by Glen Cook
“I’ve been all over this world,” Gales declared. “I mean, everywhere. Yeah. Itaskia. Hellin Daimiel. Simballawein.
Yeah. I’ve had every kind of woman there is. White women. Black women. Brown women. Every kind there is. Yeah. That’s no lie. I got five different women right now. Right here in Vorgreberg. I’ve got one, she’s fifty-eight years old.”
Someone catcalled. Everyone laughed. A passing palace guard leaned in the doorway. “Hey! Gales! Fifty-eight? What’s she do when she goes down? Gum you to death?”
The group howled. Gales flung his arms into the air. He let out a great wail of mirth. He stomped and shouted back, “Fifty-eight years old. Yeah. That’s right. I’m not lying.”
“You didn’t answer the question, Gales. What’s she do?”
The sergeant went into contortions. He evaded answering.
Ragnarson dropped his chicken. He was laughing too hard to hang on.
“Low humor,” the cook growled. “The lowest,” Bragi agreed. “Straight out of the gutter. So how come you can’t wipe that grin off your face?”
“If it was anybody but Gales....” The sergeant’s audience trampled his protests. They buried him in questions about his elderly friend. He reddened incredibly. He bounced around, roaring with laughter, vainly trying to regain control of the group. “Tell us the truth, Gales,” they insisted.
Bragi shook his head and murmured, “He’s a wonder. He loves it. I couldn’t stand it.” Soberly, the cook asked, “But what’s he good for?”
“A laugh.” Bragi stifled a chuckle. It was a sound question. Inger’s dowry-men had proven useful, but he often wondered what their presence signified. They were not loyal to himself or Kavelin. And Inger remained an Itaskian at heart. That might prove troublesome one day.
He munched chicken and watched Gales. His military adjutant came in.
As always, Dahl Haas looked freshly scrubbed and shaved. He belonged to that strange fraternity who could walk through a coal mine in white and come out spotless. “They’re ready in the privy audience chamber, Sire.” He stood as rigid as a pike. His gaze darted to Gales. Disgust flickered across his face. Bragi did not understand. Dahl’s father had followed him for decades. The man had been as earthy as Gales.
“Be there in a minute, Dahl. Ask them to be patient.”
The soldier strode out as though he had a board nailed to his back. Second generation, Ragnarson thought. The others were gone. Dahl was the last.
Palmisano had claimed many old friends, his only brother, and his son Ragnar. Kavelin was a hungry little bitch goddess of a kingdom, eager for sacrifices. He sometimes wondered if it didn’t demand too much, if he hadn’t made the biggest mistake of his life when he had allowed himself to be made King.
He was a soldier. Just a soldier. He had no business ruling.
Vorgreberg shivered with gentle excitement. It was not the great dread-excitement foreshadowing dire events, it was the small, eager excitement that courses before good things about to unfold.
There had been a messenger from the east. His tidings would touch the life of every citizen.
The magnates of the mercantile houses sent boys to loiter by the gates of Castle Krief. The youths had strict instructions to keep their ears open. The traders were poised like runners in the blocks, awaiting the right word.
Kavelin, and especially Vorgreberg, had long reaped the benefits of being astride the primary route connecting west and east. But for several years now there had been little exchange of goods. Only the boldest smugglers dared the watchful eyes of Shinsan’s soldiers, who occupied the near east.
There had been two years of war, then three of peace occasionally interrupted by furious border skirmishes. Easterner and westerner perpetually faced one another in the Savernake Gap, the only commercially viable pass through the Mountains of M’Hand. Neither garrison permitted travelers past their checkpoints.
Merchants on both sides of the mountains railed against the neverending, knife-edged state of confrontation.
Rumor said King Bragi had sent another emissary to Lord Hsung, the Tervola proconsul at Throyes. He was to try again to negotiate a resumption of trade. The whisper had raised almost messianic hopes among the merchants. No heed was paid the fact that past overtures had been rebuffed.
Warfare and occupation had shattered Ravelin’s economy. Though the kingdom was primarily agrarian and resilient, it had not yet come all the way back in the three years since liberation. It needed resumption of trade desperately. It needed a freshened capital flow.
The King’s henchmen had gathered. Michael Trebilcock and Aral Dantice stood at the foot of a long oak table in the gloomy meeting room, chatting in soft voices. They had not visited in months.
The wizard Varthlokkur and his wife Nepanthe stood before the huge fireplace, silent. The wizard seemed deeply troubled. He stared into the prancing flames as though studying something much farther away.
Sir Gjerdrum Eanredson, the army’s Chief of Staff, paced the parqueted floor, smacking fist into palm repeatedly. He was as restless as a caged animal.
Cham Mundwiller, a Wesson magnate from Sedlmayr and King’s spokesman in the Thing, puffed on a pipe, a fashion recently introduced from far southern kingdoms. He seemed engrossed in the arms of the former Krief dynasty hanging over the dark wood of the chamber’s eastern wall.
Mist, who had been princess of the enemy empire till she was deposed, sat near the table’s head. Exile had made of her a quiet, gentle woman. A knitting bag lay open before her. Needles clicked at an inhuman pace. A small, two-headed, four-handed imp manipulated them for her. Its legs dangled off the table’s side. One head or the other muttered constantly, apprising the other of dropped stitches. Mist shushed them gently.
There were a dozen others. Their backgrounds ranged from sickeningly respectable to outrageously shady. The King was not a man who selected friends for appearance. He made use of the talent available.
Sir Gjerdrum mumbled as he stalked. “When the hell will he get here? He dragged me all the way from Karlsbad.”
Others had come farther. Mundwiller’s Sedlmayr lay near Kavelin’s far southern border, at the knees of the
Kapenrung Mountains, in the shadow of Hammad al Nakir, beyond. Mist, now Chatelaine of Maisak, had descended from her fortress eyre in the Savernake Gap. Varthlokkur and Nepanthe had come from the gods knew where; probably Fangdred, in the impenetrable knot of mountains known as The Dragon’s Teeth. And pale Michael looked like he’d just returned from a sojourn in shadow.
He had. He had.
Michael Trebilcock mastered the King’s secret service. He was a man largely unknown personally but his name was a whisper of dread.
The King’s adjutant entered. “I just spoke with His Majesty. Stand by. He’s on his way.”
Mundwiller harrumphed, tapped his pipe out in the fireplace, began repacking it.
Ragnarson arrived. He surveyed the group. “Enough of us are here,” he said.
Ragnarson was tall, blond, physically powerful. He had scars, and not all on the flesh, to be seen. A few grey hairs peeped through the shag at his temples. He looked five years younger than he was. Captures kept him fit.
He shook hands, exchanged greetings. There was no majestic aloofness in him. King he was, but here just another of a group of old friends.
Their impatience amused him. Of Sir Gjerdrum he asked, “How do the maneuvers look? Can the troops handle the summer exercises with the militia?”
“Of course. They’re the best soldiers in the Lesser Kingdoms.” Eanredson could not remain still.
“Youth and its fury of haste.” Sir Gjerdrum was yet in his twenties. “How goes it with the beautiful Gwendolyn?”
Eanredson growled something.
“Don’t worry. She’s young, too. You’ll outgrow it. All right, people. Gather round. I’ll only take a few minutes.”
There were more henchmen than chairs. Three men ended up standing.
“Progress
report from Derel.” Bragi placed a ragged sheet of paper on the distressed oak tabletop. “Pass it around. He says Lord Hsung accepted our proposal. Subject to approval from his superiors.”
A soft ripple swept round the table.
“Completely?” Sir Gjerdrum demanded. His scowl became one of incredulity. Mundwiller sucked at his pipe and shook his head, refusing to grant belief.
“To the letter. Without significant reservations. Without much dickering. Prataxis says he barely looked at our offer. He didn’t consult his legion commanders. The decision had been made. He knew his answer before Derel got there.”
“I don’t like it,” Eanredson grumbled. “It’s too dramatic a turnaround.” Mundwiller nodded and puffed. Several others nodded, too.
“That’s what I’m thinking. That’s why you’re here. I see two possibilities. One is that there’s a trap in it. The other is that something happened in Shinsan during the winter. Prataxis didn’t speculate. He’ll be back next week. We’ll get the whole story then.”
He surveyed his audience. No one wanted to comment. Odd. They were an opinionated, contentious bunch. He shrugged. “They’ve given us the runaround so long. Demanding impossible tariffs and arguing over every word of any agreement, but suddenly they’re wide open. Gjerdrum? You have a guess why?”
Eanredson flashed his scowl, his adopted expression of the day. “Maybe Hsung’s legions are up to strength again. Maybe he wants the Gap open so he can run spies through.” Ragnarson said, “Mist? You shook your head.”
“That’s not it.”
Varthlokkur gave her a venomous look that startled Ragnarson. She caught it, too. “Well?” the King asked.
“It doesn’t make sense that way. They have the Power. They don’t have to send spies.” That was not entirely true, Ragnarson knew it, and she knew he knew. She amended the remark. “They can see whatever they want to see unless Varthlokkur or I shield it.” She exchanged glances with the wizard, who now seemed satisfied. “If they wanted an agent physically present they would send him in over the smugglers’ trails.”
Something had passed between sorcerer and sorceress and Ragnarson was aware of that fact only, not what. Puzzled, he chose to let an explanation wait. “Maybe. But if you kill that reason what do you do for one that makes sense?” He glanced around. Dantice and Trebilcock looked away.
Ragnarson was uneasy. There were undercurrents here. Mist, Varthlokkur, Dantice, and Trebilcock were his most knowledgeable advisers in matters concerning the Dread Empire. They seemed unusually disinclined to advise. They looked like people with their fingers on a pulse both shifty and strange, unwilling to commit themselves to an opinion.
“I’m not sure.” Mist’s gaze flicked to Aral Dantice. Though Dantice had no official standing he was a sort of minister of commerce by virtue of his friendships with the Crown and members of the business community. “Something is happening in Shinsan. But they’re hiding it.”
Varthlokkur nearly smiled.
Bragi leaned forward, cupped his chin in his right hand, stared into infinity. “Why do I get the feeling that you do know but that you don’t want to tell me? It doesn’t cost anything to guess.”
The woman stared at her knitting. The wizard stared at her. She said, “There might have been a coup. I don’t feel Ko Feng anymore.” Her tone became cautious. “I did have a few contacts with old-time supporters last summer. Something was in the wind, but they refused to be pinned down.”
Trebilcock snorted. “Tervola, no doubt! Wizards always refuse to be pinned down. Sire, Ko Feng was stripped of titles, honors, and immortality late last autumn. They practically accused him of treason because he didn’t finish us at Palmisano. He was replaced by a man named Kuo Wen-chin, who had been commander of the Third Corps of the Middle Army. Everybody who’d had anything to do with the Pracchia or Feng got transferred to safe and obscure postings with the Northern and Eastern Armies. Ko Feng vanished. Kuo Wen-chin and his bunch are all younger Tervola and Aspirators who had no part in the Great Eastern Wars.”
Trebilcock steepled his hands before his pallid face, looked at Mist as if to ask “What do you think of that?”, then shifted his attention to Aral Dantice. His expression was tense. He hated groups and loathed having to speak out in front of them. Stage fright was the one chink in his armor against fear.
Trebilcock was a strange one. Even his friends thought him weird and remote.
Bragi said, “Mist?”
She shrugged. “Apparently my connections aren’t as good as Michael’s. They want to forget me over there.”
Ragnarson glanced at Trebilcock. Michael responded with a tiny shrug.
“Varthlokkur. What do you think?”
“I haven’t been watching Shinsan. I’ve been preoccupied with matters at home.”
Nepanthe stared at the tabletop and blushed. She was eight months pregnant.
“If you’re convinced it’s important I could send the Unborn,” the wizard suggested.
“Not worth the risk. No point provoking them. Cham? You’re quiet. Any thoughts?”
Mundwiller drew on his pipe, belched a blue cloud. “Can’t say as how I know what’s happening yonder, but your occasional smuggler’s rumor crosses my path. They say there’s been riots in Throyes. Hsung maybe wants to shift the yoke so he can head off a general uprising against his puppets.”
The King’s gaze flicked to Trebilcock again. Michael did not respond. As a gesture of good faith Ragnarson had instructed Michael to stop supporting Throyen partisans and to break with their leaders. Had Michael defied orders?
Michael had genius and energy but could not be broken to harness completely. The espionage service had become too much his fiefdom. But he was very good, very useful. And he had a knack for making friends everywhere. They kept him posted. Through Dantiee he used Kavelin’s traders to gather more intelligence.
The King scanned the group through narrowed eyes. “You’re a moody bunch today.” No response. “All right. Be that way. If you’re not going to talk to me there’s nothing else till Derel gets home. Meantime, think about what’s happening over there. Check your contacts. We have to hammer out a policy. Gjerdrum. If you think you really need to keep an eye on Credence Abaca go back to Karlsbad. Just be back here when Prataxis gets in. Yes? General Liakopulos?”
The general was on permanent loan from the mercenary’s guild, helping improve Kavelin’s army.
“Not to the point of the meeting, Sire, but important. I’ve had bad news from High Crag. Sir Tury is dying.”
“That is sad news. But... He was an old man during the El Murid Wars.” Musingly, “I first met him the night we broke out of Simballawein. Gods. Was I only sixteen?...”
He drifted away on a memory-cloud. Sixteen. A refugee from Trolledyngja, where a war of succession had devastated his family. He and his brother, with nowhere else to go, had enlisted in the Guild and almost immediately had been thrown into the boiling cauldron of the El Murid Wars. They had been dumb kids then, he and Haaken, but they had earned names for themselves. So had their friends Reskird Killdragon, Haroun, and the funny little fat man, Mocker.
He turned his back on the company. Tears had come to his eyes. They were gone now, those four, and so many more with them. Reskird and his brother had fallen at Palmisano. Haroun had vanished in the east. Mocker.... Bragi had slain his best friend himself.
The Pracchia had used its hold on the man’s son to turn him into an assassin.
I’m a survivor, Ragnarson told himself. I got through all that. I lifted myself up from nothing. I hammered out an era of peace. The people of this little wart on the map made me their King.
But the price! The damned price!
Not only had he lost a brother and friends, he had lost a wife and several children.
Everyone in that room had lost. Loss was one of the ties binding them. He brushed his eyes irritably, thinking he was too sentimental. “You all go on now. Keep me posted. Michael, wait up a minute.”
“It would be a mark of respect. Sir Tury was your champion in the Citadel.”
“I will, then. He was a great man. I owe him.”
“He had a special feeling for you and Kavelin.”
Bragi watched his people go. Most had not spoken at all, except to exchange greetings. Was that a portent?
He had a bad, bad feeling down deep in his gut. He was headed for a season of changes. Fate was marshalling its forces. Dark clouds were piling beyond the horizon.
2 Year 1016 AFE
Conversations
“THERE GOES A long-term problem in the making,” Michael Trebilcock observed. “But you’ve got time to head it off.”
“What?” the King asked.
“There were what? Twenty people here today? The insiders who make Kavelin work. Hold up a hand. Count the natives. Gjerdrum. Mundwiller. Aral. Baron Hardle. That’s all. Who wasn’t here? The Queen. Prataxis. And Credence Abaca. That’s one more native, and Abaca is only Marena Dimura.”
“What are you trying to say?”
“Undue foreign influence. Nobody worries about it now. We’ve got Shinsan on the brain. Suppose this deal goes through? We cuddle up to the Dread Empire. Trade turns the economy around. When people stop worrying about making it, and about Shinsan, what’s left? Us. They haven’t lost their ethnic consciousness. You could end up in a tighter spot than the last Krief.”
“College boy,” Bragi grumbled. But Michael had a point.
Kavelin was the most ethnically mixed of the Lesser Kingdoms. Four distinct groups contributed to the population: Marena Dimura descendants of ancient natives, Siluro descendants of the civil managers of the days when Kavelin had been a province of the Empire of Ilkazar, Wesson descendants of Itaskians the Empire had transported from their homeland, and Nordmen descendants of the people who had destroyed the Empire. Friction between the groups spanned the centuries.