A Path to Coldness of Heart tlcotde-3

by Glen Cook

  Her lifeguard had sense enough to keep his mouth shut.

  The chubby man was horrified, though.

  Varthlokkur said, “My col eague believes that you must be the darkness distil ed. His attitude wil improve if you give us a means to prove that the child-kil er isn’t him.” Mist eyed the pudgy man. He had a creepy quality. Most western sorcerers did. They were al twisted somehow.

  A chil touched her. She had lost friends who were weird western wizards. Another chil . No one she knew ever died a natural death.

  Varthlokkur asked, “Are you al right?”

  “I think too much. Comes of having too much time on my hands. Tel me about your kil er.”

  The wizard did so, adding, “I came up empty when I tried to divine the dump. The kil er kept his features hidden. And he was lucky.”

  “How so?”

  “Ley lines intersect near the site. Their resonances interfere with the scrying.”

  “You can get around that.”

  Her bodyguard made a sound that was not a word.

  “Of course. I have an empire to manage. I have the Old Man to reclaim. There’s no time for hobbies.”

  “Your suggestion?”

  “Track the girl, not the kil er. You know who she was. You know where she lived. Go back to when she was safe.

  Fol ow her forward.”

  Varthlokkur offered a nod of respect. “That’s sure to travel some ugly road.”

  “No doubt. You westerners tolerate…” She stopped. She did not know that her own people were less wicked. “I should go.”

  “Any luck with the Old Man?”

  “No. How about you with the Deliverer?”

  “Ethrian. His mother’s optimism seems justified but the process wil take longer than she hopes.”

  “Let me know what works.”

  “Does Old Meddler know?”

  “I don’t know. What do you think?”

  “I think not. Not yet. Wil you free Ragnarson?”

  “I haven’t decided.”

  “Kavelin has begun to recover. Him being here might do more harm than good.”

  “I must go.” She dared not say that they had made a huge mistake.

  Inger would know that Bragi lived before sunrise. Al Kavelin would know within days. It might no longer matter if she sent him home. The possibility would alter the political climate anyway.

  The chubby man looked bland and indifferent and smal . He understood what he had overheard.

  Almost idly, he told Varthlokkur, “Two men tried to kil me on my way out here. I didn’t recognize them. They were Wessons. They didn’t have unusual accents and they didn’t say anything that explained why. I marked them with tracer spel s.”

  Varthlokkur said, “You’re good at that, aren’t you.”

  “Everybody has to be good at something.” Mist retreated into the house. That was the last she heard.

  ...

  “The Vorgreberg portals have to be considered compromised,” Mist told her technicians. “I expect them to be destroyed. Get replacements into place before that happens.”

  She dismissed her bodyguard. He needed rest and family time, unlike his Empress. She relaxed a few hours herself, then chose another lifeguard to accompany her to the Karkha Tower. She was not surprised to find Lord Ssuma visiting. He had a lot of free time. He spent much of it with Kuo. She invited herself to join him, Wen-chin, and the Old Man.

  They were surprised to see her so early in the day.

  She said, “They don’t see it themselves but things are coming to a head in Kavelin. And Varthlokkur is in the middle of it.” She explained.

  Shih-ka’i asked, “Might his slips have been deliberate?”

  “No. He’s lost the habit of caution. He doesn’t need to watch himself at home. The news should cause fundamental shifts but I can’t guess what those might be.” Shih-ka’i suggested, “Ask Ragnarson.”

  “He’s farther removed from today’s reality than I am.” Wen-chin and Shih-ka’i were playing shogi. Each had made one move since the Empress arrived. It was Wenchin’s turn. He spoke for the first time. “Ask anyway. You know him wel . You judge his response.”

  “I’l be back in a few minutes.”

  ...

  “There is a shift underway,” Wen-chin observed.

  “Uhm?” Shih-ka’i focused on the board. He was the superior player but was in a bad position this time around.

  “Just years ago we were al playing games of empire. That ends tomorrow, when you execute the treaty with Matayanga. The whole world wil be at peace.”

  “You think?”

  “Consider. In Kavelin one pretender’s ambition is to catch a criminal. The other waits like an ambush predator, showing no ambition whatsoever. Rather the same situation prevails in Hammad al Nakir.”

  “True. As far as we know. The west is caught up in the doldrums of peace. North and south, they’re interested only in harvests and their burgeoning mercantile ventures.”

  “Peace?”

  That came from the Old Man, who drowsed in a western-style chair while disinterestedly watching the game. He began to shake. He made a brief whimpering sound, then slipped away to hide inside himself. Shih-ka’i said, “His fear could be justified. Old Meddler must be livid. But even he can’t chivy an exhausted world into another round of butchery. Generations have to pass.”

  “Let that be true. Wil you yield?”

  ...

  Ragnarson was at his little desk when Mist arrived. He did not look up. “I can’t remember the color of my mother’s eyes.”

  “Blue, I expect. They’re al blue up there, aren’t they?”

  “You’d think. But my mother wasn’t Trol edyngjan. My father brought her back from a raid on Hel in Daimiel.”

  “Then they were brown, or darker. Does it matter?”

  “Not in the history of empires. I wanted to capture what I remember about the people I’ve lost. The memories have begun to get away. Those people shouldn’t be forgotten.

  So. To what do I owe the honor?”

  “I visited Kavelin last night. When I came back I rested til people would be awake here.”

  “Did something happen?”

  “A lot of nothing. But Varthlokkur was there, helping Inger hunt somebody who tortured and raped a little girl. Kristen’s faction is sitting in Sedlmayr, waiting for Inger to eliminate herself. Nobody is talking politics anymore.”

  “Same here. I don’t like being locked up but the lack of pressure is nice. They’ve stopped kil ing each other, haven’t they?”

  “Yes. Do you want to spend the rest of your life here?”

  “No. But I don’t want to be the man you locked up, either.”

  “I’l see you soon.”

  Once she was gone, he added, “I won’t be your tool, either.”

  ...

  Mist found Shih-ka’i tearing his hair, figuratively. He and Wen-chin were involved in the same game. He would not yield.

  Mist said, “Ragnarson seems indifferent to what’s going on in Kavelin, evidently because everything has col apsed into peace. He seems inclined to stay away.” Shih-ka’i said, “Amazing, the impact a good harvest can have.” Mist nodded. The world was drifting into pacifist indifference. She would not complain. She was fond of peace herself. Something was happening, down below the level of consciousness.

  The world and al its warlords were putting their swords aside. That contradicted human nature.

  Mist left the Tervola to their game and the attention of the now unnatural y alert Old Man. She went to an empty apartment, told her lifeguard, “Wake me in three hours.” She had to rest before meeting with the Matayangans.

  ...

  Mist wakened with the future fixed in her mind.

  Chapter Twenty:

  Year 1017 AFE:

  Peacable Kingdoms

  Varthlokkur had gone to bed, supposedly exhausted.

  Babeltausque dragged the Queen out of Josiah Gales’s arms to report.
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  Inger looked old and tired when she came out. Nathan Wolf arrived moments later. Colonel Gales pretended to arrive from his own quarters less than a minute behind Wolf.

  Babeltausque said what he had to say concisely. “I did my best to remain invisible.”

  Never mind somebody tried to murder her sorcerer, Inger fixed on the critical point. “Bragi is alive?”

  “And they’re thinking about dropping him on us.”

  “Should I cheer or cry?”

  “Your Grace?”

  Inger said, “Tel me your new ideas for finding the treasury.” He told her. And began to grow mildly disaffected because she showed no concern about the assassination attempt.

  She was a Greyfel s for sure.

  The meeting did not last long. Bed cal ed out to everyone.

  Babeltausque did not fal asleep immediately. He ought to be hunting those kil ers. And caring for Carrie. He had to get her out of there. He should move her in here. She was no secret, now. Why should he hide her?

  They would talk but nobody would do anything. Inger needed him too much.

  ...

  Josiah Gales perched on the edge of a chair beside Inger’s bed. He had not yet recovered enough to do much but hold her. He did not recal being beaten while captive but he had a testicle that would not stop hurting. There were occasional blood spots on his smal clothes. His urine sometimes had an odd brown color to start. When he sat to defecate, dark, dense blood leaked from his penis. He was frightened.

  Inger asked, “What do you think about what Babeltausque said?” “About the King? We should keep that quiet. About new places to look for the treasure? Some of those have been checked already, the wel several times.

  Throwing money down a wel was the kind of thing Derel Prataxis would have considered funny.”

  “Derel wasn’t by himself. You always ignore Cham Mundwil er. He had a bizarre sense of humor, too.”

  “Which is why we’l drain the sewage deposits.”

  “Nobody has done that yet. Right?”

  “Not yet. I need to go. I’m feeling weak.”

  “If you must. I so miss you. But I don’t want to lose you. Take care of yourself, Josiah.”

  ...

  Only five people were supposed to know what had happened between Varthlokkur and Mist. The wizard was one. He discussed it with no one. The others would claim that they had told no one. They would not be lying.

  There were, as ever, those who lurked within the castle wal s, eavesdropping. Word that the old king was alive got out via a maid whose politics were those of indifference.

  King Bragi’s survival was not al she reported. Treasure hunting enjoyed a surge in popularity. That ended when the Queen’s men began harassing the hunters. One stubborn band gave up only after the Queen’s sorcerer demonstrated a wil ingness to boil them inside their own skins.

  ...

  Varthlokkur fol owed Mist’s suggestion.

  Phyletia Plens had lived a life of constant sorrow. Little good ever happened to her. Because he had suffered the childhood that he had, Varthlokkur felt al of her pain.

  Sad Phyletia had not been strong. Not like the son of the woman burned in Ilkazar. Phyletia did not fight back.

  The one time she found the wil to take charge of her destiny she ran off with the man who became her death.

  Varthlokkur’s new line of investigation did not take him where he expected. It exonerated the butcher Arnulf Black, in part. Again. He had used Phyletia but had not been involved in what happened to her later. Likewise, the apothecary Chames, whose behavior was so odd and shrouded and deceptive that he needed interrogation out of sheer curiosity.

  The true vil ain was known to the neighborhood as a good man. He was a priest at the only church. Phyletia Plens was one of dozens of children who had found refuge in his rectory. Most had survived. Many remained in the neighborhood. Interviewed, most refused to talk.

  Varthlokkur fol owed the Plens story minute by minute til he found the night when the priest lost control, hurt her badly, and had to be rid of her in a hurry. Other children might wonder about the noise.

  Varthlokkur had Radeachar col ect the priest, then let Inger know what he had learned.

  Father Ather Kendo confessed to fourteen murders.

  Thirteen involved the torture deaths of girls between eleven and thirteen. The other had been a boy who stuck his nose in, wrong place, wrong time, and saw something he should not have. Of surviving victims there were scores.

  Father Kendo died forty hours after his capture, in fire, screaming, by popular demand. But first they nailed him to a sign blessing those victims whose names he remembered.

  The interrogations of the priest and his surviving victims produced the names of a dozen adults whose crimes against children were only slightly less obscene.

  ...

  Dahl Haas said, “Something has changed in Vorgreberg…”

  A Mundwil er youth interrupted. “Remarkable news! King Bragi is alive! He’s a prisoner in Shinsan. But they’re going to send him back.”

  The first part was not news. The rest? Neither Dahl nor Kristen knew how to take that.

  Dahl said, “Sounds like they want us to think he’l be their puppet.”

  “They wouldn’t send him back if they didn’t see an advantage.”

  Their nipping at the news did not last. Ozora summoned them.

  The old woman said, “Fortune has played a prank. Just when we’re headed toward the end of the harvest, with the weather turning, when neither we nor the Queen can do much, we get this news.”

  Ozora paused. Neither Kristen nor Dahl had any response.

  “Al right. Tel me what’s going to happen.” Kristen said, “I couldn’t guess. Bragi being alive wil touch every Kaveliner—and our neighbors, as wel . The response is beyond me. I’m out of touch.”

  Dahl nodded. “I expect nostalgia. People longing for the good old days. But these days are pretty good, despite us and Inger. Yeah, we have a civil war going. Technical y. But nobody has kil ed anybody since…” He stopped. The last known casualty had been Sherilee.

  Ozora agreed. “Al true. How wil the news affect Inger? And Varthlokkur?”

  Dahl said, “I couldn’t guess about Inger. She’s unpredictable.”

  Kristen said, “Let’s just sit tight. Somebody could be blowing smoke.”

  Dahl added, “Maybe the news wil get Inger to do something dumb.”

  Ozora said, “Then passivity remains our strategy. You two try to stay invisible.”

  Later, in private, Kristen said, “Ozora has begun to regret having taken us in.”

  “She’s afraid your father-in-law wil come back al blood and thunder and slavering after revenge.”

  They made love for a long time.

  Afterward, Kristen asked, “Revenge on who?”

  “Interesting question. Once upon a time the answer might have been Kavelin, for having failed him. But, assuming Mist wouldn’t send a crazy man back, nobody, now.

  Anybody he’d have a real beef with is out of play. By now, he must realize that he failed Kavelin, not the other way around.”

  ...

  It was raining, a late autumn drizzle that seemed colder than it was. Inger sat in her coach, shivering despite being buried in a mound of comforters. Josiah Gales, sharing, shook constantly. She raised a window cover, leaned out to see if any progress had been made. She saw only the droopy misery of her driver and team. “I should have waited in the castle.”

  Gales nodded. “It waited this long. A few days more means nothing.” Inger ground her teeth. Josiah was like this al the time now. Always with the sharp word. Wachtel said he was in constant pain. She thought that he had had plenty of time to get better.

  She would not tolerate this much longer.

  A lie to herself. Josiah was al she had. Sickly Josiah and sickly Fulk.

  And maybe Nathan Wolf. So pathetic.

  Babeltausque opened the door. “I was right! We found it!
>
  Uh… I think we found it. We’re dragging it out now.”

  “I want to see this. Umbrel a, Colonel.” Gales dug one out of the stuff piled on the seat opposite.

  He handed it to the sorcerer. He would not leave the coach himself.

  Babeltausque was too short and too wide to keep Inger sheltered. She took the umbrel a. Out of earshot of Gales, Babeltausque murmured, “I think the Colonel is sicker than he pretends.”

  Startled, she said, “Oh?”

  “He picked up something ugly while he was a captive.

  Wachtel doesn’t know how to fight it.”

  “Do you?”

  “No. I don’t do serious healing.”

  They neared a half-acre farm pond that had not featured on the sorcerer’s original list. It lay a mile from the nearest city gate. Though not a cesspool it was nasty enough. Cattle and hogs watered there. Neither species was shy about evacuating while drinking. The pond had been in place for decades. Its bottom consisted of several feet of noisome mud. “Is he dying?” Inger asked.

  “I don’t know. He is getting weaker. Varthlokkur might be able to turn that around.”

  The wizard had not returned to the Dragon’s Teeth. That made everyone nervous.

  “Would he help?”

  “I don’t know. You’l have to ask. He is the one who can. Try making a deal. Ah! Here it comes.”

  Nathan and several soldiers had been dragging the pond by casting grappling hooks. Now they were working something that kept getting away. Inger expected their optimism to be wasted. That could be anything.

  Nathan went into the cold water, retrieved something. He swished the mud off, headed for his sovereign.

  “It’s a chest.” He held up a plain box four inches high, six wide, and sixteen long. It stank. So did Wolf. “It might be teak.”

  It was. Inger said, “We’re in the right place. There should be a little ceremonial scepter in there.”

  Wolf fumbled the simple latch. “Sorry. My fingers are so cold they won’t work right.”

  He got the box open.

  “Damn!” Inger swore. “Damn it al to hel ! What the…?” The prophesied scepter was there but in an ugly state of decay.