A Cruel Wind

by Glen Cook

  “All right. All right.”

  “Jarl, I want to see Oryon when he gets back. I’ll tell him about Jokai. See how he reacts. Now, it’s time I wandered over to the Thing.”

  The Thing met in a converted warehouse. Its members kept whining for a parliament building, but Fiana had resisted the outlay. Kavelin remained too heavily indebted from the civil war.

  Ragnarson waited in the office of the publican consul. One of the Vorgreberger Guards stood outside. Another remained on the floor. He would inform Ahring when the majority of the members had arrived.

  Case Wolfhound included sequestering the Thing. Several delegates, especially Nordmen, were suspect in their loyalty. They would happily precipitate another civil scrimmage.

  The Nordmen had been stripped of feudal privilege for rebelling, then offered amnesty. They had accepted only because the alternatives were death or exile.

  No one had believed they would keep their parole, though Ragnarson and Fiana had hoped for an extended reign during which recidivists would pass away and be replaced by youngsters familiar with the new order.

  The soldier knocked. “Most of them are here, sir. And Colonel Ahring’s ready.”

  “Very good. Have you seen Mr. Prataxis?”

  “He’s coming now, sir.”

  Prataxis entered.

  “How’d it go, Derel? What feeling did you get?”

  “Well enough. All but three of them were in town. And they suspect something. No one refused to come.”

  “You look them over downstairs?”

  “They’re nervous. Grouping by parties.”

  “Good. Now, I need you to take a message to Ahring. I’ll tell you what happened later.”

  Prataxis wasn’t pleased. This would be one of the critical points in Kavelin’s history.

  “Here. A pass so you can get back in.”

  “All right. Stall. I’ll run.”

  Ragnarson chuckled. “I’d like to see that.” Prataxis, though neither handicapped nor overweight, was the least athletic person Ragnarson knew.

  Bragi went downstairs slowly. Ahring would need time. His bodyguard accompanied him. The man was jumpy. A lot of hard men would glare at them from the floor, and debate there sometimes involved the crash of swords.

  Pandemonium. At least seventy of the eighty-one members, in clusters, were arguing, speculating, gesturing. Ragnarson didn’t ask for silence.

  Word of his arrival gradually spread. The delegates slowly assumed their seats. By then Ahring’s troops had begun to fill the shadows along the walls.

  “Gentlemen,” Ragnarson said, “I’ve asked you here to decide the fate of the State. It

  will

  be a fateful decision. You’ll make it before you leave this hall. Gentlemen, the Queen is dead.”

  The uproar could have been that of the world’s record tavern brawl. Fights broke out. But legislative sessions were always tempestuous. The delegates hadn’t yet learned to do things in a polite, parliamentary manner.

  The uproar crested again when the members became aware that the army had sealed them in. Ragnarson waited them out.

  “When you’re ready to stop fooling around, let’s talk.” They resumed their seats. “Gentlemen, Her Majesty passed on about forty hours ago. I was there. Doctor Wachtel attended her, but couldn’t save her.” His emotion made itself felt. No one would accuse him of not feeling the loss. “Every attempt was made to prevent it. We even brought in a wizard, an expert in the life-magicks. He said she’s been doomed since the birth of her daughter. The breath of Shinsan touched her then. The poison caught up.”

  His listeners began murmuring.

  “Wait! I want to talk about this woman. Some of you did everything you could to make her life miserable, to make her task impossible. She forgave you every time. And gave her life, in the end, to make Kavelin a fit place to live. She’s dead now. And the rest of us have come to the crossroads. If you think this’s a chance to start something, I’m telling you now. I won’t forgive. I am the army. I serve the Crown. I defend the Crown. Till someone wears it, I’ll punish rebellion mercilessly. If I have to, I’ll make Kavelin’s trees bend with a stinking harvest.

  “Now, the business at hand.”

  Prataxis hustled his way in burdened with writing materials. He

  had

  run. Good. Ahring and Blackfang would be sealing the city perimeter against unauthorized departures.

  “My secretary will record all votes. He’ll publish them when we make the public announcement.”

  He grinned. That would give him an extra ten votes from fence-sitters. He should be able to aim a majority any direction.

  “Our options are limited. There’s no heir. The scholars of Hellin Daimiel have suggested we dispense with the monarchy entirely, fashioning a republic like some towns in the Bedelian League. Personally, I don’t relish risking the national welfare on a social experiment.

  “We could imitate other League towns and elect a Tyrant for a limited term. That would make transition smooth and swift, but the disadvantages are obvious.

  “Third, we could maintain the monarchy by finding a King among the ruling Houses of other states. It’s the course I prefer. But it’ll take a while.

  “Whichever, we need a Regent till a new head of state takes power.

  “All right. The session is open for arguments from the floor. Mind your manners. You’ll all get a say. Mr. Prataxis, handle the Chair.”

  Someone shouted, “You forgot a possibility. We could elect one of our own people King.”

  “Hear hear,” the Nordmen minority chanted.

  “Silence!” Prataxis bellowed. Ragnarson was startled by his volume.

  “Let me speak to that, Derel.”

  “The Marshall has the floor.”

  “‘Hear hear’ you shout, you Nordmen. But you can’t all be King. Look around. You see anybody you want telling you what to do?”

  The point told. Each had, probably, considered himself the logical candidate. Kavelin’s nobles were never short on self-appreciation.

  “Okay. Derel?”

  “The commons delegate from Delhagen.”

  “Sirs, I think the Barons missed the point of the suggestion. I meant the Marshall.”

  That precipitated another barroom round. Ragnarson himself denied any interest. His denial was honest. He knew what trying to break this rebellious bronc of a kingdom had done to Fiana.

  He understood the delegate’s motives. There was a special relationship between himself and Delhagen and Sedlmayr, the city there. They operated almost as an autonomous republic federated with Kavelin, under a special charter he had urged on Fiana. In return the commons there had remained steadfastly Royalist during the civil war. Sedlmayr, with the similarly chartered “Sieges” of Breidenbach and Fahrig, were nicknamed “The Marshall’s Lap Dogs.”

  Ragnarson smiled gently. The man had made the suggestion so he could gradually back down. Relieved, some opponent would propose the Marshall as Regent instead.

  And that task he would accept. He had, in reality, been Regent since Fiana’s seclusion. He could handle it. And a Regent could always get out.

  Once, years ago, Haroun had tried to tempt him with a kingship. The notion had been more attractive then. But he had seen only the comforts visible from the remote perspective.

  The moment gone, he fell asleep in his chair. It would be a long session. Nothing important would get said for hours.

  Kaveliners were a stubborn lot. The arguing lasted four days. Weariness and hunger finally forced a compromise. The Thing named Ragnarson Regent by a fat majority—after every alternate avenue had been pursued to a dead end.

  Ragnarson left the hall physically better than when he had entered. He had made a vacation of it, getting involved only when delegates threatened to brawl.

  Vorgreberg anxiously awaited the session’s end, sure the news would be bad.

  When it came out Kildragon and Altenkirk were on hand. Vorgreberg w
as secure. Loyal troops were poised at the kingdom’s heart, ready to smash rebellion anywhere.

  F

  OURTEEN:

  S

  PRING, 1011 AFE

  L

  ADY OF

  M

  YSTERY

  “Show him in,” Ragnarson told Prataxis. He rose, extended his hand. “Colonel. Sorry I took so long with the Thing.”

  “I understand,” Oryon replied. “Congratulations.”

  “Save it for a year. Probably be sorry I took the job. I wanted to talk about Balfour. My people came up with something.”

  “Oh?”

  Ragnarson hoped Oryon’s response would betray something about Guild thinking. He related the tale Valther had told. “Will you want Captain Jokai’s body?”

  “I’d have to ask High Crag. What the hell was Balfour doing in Uhlmansiek? His log says he was taking the week to go hunting around Lake Berberich. Something’s going on here. And I don’t like it.”

  “I’ve been saying that for a long time. Any idea why he’d kidnap my friend?”

  “No. This Rico creature… The whole thing baffles me. I’ll ask High Crag, of course.”

  “I still won’t renew the commission.”

  Oryon’s thick lips stretched in a grin. “I noticed the guards at the Treasury.”

  “I get some strange ideas sometimes.”

  Oryon shook his head. “Wish I could understand why you’re scared of us. Maybe I could change your mind.”

  “Wish

  I

  understood it. Just an intuition, I guess. Victory Day is coming up, by the way.”

  “My staff is planning the evacuation. We’ll move out come sunrise Victory Day. We expect to be out of Kavelin within five days. Because of the confinement to barracks, I haven’t informed High Crag or made transit arrangements. I doubt there’ll be any problems.”

  “Good enough. We’ll put on a going-away party for your boys.”

  “Can’t bitch about that.”

  “Don’t want any hard feelings.”

  “Keep me posted about Balfour. Or our agent after I leave.”

  “Will do. Thanks for coming.” He followed Oryon to the door. “Derel, want to find that woman for me? The one who wants to see me?”

  “All right.”

  Ragnarson selected one of the mountain of requests that already had appeared on his desk. Everything held in abeyance during the Queen’s indisposition was breaking loose. Every special interest was trying to get his attention first. “Hey, Derel. Get me a big box.”

  “Sir?”

  “So I can file the stuff I want to ‘put aside for further consideration.’ Like this one. Guy wants me to come to the opening of his alehouse.”

  “Sir? If I might? Act on ones like that if you have time. Chuck the ones where some Nordmen insists on his right to collect ford tolls. Giving breaks to important people and cronies is a deathtrap. It’s Wessons like that soldier-turned-innkeeper who are your power base. Keep them on your side. I’ll get that woman. Half an hour?”

  He took ten minutes. The word had reached her. He encountered her downstairs.

  “Marshall? The lady.”

  “Thank you, Derel.” He rose, considered her. She wore traditional desert costume. Dark almond eyes peered over her veil. There were crow’s feet at their corners, though cunningly hidden. She was older than she liked.

  “Madam. Please be seated. Kaf? I’m sure Derel could scare some up.”

  “No. Nothing is necessary.” She spoke a heavily accented Itaskian of the Lower Silverbind.

  “What can I do for you? My secretary says you hinted it has to do with Haroun bin Yousif.”

  A sad little laugh stirred her veil. “Excuse me for staring. It has been so long… Yes. Haroun. He is my husband.”

  Ragnarson settled into his chair. “I never heard of any wife.”

  “It is one of the unhappy secrets of our lives. But it is true. Twenty-three years… It seems an eternity. Most of that I was wife in name only. I did not see him for years at a time.”

  Ragnarson’s skepticism was obvious. She responded by dropping her veil. It was an act which, in her culture, was considered incredibly daring. Women of Hammad al Nakir, once married, would rather have paraded nude than reveal their naked faces.

  Ragnarson was impressed. He didn’t have Derel throw her out.

  “You do not recognize me still?”

  “Should I? I never met a woman with a claim on Haroun.”

  “Time changes us. I forget that I’m no longer the child you met. She was fourteen. Life has not been easy. Always his men run—when they do not ride the desert to murder my father’s men.”

  Ragnarson still didn’t understand.

  “But you

  must

  remember! The day the fat man brought me to your camp in Altea? When I was so much trouble you pulled up my skirts and paddled me in front of your men? And then Haroun came. He scared me so much I never said another word.”

  Why couldn’t women just say things straight out? He tried to remember Mocker dragging a tart into some wartime camp—

  “Gods! You’re Yasmid? El Murid’s daughter? Married to Haroun?” He strangled a laugh. “You think I’ll swallow that?”

  “So! You call me a liar? You had my skirts up. You saw.” She bent and raised her skirts.

  Ragnarson remembered the winestain birthmark shaped like a six-fingered baby hand.

  “And this!” Angrily, she bared small, weary breasts. Over her heart lay the Harish tattoo worn by El Murid’s chosen.

  “All right. You’re Yasmid.”

  Incredible. The daughter of El Murid, missing twenty years, appearing here. As Haroun’s wife.

  The marriage was the sort of thing Haroun would do to drive little knives into his enemy’s heart. Why hadn’t he ballyhooed it over half the continent?

  “I did not expect you to be easily convinced. I made that my first task. I brought these.” She showed him jewelry only Haroun could have given her and letters he couldn’t read because they were in the script of Hammad al Nakir, but which bore Haroun’s King Without a Throne seal.

  “I believe you. So why’re you here?” He decided to check with Valther. Men of the desert didn’t let their women roam free. Not without an uproar.

  “My husband has disappeared “

  “I know. I’ve been trying to get in touch.”

  That startled her. “He has sworn to kill my father.”

  “Not exactly the news of the century.”

  “No. Listen. Please. After he came back, after the war in your country, after he started to attack my father, but turned north against your enemies instead…

  “That hurt him. He had it in his hands. Al Rhemish. But he let love for friends sway him. He surrendered his dream to help you.”

  Haroun had come out of nowhere with thousands of horsemen to harry O Shing through the Savernake Gap and into the plains east of the Mountains of M’Hand. Bragi hadn’t understood Haroun then, nor did he now. For friendship? Haroun would murder his mother for political expedience.

  “So?”

  “When he came home, a year later, he was so tired and old… He didn’t care. I made him promise he wouldn’t hurt my father if my father didn’t harm him.”

  “Ah! That’s why he’s been laying low. Been a long time since he’s done anything. Just skirmishing to keep his people interested.”

  “Yes. That’s my fault.”

  “He’s changed his mind?”

  “Yes. He told Beloul and Rahman to prepare the final offensive. He sent El Senoussi and El Mehduari to collect the wealth and fighters of the refugees in the coastal states. He ordered the deaths of my father’s agents wherever they are found. It will be bloody.”

  “It’s been that for years. It’ll go on till Haroun or your father dies.”

  “Or longer. We have a son. Megelin. The boy is filled with hatred.”

  “I don’t see what you’re after. Or why
Haroun made this about-face. He keeps his word.”

  “He thinks my father broke the armistice. My father’s men here, Habibullah and Achmed, kidnapped your fat friend.”

  “Mocker. What’s become of him? I sent him to see Haroun a year ago. He disappeared.” He wouldn’t say more till he heard her version.

  “I’m not sure. Maybe Haroun is. The Marena Dimura told him what happened.

  “Habibullah was one of my guards when Mocker kidnapped me. What they called kidnap. I wasn’t very smart then. And he could talk, that fat man. I came willingly. I thought I could make peace. Anyway, your friend almost killed Habibullah that night. I suppose he’s wanted revenge ever since.”

  “Derel,” Ragnarson called. To Yasmid, “Could you face Habibullah now?”

  “But why? Won’t that make trouble? They have all forgotten me now. If they knew… It would just make trouble.”

  “Sir?” Prataxis asked.

  “See if Habibullah what’s-it can come over.”

  “Now?”

  “As soon as possible.”

  “I don’t think…” But Prataxis went.

  “I’m running that man half to death,” Bragi muttered. “Wish Gjerdrum would get back.” Prataxis was supposed to be arranging appointments for ambassadors and factors for the caravan companies.

  “Pardon me,” Ragnarson said. “You needn’t reveal yourself. You think Habibullah had Mocker kidnapped because Mocker embarrassed your father? Because of it Haroun plans to start fighting again?”

  “One operation. One planned for years. All or nothing. He thinks the tribes will rise to support him.”

  “Yes. So. But El Murid doesn’t have Mocker. And Haroun knows it. The Marena Dimura down there are his spies.”

  “I’ll tell you what I know. Some men killed Habibullah’s men. They handed the fat man over to a man in black. Haroun believed the killers went into the north to hide.”

  “Wait. The man in black. Tell me about him.”

  “The Marena Dimura say he was tall and thin. He wore a mask.”

  “Mask?”

  “A metal mask. Maybe gold. With jewels. Like those creatures on the walls of the temples in the jungle cities. The killers were afraid of him.”