead. His remains had been found. The site was grisly but there was evidence enough to identify the dead. One man, with the pack animals and mounts, was missing. Anyone who knew Boneman had a good idea what had happened.

  Then came news that Haroun bin Yousif and the Empire Destroyer had carried off El Murid and his daughter.

  How anyone could actually know that never got explained. Varthlokkur’s participation was based on circumstantial evidence, Haroun’s on less. That there had been kidnappings at all remained uncertain. The Disciple’s medical team was missing, too. There were no actual witnesses.

  Those left behind were determined to believe what they wanted to be true.

  The chaos at Sebil el Selib beggared that at Al Rhemish. The Faithful were not accustomed to life without established leadership—though that might be as corrupt as any on the Royalist side.

  Elwas al-Souki and his intimates did what they could, though they suffered continual sabotage by Adim al-Dimishqi’s clique. The latter saw a God-granted chance to push the Believers onto a more traditional path.

  The situation was juice-dripping ripe for exploitation by Old Meddler.

  ...

  Old Meddler was preoccupied. He had wind of a huge threat, possibly the worst in fifty generations. He had pushed too hard. The push-back had devoured his resources. He was weak. He had no friends. Without, he was close to blind.

  Too much happened beyond his ken. There were a thousand places he could not look without spending hours and vast reserves of energy. There were some into which he could not look at all, however hard he tried. A thousand glittering spears were headed his way but he could make out the shimmering razor edges of only a few.

  He could not recall when he had felt this uneasy. And malaise rested entirely on intuition, not on facts already determined.

  He could not sit tight and let events unfold, improvising responses. He had to act. His character demanded preemption.

  His only real choice was what direction to strike.

  Once he started he would, ironically, operate through improvisation anyway.

  It might turn grim. He lacked allies. His arsenal had been depleted. The Poles of Power were beyond his control. One had vanished completely, as though Fate itself had chosen to tamper.

  All effort would be wasted, anyway, whatever the world looked like on the other side. Success would win neither reprieve nor parole. Death itself might be no escape.

  Even so, it was time. Definitely time to go shove his hands into the pie. After all these ages he could do nothing less.

  ...

  Ragnarson delayed his appearance before the Thing for as long as he dared. Days and days, till Michael warned him that Haida said the delegates were out of patience. The rumor accusing the castle of stalling out of greed had gained considerable momentum.

  Haida Heltkler made friends easily. She moved amongst people comfortably, taking the popular pulse. She could be flirty when she wanted, which was no handicap amongst the unwashed.

  That did not become a problem amongst the more frequently washed of the castle once Carrie Depar and Michael Trebilcock each took a moment to counsel Babeltausque. That gleam in his eye had best disappear. No telling which Babeltausque heard more clearly but he did take the message to heart. Haida was too ripe, anyway. And he was damned happy with Carrie. That was going far better than he had any right to expect.

  Ragnarson’s main reason for stalling had been a hope that Babeltausque would discover a working transfer portal. A live one would provide the impact he wanted.

  The sorcerer had one hell of a time finding one, though, despite knowing that it had to be out there somewhere. He found one at last, in Fiana’s tomb, fourth time he looked, when Ragnarson insisted that he try it yet again.

  The Thing met in full, with numerous native and foreign observers crowding into every otherwise unclaimed space. That whole end of the world, kings and commons, wanted to watch history in the making. And history would be made. History happened where King Bragi went.

  First order of business, declaration of a requirement for order, manners, and good behavior inside the Thing hall. Misbehavior would not be tolerated. Following his minute of stolen glory each transgressor, whatever his station, should expect harsh penalties, from the stocks to public whippings. Colonel Gales would enforce good manners at his own discretion.

  Ragnarson expected to make examples. People did not believe you till you hit them hard enough.

  Silence gathered quickly once Ragnarson moved past his grim prospects cautionary speech.

  He leaned on the rostrum, surveyed the assembly. Inger and Kristen were with him, a step back and one to either side, Inger on the right. Neither was happy. Each had suffered abiding disappointments. Each felt humiliated and betrayed.

  Neither Fulk nor the younger Bragi were present. Each woman still wondered if she could fully accept what Ragnarson meant to announce.

  Neither saw any other choice. The legal monarch was back. No one else minded him asserting his rights. Popular sentiment was plain. Common folks were thrilled. He had screwed up, back when, but the kingdom had enjoyed unprecedented internal security before that, and ferocious chaos in his absence. Things could only get better.

  Nostalgia always ground off the bloody, jagged edges and wafted away the bad smells. The old days were ever better times, ever sweeter than the hells folks were slogging through nowadays.

  Even so, Ragnarson sensed resentment. The people here were sure he was wasting their time. But they wanted the measure of the new him. They were no longer stunned beyond calculation. They were about to start knitting conspiracies tailored to whatever strengths he betrayed.

  He offered a brief, brisk, insincere apology for the delays. “What I’m going to show you was more cunningly hidden than I expected. But, before that, I want to deal with the succession, which has caused too much friction and confusion.”

  That got their attention. Scores, possibly hundreds, had perished in those squabbles, rancor stirred by Dane of Greyfells and traditional prejudice. Though weary of the fighting the survivors all retained strong opinions.

  “When it looked like I was gone for good this assembly designated my son Fulk to succeed me, a cynical choice pushed through in hopes that Inger would prove a weak regent, easily manipulated, while Fulk’s constitution would betray him quickly.”

  That caused a stir. Some thought the Queen appeared stricken by the bald statement, though Dr. Wachtel’s prognoses certainly supported it.

  “I confi
rm the will of the Thing. Fulk will be my successor, with his mother as Queen Regent.”

  A buzz began. Elation. Disappointment. Wonder. Surprise that he would favor Fulk over his grandson. That emotional connection was stronger.

  “However,” Ragnarson said, portentously. “Practically, though, I must face the fact that Fulk is sickly. He probably won’t enjoy a long, peaceful reign. An intercession of evil won’t be necessary to end the disappointments he may cause you who have black hearts. So, though I want Fulk and his mother to follow me, I also want my grandson, Bragi, and his mother to follow Fulk—even if Fulk produces his own son. And, Kristen, you will be patient. Michael has assured me that you will.” He paused to allow reflection, then, “I want this made law. The Queen will herd it through and Michael Trebilcock will enforce it.”

  Ragnarson stood silent momentarily, then boomed, “The Crown will not tolerate any more squabbling amongst its subjects.”

  He did not say how he might enforce his will with no income or army. He had no idea how he could. He was winging it again, but reminding them that Michael was out there, watching. Few Kaveliners did not dread Michael’s ire—though there were, in fact, few certain instances of that ire having been expressed directly.

  Michael Trebilcock, the terror, was mostly perception.

  Since the Great Eastern Wars perception had been enough. For most people, perception and truth were identical.

  Trebilcock had arrived with Ragnarson but had disappeared right away. He was a spook now, rarely seen as he prowled the Thing. His eyes were hard. He was looking for something.

  Which was Michael doing what Michael did, while hundreds sensed him watching, calculating, noting faces and names.

  Ragnarson lifted a hand.

  A tall, wide swath of canvas swept aside. Babeltausque clomped onto the floor of the Thing leading a tired-looking donkey and cart. The animal looked like it had mange. The cart carried a tall black box which, at first glimpse, resembled a one-hole outhouse. It produced a faint hum and random tweets. The tweets followed crackling sparks like those snapping between your fingertips and cold metal on a dry winter day.

  Some onlookers knew it was no shitter, though it could scare the crap out of someone of questionable courage. It was a Dread Empire transfer portal and it was alive. There was, in fact, something wrong with it. It should not crackle and hum while on standby.

  No one, including Ragnarson, actually understood that.

  Ragnarson explained, “This was concealed inside Queen Fiana’s mausoleum, masked by one that we deactivated before.” He tried to sound more distressed than he really was. He was willing to exploit his own pain and vulnerability.

  He experienced a tweak in time with a tweet. He was becoming an apprentice Greyfells, cynical and pragmatic. He wanted to look back but feared what he would see reflected in the faces of the women.

  Babeltausque worked his cart round so that the donkey faced back the way that it had come. Four garrison soldiers lifted the portal down, settling it where all the delegates could see it, a dark, oily, interstellar black thing that the gaze either fell into and lost focus or slipped off and did likewise, partly why it had been so hard to find.

  Ragnarson made random comments during the unloading. He wanted the onlookers distracted while the soldiers grunted and strained.

  The portal seemed heavier than it should be.

  A bear of a man in black armor emerged from the black, oily face. A twin came after, followed immediately by two more. Three of the four garrison soldiers demonstrated the better part of valor. The fourth fainted.

  Yet another pair of giants emerged. Heart pounding, near panic, Ragnarson nevertheless did note that the Imperial Lifeguards were not arriving with their weapons bared.

  He noted, as well, Babeltausque drifting away, eyes huge, leading donkey and cart at a glacial pace, stricken by this ugly turn of events, no doubt desperate for something to do and failing to think of a thing.

  Had Mist’s gang chosen to infiltrate when their portal was in exactly the worst possible location for their purpose?

  The Empress herself stepped into the Thing hall. No doubting who she was. Most delegates remembered her from her exile. Her visual impact remained immense. The rising panic peaked. The screams and curses of men clambering over one another to win first escape eased up immediately.

  Why, in the names of all devils and gods above and below, had that woman chosen to step into the heart of this kingdom at this moment?

  Ragnarson did not doubt her move was as calculated as a public beheading. She wanted to be seen with Varthlokkur, who emerged from the portal behind her.

  Those two approached Ragnarson.

  Inger quietly told Josiah Gales to do nothing, an instruction he supported wholeheartedly. He signed, “Steady on!” to Nathan Wolf and Babeltausque. Both relaxed. They were not expected to commit suicide.

  Mist came as near as the layout permitted. “Bragi, you’re needed.”

  The wizard nodded. “It could be just hours, now.”

  Mist asked, “Where is Trebilcock?”

  Ragnarson did not trust his tongue. He shook his head. He did not know. Around somewhere, probably in disguise.

  He had seen Haida Heltkler moments ago, making eyes at Bight Mundwiller, but not now. Like Michael, she was out there listening.

  That kid had a cooler head than he did, he feared.

  He did croak, “He’ll turn up.” Or he might do something weird that nobody would notice right away. Or something that everyone would notice, and regret forever. Something they could tell their grandchildren thirty years from now.

  Mist said, “Come. We have no time. We can collect Trebilcock later, if need be.”

  “You’re shitting me, right? I got stuff to do here. And I don’t think I care much about what you got yourself into out there.”

  Varthlokkur said, “We need you. We expect your help. We will take you back with us.”

  The Thing hall had gone silent. Those few delegates still moving did so slowly, randomly, like their minds had shut down.

  Mist had come prepared, no doubt about that. Bragi would be going where she wanted him to go. And he had all too terrifying a notion where that might be, though not why. What could he possibly contribute? His whole experience with the Star Rider was a single glimpse, years ago. What could he actually do but get himself dead along with the rest of them?

  However much they believed, and were committed, it would not be enough. He was not prepared to die for their fantasy.

  Haroun was right. Old Meddler was weather. You lived with it, and you hoped you survived it. You hoped that it did not single you out.

  How his attitude had shifted after just a brief romance with freedom!

  “It’s nice to be needed. But I can’t imagine how I can help you die any less ugly than you’re going to if you keep this up.”

  Babeltausque had not been overcome by the spell dulling the delegates. He turned loose of his donkey, straightened up, headed for the portal.

  Had he decided it was time to die?

  Ragnarson began to turn away, but not before Babeltausque’s baby fluff, equally unaffected, latched onto him, whispering urgently, trying to get him to stop.

  For the ten thousandth time in his life Ragnarson was amazed by the surprises the human animal could spring.

  The child really did care. And the little pervert cared right back. He was trying to explain. But he did not stop moving.

  Mist and Varthlokkur both reached up as though to beckon Bragi down to the Thing hall floor.

  Michael Trebilcock appeared, approaching. Michael, who could be intimidated by so little, was unaffected by the calming and clearly meant to intercede. “Perfect,” Mist said, clearly enough to be heard by everyone.

  Babeltausque and his friend, of a single mind now, kept on toward the transfer portal. Trebilcock shifted his course, heading there, too. Break that damned thing and this villainy would die unborn.

  There might be
a lot of flash and burn afterward, though.

  The invaders did not seem especially concerned.

  Ragnarson could not imagine what Babeltausque hoped to accomplish. No way he would get past Mist’s lifeguards.

  The girl darted left, then forward. The sorcerer shot a spell through the space vacated by the bodyguard who moved to intercept her.

  Clever, but a second lifeguard deflected the spell with his body. It knocked him down but he grabbed at the fat man as he collapsed. His effort shoved Babeltausque right into the portal.

  Carrie Depar dove after him.

  Mist cursed. Varthlokkur laughed.

  Ragnarson figured those two would be dealt with in the Karkha Tower, or wherever they emerged. They had just plain jumped into deep shit.

  He stepped down. His mind had begun to fog, too, though as yet less completely than most—though some remained unaffected. He forced his head round enough to follow Michael in his muffed attack. Trebilcock ended up getting tossed into the portal at a gesture from Mist.

  She spoke to the men helping the lifeguard who had gone down. One boomed back, his tone not at all pleasant.

  Another grabbed Ragnarson and dragged. He went, heels skidding.

  ...

  Nepanthe dropped to her knees beside Bragi. He had the pale, sick look of a man with a ferocious hangover. He made sounds that probably were not efforts to communicate. He made no sense. Elsewhere, others treated other arrivals. Eka and Ethrian were fascinated by a girl only slightly older than Eka. Nepanthe needed a moment to recognize her. She did not look the same in person. She had come through better, physically and mentally, than any of the adults. She was unnaturally calm for someone suddenly snatched into an improbable situation.

  Nepanthe got the creepy sensation she often felt while watching Ekaterina. This Carrie could grow up to be something dark and special.

  The affection she showed her pudgy companion seemed bizarrely inappropriate.

  After a quick look round, to see if they were in danger, the girl concentrated entirely on him.