An Ill Fate Marshalling

1

Year 1016 AFE; Rulers

Bragi groaned. Inger shook him again. „Come on, Your Kingship. Get up."

He cracked a lid. One glassless window stared back with a cold eye. „It's still dark out."

„It just looks like it."

He grumbled as his feet hit the chilly floor. It was one of those ice-bottom days, going to turn hellfire come after­ noon. He gathered the bearskin round him and told himself there had to be a point to rising.

It was springtime in Kavelin. The days were hot and the nights were cold. The weather was foul more often than not.

Bragi yawned, tried to rub the sleep from his eyes. „It raining? My head feels like it's packed with wool."

„I wouldn't argue with that. Yes. One of your steady Kaveliner drizzles."

He said what everybody always said. „Be good for the farmers."

She completed the ritual. „We need it." She posed. „Not bad for an old broad, eh?"

„Pretty good. For a wife." There was no heart in his jest.

Her too-small mouth fashioned a pout. „What do you mean, for a wife?"

His grin was as grey as he felt. „You know what they say. That old grass always looks greener."

„You grazing in somebody else's pasture?"

„What?" He heaved himself to his feet, stumbled round looking for his clothing.

„Last night was only the second time this month."

He gave it the light treatment. „I'm getting old."

Something inside cawed sarcastically. He was fooling himself, not her. A nasty black chasm yawned at his feet. Trouble was, he did not know if it was waiting for him to try

jumping over or if he was on the other side looking back. „Is it another woman, Ragnarson?" There wasn't any kitten in her now. She was all bitch cat. The habitual brittle smile had left her lips.

„No." For once he was telling the truth. He didn't have a single little round-heel on the string. The soft curves, the warm mounds, the humid thighs did not set the fires roaring these days. They seemed more a distraction than a reason­ able interest. They irritated more than excited. Was it symptomatic of age? Time was an implacable thief. Ragnarson's growing indifference worried him. The de­ parture of the drive to collect scalps left a vacuum like the loss of an old friend. „You're sure?"

„Absodamnlutely, as friend Mocker might have said." „I wish I had met him," she mused. „Haroun, too. Maybe I'd know you better by knowing them." „You should've known them... ." „You're changing the subject."

„Honey, I haven't had no strange in so long I wouldn't know what to do. Probably just stand there with my thumb in my ear till the lady cussed me out."

Inger whipped a comb through her hair. Blonde rat's nests grabbed it. She was wondering. He had come tagged with a reputation, but had not lived up to it.

Maybe he was too busy. Kavelin was his extramarital lover. She was a demanding mistress.

He eyed this woman who was both his wife and Kavelin's Queen. She was the one gift the wars had given him. Time had done well by her. She was a tall, elegant woman of brittle beauty and even more brittle humor. She had the most intriguing mouth he had ever seen. No matter her mood, her lips seemed on the verge of a sarcastic smile. Something about her green eyes magnified that foreshadow of laughter.

First glance said she was a lady. Second might suggest an earthy soul. She was an enigma, an intriguing creature hiding inside a shell that betrayed a new mystery each time it opened. Bragi thought her as perfect a Queen as a King could ask. She had been born for the role.

That secret smile came out of hiding. „You just might be telling the truth."

„Of course I am."

„And you're disappointed, eh?"

He did not answer that one. She had a knack for caging him with questions he did not want to answer. „Maybe you'd better check the baby."

„You're ducking the issue again."

„Damned right."

„All right. I'll let up. What's on for today?" She insisted on being a full participant in royal affairs. He was new to the kinging business. Coping with a strong-willed woman com­ plicated his task.

His circle of old comrades agreed. Some had strong opinions about Inger's „interference."

She returned from the nursery. She carried their son Fulk. „He was sleeping like a rock. Now he wants to be fed."

Bragi slipped an arm around her. He stared down at the infant. Babies were still a wonder to him.

Fulk was his first by Inger, and her first ever. He was a lusty six-monther. Bragi told Inger, „I'm having the whole mob in about Derel's message this morning. After lunch I'm supposed to play Captures."

„In this weather?"

„They challenged. It's up to them to call it off." He began lacing his boots. „They're good mudders."

„Aren't you a little old for it?"

„I don't know." Maybe he was past it. The reflexes were going. The muscles could not take it the way they had. Maybe he was an old man with one hand desperately clamped on an illusion of youth. He did not enjoy Captures much. „What about you?"

„Terminal boredom. And it won't stop till the Thing adjourns. I feel like a governess."

He forbore reminding her that she had demanded the right to entertain the delegates' women.

Commencement for the spring session was a week away, but the wealthier members were in town already, sampling Vorgreberg's social possibilities.

Bragi said, „I'm going to get something to eat." He was an informal King. He had no patience with pomp and ceremo­ ny, and very little with the luxuries his position afforded. His was a warriorly background. He strove to maintain a spartan, soldierly self-image.

„Don't I get a kiss?"

„Thought you'd be kissed out."

„Never. Fulk too!"

He kissed the baby, left.

Maybe Fulk was the problem. He pondered it as he descended the stair. The battle had begun during the name-choosing. He had lost that round.

It had been a difficult birth. Inger wanted no more children. He did, though he did not consider himself a good father.

Too, Inger was worried about Fulk's patrimony. He was born of Ragnarson's second marriage. Bragi had three older offspring, and a grandson named Bragi. The latter might as well have been his own child. His father, Ragnarson's firstborn, had perished at Palmisano.

The King's first family lived at his private house, outside Vorgreberg proper. His son's widow managed the place and youngsters. He had not visited them in weeks. „Have to get out there soon," he muttered. His inattention to his chil­ dren was one of the few guilts he suffered.

He made a mental note to solicit a legal opinion from his secretary, Derel Prataxis, as soon as the man returned from his mission.

Ragnarson had led a charmed life. He thought his luck overdue to change. It was part of that fear of growing old. The edge was going. The reactions were slowing. The instincts might not be trustworthy. His mortality was catch­ ing up.

Maybe he could negotiate some succession understanding during the Thing's session. They had not made the kingship hereditary when they had dragooned him into it.

He approached the castle's main kitchen. Strong smells and a loud voice emanated from its open door.

„Yeah. That's no lie. Yeah. Nine women in one day. You know what I mean. In twenty-four hours. Yeah. I was a young man then. Fourteen days on a transport. I never even saw a woman, let alone had one. Yeah. You don't believe me, but it's the truth. Nine women in one day."

Ragnarson smiled. Someone had Josiah Gales cranked up. On purpose, no doubt. He was a one-man show when he got going. He grew louder and louder, flinging his arms around, dancing, stomping, rolling his eyes as he underscored every statement physically.

Josiah Gales. Sergeant of infantry. Bowman supreme. Minor cog in the palace machine. One of two hundred soldiers and skilled artisans Inger had brought as dowry because her cadet line of Itaskia's Greyfells family had fallen into genteel poverty.

He smiled again. They were still laughing up north, thinking themselves rid of an unruly woman cheaply, while gaining a connection with a prized crown.

The unseen sergeant whooped on. „Fourteen days at sea. I was ready. How many women you had in one day? I wasn't showing off. I was working. Yeah. That seventh one. I still remember her. Yeah. Moaning and clawing. She's going, ‘Oh! Oh! Gales! Gales! I can't take anymore.' Yeah. That's the truth. Nine women in one day. In twenty-four hours. I was a young man then."

Gales repeated himself over and over. The more wound up he was, the more he did so, mouthing every sentence at least once to everyone within hearing. His audience seldom minded.

Bragi approached the duty cook. „Skrug. Any chicken left from last night? I just want something to snack on."

The cook nodded. He jerked his chin in Gales' direction. „Nine women in one day."

„I've heard this one before."

„What do you think?"

„He's consistent. He doesn't make it bigger when he retells it."

„You were at Simballawein when the Itaskians landed, weren't you?"

„It was Libiannin. I didn't run into Gales. I would've remembered him."

The cook laughed. „He does make an impression." He produced a tray of cold chicken. „This do the job, Sire?"

„That's plenty. Let's sit over here and watch the show."

Gales had an audience of serving people come to town with the advisers and assistants Bragi was to meet later that morning. For them the sergeant's stories were fresh. They responded well. Gales undertook further flights of whimsi­ cal autobiography.

„I've been all over this world," Gales declared. „I mean, everywhere. Yeah. Itaskia. Hellin Daimiel. Simballawein.

Yeah. I've had every kind of woman there is. White women. Black women. Brown women. Every kind there is. Yeah. That's no lie. I got five different women right now. Right here in Vorgreberg. I've got one, she's fifty-eight years old."

Someone catcalled. Everyone laughed. A passing palace guard leaned in the doorway. „Hey! Gales! Fifty-eight? What's she do when she goes down? Gum you to death?"

The group howled. Gales flung his arms into the air. He let out a great wail of mirth. He stomped and shouted back, „Fifty-eight years old. Yeah. That's right. I'm not lying."

„You didn't answer the question, Gales. What's she do?"

The sergeant went into contortions. He evaded answer­ ing.

Ragnarson dropped his chicken. He was laughing too hard to hang on.

„Low humor," the cook growled. „The lowest," Bragi agreed. „Straight out of the gutter. So how come you can't wipe that grin off your face?" „If it was anybody but Gales... ." The sergeant's audience trampled his protests. They bur­ ied him in questions about his elderly friend. He reddened incredibly. He bounced around, roaring with laughter, vain­ ly trying to regain control of the group. „Tell us the truth, Gales," they insisted.

Bragi shook his head and murmured, „He's a wonder. He loves it. I couldn't stand it." Soberly, the cook asked, „But what's he good for?" „A laugh." Bragi stifled a chuckle. It was a sound question. Inger's dowry-men had proven useful, but he often wondered what their presence signified. They were not loyal to himself or Kavelin. And Inger remained an Itaskian at heart. That might prove troublesome one day.

He munched chicken and watched Gales. His military adjutant came in.

As always, Dahl Haas looked freshly scrubbed and shaved. He belonged to that strange fraternity who could walk through a coal mine in white and come out spotless. „They're ready in the privy audience chamber, Sire." He stood as rigid as a pike. His gaze darted to Gales. Disgust flickered across his face. Bragi did not understand. Dahl's father had followed him for decades. The man had been as earthy as Gales.

„Be there in a minute, Dahl. Ask them to be patient."

The soldier strode out as though he had a board nailed to his back. Second generation, Ragnarson thought. The others were gone. Dahl was the last.

Palmisano had claimed many old friends, his only broth­ er, and his son Ragnar. Kavelin was a hungry little bitch goddess of a kingdom, eager for sacrifices. He sometimes wondered if it didn't demand too much, if he hadn't made the biggest mistake of his life when he had allowed himself to be made King.

He was a soldier. Just a soldier. He had no business ruling.

Vorgreberg shivered with gentle excitement. It was not the great dread-excitement foreshadowing dire events, it was the small, eager excitement that courses before good things about to unfold.

There had been a messenger from the east. His tidings would touch the life of every citizen.

The magnates of the mercantile houses sent boys to loiter by the gates of Castle Krief. The youths had strict instruc­ tions to keep their ears open. The traders were poised like runners in the blocks, awaiting the right word.

Kavelin, and especially Vorgreberg, had long reaped the benefits of being astride the primary route connecting west and east. But for several years now there had been little exchange of goods. Only the boldest smugglers dared the watchful eyes of Shinsan's soldiers, who occupied the near east.

There had been two years of war, then three of peace occasionally interrupted by furious border skirmishes. East­ erner and westerner perpetually faced one another in the Savernake Gap, the only commercially viable pass through the Mountains of M'Hand. Neither garrison permitted travellers past their checkpoints.

Merchants on both sides of the mountains railed against the neverending, knife-edged state of confrontation.

Rumor said King Bragi had sent another emissary to Lord Hsung, the Tervola proconsul at Throyes. He was to try again to negotiate a resumption of trade. The whisper had raised almost messianic hopes among the merchants. No heed was paid the fact that past overtures had been rebuffed.

Warfare and occupation had shattered Ravelin's econo­ my. Though the kingdom was primarily agrarian and resil­ ient, it had not yet come all the way back in the three years since liberation. It needed resumption of trade desperately. It needed a freshened capital flow.

The King's henchmen had gathered. Michael Trebilcock and Aral Dantice stood at the foot of a long oak table in the gloomy meeting room, chatting in soft voices. They had not visited in months.

The wizard Varthlokkur and his wife Nepanthe stood before the huge fireplace, silent. The wizard seemed deeply troubled. He stared into the prancing flames as though studying something much farther away.

Sir Gjerdrum Eanredson, the army's Chief of Staff, paced the parqueted floor, smacking fist into palm repeatedly. He was as restless as a caged animal.

Cham Mundwiller, a Wesson magnate from Sedlmayr and King's spokesman in the Thing, puffed on a pipe, a fashion recently introduced from far southern kingdoms. He seemed engrossed in the arms of the former Krief dynasty hanging over the dark wood of the chamber's eastern wall.

Mist, who had been princess of the enemy empire till she was deposed, sat near the table's head. Exile had made of her a quiet, gentle woman. A knitting bag lay open before her. Needles clicked at an inhuman pace. A small, two-headed, four-handed imp manipulated them for her. Its legs dangled off the table's side. One head or the other muttered constantly, apprising the other of dropped stitches. Mist shushed them gently.

There were a dozen others. Their backgrounds ranged from sickeningly respectable to outrageously shady. The King was not a man who selected friends for appearance. He made use of the talent available.

Sir Gjerdrum mumbled as he stalked. „When the hell will he get here? He dragged me all the way from Karlsbad."

Others had come farther. Mundwiller's Sedlmayr lay near Kavelin's far southern border, at the knees of the

Kapenrung Mountains, in the shadow of Hammad al Nakir, beyond. Mist, now Chatelaine of Maisak, had descended from her fortress eyre in the Savernake Gap. Varthlokkur and Nepanthe had come from the gods knew where; proba­ bly Fangdred, in the impenetrable knot of mountains known as The Dragon's Teeth. And pale Michael looked like he'd just returned from a sojourn in shadow.

He had. He had.

Michael Trebilcock mastered the King's secret service. He was a man largely unknown personally but his name was a whisper of dread.

The King's adjutant entered. „I just spoke with His Majesty. Stand by. He's on his way."

Mundwiller harumphed, tapped his pipe out in the fire­ place, began repacking it.

Ragnarson arrived. He surveyed the group. „Enough of us are here," he said.

Ragnarson was tall, blond, physically powerful. He had scars, and not all on the flesh, to be seen. A few grey hairs peeped through the shag at his temples. He looked five years younger than he was. Captures kept him fit.

He shook hands, exchanged greetings. There was no majestic aloofness in him. King he was, but here just another of a group of old friends.

Their impatience amused him. Of Sir Gjerdrum he asked, „How do the maneuvers look? Can the troops handle the summer exercises with the militia?"

„Of course. They're the best soldiers in the Lesser King­ doms." Eanredson could not remain still.

„Youth and its fury of haste." Sir Gjerdrum was yet in his twenties. „How goes it with the beautiful Gwendolyn?"

Eanredson growled something.

„Don't worry. She's young, too. You'll outgrow it. All right, people. Gather round. I'll only take a few minutes."

There were more henchmen than chairs. Three men ended up standing.

„Progress report from Derel." Bragi placed a ragged sheet of paper on the distressed oak tabletop. „Pass it around. He says Lord Hsung accepted our proposal. Subject to approval from his superiors."

A soft ripple swept round the table.

„Completely?" Sir Gjerdrum demanded. His scowl became one of incredulity. Mundwiller sucked at his pipe and shook his head, refusing to grant belief.

„To the letter. Without significant reservations. Without much dickering. Prataxis says he barely looked at our offer. He didn't consult his legion commanders. The decision had been made. He knew his answer before Derel got there."

„I don't like it," Eanredson grumbled. „It's too dramatic a turnaround." Mundwiller nodded and puffed. Several others nodded, too.

„That's what I'm thinking. That's why you're here. I see two possibilities. One is that there's a trap in it. The other is that something happened in Shinsan during the winter. Prataxis didn't speculate. He'll be back next week. We'll get the whole story then."

He surveyed his audience. No one wanted to comment. Odd. They were an opinionated, contentious bunch. He shrugged. „They've given us the runaround so long. De­ manding impossible tariffs and arguing over every word of any agreement, but suddenly they're wide open. Gjerdrum? You have a guess why?"

Eanredson flashed his scowl, his adopted expression of the day. „Maybe Hsung's legions are up to strength again. Maybe he wants the Gap open so he can run spies through." Ragnarson said, „Mist? You shook your head." „That's not it."

Varthlokkur gave her a venomous look that startled Ragnarson. She caught it, too. „Well?" the King asked.

„It doesn't make sense that way. They have the Power. They don't have to send spies." That was not entirely true, Ragnarson knew it, and she knew he knew. She amended the remark. „They can see whatever they want to see unless Varthlokkur or I shield it." She exchanged glances with the wizard, who now seemed satisfied. „If they wanted an agent physically present they would send him in over the smugglers' trails."

Something had passed between sorcerer and sorceress and Ragnarson was aware of that fact only, not what. Puzzled, he chose to let an explanation wait. „Maybe. But if you kill that reason what do you do for one that makes sense?" He glanced around. Dantice and Trebilcock looked away.

Ragnarson was uneasy. There were undercurrents here. Mist, Varthlokkur, Dantice, and Trebilcock were his most knowledgeable advisers in matters concerning the Dread Empire. They seemed unusually disinclined to advise. They looked like people with their fingers on a pulse both shifty and strange, unwilling to commit themselves to an opinion.

„I'm not sure." Mist's gaze flicked to Aral Dantice. Though Dantice had no official standing he was a sort of minister of commerce by virtue of his friendships with the Crown and members of the business community. „Some­ thing is happening in Shinsan. But they're hiding it."

Varthlokkur nearly smiled.

Bragi leaned forward, cupped his chin in his right hand, stared into infinity. „Why do I get the feeling that you do know but that you don't want to tell me? It doesn't cost anything to guess."

The woman stared at her knitting. The wizard stared at her. She said, „There might have been a coup. I don't feel Ko Feng anymore." Her tone became cautious. „I did have a few contacts with old-time supporters last summer. Some­ thing was in the wind, but they refused to be pinned down."

Trebilcock snorted. „Tervola, no doubt! Wizards always refuse to be pinned down. Sire, Ko Feng was stripped of titles, honors, and immortality late last autumn. They practically accused him of treason because he didn't finish us at Palmisano. He was replaced by a man named Kuo Wen-chin, who had been commander of the Third Corps of the Middle Army. Everybody who'd had anything to do with the Pracchia or Feng got transferred to safe and obscure postings with the Northern and Eastern Armies. Ko Feng vanished. Kuo Wen-chin and his bunch are all younger Tervola and Aspirators who had no part in the Great Eastern Wars."

Trebilcock steepled his hands before his pallid face, looked at Mist as if to ask „What do you think of that?", then shifted his attention to Aral Dantice. His expression was tense. He hated groups and loathed having to speak out in front of them. Stage fright was the one chink in his armor against fear.

Trebilcock was a strange one. Even his friends thought him weird and remote.

Bragi said, „Mist?"

She shrugged. „Apparently my connections aren't as good as Michael's. They want to forget me over there."

Ragnarson glanced at Trebilcock. Michael responded with a tiny shrug.

„Varthlokkur. What do you think?"

„I haven't been watching Shinsan. I've been preoccupied with matters at home."

Nepanthe stared at the tabletop and blushed. She was eight months pregnant.

„If you're convinced it's important I could send the Unborn," the wizard suggested.

„Not worth the risk. No point provoking them. Cham? You're quiet. Any thoughts?"

Mundwiller drew on his pipe, belched a blue cloud. „Can't say as how I know what's happening yonder, but your occasional smuggler's rumor crosses my path. They say there's been riots in Throyes. Hsung maybe wants to shift the yoke so he can head off a general uprising against his puppets."

The King's gaze flicked to Trebilcock again. Michael did not respond. As a gesture of good faith Ragnarson had instructed Michael to stop supporting Throyen partisans and to break with their leaders. Had Michael defied orders?

Michael had genius and energy but could not be broken to harness completely. The espionage service had become too much his fiefdom. But he was very good, very useful. And he had a knack for making friends everywhere. They kept him posted. Through Dantiee he used Kavelin's traders to gather more intelligence.

The King scanned the group through narrowed eyes. „You're a moody bunch today." No response. „All right. Be that way. If you're not going to talk to me there's nothing else till Derel gets home. Meantime, think about what's happening over there. Check your contacts. We have to hammer out a policy. Gjerdrum. If you think you really need to keep an eye on Credence Abaca go back to Karls­ bad. Just be back here when Prataxis gets in. Yes? General Liakopulos?"

The general was on permanent loan from the mercenary's guild, helping improve Kavelin's army.

„Not to the point of the meeting, Sire, but important. I've had bad news from High Crag. Sir Tury is dying."

„That is sad news. But... He was an old man during the El Murid Wars." Musingly, „I first met him the night we broke out of Simballawein. Gods. Was I only sixteen?..."

He drifted away on a memory-cloud. Sixteen. A refugee from Trolledyngja, where a war of succession had devas­ tated his family. He and his brother, with nowhere else to go, had enlisted in the Guild and almost immediately had been thrown into the boiling cauldron of the El Murid Wars. They had been dumb kids then, he and Haaken, but they had earned names for themselves. So had their friends Reskird Killdragon, Haroun, and the funny little fat man, Mocker.

He turned his back on the company. Tears had come to his eyes. They were gone now, those four, and so many more with them. Reskird and his brother had fallen at Palmisano. Haroun had vanished in the east. Mocker... . Bragi had slain his best friend himself.

The Pracchia had used its hold on the man's son to turn him into an assassin.

I'm a survivor, Ragnarson told himself. I got through all that. I lifted myself up from nothing. I hammered out an era of peace. The people of this little wart on the map made me their King.

But the price! The damned price!

Not only had he lost a brother and friends, he had lost a wife and several children.

Everyone in that room had lost. Loss was one of the ties binding them. He brushed his eyes irritably, thinking he was too sentimental. „You all go on now. Keep me posted. Michael, wait up a minute."

People began to file out. Bragi stopped General Liakopulos briefly. „Should I send someone to the funeral?"

„It would be a mark of respect. Sir Tury was your champion in the Citadel."

„I will, then. He was a great man. I owe him."

„He had a special feeling for you and Kavelin."

Bragi watched his people go. Most had not spoken at all, except to exchange greetings. Was that a portent?

He had a bad, bad feeling down deep in his gut. He was headed for a season of changes. Fate was marshalling its forces. Dark clouds were piling beyond the horizon.