A Path to Coldness of Heart

Chapter Five:

Year 1017 AFE:

Spring Threatening

The Queen’s liaison with the commander of her bodyguard was an open secret. Everyone inside Castle Krief knew. Everyone gossiped and almost everyone pretended complete ignorance to outsiders. Unaware, Inger and Josiah Gales kept going through the motions of a strictly professional relationship.

Inger asked, “Is it time for Dane?”

Gales, never entirely committed to anyone, said, “He could give up and go home. Family interests have suffered. Money is running short. Desertions and ambushes have his force down to three hundred.”

“I admire your desire to keep faith with Dane. He doesn’t deserve you. Tell his soldiers they could come here. I’d like more Itaskians around me.”

…

Dane of Greyfells was not well. He was pallid in the extreme. Any movement caused pain. Gales had been cautioned against taking notice. He expressed strong gratitude when offered a chair beside the Duke, in front of the fire.

“This is so much better than Castle Krief. Inger won’t waste fuel on heating.” Countless economies were under way. The Crown had a very limited income.

“What news, Josiah? Is there any hope? If not, I should cut my losses. Go home with my tail tucked, to jeers and mockery. I cast the dice but they didn’t love me.”

“Lord, they don’t love anyone here. Kavelin keeps right on heading downhill, taking everyone with it.”

“So it seems. Answer my question. Any hope?”

“She asked me to poll the soldiers to see if any would come work for her. Her Wessons are walking away, mainly because she can’t pay them. Her Nordmen become less supportive by the day, too. She’ll have lost all support outside Vorgreberg soon. Each town, each village, each lord, and each guild that deserts reduces her income further.”

“So the enterprise is doomed from both directions. And still she won’t let me in.”

“She remains adamant, My Lord. She will not trust you.”

Greyfells remained quiet. His frame went rigid momentarily. Recovering, he asked, “Why, Josiah?” His voice had gone plaintive.

“She has a touch of the illness that ruled Ragnarson, the Krief, and Fiana. She fears what you will do to Kavelin if you get control.”

Greyfells tittered, startling Gales. His normal laugh was an all-out, full-bodied roar. Now the Duke ended up wracked by deep, sobbing coughs. Gales feared for the man’s life, briefly.

“Sorry you had to see that, Josiah. No. Never mind. I’ll be all right. I’ve survived all this before. Go ahead. Poll the men. Tell them I’ll let them go if that’s what they want. Might as well let her not pay them as not pay them myself.” He contrived a small, controlled laugh. “Take her an honest answer.”

…

“About eighty men are willing to come over, Highness,” Gales reported. “That’s all?”

“Some wouldn’t give a straight answer. They thought the Duke was testing them. Others said that since they wouldn’t get paid either place they’d as soon stay put and save the walk. Most everyone said they intend to head home after the weather turns and the rivers go down.”

“And you told Dane what?”

“I answered the questions he asked. I volunteered nothing.” “What will he do?”

“He talked about doing the same as his soldiers. About cutting his losses and heading home.”

“But?”

“He will, likely, make one more try, doing what you expected. He’ll come in disguise with soldiers who want to switch allegiance. They’ll actually be men willing to stick with him.”

“I see. Will he expect me to expect him?”

“I couldn’t say. My mind can’t encompass so much complexity.”

Later, Inger asked, “Did you see Babeltausque out there?”

“No. Why?”

“He’s been keeping his head down. That’s curious. He could be useful here. He might be able to find my missing treasury.”

“He’s the Duke’s man.”

“You think he wants to be? I don’t. He’s been with the family through several Dukes, each one worse than the last. I can see him being loyal to the family but having an abiding distaste for its heads.”

“I’ll talk to him.”

…

Kristen’s flight from Kavelin took seven weeks. The Royal party crept from one Aral Dantice acquaintance to another, often enduring cold nights in the forest between times of warmth and decent food. Dantice was determined to proceed with caution, concealing the identities of his companions.

Kristen considered his precautions a waste. The party was too big and too burdened with women and children to be anything but what it was. But she was seeing it from the inside.

Dantice told her, “Only folks I trust with my life see you. I tell them nothing because they might be questioned someday.”

“Where are we headed?”

“A safe place. If I don’t talk about it no one will hear about it.”

“Aral, I appreciate everything. You’ve gone way out of your way. You’ve practically given up your regular life. I don’t understand why.”

Dantice avoided a straight answer. “The travel will be over soon. So will the cold and the hunger. You’ll be safe. No one will know where you are. You’ll be ready when Kavelin is ready.”

“What about my father-in-law? What about the true king?”

“He still lives. We know that. We also know they’ve stashed him where he won’t be able to escape.”

Kristen noted his “we” but did not question it. Aral Dantice was much too useful to be challenged.

He said, “This shouldn’t last long. Kavelin should be eager to proclaim Bragi by next fall. By then even the Marena Dimura and Nordmen should be sick of the chaos.”

“All right. We’re in your hands. Be gentle.”

The party reached an encampment deep in the mountains of southern Tamerice. It differed little from the one where Credence Abaca died. This one was not Marena Dimura, though. The forest people were scarce in Tamerice. The camp had been created by Royalist refugees from Hammad al Nakir as a base for raids across the Kapenrungs. Refugees had gathered there during the Great Eastern Wars.

Dantice told her, “You and the children should stay out of sight if strangers turn up. Let Dahl and Sherilee deal with them.”

Kristen thought Sherilee would attract any man who came within a mile.

Aral said, “I’ll give you letters saying you belong here and are under my protection.”

…

“Aral is gone,” Sherilee said. The suffering of the journey had wakened her resilience. She was now the optimist of the band. “Next time we see him he’ll tell us it’s time to head home to Vorgreberg.”

“I hope so,” Dahl said. “I wasn’t made for this life.”

Kristen snapped, “No one is. It’s a life that comes looking for you.” Sherilee said, “This is a nice place. It must have belonged to one of the high muckety mucks.”

The structure, partially log, partially stone, was large and had potential for being made comfortable. There were stores in the camp, tools, and even weapons. Dahl said, “Let’s don’t touch anything we don’t need to. We don’t want any smugglers upset because we got into their stuff.”

“Smugglers?”

“Smugglers. It’s what Aral does. Remember? This is a way station on the route into the desert. We’ll see plenty of travelers once the weather gets better.”

“Then we’d better get the kids educated about what to do when strangers come.”

That proved to be no problem. The first travelers were not inclined to socialize, either. Some never showed their faces.

That was both a comfort and discouraging. No discourse meant no news from outside.

…

There had been innumerable dislocations in city life the past ten years. No Vorgreberger knew all his neighbors anymore. The situation suited spies and criminals and anyone else who wanted to go unnoticed.

Espionage was a thriving industry. Crime was less lucrative, other than for smugglers. Smuggling was just commerce where the Crown failed to extort any taxes. Gang crime had fallen on hard times. Some invisible force saved the body politic the added friction.

Dark tales circulated in the underworld. They insisted that dire forces were at work. Things came in the night to collect those who preyed on their fellows.

It was true: evil men did disappear.

Crimes of passion remained common. What could be done to curb those?

There was an apothecary shop in Old Registry Lane. It had been there for decades. An elderly fellow had run it till recently. He had been a permanent grouch. When his son took over people noted that the younger chemist was less cranky.

He was about fifty. He may have been a soldier once. He had a bad right knee. He dragged that leg sometimes. He was slow with his customers but was tolerated because he dispensed good advice. He would help those who could not afford a physician. He was more of a talker and gossip and was curious about everything.

His most popular foible was that he sometimes extended credit.

Some said he was the official apothecary to the palace, provided old Wachtel with the specifics he used to keep the Royals hale and hearty- whoever they might be this year.

The popular jest was, Castle Krief had been built around Dr. Wachtel. The ancient physician was a national hero.

The apothecary would not discuss the connection. The favor of the doctor might be charity. A story that gained traction supposed that the chemist was Wachtel’s son by a married patient.

No one really cared. The apothecary was not colorful. He was just there.

Strangers visited frequently. They brought medicinal ingredients from far places or wanted concoctions crafted for some distant consumer. None of this attracted any but the most minor notice. It was unremarkable.

…

“I think it’s time,” Queen Inger told Colonel Gales.

Gales blanched.

“I’m sorry, Josiah. I no longer have a choice. So I insist that you make one of your own.”

“Your Majesty?”

“You know. You see the reports. You can add two and two. I won’t be able to hold on here without Dane’s men. In two months they’ll be the only real soldiers left.”

The old regiments were dissolving. Whom they had supported before no longer mattered. Kristen had vanished, the gods knew where. The intelligence system was falling apart faster than the army.

Inger continued, “Kristen’s friends can’t pay soldiers, either. And I won’t be able to pay the palace staff much longer.”

“I understand.” He had seen the estimates. The Queen’s friends had stopped making donatives.

“Before long Dane will be able to ride in and take it all, Josiah. I won’t be able to stop him. I need to make a move or kiss it all goodbye.”

“You could reconcile with your cousin.”

“No.”

For Dane of Greyfells reconciliation would mean him taking over.

Gales slumped. She was right.

“Josiah, I won’t let Fulk become my cousin’s puppet.”

“Yes, Majesty.”

“Any men willing should come now. Admit that I can’t pay them right away but that they will eat well.” Unlike her native soldiers, the Itaskians did not have families to support. “And I want Babeltausque.”

“As you wish.” Gales did not doubt that the sorcerer would come. Greyfells would insist.

His moment of choice was, indeed, approaching. It had been inevitable for some time. He could no longer delay the reckoning. Each pole of his loyalty expected him to betray the other. Neither really trusted him. He saw no way to avoid making an enemy. Neither would the friendship of either be enduring.

He ought to desert them both. Let the snakes devour each other. He could not do that.

His betrayal, however he bestowed it, would not define the future. Neither would rule in Castle Krief by the end of the year.

Gales believed Kavelin’s northern neighbors could not resist temptation, however much they had suffered themselves during the Great Eastern Wars.

The horrors had begun to be forgotten the way a woman forgets childbirth’s pain.

Josiah Gales had mentioned the threat to Inger and the Duke. Neither wanted to listen.

“I have chores, Majesty, and things to do if I’m going to travel.” He was sick of travel. He wished he knew some other way of life. “I’ll be back tonight.”

“I want you on the road to Damhorst tomorrow.”

Gales sighed. “As you command.”

Gales was a frugal man. He had been paid well back when soldiers received regular pay. He decided to spend some of his savings getting drunk.

…

The warlords of Anstokin and Volstokin were less tempted than Colonel Gales feared. Both kings did feel the urge. Kavelin lay sprawled like a naked virgin tied to a mattress of silver. But lurking in the shadows above those splayed enticements was a hideous guardian, a monstrous infant inside a transparent pinkish magical excuse for a placenta. A horror renowned for its evil deeds during the Great Eastern Wars.

The Unborn turned up whenever either king’s fantasies progressed to the assembling of troops. It needed do no more, so far.

Manifestation of the Unborn was not just a promise of terror. It was a clear announcement that a greater horror still had an interest.

Thus was peace assured amongst the bellicose Lesser Kingdoms. And the absence of war inflicted prosperity.

…

Josiah Gales was out of practice with ardent spirits. Handling large quantities was not a skill much admired in senior military men. Wine with dinner, small beer with breakfast, the occasional brandywine of an evening whilst relaxing with his fellows, those were his norms. Some children imbibed more in a day. His most recent falling-down-sick romance with alcohol happened the day they buried Dane’s assassinated granduncle.

People connected to Kavelin had been involved somehow. Gales was not sure why he ended up at the Twisted Wrench. Probably because the place was a haunt for garrison troops off duty. Even if he was recognized his presence ought not to be resented.

He staked out a shadowy corner and brushed off those who tried to socialize. By not talking he would not betray his accent. Without thinking about it, though, he slipped into a character he once played undercover.

He became the quirky Sergeant Gales. That meant a shift in the set of his shoulders, in the way he held his head, a more expansive set of gestures even while being sullenly unsocial, and a lower class accent when he did have to speak.

The tavern never became crowded. The owner longed for the time when Bragi was king and there were soldiers everywhere.

There was a lot of nostalgia in the Twisted Wrench. And a lot of resentment, too.

Inger had gotten her chance. She had wasted it.

The blame was not all hers, though. The other Itaskian gang enjoyed a fouler reputation. Some folks, in fact, believed the Queen would have done a decent job if her cousin had not been undercutting.

Kristen executed a brilliant strategic maneuver by sliding out of the light when she did. She had taken no blame, only sympathy, with her. The death of Credence Abaca, which had thrilled Inger so back when, now looked like a curse. It, too, conspired to make those still visible look bad.

The Marena Dimura were no longer in a state of insurrection. They had become invisible. They could not now be blamed for all the ills of the kingdom.

Gales was well up the early slope of alcohol consumption. He was pleased to be learning so much. It might be too late to use the information to any advantage but he now had his finger on the pulse of the kingdom.

He should have made expeditions like this before. The knowledge could have kept Inger in much better odor.

It had not occurred to anyone to care what ordinary people thought. Their attitudes did not matter in Itaskia. But this was Kavelin. The monarchs here had been listening for decades. Inger might have, too. She had a mild case of the Kavelin fever.

Josiah Gales had a slight case of that disease himself. He signaled for a refill, then began to brood on that.

Then he began to worry about the time. He should have been back by now. Inger would give him bloody hell when he turned up drunk.

And now he could not leave.

Men he knew had come and gone, none paying him any heed because he timed his piss runs to avoid being noticed. The strategy had worked till an entire squad of archers stumbled in. The Wrench was not their first stop of the evening. Gales wondered how they could afford so much drink. Their pay was in arrears.

The archers settled where Gales would have to pass on his way to the jakes. And they would not move on.

The ache in the Colonel’s bladder reached a point where he had to make a decision. He chose to piss on the floor, sitting where he was, not a choice he would have made when sober.

He got urine all over himself. What made it to the floor drained through gaps in the floorboards. The odor did not stand out amongst the other stinks of the Wrench.

Then a shaggy mass of a man materialized. He headed a trio of thoroughly drenched gentlemen. In fluent drunkenese, he bellowed, “Holy fuckin’ shit! Will ya lookit! Sarge Gales, you ole cocksucker! How da fuck are you? Hey! You look like shit, man. You been eatin’ right? You got pushed out too, huh? Guess you’re lookin’ good enough for dat. Hey! Tell dese jack-offs ’bout dat time. You know. Durin’ da El Murid Wars when you got off a dat ship in Hellin Daimiel or wherever da fuck. Wit’ all da women. You guys gotta hear dis. Funniest fuckin’ story I ever heard.”

Gales began to shake. He did not recognize the man blasting dense wine breath into his face. The story he wanted had been the signature bullshit story that Sergeant Gales of the Queen’s own bodyguard had retailed back in the day.

“Come on, man! Nine women in one day!”

The entire tavern had gone quiet, at least to Gales’s ears. It seemed everyone wanted to hear the great story. Including the archers, who looked like they were trying to recall where they had heard all this before.

Gales glanced round. If anyone had a bone to pick with Colonel Gales he was well and truly screwed. “It was Libiannin. Yeah. And it was nine women. That’s no lie. I was a young man then and we was fourteen days on the transport. We hit the beach with our peckers poking us under our chins. I did nine women. In one day. You know what I mean. In twenty-four hours. Fourteen days on a transport, I never even seen a woman. Yeah. You don’t believe me. Nobody ever does. But it’s true. Nine women in one day.”

Gales did not go through the gestures and antics that had accompanied the tales of the old Sergeant Gales. He had no room and did not want his piss-soaked pants to be seen.

His unrecalled acquaintance asked, “You all right? You don’t seem to got so much energy no more. You’re ’sposed ta tell it piece by piece, man.”

Gales raised his jack. “Too many of these. Yeah.” He looked at the other men. “It’s true. You ask him. Fourteen days at sea. I was ready. How many women you had in one day? I wasn’t showing off. I was working it. Yeah. I’ll never forget that seventh one. Yeah. Moaning and clawing. She’s going, ‘Oh! Oh! Gales! Gales! I can’t take no more, Gales! Oh! No! Don’t stop! Don’t stop!’ Yeah. It’s true. Every damn word. Nine women in one day. I was a young man then.” After a feigned bout of straining to keep everything down, he said, “I ain’t so young no more. I maybe better get outta here before somebody takes advantage of me. But one more won’t hurt.”

He pulled up a small purse. It proved to be empty. “Ah, shit. Somebody done got me already.” He faced the man who had recognized him. “You see anybody ’round me back here? Somebody plucked me.”

“We just got here, Sarge.”

One of the companions asked, “You sure you didn’t spend it all already? You didn’t get that last jack for free.”

Gales frowned as though making a grand effort to retrieve difficult memories. He decided this was the time to take advantage of the mess he had made in his lap.

Another feigned gag. He stood. “I got to go.”

The moisture was blatantly obvious. Even the drunkest drunks saw it. He staggered badly. And congratulated himself on how he had disarmed even those who had to know who he really was.

He felt awful, though. He did not have to pretend to be thoroughly soused.

He counted forty steps, leaned against a wall, looked back. Nobody had come after him. He had left them sure that he was not worth robbing, or even worth beating up for being an officer.

He faced forward. He was going to be totally miserable later on. And he had to go to Damhorst tomorrow.

A dark shape blocked his path, a big man in a hooded cassock. He was accompanied by several identically clad friends.

One stepped in behind and pulled a sack over his head. The others dressed him in another cassock. His struggles were ineffective. They had trouble mainly because he was now halfway limp.

Then he puked into the bag.

…

The sun was near the meridian. Inger wrestled a mix of panic and anger. Still no sign of Josiah. His mounts remained stabled. His possessions were in his quarters, including weapons and travel gear. The men tasked to accompany him still awaited his appearance.

Inger paced. She muttered. She cursed. She was certain fate had handed her another cause for despair. Josiah was almost all she had left.

Not many months ago she had been ready to abandon Fulk’s claim to Kavelin’s crown. Then Bragi got himself killed. Most of the people who wanted rid of her then turned round to support her-except that witch Kristen, whose brat’s claim had no legal foundation.

Here she was again, abandoned by another man, ready to shriek, “To hell with it!” and leave Kavelin to anyone who wanted the heartache.

She watched Fulk nap, for once in rare good health. The boy seemed angelic, lying there in a splay of blond curls. Neither she nor Bragi had curly hair but her mother said she had had curls as a toddler. One of her few remaining women came into the nursery. “Yes, Garyline?”

“That unpleasant Wolf person is here, Majesty. He says he has the information you wanted.”

Inger rolled up her nose. She avoided Nathan Wolf as much as she could. But when Josiah dropped off the face of the earth she had nowhere else to turn.

“Send him in.” She had no choice.

Sometimes she felt sorry for Wolf. The man was never anything but what he ought to be. He never did anything wrong. But he radiated something that made everyone wary and distrustful. Only Dane actually liked him. Inger suspected that Wolf did not like himself much. What others thought reflected back and made him think he deserved the negative responses.

Wolf ’s manners were perfect. Inger did not face him. She did not want him to see the revulsion his presence sparked. “You found something?” She stroked Fulk’s hair, praying his good health would last.

“Colonel Gales spent the evening at a tavern, the Twisted Wrench, which is frequented by the garrison. He drank so much he wet himself. The last anyone saw him, he was going out the door.”

“That’s it? That’s all?”

“It is, Majesty. And I would like to point out that the men and I have done almost miraculous work, coming up with that so fast.”

True. Inger reined in her emotions. Wolf had developed that information so fast she wondered if he had not been involved somehow. “You’re right, Nathan. That was good work. Can you even guess where he is now?”

“No, Majesty. But these things usually end with a corpse. Or an embarrassed soldier who has been rolled by a prostitute.”

Josiah would not have taken up with a prostitute.

Wolf stepped to the door. “I can keep on squeezing the men who were there, but…”

“Almost certainly a waste of time. Nathan, you’ll have to do what Colonel Gales was supposed to do today.”

“I am at Your Majesty’s command.”

Exactly the answer she wanted from every man in her service, but from Wolf it seemed somehow both sinister and darkly suggestive.

Poor Nathan could not talk about the weather without making people think he was an oily, wicked pervert.

Inger gave Wolf his instructions, which were exactly those she had given Gales. Though her stomach tightened, she allowed a hint of a suggestion that a substitute who handled the Colonel’s work well might expect some of the Colonel’s perks.

She felt filthy when Wolf left.

She did wonder why the man seemed so slimy, creepy, and repulsive. He did nothing to validate that.

…

Nathan Wolf, wounded, reached the Breitbarth castle two days later than he should have without having run into trouble. He was afoot. He was the second member of his band to get through, and the last. He arrived to find that the cavalryman who had preceded him had expired before he could explain what had happened.

The Duke himself came to see Wolf. The sorcerer Babeltausque was dressing his wounds. “What the hell happened, Nathan? The other guy thought he was the only survivor.”

“An ambush, Your Grace. I didn’t get a good look. Marena Dimura bandits, I guess.”

Babeltausque said, “He’ll be fine if there’s no sepsis. Gister Saxton told the same story.”

“The Marena Dimura haven’t done anything since Abaca died. Why change now?”

Wolf mumbled, “I don’t know, Your Grace.” He tried to explain why he had come instead of Gales.

“Ah. Possibilities suggest themselves. Gales either stepped out of the equation deliberately, was ordered out by Inger, or was removed by someone else. That seems most likely. So. Why? To get rid of Gales? Or to move Nathan up a notch?”

The sorcerer said, “That is a pathetically long stretch.”

“Meaning?”

“I believe in the malicious mischief theory of providence. My hypothesis? Gales went out drinking and got mugged, or killed, by somebody who didn’t know who he was.”

“A twist on ‘It’s not conspiracy if it can be explained by stupidity’?”

“Exactly.”

Greyfells stared at Wolf. “Nathan has done well, Babeltausque. Remove the curse.”

Wolf frowned, confused, as he slid away into sleep.

The sorcerer frowned, too, but his scowl was born of irritation.

Nathan Wolf had offended Babeltausque years ago, without knowing it. He never did figure out why the whole world suddenly found him repugnant.

The sorcerer was not happy but he carried out his Duke’s will. He had too grand an idea of his own worth. He would not have survived with the Greyfells family if they had been able to attract a man with more talent and a better character.

Babeltausque schemed, but only in small-minded, personal ways. He did not put his employer at risk.

Dane of Greyfells appreciated that. “Babeltausque, you’ve served my family long and well. We should show our appreciation more fully. Do you have secret aspirations that we could make come true?”

The sorcerer was startled. He squinted at the Duke. Was he being set up for torment? The man was capable of amusing himself by baiting a dog.

Yet he could not keep from blurting, “I do, Lord. But I dare not state it. Punishment would be swift and harsh.”

“Come, now.” The Duke assumed his sorcerer had a secret vice. The breed had that reputation. And Dane of Greyfells had vices he dared indulge only rarely. “Go on. I guarantee your safety. And no one else will know.”

“Lord, I was obsessed with your half-sister Mayenne before we left Itaskia.” He cringed, anticipating a blow.

“Well. You can surprise me. I expected something darker. She’s a little young, though, isn’t she?”

“She’s almost fourteen.” Too old for the sorcerer’s taste, now, but so delectable…

Mayenne was one of a dozen children the previous Duke had fathered on the far side of the blanket. He had been fond enough of this one’s mother to acknowledge her and her sisters.

The Duke was amused. “Babeltausque, I’m glad you spoke up. This can be arranged.” Sudden cruelty edged his voice. “The little bitch needs to learn her place.” She had resisted his own advances more than once. She deserved to be thrown to a beast like Babeltausque.

The sorcerer continued to look amazed.

How his fortunes had turned!

…

Nathan Wolf, on crutches, made the rounds of the Duke’s soldiers, telling them what Inger wanted them to hear-with the Duke’s blessing. A band of three were allowed to slip away. Two days later an eight-man group moved out. Both groups consisted of genuine deserters.

A third band, twenty-six strong, were not the real thing. They included the Duke disguised as an archer and the sorcerer as a muleteer. The archer’s guise suited the Duke. He was skilled with the longbow.

Six miles east of Breitbarth an outrider discovered human remains as vultures and ravens made a getaway. Flies were dense despite the season. There had been several days of warm weather. Maggots were at work. The ravens did not go far. They clustered in nearby trees and cursed.

The remains could still be recognized. They were the men who had deserted first. They had been attacked by archers.

“Bandits?” Greyfells asked the air.

“Hard to tell, Your Grace,” a soldier replied. “The broken arrows are the Marena Dimura type.”

Babeltausque, unhappy about being in the field, said, “It hardly matters now.”

“True enough,” the Duke admitted. “Sorcerer, here is where you earn your sweet cunny. Make sure it doesn’t happen to us.”

Babeltausque soon had his chance. “We’re being stalked. Four men. In the woods to our left. A dozen more are hiding up ahead, in the brush around that lone chestnut.”

Greyfells had been looking forward to this. His troops were all afoot. Each carried a strung bow with an arrow laid across. “The finer you determine where they are the happier I’ll be.”

“Keep moving like you’re ready for trouble but don’t really expect it. I’ll give you my best.” He would. He had a reason to live.

Greyfells halted at the extreme range of the short bow favored by the Marena Dimura. He laid flights of arrows into the ambush area. Shrieks and curses responded.

The frustrated ambushers rose to loose their own shafts. That made the Itaskians’ work easier.

Those ambushers still able to do so ran.

The Itaskians found eight wounded men. They recovered their arrows, left seven dead to their more fortunate brothers. They took one youth along for questioning. His wound was not life-threatening. He was not nearly as tough as he imagined.

Watching Babeltausque booby-trap corpses, Greyfells said, “Sorcerer, I’m developing a whole new appreciation of you. I may give you all of my bastard sisters.”

“Mayenne will be sufficient, Your Grace.” Then greed reared up. “Though Jondelle would make Mayenne a fine companion.”

Greyfells laughed. “Wicked man. But be cautious with Jondelle. She is insane.”

The party smashed three more ambushes. Babeltausque’s stock soared. Years of maltreatment and disdain went by the wayside. Soldiers tended to give respect to those who saved their asses.

Babeltausque was no empire destroyer but he was handy on the killing ground. That carried plenty of weight with the sloggers.

The prisoner was worthless. He had no idea why the forest people were active again. He did what his father told him.

The Itaskians left him alive but in horrible pain. Whoever tried to help would regret his empathy. Babeltausque included a nasty booby trap.

…

Twelve days. Still no sign of Josiah. And no word from Wolf. Things were falling apart. Gales’s disappearance had shaken the garrison. He had been more important than Inger had imagined. Once they suspected that the Colonel was not coming back the native garrison began to evaporate. Changes for the worse were evident daily. Those regiments that had remained loyal soon became paper tigers.

The vanishing soldiers were not shifting allegiance. They were just leaving.

Inger had no reliable intelligence about what was going on outside Vorgreberg. It did seem that the pretender’s soldiers were deserting, too.

The nobility began abandoning Vorgreberg, finding excuses to return to their holdings. They did not want to get crushed in the coming collapse.

Inger knew she needed to make a show of strength. But she had none to show. Her enemies had brought her to the brink by walking away or by ignoring her.

Then came the six deserters from Damhorst, four of them injured. They had lost one on the way. They had hurt the bandits back.

Bandits. There had been no banditry when Bragi was king.

The lead sergeant informed Inger that, “The Duke and a bigger band are behind us. He means to disguise himself as an archer. The sorcerer will be with him.”

“Whitcomb Innsman, isn’t it?”

“Your Majesty’s memory is excellent. It’s been years.”

“It is good. This time, though, I was told before you came in. I need to know my cousin’s real situation. What did he leave behind? Can he count on help if I ambush him?”

That startled the soldier. Evidently no one had considered the possibility that she would try to turn things around herself.

Excellent.

“Innsman, your situation won’t improve much here.”

“It’ll be better than it was.” He described increasingly erratic and ugly behavior by the Duke. Nothing was ever his fault. He was not well, and had become a monster toward those Kaveliners within his power. He abused their younger teen daughters.

“Surely you exaggerate.”

She knew that was true, though. It was no secret inside the family.

“Believe what you please, Majesty.”

“Forget it. Find yourselves places in the barracks. And ask Dr. Wachtel to treat your injuries. He has plenty of time.”

Inger rested her head in her hands. It just got worse. She was doomed. She had only a handful of men, too few to succeed here and not enough to manage an escape. While Dane kept on making sure that Itaskians were hated as much as possible.

This kingdom was insane. It turned good people bad and bad people worse. It ate them all. Then it sucked in more.

General Liakopulos may have demonstrated a burst of genius by escaping. If he was not lying in a shallow grave somewhere.

This was all Michael Trebilcock’s fault.

She had no evidence. Not so much as a rumor. But she was ready to bet her soul that Trebilcock was out there tugging strings.

There was some comfort in being able to blame an invisible external devil for all one’s woes.

…

A blunted arrow struck Dane of Greyfells’ helmet as his purported deserters entered Castle Krief. The soldiers laid down their arms before their Duke finished collapsing. They had no skin in the game.

Babeltausque revealed himself immediately. He had failed to detect the ambush. Inger’s men had not given it away. There would be no sweet Mayenne cunny now.

There might be no getting back home at all.

Babeltausque did not need to indulge in the formal, scientific astrology necessary to predict the future. With Greyfells imprisoned, the man’s following would disappear. His fever dream was dead. Once this news escaped Kavelin the Greyfells family would cease to matter in political equations.

Babeltausque, hands bound, feared there would be no live Itaskians in Kavelin come New Years.

Chaos would take complete charge.

…

Inger intercepted the sorcerer before he could be shoved into a cell. “Remove his gag, please.”

The soldiers were her last Wesson loyalists. They knew what Babeltausque was. They thought Inger touched for not having him killed right away. But they followed instructions.

Inger looked Babeltausque in the eye. “You know how grim my situation is. Our situation, if you include Dane.”

The sorcerer nodded.

“Can you abandon him? Can you come over to me?”

Babeltausque nodded repeatedly.

“Unless you’re better than I think we’re likely to get run out of Kavelin. If we’re lucky. If they let us go. You’d have to explain yourself back home.”

“As would you.”

“I no longer care. I’m not ready to run yet, though. I have a little fight left. I’d have more than a little if I had your help.”

The sorcerer nodded some more.

“I’ll work you harder than Dane ever did. You’ll be a lot more than a pet astrologer.”

Babeltausque went slightly grey. “At last. An opportunity to make use of my talents.”

The soldiers snickered.

Inger said, “Turn him loose.”

They did so with obvious reluctance.

She told them, “If he becomes a problem you can say you told me so while you’re roasting him. Sorcerer. Come along. I’ll show you where to work.” Which would be in the suite Varthlokkur used when he resided in Castle Krief. “You’ll get one servant. There’ll be no touching. Understand?”

“I gather that fierce temptation will be set so as to test me.”

“You don’t want to fail.”

The sorcerer adopted his most blank expression.

“Let me know when you’re ready to start.”

“How soon do you need me?”

“Today, if you can.”

The sorcerer sighed and strove to keep up.