“Get something on,” he ordered. He grabbed a blanket, tied it around his waist, returned to Maighen.
There was no hope.
Gjerdrum and three guardsmen entered.
“Get those doors closed,” Ragnarson ordered. “Don’t let anyone in. Or out. You men. Watch that fellow over there. Gjerdrum, get the city gates closed. No one in or out till 1 give the word.”
It looked, he thought, as if Maighen had been sleeping in the Queen’s bed and the assassin had tried to smother her. She had fought free, screamed, and had taken a panicky dagger.
Turning again, he found Gjerdrum still there. “I thought I told you... Wait! Gjerdrum, don’t let it out who died. Let them think it was Her Highness. Let’s see who tries to profit. But do mention that we’ve caught the killer.”
Gjerdrum frowned, nodded, departed.
“You men,” Ragnarson told the guardsmen, “are going to be out of circulation a while. I don’t want you talking to anyone. Understand?” Nods. “All right. You, watch the door. No one gets in. No one.” Turning to the Queen, softly, “Slip back to my quarters. Stay out of sight.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know perfectly well. There’s a passage you use, else those two in the corridor would’ve spread tales. Be a good girl and scoot.”
The assassin came round. He was a Wesson barely old enough to sport a beard. An amateur who had panicked, and who was now eager to cooperate.
But he didn’t know who had hired him, though he provided a weak description of the interlocuter.
Bragi promised him that, if he helped trap his principal, he would be allowed to go into exile.
The youth knew but one thing for certain. He had been hired by Nordmen.
Ragnarson jumped to a conclusion. “If they know we’ve got you, they’ll try to kill you...”
“Bait?”
“Exactly.”
“But...”
“Your alternative is a date with the headsman.”
IV) The worms within
There were four men in the cell with the assassin. Two were genuine prisoners. One was a spy who had been set to watch them. The last was Rolf Preshka.
Rumors of the Queen’s murder had run like hares before hounds, threatening to undo all that had been won. Heads leaned together, plotting...
Virtually no one would accept the succession of Crown Prince Gaia-Lange, who had been removed to safety with his grandfather in Sacuescu.
Ragnarson expected the assassin’s employers to move swiftly. He wasn’t disappointed. Just before dawn three men stole to the cell where Rolf and the youth lay. Onewas the night turnkey. A soldier and a Nordmen accompanied him.
Rolf controlled a cough as a key squeaked in the lock. He didn’t think they could be handled. They were healthy, armed, and Bragi wanted them alive.
But Bragi was nearby. Using information he had bullied from the Queen, he had brought the guardsmen from her chambers to the turnkey’s office by secret ways. He had watched the soldier and Nordmen come to the turnkey, had seen gold change hands. Now, hearing the distance-muted rattle of keys, he led the guardsmen through a hidden door.
Weapons clashed in the gloom below. Bragi signed two men thither, left the third to hold the dungeon door.
Reaching the cell, he thundered, “Give it up, you.”
Preshka and the boy had backed into a corner. The spy and prisoners had been slain.
The Nordmen attacked Rolf ferociously. The turnkey threw up his hands. The soldier, for a second, seemed torn. Then he too dropped his weapon. Bragi hurled him and the turnkey outside.
He, Rolf, and the youth subdued the Nordmen, though the man tried to get himself killed.
“To the stairs,” Ragnarson growled. Sounds of fighting came from the turnkey’s office. The would-be killers had left a rearguard of their own, beyond the dungeon door.
The guardsmen returned with another soldier. Both captives, Ragnarson noted, were from companies re-cently recruited.
He dumped the soldiers and turnkey in with the corpses. The Nordmen and assassin, blindfolded and with hands bound, he took up the secret ways to his apartment.
“Ah, Sir Hendren of Sokolic,” the Queen said with false sweetness, as Bragi removed his blindfold. “So you wanted me dead. And I thought you a loyal knight.” She slapped him viciously. “I never saw so many stab-in-the-back cowards. Ravelin’s infested.”
The man went pale. He saw his death before him, but still stood tall and silent.
“Yes, I’m alive. But you might not be long. Unless you tell me who had you hire the boy.”
Sir Hendren said nothing.
“Then we’ll do it the hard way.” Bragi shoved the Nordmen into a chair, began binding his legs.
“What?...” the Queen began.
“Castrate him.”
“But...”
“If you don’t want to stay...”
“I was going to say he’s Lord Lindwedel’s man.”
“You’re sure?”
“As stoutly as Eanred was the Krief’s.”
“Is that true?” he asked Sir Hendren.
The knight glowered.
“Be back in a few minutes.” Bragi gave the Queen a dagger. “Use it if you have to.”
He went to Lindwedel’s apartment. Circumstantially, he found the Queen’s allegations confirmed.
Lindwedel, who rose before noon only in the gravest times, was awake, dressed, and in conference.
After amenities, Lindwedel asked, “What can I do for you, Marshal?”
It took some tall lying, worthy of Mocker at his most imaginative, but he convinced the plotters that they should come to his apartment. He hinted that there were secrets he had uncovered during his tenure, and that he wanted to discuss bringing his troops round to their cause.
The Queen, he discovered, had anticipated him. She and the assassin had gone into hiding. Sir Hendren had been gagged, moved against the wall, and covered with a sheet like a piece of useless furniture. “Ah,” Bragi said, pleased. The Ministers glanced at him, puzzled. He stood beside the door while they filed in.
The Queen stepped from hiding. Ragnarson chuckled as sudden pallor hit Nordmen faces.
“Greetings, my lords,” she said. “We’re pleased you could attend us.” She made a sign. The assassin crossed to Sir Hendren, removed the sheet.
Lindwedel plunged toward the door. “Got you again,” said Bragi.
“Lindy, Lindy,” said the Queen. “Why’d you have to have it all?”
Drawing himself up stiffly, trying to maintain his dignity, Lindwedel refused to reply.
Not so some of his co-conspirators. They babbled the tiniest details of the plot.
They were still babbling when they were hauled before a tribunal. They named more and more names, exposing a vast conspiracy.
The conspirators, silent or talkative, next noon, wore puzzled expressions as the headsman’s ax fell. They didn’t understand.
Ragnarson, for symbolism, had chosen a Wesson who abjured the black hood. The lesson wasn’t wasted.
There was a new order. The masks were off and the despised Wessons were the real power supporting the Crown.
He expected the nocturnal visits to cease. And for three nights they did. But on the fourth she returned. She woke him, and this time didn’t extinguish the candle.
THIRTEEN: In Their Wickedness They Are Blind, in Their Folly They Persist
I) He watches from darkness
Once again the winged man came to Castle Krief, this time gliding noiselessly through a moonless, overcast night. He deeply feared that the men would be waiting for him, their cold steel ready to free his soul, but the only soldier he saw was asleep at his post on the wall. He drifted into an open window unnoticed.
Heart hammering, crystal dagger half-drawn, he stole through darkened corridors. His mission was more daring and dangerous than either previous. This time he truly tempted the Fates.
Twice he had to use the tiny wand
the Master’s lady had given him. He need only point it and squeeze and a fine violet line would touch his target. The sentry would fall asleep.
The first time he almost fainted. When he stepped in front of the man, he found the soldier’s eyes still open. But unseeing. Shaking and sighing, Shoptaw made his way to his goal.
It was tricky, finding the room where the Krief held his secret audiences. The Master had visited Castle Krief but once, and that the day before Shoptaw’s last visit. Theirknowledge of the castle’s interior came from men the Master had recruited to help Kiki claim her inheritance. None had been intimates of the King. They knew of the room’s existence, but not its location.
So Shoptaw had to trust his own judgment. He was pleased that the Master had such faith in him, but feared that faith might be misplaced. He knew he wasn’t as intelligent as the real men... As always, he persevered, for his friend Kiki, for the Master. He found a plain small room down a narrow passage from an ornate large one. It felt right.
He searched the room carefully, preternaturally sensitive fingertips probing for the mechanisms hidden in the walls. It took three hours to find the hidden doorway. With a half-prayer that no one would use it soon, he slipped through.
The passage behind had been designed to his purpose. It ran round three sides of the chamber, had tiny holes for hearing and seeing. Long-undisturbed dust lay deep within, a promising sign. He shed the small pack he had been able to bring, prepared for a long stay.
He had chosen correctly. But for a long time he learned nothing that would be of interest to the Master.
Then came the break he had been awaiting. He knew it the moment the chamber door opened, alerting him, and he reached a peephole in time to see the lean dark man follow the King in. He didn’t recognize the man. He was new, a foreigner.
The dark man spoke directly. “Her Majesty will need supporters without a political stake.”
“A point you made in your letter.”
“None of your Nordmen fit.”
“I have the King’s Own and the guard. Their loyalties are beyond question.”
“Perhaps. But we’re speaking of a time when you won’t be here to guide those loyalties.”
The King, thought Shoptaw, was a tired old man. The wasting sickness was devouring him. He didn’t have long to live. His face often revealed some internal pain.
“Don’t overstep good taste, sir.”
“You’ve had time to investigate. You’ve been stallingfor it. You know tact isn’t my strong point.”
“No. Yet the reports were, in the balance, favorable.” The dark man smiled a thin smile that made Shoptaw think of hungry foxes.
“Granted, I need someone. Granted, your proposal sounds good. Still, I wonder. Your specialty’s guerrilla warfare. How would Fiana use you? You couldn’t prevent the barons from taking Vorgreberg. Then you’d be unemployed... There is, too, the question of what you hope to gain personally.”
“Good. You did your homework. I don’t mean to conduct the Queen’s defense myself. For that I have in mind a talented gentleman in retirement in Itaskia. He’d conduct the conventional campaign. Most of the arrangements have been made. When we conclude a contract, a regiment will begin gathering.”
“Yes, no doubt. You’ve been ducking in and out of Kavelin for years. Spent a lot of time with the Marena Dimura, I hear. Which leads back to your interest in the matter.”
“I could lie to you. I could say it’s profit. But you’d know I was lying.
“No matter what you do, no matter how well you prepare, there’s going to be a period of adjustment after you pass on. Neither Gaia-Lange nor Fiana is acceptable to your nobility. And you have greedy neighbors. They’re watching your health now. They’ll complicate and prolong it. Itaskia and El Murid will be watching them, to guard their own interests...
“My intention is to hit my old enemy while he’s distracted.”
The Krief chuckled. “Ah. You’re devious.”
The dark man shrugged. “One sharpens the weapon at hand.”
“Indeed. Indeed. Your friend. Do I know him?”
“Unlikely. He’s not one of your glory chasers. He’s preferred to keep his operations small. But he’s-as competent as Sir Tury Hawkwind. And has a good relationship with such as Count Visigodred and Zindah-jira, of whom, I’m sure, you have heard.”
“Ah? Any man might find such friends useful. His name?”
“Ragnarson, Bragi Ragnarson. Guild Colonel. Though he operates independent of High Crag.”
“Not the Ragnarson who was in Altea during the wars?”
“The same. He knocked the point off the spear El Murid ran up the north slope of the Kapenrungs.”
“I remember. A lucky victory. It allowed Raithel time to block the thrust. Yes. This might be what I need...”
The winged man had heard enough. For the first time in his vigil he became impatient. He had to fly, to warn the Master.
For he had heard the name Bragi Ragnarson before. Ragnarson was one of the men who had destroyed the father of the Master’s lady. He must be terrible indeed.
II) The wicked persist in their wickedness, and know no joy
“Papa Drake,” said Carolan, whispering, “why’s Aunt Mist always so sad?”
The old man glanced across his library. Mist stood staring out a westward-facing window, deep in her own thoughts. “She lost something, darling.”
“Here? Is that why she’s here so much now?”
“You might say. Someone she loved very much... Well...” He dithered, then decided he might as well tell her the whole story.
When he finished, Carolan went over, took Mist’s hand. “I’m sorry. Maybe someday...”
Mist frowned, glanced at the Captal, then flashed a bright smile. She hugged the child. “You’re priceless.”
Through the window, over Mist’s shoulder, Carolan saw something hurtling across the sky. “Shoptaw! Papa Drake, Shoptaw’s coming. Can I go?...”
“You just wait, young lady. Business first. But you can tell Burla.”
As she ran out, Mist said, “He’s in an awful hurry. Must be bad news.”
Within the half-hour they had heard it all.
“Not to deprecate the man’s ability,” said Mist, as the Captal began fussing, “but he can be neutralized. I can ask Visigodred not to get involved, and bully Zindahjira into minding his own business. And if we slip the word to El Murid, he’ll take care of this Ragnarson for us.”
“And if that fails?” The Captal remembered that this Ragnarson had been associated with Varthlokkur. He was more frightened of that man than he had been of Mist’s father.
“We’ll handle it ourselves. But why worry? Unless the economic picture changes and the politics of High Crag shift, he won’t gather much of an army. And if he does, he’ll find himself facing my troops, assuming he survives the rebels.”
“So many difficulties already...”
“We won’t win any victories sitting here.”
To the Captal it seemed but moments till their first failure. Nothing they did prevented Ragnarson from leaving Itaskia. Try as he might, he couldn’t shake his pessimism.
“I feel Death’s hot breath on the back of my neck,” he once confided to Burla.
One day Mist announced, “He’s in Ruderin. He knows the King’s dead. I’ll need your help setting a trap.”
The Captal, with his creatures, transferred to a small fortress in Shinsan, which, with the help of the Tervola, was projected into Ruderin.
There were complications. Always there were compli-cations.
The whole thing collapsed. And the Captal lost dozens of his oldest friends.
He also suffered a crisis of conscience.
Back in his own library, to Mist, he said, “Don’t ever ask me to do anything like that again. If I can’t kill more cleanly than that...”
Mist ignored him. She had her own problems. The Tervola were growing cooler and cooler. Her followers still hadn’t taken
care of O Shing. And Valther... He had disappeared. He had been gone from Hellin Daimiel for months.
But that worry she kept secret. Neither the Tervola nor the Captal would understand...
She spent more and more time at Maisak, delegating more and more authority to her retainers.
III) The spears of dread pursue them...
Months passed. The excitement of the succession reached a feverish pitch. The Captal did some quiet campaigning. At first he was received coolly, even with mockery, but the swift parade of rebel disasters scrubbed the disdainful smiles from Nordmen faces. A few began mustering at Maisak.
“There’re so few of them,” said Carolan.
“They don’t know you yet,” the Captal replied. “Besides, a lot of them want to be King too.”
“The man that’s coming... He scares you, doesn’t he?” There was no longer any doubt that Ragnarson’s swift march was aimed at Maisak. “Is he a bad man?”
“I suppose not. No more than the rest of us. Maybe less. He’s on the law’s side. We’re the bad ones from the Crown’s viewpoint.”
“Aunt Mist’s scared too. She says he’s too smart. And knows too many people.” Shifting subject suddenly, “What’s she like?”
“Who?”
“My mother. The Queen.”
The Captal had supposed she knew. Burla and Shoptaw could deny her nothing. But this was the first time she had brought it up.
“I don’t know. I’ve never met her. Never even seen her. You probably know more than I do.”
“Nobody knows very much.” She shook her head, tossing golden curls, almost lost the small iron diadem she wore, symbolic of Kavelin’s Iron Crown, a legend-haunted treasure tkat never left the Royal vaults in Vorgreberg. “She’s shy, I guess. They say nobody sees her much. She must be lonely.”
The Captal hadn’t thought of that. Hadn’t thought of Fiana as a person at all. “Yes. Probably. Makes you wonder why she stays on. Practically no one wants her...”
Shoptaw appeared. “Master, hairy men very close. In Baxendala now. Traveling fast. Here soon. Maybe two, three day.” Though the Trolledyngjans were in the minority in Ragnarson’s forces, they had so impressed the winged man that he thought of all enemies as hairy men.