A Path to Coldness of Heart (6 page)

The Karkha no longer existed. Their tower, which rose without outer defenses, could be accessed only by a ladder that had to be lowered from a doorway two stories above the street. It was invulnerable to the normal city threats: riots, jealous rivals, and local politics. It was not designed to withstand military operations.

Lein She had himself together. The Empress said, “Good evening, Candidate. Your logs appear to be in order.”

“Thank you, O Celestial.”

Mist was taken aback. Was he making mock? No one had used that title since her father and his twin, the Princes Thaumaturge, had overcome their father. Celestial had been one of Tuan Hoa’s many titles.

“I’m not my grandfather, Candidate. Relax. I’m just here to see the prisoner.”

“Uh… Which one… Great One?”

“You’re holding more than one?”

“Seven. All politicals.”

“The westerner.”

“This way. I’ll have refreshments brought.”

She ignored a temptation to be malicious. “Tea and rice cakes. Then show these two to the kitchen. Feed them lots of meat.”

Legionary discipline triumphed all round. No one questioned her decision to see the prisoner alone. But, then, no one thought the Empress might need help.

...

Ragnarson believed he understood the caged tiger’s mood. In the main, it would be rage.

It had been a while since he had been installed here, wherever here might be. He had fallen asleep in a place where they had healed his war wounds. He had awakened here with no sense of time having passed. The few keepers he saw were strangers uninterested in chatting.

He was not uncomfortable. His cell was an oval room thirty feet on its long axis, twenty on that with the one flattened side. There were three tiny windows. Each overlooked an unfamiliar city. The windows faced north, south, and east. There was no window in the flat west wall. Each window boasted thin bars and a vigorous sorcery that kept out all odor and noise. He thought he was about eighty feet above street level in an area that was sealed off.

Only once had he seen anyone down there, and that had been one of the Tervola.

The room was furnished sparsely but not cheaply. He had a bed, large and comfortable. He had a table for eating, chairs, several quality rugs, and another table where he could sit and read or write. That came equipped with several books, a stock of pens, paper, and ink in three colors. His captors allowed him a penknife.

There was a luxury garderobe. The waste went away when staff removed dirty dishes and cutlery. Meals were regular and adequate.

There were pitchers and porcelain bowls at opposite ends of the room, with ladles. There was a metal tub that could be dragged out and, once a week, filled with warm water so he could bathe. A specialist servant would deal with fleas and lice. His captors had an aversion to parasites.

There was an area for dressing. He had a choice of apparel. Like dirty dishes, soiled clothing went away, then came back clean.

He could shave if he wanted. The tools were available.

Not a hard life. But he could not leave.

So mostly he paced, like the caged tiger, and he raged. Hour after hour, day after day, back and forth, paying little heed to his surroundings, fantasizing about what the world would suffer once he escaped.

Little thought went toward actually accomplishing that. That was work for the rational side of his mind. And the rational side had to operate in the realm of reality.

Rationally, it was obvious that there would be no leaving without outside contrivance.

Rationally, he could do nothing but wait.

The prisoner’s routine was rigid. Food arrived at predictable times, virtually taunting him: construct an escape plan around this, fool! So when the door in the flat wall opened at an unorthodox hour Ragnarson was so surprised he actually retreated.

He gawked. He failed to recognize Mist for several seconds. She was radiantly gorgeous. He had not been near any woman for so long that his response was instantaneous and embarrassing.

Then his mind clicked.

Mist, aged in spirit but not in that timelessly beautiful flesh.

He arranged himself so as to conceal his arousal.

She smiled. “Hello. The war has eased up. I thought I’d see how you’re doing.”

Off guard, disturbed by his response, he was flustered. Neither fight nor flight were options.

“Bragi! It’s me! Good gracious. You aren’t very good at being a noble prisoner, are you?”

Her tone, the amusement edging her voice, dispelled the intellectual murk. “I got it made,” he croaked. “Relatively speaking.”

They could have shoved him down an oubliette and fed him spoiled pig manure for the rest of a very short life.

He drew no cheer from the thought.

He glared at the achingly beautiful woman.

“I’m beginning to think you’re more than just a man, Bragi Ragnarson. You’re maybe an elemental who is no longer sane and still headed downhill.”

Ragnarson said nothing. He did not disagree.

A face came to mind. Sherilee. That sweet child, younger than his oldest boy. Their liaison, brief as it had been, had reminded him that he was still alive.

He shook like a dog fresh in from the rain. “I’m sane right now but it won’t last.”

“I’m pleased. You can’t imagine how frustrating it is trying to communicate with someone who can’t see that they’re caught in reality’s trap.”

“You have me for now. It may not last. Something shook me off my foundations.”

“We weren’t responsible.”

He got no sense that she was lying.

She said, “I came for several reasons. First, to see how you’re doing. We were friends. You helped me.”

He kept his expression neutral.

“I tried to support you, too. I failed. Then you put yourself into a position where this was the best I could do.”

He thought this was more the work of Lord Ssu-ma Shih-ka’i.

“Cynical response noted.”

Ragnarson betrayed a smile.

“I’ve brought news from home. Which is hard to come by, these days.”

“I’ve known you a long time…”

She stopped him. She knew he never believed much that she said. “It would be more kind to leave you ignorant. The heart I found while I was in exile disagrees.”

Ragnarson focused. Time to be careful. The Empress of Shinsan was going to give him something because she wanted something. “Do tell.”

“Last month your grandson Bragi seemed certain to become king of Kavelin, instead of Fulk. It was just a matter of time. The Itaskians were being neutralized. Inger was losing support fast. The Nordmen were distancing themselves from her and Greyfells. Your cronies were dead or fled, but that wasn’t hampering Kristen.”

“But?” That required no genius to see.

“Credence Abaca died. And everything began to fall apart.”

Ragnarson resumed pacing. “Abaca died? Really?”

“He’d been ill for some time, apparently. Once he went the tribes had no recognized chief of chiefs. With them out of it Kristen’s Wessons began to waver. There have been massive desertions. The men who haven’t yet left the regiments have no good reason to stay. They aren’t getting paid. They don’t want Inger but Kristen fled the kingdom once she no longer had the Marena Dimura to protect her. Kavelin seems ready to fall apart.”

It looked like Shinsan had a fine opportunity—that Mist evidently did not view in that light.

Why give her ideas? She had plenty of her own. And Kavelin’s torment was his fault.

“I’m sorry. It’s a sad thing I caused. Aren’t there appropriate sayings about hubris?”

“In almost every language. It’s a popular pastime, small men criticizing the stumbles of giants.”

Ragnarson glanced out the nearest window. It would be time to eat, soon. What would it be? Outguessing the cooks was a favorite exercise.

Derel Prataxis said men grew introspective with age. Ragnarson had tried it. He could not get interested in his own interior landscape, nor could he make himself care.

Mist broke the protracted silence. “You have no response?”

“Should I? It’s sad. My fault. I said that. It is what it is. I can’t do anything about it. Or is that why I’m honored with your presence?”

“In a sense. It was.”

“Sense me the sense, woman!”

“Don’t make me hurt you, old friend.” To remind him who was the guest.

“Sorry.” But he was not, and that was obvious.

“I hoped confinement would erode that attitude. That given time you would find your way back to the Bragi Ragnarson who won friends easily and inspired people. But he seems to have gone missing permanently.”

He did not respond. But he did pace.

“You haven’t tried to figure out how you came to this?”

“No figuring needed. I got too big for my britches, then I guessed wrong. My luck ran out.”

“So you’ve spent all this time, with no other demands on you, doing what? Pacing and being angry?”

The appalled way she said that tickled him. “Pretty much.”

“You are an animal.”

That did not please him. She seemed contemptuous now.

“I was considering sending you back but the Bragi Ragnarson I see here looks no better than Dane of Greyfells, or take your pick of Nordmen.” She headed for the door, muttering, “How did he get from that to this in a year?”

...

That same night witnessed an event the tower’s denizens considered impossible. There was an attack. It was a complete surprise.

The raiders put a ladder up to the tower door. They broke through, spread out, and started killing. They would have succeeded completely had the Empress not been there, stealing a night’s rest.

It was a close thing, still. Mist lost her bodyguards. Two of the kitchen crew survived only by hiding in the larder. Lein She made it, too, but was wounded badly defending the transfer chamber.

He apologized for the disaster. “I should have anticipated an effort to free the prisoners.”

The Empress touched the Candidate gently. “The fault was mine, Lein She. How many escaped?”

“I don’t know.” He went to sleep.

Mist studied her fingertips. Lein She might never waken if she could not summon a healing specialist. The portals were down.

She had not taken stock of the full tragedy yet. There had been damage to the transfer portals despite Lein’s heroic stand. That may have been the thrust of the attack.

Nine attackers had died trying to ruin them.

The raid seemed too sophisticated for local malcontents.

Her mind made a grand leap. Somewhere amongst the Tervola was a man who wanted to bring her down.

Phsaw! Of course there was. But no Tervola would recruit, arm, and inform a band of guerrillas. It would be beneath his dignity. Nor would any Tervola believe that cat’s-paws like these stood a chance against her.

Again, she was not supposed to have been here. The attack must have had another point.

She bullied the surviving staff into securing the tower, starting with the ladder and door. A census of prisoners followed.

There had been no escapes. Evidently, liberation had not been the intent. Three prisoners were dead. Another prisoner had been mauled. Three remained undisturbed, including Ragnarson, who had remained unaware of the attack.

Mist focused on the transfer chamber.

Her paranoia did not fade because she was occupied. She considered the possibility that Varthlokkur was behind the assault.

Unlikely, though. Varthlokkur would be direct. He would send his familiar monster.

The raiders had had a close knowledge of the inside of the tower but had lacked real-time intelligence. They had not been ready for her.

She moved to the door of the staging chamber. “Bring the dead raiders to me here! Without damaging them!”

None had gotten away and none had been taken alive. But the dead had not been dead for long. Some could still bear witness.

First, though, she had to make contact with her headquarters.

...

Ragnarson heard a click. He faced the door, uneasy. Neither breakfast nor lunch had come. Mist must be messing with him.

The Empress came in carrying a tray. He stifled a rude remark. She did not look healthy. “Are you all right?”

“No. I just spent three hours talking to the dead.”

“What happened?” That she was still here and bringing him food told him it was something bad.

“Persons as yet unidentified may be aware of your survival.”

“What?” Was she frazzled enough to give something away?

“There was an attack on the tower. By local people. Those I could make talk hoped news that our portals were out would encourage a general uprising. But there were hints that they wanted to free the prisoners held here, too. They expected to suffer heavy casualties. Someone here must have been worth it.”

“Me?”

“Maybe. There were other prisoners. Some of those got killed.”

“You didn’t take any of the raiders alive.” Which explained her remark about talking to the dead.

“No. And I didn’t get to the dead fast enough to squeeze out everything I wanted. But I can’t help thinking some clever soul with a different agenda conned some malcontents. I don’t know that. It’s intuition. Maybe somebody wanted to get you out.”

Michael Trebilcock?

He did not say the name. But no one else they knew had the connections. Or the gall.

“Trebilcock does seem plausible,” she said. “Or maybe just someone who enjoys a good framing.”

“Old Meddler? Why would he sink to that low a level?”

“For the drama?”

“With all the grand drama in this world, he wants to stir up skirmishes?”

“The drama is fading. The war with Matayanga is guttering. I intend to avoid war afterward. It will take Shinsan a generation or two to recover. The Tervola see that. Whatever their feelings toward me, they want to nurture the Empire first. Even dedicated old troublemakers want a healing time.”

“So you’re getting comfortable.”

“Never while I’m a woman trying to control cruel men awed by nothing but superior power. My point is, Shinsan is headed for a time of peace. The whole world is exhausted. There was a battle in Hammad al Nakir recently. Yasmid routed Megelin. She could not follow up. Magden Norath is in Al Rhemish. He could become a tool of the Meddler again. Kavelin is chaotic and getting more so. If the Meddler was behind the raid here his intent might have been to inject you into that chaos to see the fur and blood fly.”