All Darkness Met (6 page)

Having long ago slipped his bonds, he wheeled his mount and took off.

They must be ignorant of his past, he reflected as forest flew past. Otherwise they would’ve taken precautions. Escape tricks were one way he had of making his meager living.

He managed two hundred yards before the survivors noticed. The chase was on.

It was brief.

Mocker rounded a turn. His mount stopped violently, reared, screamed.

A tall, slim man in black blocked the trail. He wore a golden cat-gargoyle mask finely chased in black, with jeweled eyes and fangs. And while words could describe that mask, they couldn’t convey the dread and revulsion it inspired.

Mocker kicked his mount’s flanks, intending to ride the man down.

The horse screamed and reared again. Mocker tumbled off. Stunned, he rolled in the deep pine needles, muttered, “Woe! Is story of life. Always one more evil, waiting round next bend.” He lay there twitching, pretending injury, fingers probing the pine needles for something useful as a weapon.

Balfour and the one-eyed man arrived. The latter swung down and booted Mocker, then tied him again.

“You nearly failed,” the stranger accused.

Balfour revealed neither fear nor contrition. “They were good. And you’ve got him. That’s what matters. Pay Rico. He’s served us well: He deserves well of us. I’ve got to get back to Vorgreberg.”

“No.”

Balfour slapped his hilt. “My weapon is faster than yours.” He drew the blade a foot from its scabbard. “If we can’t deal honorably amongst ourselves, then our failure is inevitable.”

The man in black bowed slightly. “Well said. I simply meant that it wouldn’t be wise for you to return. We’ve made too much commotion here. Eyes have seen. The men of the woods, the Marena Dimura, are watching. It would be impossible to track all the witnesses. It’ll be simpler for you to disappear.”

Balfour drew his blade another foot. Rico, unsure what was happening, moved to where he could attack from the side.

The thin man carefully raised his hands. “No. No. As you say, there must be trust. There must be a mutual concern. Else how can we convert others to our cause?”

Balfour nodded, but didn’t relax.

Mocker listened, and through hooded eyes observed. His heart pounded. What dread had befallen him? And why?

“Rico,” the stranger said, “Take this. It’s gold.” He offered a bag.

The one-eyed man glanced at Balfour, took the sack, looked inside. “He’s right. Maybe thirty pieces. Itaskian. Iwa Skolovdan.”

“That should suffice till the moves have begun and it’s safe for you to return,” said the masked man.

Balfour sheathed his weapon. “All right. I know a placewhere no one could find us. Where they wouldn’t think of looking. You need help with him?” He nudged Mocker with atoe.

The fat man could feel the wicked grin behind that hideous mask. “That one? That little toad? No. Go on, before his friends hear the news.”

“Rico, come on.”

After Balfour and Rico had departed, the tall man stood over Mocker, considering.

Mocker, being Mocker, had to try, even knowing it futile.

He kicked.

The tall man hopped his leg with disdainful ease, reached, touched....

Mocker’s universe shrank to a point of light which, after a momentary brightness, died. After that he was lost, and time ceased to have meaning.

FOUR: Intimations

Ragnarson dismounted, dropped his reins over a low branch. “Why don’t you guys join me?” he asked as he seated himself against an oak. A cool breeze whispered through the Gudbrandsdal Forest, a Royal Preserve just over the western boundary of the Siege of Vorgreberg. “It’s restful here.”

He narrowed his eyes to slits, peered at the sun, which broke through momentary gaps in the foliage.

Turran, Valther, Blackfang, Kildragon, and Ragnarson’s secretary, a scholar from Hellin Daimiel named Derel Prataxis, dismounted. Valther lay down on his belly in new grass, a strand of green trailing from between his teeth. Ragnarson’s foster brother, Blackfang, began snoring in seconds.

This had begun as a boar hunt. Beaters were out trying to kick up game. Other parties were on either flank, several hundred yards away. But Bragi had left the capital only to escape its pressures. The others understood.

“Sometimes,” Ragnarson mused, minutes later, “I think we were better off back when our only problem was our next meal.”

Kildragon, a lean, hard brunet, nodded. “It had its good points. We didn’t have to worry about anybody else.”

Ragnarson waved a hand in an uncertain gesture, reflecting his inner turmoil. “It’s peaceful out here. No distractions.”

Kildragon stretched a leg, prodded Blackfang.

“Uhn? What’s happening?”

“That’s it,” said Bragi. “Something.” Peace had reigned so long that the first ripples, subtle though they were, had brought him worriedly alert. His companions, too, sensed it.

Valther grumbled, “I can’t put my finger on it.”

Everyday life in Vorgreberg had begun showing littlestutters, little stumbles. A general uneasiness haunted everyone, from the Palace to the slums.

There was just one identifiable cause. The Queen’s indisposition. But Bragi wasn’t telling anyone anything about that. Not even his brother.

“Something’s happening,” Ragnarson insisted. Prataxis glanced his way, shook his head gently, resumed scribbling.

The scholars of Hellin Daimiel took subservient posts as a means of obtaining primary source material for their great theses. Prataxis was a historian of the Lesser Kingdoms. He kept intimate accounts of the events surrounding the man he served. Someday, when he returned to the Rebsamen, he would write the definitive history of Kavelin during Ragnarson’s tenure.

“Something is piling up,” Bragi continued. “Quietly, out of sight. Wait!”

He gestured for silence. One by one, the others saw why. A bold chipmunk had come to look them over. As time passed and the little rascal saw no threat, he sneaked closer. Then closer still.

Those five hard men, those battered swords, veterans of some of the grimmest bloodlettings that world had ever seen, watched the animal bemusedly. And Prataxis watched them. His pen moved quietly as he noted that they could take pleasure in simple things, in the natural beauties of creation. It wasn’t a facet of their characters they displayed in the theater of the Palace. The Palace was a cruel stage, never allowing its actors to shed their roles.

The chipmunk finally grew bored, scampered away.

“If there was anything to reincarnation, I wouldn’t mind being a chipmunk next time around,” Turran observed. “Except for owls, foxes, hawks, and like that.”

“There’s always predators,” Blackfang replied. “Me, I’m satisfied here on top of the pile. Us two-leggers, we’re Number One. Don’t nothing chomp on us. Except us.”

“Haaken, when did you take up philosophizing?” Bragi asked. His foster brother was a taciturn, stolid man whose outstanding characteristic was his absolute dependability.

“Philosophizing? Don’t take no genius to tell that you’re in the top spot being people. You can always yell and get a bunch of guys to gang up on any critter that’s giving you trouble. How come there’s no wolves or lions in these parts anymore? They all went to Ipopotam for the season?”

“My friend,” said Prataxis, “you strip it to its bones, but it remains a philosophical point.”

Blackfang regarded the scholar narrowly, not sure he hadn’t been mocked. His old soldier’s anti-intellectual stance was a point of pride.

“We can’t get away from it,” said Ragnarson. “But the quiet may help us think. The subject at hand, my friends. What’s happening?”

Valther spat his blade of grass. While searching for another, he replied, “People are getting nervous. The only thing I know, that’s concrete, is that they’re worried because Fiana has locked herself up at Karak Strabger. If she dies...”

“I know. Another civil war.”

“Can’t you get her to come back?”

“Not till she’s recovered.” Bragi examined each face. Did they suspect?

He wished the damned baby would hurry up and the whole damned mess would get done with.

His thoughts slipped away to the night she had told him.

They had been lying on the couch in his office, on one of those rare occasions when they had the chance to be together. As he had let his hand drift lightly down her sleek stomach, he had asked, “You been eating too much of that baclava? You’re putting on a little....”

He had never been a smooth talker, so he wasn’t surprised by her tears. Then she whispered, “It’s not fat. Darling.... I’m pregnant.”

“Oh, shit.” A swarm of panic-mice raged round inside him. What the hell would he do? What would Elana say? She was suspicious enough already....

“I thought.... Doctor Wachtel said you couldn’t have any more. After Carolan you were supposed to be sterile.”

“Wachtel was wrong. I’m sorry.” She’d pulled herself against him as if trying to crawl inside.

“But.... Well.... Why didn’t you tell me?” She had been well along. Only skilled dress had concealed it.

“At first, I didn’t believe it. I thought it was something else. Then I didn’t want you to worry.”

Well, yes, she had saved him that, till then. Since, he’d done nothing but worry.

Too many people could get hurt: Elana, himself, his children, Fiana, and Ravelin-if the scandal became a cause celebre. Hespent a lot of time cursing himself for his own stupidity. And a little admitting that his major objection was having gotten caught. He’d probably go right on bedding her if he got through this on the cheap.

Before it showed enough to cause talk, Fiana had taken trusted servants and Gjerdrum and had moved to Karak Strabger, at Baxendala, where Ragnarson had won the battle Kavelin celebrated on Victory Day. Her plea of mental exhaustion wasn’t that difficult to believe. Her reign had been hard, with seldom a moment’s relief.

Horns alerted him to the present.

“Game’s afoot,” Kildragon observed, rising.

“Go ahead,” Bragi said. “Think I’ll just lay around here and loaf.”

Haaken, Reskird, Turran, and Valther were habituated to action. They went. They would get more relaxation from the hunt.

“And you, Derel?”

“Are you joking? Fat, old, and lazy as I am? Besides, I never did see any point to hounding some animal through the woods, and maybe breaking my neck.”

“Gives you a feeling of omnipotence. You’re a god for a minute. ‘Course, sometimes you get taken down a peg if the game gives you the slip or runs you up a tree.” He chuckled. “Damned hard to be dignified when you’re hanging on a branch with a mad boar trying to grab a bite of your ass. Makes you reflect. And you figure out that what Haaken said about us being top critter isn’t always right.”

“Can you manage this charade another two months?”

“Eh?”

“My calculations say the child will arrive next month. She’ll need another month to make herself presentable....”

Ragnarson’s eyes became hard and cold.

“Too,” said Prataxis, who hadn’t the sense to be intimidated, because in Hellin Daimie scholars could make outrageous, libelous remarks without suffering reprisals, “there’s the chance, however remote, that she’ll die in childbirth. Have you considered possible political ramifications? Have you taken steps? Kavelin could lose everything you two have built.”

“Derel, you walk a thin line. Take care.”

“I know. But I know you, too. And I’m speaking now only because the matter needs to be addressed and every eventualityconsidered. The Lesser Kingdoms have been stricken by deaths lately. Prince Raithel last year. He was old. Everybody expected it. But King Shanight, in Anstokin, went during the winter, in circumstances still questionable. And now King Jostrand of Volstokin has gone, leaving no one but a doddering Queen Mother to pick up the reins.”

“You saying there’s something behind their deaths? That Fiana might be next? My God! Jostrand was dead drunk when he fell off his horse.”

“Just trying to make a point. The Dark Lady stalks amongst the ruling houses of the Lesser Kingdoms. And Fiana will be vulnerable. This pregnancy shouldn’t have happened. Bearing the Shinsan child ruined her insides. She’s having trouble, isn’t she?”

It took a special breed not to be offended by the forthrightness of the scholars of Hellin Daimiel. Ragnarson prided himself on his tolerance, his resilience. Yet he had trouble dealing with Prataxis now. The man was speaking of things never discussed openly.

“Yes. She is. We’re worried.” We meant himself, Gjerdrum, and Dr. Wachtel, the Royal Physician. Fiana was scared half out of her mind. She was convinced she was going to die.

But Bragi ignored that. Elana had had nine children now, two of whom hadn’t lived, and she had gone through identical histrionics every time.

“To change the subject, have you thought about Colonel Oryon?”

“That arrogant little reptile? I’m half tempted to whip him. To send him home with his head under his arm.”

He found Balfour’s replacement insufferably abrasive. High Crag’s recent threat to call in Kavelin’s war debts had done nothing to make the man more palatable. And Bragi thought he was kicking up too much dust about Balfour’s disappearance.

Ragnarson wondered if that were related to High Crag’s threats. Though ranked General on its rosters, he had had little to do with the Mercenaries’ Guild the past two decades. High Crag kept promoting him, he suspected, so a tenuous link would exist should the Citadel want to exploit it. He wasn’t privy to the thinking there.

“Actually,” he said, “you’ve conjured enough into the Treasury to pay them off. They don’t know yet. My notion is, they want to do to us what they’ve done to some of the littlestates on the coast. To nail us for some property. Maybe a few titles with livings for their old men. That’s their pattern.”

“Possibly. They’ve been developing an economic base for a century.”

“What?”

“A friend of mine did a study of Guild policies and practices. Very interesting when you trace their monies and patterns of commission acceptance. Trouble is, the pattern isn’t complete enough to show their goals.”