Ragnarson didn’t like it. He was becoming too much a principal in Ravelin’s affairs.
“I know my contract,” he said stiffly. “I’ll try to keep it. But the loyalties of my men lie differently.” “Meaning?”
“They’ve been in Kavelin for months, fighting, and dying, for a cause not their own. They’re full of spirit. They haven’t let loose for a long time. What happens when they go for a drink and realize they haven’t been paid a farthing?...”
“Ah.” Tarlson glanced past Ragnarson. “Sums have been held in the Treasury, Colonel,” said the Queen. “Though you should be rich with the booty you’ve taken.”
Ragnarson shrugged.
“And what’s happened to your fat friend?” Tarlsonasked. “As I recall, he disappeared at the Scarlotti ferries.”
“That’s a ghost that’s haunted me since. I don’t know. I sent him to Damhorst. All I’ve heard is that he might be in Breitbarth’s hands.”
“He may be with Vodicka now,” said Tarlson. “I saw a chain of prisoners during the attack...”
“Was he all right?”
“Not sure it was him. I just caught a glimpse of a fat man hopping around screaming. Then I got spear bit.”
“That’s him. I wonder what Vodicka’s doing with him?”
“What’re your plans?”
“Don’t have any. I was called to defend Vorgreberg. I didn’t extend my imagination beyond getting here.”
“There’re two considerations. The Siluro. Vodicka. The Siluro we can handle now. If we can send Vodicka packing before spring, we might have an edge on the barons next summer.”
“Next summer you’ll have real problems.”
“Eh?”
“The Captal of Savernake.”
“What about him?” Tarlson’s face darkened. He stole a glance past Ragnarson.
“He’s got his own army and Pretender up there. A child about six. I tried to get him, but...” He stopped because of the emotions parading across Tarlson’s face.
“But what?”
“His allies. It was pure luck that we got out. Those people... The grimmest soldiers in the world.”
“There were suspicions... The King told me... Who? El Murid?”
“Shinsan.”
His sibilant whisper fostered a dreadful silence broken only by a gasp from behind him. Tarlson’s face became so pale and immobile that Ragnarson feared he had suffered a stroke.
“Shinsan? You’re sure?”
“Blackfang’s bringing the proof. Armor from their dead. And the child... He’s training with Mist herself. She was at Maisak.”
“The child... Did she seem well?” The Queen’s voice held such excited interest that Ragnarson half-turned. Then it added up. The child was hers... Then, stunningly, the “She” reached his consciousness.
“Shinsan!” Tarlson gasped.
Ragnarson turned back. Despite his condition, Eanred was trying to rise.
He almost made it. Then he collapsed, fighting for breath. Bloody foam rose to his lips. l” Maighen!” the Queen shouted. “Find Doctor Wach-tel! Gjerdrum! Come help your father.”
As the boy rushed in, Ragnarson went to the Queen. She seemed ready to faint. He helped her retain her feet.
“Eanred, don’t die,” she begged softly. “Not now. What’ll I do without you?”
When aloofness and dignity abandoned her, Ragnar-son caught a glimpse of the frightened woman behind the facade. So young, so defenseless.
Ignoring his filth, she clung to him, head over his heart. “Help me!” she begged.
What else could he do?
V) Hour of reprisal
Mocker thought the crash and clash and screaming meant that the Queen’s Own had come back for a sudden rematch. He was so sick that he didn’t look up. Why bother?
The clangor moved closer. For a long time he did nothing more ambitious than blow his nose on his sleeve. He was sorry immediately. The stench of the corpse five places to his right reached him despite the downpour. The fellow had died four days earlier. No one had bothered to remove him. As the Siluro uprising continued to be delayed, the Volstokiners became increasingly lax, increasingly defeatist. Vodicka and the shaghun had had bitter arguments about it. Vodicka himself had become dull-witted and unconcerned.
Mocker’s stomach turned. The little he had had to eat had been moldy, spoiled. Staggering to his feet, he dragged his nearer chainmates along in his rush to the cathole latrine five paces away.
While he squatted with the skirts of his robe around his waist, a spent arrow plopped into the mud nearby. He reached, slipped, fell, came up cursing. The other prisoners cursed him back. A quarter of their number had died already, and disease soon would have them all-and Vodicka’s army as well. Dysentery was endemic. In the chain, now, there were no friends, just animals who growled at one another.
The arrow was Itaskian. No native weapon would have used one so long.
He wanted to shout for joy, but didn’t have the energy.
He had long despaired of having this opportunity, yet he had prepared. It had taken slow, careful work. He had wanted no one, especially his favor-seeking companions, to discover what he was doing.
First there had been the chains. Each man’s right hand was linked to the left ankle of the man on his right. He had, for days, been grinding away at a link with bits of sandstone. That done to his satisfaction, he had gone on to provide himself with weapons.
When the shaghun and his gaudy smokes appeared at the pavilion entrance, Mocker broke the weakened link and took the best of his weapons from within his robe.
Making the sling had been more difficult than cutting the chain. Everyone was always toying with the latter...
He had three stones, though he expected to get but one shot before being brought down himself. And it had been years...
The sling, twisted of fabric strips from his robe, hummed as he wound up. A few apathetic eyes turned his way.
He let fly.
“Woe!” he moaned. He shook his left fist at the sky, got a faceful of rain. He had missed by such a wide margin that the shaghun hadn’t noticed that he was being attacked.
But no one gave Mocker away. No dusky guards cameto pound him back to the mud. The attack was ferocious. Must be some bad fighters out there, he thought.
He turned, glared through the downpour, almost immediately spied Reskird Kildragon. His hopes surged. The best fighters in this end of the world.
His second stone scored. Not with the eye-smashing accuracy he had had as a boy, but close enough to shatter the shaghun’s jaw. The soldier-wizard staggered from his smokes, one hand reaching as if for help. He came toward the prisoners.
Mocker checked the haggard Nordmen. Some were beginning to show interest.
Wobbling on legs weak with sickness, he went to the shaghun. He swung his length of chain, beat the man to the mud.
Still no interference. But dusky faces were beginning to glance back from the fighting. He used the shaghun’s dagger to finish it quickly.
“Vodicka now,” he said, rising with the bloody blade. But through the uproar he heard Kildragon bellowing for his men to close up and withdraw.
And there was no way he could reach them.
“Am doomed,” he muttered. “Will roast slow on spit, no skald to sing last brave feat.” His hands, deft as those of the pickpocket he had been when Haroun had picked him up early in the wars, ran through the shaghun’s garments, snatched everything loose. He then scooted round the pavilion’s rear, hoping to vanish before anyone noticed what had happened.
The Nordmen watched with eyes now jealous and angry. From within the pavilion came Vodicka’s queru-lous voice. He sounded drunk or ill.
Then came shouts as the murder was discovered.
ELEVEN: Closing Tighter
I) Dying
Death just did not belong in the day. It had dawned bright, warm, and almost cloudless. By noon the streetshad dried.
“It isn’t right,” Gjerdrum said,
staring out a window near his father’s bed. “In stories it always comes during a stormy night, or on a morning heavy with mist.”
The Queen sat beside the bed, holding Tarlson’s hand. He had been in a coma since the previous afternoon. “My father calls Death the ultimate democrat,” she said. Deep shadows lurked beneath her eyes. “Also the indisputable autocrat and the great leveler. She’s not impressed by anything or anyone. Nor by what’s fitting and proper.”
“Mother wouldn’t come. She’s locked herself in their bedroom... Says she won’t come out till he comes home. Because he always did. He’d take wounds that’d kill a bear, but he always came home. But she knows he won’t make it this time. She’s trying to bring him back with hermemories.”
“Gjerdrum, if there was anything... You know I’d...” “I was conceived in that room. When he was justanother Wesson footman. The night before the Queen’s
Own and the guard went to meet El Murid in the Gap. Why didn’t he ever move? He took over some of the other rooms, but he never moved...”
“Gjerdrum!”
He turned.
“His eyes. They moved.”
Tarlson’s eyes opened. He seemed to be grasping for his bearings. Then, in a hoarse whisper, “Gjerdrum, come here.”
“Don’t push yourself, father.”
“There’re some things to say. She came, but I couldn’t go. Be quiet. Let me hurry. She’s waiting. What’s Ragnarson doing?”
“Cleaning up the Siluro. He slept a couple hours, then took the regiment and Guard into the quarter. All we’ve had from him since is prisoners and wagons full of weapons. Doing a house-to-house. They’re screaming. But anyone who argues gets arrested. Or killed.”
“Gjerdrum, I don’t trust that man. I’m not sure why. It may be bin Yousif. There’s a connection. They’ve fought each other, and while their employers got destroyed, they got rich. He knows too much about what’s going on. And he may be working for Itaskia. Some of his ‘mercenaries’ are Itaskian regulars.”
He lay quietly for several minutes, regaining strength. I “It’s a game of empires,” he said at last, “and Kavelin’s the board.
“Gjerdrum, I made a promise to the King. I’ve tried to keep it. I pass it to you, if you will... Though the gods know how you’ll manage. Any way you can... Tell your mother... I’m sorry... My duty... This time she’ll have to come to me. Where the west wind blows... She’ll understand... I’ll... I’ll...”
His eyes slowly closed. For a moment Gjerdrum thought he had fallen asleep. At last, of the Queen, “Is he?... Did he?...”
“Yes.”
They spent few tears. Waiting for the inevitable had dulled its painful edge.
“Gjerdrum, find Colonel Ragnarson. Tell him to come to my chambers. And inform the Ministers that there’ll beameeting at eight. Don’t tell anyone what’s happened.” “Ma’am.” He snapped a weak salute. In duty there was surcease from pain.
II) Interview
Ragnarson sat stiffly erect as his horse clop-clopped through empty streets. He had to keep an iron grip. He was so tired he had begun seeing things.
A Trolledyngjan rode at either hand, ready for trouble. But they didn’t expect anything. The populace had been cowed. They appeared only in brief flashes, in cracks between curtains.
Today Vorgreberg, tomorrow the Siege. Next, Vo-dicka. And Kavelin before spring. Get the kingdom united in time to meet the Captal and Shinsan.
The palace was as deserted as the city. With the Queen’s go-ahead, he had sent out every man able to bear arms. They had met little resistance once it was clear they would not tolerate it.
She was pacing when he reached her, pale, wringing her hands. Her eyes were shadowed.
“Earired died.”
She nodded. “Colonel, it’s falling apart. My world. I’m not a strong person. I tend to run rather than face things. Eanred was my strength, as he was my husband’s. I don’t know what to do now. I just want to get away...”
“Why’d you call me?” He had known from the moment their eyes met that she would appreciate strength and directness more than flourishes and formalities. “I’m a sword-for-hire. An outsider. An untrustworthy one, so Eanred thought.”
“Eanred trusted no one but the Krief. Sit down. You’ve been up long enough.”
She was a startling woman. No Royal person he had ever encountered would have treated a blankshield as an equal. And no queen or princess would have had him to her private chambers unchaperoned...
“You’re smiling. Why?”
“Uh? Thinking of Royalty. Princesses. A long time ago, in Itaskia... Well, no matter. An unsavory episode, seen from here.”
“Brandy?”
She had startled him again. A Queen serving a commoner...
“They’re stuffy in Itaskia? Your Royalty?”
“Usually. Why’d you want to see me?”
“I’m not sure. Some questions. And maybe because I need someone to listen.” She walked slowly to a window.
Watching her move, Ragnarson’s thoughts slipped into channels far from respectful.
“I’ve called a conference of Ministers. I’ll either abdicate and return to my father...”
“My Lady!”
“... or appoint you Marshal and put it all on you.” She turned, her gaze locking with his.
He was flabbergasted. “But... Marshal?... I never commanded more than a battalion before this spring. No. You’d get too much resistance. Better pick a Rave-liner...”
“Who could I trust? Who’s commanded who hasn’t been in touch with the rebels? Eanred. But he’s dead. Even my ministers have hedged their bets.”
“But...”
“And though I hate to speak ill of the dead, Eanred couldn’t’ve handled it. He was at his best as Champion. As a field commander he was mediocre. The King understood this.”
She retrieved the decanter, poured more brandy.
“He wasn’t strong, the King. Couldn’t force his will. But he knew men. He could talk to someone fifteen minutes and tell all about them. He knew who could be trusted and who couldn’t, and who would be happiest and do best in which post. I wish he were here.”
“You need to trust me, but don’t know if you can. Ask your questions.”
She moved a chair to face him. “What’s your connection with the Itaskian Crown?”
“Appointive landgrave. Non-hereditary sort of half-title with a reserve commission. Army. Brevet-Captain of
Infantry. I get the use of, and title to, formerly non-productive border territory in return for playing sheriff and defending the frontier. For political reasons I’m currently active on the War Ministry rolls. My assignment is to prevent El Murid from gaining control of the Savernake Gap and flanking the Tamerice-Hellin Daimiel Line. I’m also a genuine Guild Colonel, though on the Citadel’s bad side. My Itaskian assignment doesn’t conflict with my contract to yourself.”
“At the moment. Your orders might change. Anything else?”
He shrugged. “What?”
“Men the King trusted he sent on trade missions. With other assignments. He knew Kavelin’s importance. Those men have continued reporting. For instance: Tamerice was in touch with the Wessons in Sedlmayr and Delhagen. Altea has considered annexing Dolusich, Vidusich, and Gaehle. Anstokin plans the same for the lower tier of provinces in Volstokin, all the way to the Galmiches-assuming we best Vodicka.”
“One King always tries to profit from another’s distress. The Sedlmayr matter is settled. Altea, I’m sure, prefers friendship and cooperation to war over waste-lands. And Anstokin has a historical claim to most of those provinces.”
“I was leading up to the fact that we have people in Itaskia. Our best. When your King stomps, the ground rocks throughout the west.”
Ragnarson’s immediate reaction was so what? Then he asked, “In whose party?” “Excuse me?”
“You suspect Itaskian intentions. I want to point out that we’re split. Each party controls part of the g
overnment. The Grey-fells party is pro-El Murid. The other, intensely anti-El Murid. I wondered if your spies took that into account.”
“Which line do you follow?”
“Greyfells and El Murid have been my enemies since the wars.”
“I believe you, Colonel. But there’s still Haroun bin Yousif. What does he want?”
“We’re as close as men can be. But his mind is like oneof those puzzle boxes where, when you finally get it open, all you’ve got is another box.”
“But you’ve got an idea?”
“A guess. Based on geography. He’s ready to go back to Hammad al Nakir. There’s no better base than Kavelin. Al Rhemish is just over the Kapenrungs. If he could seize the holy places, he might manage a restoration. We only see the fanatics outside. Behind the Sahel, El Murid’s support is far from unanimous.”
“I see. A problem. But one that can be dealt with when the time comes. He won’t have calculated Shinsan into his plans.” She rose, returned to the window. “The city? Can it be pacified? The Siege?”
“Those are battles already in hand. I’m looking beyond, to Vodicka.”
“Good. There’s more to be said and asked, but later. I want you to rest now. That’s an order. I want you fresh after the council. If I stay on...” She came to him, took his hands in hers, turned them palms up, studied them, then looked him in the eye. “I’d be in these hands. Be gentle.”
III) Confrontations
Ragnarson had the feeling that a long time had passed. He lay drifting on the edge of sleep, his conscience telling him he should be up and busy, but instead he continued wondering how much meaning he dared attach to the Queen’s final words.
Came a knock. “Enter,” he grumbled, rising to a sitting position. A lone candle illuminated his room.
Gjerdrum stuck his head in. “Sorry to wake you, Colonel. We’ve caught a vagrant. Hard to understand him, but I think he says he knows you.”
“Eh? Fat man? Dark?”
“Looks like he used to be fat. But he’s sick now. I’d say he’s had a rough time for a couple months.”
“Where is he? Let me get my pants on. How’s thechances of me getting something new to wear?”