A Path to Coldness of Heart (20 page)

No one cared.

The traveler might be a rogue but he was a rogue who did his share. He had undertaken dangerous assignments without quibble. He had helped the injured when the hazards of travel overtook someone. He had a way with animals. Horses, in particular, were nervous in the thin, electric air of the high Jebal but they calmed down when he was around.

Oddly, not once did he hear anyone wonder if he was a spy. That would have been his own first suspicion of someone like himself.

Maybe that was because, in some way he did not recognize, he made it clear that he was something else.

“We need to get back to work,” one of the drovers said. “The Pig has noticed us lollygagging.”

The Pig was the lead drover, a partner in the enterprise. He was neither a bad man nor a harsh boss but he did have expectations. And was cursed with a face reminiscent of a porker.

Haroun looked for his own boss, the partner in charge of defense. He did not see the man. In any case, guards were free to wander and dilly-dally so long as they did not collect in one place.

Still, it was time to start doing things in a way that would leave no outstanding memories once the caravan broke up.

The enterprise would reform in a new shape, leaving some behind and gathering others, before it moved on into the desert. Haroun told some folks he meant to stay at Sebil el Selib. Others he told he would move on after he visited the holy places.

He hoped for confusion—or that no one would care.

There was no reason anyone should. He was just another traveler.

Muma accepted the balance of his pay. “What will you do now, Aza?” Aza being the name Haroun had worn while crossing the mountains.

“I don’t know. All I ever thought about, till now, was how to get here. This is the place where things begin. This is God’s home. This is the goal. I never thought about what to do next.”

The boy was surprised. “I always thought you knew exactly what you were doing. You seem like you’re more than just you.”

“That makes me a good actor, I guess. What about you?”

“I’ll stay with the caravan. Pig liked how I handled animals and stuff.”

“Good luck, then. I need to find a place to camp. I have some money, now. I can lay around a few days.” Telling fortunes and selling charms might not work here. Hardliners took literally El Murid’s declaration that such things were the handiwork of the Evil One.

Muma said, “The field below the New Castle is where pilgrims camp. Just ask for directions. And good luck, Aza.”

The boy left with a parting wave.

They had been close for weeks but Haroun had learned nothing about Muma, other than that he was dishonest about himself, too.

No matter. He was no threat.

Haroun found the ground reserved for pilgrims. The field was vast. Thousands had camped there in the past. Today there were only a few hundred. There was grazing for animals, water, and little of the stench common when too many people crowded into too small an area.

He got his tent up, used sticks from his cart to make a pen for his animals, then got busy making himself into a new man.

Travel had left him looking too much like the fellow who had murdered a wizard in al-Habor.

He discovered that he lacked sufficient firewood to build a cook fire.

Then the Invincibles arrived.

There were two. They were old. One lacked part of his right hand. The other had had the left side of his face ruined by a sword or ax. He was absent an ear and an eye. An island of bone shone where his left cheek ought to be. No doubt he and pain were long time brothers.

There was a specific form of address due these veterans but Haroun could not remember it. When they asked what he was doing here, he tapped his ears and shook his head. He pressed his tongue against the roof of his mouth and did not move it when he said, “I am a children entertainer. I came here hoping to see the Disciple for his blessing. Maybe God will see me here and restore my hearing.”

The Invincibles had him repeat himself several times. His story sparked neither commentary nor sympathy. They heard its like too often. They were going through the motions, bothering at all only because they were bored.

One of them probed Haroun’s possessions with little interest. The cards did not trouble him, nor did the dicing paraphernalia. He was apologetic. This was the only work he was fit for anymore. Haroun found nothing to offend him. The Invincible shrugged and turned away. The other man gestured at the empty fire pit.

“The wood seller is down where the banners are. He’s reasonable. If you want to collect your own he’ll tell you where that’s permitted.”

Haroun bowed and slurred, “A thousand thanks, Gracious One.”

The man frowned, then. “You look familiar. From a long time ago. Were you at Wadi el Kuf?”

Haroun could honestly answer, “No. But my father was.”

“Maybe that’s it.”

“Possibly. He’s gone now.” Thinking the man must have been a boy at the time if he was a survivor of that disaster.

The Invincible was inclined to visit further. His companion was not, though. He waved the ruined hand and strode away.

There was daylight left when Haroun got back from seeing the wood seller. His situation intimidated him. He would have to deal with a lot of people here. His time on the eastern littoral had not been preparation enough. He had spent too much of his life alone.

He would meet the challenge.

He would befriend other pilgrims, visit the shrines and the former monasteries now housing religious offices, and even go see the Malachite Throne.

His father had seen the Malachite Throne once. He had come within moments of killing the Disciple in front of it.

He would ask questions, as a pilgrim might, hoping to run into people who could not help showing off how much they knew.

He took a last look round in the twilight.

The only woman he ever loved was just half a mile away.

He wrestled the temptation to use the Power to spy. He knew better. Someone would be watching for a wakening of the Power where it was curst and condemned.

He had no need to hurry. He was safe. He was in the last place where anyone would expect to find the King Without a Throne.

†

CHAPTER TWELVE

YEAR 1017 AFE:

KAVELIN: SHADOW DANCING

N
athan Wolf and two Wesson men-at-arms awaited Babeltausque. Wolf introduced the soldiers as Erik and Purlef. Neither appeared to be especially bright. They would execute their assignments without wasted soul-searching.

Any man smart enough to look ahead had left the soldiering trade already.

They pushed into the Twisted Wrench. The place was moribund. It boasted three customers where sixty could crowd in. One had passed out at a table in back, amidst a copse of pitchers. The other two occupied a table for six between the bar and the doorway. They were awake but beyond being understood by one another or anyone sober.

There was no wait staff. The publican, a man about fifty, who had no outstanding physical characteristics, eyed the newcomers with both hunger and trepidation. He was desperate for business but recognized Nathan Wolf.

“What can I get you gents?”

“On me tonight,” Babeltausque told his companions. “Order up.”

Erik and Purlef were not slow to respond. Wolf was scarcely a beat behind.

“And for you, sir?”

“Tell me my choices while you draw for them.” The others had asked for dark ale.

“We’re not so fancy here as you’re probably accustomed to, sir. Especially in these times. We have the dark ale, small beer for the kiddies, and a piss pale barley beer mostly drunk by the women. We don’t get many of them or the kiddies. They mostly call theirs out.”

As though to underscore his statement a girl, maybe a young fourteen, shoved through the street door carrying a tin pail. She frowned as she looked around.

Babeltausque laid a crown on the bar. “I’ll try the barley beer.” He was not much of a drinker, which he found surprising himself, considering how he had been treated over the years. “Keep my friends topped up.” He watched the girl. She was small. He imagined the sweet nubbins beneath her rags, wondered if she had given it up yet.

She handed her pail to the barkeep along with some coins. The barkeep handed Babeltausque his tankard, then filled the pail with dark ale.

Babeltausque turned for a better look. The girl flinched away. She was frightened now. She took the pail and left as fast as she could go without spilling precious cargo.

Wolf set his mug down. “That was strange.”

The publican said, “That girl ain’t never been right.”

Erik said, “I figure she’ll be fine, she ripens up.”

Babeltausque faced the bartender. “Show me your hands.”

“Sir?” The man wanted to argue but recognized the sudden intensity of Babeltausque’s companions. “Customer is always right.”

Babeltausque considered the hands, saw nothing to suggest that the man was anything but a publican. “Reach over here. Both hands.”

The wizard took hold. Startled, the barkeep tried to pull away. He could not. Babeltausque smiled an ugly little smile. “Tell me about Colonel Gales.”

The publican’s gaze darted, possibly looking for help that would not come.

Wolf surveyed the bar. He said, “Erik, take the front door. Don’t let anybody in. Purlef, you make sure we get no surprises from the back.”

Babeltausque said, “Excellent, Mr. Wolf. Should there be an actual rescue attempt, take one villain for questioning. Barkeep. You must know more about the disappearance of the Queen’s man Gales than you admitted to Mr. Wolf earlier. I want to hear the rest now.”

The publican kept shaking his head, never making clear what he was denying. But Babeltausque did reach a disappointed conclusion.

The man truly knew nothing useful and lacked interesting suspicions as well.

Babeltausque let go. “That first crown is for your trouble and discomfort.” He produced another. “The drinks will be on this. Top us all off. Mr. Wolf, I was wrong. This gentleman knows less than we do.”

“Shit!”

“Include me in that sentiment.”

“Still a dead end.”

“Perhaps.” Babeltausque turned back to the bartender, who had filled all the mugs and now stood there shaking. “You recall the night in question? The drunk put on a show.”

“He pissed himself.”

“He did. Were any of your current clientele in here that night?”

The bartender started to shrug, flexed the fingers of his right hand, thought better of playing dumb. “The one in the back, there, I don’t think I ever seen before tonight. He was drowned drunk when he got here. His whole crew was. They ordered up all them pitchers and was working them hard when, all of a sudden, like a flock of pigeons, they up and swooped out. I guess they couldn’t get him woke up to go.”

Babeltausque had a feeling. “That would have been when?”

“Maybe ten minutes before you showed.”

About the time they exited Castle Krief. Interesting. “I see. How many were there?”

The barkeep looked back at the sleeping man’s table. “I see six pitchers. Each one ordered one. So five of them left.”

“How about these two?”

“They was probably here that night. They’re here every night. I don’t know where they get the money.”

“Mr. Wolf, please investigate the gentleman back there. I’ll talk to these two. Erik, Purlef, please remain alert. I’m sure we’re being watched. Someone else would have tried to come buy a drink by now, otherwise.”

Babeltausque had just planted himself with the drunks when Wolf said, “Sorcerer, I need you here.”

Though irked, Babeltausque got up and went. “What?”

Wolf got a fist full of hair, tilted the drunk’s head back.

“I see.”

“Looks like death on a stick.”

“Let me ask a few more questions.”

Babeltausque returned to the publican. “Did you recognize any of the men who came in with that fellow?”

Headshake. “I’m pretty sure they was from out of town. Maybe from Sedlmayr, out that way, the way they rolled their Rs.”

“I see. Thank you. Fill me up, please. This is actually rather a pleasant brew. You add just a pinch of ground rail bark, yes? Mr. Wolf? Erik? Purlef? Do you need topped up? No? And I thought I would be the lightweight. Sir. Tell me. Did yon fellow’s friends do any drinking themselves?”

“Like they wanted to float their kidneys. Like they wanted to get every pitcher empty in record time.”

“Excellent. You have been most helpful. Another crown for your trouble.”

As he settled down with the drunks Babeltausque realized he was enjoying himself. He could not recall the last time life was just plain fun.

He collected himself, grasped the near hand of the man to his right. The drunk started as though shocked. His eyes opened. He sat up straight. He gulped air, took a long drink, began muttering a prayer. He had been present the night of the kidnapping. He remembered the show. He was unaware that anything had happened to the drunk after he left the Twisted Wrench, nor did he know that Gales was anything but what he had pretended.

He had to labor through a half minute of grueling thought before he could name the current monarch—and then fell short by one.

The second man was the brother-in-law of the first. His wife had forced him to take that night off. He knew nothing at all.

The sorcerer announced, “We won’t get anything more here. Lead the way home, Mr. Wolf. Purlef, you and Erik support our new friend, there. I’ll follow along with a few spells readied.”

He watched Wolf calculate and conclude that those instructions made sense for a passage through potentially hostile territory.

Babeltausque turned to the publican. “In a few minutes someone will come in asking about us.” He produced a bronze medal with turquoise inlays. It weighed a good six ounces. “Give this to the man who appears to be in charge. And this paper should go to a companion who seems dim and doesn’t say much. And this crown is me buying them drinks, however much they want.” He rubbed the crown over the medallion and paper. “Don’t touch these again except to hand them over.”