She was a half-mile away when first he spied her, a glowing point below the circling dragon. He recognized the unicorn, was awed. Unicorns, he had on high authority, were extinct.
“Mist,” he whispered once she had drawn closer. “Yo Hsi’s daughter.”
She stopped before the gate, showed the palms of both hands. The Captal smiled. He knew the gesture was empty if she intended evil.
Yet it was a gesture. No sense antagonizing her when she had Shinsan’s best at her back. A fight would be hopeless. He would last barely long enough to send a message to Vorgreberg.
He delayed the message pending outcome of the parlay.
She understood his position. She did not ask that headmit anyone to his fortress. “I’ve come to discuss a matter of mutual interest.” Her bell-like voice turned his spine to water.
“Eh?” Her beauty was totally distracting. “You had an arrangement with my father. I want to renew it. He gawked.
She descended from her exotic mount, said something to one of her captains. The soldiers of Shinsan began pitching camp with the same precision shown in everything they did. Among the imps there was an increase in erratic, chaotic behavior.
The Captal found his tongue. “I’d heard you weren’t interested in the Demon Throne.” He glanced at the unicorn. “But I’ve heard other tales that, obviously, were unfounded.”
She rewarded him with a melting smile. “One must create images to survive a heartbeat from a throne. Had my father believed me interested, he’d’ve had me killed. The greater the power, the greater the fear of its loss.” “The bargain with your father,” the Captal said, after he and the woman had made themselves comfortable inside, “became untenable when he lost touch with reality. He made grave errors and blamed them on others.”
“I know. And I apologize. He was a brilliant man once. I think you’d find me a more compatible partner.” Oh, the suggestiveness she put into her words! “Show me the profit. You have the Demon Throne, but do you have its power? Dare you look beyond your borders? The Dragon Prince, too, had an heir.”
“O Shing? I haven’t run him to ground yet, but it’s only a matter of time.
“Tervola have declared.” The Tervola were the sorcerer-generals who commanded Shinsan’s armies. Traditionally, they gave no loyalties to anything but Shinsan itself. “Not many yet. Lords Feng and Wu support O Shing. Lord Chin has declared for me. You see that I’ve captured his token.” “The dragon?” “Yes.”
“Uhm. And the unicorn? I’d thought the beast pure fable.”
“They’re rare. Rarer than dragons. But there’ll always be unicorns while there’re virgins-though we’re rarer than dragons too.”
The Captal stirred nervously. “You’re not one of those... those whose power depends on...”
Her perfect lips formed the tiniest pout. “Sir!” Then she laughed. “Of course not. I’m no fool to hinge my strength on something so easily lost. I’m as human as any woman.”
The old man felt a twinge of envy for the man who would first reach Mist’s bed. “What’s your offer?” he asked. “The same as my father’s. But I won’t cheat you.” He was hooked, but he continued to wriggle. “What’re your plans?”
“I mean to test my power. On Shinsan’s borders there’re a few small kingdoms that have been trouble-some. And I’ll finish O Shing.” “And then?”
“Then the great eastern powers. Escalon and Matayanga.”
“Ah?” She was ambitious indeed, though only to fulfill what Shinsan considered its destiny. And he saw an opportunity to hedge his bets. “I might be interested. But you haven’t convinced me. If you succeed in Escalon, then I’ll commit myself.” Escalon commanded sorceries as powerful as those of Shinsan.
Mist wanted to reopen the transfer link. She had a friend in the west, an Itaskian named Visigodred. His residence was far from the focus of events and he was completely apolitical. She would leave control of the link in his hands.
IV) Mistress of the night
She looked seventeen. An enemy might have suggested nineteen. But she was old beyond the suspicions of all but the Tervola. She had been an apparent seventeen when Yo Hsi had engineered Varthlokkur into destroying
Ilkazar. She herself was unsure of her age. She had spent centuries cloistered from the temptations of life and power...
Yo Hsi had never forgotten that he and Nu Li Hsi had usurped their father, Tuan Hua. He had always anticipated his own usurpation by descendants... Males he had had murdered at birth. Mist had been allowed life on her mother’s promise that she would spend her existence confined to a nunnery.
Survival had been the obsession of her early existence. She had done everything to assure her father that she had rejected ambition.
She succeeded. And cozened him into placing upon her the sorceries yielding eternal youth.
Those victories won, she turned to sorcerous self-education.
With the centuries never ending there was time to learn cautiously, by nibbles, without being obvious. By the time she was exposed she had become as powerful as any Tervola. The Power was in her blood. Still she showed no ambition beyond the scholarly. Her father chose not to destroy her.
But she had ambitions. And patience. Varthlokkur and the destruction of the Empire had shown her that Yo Hsi contained the seeds of his own destruction. She needed but wait.
Varthlokkur had come to Shinsan as a child, a fugitive full of hatred. The master magicians of Ilkazar, trying to evade a prophecy that from a witch would spring the Empire’s doom, had burned his mother. Yo Hsi had undertaken his education, forging a weapon with which to demolish the one power capable of challenging Shinsan. But he had not supervised the boy’s education himself. He had left that to the Tervola. They had seen no reason to keep him from meeting Nu Li Hsi as well.
Each Prince had thought to use him against the other. He had shaken their mastery, after crushing Ilkazar, and had hidden in the Dragon’s Teeth. When, after centuries, they had striven to regain control, he had trapped them both...
Mist had ascended the Demon Throne without risk or effort. Only a little muddying of the thaumaturgic visionsof her father and Nu Li Hsi. Just enough to hasten them to their fates.
The conquest of Escalon appeared easy. She needed but overwhelm the magic of the Monitor and Tear of Mimizan. O Shing was on the run. Her back was clear.
Appearances were deceiving. Escalon controlled more Power than she expected, and O Shing’s weakness was the pretense of the broken-winged pheasant.
He struck while she was committed in Escalon, during the height of a battle. Only the greater threat of an Escalonian offensive saved her by forcing him to assume control of the armies.
Mimicking O Shing’s game, she struck back while he was involved in a gargantuan operation against the Monitor. She forced another change of command, resumed control of the adventure she had initiated.
In Escalon she captured some western mercenaries. Among them were interesting brothers named Turran and Valther, minor wizards who had been involved in the affair that had led to her father’s doom. They seemed to have no particular allegiance to Escalon, and no love for Varthlokkur, whom she would have to face someday. She took them into her growing coterie of foreign followers.
The Tervola issued dire warnings about foreigners. She ignored them.
The younger brother, Valther, caught her fancy. He was a pleasant, witty man, sharp of mind, always ready with a quip or tall tale. And he was impressed by her looks. Most men were terrified of what she was.
It developed so subtly that neither recognized more than a surface involvement. They hawked together in lands far from the war, danced on mountaintops deep in Shinsan, skipped through transfer links to cities and fortresses unknown outside the Dread Empire. She showed him the fains and shrines of her father and grandfather, and let him join the hunt for O Shing.
But there was the war, her war, that had to come before all else, that would mean loss of the Demon Throne if she failed.
The
bond developed, deepened. The Tervola saw, understood, and disapproved.
There came a night of rites and celebration before thefinal assault on Tatarian. Spirits were high. O Shing seemed broken. Escalon had little power left... Over the objections of her generals, she invited Turran and Valther.
: Her pavilion, huge and rich, had been erected within sight of Tatarian’s defensive magicks, and everything in it had been plundered from Escalon. Mist meant to accept the Monitor’s surrender there, in humiliating circum-stances. He had caused her untold unhappiness.
“Valther,” she said, when he and Turran arrived, “come sit with me.”
The man flashed a broad smile. The demon-faced visors of sullen Tervola tracked him like weapons. His brother sent a dark look after him. Valther sat, leaned close, whispered, “My Lady looks radiant tonight. And ravishing. Good news?”
She flushed slightly.
The entertainment began. Musicians sounded their instruments. Escalonian dancing girls came in. Valther clapped to the music, ogled them unabashedly.
The Tervola remained stern. One departed.
Mist watched with angry eyes. She foresaw difficulties, a possible power struggle. She held the Demon Throne only by grace of these dark, grim men hiding behind obscene masks.
Did they think she would be a puppet?
She found her hand in Valther’s, begging support.
Another of the Tervola departed.
She had to improve her position. How? Only something swift and savage would impress these cold old men.
The evening progressed lugubriously, fatefully, tension building with each new entertainment. Tervola continu-ally departed.
They were sending a message she refused to heed.
Experimentally, clumsily, she responded to Valther.
More Tervola left. Piqued, she allowed Valther more liberties.
Who were they to approve or disapprove? She was the Demon Princess...
She drank a lot.
She forgot the war and her responsibilities, relaxed, devoted herself to enjoyment.
In Shinsan hedonism was forbidden. From bottom to top in that chill culture each person had a position and purpose to which unswerving duty was obligated.
But she behaved like a romantic teenager, caring about nothing.
Finally, just one grim, pale-faced man remained. Valther’s brother. And Turran obviously wished he were elsewhere.
The Escalonian captives, entertainers and servants, also wore expressions of desperation.
“Out!” she screamed. “All of you, out of my sight. You cringing lice!”
As Turran left, he sent his brother a look of mute appeal. But Valther was busy tickling a toe.
Damned Tervola! Let them frown behind their devil masks! She was her own woman.
Never a word was said, but, next morning, she realized everyone knew, from the mighty to the spearmen.
When the Escalonian dawn painted her pavilion with bloody rays, her unicorn was gone.
Before she could be challenged, she unleashed the assault on Tatarian, following a suggestion a helpful Valther had whispered deep in the night.
The city that had held so long collapsed in hours.
The Tervola were impressed.
V) Their heads meet, and they spark wickedness
The defense of Escalon had collapsed. Tatarian lay in ruins. Mist, though still unable to claim victory over O Shing, eyed Matayanga.
It was time the Captal decided.
Mist had come to visit often. His infatuation had grown to the proportions of the great romances. Yet he prided himself on being a hard-nosed realist. He considered facts and acted accordingly, no matter the pain.
But he had a blind spot. The child from Vorgreberg.
They had given her the name Carolan, but the nickname Kiki had attached itself. Shoptaw and Burla, her constant companions, preferred the latter. She was a bright-eyed, golden-haired imp, all giggles and bounce. She was happy, carefree, yet capable of seriousness when discussing her destiny, which the Captal had never hidden.
The old man could not have loved her more. Everyone loved her... And spoiled her. Even Mist.
The winged man brought Kiki. The Captal smiled. He no longer worried about himself, he worried about Kiki. Should he subject a child not yet six to the torments of a play for Kavelin’s throne?
“It’s about Aunt Mist, isn’t it Papa Drake?” she asked, eyes disconcertingly big.
“Yes. The thing in Escalon’s done. We’ve got to decide about Kavelin.”
She placed her hands on his.
“We’ve got to figure what’s best for you.”
“I thought you wanted...”
“What I want isn’t important. I’ve got Maisak. I’ve got Shoptaw and Burla. And you.” The winged man stirred embarrassedly. The Captal reddened. He had begun to understand the costs of Vorgreberg. “But you... got to do what’s best.”
“Why don’t you talk to Aunt Mist?”
“I know what she wants.”
“Talk to her anyway. She’s a nice lady.” Carolan had her determined face on. “But sometimes she’s spooky.”
The Captal laughed. “She’s that. I’ll see if she’s got time to visit.”
She was there in hours.
The Captal generally greeted her with some small flattery. This time she looked terrible.
“What’s happened?” he asked.
She collapsed into a chair. “I was a fool.”
“You won, though.”
“And came out too weak to go on. Drake, O Shing’s pet Tervola, Wu, is a demon. A genius. They almost overthrew me...”
“I’d heard. But you came back.”
“Drake, legions are fighting legions. Tervola are fighting Tervola. That’s never happened before. And Escalon... The Monitor was stronger than I thought. All I won was a desert. He even got the Tear of Mimizan out before the collapse. And a quarter of Shinsan is as lifeless as Escalon. I’m losing my grip. The Tervola are having second thoughts. They would’ve abandoned me already, except 1 managed a coup in the attack on Tatarian.” Once again, it seemed, he had joined a loser. “So you want the Gap as bride-price for their support?” She smiled weakly. “I don’t blame you. No more than the Tervola. We respect strength and ability. In your place, I’d wonder about me too.”
The Captal chuckled nervously. She had read his mind. “Can I sweeten the partnership?” So she was weak. Desperately so. “No Escalon. No conquest outright. Hegemony and disarmament. Suze-rainty without occupation...”
“A return to Empire?” she asked. “With Shinsan replacing Ilkazar?”
“Any rational man could see we need unity. The problem is questions of local sovereignty.”
“And how would you enforce my sovereignty?” The old man shrugged. “I’m not worried about the mules, just about loading the wagon. Agree in principle?” “All right. We’ll manage something. What about Kavelin?”
“The King’s sick. He’ll go soon. The scramble’s about to begin. The barons are forming parties. Breitbarth looks strong. El Murid and Volstokin are interested. Which means Itaskia and Altea and Anstokin... Well, you see the possibilities. I’m sending my winged men to watch my neighbors. I should send them farther afield, to where the real plotting will take place.” “And Carolan?”
“I don’t know. 1 want to protect her.” “So do I. But you’ll need support. She’s the tool you’ll have to use.”
“1 know. I know. A quandary. That’s why I asked you here. She insisted I talk to you.”
“Why not ask her what she wants? She’s got her feet onthe ground. She’s thought about it “Carolan wanted to be Queen So the Captal chose to betray his homeland for the sakes of a six-year-old and a woman who should have been his enemy.
SIX: The Mercenaries
I) A matter of discipline
“Looks just like army,” said Mocker, as he and Ragnarson descended the slope of the valley where Blackfang and Kildragon had established their trai
ning camp. The River Porthune was near, and beyond it, Kendel, northernmost of the Lesser Kingdoms.
They were a week behind Blackfang. It had taken Bragi that long to conclude his business and convince Uthe that he and Dahl dared return to Elana unaccompanied. He had finally explained the situation fully, trusting Uthe’s discretion. Even then Bragi had been forced to compose a long explanatory letter admonishing Elana and Bevold to cooperate with the Minister’s agents.
“Uhn.” Ragnarson grunted. “A baby one. Or an overgrown street gang.” He had been sour for days. First, Mocker had insisted on coming south. Bragi would rather he were in charge at home. Elana was unpredictable. Bevold had no imagination. And the two were sure to feud.
His last hope of evading the Kavelin committment had evaporated when Royalist rowdies, at the gate of Itaskia’s citadel, had murdered Duke Greyfells.
The shock waves were still rattling windows and walls. A quiet little war between Haroun’s partisans and those of El Murid, in the ghetto, was no cause for excitement. But an assassination...
Half of Itaskia had gone into shock. The other half had gone on a witchhunt.
“Look what Reskird’s recruited. Children.” Ragnar-son indicated a line of young swordsmen being drilled by a grizzled veteran.
“Self,” Mocker observed with a chuckle, “remember boy from icy northland, big as a horse, bald-chinned...”
“That was different. My father raised me right.”
“Hai!” Mocker cried. “‘Raised right,’ says he. As reever, arsonist, Her in ambush...”
Bragi was in no mood for banter. He didn’t argue. He continued surveying the encampment. The area occupied by Kildragon’s trainees pleased him. They had even put up a log stockade behind a good deep ditch.
But the Trolledyngjan camp was a despair. He had seen better among savages. This had come on recently, too. There had been no sloppiness when they had camped at his place.
“The families. We’ll have to do something, or there’ll be trouble. First time some girl gets caught in the puckerbushes with an Itaskian...”
“Self, am no expert... Hai! Such strange expression. Am, admittedly, expert in most things, being genius equal to girth, but even for genius of such breadth, self, all things not known. But don’t tell. Public thinks fat old reprobate infallible, omniscient, near divine in wisdom.”