A Path to Coldness of Heart (33 page)

Inger’s glare intensified. She was severely displeased. But Babeltausque had not said an untrue word. Kavelin could no more defend itself than could a naked virgin in a coma.

She admitted, “Facts are facts. We’re dead meat if that’s what Shinsan wants.”

Josiah said, “The Nordmen and Wessons would resist.”

Nathan Wolf nodded. “But not on our behalf. And, probably, not very effectively.”

Inger shuddered. “All right. It’s true. We’re in the stew. There are no obvious or easy ways out. Basically, we spent a year getting ourselves into a place where we either have to run away or throw ourselves on the mercies of our subjects.”

Wolf said, “That could end up ruining the monarchy.”

He did not need to explain. Exactly that had happened in Ruderin only two years ago. The crown there never recovered from the Great Eastern Wars. The nobility so weakened the central authority that King Byar became nothing but a national symbol. Ruderin was in worse chaos than Kavelin. As in Kavelin, a bountiful harvest had contributed heavily to a root level economic resurgence. That, in turn, had enfeebled the normal human inclination toward bad behavior.

One poor harvest and both kingdoms would descend into banditry, plagued by petty warlords.

Inger saw that future plainly. Anyone with half a brain could see it. But no one would yield anything of their own to prevent it.

“Call a parliament,” Inger blurted.

“Your Majesty?”

“Send out word, Josiah. I’m calling the Thing, made up the same as last time.” She raised a hand to forestall comment. “I know. Some of them are dead. People know who the heirs should be. Just get the word out. We have to pull everyone together.”

Wolf said, “That’s begging for trouble. Begging for it.”

“And I’ll give it back if they ask for it.” Pure bluster, that. “A Thingmeet should be good for Vorgreberg. All those people will be here spending money.”

The men eyed her curiously, wondering whence that notion had sprung.

It had begun as a fantasy about gathering all the troublemakers in one place so she could massacre them. Her thoughts had trickled on to possibilities less bloodthirsty.

She said, “Babeltausque, you can drop the treasure search. Find Mist’s transfer portals instead. And any other evidence that Shinsan is still interested in Kavelin. Assuming Varthlokkur hasn’t found the stuff already.”

“Your Majesty?” Then, “Of course. As you will.” He got it. Inger had found an enemy everyone could hate.

A Thingmeet must, inevitably, devolve into incessant squabbling. Meantime, though, everyone would forget about fighting one another. Every grownup remembered the occupation by Shinsan…

And everyone attending the Thingmeet would have to spend money. So Vorgreberg would fall in love with Inger all over again for the first time.

For the first time in months hope surfaced. Too much, really. But… Hope!

Inger said, “Once the summons goes out we issue new regulations for innkeepers, taverners, merchants, and so on. They will allow no credit. They will demand cash in advance, of which a tithe will be ours. They won’t do business with who already owes them, either. A Thing member who dodged his obligations before will make good beforehand or not be seated. And we will take a tithe.”

Her mind raced. Ideas came faster than she could articulate them. “Debtors won’t even be allowed through the gates while their obligations remain unpaid. How does that sound?”

“Populist,” Gales said. “The kind of man who welcomes dishonor by ignoring his debts isn’t likely to care enough about his seat to settle them.”

“Possibly. But if we make this sound like we’re really putting the design of the future on the table… I think they’ll all want to have their say.”

Babeltausque said, “There will be a great deal of animosity from our enemies, Your Majesty.”

“How so?”

“They’ll assume that you mean to chunk them into the dungeon with Dane if they actually show up.”

Inger nodded. She had not considered that. Her natural inclination was to say, “So what?” and declare anyone dim enough to disagree with her to be outside the equation. But that would only worsen the strains amongst the factions. If a Thingmeet was to happen there had to be a potent sense that it was real.

Josiah said, “You’d be taking a huge risk, Majesty. If you call a Thingmeet to decide the future you’d better be ready to live in a future that you’ll find less than condign. Whatever happens, we won’t be able to impose your will.”

“That’s true. All true. Hang on.” After a moment, she asked, “How about safe-conducts for all Thing members? Whoever they are, say, beginning three days before the first meeting date through three days after adjournment.”

“That would stun the kingdom, Majesty,” Nathan Wolf said. “It stuns me. I like it. If nothing else, it will buy us time.”

“Thank you, Nathan. You and Josiah get it rolling. Babeltausque, I need evidence that Shinsan is lurking behind our hedges.”

The sorcerer nodded. Here was a chance to show off. Carrie would be impressed by his royal connection.

Inger would give Kavelin a common foe. The gimmick was older than prostitution. It remained in play because it worked.

He had to produce evidence that was not obviously manufactured.

He should start where he had run into the woman, being a little more careful to avoid an ambush. A visit to the cemetery would be in order, too. He would do that first, and try to find those squatters. They should make useful witnesses.

Mist’s people had her mansion cleaned out already, he imagined.

This might be too big a task. He was a bit player, not the Empire Destroyer. He could not do much more than keep water from boiling.

How to get Varthlokkur involved?

He was involved, just not politically. Would he appear as a witness?

He explained it all to Carrie before taking a nap, after which he meant to change into clothing suitable for knocking around the countryside. She listened, interested. Carrie was a changed girl now that she lived in the castle. She took her role as his companion seriously. She mentioned that her grandmother had been married at her age. She no longer whined about everything.

Her family thought she had scored a coup by connecting with a palace wizard. Her age was not an issue.

He figured Carrie would move on if she had a chance to move up.

That was good enough.

Carrie was mercenary but she gave good value. These days she laid into her work with nurturing enthusiasm and was a good resource for understanding what ordinary Vorgrebergers thought.

Carrie said, “You shouldn’t fuss about the wizard. Just acknowledge what you know.”

Wow. This was a far cry from constant whining for new shoes and clothes.

She was more confident now, maybe because he treated her like a real, thinking companion when not using her to satisfy the consuming need that had driven him to find her.

“Hmm?”

“You probably shouldn’t waste time taking a nap. That wizard has more resources than you do.”

“Time with you is never wasted.” He meant that so sincerely that it did not sound corny.

“You are a devil man.” She began to shed her clothing.

Babeltausque became uncomfortable when she did that in the light, which too plainly revealed how much she had ripened.

She would be fully a woman soon.

He was useless with grown-up women.

†

CHAPTER
TWENTY-ONE

WINTER, YEAR 1017 AFE:

AN ERA ENDED

S
easons were not extreme at Sebil el Selib. Winters were cooler but seldom really cold. Most years it was damper but not remarkably so. Those who grew up there and did not travel could not conceive of the fury of a thunderstorm.

Some knew sandstorms but even those had to be experienced elsewhere.

On rare occasions the wind did shift enough to bring a taste of alkali off the salt pans.

Rains, even in this year’s notably wet seasons, seldom amounted to more than sustained heavy drizzles.

Haroun eased his head through a slit in the exterior wall of El Murid’s tent. Rain was still falling in what locals considered torrents. It was cold. The wadi boiled with raging brown water. He muttered, “Twenty years of this and the ancient seas will be back.”

Megelin Radetic, Haroun’s boyhood teacher, had insisted that salt pans were the bones of ancient seas. In the heyday of Ilkazar today’s pans had been vast lakes. The scars of old shorelines remained visible on the flanks of mountains.

The swift drying of those lakes had been part of the vengeance of the Empire Destroyer.

All Hammad al Nakir had been more lush in those times.

But this was now. This was remarkable. This could become dangerous. Rushing waters tore away tons of hard soil. The wadi bank had crept five yards nearer the Disciple’s tent.

Suppose a truly violent downpour came along?

Bin Yousif pulled back inside. He settled to think.

This weather could be used to cover his getaway. And go he must. Yasmid could not cover up much longer. Her henchmen were suspicious. They wanted to know why she kept disappearing inside her father’s tent.

So far they thought it had something to do with him, possibly involving the foreigner. They thought she might be trying to consolidate her position as the old man’s successor.

Luckily, Phogedatvitsu never went out where he could be isolated and interrogated. He would not hide the fact that Yasmid spent little time with her father. Instead, she vanished into the empty quarters for hours, then returned disheveled but in a better temper.

This was insanity.

This was what had kept him going during his captivity and long journey home. He was back with the woman who was the other half of his soul.

The circumstances were insane, not the relationship.

But he had to go. This had persisted far too long. Fate had been tempted in the extreme. Elwas al-Souki talked about searching the tent again.

Al-Souki smelled something not the stench of vixens’ dens.

He should have moved on months ago. Al Rhemish called. Megelin had made a muddle of everything.

Haroun realized that he was not alone.

He had let himself drowse where he was not secure.

His gaze found that of El Murid. The Disciple looked vague but not caught up in a poppy dream. The man extended his left hand, pointed. “You are the one. Why do you haunt me?” He spoke slowly, voice dreamy.

Haroun rose slowly, so as not to spook the man. His keepers should be looking for him. They would rush toward any excitement.

Bin Yousif spoke softly, turning the question. “Why do you torment the world so, Tongue of Darkness?”

The Disciple stared. His mouth moved but nothing came forth. He had only a passing acquaintance with reality still. It took him some seconds to analyze what he had heard.

Haroun took a quick look round. He had left no sign of his presence. When the Disciple’s eyes shifted away Haroun stepped through a gap in canvas wall, disappearing.

Those looking for the Disciple could be heard, now, moving closer. It was for sure time to get gone.

Haroun was within earshot when they found their man, who announced, “I wrestled the Evil One again. And once again I banished him.”

“Outstanding, Lord. I apologize for everyone. Some dared doubt you. Come. We must have the doctor make sure the demon did you no harm. Then we will celebrate your triumph.”

That fellow was skilled at playing to the Disciple’s manias. No doubt he had a lifetime of practice and habitually ignored El Murid’s delusions.

Would Elwas al-Souki be more inclined to investigate?

Yasmid visited him as he sorted through treasures he might want to take along. During his stay, killing time, he had winkled out dozens of small items overlooked by earlier, hastier thieves.

Thoughts of her sapped his will to do what had to be done.

...

Yasmid congratulated her father on his latest triumph over the Evil One. He would not stop going on about it. She dearly wished he would shut the hell up. Elwas was sure to get interested.

How could Haroun have let the old fool slip up on him?

She brushed the irritation aside. Stuff happened. Magden Norath had been inattentive. He had died for his lapse.

She slipped away from dinner, as had become her custom, leaving her father to his attendants. They never questioned her anymore.

The effort to wean the old man off opiates was successful. Sadly, the man reclaimed was not the man the poppy had conquered. El Murid restored was a spectral reminder of the firebrand of yore. Today’s El Murid was old and tired and slow.

Old was to be expected. He was old. And tired made sense. But the slow, especially on the mental side, was deeply disappointing.

This Disciple would make no impassioned speeches to the Believers. His delivery would be so tedious as to put them to sleep before he finished.

His mind, however, did not appear to have burned out entirely. Given time, he thought quite well. Yasmid had read two recent letters to the Faithful dictated after ponderous reflection. They were as closely argued as those of forty years earlier.

He did have some idea of what was going on in the world. Swami Phogedatvitsu did not feed him pabulum news.

In the more recent letter he hinted at doubts about the divinity of he who had brought him to God. It was just a whiff that suggested rational processes stirring somewhere deep under the surface of his mind.

Yasmid found Haroun quickly. She had had regular practice. They embraced. He said, “The rain won’t stop.”

“That’s good. I can leave Habibullah behind for the sake of his aching bones.”

Time passed. Neither spoke. Finally, he did tell her what she was expecting but did not want to hear. “I have to go.”

“But…”

“I know. I don’t want to. But our luck won’t last. Al-Souki is suspicious already. What happened today will set him digging.”

“I know. They all wonder. I tell them I’m looking for something.”

“Some may think you’re finding it. The Matayangan isn’t stupid.”

“But… Still… In all these years… We’ve had so little time.”