An Ill Fate Marshalling

“Who’s going to help me?” Michael asked.

  Most of their teammates were mounted already, whooping and bragging and galloping in circles. They shouted insults at friends slow to leave the field. They were eager to howl their triumph through the streets.

  “Man,” Slugbait bellowed,, they’re going to go crazy in town.”

  “If they don’t lynch us,” Snakeman grumped.

  Ragnarson kept suffering uncontrollable fits of laughter. They were pure, explosive relief. Never had he played a longer chance and won.

  Wagons lined the inner court of the treasury. “Just empty those sacks on the floor in there,” Ragnarson told the men unloading. It was the morning after the upset victory. Vorgreberg remained in shock.

  “Sire?” Derel asked.

  “Just do it. You’ll see.”

  “Humph.” Prataxis resumed counting.

  Michael Trebilcock arrived. “Riots and fights all night,” he reported. “Couple of cases of arson. Gjerdrum had to escort the Charygin Hall boys out of town. There was talk of a lynching. Liakopuios closed down the taverns at midnight.

  Starting to settle down now. Oh! I’ve never seen the Nordmen so shocked. They can’t believe they got taken. They’re like zombies this morning.”

  Ragnarson’s grin faded. “Now we get to the hard part, don’t we?”

  “Baron Khelra is going to make it.”

  “Make it? What happened?”

  Prataxis spat, “I forgot to tell you. What’s wrong with me?”

  “He was the biggest loser,” Michael said. “You took him for two hundred thousand. Aral got him for another hundred fifty. A hundred fifty on the pay-you-when-you-catch-me. He wouldn’t come across. Somebody got into his place this morning and left him with a lot of broken bones.”

  “Aral did that to a Lord of the Realm?”

  “Maybe Aral. Maybe somebody else who saw a chance to get in a free hit.”

  “Your friend from the woods,” Prataxis suggested.

  “Who?”

  “Colonel Abaca. You see what’s happening? The breakdown of standards has begun.”

  “Wasn’t Khelra the one who started that business at the Victory Day wingding?”

  “The same. He holds a lot of our notes. One of the richest men in Kavelin. Sire, if you want to keep the armistice with the Estates, you’d better get to the bottom of that assault fast. Bring his attackers to justice. No matter who they are.”

  “The hell I will. He earned every lump.”

  “Sire, the law belongs to all men. The baron isn’t outside its protection. Neither Abaca nor Dantice are immune. And you’re not above it. Your mission is to enforce it.”

  Ragnarson smiled nastily. “Michael, get Khelra’s people. And Aral. I want to pay them what we owe them, then watch Aral take it away.”

  “That’s not wise,” Prataxis said, exasperated. “Don’t rub salt in the wound.”

  “Why the hell not? They do it to me all the time. Give Michael your record of what and who we owe. We’ve got enough here to pay almost everybody. I never dreamed we’d clean up like this.”

  “That’s because you underestimate the depth of the hatred the Estates feel for you, Sire.”

  “It’s mutual. Ha! Now they can’t afford to stir any shit.”

  “Some even bet their estates,” Michael said. “Aral’s stuck with the property.”

  “Hope he makes tenant farmers out of them.”

  “Vindictive today, aren’t we?” Prataxis said, with far more meaning than his employer caught.

  “Merciless.” A guard brought a whispered message. “Let him in. Mundwiller’s here, men.”

  “Now it starts,” Derel said. “You’ll never sell what you did. It wasn’t an acceptable risk.”

  “We won, didn’t we?”

  “That’s all that’ll save you. In the end, you’ll find the loss of trust more important than the monetary gain....”

  “Enough. Just damned well enough, Derel.”

  “Derel is right,” Mundwiller said. “That’s what I came over to tell you. Your friends in the Thing are about to skedaddle like a flushed covey. They’re asking if you’ve lost touch with your sense of responsibility.”

  “They’ll get over it. Nothing succeeds like success.”

  “Last bag, sir,” one of the porters told Prataxis.

  “Come on,” Bragi said. Inside, “Humph. The pile is smaller than I thought. Hell. Watch this. Something I’ve always wanted to do.” He dived in head first.

  Inger met Sergeant Gales well away from her apartment. Shadows masked their identities. “What’s their temper, Josiah?”

  “Pure rage, My Lady. They think they’ve been robbed.”

  “Have they?”

  “Not really. They walked in with their eyes open.”

  “They just resent not being the robbers, eh?”

  “You might say.”

  “It doesn’t matter if the anger is righteous. It’s useful. I think it’s time you summoned our friends from back home.”

  Gales nodded. “I think so. He’s not likely to get much weaker.”

  Ragnarson kept sitting in the money pile while Kavelin’s readily available creditors received what the Crown owed them. He made a mockery of the process. He once laughed outright when Aral Dantice and his thugs collected immediately after a payment.

  Dahl Haas found him there. The adjutant was a tired man. He had not slept all night. “They’re safely off, Sire. I rode with them as far as Tewsbury. Should I have someone go bring them back now?”

  Ragnarson eyed the grim-faced Nordmen baron accepting repayment of a loan. He was not as blind as he pretended. “Give it a few weeks. Let’s see what crawls out if the rocks roll over.”

  “Sir Gjerdrum told me where to find you. He said to tell you that that Habibullah who used to be El Murid’s ambassador is here. He won’t talk to anybody but you.”

  Ragnarson’s malicious humor evaporated completely. “I’ll be there in half an hour.” He rose from the dwindling pile. “Get somebody to wrap it up here, Derel. Make the right kind of apologies for me. Tell them I was off my oats, or something. Then collect Michael and wait in the War Room till you hear from me.”

  What does Yasmid have in mind? he wondered. Will there be a respite? Will there be time for me to put my own house in order before we start on hers?

  This being King wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

  18 Year 1016 AFE

  Tightening Screws

  HABIBULLAH AWAITED RAGNARSON in the chamber where so many conferences had taken place recently. Bragi stepped in, quickly noted, “You may think you’re dressed local, but you won’t fool anyone.”

  Habibullah shrugged. “Speed was of more essence than secrecy. I received the material from Trebilcock. I speak for the Lady Yasmid as well as myself when I express my gratitude.”

  “Glad to help.”

  “A cunning maneuver, that Captures match. I expect it will be more appreciated outside Kavelin, though.”

  Bragi was having his own second and third thoughts. Somehow, in winning, he had lost something, and he just didn’t understand what or why. If some Nordmen baron had pulled the same stunt, nobody would have thought anything about it. There would have been no whining in the streets if the Panthers had won.

  Was he supposed to be too good for that kind of stuff? Was it because he’d dipped his hands into too many strongboxes? Or did he just have a thin skin?

  He shrugged. “I guess congratulations are due, Habibullah. That whipping you gave the Throyens. That was beautiful. I split a side laughing.”

  “A grand victory, but more symbolic than practical. It wakened our enemies. They won’t underestimate us again.”

  Soberly, Bragi observed, “You’re probably right.”

  “Megelin is pressing us from the desert side. He’s using a lot of sorcery. We can’t stand up to the savan dalage. And the Faithful in Throyes say Lord Hsung is preparing a major push into the littoral. He’ll use the legi
ons from Throyes and Gog-Ahlan to give his Throyen puppets backbone. That means thirty to thirty-five thousand invaders, twelve thousand of them soldiers of the Dread Empire. Too much for us to handle.”

  Bragi sat quietly for half a minute. “Mind if I bring Prataxis and Trebilcock in here?”

  “Do you really need to?”

  “I think so. They’re familiar with more aspects of the situation.” He rose, stepped into the corridor, looked around. He saw no one but the guard. “Get Prataxis and Captain Trebilcock. They’re waiting down in the War Room.”

  “Yes, Sire. But who’ll stand watch?”

  “I’ll be all right. Go on.”

  “Yes, Sire.”

  Rather than return to Habibullah, Bragi poked around the corridor. Curiosity took him to the door of the room he’d seen Gales exit. He stepped inside, looked around. The room appeared as innocent as ever.

  What the devil had Gales been doing that day? He started looking around. Minutes tripped past. “Here. What’s this?” He fingered a scratch in the wainscoting below hip level on the wall facing the conference chamber. A decorative boar’s head was loose. It had been moved often enough to have gouged the paneling. He fiddled with it.

  Something clicked. The next panel left eased back an inch. He prodded it with a toe. It swung back. He hunkered down, scrambled through, found himself in one of the innumerable hidden passageways which networked the palace. “I thought I knew them all,” he muttered.

  A moment later he was looking through a peephole at Habibullah, who was waiting patiently, arms folded and eyes halfway closed. He looked older and more tired when he didn’t know he was being observed. Trebilcock and Prataxis entered the room. Michael asked, “Where’s the King?”

  Bragi didn’t stay for Habibullah’s answer. He returned the way he had come, muttering, “Gales, you belong to Michael now.” He couldn’t put it off any longer. No matter what Michael uncovered.

  A part of him wanted to cry. He had tried hard to convince himself that he was wrong, but his intuition had scored again. He glanced in the direction of his wife’s apartment. “I guess blood will tell.”

  His expression was bland, mild, and friendly when he returned to the conference room. “So. They beat me back. Michael, Habibullah has been telling me some things. I want you and Derel to hear him out, then add anything you can.”

  Habibullah started over. When he mentioned Hsung’s intentions, Michael added, “My contacts say he can’t take Mist seriously because she’s a woman. He’s treating Western Army’s area of operations like it was his own personal empire. He seems to think Mist can’t touch him before the Matayangan crisis is settled.”

  Prataxis said, “Sire, he’s one of your worst enemies among the Tervola. Breaking you is an obsession with some of them.”

  “So Mist kept telling me.”

  “He respected Lord Kuo’s wishes, but I suspect he never intended to honor the commitments we made during our negotiations. He may have been playing me along to keep his superiors happy. Lately, his treatment of our caravan people has been more indicative of his thinking than anything he’s said.”

  Bragi said, “Mist promised to straighten him out.”

  “What if she doesn’t?” Habibullah asked.

  Derel replied, “There isn’t a thing we could do. Our people are at his mercy. Yours are too.” To Bragi, Derel added, “Michael says it’s probably only a matter of weeks till he invades the littoral. Apparently the decision to go has been made.”

  Michael nodded. “That’s the word I get out of Throyes.”

  Habibullah said, “That agrees with what we’ve heard. And we won’t be able to put up much of a fight.”

  “What have you got?” Bragi asked.

  “Maybe ten thousand old, tired, worn-out men led by Invincibles past their primes. We couldn’t engage except on the best terms. We expect to get a lot of local guerrilla support, and help from the Faithful who live in Throyen territory, but that’s not enough. We’ve decided our strategy will be wholly partisan. Our main force has to be kept intact in case Megelin hits Sebil el Selib. The Lady Yasmid has ordered increased guerrilla activity west of the mountains, to make it more difficult for Megelin to approach the pass. But he has Beloul, el Senoussi, and Rahman. There isn’t much we can do to stop them.”

  Bragi knew the three Royalist generals. They were smart and tough and unlikely to be deterred by partisans. Especially not with Magden Norath backing them.

  Varthlokkur, why did you have to be such a pigheaded fool? I need you now.

  “Derel, maneuvers are supposed to start next month. Can we move them up? Use them to bluff Hsung?” The planned operation was a rush by regular units to Baxendala, in the Savernake Gap, to see how quickly they could respond to a sudden eastern threat.

  “Moving them up would be difficult. Credence isn’t well enough to take part. Sir Gjerdrum would have to carry the whole load. And I don’t think Lord Hsung would be particularly impressed anyway.”

  “Once the regiments are assembled, we could move up to Maisak any time he threatened to invade Hammad al Nakir. Make it look like we’ll jump on his backside if he goes in. In his shoes I don’t think I’d call our bluff.”

  “Why not?” Michael asked.

  “If he gets us stirred up he’ll get too far on Mist’s bad side. She doesn’t want him starting new wars while the Matayangan thing is so iffy. He didn’t make army commander doing stupid things.”

  Sourly, Prataxis observed, “The only way to run a bluff is not to be bluffing. We can’t do that. Our home situation is too precarious. And Lord Hsung knows it.”

  “Michael?”

  “Derel is right. The Captures match polarized everybody. We’re not very strong right now. There would be rioting if it looked like most of the army was moving through the Gap.”

  Ragnarson sighed. “You’ll just have to increase your efforts, Michael.”

  “There are more of them than there are of me. Without the Unborn to ferret them out....”

  “Do your best. Habibullah, I’m sorry you had to hear all our woes. You’ve got problems of your own.”

  “We all have troubles, Sire. You and the Lady Yasmid are fighting for the survival of ideals. The struggle has used up most of your resources, but you can’t let yourselves betray your beliefs. That’s why the Lady is proposing we share resources.”

  Bragi grunted noncommittally. Yasmid was no more enthusiastic about this than he. His participation, such as it was, was an acquiescence to necessity.

  Someone tapped on the door. The guard leaned in. “Sire, Captain Haas wants a word with you.”

  “Excuse me.” Bragi stepped into the corridor. “What is it, Dahl?”

  “Trouble in the Thing, Sire. Mundwiller says the Estates are pushing a motion of censure. He says you’d better show up to defend yourself.”

  “What do you think, Dahl?”

  “I think he’s right, Sire. They’re in a mean mood.”

  Bragi sighed dramatically. “All right. Give me a minute here.” He stepped inside. “I have to go over to the Thing. Derel, you and Michael go ahead and talk to Habibullah. Habibullah, I trust them completely. Hammer out your deal. Michael, I have a job for you. Gales. He’s been listening in.” He tapped the wall. “Hidden passageway.”

  Trebilcock looked unhappy. “I’ll take care of it.” He exchanged glances with Prataxis.

  Bragi stepped into the corridor. “Let’s go give them hell, Dahl.”

  Trebilcock stared at Habibullah for half a minute. “Tell me what we can do for you. Really. Other than make gestures, I don’t see much myself.”

  “You could provide weapons. You have a considerable stockpile taken during the Great Eastern Wars. You could share intelligence. You have other assets we don’t. Especially the wizard.”

  Michael concealed his surprise. Habibullah hadn’t heard about the big split? Interesting. But then, the match was all the talk in the streets these days.

  “I do, yes. As to
the weapons, the army has those.”

  Derel said, “The King would let us deal them. Can you deliver them, Michael?”

  Trebilcock nodded. Aral’s smugglers could handle that end. For a price, of course.

  Prataxis went on. “There’s no problem, then. Let’s say arms for five thousand men. What can you do for us, Habibullah?”

  “The Lady Yasmid has suggested a loan of the Harish.”

  Trebilcock met Derel’s eye. Each man wore an expression so blank the other knew it was studied. “The Harish?” Michael asked.

  “The cult has dwindled. There are fewer than a hundred left. The survivors are an occasional embarrassment. The Lady would like them used up profitably. Preferably away from home. They could do you a lot of good.”

  Trebilcock recalled the long lists his people had assembled. They grew longer daily. In that he saw the hand of the enemy within the palace, the enemy the King wouldn’t admit existed. “All right. But we’d have to share this with Credence Abaca. His people would have to provide the bases for that big an operation.”

  Derel protested. “You’re talking about wholesale murder.”

  “Assassinating a few hundred is better than getting thousands killed in a civil war, isn’t it? We’re headed for one, Derel. Unless....” Michael turned to Habibullah. “You don’t want those men coming home?”

  Habibullah winced. “I didn’t mean that. We just want them out of our hair while we reorganize.”

  “Where do you want the weapons delivered?”

  “Michael,” Derel said, “I really don’t like this.”

  “It’s egg-breaking time, Derel. The day of nice is over. Habibullah, I’ll see Abaca right away. I’ll let you know where he wants your people to go. Where are you staying?”

  Habibullah told him.

  “That’s good. Lot of foreigners there. Don’t come back here. If you need to contact me, see a man named Harry at the Three Candles in Tintner’s Lane.” Michael rose. “I’d better find Gales, Derel.”

  “Wait for me.” Prataxis took a courteous leave of Habibullah, hurried after Trebilcock. “Michael....”

  “Wait till we’re outside. Walls with ears.”

  They stopped at the fountain the stonecutter Callison had been building. Someone had started it flowing, though it remained unfinished. Its babble masked their whispers.