An Ill Fate Marshalling

by Glen Cook

  “Don’t sound all that unreasonable to me.”

  “There’ll be squawkers. It’s weighted toward the Throyens.”

  “In this country somebody is always crying about something. Their caravans will be in the race to get through the Gap anyway.”

  “Anyone who can afford to assemble a caravan has one put together already. They’ll trample each other when I say the magic words.”

  “Then I wasted a lot of people’s time, having them hang around to talk to you.”

  “There are thoughts to be aired. Viewpoints to share.”

  “They weren’t sharing anything with anybody last week.”

  “Let me make them mad. They’ll say what they’re thinking.”

  “I don’t....”

  Women screamed near Abaca’s Marena Dimura group. Men shouted angrily. Ragnarson heard steel meet steel.

  He flung himself off his throne. “Get the hell out of my way!” he roared as he pushed through the crowd. Taller than most of his guests, he saw the surge as the Guards moved in. Good. They had been on their toes. He had not expected to get through the evening without at least one fracas. “Will you get the hell out of my road?” he snarled at a heavy old matron. She promptly threatened a faint.

  The Guards had the men separated when he got there. One was Credence Abaca. The other was a young gentleman of the Estates, the son of a baron in town for the Thing-meet. The Baron himself was shoving through the crowd.

  Abaca and the youth both shouted accusations. “Shut up!” Ragnarson snapped. “You first.” He indicated the younger man.

  “He made improper advances to my sister.” The young noble was sullen and defensive. It was an attitude increasingly common to his class.

  “Credence?”

  “I asked her to dance, sir.” Abaca had regained his aplomb. Perhaps he had not lost it. He was a tactician in more than the military sense. He was a master manipulator and could be as heartless as a spider. There was no apology in his manner.

  “That’s all?”

  “On my honor, Sire.”

  “You have no honor, you....”

  “Shut your mouth, boy,” Ragnarson snapped. “You’re in up to your ears now.” He looked for the woman in question. Her father had driven her away from the confrontation. The man wore a thin smile of anticipation. Ragnarson wondered if it hadn’t been Abaca who had been maneuvered this time. The Estates remained mortally offended because a Marena Dimura had been appointed second in command of the army. Only the most trustworthy Nordmen were permitted to participate professionally.

  Ragnarson turned to the youth. “You dared draw a blade in the Palace? Against one of my officers?”

  The Nordmen would not keep his mouth shut. “Somebody has to teach these... these... animals their place. I challenge!”

  “You don’t have a right to challenge,” Ragnarson told him.

  “I’ll accept anyway,” Abaca said. He was a small, lean, olive man. He had big black mustachios and deep lines in his face. His dark little pupils were flakes of obsidian.

  “Credence!” Bragi said. “That’s enough.” Abaca stepped back, relaxed. He had superb self-control. “Good.” Bragi faced the youth. “Son, you committed a felony. The Estates are allowed their weapons in the Palace, but you don’t have a right to use them.” He indicated the Marena Dimura group. Only Abaca was armed. “That’s an honor, not a right. You abused it. You forfeited your right of challenge when you broke the law. It’s a capital offense. I could have you hung.” The youth blanched. “But it would be a shame to do that. The real crimes here are stupidity, arrogance, and a bad choice of parents. Sergeant Wortel,” he snapped at the Guardsman nearest Abaca.

  “Sire?”

  “Take the boy outside. Give him twenty lashes. Just hard enough to make him think next time his mouth threatens to override his common sense.”

  “Yes, Sire.” Wortel was pleased and did not hide it. An older man of Wesson stock, he had grown up to the crack of Nordmen whips.

  Ragnarson ignored the departure. The youth did a lot of yelling and threatening. When he realized that he would actually get the whipping, he became silent, pale, and scared.

  Bragi faced the young man’s father.

  There was a new order and a new law. The Estates no longer rode roughshod over the land. Nothing had to be said. The Nordmen knew they had to pay when their old habits got the best of them.

  Nevertheless, Ragnarson wanted to make a point. He asked, “Would you rather have him dead?”

  The Baron croaked, “Dead?”

  “He’d be dead now if I’d let them fight.”

  The Baron sneered. “A Marena Dimura kill him? That’s ridiculous.”

  “Lie to yourself if you like. Baron, I considered your son’s age. He’s not old enough to know better. I did what I had to to save him.” A cry echoed in the courtyard. Murder flared in the Baron’s eye. “I’d letyou fight Credence, though. I figure you put the boy up to this, so it’s really your battle. Credence. Choose your weapons.”

  “Knives, Sire. They don’t like knives, the gentlemen of the Estates.”

  How can such a small mouth stretch into such a big grin? Ragnarson wondered. “My Lord Baron? Are you ready?”

  The Nordmen reddened, sputtered, looked for support from his peers. Any he may have seen existed only in his own imagination. He drew himself up, said, “That’s hardly the way gentlemen....”

  “What gentlemen?” Bragi asked. “This mess came up because you won’t accept Colonel Abaca as a gentleman. Why expect him to change now?” Not wanting to pour it on too heavy, Ragnarson added, “One of the bases of the law, Baron, is that we all have to face the consequences of our actions. Birth doesn’t grant you immunity anymore. It only allows you limited privilege. In return, you’re supposed to protect and guide the people of your fief. It’s all set forth in the traditional oath of fealty, which goes all the way back to Jan Iron-Hand. You yourself swore that oath three times. Before the old King. Before Queen Fiana. Then before me. All I’ve ever asked of the Estates is that their lords fulfill that oath.”

  He thought he was getting through. The Baron had begun to squirm. “Let’s drop the whole business, shall we? Send your family back to their quarters. Wait for your boy. I’ll have Doctor Wachtel attend him. Credence, confine yourself to barracks for the night. I’ll have more to say to you later. Derel, let’s put some life back in this party.”

  When they were out of earshot of the Baron, Ragnarson asked, “How did I do?”

  “Pretty good,” Prataxis replied. The scholar had indulged in his own form of intimidation. He had written down every word spoken. The Nordmen had an almost superstitious fear of the magical recall of his notes. “Do you know him? Is he likely to hold a grudge?”

  “I don’t think so. He’s just impulsive. He survived the civil war. I haven’t had to hang him since. That’s about the best you can expect from the Estates. Take a couple notes. Have the old noose hung out. The one we used on Lord Lindwedel, Sir Andybur, and the Captal. As a gentle reminder. And ask Varthlokkur to have the Unborn show himself. That should do it.”

  Ragnarson paused to obtain wine for Prataxis and beer for himself. “It’s so damned depressing sometimes. Here I am, the third consecutive monarch to bust his ass to make this a good country to live in. And if you get more than a bowshot from Vorgreberg’s gates, you’re up to your ears in the same old hardheaded, completely irrational bullshit the old Krief met head-on when he was crowned.”

  “This is a feudal state, Sire. Rigidity is one of that form’s characteristics. And it’s a positive characteristic, considering the forces which act to create feudal societies. The structure has a place for every man, with his responsibilities and privileges clearly defined. The weakness of the form is its inflexible response to novel ideas. It’s been rocked by too many of those during our lifetimes, dating back to the Scourge of God, who did not fade from the field at harvest time. Now it wants to make like a turtle and pull its head
in till the worst blows over. Only the storm won’t go away. So the mossbacks strike back. Civil strife is one result.”

  “You trying to tell me something?”

  “Change will be slow and painful in a kingdom like Ravelin. You can push too hard. Reaction will be like a recurrent boil. You lanced ours once, by winning the civil war. Now it’s rising again.”

  “And there’s nothing I can do about it?”

  “To pursue the medical analogy, use poultices to keep the swelling to a minimum and the pain short-lived.”

  “For instance me a poultice.”

  “A conciliatory message, in private, might help with the Baron. You don’t want him thinking you humiliated him maliciously. Press the lifesaving point, and agree with his prejudices without saying so in so many words. These illiterates have a great awe of the magic of reading and writing. He’ll be tremendously impressed because you took time to do a letter.”

  Ragnarson whistled silently. “I wanted to humiliate him. I wanted to hang him out to dry. Sometimes the Estates make me want to cry like a baby. Yes. Write me up one of your classic little notes. I’ll rewrite it in my own hand and have Dahl sneak it over.”

  He bumped into someone. Hard. Wine splashed against his side. He looked down.

  His daughter-in-law’s friend looked up at him. She did a quick, flustered, apologetic curtsey. “I’m sorry, Your Majesty. That was clumsy of me.” Her voice was high. It contained a tiny squeak. It wasn’t her normal voice. He had heard that at the place in Lieneke Lane. She was nervous. And the fright was alive in her eyes.

  “My apology, Miss. It was my fault. I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

  He walked away wondering. Was she afraid of the man? In awe of his Crown? Or afraid of herself?

  Damn you, Kristen. You’ve got a big mouth.

  Derel was chattering again. He told himself to pay attention. When Prataxis ran down, he said, “Send out the word for Michael to get in touch. We need to talk.”

  7 Year 1016 AFE

  Decisions

  RAGNARSON SAT WITH one leg sprawled across a small, square table. His eyes were closed. He was daydreaming.

  To his left sat Varthlokkur. The sorcerer’s tongue-tip protruded from the corner of his mouth. Slowly, he forced a quill to produce a drawing. “The memories are clear enough,” he told Prataxis, opposite him. “But I’m no artist.”

  The drawing betrayed that. It was of a man’s face. But of whom?

  “Maybe charcoals, that you could erase,” Prataxis suggested.

  “Better would be an artist who could work from my descriptions.”

  The two were toying with an illustrated history of the Fall. Varthlokkur was the last living participant. The major extant record of the epoch, The Wizards of Ilkazar, consisted of impassioned anti-Empire propaganda. Whenever his path crossed that of the sorcerer, conservator Prataxis teased forth memories and committed them to paper. The Fall was western history’s crucial crossroad. Prataxis believed the perpetuation of old lies to be a sin.

  Ilkazar’s last king had slain Varthlokkur’s mother. Varthlokkur had crushed the Empire in revenge.

  “I can’t capture the real feel of the man,” the wizard grumbled. “Wish I could impress a thought directly onto the paper.”

  Ragnarson snorted like an old boar hog being wakened by a pig farmer. “Why not? I hear tell a good sorcerer can think pictures into one of those seeing bowls. So think your memories of those old-time wizards and kings. Let an artist draw what he sees.” He sniffled, sneezed, searched for a handkerchief. There had been another rainy day game of

  Captures, a rematch with the Panthers, that had been long and savage and had left him with a murderous cold. The Panthers had won, five-four, on a disputed goal. The judges themselves were still arguing.

  Varthlokkur and Prataxis exchanged looks. Derel said, “Wouldn’t it work?”

  “Maybe,” Varthlokkur grumped. He awarded the King a foul look. His was the ire of a professional being taught to suck eggs by a layman.

  The door opened. Dahl Haas stepped inside. From a rigid attention, he announced, “Sir Gjerdrum Eanredson, Your Majesty.” A slight scowl crossed his face. He was not pleased with his King’s inelegant sprawl. “Herd him in, Dahl.”

  Sir Gjerdrum took the remaining chair. His handsome Wesson face looked perplexed.

  Ragnarson sat up. “That’s all, Dahl. Look around to see if we’re getting any unusual attention.”

  Haas withdrew, clearly piqued because he had not been invited to stay.

  “What’s up?” Eanredson asked.

  Ragnarson began paring his nails with a small knife. Prataxis wrinkled his nose. “Some odd stuff” has been piling up. I figured it’s time we did something.”

  Eanredson ran a hand through his hair. The room was hot.

  “It’s this way. I spent a lot of time thinking. I decided you’re the only ones I really trust right now. So we powwow. We decide where we’re going.” He wiped his knife on his trousers. “Okay. Questions.”

  Baffled, Gjerdrum asked, “What kind of problems? I thought we were in pretty good shape.” He paid little attention to politics.

  “It’s a long list, Gjerdrum. I clogged it all together into three groups, then rated those by how many people they’d affect. So. First area. Mist, Aral Dantice, and their cohorts, are probably plotting to get Mist her throne back. If they make it, problem number two might disappear.

  “That’s Hammad al Nakir, where some strange things are going on. Mainly, Hsung’s machinations. Seems he’s trying to round our flank by making a puppet of the Peacock Throne.

  “Third general problem. The succession. It doesn’t look important right now. I’m healthy. But somebody could stick a knife in me, like they did Liakopulos. Then what? Civil war? Gjerdrum, if I croak tonight, what will the army do?”

  “I don’t know. That isn’t something we’ve been worrying about. Support whoever the Thing elects, I guess.”

  “What if that somebody was from the Estates? Somebody from the old school. Would you put up with that? Would Credence? The Marena Dimura have to be taken into account.”

  “I don’t know about me. Credence would take to the woods. He’d fight.”

  Varthlokkur said, “One of your sons would be the logical candidate, even though it’s not in the law.”

  “But I have three sons. And a grandson. Which should it be? My grandson is the firstborn of my oldest, if you like that theory of succession. Gundar is the oldest surviving son. But Fulk’s mother was Queen when he was born. Elana was just a soldier’s wife. Ainjar don’t count because he’s the farthest away.”

  Prataxis observed, “They’re all under age. That means a regency.”

  “I know. Meaning more worries. Mainly, about trust. All my worries are about trust. What about those Itaskians of Inger’s? Are they a foreign fifth column? Inger could become regent. How about Michael? What would he do? Then there’s Abaca. And the Estates. And Dantice, Mundwiller, and that crowd. And whoever tried to kill Liakopulos, and dropped the list I found. There are people with stakes we don’t recognize. I want to set up guidelines for dealing with everything. Then, even if I’m gone, there’ll be a path to follow.”

  “We’re going to be here a while,” Eanredson said.

  “So be it. Derel, you and I have been over this some. You’ve had time to think.”

  “The problems are interrelated. If you solve one, the others will soften.”

  “I know. So let’s pick an area and hammer away.”

  “The succession, then. Hsung’s doings aren’t pressing. They’re a sideshow. Shinsan is preoccupied elsewhere. He won’t do anything but tinker. He’ll have to stay free to help Kuo if the Matayangan thing goes bad. And Mist will be around a long time.”

  “There’ll never be a better time, Derel. Shinsan is in big trouble. Once they drop the hammer on Matayanga, Kuo is out of the woods. He can cover his ass. I want to smack him while he’s vulnerable.”

 
Prataxis shrugged. “You’re King. But really, an established line of succession, including a designated regent, would do more good.”

  “Gjerdrum?”

  “I’d be more comfortable if I knew who’d take over. Hammad al Nakir? That’s Michael’s area.”

  “What about Mist?” Ragnarson’s mind was set. He was disappointed in his people. They wouldn’t see the importance of weakening Shinsan. Not even Derel, who so recently had advised him to play Hsung’s game.

  “How would she change anything?” Gjerdrum asked. “Sorry. The Chatelaine is your friend. But there’s no reason to believe that she could or would alter Shinsan’s historical imperatives.”

  “Historical imperatives? College boy. Varthlokkur?”

  “I don’t like Shinsan.” The wizard examined his fingertips. “Lord Kuo is an enigma. His supporters are unknowns too. Mist we know.”

  Prataxis started to protest.

  Varthlokkur snapped, “Wait, will you? I think I’m speaking from a more knowledgeable viewpoint.”

  Prataxis subsided. Ragnarson sat up straighter.

  “When I couldn’t find the man responsible for the attack on the General, I started making daily divinations. I’ve been spending so much time at that that my wife claims I’m neglecting her. I’m trying to do what I can while I can. Her time is close. I won’t be able to help much longer.”

  Prataxis said, “Tell us why you’re not worried about the succession.”

  “Did I say I wasn’t? I don’t think so.”

  “We don’t expect you to neglect Nepanthe,” Bragi interjected. “You were talking about divinations.”

  Varthlokkur unleashed one of his classic intimidating frowns. Any man in the street would have fainted. Ragnarson just grinned, though his stomach did flutter.

  “Divinations. The damned things are as unreliable as ever. I put in a hundred hours on them this week.... Well, twenty-five or thirty. I didn’t find out much, but I can tell you the King will still be around five years from now. It was only a glimpse, but a solid one.”