by Glen Cook
“Enough!” Tang Shan yelled. “We want them damaged so nothing can come after us, not busted beyond repair.”
“Working off some fear energy,” Babeltausque admitted. “And now I’m exhausted.” He understood most everything Tang Shan said. Lein She, too. Was that a byproduct of their passage through the transfer stream? Instead of them being mashed together into a two-headed human crab?
“Settle down. Relax. Sleep if you have to. We’re safe. Its dark out. We can’t go anywhere now, anyway.” There would be no more transfers. They were on foot for now.
Babeltausque settled beside Carrie, snuggled in for the warmth, physical and emotional. He slid the sword across to its owner. It was in bad shape. The nicks might never get polished out. Carrie teased, “I saw you lick your chops when you saw those boobies.”
“I can’t help being alive. But your sweet booblets are the only ones for me.”
“It’s all right. They’re so excellent I’d want to get my hands on them myself if I was that kind of girl.”
Babeltausque looked at the mystery woman. “Who are you?” As though she might understand. Hell, she might. Tang Shan did.
He was sure she was the presence he had felt in the transfer stream.
...
Ragnarson joined the crowd looking over Scalza’s shoulders. People babbled in several languages. Old Meddler had found some way to get at the Karkha Tower through the transfer stream. That was unexpected. The Tower was lost, no doubt about it. Those who had not gotten out quickly had become part of the red layer now coating everything inside the transfer chamber.
The Star Rider sent a demon through, somehow, though that should not have been possible. It killed everyone, opened the way for its master, who made adjustments to a freight portal and brought an iron statue through. But not the Windmjirnerhorn. Passage through the transfer stream would destroy that.
Old Meddler had to do without while his winged mount made the long real-world journey from the farthest east.
Mist said, “Lord Yuan, it’s gone well enough, so far, despite the surprises. Dare I hope that something there might nail him?”
“No, Illustrious. But he won’t be able to transfer out.”
“Then with Varthlokkur’s help we might be able to smash the place with him inside. Where is Varthlokkur?”
Scalza said, “Almost here, Mother. But he won’t be much help till he and the Unborn recuperate.”
Ragnarson glanced at Mist’s daughter. She seemed unhappy about the Unborn’s situation.
Lord Yuan refused to be distressed by the disaster. He said, “Let’s locate those who managed to get away.”
Scalza snapped, “Want to tell me where to look?”
Lord Yuan did have suggestions. He knew exactly where each Karkha Tower portal should have taken someone before having been sabotaged by his lost technicians. He was quite proud of his “children.”
He did admit, “This will take time. The strange couple wanted to go to Kavelin. But…”
The boy said, “I checked our old house, Mother. They didn’t go there.”
Ragnarson lost interest. He joined Haroun and Yasmid against a wall. Haroun had withdrawn completely. Yasmid was almost as remote. Their hosts had no interest in Hammad al Nakir anymore. Anything could have happened there.
The same was true for Kavelin.
It was all about Old Meddler, now, and only about Old Meddler.
Haroun asked, “Have we been hornswoggled?”
“Huh?” Bragi could not recall his friend ever using that word before. “How so?”
“Were we collected just to get us out of the way of the Dread Empire’s grand design?”
“Not intentionally. This is real.” The effect might be the same, though, if Old Meddler miraculously lost the round. “She’s probably just gotten everything from us that she wanted.”
Yasmid stirred but said nothing. She clung to Haroun constantly now. She had nothing more to do with her father. Ragnarson had not seen El Murid for days. His handlers kept him isolated somewhere, safe from the specialists responsible for Ethrian and the Old Man. Curious, that. If the Disciple had given Mist anything useful Ragnarson had missed the transaction. The only positive contribution El Murid made anymore was to stay the hell out of the way.
He could shut the hell up, too.
Everyone else would happily deal with God’s concerns once they met Him face to face—including the Disciple’s presumptive heiress.
“You going to fight when he shows?” Ragnarson asked.
Haroun gave him a look that asked if he was stupid. “The choice is between dying fighting and dying whimpering.” He was not happy about being caught in those jaws.
“Ideas?”
“None. But I have an advantage. I know he’s coming. I didn’t have that with Magden Norath. And he won’t be expecting me.”
Ragnarson did a slow turn, ended up staring at Mist as she bent over Scalza. “He doesn’t know about most of us.” How deliberately had that woman worked to make this come together the way it had?
She sensed his regard, turned, frowning slightly. He shifted his attention back to Haroun. His thoughts had begun to drift away from business. “I need to make peace with Inger.”
Bin Yousif was as monogamous as any creature that ever lived but he understood. “At your time of life? That would be smart. Not to mention an act of political wisdom.”
“Yeah.” He glanced at Mist. The charge had gone neutral but the curve of her behind still reminded him of Sherilee. He shivered. “There a cold breeze in here?”
“Actually, yes.”
Varthlokkur had brought it. The man appeared to have aged two decades. He was exhausted. He had failed to close the door behind him.
Mist’s daughter touched Nepanthe’s boy lightly, then made a quick departure. No one paid any heed.
Wen-chin and the Old Man gave up their seats at the shogi table. The wizard collapsed into a chair. Mist settled opposite him. He eyed the Winterstorm, noting that it had been altered but showed no excitement about that. Mist said something that probably explained.
Haroun asked, “You going to go eavesdrop?”
“They won’t use a language I understand. They’ll let me know what they want me to know when they figure I need to know it.”
“Hell of a way to run things.”
Ragnarson responded with a sarcastic snort. “It’s the way we all run things. Transparency is against the rules.”
Haroun actually chuckled. Yasmid smiled. Both were responses more positive than most Ragnarson had heard lately. He told no one in particular, “It can’t be long, now. Even if I don’t really get what’s going on.”
“You aren’t out in the wilderness by yourself, my friend. I’ll bet nobody involved in this really knows.”
Yasmid whispered, “God Himself must be confused. No two of His creatures are pulling in the same direction.”
Haroun did the bizarre. He demonstrated affection publicly by kissing his wife’s cheek. “Precisely the truth, heart of my heart.” His expression dared his friend to even note such remarkable behavior.
Ragnarson winked.
†
CHAPTER THIRTY
YEAR 1019 AFE:
NEW YEAR BEGUN
Kristen watched the boys play. Fulk had a snobbish streak. He tried to lord it over his nephew. Bragi would not have it. He protested with punches. Fulk’s streak was fading.
Still, they got on better than did their mothers.
The women shared a small room with the boys and a maid whose principal task was to referee. Josiah Gales, Nathan Wolf, and others came and went as they dealt with routine business.
Kristen felt awkward but knew this was more so for Inger. Inger sprang from a rough and tumble political tradition. No doubt she was still trying to come up with ways to twist things to her advantage.
Kristen saw no chance of that—unless Fulk fathered a potential heir. Bragi’s succession solution had broad support. Even the
Estates had signed on—with limited enthusiasm. Ozora Mundwiller had decreed that the tapestry of tomorrow would be woven in accordance with the King’s will. Sedlmayr and its commercial allies would guarantee that. The monarchs of several neighboring kingdoms had recognized the arrangement formally, too, perhaps made nervous by the interest the eastern Empress had shown toward this side of the Mountains of M’Hand.
Kristen and Inger also suspected the influence of Michael Trebilcock.
Whenever anything not easily explained took place Michael usually got the blame—mainly in situations likely to produce a net positive result.
Old Meddler or assorted devils and witches got blamed when a worse tomorrow seemed likely.
Kristen read the letter Inger had brought, for the third time. Not a word had changed. She had to speak to its contents eventually, though there was little enough to say. “This does prove that Liakopulos survived.”
Inger grunted. She was not happy. She had the Greyfells taint, which meant that she resented having any option denied her. “Any thoughts?”
“Not much to think, is there? We just need to not act like brats.”
The letter was from General Liakopulos, supported by the old men of High Crag. The Mercenaries’ Guild meant to guarantee Kavelin’s succession, as established by King Bragi, who was still a Guild member. He had left the Guild but the Guild had not left him.
“No choice,” Kristen said. “Liakopulos was as much the King’s man as his Guild status let him be.”
Inger muttered something that included several virulent Itaskian swearwords. In a more composed voice, she continued, “I imagine the old men are concerned about Shinsan’s ambitions, too.”
“Maybe they know something.”
“They know history.”
Kristen read the general’s letter again. It was not ambiguous. “It is what it is. Fussing won’t change it. It sets limits on how the tapestry of tomorrow can be woven.”
“I just hate… Forget it. You’re right. We’ve been told. Only Bragi can change it.” Inger put her embroidery aside, rose, paced, eventually wondered, “When will she send them back? She said she would.”
Mist had made no demands other than to ask that her lifeguard be treated well. He had a family. They looked forward to his homecoming.
Inger was concerned more about her sorcerer than her husband. Without Babeltausque or money she was just an impoverished noble who had not yet abandoned her airs.
Having others acknowledge her status meant everything to Inger.
She had a full ration of the Greyfells inferiority complex.
“She’s probably too busy staying alive.”
“Understatement. You’re good at that, aren’t you? Of course she’s busy! That happens when you’re dim enough to try to play on the same field as… Ah! You almost got me to say it. That would be one way to get around those dire warnings about what will happen if…”
Kristen did not argue. There was no point. Inger was stressed. She would be who and what she was, only more so.
Inger punched herself in the forehead. “Stupid! Why do I go all whack job when it’s time to be sensible?”
“Suppose we get Ozora back?”
Inger stopped pacing. “Are you serious?”
“If she was here, neither of us would mouth off without thinking first. That dragon would lean on us so hard…”
“I couldn’t take it. The pressure would build up and I’d do something stupider than anything Dane would try. What I’ll do, though, is ask myself, ‘What would Ozora do?’ when I butt heads with something really tough.”
“I’ll try that, too. What about your cousin? Is it really safe to send him home?”
Inger shrugged. “His time in the cellar won’t have changed him much but he might’ve grasped the fact that he has to at least fake it to survive. Plus the family needs somebody in Itaskia. Their problems are so awful, he won’t ever have time to bother us again.”
“That makes sense.” And, she was sure, Greyfells would get his own unambiguous communiqué from High Crag. “I’ve had a letter myself. From Abaca Enigara.”
Kristen watched Inger think, realize, harden, but consider, What would Ozora do? before she asked, “Would that be the Colonel’s daughter?”
“That would. Being a girl, custom won’t allow it officially, but, practically, she’s chief of chiefs of the Marena Dimura now. Some good soul let her know all about the Thingmeet. She wants to follow the path her father tried to blaze.”
Inger drew on Ozora again before she suppressed her prejudices enough to observe, “This poor hagridden kingdom. I pity it if Bragi and Michael don’t come back.”
“Really? My whole life women have been telling me how much better the world would run if the girls were in charge.”
“Pardon my cynicism. Show me a couple of examples.”
Kristen shook her head. The only women she knew of, who had gotten famous, had been really serious kickers of ass.
...
Babeltausque found himself second-in-command to his thirteen-year-old girlfriend, who could be precisely decisive even when she had no clue. She was one of those people who got things done.
“Lein She, we need firewood.” In seconds she had determined that the Candidate was the line officer while Tang Shan was only a senior technical specialist. “Send someone to find some. Then we’ll inventory our resources, including skills, before our ability to communicate goes away.”
It might. The easterners were becoming harder to follow.
“Keeping warm is our main project for now.”
Dawn came. They watched it from the portico of what seemed to be a temple. The world sprawled below was grey and white with tufts of brown weed showing through crusty old snow.
Carrie said, “Let’s figure out where we are. And find something to eat. I’m really hungry.” Fire was no problem. A forest lay at the foot of the hill. The easterners had tramped a path already.
Tang Shan spoke slowly. The sorcerer said, “I can’t follow him anymore.”
“What he said last night. He’s been here before. Only now he says if we head straight south we’ll come to a road.”
“You still understand him?”
“You have to listen hard.”
Tang Shan said something more.
Babeltausque listened hard. This time he caught a few words. Something about small game. Rabbit and bird tracks marred the snow. The crust had weathered till those were featureless depressions, but they did suggest that a clever hunter need not starve. “I can help with food.”
“We’re going to get cold,” Carrie said. “Them worse than us. They’re not used to our kind of winter. But we can’t stay here—unless we want to make it to spring by eating each other.”
Babeltausque asked, “Why do you say things like that?”
“Gallows humor? All right. It wasn’t funny. But it was true. If there’s a road we need to find it and let it take us somewhere warm.”
The sorcerer could not argue with that. “Let’s get out of the wind and get a plan worked out.” Carrie was right about them going to get cold. They had barely enough clothing amongst them to preserve the new girl’s modesty and their own. And they would have to help the woman travel. She did not do well on one foot.
She was a strange one. The oddest things amazed her.
Carrie said, “Bee Boss, we could outfit you and send you for help while the rest of us stay by the fire.”
Him because he was most likely to get serious attention, of course.
“Wouldn’t work. This place can’t be found from outside, remember?”
“Are we sure this is the place where the King came back?”
“You heard Tang Shan. And how many secret temples, with transfer portals in them, can there be near Vorgreberg? So we all have to go and we all have to be miserable and I really, really hate that. I really don’t like winter. And right now it feels cold enough to cause frostbite.”
The easterners kept whisp
ering amongst themselves. Near as Babeltausque could tell they were trying to follow what he and Carrie were saying. He and she spoke deliberately, for their benefit, and for that of the woman, who seemed able to read moods well, if not follow their actual speech. Tang Shan focused on Carrie intensely, working hard to maintain communication. Survival might depend upon it. She reported, “He says they can create a heat exchange bubble big enough to keep three people warm. We can take turns.”
“That should help.” He had no idea what a heat exchange bubble might be. Definitely not something within his own skill set. Food he could help with. He could call game to the slaughter if he could see the animal before he started the draw. “How far to that road?”
“He says it’s a matter of time, not distance.”
“That’s right. It took the King and them hours and hours to cover three or four miles.”
“We’d better get started. There’s less daylight this time of year.”
...
Scalza shouted, “Mother! I found them!”
Mist closed in quickly, wondering who. They were looking for more than one… Ah. The sorcerer, his girlfriend, and some of the Karkha Tower garrison, with Tang Shan, all crowding a bonfire beside a dirt road in a snowy forest. So a few had gotten away, probably because they had been moving the couple along when Old Meddler arrived. They looked totally miserable now.
“Who is that woman?” She could not be from the Karkha Tower—unless the boys had had a prostitute in. No! That level of indiscipline was unimaginable after the stronghold had been compromised before.
Ethrian said, “Sahmaman!”
Silence descended as though some grand spell had been cast. Those farther away caught it from those close enough to see into Scalza’s bowl.
Ethrian glowed.
Ekaterina looked like she had been slammed with an emotional hammer.
Not good, Mist thought.
Lord Kuo was right. Pray that Nepanthe had instilled her own values.
But once the first moment of pain was over Eka crowded in beside Ethrian. She stared, face stony. “Is it really her?”