by Glen Cook
Yousif simply looked puzzled. Half of what Radetic was saying had to be couched in the tongue of Hellin Daimiel. The desert language hadn't much of a financial vocabulary. And, though Yousif spoke some Daimiellian, he did not comprehend merchants' cant.
"Perntigan questioned his contacts in the banking establishment. He assembled a list of names associated with the suspect deposits. Along with another list of questions. You put everything he wrote together and it implies a rather disturbing process."
"I see that somebody is sending a hell of a lot of wealth out of the kingdom."
Radetic nodded. Finally. About five minutes behind, but finally. "Exactly. The whos and whys are what make the news interesting."
Yousif puzzled for a few seconds, then started to speak. Haroun tugged at his clothing. "Father? May I?"
The Wahiig grinned. "Of course. Let's see if this old fussbudget is worth his keep. Show us what he's taught you."
Radetic smiled too. The boy was showing signs of overcoming his innate reserve.
Haroun proclaimed, "There are only two people who could have that much money. The King and El Murid."
"Your reasoning?" Radetic demanded.
"The King because he accepts money instead of service. Also, he collects some rents and trade taxes. And El Murid because he has been looting people for years."
Yousif peered at Radetic. "Well? I take it from your look that he's wrong. Explain."
"Not really. He just hasn't reasoned closely enough. Tortin indicates that the Quesani family did make a big deposit. It was used to purchase properties on the Auszura Littoral. That's a stretch of seacoast north of Dunno Scuttari. It's a sort of elephant's graveyard of deposed princes. The purchase makes it look like somebody at Al Rhemish is covering the Quesani bets."
"Not Aboud. He doesn't have the foresight."
"Farid, perhaps? No matter. That was only a small part of the flow, and not what was bothering Tortin. What did bother him came from two other sources. The loot Haroun mentioned without carrying his reasoning to the point where he mentioned that it hasn't been El Murid doing the pillaging. The depositors have been Karim, el-Kader, el Nadim and that bunch."
"Nassef s bandits-turned-generals. That's good news, Megelin. We could make the Scourge of God damned uncomfortable by spreading that around. In fact, the Invincibles might end his tale if he's been slipping something over on El Murid."
Radetic was not cheered by the opportunity. "Our side is vulnerable too."
"Aboud's money? It's his. He can do what he wants with it. Besides, he isn't looting the realm."
"Not Aboud. The priesthood. They've been sending out as much bullion as Nassef's gang. Which means they're stripping the holy places and melting the gold and silver down. What would the faithful do if they found out that they're being robbed by their own priests? El Murid can explain Nassef, more or less. Soldiers pillage their enemies. We can't shed ourselves of the priesthood.
"A lot of people already damn Nassef without damning El Murid. They consider him the Disciple's compromise with fate. They figure he'll disappear if El Murid's Kingdom of Peace becomes a reality."
"Looks like Nassef is worried about it too. He and his boys are putting a little away for their old age."
"Don't you think the priesthood's behavior will win El Murid a lot of converts?"
"Absolutely. I'll write Aboud."
"Who is under the thumbs of the priests. Who will give you the same answer he's been giving you since this mess started. If he bothers to answer at all."
"You're right. Of course. We'll just have to intimidate a few priests. Cover it up." Yousif closed his eyes wearily. "Megelin, what do you do when your allies are more trouble than your enemies?"
"I don't know, Wahlig. I really don't. Stupidity and incompetence create their own special rewards. All I foresee is deterioration and more deterioration, and most of it moral. Maybe Hammad al Nakir needs the purifying flame of an El Murid."
Haroun gripped Radetic's elbow. "Don't give up yet, Megelin."
The boy's face had assumed an expression of stubborn determination. It made him seem far older than his years.
Radetic thought it a pity that a child had to grow up in the fires of this particularly chaotic furnace.
Chapter Six
Into Strange Kingdoms
G aunt, shivering, Bragi and Haaken paused at the crest of the last high pass.
"Already spring down there," Bragi observed. He extended an arm to support his brother. "That green must be a hardwood forest."
"How long?" Haaken croaked.
"Three days? Five? Not long."
"Hah!"
There had been days when they had not made a mile. Like yesterday. After burying Soren in the hard earth, they had fought the snowy mountain till exhaustion had forced a halt.
Sigurd had passed almost a month ago. The crossing had taken two months.
"Can't make it," Haaken gasped. "Go on without me."
He had suggested it before. "We've got it whipped now, Haaken. All downhill from here."
"Tired, Bragi. Got to rest. Make it while you can. I'll catch up."
"Come on. Step. Step. Step."
The foothills were hot compared to the high range. The boys camped there a week, regaining their strength. Game was scarce.
They had begun to encounter signs of the foothill tribes. Once they passed the ruin of a small log fortress. It had been burned within the month.
"We should be near Itaskia's Duchy Greyfells," Bragi said around a rabbit's leg. "This trail should run into the highway Father called the North Road. That's a straight run to Itaskia the City."
Itaskia the kingdom and its capital bore the same name. This was the case with several states. Each had grown round a strong city-survivor of the Fall.
"Wish you'd stop being so damned optimistic," Haaken grumbled. He attacked the rabbit like a starved bear. "We can't even speak the language. And we're Trolledyngjans. If bandits don't get us, the Itaskians will."
"You should ease up on the pessimism. Damned if I don't think all you'd see is a hernia if we found a pot of gold."
"Can't go through life expecting everything to work out. You expect the worst, you're ready for anything."
"What do you want to do?"
"I stopped making plans when Father died."
Bragi had no plan either, beyond following his father's sketchy suggestions. What happened after they found this Yalmar?
"Haaken, all I know is what Father said."
"Then we just have to keep on till something happens."
It happened next morning.
Haaken paused to urinate. Bragi ambled on ahead and was alone when the hillmen leapt out of the brush.
Their stone-tipped spears turned on his mail shirt, which his father had told him to wear whenever he traveled. They pulled him down and drew knives.
Haaken arrived, axe whining. He slew two before the others realized he was there.
Bragi scrambled away, regained his feet, finally used his sword.
A survivor tried to flee. Sword and axe stopped him.
"What the hell?" Haaken gasped.
"Meant to rob me, I guess," Bragi wheezed, shaking. "That was too close."
"I warned you."
"Let's ditch them and get out of here."
"Listen!"
Hoofbeats. Approaching.'
"Into the brush," Bragi said.
"Up a tree," Haaken countered. "Ragnar said people never look up."
Within a minute they were high in an old oak. Their packs seemed weightless during the climb.
The dead still lay scattered on the trail.
Six horsemen appeared. An officer, four soldiers and one civilian.
"Itaskians," Bragi whispered.
"What the hell?" the officer demanded, reining in. The youths did not understand Itaskian, but guessed his meaning.
The soldiers drew swords. The civilian dismounted, examining the battleground.
"Majner
ic's men. They ambushed two travelers. Within the past few minutes. The travelers are in a black oak about thirty feet to your left."
"Who'd be out here when Majneric's loose?"
"You'll have to ask. Use bows. They shouldn't resist the invitation."
"Just so. Sergeant."
The soldiers sheathed their blades, readied bows. Bragi and Haaken exchanged looks.
"Nobody ever looks up, eh?" Bragi growled, looking down four shafts. The scout beckoned.
When Bragi reached the ground he found his foster brother with axe in hand, defiant.
"They're just pups," the sergeant observed.
"These were the two?" the officer asked.
"The same," said the civilian. "Look like Trolledyngjans. They teach them young up there." The woodsman held out his palms. "Let's talk in peace," he said in accented Trolledyngjan.
"What's going to happen?" Bragi asked. Shakes threatened to shame him.
"Depends on you. What happened here? What brings you south?"
Bragi told it all. The scout translated.
The Itaskians chattered briefly, then the interpreter said, "Sir Cleve is inclined to generosity. Because of those." He indicated the dead. "We've been after their band for weeks. We deliver their heads to the Duke, we'll get off patrol for a while. But he doesn't know about this Pretender. He wants to look in your packs."
Haaken growled softly.
"Easy, son. We won't rob you."
"Do what he says, Haaken."
A minute later, "Good. Now move back five paces."
The leader examined their things. Bragi's heirlooms generated questions.
"Our father gave them to us before he died. He told us to take them to a man in the City."
"What man?"
"Someone named Yalmar."
The officer asked, "You think they're telling the truth?"
"Too scared not to. This Yalmar probably fences for the coast raiders. Their father probably saw this succession crisis coming and made arrangements."
"What should we do with them?"
"We have no quarrel with them, sir. And they've done us a favor."
"They're Trolledyngjans," the sergeant observed. "Ought to hang them as a warning to the next bunch."
"A point," the officer agreed. "But I've no stomach for it. Not children."
"These children killed four men, sir."
"Majneric's men."
"What's going on?" Bragi asked nervously.
The scout chuckled. "Sergeant Weatherkind wants to hang you. Sir Cleve, on the other hand, is willing to let you go. Provided you let him have these bodies."
"That's fine by us."
"Watch that sergeant," said Haaken. "He'll get us killed yet." The soldier was arguing something with his commander.
"He wants Sir Cleve to confiscate your packs."
"Friendly sort."
"He's from West Wapentake, where the raiders strike first every spring."
"Look out!" Haaken dove into Bragi's legs.
But the sergeant's arrow was not meant for his brother. It brought a howl from down the trail.
Twenty hillmen charged from the forest.
The youths and scout braced for the charge. And Bragi marveled at the way it melted before the Itaskians' arrows.
It was a lesson he would not forget.
A few of those hillmen bore stolen weapons, mail and shields. The first to reach Bragi was one such, and skilled with his blade. Haaken's axe, screaming across after slashing a spearman, saved Bragi.
While Sir Cleve and his soldiers sorted themselves out, the youths and woodsman dropped three more hillmen.
The remainder scattered before the horsemen, who harried them into the forest. "Finish the wounded before they escape," Sir Cleve called back.
"This is some day's work," the scout observed once the grisly business ended. "A quarter of Majneric's men dead within an hour. Makes a week spent chasing them worthwhile."
"Why?" Bragi asked.
"What? Ah. Hard times in the hills. Majneric brought his bucks down to raid. Can't really hate them for it. They're trying to take care of their families. At the expense of ours. We caught them near Mendalayas, killed a dozen. They scattered. We started hunting them down. Have to make this raiding too expensive for them."
The soldiers returned. They had corpses across their saddles and prisoners on tethers. Sir Cleve spoke.
"He says thanks for the help. Some of us would've been killed if you hadn't been in their way."
Even the sergeant seemed well disposed.
"Now's the time to make any requests. He's happy. He'll be in good odor when the Duke hears about this."
"Could he give us some kind of traveling pass? To get us to the City?"
"Good thinking, lad. I'll see."
They were ready to travel when the knight finished writing.
Later, after his lips stopped quivering, Bragi started whistling. But his brother never stopped looking back.
Haaken was still watching for a change of heart when they reached the capital.
The Red Hart Inn was a slum tavern. It was large, rambling, boisterous and appeared on the verge of collapse. Evening shadows masked its more disreputable features.
The clientele fell silent at their advent. Fifty pairs of eyes stared. Some were curious, some wary, some challenging, none friendly.
"I don't think we belong here," Haaken whispered.
"Easy," Bragi cautioned, concealing his own nervousness. "Yalmar?"
No response.
He tried again. "Is there a man named Yalmar here? I come from Ragnar of Draukenbring."
The Itaskians muttered amongst themselves.
"Come here." A man beckoned from shadows at the rear.
The murmur picked up. Bragi avoided hard eyes. These were men Haaken and he had best not offend.
"In here."
The speaker was lean, stooped, ginger-haired, about thirty-five. He limped, but looked as tough as the others.
"I'm Yalmar. You named Ragnar of Draukenbring. Would that be the Wolf?"
"Yes."
"So?"
"He sent us."
"Why?"
"How do we know you're Yalmar?"
"How do I know you're from Ragnar?"
"He sent proof."
"A map? A dagger, and an amulet of Ilkazar?"
"Yes."
Yalmar's grin revealed surprisingly perfect teeth. "So. How is the crazy bastard? We swung some profitable deals, us two. I picked the ships. He took them. I fenced the goods."
Haaken grunted sullenly.
"What's with him?"
"Ragnar's dead. He was our father."
"The infamous Bragi and Haaken. You've got no idea how he bored me silly bragging you up. Passed over, eh? I'm sorry. And not just for the loss of a profitable partnership. He was my friend."
Neither youth responded. Bragi studied the man. This was an honest innkeeper? How far could he be trusted?
Their silence unsettled Yalmar. "So. What do you want? Or are you just going to sit there like a couple of clams?"
"I don't know," Bragi said. "Father was dying. He said to go to you, you owed him. We're here."
"I noticed. Better begin at the beginning, then. Maybe give me an idea what he was thinking."
Bragi told the story. It did not hurt as much now.
"I see," Yalmar said when he finished. He pinched his nose, tugged his golden chin whiskers, frowned. "You got any skills? Carpentry? Masonry? Smithery?"
Bragi shook his head.
"Thought not. All you people do is fight. Not your safest way to make a living. And it don't leave you many openings here. Been at peace for fifteen years. And nobody in my business would use you. Too visible. And bodyguarding is out. Not enough experience. Tell you what. Give me a couple days. I'll put you up meantime. Upstairs. Try to stay out of sight. I'll put the word out that you're protected, but that won't keep the drunks from cutting you up. Or the police from breaking in to find o
ut why I'm keeping Trolledyngjans."
With no better option available, Bragi and Haaken agreed.
They spent a week at the Red Hart. Yalmar told them things about Ragnar they had never heard at home. The Itaskian proved likable, despite an overpowering tyranny when he made them study his language.
Strange, hard men visited Yalmar late at night, though he steadfastly denied their existence. It finally dawned on Bragi that Yalmar did not trust them completely either.
One night he asked, "About the amulet, map and dagger... "
Yalmar laid a finger across his lips. He checked the windows and doors. "They're why I owe your father. If I have to run, I can go knowing he provided means elsewhere. Now forget about it. The Brothers would be displeased. There's honor on the Inside. There's fear or friendship. Your father and I were friends."
Later, he told them, "I'm sorry. There's nothing for you here. I'd say go south. Try to catch on with the Mercenary's Guild. High Crag is taking on recruits."
Next afternoon, Haaken grumped, "This loafing is getting old, Bragi. What're we going to do?"
Bragi touched his mother's locket. "There's Hellin Daimiel. I'll talk to Yalmar."
The day following Yalmar announced, "I've gotten you guard jobs with a caravan leaving tomorrow. There's a job you can do for me while you're at it. A man named Magnolo will be traveling with the caravan. He'll be carrying something for me. I don't trust him. Watch him." He added some details. "If he takes the package to anyone but Stavros, kill him." Grimly, Bragi nodded.
"Bragi?" Haaken asked.
"Yeah?" Bragi poked the coals of their campfire, watched them glow briefly brighter.
"I kind of wish we didn't kill that guy Magnolo."
The man Yalmar had set them to watch had delivered the Itaskian's package to a house in the fanciest quarter in Hellin Daimiel. In their enthusiasm to fulfill their charge the youths had not only killed Magnolo, they had injured the gentleman he had visited and had killed one of the bodyguards. Aghast, panicky, they had fled the city.