A Cruel Wind

by Glen Cook

  “Ah, indeed. Too soon we grow old, eh? Yet, isn’t it true that all of us will be what we will be?”

  The man in the dark clothing looked at him oddly.

  “I mean, we must be what our age, sex, station, and acquaintances demand.”

  “Maybe…” A beer hall philosopher? Here? “What’re you driving at?” He shivered in a gust.

  “Nothing. Don’t mind me. Everybody says I think too much, and say it. For a constable. You should get heavier clothing. Ander Sigurdson could outfit you. That all you wore coming north?”

  The stranger nodded. This was a real fountain of questions. Nor was he as full of good-to-see-you as the others.

  “Let’s get you up to the alehouse, then. You’re cold. You’ll want something warming. A bite, too, by the look of you.” He danced lightly as a sled whipped past.

  The stranger noted his deftness. This would be a dangerous man. He was strong and quick.

  “Name’s Bors Olagson. Constable hereabouts. Boring job, what with nothing ever happening.”

  “I took you for a smith.” The stranger refused the bait.

  “Really? Only hammer I ever swung was a war hammer, back in my younger days. Reeved out of Tonderhofn a few summers, back when. That’s why they picked me for this job. But it’s just a hobby, really. Don’t even pay. My true profession is innkeeper. I own the alehouse. Bought with my share of the plunder.”

  They passed several houses and shops before he probed again. “And who would you be?”

  “Rasher. Elfis Rasher. Factor for Darnalin, of the Bedelian League. Our syndics are considering increasing profits by bypassing the Iwa Skolovdans in the fur trade. I’ve begun to doubt our chances. I didn’t prepare well. As you noticed by my outfit.”

  “And you came alone? Without so much as a pack?”

  “No. I survived. The Kratchnodians and rest of Trolledyngja aren’t as friendly as Hammerfest.”

  “Indeed. Though it was worse before the Old House was restored. Here we are.” He shoved a tall, heavy door. “Guro. A big stein for a new guest. The kids just knocked him into a snowbank.” He grinned. “Yeah. Those were my brats.”

  The stranger surveyed the tavern. It was all warm browns, as homey and friendly within as the Hammerfesters were outside. He sidled to the fire.

  Bors brought steins. “Well, Rasher, I admire you. I do. You’re one of the survivors. Weren’t always a merchant, were you?”

  The questions were becoming irksome. “My home is Hellin Daimiel. I saw the El Murid Wars. And I’m no countinghouse clerk. I’m a caravaneer.”

  “Thought so. Man of action. I miss it sometimes, till I remember drifting in a rammed dragonship with my guts hanging out on the oar bench…”

  The stranger tried shifting the subject. “I was told Hammerfest was a critical fur town. That I might find men here who would be interested in making a better deal than the Iwa Skolovdans offer.”

  “Possibly. Those people are a gang of misers. I don’t like it when they stay here. They fill the rooms and don’t spend a groschen.”

  “When do they arrive?”

  “You’re ahead, if that’s your idea. They’re too soft to try the passes before summer. They’ll be a month or two yet. But, you see, they’ll bring trade goods. You’ve apparently lost yours.”

  “No real problem. A fast rider could correct that—if I find somebody interested. I’m the only foreigner in town now, then?”

  The man’s eyes narrowed. His mouth tightened. He wasn’t much for hiding his thoughts. “Yes.”

  The stranger wondered why he lied. Was his man here? The trick would be to find him without bringing the town down on his head.

  The best course would be to pursue his cover implacably, ignoring his urgency.

  It had waited a year. It could wait a day or two more.

  “Who should I see? If I can arrange something, I could get the goods through ahead of the Iwa Skolovdans. We’ve headquartered our operation at our warehouses in Itaskia…”

  “You should get the frost out of your fingers first.”

  “I suppose. But I’ve lost my men and my goods. I have to recoup fast. The old boys who stay at home to tote up the profits and losses take the losses out of my pocket and put the profits in theirs.”

  “Oho! This’s a speculative venture, then.”

  The stranger nodded, a quiet little smile crossing his lips.

  “Gentlemen adventurers, perhaps? With the Bedelian League providing office space and letters of introduction, and you putting up the money and men?”

  “Half right. I’m a League man. Sent to lead. I was supposed to get a percentage. Still can. If I find the right people, and make it back to Itaskia.”

  “You southerners. Hurry, hurry.”

  The stranger drew a coin from inside his cloak, then returned it. He searched by touch, found one which told no tales. It was an Itaskian half-crown, support for his story. “I don’t know how long I’ll stay. This should keep me a week.”

  “Six pence Itaskian, per day.”

  “What? Thief…”

  The stranger smiled to himself. He had the better of the man for the moment.

  Bors’s wife brought ale and roast pork as they agreed on four pence daily. Pork! It was a difficult moment. But the stranger was accustomed to alien ways. He stifled his reaction.

  “While you’re making your rounds, could you ask that Ander to stop over?”

  “His shop is just up the street.”

  “I’m not going out till I have to. I’ve had a couple months of snow and wind.”

  “It’s a warm spring day.”

  “Well, all right then. But warm is a matter of opinion.”

  “I’ll walk you up after you’re settled.”

  “I’ll need some other things, too. I’ll be a boon to Hammerfest’s economy.”

  “Uhm.” The thought had occurred to Bors, apparently.

  In the tailor’s shop the stranger asked a few cautious questions. He had guessed right. No one would tell him a thing. This would take cunning.

  Returning to the inn, alone because Bors was making his rounds, he had another sled encounter. He didn’t see this one.

  Its rider was a boy of six, scared silly that he had hurt the stranger. The dark man calmed him just enough to suit his purpose.

  Then he asked, “Where is the other stranger? The one who stayed the winter.”

  “The man with black eyes? The man who can’t talk?” The Trolledyngjan idiom meant a man who couldn’t speak the language. “In the tower.” He pointed.

  The dark man stared uphill. The castle was primitive. It had a low curtain wall and what looked like a shell keep piled on granite bedrock. One step better than the motte and bailey. “Thank you, son.”

  “You won’t tell?”

  “I won’t if you won’t.”

  He continued staring uphill. A man who walked like Bors was coming down. He smiled his little smile.

  He was in the common room, drinking hot wine, when the constable returned. “All peaceful?” he asked.

  “Nothing changes,” Bors replied. “Last trouble we had was two years ago. Itaskian got into it with a fellow from Dvar. Over a girl. Settled it before it came to blows.”

  “Good. Good. I’ll feel safe in my bed, then.”

  “Peace is what we sell here, sir. Don’t you know? Every man in Hammerfest is pledged to die fighting if trouble comes from outside. We need peace. Where else, in this land, can you find shops like ours? The outback people won’t even plant crops, let alone work with their hands. Except to make trinkets they bury with their dead, to placate the Old Gods. Silly. If the New Gods can’t get a man’s shade safely to the heroes’ hall, then they can’t be much.”

  “I don’t know much about religion.”

  “Most folks here don’t. They give to the priests mainly so they’ll stay away. By the way. I talked to a couple fur-dealers. They’re interested. In talking. They’ll be round tomorrow.”

 
; The stranger moved to the fire. “Good. Then I shouldn’t have to stay long.”

  “Oh, I think your stay will be short. They’re eager, I’d say.” There was something in his tone…

  The stranger turned.

  His cloak was back. Bors hadn’t seen him open it. But he saw the worn, plain black sword hilt and the cold dark eyes and cruel nose. That wicked little smile played across the man’s lips. “Thank you. You’re most kind, going out of your way. I’ll retire now. My first chance at a warm bed for weeks.”

  “I understand. I understand.”

  As the stranger climbed the stairs he caught the flicker of uncertainty crossing the big man’s face.

  He arranged a spell for his door, then went to bed.

  They came earlier than he expected, though he hadn’t been sure they would come at all. The ward spell warned him. He rose sinuously, hefted his weapon, concealed himself.

  There were three of them. He recognized Bors’s hulking shape immediately. One of the others was shorter and thinner than the man he sought.

  He took Bors with a vicious throat swing, then gutted the short man, shoving a rag into his mouth before he could scream.

  The third man didn’t react in time to do anything. A sword tip rested at his adam’s apple the instant it took the stranger to decide he wasn’t the man. Then he died.

  The stranger shrugged. He would have to visit the castle after all.

  But first he lighted his lamp and studied the dead men.

  He found nothing unusual.

  Why would they commit murder for no more excuse than he had given?

  He dressed in his new winter boots and coat, donned his greatcloak, sheathed his freshly cleaned sword.

  Bors’s wife waited in the common room.

  The stranger’s dark eyes met hers. There was no pity in his. “I’ll be leaving early. I have a refund coming.”

  Terror restructured her face. She counted coins with fingers too shaky to keep hold.

  The stranger pushed back two. “Too much.” His voice was without emotion. But he couldn’t resist a dramatic touch. He fished a coin from his purse. “To cover the costs of damage done,” he said with a hint of sarcasm.

  The woman stared at the coin as he slipped out the door. On one side a crown had been struck. On the reverse there were words in writing she didn’t recognize.

  Once the door slammed she flew upstairs, tears streaming.

  They had been laid out neatly, side by side. On each forehead, still smoking, was a tiny crown-brand.

  She didn’t know what it meant, but there were others in Hammerfest who had paid attention to news from the south. She would learn soon enough.

  She and Bors had entertained a royal guest.

  T

  HIRTEEN:

  S

  PRING, 1011 AFE

  R

  EGENCY

  Colonel Oryon had no idea what had happened at Karak Strabger. He did know he rode with a man possessed. His hard-faced, grim companion, closed of mouth, perpetually angry, wasn’t the Ragnarson he had accompanied eastward. This Ragnarson was an avenger, a death-Messiah. There was the feel of doom, of destiny, about him.

  Oryon watched him punish his mount, and was afraid.

  If this man didn’t mellow he could set a continent aflame.

  He knew no pain, needed no comforts, wanted no rest. He plunged on till Oryon, who prided himself on his toughness, could no longer stand the pace. And still he rode, leaving his companions at an inn ten miles from Vorgreberg.

  “Derel!” he roared through the Palace, as he stalked toward his office. “Prataxis! You south coast faggot! Where the hell are you? Get your useless ass up here on the double.”

  Prataxis materialized, partially dressed. “Sir?”

  “The Thing. I want it assembled. Now.”

  “Sir? It’s the middle of the night.”

  “I don’t give a damn! Get those sons of bitches down there in two hours. Or they’ll find out what it was like in the old days. We never threw out the hardware from the dungeons. And if you don’t get it done yesterday, you’ll be first in line.”

  “What’s happened, sir?”

  Ragnarson mellowed a little. “Yes, something happened. And I’ve got to do something about it before the whole damned house of cards falls in on us. Go on. Go, go, go.” He waved a hand like a baker sending his boy into the streets, all rage gone. “I’ll explain later.”

  He had arrived ahead of the news. And would stay ahead unless Oryon learned something, or Ragnar shot his mouth off. Ragnar had promised to say nothing, even to the ghost of his mother. Gjerdrum and Wachtel would keep everyone else locked up in Karak Strabger.

  “Before I leave,” Prataxis said, “there’s a woman in town looking for you. She showed up the day after you left.”

  “A woman? Who?”

  “She wouldn’t say. She gave the impression she was

  very

  friendly with bin Yousif.”

  “Haroun? About time we heard from that… No. I won’t say that. I think I understand him now. Go on. I’ll see her after I talk to the Thing. How many of those bastards are in town, anyway?”

  “Most of them. It’s getting close to Victory Day and time to debate the Guild appropriations. They don’t want to miss that.”

  “That won’t be a problem anymore. I told Oryon to pack his bags. We’ll pay them off. Thanks to you, Derel. You’ll be rewarded.”

  “Service is my reward, Marshall.”

  “Bullshit. About two hundred Rebsamen dons fawning at your feet after you publish your thesis is what you’re thinking about. You get the look a thief does when he sees loose gold whenever you talk about it.”

  “As you say, Lord.”

  “Get out of here. Wait! Before you go, send for Ahring, Blackfang, and Valther.”

  “The Queen, sir. She…?”

  “Derel, don’t even think about her. If they ask, say I need a vote of confidence on my army alert.”

  Blackfang and Valther arrived together.

  “How’re the kids, Haaken?” Bragi asked.

  “Upset. You should see them.”

  “As soon as I can. Valther, you get anything yet?”

  “Not a whisper. But there’s a woman here…”

  “Derel told me. Who is she?”

  “Won’t say. It looks like she wants us to think she’s bin Yousif’s wife.”

  “Wife? Haroun doesn’t have… Well, he never admitted it. But Mocker thought he might. That’d be his style. They keep their women locked up in Hammad al Nakir. And he wouldn’t want El Murid to know. Not after killing his son, crippling his wife, and masterminding the kidnapping of his daughter. Yeah. He might have a wife. But I don’t think she’d turn up here.”

  “I’m watching her,” Valther told him. “And I’m backtracking her. I put a girl into her hostel. She’s just waiting for you.”

  “Good. Haaken, send messengers to Kildragon and Altenkirk. I want their shock battalions moved here.”

  “Fiana…?”

  “Yes. Derel’s getting the Thing together. I want to invoke martial law as soon as we’re in session. Keep the Guild troops confined to barracks. Got that, Jarl?” he asked Ahring, who had just arrived.

  “Uhm. Case Wolfhound?” Wolfhound was a contingency plan drawn up years ago, at Fiana’s direction.

  “Yes. Oh. Valther. Another problem for you. I met an innkeeper in Forbeck who said there’s been men like our assassins going back and forth through the Gap. A gang went east right ahead of me. Catch a couple.”

  “And Maisak?”

  “Better put somebody in.”

  The Savernake Gap, only good pass to the east for hundreds of miles north or south, controlled all commerce between east and west. Because Kavelin controlled the Gap, the kingdom and Gap-defending Fortress Maisak were constantly the focus of intrigue. Shinsan’s plot to seize the Gap had been the root cause of Kavelin’s civil war.

  “You’re spreading me awfu
l thin,” Valther complained.

  “I’ll try not to dump anything else on you. Wish Mocker was here. This’s his kind of job… Anything on that yet?”

  “I came up with a Marena Dimura who saw him with three men in Uhlmansiek.”

  “Ah?”

  “But the men are dead.”

  “What?”

  “My man asked the Marena Dimura to describe them. Instead, he showed my man their graves. Two of them, and that of a man who wasn’t with them originally. He’s a good man, that Tendrik. Dug them up.”

  “And?”

  “He identified one as Sir Keren of Sincic, a Nordmen knight who disappeared at the right time, and another as Bela Jokai, the battalion commander who vanished with Balfour. Judging from the size of the third body, and from the list of friends of Sir Keren who’re missing, the other one was probably Trenice Lazen. He was Keren’s esquire, but had connections with the underworld. He and Keren ran a little swords-for-hire business. They were riding with that one-eyed Rico creature who sometimes worked for El Murid’s people.”

  “Any sign of him? Or Mocker? Or Balfour?”

  “No. The Marena Dimura down there aren’t very friendly. Tendrik thinks it went something like this: Keren, Lazen, and Rico were taking Mocker to Al Rhemish. Jokai and Balfour waylaid them. They fought. Rico turned out to be Balfour’s man. They killed Keren and Lazen, and lost Jokai, then made off with Mocker.”

  “End of story?”

  “Apparently. Not a trace after that. I’ve got the word out on what’s left of the merchant network, but that hasn’t turned up anything. And the Guild still wants to know what happened, so they aren’t having any luck either.”

  “Unless they’re smoke-screening.”

  “They’re not that subtle. They’re like your mean moneylender who comes round demanding the deed to the old homestead.”

  “We’ll see. I told Oryon we’re paying him off.”

  “We’ve got the money?”

  “Thanks to Prataxis. Jarl, watch the Treasury. Haaken, the same at the Mint. In case somebody tries something.”

  “You’re getting paranoid.”

  “Because people are out to get me. You were at the house that night.”