A Path to Coldness of Heart (42 page)

He thought he would be headed there soon. These people did not show much of their hands but he had no need to see much to penetrate their thinking. He knew how such minds worked. He had one himself.

He might even see Yasmid again.

He looked forward to that.

...

Inger indulged in a quick final consultation with Josiah, Nathan, and Babeltausque. That morning, early, the news was uniformly bright. Virulent factions had yet to develop. Delegates were paying for what they wanted. Taxes were being collected. The locals yielded theirs up with smiles. Prosperity threatened. Indications were, most of those gathered for the Thingmeet really did want to abort any return of the chaos that had prevailed after the disappearance of the King.

“Stop fussing,” Josiah told her. “You’ll do fine. Just step out and tell them what you told me. They’ll give you your say.”

She eyed Fulk, half-asleep in his little chair, dressed in clothes that had been fashionable when Gaia-Lange wore them long ago. There had been no money for anything new.

Josiah went on being reassuring. “I’ll be with him. He doesn’t have to do anything but show himself. If nobody makes a fuss he won’t get distressed and suffer an attack. How is he now?” The Colonel looked hard at Doctor Wachtel.

“You are correct, Colonel. I gave him his medication.”

The old man kept answering his calling despite the stress of being a known foe lurking near Fulk and Inger. Inger firmly believed him incapable of violence. She was correct. Wachtel would do no physical harm to forward his politics.

Gales dropped to a knee before Fulk, made tiny adjustments to the boy’s ruff. “Remember what to do?”

The boy nodded. He was a little scared and a lot nervous, but serious and determined as only a small child can be.

“Good. So. People. Let’s do it.”

Babeltausque went first, as an intimidator. The rumble of a hundred conversations began to diminish.

Nathan slipped away to circulate and eavesdrop.

Out Fulk went, followed by Gales, then by Inger. The boy took his position, in view of everyone. He did not show the distress that Josiah had feared—in part because his eyes were not good. He could not make out most of the faces turned his way.

Inger stepped to the rostrum, released a small, near-whimper. Her vision was excellent. She saw every face just fine. Many belonged to men who wished her ill fortune. She began her speech disconnected from its content and intent as she tried to execute Babeltausque’s advice about meeting the eyes of every audience member at least once.

She did fine till she came to the delegation from Sedlmayr.

Her jaw locked.

Her body froze.

She could get out nothing but an inarticulate sort of squeak. That went on and on and on.

A grumble began, delegates asking what had happened.

Gales needed half a minute to get it. His eyes were not prepared to see the impossible.

Ozora Mundwiller donned a hard, cold, smug smile. She held two pair, kings and knaves. Two Bragis, plus Michael Trebilcock and Aral Dantice. Not to mention a selection of queens.

Babeltausque could not tear his gaze away from the Heltkler girl.

How had those people gotten in unnoticed? Though there were few guards, none of them instructed to look out for dead kings, somebody should have noticed something.

The noise kept growing because Inger kept staring, ashen, a mouse frozen by the stare of a viper. Fulk began to get scared. Gales oozed a step nearer Babeltausque. “We’re in the deep shit now but don’t do anything unless we’re attacked.”

Babeltausque recognized only that one face. He felt the tension of the moment, though. Things were not going according to plan. Perilously not. “Got you. But we need to do something.”

A tall man left the Sedlmayrese. He shed a massive travel duster and the limp and slouch that had helped conceal his identity. Eyes on Inger, he came forward. Others began to recognize him. By the time he joined his wife pandemonium shook the Thing hall.

CHAPTER
TWENTY-FIVE

LATE AUTUMN, YEAR 1018 AFE:

DESERT OF DESPAIR

M
egelin’s favored henchmen were the twin functionaries Mizr and Misr the Fatherless, which they preferred to abd-Megelin, or servant-of-Megelin. Lesser Royalist lights had begun to distance themselves, softly and cautiously. Rumor said the twins were older than Al Rhemish itself. They had changed names and faith as often as the city had. They were archetypically venal, with a knack for charming anyone close by. For no rational reason Megelin trusted them above all the other blackhearts around him.

Megelin’s current favor was, largely, extorted. Mizr had bumbled in while the king was conferring with a being commonly considered mythical. The twins were not harsh in their demands, though, because Megelin’s friend was without pity or remorse. There was no escaping his farseeing eye or far-reaching wrath.

It took only a few words from that entity to convince the twins that they ought to become extensions of the will of King Megelin. Naturally, both kept their fingers crossed while their oaths were being extorted.

Misr and Mizr were there again when the entity came demanding details of events the night the monster Radeachar visited.

What little Megelin had to report he had gathered only because he feared that he might be asked. He did not himself care what happened on the old men side of town.

Even the stupid understood that the monster had wanted to be noticed. Even the dim knew which puppeteer dangled the Unborn. What even the brilliant could not fathom was, why Al Rhemish?

Megelin suggested, “It was all about confusion. Meant to cause exactly the disorders we’re beginning to see now.”

“Layers,” the ancient mused. “There will be layers, more and deeper, some planned minutely, some improvised, some coming to life despite never having been foreseen. What else happened that night?”

Megelin’s seekers had found nothing more solid than a thin rumor that his father had been seen over where the antique soldiers still hung on, consuming resources and informing the world of all the better ways they would do things if they were still in charge.

This rumor meant no more than scores just like it heard almost every day. Hammad al Nakir was nostalgic. Hammad al Nakir had forgotten the bad times. Hammad al Nakir wanted its old king back. Hammad al Nakir was trying to conjure him back from the realm of the dead.

“Fantasy or not, pursue that,” the Star Rider ordered. “We need to know what that sorcerer was doing while his familiar was entertaining idiots.”

The world shifted into an instant of total disorientation. Megelin and the twins were unsure why. The Star Rider’s admonition became a driving, throbbing obsession. They began to torment already touchy subjects more vigorously, trying to ferret out facts they might not recognize if they found them. They made plenty of new enemies.

The Empire Destroyer’s diversion not only fulfilled its design, it sparked ferocious resentments that had fermented quietly for years beneath the despair blanketing Al Rhemish.

...

Yasmid let Habibullah lead her to the meeting place. He had collected not only Elwas al-Souki and her favorites but Ibn Adim al-Dimishqi and his cronies. Al-Dimishqi was less obnoxious now that he was consumed by his audit but he remained a storm on the horizon. Inclusion in her conspiracy had not changed his ground state attitude.

The men seemed grim today. The news must be awful.

She was not well. Every morning was miserable anymore.

She rejected the obvious explanation fiercely but each day made that a grander challenge at self-delusion.

Al-Souki’s stony visage collapsed into frightened concern. “Shining One! You’re so pale! You should have refused us.”

“Habibullah tells me I have no choice. I’m breathing. I have my obligations. Let’s get to it. What is the bad news?”

Elwas scowled at Habibullah. His anger failed to intimidate the old man, who said, “If our Lady’s health concerns you so much I suggest that you waste no time.”

Yasmid considered Habibullah’s rigid back. He was distressed. He had begun to suspect, she feared. He was too close. He must have asked the right questions in the right places. A stone tossed into a pond might vanish but surface ripples would still report its existence and passage.

Habibullah might not work out exactly who, when, or where, but ripples aplenty remained to tell him how.

Elwas said, “Habibullah gathered us because exciting things are happening in Al Rhemish. The sorcerer Varthlokkur sent his familiar to prance across the night sky there. Everyone believes the prodigy was a diversion. From what remains obscure. Nobody died. Nobody vanished. Nothing disappeared. If spells were cast or charms were laid on, that was done too subtly to be detected.”

“All interesting but important to me now, how? And why?”

Habibullah stated the obvious first. “Because Varthlokkur was behind it. Boldly. Yanking Megelin’s beard in public. It has to mean something serious. Varthlokkur never involves himself with Hammad al Nakir.”

“True enough.”

Imam al-Dimishqi said, “It signifies only because a grand minion of evil hopes we will waste time and energy worrying about what he is up to. While we sift shadows he will be up to something else. He has done whatever he set out to do that night.”

Elwas said, “Odd though it might sound coming from me, I agree with Ibn Adim.”

Yasmid demanded, “Because?” Elwas never agreed with al-Dimishqi. She suppressed the misery in her gut.

“We have friends in Al Rhemish. They report a brief-lived, soft rumor that Haroun bin Yousif visited Beloul ed-Adirl that night. The rumor didn’t last. Nothing else happened. But our friends promise that a mystery man did visit the old general, then another stranger came and took him away. The second visitor might have been the Empire Destroyer.”

Al-Dimishqi chuckled. “No doubt he had exactly the right number of eyes, ears, arms, and legs.”

Elwas made a two-handed gesture of accession. “The evidence is indeed that slim, Shining One. It is equally thin for a suggestion that Old Meddler turned up for a confab with Megelin right after. There are supposed eyewitnesses who won’t talk.”

Yasmid chose not to speak until she had had time to think. Then, “He visited Megelin directly?”

“Probably, but not for sure. It could be a rumor planted by somebody who doesn’t like him. But there’s definitely evidence that there were other visits. Megelin may be in the villain’s thrall.”

Al-Dimishqi agreed.

So even the fanatics now doubted El Murid’s angel.

How she wished that monster, the Star Rider, could be extinguished. There could be no truth more powerful than a reappearance of the angel while Old Meddler lay dead in the dust.

“Intriguing news, all of this,” she conceded. “But is it really the sea change Habibullah predicted when he dragged me from my sickbed?”

Al-Souki said, “We need you as the One Who Speaks for God.”

Suddenly, it felt like they were looking inside her, tapping into her thoughts and fears. Her stomach refused to let her be. She had a hard time giving a damn what anyone thought right now.

Past everything, and all the impossible morning misery—she was too damned old!—she was terrified. She could not hide this much longer. The world would then get very ugly indeed.

She rose. “If that is all…”

“That’s not everything,” Habibullah said. “We could have saved that till you felt better. The truth is… Only Elwas has heard this. The news came after I sent the call to assemble.”

Yasmid settled again, with a sigh. “This is the part that I won’t like. Right?”

Habibullah nodded. “This is that part. In trying to catch the ghost of Haroun bin Yousif, and to find out what Varthlokkur was up to, Megelin pushed a little too hard.”

Yasmid said, “There was an uprising.”

“Yes. It’s still going on.”

“What happened to Megelin?” Whatever else, he was her only child.

“I don’t know. The storm had only just begun when the news left Al Rhemish. It didn’t look good for those in charge, though. I should know more soon.”

Yasmid looked around. Each man showed mixed feelings, on her behalf and his own.

Megelin being pulled down should be good for everyone but Megelin and Old Meddler. No one was set to replace the King. No one knew who an eligible successor might be. Everyone had gotten sick of succession squabbles when the Royalists were still in exile. Once Haroun named Megelin to succeed him the question had gone away. The boy had been young. He had had time to produce an heir. He was still young enough but seemed determined to avoid that royal responsibility—along with most of the rest.

Yasmid asked, “My part in this will be what?” She suspected that Habibullah wanted to make her the next king.

She giggled, startling everyone. Habibullah considered her with narrowed eyes. She drove the hysteria down into the darkness. “You have given me a lot to digest. Permit me to return to my rest. I will say something the moment I’m sure that I’ve put together a reasoned, rational argument.” As an afterthought, she added, “I’ll have to talk to my father, too.”

That, evidently, was a good thing to say.

Habibullah began to shoo the men out.

Al-Dimishqi would not be shooed. “Lady, I have a matter that needs discussion as soon as possible.”

...

Yasmid sat down again. “Adim, I presume this is occasioned by your work in my father’s tent.”

“Yes, Lady.” Al-Dimishqi glanced at Habibullah, who did nothing to conceal his displeasure. “At the risk of offering offense, I’d like to keep this between us two. If you want to include others afterward that is your prerogative.”

Ah. So. He wanted Habibullah out of the way. That rattled Yasmid. What was he up to?

She stifled the fear, put on her woman-of-iron mask. “It has to do with something you found over there?”

“It does, Lady. It goes beyond venality and criminal behavior.”

“Very well. Step outside, Habibullah. And please don’t eavesdrop. But stay close enough to respond if I scream.”

“As you wish.” The old man showed her the ghost of a bow. He knew she would pass on whatever al-Dimishqi told her.