A Path to Coldness of Heart (28 page)

Ekaterina asked, “Where does the old man fit? How come he worries you?”

That was a grownup question. “Because he was who he was. The Old Man.”

“The one who was missing here when you went to find him?”

“Yes. I thought he was dead.”

Nepanthe arrived, bringing lunch. Ethrian accompanied her, carrying Smyrena and a pail of small beer. The glow in front of Varthlokkur drew him.

He became quite animated. He pointed at the Old Man and chattered.

Varthlokkur said, “See that he doesn’t drop the baby.”

Unnecessarily. Both children did so automatically. Ekaterina said, “He says that’s the man who helped him get away when he was a prisoner, before he got turned into the Deliverer.”

“You understand him?”

“Sometimes. Not always.”

Varthlokkur was amazed. He had not realized that children often understood one another when adults heard only baby talk and half-formed word sounds.

He did not turn the moment into an interrogation. These kids would turn stubborn on principal. “That old man may be the key to the future. He’s in a bad place mentally but he could recover and help break the tyranny of the Star Rider.”

Nepanthe had come to look. “I thought he died.”

“We all did. We all thought wrong. Eka says Ethrian says he was the one who saved him on that island.”

“Does the Star Rider know he’s still alive?”

The wizard chuckled. “You all need to clear out so I can work without distractions.”

“Can it wait till after lunch?”

It could, of course, having waited so long. But Varthlokkur rushed, making no comment on Nepanthe’s effort. He had banged headlong into one of those rare moments when he could get excited again.

First thing, he had to recall the Unborn. The monster’s transit would take hours. So he went looking elsewhere while he waited.

There was fading excitement at Sebil el Selib, at the extreme range of what he could see. He missed some details. Some people thought they had been visited by the King Without a Throne but Varthlokkur found no sign of Haroun. Clearly, the incident had grown outsized because of deep fears and wishful thinking.

At Al Rhemish Megelin remained paralyzed by indecision. His advisers were content to let inaction prevail. Megelin had dragged the Royalist cause from one disaster to another. Enough. The chance that Haroun bin Yousif might return inspired a thousand hopes.

A sweep round Kavelin left Varthlokkur thinking that Mist’s plan to send Ragnarson home was pointless. Agricultural prospects had everyone outside Vorgreberg warmly optimistic. Inger’s influence continued to dwindle. Kristen’s was waxing. She and the younger Bragi, as custodians of the ideological flame, were attractive right now. The doyen Ozora made arguments the artisan and mercantile classes found irresistible.

Important men visited her by the score. Some had been regulars at Inger’s court as little as six months earlier.

Varthlokkur was tempted to ask Mist to keep Ragnarson locked up. But that might be residual animosity.

The wizard did not yet understand what had gotten into him, back when. His behavior had been irrational. He had done stupid things. So had Ragnarson. Had Old Meddler managed to twist their minds somehow?

Unlikely. Powerful though the Star Rider was, nothing suggested that he could do that. This was one of those cases where ascribing to malice or conspiracy was silly when plain old stupidity explained everything.

The looking consumed six hours. The Unborn was approaching the Dragon’s Teeth but would be two more hours in transit. Varthlokkur ate supper with Nepanthe, then returned to his long-range espionage.

He had time to take only a cursory survey but found peace and prosperity everywhere excepting for one family in Itaskia, whose properties were being seized and sold to satisfy debts undertaken to finance an adventure in Kavelin.

No new Greyfells strongman had emerged.

The Unborn arrived. Varthlokkur brought it into his Wind Tower workroom. Nepanthe would be upset when she heard. She loathed Radeachar. She was sure it would turn on them someday. She believed Radeachar’s nature would compel it to do so.

Varthlokkur knew the Unborn was a monster, but it was his monster. Every atom of evil in it was directed elsewhere. Wicked as Radeachar was, it remained an extension of the Empire Destroyer.

He overlooked its behavior while transporting Mist. He failed to acknowledge that his wife, wards, and children were not the Empire Destroyer himself.

He communed with Radeachar till well after midnight, then sent it out with a message for Mist.

He reflected on Radeachar’s reports. Something interesting might be moving under the surface in Kavelin. Folks had begun taking the Unborn into account.

...

The Empress was not visiting the Karkha Tower when the Unborn arrived. Candidate Lein She found the courage to deal with it once he understood that its behavior was not aggressive. It delivered a small wooden box addressed to the Empress. The identity of the courier declared the source of the box.

Lein She sent a man to the Empress’s headquarters. He carried a note suggesting that the Empire Destroyer could not follow her movements as closely as feared.

...

The lifeguards were too enthusiastic in their efforts to protect their Empress. They damaged the box, which had been handcrafted by Scalza. She was surprised that the boy’s effort moved her so.

The message from the wizard was important. So was that from Lein She.

Yes, it was important to keep the Old Man’s survival secret. And, yes, the Star Rider’s awareness, or lack thereof, could be tested.

Every means must be employed to help the Old Man reclaim his memory if he was so truly in revolt that the era of the Deliverer had been sparked by an act of defiance of his.

The Matayangan treaty was about to be finalized. There were no threats on any horizon. There was time for this and time for building something with her children.

†

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

YEAR 1017 AFE:

GHOSTS

“W
hat a stupid thing to do,” Haroun muttered again as he inventoried his travel gear. He had to move fast. They would surround the tent before they began the search. His only hope was to be gone before the cordon closed.

Why did he take that chance? Hearing her should have been enough.

He eased out into the evening via a prepared emergency exit. No one saw him. His destination was Barking Snake’s establishment, which was abandoned if the Disciple’s criminal servants were to be believed. He would hide there.

Why in God’s Name did she have to look up just then? And, for the hundredth time, what madness had brought him to Sebil el Selib?

It was dark now. He had encountered only one man, so far, who had offered only an indifferent, surly greeting in passing.

Where was all the excitement?

Yasmid must not have reported him.

Why not? Because he was her husband? Because she thought he was imaginary?

The Disciple had reported seeing a similar ghost.

A challenge. “Who is there?”

Damn!

They had left a watchman.

...

Yasmid glared at Ibn Adim ed-Din al-Dimishqi, who was frightened but refused to let her see that a woman could scare him.

She did see and savored it. The deaths among the elderly were God’s gift, without assistance. But let Ibn Adim fear the worst.

“I have a task for you, son of Adim,” Yasmid said. “It is well-suited to your detail-oriented nature.”

“As ever, I am here to serve.”

“Good. You have heard about the thievery in my father’s tent?”

“You were most compassionate, punishing only the one criminal.”

“Too much so. The corruption runs deeper than I thought. Some whom we believed to be righteous actually skimmed the take of lesser thieves.” Let him think she meant the men of action he so despised. “Go into my father’s tent. Examine the records. Find out where the money came from. Find out where it went. Create an exact and detailed inventory of everything stored there.”

“Lady? Could you be more specific?”

Yasmid thought she had been clear. “Over the years my father received thousands of gifts and untold treasure as his portion of booty. It all ended up in that moldering atrocity of a tent. There is no reliable inventory. Therefore, there is no way to know what was stolen.”

“I understand, Lady. That is something I can sink my teeth into. How much help will I have? How much leeway in questioning recalcitrant witnesses?”

“Consult me on a case by case basis. For assistance feel free to conscript any cleric not already handling an assigned task.” That would get the old men out of her hair.

“When shall I begin?”

“Up to you. Habibullah has warrants prepared. Inform me of any exceptional discoveries or outstanding efforts to obstruct you.”

The imam took his leave, accompanied by Habibullah.

Yasmid permitted herself a smug smile.

Ibn Adim would do her work. He would suffer the odium of the investigated while finding out if someone had been hiding in her father’s tent.

Even Habibullah thought she had suffered a seizure that night.

She was convinced that she had suffered a hallucination brought on by the swami’s talk about her father having seen the ghost of Haroun’s father.

It was all power of suggestion, rooted in what she thought she had heard from the pilgrim camp.

...

Being King of Hammad al Nakir meant suffering frustrations and indignities and things always going wrong. Megelin suspected that a diabolical force was thwarting him. It made his life uglier even when he did nothing.

The disaster on the salt lake should not have happened. He had failed through no fault of his own. The antiques who commanded his battalions did not carry out their orders. Those saboteurs. They undermined him all the time. He would be rid of them if he could.

Sadly, he dared do nothing obvious. Some had been around since his father was a pup. They were fixtures. The soldiers—the few who remained—considered them tutelary spirits.

Patience was his only tool. They must surrender to the inevitable soon enough.

But patience was not in Megelin’s nature.

And these rumors, prevalent since Magden Norath had been so stupid as to get himself killed, about his father’s return…? What to do? How to respond? True or false, they impacted everything, every day. The possibility that Haroun bin Yousif was out there touched every decision anyone made.

Megelin was not sure what he would do if his father did reappear. He understood that the Royalist faithful would let the man to do as he pleased and would support him. Haroun bin Yousif, despite his faults and failures, was now a demigod.

The question nagging Megelin, and anyone else who cared, was, where was the revenant king? Why did he not show himself?

As ever, Megelin obsessed about Norath’s death. He had witnessed nothing. He had been too thoroughly protected. But that creature he and Norath had been there to meet…

The Star Rider. The oldest villain of all. Possibly the Evil One incarnate. What had become of that wicked old troublemaker? Was he the one making everything go wrong? Was he still feeding the insanity of the Disciple? Why, then, meet Norath and himself? And why stay away now?

Megelin had expected to see the man again after the excitement of the murder subsided. Nothing ever happened.

Impotent in his own capital, amongst his own subjects, Megelin did nothing but brood. Alone. Always alone.

People were rigidly proper in his presence and accepted his every directive. But once they left his presence something happened. Even simple orders would not be executed properly. Because he would not go see for himself it was impossible to tell if insubordination was responsible.

The nearer people were to him the more pathetic Megelin seemed.

Thousands hoped the murder of Magden Norath was a good omen.

...

Haroun answered the challenge, “Mowfaq al-Tiriki. Tell Snake I’m back from Al Rhemish.”

The guard unshuttered a small lantern. He thought on his feet, too. “I’m new. Does Barking Snake know you?”

Haroun put suspicion into his voice. “Everyone knows al-Tiriki. Who are you? What’s going on?” He drew a knife, making sure the sound could be heard.

The guard responded by drawing a sword. “You are under arrest. In the name of the Disciple, drop the knife.”

“I don’t think so, pup.” Haroun backed away. A suitable clot of darkness presented itself. He stepped inside, released two small, prepared spells. One interfered with the guard’s eyesight. The other made it hard for any eye to fix on Haroun bin Yousif.

The guard became frustrated. He muttered. What should he do? Stick to his post? Run to his superiors?

Either choice could be wrong. He would be the goat whatever might go badly.

Haroun flitted from shadow to shadow, circling. He would not go to ground here, now, but might find something he could use. Not so, however. Just minutes proved that the Invincibles had cleaned the place out.

The sentry decided to report. Haroun retraced his approach. As midnight loomed he slipped back inside the Disciple’s tent. He went to his best hide and buried himself.

He fell asleep telling himself it was time to hatch a real plan. A passive life was not his style.

What a fool. He had endured so much to get here but had no fixed purpose now.

...

Elwas brought the man in, though he was a man mostly by reason of having done a man’s job. He was about fifteen. “Tell the Lady Yasmid.”

Sometimes mumbling, often stumbling, the boy told his story.

“Mowfaq al-Tiriki?” Yasmid asked Elwas.

“A senior lieutenant of Farukh al-Fadl. One of the criminals we haven’t yet caught.”

“You wanted me to know about it because?”

“Because al-Tiriki vanished as thoroughly as the pilgrim did.”

“The same man?”

“Probably not. Boy. You did say he was clean-shaven?”

“Almost. He had been shaved recently. I couldn’t tell much else in the dark.”

Yasmid thought the lad confident beyond his years. He had faced up to danger in the night. He was standing steadfast here. She would commend him to Elwas later.