A Path to Coldness of Heart

Chapter Twenty-Nine:

Winter, 1018-1019 AFE:

Fire and Maneuver

O ther than an exotic half-breed girl-child, whose beauty nearly unmanned him, no one paid attention to Babeltausque or Carrie. Most were too busy, even when all they did was look over one another’s shoulders. The couple tried their best to stay small and unnoticed, day after day.

The exotic took it on herself to see that they touched nothing in what she called the Wind Tower, a place Babeltausque felt should exist only in fairy tales.

He and Carrie were free to come and go so long as they touched nothing and did not get underfoot. Slyly, the exotic girl explained that they could leave whenever they wanted-if they could find a way out and were ready to cross the Dragon’s Teeth in winter.

The girl was curious about Carrie, jumpy around him, and reluctant to chat. She seldom left her young man long enough for a conversation, anyway.

She impacted Babeltausque like a kick to the heart of his fantasies but he managed his weakness.

Carrie murmured, “She is incredible, isn’t she?” No doubt to remind him that in this place self-control came under the heading Life or Death.

“I saw her once when we were little. I envied her so much.”

“I won’t lie, darling. She is the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen. But she is more dangerous than a bushel of cobras.” She intimidated him in more than just the survival mode. The girl had a sinister psychic air that no one else seemed to notice.

The eastern Empress emerged from a transfer portal. Lord Yuan followed. Mist and her Tervola henchmen had vanished shortly after their return from Kavelin, leaving King Bragi in charge. Varthlokkur had gone soon after they did. Ragnarson seemed confused. There was nothing for him to do. He hung around with a dour, dark man from Hammad al Nakir, also supposedly a king, and with that man’s wife. That marriage seemed totally bizarre. She was in the throes of a difficult pregnancy. She was too old to be carrying a child. The three spent hours at a time gathered together not saying a thing.

Varthlokkur’s wife kept things going.

And that man, yonder, was the Disciple? Truly? And that one was the Old Man of the Mountain? And that other one was Kuo Wen-chin, who was once Lord Protector of Shinsan?

Fortune had delivered him into such company?

Carrie murmured, “And this is her mother, which explains so much.”

Yes, indeed. Even he was smitten, though his need insisted that they be so much younger.

The Empress announced, “That’s done. Now we wait.”

Babeltausque had little real idea what was happening. Nobody explained. What he knew he figured out from what he overheard in the few conversations in languages he could understand. He was not asked to contribute. He had nothing to do. He and Carrie were putting in hours till Mist had time to swap them for a lifeguard who had gotten left behind.

Carrie was more daring than he. She tackled the crowd, engaged in conversations where she could. Her luck was limited. Few spoke her language. Those who did were inclined to shy away because she was intimate with a sorcerer.

The Ekaterina girl had implied that she and her brother had spied on their private moments. Scalza thought it a great dirty joke. Ekaterina was troubled.

These people had bigger worries. At some level each was working to end the tyranny of the Star Rider.

Just the thought sparked terror. It showed more hubris than would mocking the gods themselves. The gods did not meddle in mundane affairs anymore.

Babeltausque surveyed the crowd while hugging Carrie close, her proximity offering reassurance. If he understood correctly, these misfits had generated all the information Varthlokkur and the Empress needed.

Where had the wizard gone? He had spent time close up with the Old Man before leaving. Babeltausque thought he was on a spoiling mission unconnected with Mist’s operation.

…

Radeachar carried Varthlokkur over and around what had to be the Place of the Iron Statues. There was little to be seen: rocky hill country spotted by scraggly oaks, stunted pines, breaks of scrub brush, and dried brown grass. Varthlokkur saw no running water. He saw nothing manmade. He looked in from a variety of angles in changing light and never saw anything remarkable.

And yet he sensed the presence of something there.

No angle showed him the entrance he had been told to seek. He saw nothing even vaguely familiar. If he had visited before, that had been erased from his memory.

The echo of a memory that did haunt him was of something resembling a crowded old Itaskian graveyard, behind grey stone walls wearing lichens and creepers. There should be massive wrought-iron gates. Inside, there should be forests of monuments. Amongst those would be iron statues and statues in noble stone.

Varthlokkur could see no ground that looked suitable for such a graveyard.

He did discover redundant protective barriers unlike those associated with other masks for reality, such as the one surrounding the temple Ragnarson had found outside Vorgreberg.

He decided that his memories must have been distorted by an outside influence.

As Radeachar settled to earth Varthlokkur began to entertain a new concern: How to get inside if the Place had gone through a makeover and the Old Man’s recollections were obsolete?

That one had been sure that the Star Rider would have changed nothing. There had been no need. Old Meddler was lazy. He lived in permanent crisis mode, concerned only with the disaster of the moment, seldom bothering with preventative work or the grand scale equivalent of housekeeping. When Varthlokkur asked how that gibed with the vast, complex, generations-long schemes the Star Rider wove, the Old Man just shrugged. Those were something else. They interested the Star Rider. Someone who wanted to bother could work out the psychology.

Radeachar had its own sense for the magical, if little inclination to report it.

Once Varthlokkur set his feet down he saw what he sought so exactly that he knew it must be his expectations reflected, yet could be taken as real for today’s purposes.

The one expectation the place did not meet was an aggressive defense. It did nothing even when he touched the gate. The Old Man had said that the entrance would be the most dangerous part. Once he was inside he would belong. If he did not belong he would not have been allowed in, would he?

Carefully, by the numbers, hoping the Old Man had lost nothing during his prolonged mental holiday, the wizard executed the rituals that would let him enter. The Unborn floated behind. Varthlokkur wondered if it owned a sense of time. He could recall no situation where it had become impatient.

Screaming, the gates swung in a few feet. Rust chunks broke off the hinges. Old Meddler had not come and gone here.

Inside, the Place conformed to his recollections. It was a cemetery- where the tombstones and stelae told no tales. Time had erased most every inscription. The rare partial survivors were incised in alien characters. There was no reason, in fact, to conclude that this was an actual burial ground. It simply resembled familiar cemeteries-and was a product of his own mind, anyway.

There were mausoleums, too, more weathered than the simpler monuments, suggesting that they were older. He was curious but did not step away from his mission. Foolish to open a box, the contents of which were unknown and might be deadly.

The few iron statues all appeared to be damaged. Several were down, overgrown, and sinking into the soil. The most damaged were also the rustiest. Those with the least rust nevertheless lacked a hand, a foot, or showed signs of having been hit violently by something at least as hard as they were.

Varthlokkur had seen iron statues in action only once. Nothing had stopped or slowed them, but that time their advent had been a total surprise. Still, even forewarned, he feared sorcery would not slow them. On the other hand, the efficacy of natural law was persuasive here.

He selected the least-impaired-looking statue and told Radeachar to proceed as planned.

The first challenge was to find out if Radeachar could shift one of the damned things.

They looked heavy.

Not too heavy for Radeachar, though it did strain.

The Unborn soared till it and the statue were a speck. The Place’s boundary membrane seemed infinitely elastic from inside.

The statue ended its plunge on granite flagging, surviving better than Varthlokkur expected. No pieces flew off.

The Unborn repeated the cycle again and again, enjoying itself. It wore down quickly, though. That was not good. They had to get back to Fangdred once the damage was done. Old Meddler would attack soon. The trap had to be armed and set. This was just to make sure the villain would remain hamstrung after that dust settled.

Radeachar had dealt with the soundest statues. Varthlokkur had hoped to achieve more. Had hoped to come across better opportunities to do mischief. Loss of the iron statues would have to do.

Still… He probed gently, cautiously, everywhere, but learned very little. This was all beyond him and more mechanical than his mind was equipped to handle. His inclination was to loose a storm of generally destructive sorcery to rip the place up, on a scale not seen since the Fall. Totally liberal vandalism would ruin the Star Rider.

The graveyard feel restrained him. The uneasy sense that he should not. Destruction could break things open.

There might be more here than appearances suggested. It now felt like not all those graves might be empty. Like some contained tenants who were wakening.

Could the Place be a prison for the restless dead as well as Old Meddler’s home base?

Could be. It might contain some of the world’s oldest horrors. Or enemies Old Meddler had conquered in ages past.

There might be places here reserved for Varthlokkur and the Empress.

That such an alien notion entered his head left him more wary. It did not feel like original inspiration. Something wanted him worried and scared.

It was an old, old world haunted by countless secrets. Sorcerers built themselves by using evils claimed from colleagues who had gone before them, who had grown fearsome in their own time by taking from the dead who had preceded them.

This was the fate of any sorcerer of attainment. One accepted it as the price of power today-or shied away from, whining, by those who would deny the inevitable.

A thousand Magden Noraths, and worse, had come, then gone. Ten thousand more would follow, every one cannibalizing his predecessors. The Great One demonstrated that a horror clever enough and stubborn enough could persist beyond death by establishing itself in the very skin of reality.

That was another idea that he would not have entertained in the normal course, but it felt completely true. Could it have leaked out of that membrane, across Radeachar’s consciousness, its path opened by his own sense that these graves might not all be empty symbols?

For a moment he thought he felt the amusement of a distant something that had been tasting his thoughts. He shuddered-then blanched as he sensed another something, screaming mad and starving to get at the world, this one a terror at least as powerful as the Great One had been.

He headed for the gate immediately, summoning Radeachar as he went. They dared not tarry. He might be one of the most powerful men alive but he was too weak to resist what wanted to control him here. He beckoned the Unborn again, impatiently. “Let’s go! Now! We’ve done all that we can do here.” Which was not nearly as much destruction as he had hoped, but might already be more than could possibly be good for the world.

Pressure that he had not fully recognized stopped once he passed through the gate.

The boundary definitely kept in as well as kept out.

With Radeachar’s help he resealed the gates, then rested with hands on knees, panting. He had not been worn down like this for ages. “That was harsh.” A few breaths. “The man might not be entirely wicked after all.” Assuming Old Meddler did restrain things like whatever it was that had reached out…

Radeachar did not comment. It was not feeling chatty. Not that it ever did.

“We’ve done what we can. Back to Fangdred. The hour is coming.”

…

Ragnarson asked, “When the hell will all this go down? I’ve been here a week. I’ve got stuff to do back home.”

Mist gave him a look of exasperation. She had grown impatient herself, especially with those who could not understand how important her mission was. Old Meddler’s attack was overdue. The villain must have something up his sleeve.

It seemed an age since Lord Yuan had reported one of his booby traps tripped. He did not think the Star Rider had been hurt but did believe that the event had led to the delay.

“We can’t make the man hurry, Bragi. We’re the ones sitting on a static defense.”

Though Mist looked at him she was talking to herself. She surveyed the gathering. Her sister-in-law looked particularly haggard. Bragi just looked bored, like everyone else. There was no sense of urgency here.

So. Nepanthe had taken everything on her shoulders. Bragi had done nothing. The effort to collect him and Michael had been a waste.

Speaking of… The pudgy sorcerer and his child-whore-spouse. What had become of them?

She asked.

Eka responded, “Probably out on the wall. They spend a lot of time there, looking at the mountains and holding hands. And talking lover stuff, Scalza says.”

Did she sound wistful? She did glance Ethrian’s way.

The boy was much recovered, though still not what he had been before his stint as Deliverer. He had become less dependent than his cousin liked.

“Careful what you wish for, eh?”

“Mother?”

“Nothing. Find them, please. I want to send them home.”

Eka loosed the long sigh of the teen who was expected to do everything around here. She did as she was told, though.

Mist headed for Scalza, to find out what he was watching. The Winterstorm caught her eye. There was something odd about it. Something not quite right. She turned away from her son, toward the shogi table, pushing Matayangan kibitzers aside. “Lord Kuo…”

“You spotted it quickly.” He did not look up. His opponent was destroying him. There could be no doubt that the Old Man’s mind was back, though his ability to remember still left much to be desired.

“Something is wrong with Varthlokkur’s artifact.”

“Ekaterina was tinkering with it. She tripped a security routine she didn’t anticipate. It was there to protect the baby. She did the damage trying to undo and cover up. Don’t get too upset. Kids do that kind of stuff. And he can put it right.”

“I will get upset but maybe not the way you expect. What does it tell us that she had the daring and confidence to mess with that thing? And to think she could get away with it, in front of all these people?”

In as portentous a tone as Mist ever heard from him, Wen-chin replied, “To me it says we’d better hope that her Aunt Nepanthe did a good job shaping her values.”

What could she say to that? Whatever Wen-chin was thinking, that was a bold statement. Letting ego drive a response would be of no value whatsoever.

“You’re right.”

“Is it frightening? I have no children myself.”

Many Tervola did not, on the right side of the blanket. Family created complications. They became hostages to fortune, Mist knew too well.

“She didn’t do any permanent damage. She stepped away as soon as she saw that she could only make things worse.”

“Good to hear that.”

“She’s sensible and responsible, given her age and situation.”

Mist suppressed a surge of irritation.

Wen-chin said, “I expect he’ll be understanding.”

“Varthlokkur? Let’s hope.” He was unpredictable, emotionally. Where was he, anyway? “Shouldn’t he be back by now?”

Wen-chin shrugged. “Check with Scalza. He’s trying to keep track.” The Tervola added softly, “Be pleased that it wasn’t the boy.”

She did not acknowledge but she understood.

Kuo Wen-chin found Scalza worrisome.

Mist did, too, but less so than Ekaterina. Scalza only thought he was clever and secretive. He was talented but he was like every other talented boy produced by Shinsan. If he became trouble he would be predictable trouble. Eka, though, could be a menace less fathomable than her mother had been. She would be as unpredictable.

Could it be a sex-linked thing?

Female Tervola were rare. So rare that Mist knew of only two. Ekaterina was the other one.

Her toenails felt likely to curl in dread.

She leaned over Scalza’s right shoulder, so close her hair brushed his and her breath heated his cheek. She saw what might be the Unborn, in his scrying bowl. The view there was obscure but the color was right.

He jumped. “You startled me, Mother.”

“Sorry.”

“When did you get back? Did it go well?”

“I’ve been back for some time. I’m wondering if my feelings should be hurt because you didn’t notice.”

Scalza made a visible effort to process her meaning before he responded. He reached the right conclusion. “I was preoccupied. Sometimes I get too focused.”

“Yes. You do. But don’t we all? It went well enough. The target tripped some of the traps.”

“But you didn’t get him?”

“Naturally not. It couldn’t be that easy. What’s the wizard’s story?”

“I don’t know. He’s back in range, barely, but he isn’t in any hurry to get here.”

She harrumphed.

“I think he’s going as fast as he can. It must not have gone right. The Unborn acts like it’s hurt. It has to rest a lot.”

That was new. She considered the monster infinitely indefatigable.

Eka brought the Itaskian sorcerer. She and he were blushing. The girlfriend wore a smirk. Had Eka interrupted something?

Mist found the girlfriend’s composure as disturbing as she did Eka’s potential for chaos.

She glanced from Eka to the Winterstorm and back. Her daughter went on defense immediately.

Mist told the sorcerer, “We’re sending you home while we have time to do that.”

Babeltausque’s relief was almost pathetic.

His companion brightened considerably, too.

“Excellent!” the sorcerer said, then said no more, as though he did not trust himself not to jinx it.

The girl asked, “What will we need to do?”

“What you’ve done all along. Stay out of the way while they ready the portals.” She beckoned Lord Yuan, who was conferring with some specialists. That was good. He should have everyone he needed on hand.

Tin Yuan responded with what was, for him, alacrity. He pushed through the press. “I understand what you want, Illustrious. But there are problems.”

“How so?”

“The portal we used before is no longer operational. We haven’t been able to reach any of the others. They aren’t out of action, we just don’t have the codes or capacity to access them from here. You should shift these two to the Karkha Tower and send them on from there. Tang Shan has constant access.”

“I don’t like that idea. They don’t need to see things they don’t need to see. Have Tang Shan bring the codes here.”

The old man disapproved. He thought her choice was wrong but said only, “As you command, Illustrious.”

She did not ask why he thought she should do it differently. She faced the odd couple. “It’s going to take longer than I hoped.”

The sorcerer shrugged. “It’s all right. Waiting is better than walking.”

That was a jest. Even his girlfriend was surprised.

…

Babeltausque was lightheaded with joy. The Empress really meant to let them go!

The excitement faded when Mist explained, “We tried again. Even with the right codes we can’t connect from here.”

Cynicism set in.

“I’m as frustrated as you are,” she said. “I want you out of here before the storm breaks. Lord Yuan says there’s only one way. We send you to a place where we have permanent connections with our Kavelin portals. You’ll move on from there as fast as Tang Shan can manage.” She waved at the portal bank. The man she meant had just disappeared. Someone she called Candidate entered the cabinet next door.

Babeltausque said, “We’re ready,” as Carrie slipped her hand into his. That was hot and shaky. She squeezed.

Mist said, “One of you follow Tang Shan. The other one, go after Lein She.”

Babeltausque did not like the separation but knew that these portals would pass only two people in succession before they had to be reset.

Mist continued, “Good fortune attend.”

She sounded disinterested now she was about to be shot of them. He was tempted to ask to stay.

But doom was coming. The end of the world was coming, for some. Old Meddler would arrive in a mood for destruction. Soon everyone here would be dead. The best plan of all time would be to get the hell gone before the shitstorm descended.

He and Carrie followed the easterners, Carrie first murmuring, “You thought about staying, didn’t you?”

“For the two seconds it took me to realize how much I’d miss you if I was dead.”

“You say such sweet things, Bee. I’d miss you, too. I wouldn’t stay. I’d follow my skinny guy anywhere he wants to take me.”

“Carrie!”

“You know what I mean. I don’t plan on getting downwind of Death for about nine hundred more years. Longer if I can work it.”

“Then I’ll stick tight and help you get what you want.” Though Carrie could have stated it with more clarity Babeltausque understood that she wanted him to remain evasive in the matter of deliberate self-risk.

She gave him a big grin, a peck on the lips, and popped into her portal, a master traveler after only one previous experience. The portal hummed. She vanished.

Babeltausque stepped into his own destiny.

Darkness. Then terror like none he had known before.

He was not alone in there.

Something had been lurking at the boundary. Something that had a yearning beggaring his own sad need for Carrie.

He stumbled into a place where half a dozen easterners gabbled at Lein She like frightened geese. Something was happening that should not be. Lein She rushed Carrie on toward a portal making feeble teakettle whistling noises. Someone plunged in ahead of her, a boy with a rusty short sword.

Tang Shan bums-rushed Babeltausque toward another portal, this one quiet. Another armed boy preceded him. Lein She pranced like he had a bad need to pee. The instant that portal reset, he followed Carrie. Behind him, babbling technicians settled into combat poses behind long swords, facing another portal producing especially hideous noises. Babeltausque experienced a weird sensation suggesting labor pain.

Tang Shan shoved him so hard he feared his shoulder had been dislocated. He spun, staggered into the portal backwards, glimpsed several unsettling things before the darkness embraced him.

Carrie’s portal tore itself apart-in total silence.

Black smoke emerged from the portal making the ugly birthing noise. The technicians harried it with their blades, which began to droop like overheated candles but caused much worse noises each time they slashed the smoke. Something was in extreme agony. Then a disembodied face pushed out of another portal. Babeltausque knew it without ever having seen it before. Old Meddler. And he was furiously unhappy.

Babeltausque suspected that devil found himself in the slow, painful process of arriving at a destination other than the one that he wanted.

Darkness.

The yearning engulfed him. It felt more familiar, now. It had become a friend after one brief connection. He thought at it, Crush that wicked old devil. Or something of the sort, never really articulated but enough to distract it briefly.

Then he felt Tang Shan coming, frightened by the inexplicable presence.

The passage dragged. Tang Shan remained close. Too close? Almost… They could not merge, could they? The receiving portal would not spit out some eight-limbed vertebrate spider-monster, would it?

He tumbled. Momentum brought him up against someone.

Carrie. She was seated on a dusty stone floor, laughing wildly while making no sound he could hear. Behind her, on hands and knees, the youth who had preceded her was puking his guts up while crawling toward his sword. Lein She lay curled on his left side, clutching his abdomen. The easterner who had preceded Babeltausque also lay in the fetal position, his blade eight feet away. He did not appear to be breathing. The sorcerer headed his way, to help, only belatedly realizing that he was suffering less than anyone else.

Tang Shan began ridding himself of his last several meals.

One thump and Babeltausque had the boy gasping. The pudgy man dizzily struggled to keep his feet under him. It was all on him, now. Whatever it was. He was the only one able to do anything.

The portals. There were three. Two still hummed. He had to make sure nothing followed…

Would Old Meddler bother? Who here was of any value?

How could the devil know that?

Someone stirred in the portal that Babeltausque had used. He hesitated, caught between the urge to snatch up a sword and the desire to fling an attack spell. Then he recognized a portal technician, another boy, maybe fifteen, armed but terrified and desperate to escape.

Something pulled him back.

He disappeared with a pathetic puppy yelp.

The calm nurtured during his association with Dane of Greyfells came over the sorcerer.

He had to silence those portals. They looked delicate. They should break easily. What to use?

Obviously, the sword that had gotten away from the youth who had come through ahead of him.

While stooping to recover the sword he became aware that every muscle and joint he owned now ached. He might not be puking up his soul but he had acquired a world of hurt all his own.

Carrie tried to say something.

He promised, “Nothing will get you. I won’t let it.” And he meant it.

He shuffled toward the portals.

Someone began to emerge from that same portal where the panicked boy had been pulled back. This one wore shreds of clothing similar to that boy’s but was more nearly naked than dressed. Babeltausque did not recognize that pale face. That was not anyone from Karkha Tower.

He raised the sword like a club. He had no idea how to employ the Eastern weapon.

The newcomer desperately dragged two-thirds of her body length out into the cold. Her? Oh, definitely, yes! Though she wore tatters of boy’s clothing, there could be no doubt. She had been well-blessed by Nature.

She could not get any more of herself free of the transfer’s grip.

Her desperation touched Babeltausque. Blade held high in one hand, he extended his other, let her grab hold, pulled. Out she popped. Well, most of her did. Part of a fine right leg, from just above the ankle down, did not emerge. There was no bleeding. Babeltausque noted that she wore scraps of a boy’s clothing.

Carrie gasped, “Bee Boss, you got to wreck them damned gates!”

Well, yes, he did have to get on with that, even if he and Carrie were way down on Old Meddler’s list, if just to deny that villain a possible escape route from the Karkha Tower.

Carrie was up now, hunched, in pain, muttering about hoping being pregnant was all in her head because no fetus ought to go through what they just had. Babeltausque did not quite grasp that right away. He dragged his attention away from eternity’s most marvelous set and attacked the portal whence their owner had come.

The one called Lein She said, “Strike lower, to the right. Your other right. The right side of it. Hit the orange and yellow hashes.” Babeltausque understood every word. At the moment he did not wonder how that could be.

Carrie stumbled to the stranger, helped her remain upright. The girl stared down at herself, plainly thrilled. She cupped her breasts, then commenced a slow blush. Carrie said, “One of these perverts will give you his jacket.”

Babeltausque was not alone in being thoroughly impressed.

His sword stroke fell where Lein She said it should.

A whine went out of the world, a sound the sorcerer had not recognized was there till it went away.

Tang Shan gasped, “Silence the others, too!” He was on his knees, now, eying the footless girl, baffled.

As a boy Babeltausque often fantasized himself an unstoppable swordsman, even then knowing it would only ever be a fantasy. He was not an athlete in any sense. But here he was, swinging a long eastern blade like he knew what he was doing. Clang! Clack! Ring! It was a magic blade, a singing sword!

“Enough!” Tang Shan yelled. “We want them damaged so nothing can come after us, not busted beyond repair.”

“Working off some fear energy,” Babeltausque admitted. “And now I’m exhausted.” He understood most everything Tang Shan said. Lein She, too. Was that a byproduct of their passage through the transfer stream? Instead of them being mashed together into a two-headed human crab?

“Settle down. Relax. Sleep if you have to. We’re safe. Its dark out. We can’t go anywhere now, anyway.” There would be no more transfers. They were on foot for now.

Babeltausque settled beside Carrie, snuggled in for the warmth, physical and emotional. He slid the sword across to its owner. It was in bad shape. The nicks might never get polished out. Carrie teased, “I saw you lick your chops when you saw those boobies.”

“I can’t help being alive. But your sweet booblets are the only ones for me.”

“It’s all right. They’re so excellent I’d want to get my hands on them myself if I was that kind of girl.”

Babeltausque looked at the mystery woman. “Who are you?” As though she might understand. Hell, she might. Tang Shan did.

He was sure she was the presence he had felt in the transfer stream.

…

Ragnarson joined the crowd looking over Scalza’s shoulders. People babbled in several languages. Old Meddler had found some way to get at the Karkha Tower through the transfer stream. That was unexpected. The Tower was lost, no doubt about it. Those who had not gotten out quickly had become part of the red layer now coating everything inside the transfer chamber.

The Star Rider sent a demon through, somehow, though that should not have been possible. It killed everyone, opened the way for its master, who made adjustments to a freight portal and brought an iron statue through. But not the Windmjirnerhorn. Passage through the transfer stream would destroy that.

Old Meddler had to do without while his winged mount made the long real-world journey from the farthest east.

Mist said, “Lord Yuan, it’s gone well enough, so far, despite the surprises. Dare I hope that something there might nail him?”

“No, Illustrious. But he won’t be able to transfer out.”

“Then with Varthlokkur’s help we might be able to smash the place with him inside. Where is Varthlokkur?”

Scalza said, “Almost here, Mother. But he won’t be much help till he and the Unborn recuperate.”

Ragnarson glanced at Mist’s daughter. She seemed unhappy about the Unborn’s situation.

Lord Yuan refused to be distressed by the disaster. He said, “Let’s locate those who managed to get away.”

Scalza snapped, “Want to tell me where to look?”

Lord Yuan did have suggestions. He knew exactly where each Karkha Tower portal should have taken someone before having been sabotaged by his lost technicians. He was quite proud of his “children.”

He did admit, “This will take time. The strange couple wanted to go to Kavelin. But…”

The boy said, “I checked our old house, Mother. They didn’t go there.”

Ragnarson lost interest. He joined Haroun and Yasmid against a wall. Haroun had withdrawn completely. Yasmid was almost as remote. Their hosts had no interest in Hammad al Nakir anymore. Anything could have happened there.

The same was true for Kavelin.

It was all about Old Meddler, now, and only about Old Meddler.

Haroun asked, “Have we been hornswoggled?”

“Huh?” Bragi could not recall his friend ever using that word before. “How so?”

“Were we collected just to get us out of the way of the Dread Empire’s grand design?”

“Not intentionally. This is real.” The effect might be the same, though, if Old Meddler miraculously lost the round. “She’s probably just gotten everything from us that she wanted.”

Yasmid stirred but said nothing. She clung to Haroun constantly now. She had nothing more to do with her father. Ragnarson had not seen El Murid for days. His handlers kept him isolated somewhere, safe from the specialists responsible for Ethrian and the Old Man. Curious, that. If the Disciple had given Mist anything useful Ragnarson had missed the transaction. The only positive contribution El Murid made anymore was to stay the hell out of the way.

He could shut the hell up, too.

Everyone else would happily deal with God’s concerns once they met Him face to face-including the Disciple’s presumptive heiress.

“You going to fight when he shows?” Ragnarson asked.

Haroun gave him a look that asked if he was stupid. “The choice is between dying fighting and dying whimpering.” He was not happy about being caught in those jaws.

“Ideas?”

“None. But I have an advantage. I know he’s coming. I didn’t have that with Magden Norath. And he won’t be expecting me.”

Ragnarson did a slow turn, ended up staring at Mist as she bent over Scalza. “He doesn’t know about most of us.” How deliberately had that woman worked to make this come together the way it had?

She sensed his regard, turned, frowning slightly. He shifted his attention back to Haroun. His thoughts had begun to drift away from business. “I need to make peace with Inger.”

Bin Yousif was as monogamous as any creature that ever lived but he understood. “At your time of life? That would be smart. Not to mention an act of political wisdom.”

“Yeah.” He glanced at Mist. The charge had gone neutral but the curve of her behind still reminded him of Sherilee. He shivered. “There a cold breeze in here?”

“Actually, yes.”

Varthlokkur had brought it. The man appeared to have aged two decades. He was exhausted. He had failed to close the door behind him.

Mist’s daughter touched Nepanthe’s boy lightly, then made a quick departure. No one paid any heed.

Wen-chin and the Old Man gave up their seats at the shogi table. The wizard collapsed into a chair. Mist settled opposite him. He eyed the Winterstorm, noting that it had been altered but showed no excitement about that. Mist said something that probably explained.

Haroun asked, “You going to go eavesdrop?”

“They won’t use a language I understand. They’ll let me know what they want me to know when they figure I need to know it.”

“Hell of a way to run things.”

Ragnarson responded with a sarcastic snort. “It’s the way we all run things. Transparency is against the rules.”

Haroun actually chuckled. Yasmid smiled. Both were responses more positive than most Ragnarson had heard lately. He told no one in particular, “It can’t be long, now. Even if I don’t really get what’s going on.”

“You aren’t out in the wilderness by yourself, my friend. I’ll bet nobody involved in this really knows.”

Yasmid whispered, “God Himself must be confused. No two of His creatures are pulling in the same direction.”

Haroun did the bizarre. He demonstrated affection publicly by kissing his wife’s cheek. “Precisely the truth, heart of my heart.” His expression dared his friend to even note such remarkable behavior.

Ragnarson winked.