An Ill Fate Marshalling

by Glen Cook

  Prataxis said, “The King seems ready to face the truth.”

  “Yeah. But will he take steps?”

  “He has too much ego and sentiment invested. I hate the proposition, but I think it’s time for a strong prejudicial action.”

  Michael chuckled. “Strong prejudicial action? That’s what drove me crazy at the Rebsamen. You dons couldn’t say anything straight out.”

  Derel stared into the dancing waters. His face was pale. This was his first murder plot.

  Michael told him, “It’s set up. But I won’t say the word without your go-ahead.”

  Prataxis chewed a fingernail. Emotional torment distorted his features. He had come to Ravelin to be Ragnarson’s secretary. His intention had been to write a history that would make him famous in scholastic circles. Somehow, he had lost his objectivity and become one of the King’s chief lieutenants. And now he had to decide whether or not someone should die....

  He’d been round and round with his conscience since Michael had come to him after his last conference with Varthlokkur. The idea was his own, not Michael’s. He was ashamed of himself. He had told Michael to see what he could do. And Michael had found a way. Damn him.

  “I’m sorry, Derel. I know how you feel. I don’t like it either. But the decision has to be made, and it’s not one I can take on my head.”

  “I know. I know.”

  Trebilcock saw Sergeant Wortel passing. “Wortel. Come here.”

  The sergeant trotted over. “Sir?”

  “Seen Sergeant Gales? I need to talk to him.”

  “Funny you should ask, sir.”

  “Funny? Why?”

  “He’s missed his last two watches. Nobody can find him.”

  “Damn! When was he last seen?”

  “Last night. He rode out about an hour before he was supposed to go on duty. He didn’t come back.”

  “All right. There’s probably no point, but I want to talk to the men who were on the gate.”

  “Yes, sir.” Wortel hurried off.

  “Derel?”

  Prataxis sighed. “Go with it, Michael. We don’t have a choice.” They started walking. “You know he’ll know what happened, no matter how good you make it look.”

  “Probably. And he’ll probably guess who did it. Let’s hope he’s in a forgiving mood when he hears about it.”

  They interviewed the men who had been on guard duty while Gales was making his exit. “Sounds like he was planning a long trip,” Michael said.

  “Sounds like,” Derel agreed. “Think he was running while the running was good?”

  “We couldn’t be that lucky. He was here doing a job. He’s still working.”

  Dahl said, “Sire, that was the finest speech I’ve heard you make. Powerful. Loaded with emotion.”

  Cham Mundwiller agreed. “He’s right. But I don’t think it changed any minds.”

  “Why are they so determined to get to me? I haven’t done anything those Nordmen bastards wouldn’t have done if they’d had the chance.”

  “I guess it’s just that time again. It goes in cycles. For a while everybody is behind the Crown one hundred percent, then they all turn. That’s Ravelin’s history.”

  Bragi sighed. “At least the Marena Dimura and most of the Wessons stuck with me.”

  Dahl startled him by observing, “Watch the Wessons, Sire. They’re getting so some of them are having aristocratic ideas.”

  “Is that true, Cham?”

  Mundwiller turned red. “More or less. I wouldn’t put it in those words. But some of my colleagues are starting to identify more with the Estates than with their own people.”

  “Could we replace them with more responsive souls?”

  “If they weren’t secure they wouldn’t have gotten fat.”

  “I see. Yech! What’s this?” Prataxis and Trebilcock were approaching. Derel looked terrible.

  “The man you wanted me to see?” Michael said. “He deserted. Rode out last night equipped for a long trip.”

  “Must have felt fate’s breath on his neck. Cham, can I see you later?”

  “Surely, Sire.” Mundwiller excused himself.

  “Do you feel up to a long ride, Dahl?” Bragi asked.

  Haas didn’t look as surprised as Bragi thought he should. “Yes, Sire.”

  “I’ve been pushing you pretty hard lately. And not really using all your abilities.”

  Haas shrugged. “I’m a soldier. It’s not my place to ask.”

  Ragnarson smiled. The lad did feel slighted. “I’m going to give you a special job. When we finish this we’ll find you something better than adjutant. Your own field command sound good?”

  “Yes, Sire.”

  “All right. Go after Gales.”

  “Sire?” Haas sounded disappointed.

  Michael caught on. “I’ll be damned. He thought you were going to send him to Sedlmayr.” He punched Dahl’s biceps. “You rake, you.”

  Haas reddened. He stammered unintelligibly. “Lay off,” Bragi said. “Do you want to do it, Dahl? I can send someone else.” Amazing. Dahl with a crush on Kristen. When did that get started?

  “I’m not clear on what you want, Sire.”

  “Get on Gales’ trail. See where he goes. See who he reports to. I have a hunch he’s headed for Itaskia. While you’re there, check on the rest of this crowd. Derel will give you letters of introduction to friends of mine up there. People in high places who can help you.”

  “Yes, Sire. All right. It’s an opportunity I can’t refuse. I have relatives there I haven’t seen since I was fourteen. Should I visit the old steading?”

  Ragnarson still owned property in Itaskia, where he had lived before coming to Kavelin. “If you have time. It’s not important.”

  “I’ll make time, Sire. I have roots there.”

  “All right. Whatever.”

  “When should I leave?”

  “As soon as you can. Gales won’t waste time. Stay close or you might miss something.”

  “I’m on my way. If you’ll excuse me, Sire?”

  “Go.” Bragi watched Haas hurry away. “A good man, Dahl. Wish I had a few thousand more of him.”

  “He does seem eager to prove himself,” Derel said. “What did you work out with Habibullah?”

  Inger stood at a window, staring out at the city. The sun was setting. Long shadows stretched behind the spires of taller buildings. Each shadow seemed to be a grasping hand reaching for her. “Have you heard anything, Thelma?”

  “Not a word, My Lady. Something is happening, though. People won’t answer my questions. The Guards are acting funny around our people. It’s scary.”

  Scary? It was terrifying, that was what it was. Josiah, Josiah, did you get away clean?

  They had messed it up somehow. Right now she was balanced on a razor’s edge, kept from falling only by Bragi’s feeling for her.... He did know, didn’t he? He had to know. “Why did I let Dane push me into this? We could have been happy if it weren’t for him. I don’t reallycare about family vengeance.”

  “Yes, Mistress.”

  She’d been thinking aloud. Dangerous habit. Bragi was right when he said the walls had ears. That damned Michael Trebilcock... Thelma had seen him skulking down the hall a few hours ago.

  The shadows were longer. Sunset on a crazy dream, she thought. It’s hell being scared all the time. Will the Estates really protect us? They’ve broken so many vows. It’s impossible to trust them.

  Nordmen conspirators had helped her get her law of succession. Most of them would go when Dane got here. Out Death’s door behind Abaca, Trebilcock, and that lot. Otherwise they would turn again.

  She understood Bragi’s frustration. The Nordmen were a bunch of snakes.

  “My Lady, your supper is getting cold,” Thelma said. She’d been dithering around the table trying to keep things warm.

  Inger waved a hand in a go away motion. “No. No. I can’t. I’m not hungry.”

  “My Lady, you have to eat. You
haven’t had a decent meal since yesterday.”

  “Take it away, Thelma. Maybe I’ll be hungry tomorrow.”

  Thelma looked disgusted. “As you wish, My Lady.” She rang a bell. Her helpers appeared. Thelma began hustling the food out. Inger smiled. Wanted to get to it herself before it got cold, probably.

  Inger snuffed the candles and sat in the gathering darkness watching lights come alive in the city.

  A girl named Carol burst into the room. “My Lady,” she gasped.

  Inger stared at her silhouette in the doorway. The girl was shaking. “What is it?”

  “It’s Thelma. And Martha and Zeal. Something’s wrong. You’d better come see.”

  Inger rose, a fatalistic haze gathering her into itself. What now?

  All three women were in Thelma’s little cubicle. Inger pushed through the women crowding the doorway. Inside, someone moaned horribly. Inger understood after one glimpse.

  Thelma had brought the meal to her quarters to share with her friends. Half-empty plates lay on the floor. One was overturned, another was broken. All three women were curled up, clutching their stomachs.

  Someone said, “Thelma is vomiting blood, Lady.”

  Inger covered her face with her hands. She felt the sting of Death’s cold breath, started shaking. The sounds made by the poisoned women didn’t help her nerves. “Did you send for Doctor Wachtel?” she croaked.

  “Yes, Lady.”

  There wasn’t much point. They would die. The meal must have been half poison. What was this nasty? Arsenic? Whatever, the poisoner hadn’t tried to be subtle. He-or she-had wanted to make a point in no uncertain terms. She started shaking again. It wasn’t a point someone was trying to make. Somebody wanted her dead. That washer supper.

  The doctor came in, shooed everyone away save Inger. He examined the three women. “Nothing I can do for them now. And you? Did you get any of it?”

  She shook her head. She didn’t trust herself to speak. She might not stop talking. All her fears and regrets were clamoring to get out.

  “Just rattled?”

  She nodded.

  “I’ll give you a little something for the nerves.” He mixed something in a tall mug. “Drink.”

  She drank. It tasted awful. Horrified, she dropped the mug. It didn’t break. She stared at it as if it were a venomous spider.

  Wachtel guided her into her own chamber, settled her on her bed. “Starting to feel better?”

  She felt lazy, languorous, and a little sleepy. “Yes.”

  “Want to tell me about it?”

  She shook her head. “It was poison, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes. A massive amount. Meant for you, wasn’t it?”

  She shuddered. “How did you know?”

  “The way you reacted when I gave you the sedative.”

  “Yes. It was meant for me. What can I do?”

  “Watch what you eat and drink. Patch it up with whoever you’ve offended. Ask your husband to turn Michael loose.”

  “Michael?” She laughed giddily. “No. Not Michael. I’ll take care of it myself.”

  “You’ve made female enemies here?”

  “Female?”

  “Poison is usually a woman’s weapon. These days, anyway. In Imperial times sorcerers used poison, but prided themselves on their subtlety. There was nothing subtle about this. This was like using a battle-ax to swat a fly. How do you feel now?”

  “Relaxed. Sleepy.”

  “Good. You need sleep. But first, what should I do with your women?”

  “They’re really going to die?”

  “They’re dead,” Wachtel said. He was usually less blunt. Tonight he was upset. He didn’t like murder.

  “Bury them. I’ll assume the expense. And don’t tell anyone what’s happened.” The room began spinning. She felt a feather touch of fear. Darkness descended.

  19 Year 1016 AFE

  Born to Trouble

  PRATAXIS TRACKED MICHAEL down in the palace library. He found Trebilcock whispering with one of the Guards. “Michael, it didn’t work.”

  Trebilcock told the Guard, “You can go, Snake.” He waited a few seconds. “I know. The kind of screwup called an act of fate.”

  “I don’t mind saying I’m nervous, Michael. What’s the King going to do?”

  “Maybe he won’t find out. He hasn’t heard yet. They’ve got that apartment sewed up tight. Itaskians standing guard inside and out. Far as I know, Wachtel is the only one who knows. He got rid of the bodies, but it’s not in his nature to get involved. He’s probably the only apolitical creature in the kingdom.”

  “That won’t stop him from complaining to the King.”

  “Maybe not. I’m not concerned.”

  “Wachtel is old. Nobody would be surprised if....”

  Michael was surprised. “No, Derel. Not Wachtel. There isn’t a good enough reason. You really are scared, aren’t you?”

  “Ragnarson is funny about women, Michael. Never quite rational. And there are so many women involved this time that I can’t pretend to predict his behavior.”

  Michael leaned back, frowned. He’d always suspected Derel of misogynism. “Go on.”

  “Every focus of action the past few months has been a woman. Nepanthe. Mist. Inger. Kristen. This Sherilee creature. Each pulling him a different direction, and each a danger. Nepanthe cost us Varthlokkur’s help. Mist nearly killed him, then went away, taking that source of support. Inger has turned like a mad dog. Kristen, in her eagerness to have her son designated crown prince, may have been involved in schemes which worked to our detriment. There’s no way she could have been as innocent as she pretended. And this Sherilee thing has him completely distracted from statecraft at a time when every minute has to be devoted to keeping the kingdom on a steady course.”

  Michael nodded. “And now there’s Yasmid, pulling him yet another way.”

  Having vented some of his tension, Derel dropped into a chair. “What are we going to do?”

  “If he finds out? Claim we didn’t have anything to do with it. He might not believe me, but he’ll believe you. It’s not your style. You don’t get that involved.” Trebilcock chuckled.

  “I’m too involved. I should get out. I’ve been here too long. I don’t even pretend to be objective anymore.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Damn it, I like him. I want to see what he’s trying to do work. It’s part my baby. I want to see it grow up.”

  “And?”

  Derel glared. “And my whole life is here now. Hellin Daimiel isn’t home anymore. I’ve been gone too long.”

  “Me too.”

  “Eh?”

  “I came out with Gjerdrum after we graduated from the Rebsamen. Just for a while, while I got my bearings before I took over the family business. And now I’m as much a part of Kavelin as the King is.”

  Prataxis snorted. “Who is another foreigner bewitched. Strange, isn’t it? The people who love this country most are people who came from somewhere else and got caught up in it.”

  “It’s a spider’s web,” Michael agreed. “Question. Do I take another stab at it?”

  “I want to say no.... Do you think she’s neutralized?”

  “That’s what I was talking to Snake about. He don’t know what’s going on, but his post is up that way. He says Inger’s people are scared to death. Meaning she is. He says her apartment is locked up tight. Long as it stays that way, we can’t get in and she can’t get out where she can cause any more trouble.”

  “Good. Can we help her isolation along? Like prevent any contact?”

  “I plan to give orders to that effect, Derel. So she’ll have to come out if she wants to visit with her accomplices.”

  “Yes. Good. Keep track of anyone who wants to see her. I’m telling you your job? Look. Keep her scared. Keep her locked up. Don’t let her talk to anybody unless it’s somebody we can’t keep away.” He meant the King. “Her friends in the Estates will get nervous fast. The King’s trick wit
h the Captures match had one positive effect. It showed the Estates that he’s still tough and tricky, and he won’t put up with any crap.”

  “It also showed them that there’re people around who aren’t afraid to break their bones if they don’t behave according to rules that are good enough for the rest of us.”

  “Dantice? He might become a liability. Look. I’ll give the orders to keep people away. We’ll let it out that she’s bad sick. Nobody will believe that, but the orders will have more weight if they’re mine. And from you they’d cause too much talk.”

  Michael raised an eyebrow.

  “You’re a living devil, you know. People think you’re something almost supernatural. You scare them. Scared people do dangerous things.”

  “Come on....”

  “Take my word for it, Michael.”

  Kristen arrived in Sedlmayr about the time Derel and Michael went their separate ways. The house to which her escort delivered her was simple to the point of being plebeian. There was room enough only if she and Sherilee shared one room and the children all bunked together in another. An old couple named Shastain managed the place. They were friends of Michael Trebilcock.

  A courier from Vorgreberg had reached the Shastains hours earlier, having passed Kristen’s party on the road. Elma Shastain told her, “Our orders are to keep you inside all the time. No contact with the locales. We haven’t been told who you are, and Mr. Trebilcock doesn’t want the neighbors to find out.”

  Kristen was irritated. Cooped up in a small house with four children, day after day? “For how long?”

  “Until we hear differently. Three weeks at the least.”

  “Three weeks?” Kristen groaned. “I’d rather do three months in the Scuttarian galleys.”

  “I’m sure it’s for our safety,” Sherilee said. “I’ll help with the kids.”

  “You don’t know Michael. Mrs. Shastain, was there a message for me?”

  “There’s a sealed pouch. Maykin will get it for you when he’s gotten rid of your drivers.”

  “Let’s get the children settled in, Sherry.”

  Upstairs, Sherilee asked, “You think there’ll be a letter for me?”