All Darkness Met (7 page)

“What do you think? Would it be better to give them a barony or two? One of the nonhereditary titles we created after the war?”

“You could always nationalize later-when you think you can whip them heads up.”

“If we pay there won’t be much left for emergencies.”

“Commission renewal is almost here. There won’t be much favorable sentiment in the Thing.”

“Ain’t much in my heart, either.” Ragnarson watched the sun play peekaboo through the leaves. “Hard to convince myself we need them when we haven’t had any trouble for seven years. But the army isn’t up to anything rough yet.”

The real cost of the war had been the near-obliteration of Kavelin’s traditional military leadership, the Nordmen nobility. Hundreds had fallen in the rebellion against Fiana. Hundreds had been exiled. Hundreds more had fled the kingdom. There was no lack of will in the men Bragi had recruited since, simply an absence of command tradition. He had made up somewhat by using veterans he had brought to Kavelin back then, forming several sound infantry regiments, but the diplomatically viable military strength of the state still hinged on the Guild presence. Their one regiment commanded more respect than his native seven.

Kavelin had greedy neighbors, and their intentions, what with three national leaderships having changed within the year, remained uncertain.

“If I could just get the Armaments Act through....”

Soon after war’s end Fiana had decreed that every free man should provide himself with a sword. Ragnarson’s idea. But he had overlooked the cost. Even simple weapons were expensive. Few peasants had the money. Distributing captured arms had helped only a little.

So, for years, he had been pushing legislation which wouldenable his War Ministry to provide weapons.

He wanted the act so he could dispense with the Mercenaries. The Thing wanted rid of the Mercenaries first. An impasse.

Bragi was finding politics a pain in the behind.

Reskird and Haaken returned, then Turran and Valther. Empty-handed. “That kid Trebilcock, and Rolf, got there first,” Reskird explained. “Tough old sow anyway.”

“Sour grapes?” Bragi chuckled. “Valther, you heard anything from Mocker yet? Or about him?”

Most of a year had passed since he had sent the fat man south. He hadn’t heard a word since.

“It’s got me worried,” Valther admitted. “I made it top priority two months ago, when I heard that Haroun had left his camps. He’s gone north. Nobody knows where or why.”

“And Mocker?”

“Practically nothing. I’ve scoured the country clear to Sedlmayr. He never made it there. But one of my men picked up a rumor that he was seen in Uhlmansiek.”

“That’s a long way from Sedlmayr....”

“I know. And he wasn’t alone.”

“Who was he with?”

“We don’t know. Nearest thing to a description I have is that one of them was a one-eyed man.”

“That bothers you?”

“There’s a one-eyed man named Wilis Northen, alias Rico, who’s been on my list for years. We think he works for El Murid.”

“And?”

“Northen disappeared about the right time.”

“Oh-oh. You think El Murid’s got him? What’re the chances?”

“I don’t know. It’s more hunch than anything.”

“So. Let’s see. Mocker goes to see Haroun. El Murid’s agents intercept him. Question. How did they know?”

“You’ve got me. That bothers me more than where Mocker is. It could cost us all. I’ve tried every angle I can think of. I can’t find a leak. I put tagged information through everybody who was there when we conned Mocker into going. Result? Nothing.”

Ragnarson shook his head. He knew those men. He had bet his life on their loyalties before.

But the word had leaked somehow.

Had Mocker told anybody?

Thus the spy mind works. There had to be a plot, a connection. Coincidence couldn’t be accepted.

Habibullah hadn’t had the slightest idea of Mocker’s mission. He had simply set his agents to kidnap a man, acting on news, which was common talk in the Siluro quarter, that he was traveling to Sedlmayr. Mocker had spread that story himself. The man in black had other resources.

“Keep after it. In fact, get in touch with Haroun’s people.”

“Excuse me?”

“Haroun has people here. I know a little about your work. I’ve done some in my time. Admit it. You know them and they know you. Ask them to find out. Or you could go through our friends from Altea. They’re in direct contact. Even if you find out they don’t know anything, we’re ahead. We’d know Mocker didn’t reach the camps. Oh. Ask the Marena Dimura. They know what’s happening in the hills.”

“That’s where I got my Uhlmansiek rumor.”

The Marena Dimura were the original inhabitants of Ravelin, dwelling there before Ilkazar initiated the wave of migrations which had brought in the other three ethnic groups: the Siluro, Wessons, and Nordmen. The semi-nomadic Marena Dimura tribes kept to the forests and mountains. A fiercely independent people-though they had supported her during the civil war-they refused to recognize Fiana as legitimate monarch of Kavelin. Centuries after the Conquest they still viewed the others as occupying peoples.... They put little effort into altering the situation, though. They took their revenge by stealing chickens and sheep.

It was early spring. The sun rolled west. The afternoon breeze rose. The air grew cooler. Shivering, Bragi announced, “I’m heading back to town. Be damned cold by dark.” It would take that long to get home.

Prataxis and Valther joined him. They had work to do.

“You ought to go see your wife sometime,” Ragnarson told Valther. “I had a wife who looked like that, I wouldn’t go out for groceries.”

Valther gave him an odd look. “Elana isn’t bad. And you leave her alone all the time.”

Guilt ragged Ragnarson’s conscience. It was true. His position was opening a gulf between him and Elana. And he hadn’t only neglected her. The children, too, were growing up asstrangers. He stopped chiding Valther. The man’s marriage was even more successful than Mocker’s.

“Yeah. Yeah. You’re right. I’ll take a couple days off soon as I get the new armaments thing lined up. Maybe dump the kids on Nepanthe and take Elana somewhere. There’s some pretty country around Lake Turntine.”

“Sounds perfect. And Nepanthe would love having them. She’s going crazy, bottled up with Ethrian.”

Nepanthe was staying at the Palace. There were no children her son’s age at Castle Krief.

“Maybe she should move out to my place?” Ragnarson’s family occupied the home of a former rebel, Lord Lindwedel, who had been beheaded during the war. It was so huge that his mob of kids, and servants, and Haaken when he stayed over, couldn’t fill it.

“Maybe,” Valther murmured. “My place would be better.” His wasn’t far from Ragnarson’s.

The head of an intelligence service doesn’t always tell his employer all he knows.

FIVE: A Traveler in Black

North of the Kratchnodians, at the Trolledyngjan mouth of the Middle Pass, stood the inn run by Frita Tolvarson. It had been in his family since the time of Jan Iron Hand. The main trade road from Tonderhofn and the Trolledyngjan interior passed nearby, spanned the mountains, formed a tenuous link with the south. For travelers it was either the first or last bit of comfort following or preceding a harrowing passage. There was no other hospice for days around.

Frita was an old man, and a kindly soul, with a child for almost every year of his marriage. He didn’t demand much more of his customers than reasonable payment, moderate behavior, and news of the rest of the world.

There was a custom at the inn dating back centuries. Every guest was asked to contribute a story to the evening’s entertainment.

Winding down from the high range, a path had been beaten in the previous night’s snow. The first spring venturers were assaulting the pass from the south. The path made a meandering ribbon of shadow once it reached the drifted moor, its depths unplumbed by the light of a low-hanging, full Wolf Moon. A chill arctic wind moaned through the branches of a few skeletal trees. Those gnarled old oaks looked like squatting giants praising the sky with attenuated fingers and claws.

The wind had banked snow against the north wall of Frita’s establishment. The place looked like a snowbound barrow from that direction. But on the south side a traveler could find a welcoming door.

One such was crossing the lonely moor, a shivering black silhouette against the moonlit Kratchnodians. He wore a darkgreat cloak wrapped tightly about him, its hood pulled far forward to protect his face. He stared down dully, eyes watery. His cheeks burned in the cold. He despaired of reaching the inn, though he saw and smelled the smoke ahead. His passage through the mountains had been terrible. He wasn’t accustomed to wintery climes.

Frita looked up expectantly as a cold blast roared into the inn. He put on a smile of welcome.

“Hey!” a customer grumbled. “Close the goddamned door! We aren’t frost giants.”

The newcomer surveyed the common room: There were just three guests.

Frita’s wife bade him quit gawking and offer the man something to drink. He nodded to his oldest daughter. Alowa slipped off her stool, quickly visited the kitchen for mulled wine. “No!” she told a customer as she passed him on her way to the newcomer. Frita chuckled. He knew a “yes” when he heard it.

The newcomer accepted the wine, went to crouch before the fire. “There’ll be meat soon,” Alowa told him. “Won’t you let me take your cloak?” Her blonde hair danced alluringly as she shook it out of her face.

“No.” He gave her a coin. She examined it, frowned, tossed it to her father. Frita studied it. It was strange. He seldom saw its like. It bore a crown instead of a bust, and intricate characters. But it was real silver.

Alowa again asked the stranger for his cloak.

“No.” He moved to the table, leaned forward as if to sleep on his forearms.

There’ll be trouble now, Frita thought. She won’t rest till she unveils the mystery. He followed her to the kitchen. “Alowa, behave yourself. A man deserves his privacy.”

“Could he be the one?”

“The one what?”

“The one the Watcher is waiting for?”

Frita shrugged. “I doubt it. Mark me, girl. Let him be. That’s a hard man.” He had caught a glimpse of the man’s face as he had turned from the fire. Fortyish, weathered, thin, dark-eyed, dusky, with a cruel nose and crueler lines around his mouth. There was a metallic sound when he moved. The worn hilt of a sword protruded through the part in his cloak. “That’s no merchant trying to be first to the prime furs.”

Frita returned to the common room. It lay silent. Thehandful of customers were waiting for the newcomer to reveal something of himself and his business. Frita’s curiosity grew. The man wouldn’t push back his hood. Was his face so terrible?

Time passed, mostly in silence. The newcomer had dampened the mood that had prevailed earlier, when there had been singing, joking, and good-natured competition for Alowa’s favors. The stranger ate in silence, hidden in his hood. Alowa, gradually, moved from mystification to hurt. Never had she encountered a man so oblivious to her charms.

Frita decided the time for tales had come. His guests had begun drinking to fill the time. The mood was growing sour. Something was needed to lighten it before drink led to unpleasantness. “Brigetta, get the children.” Nodding, his wife rose from her needlework, stirred the younger children from their evening naps and the older from the kitchen. Frita frowned at the youngsters when they began playing with one of the traveler’s dogs.

“Time for tales,” he announced. There were just seven people at the table, including himself. Two of the others were his wife and Alowa. “A rule of the house. Not required. But he who tells the best pays no keep.” His eyes lingered on the one they called the Watcher, a small, nervous, one-eyed rogue. He had arrived nearly a year ago, in company with a gentleman of means, who had behaved like a fugitive. The gentleman had left the Watcher and had hurried northward as if his doom pursued him. Yet nothing had ever come of it.

Frita didn’t like the Watcher. He was a sour, evil, small-minded little man. His only redeeming feature was a fat purse. Alowa made him pay for what she gave everyone else freely, and hinted that his tastes were cruel.

One guest said, “I’m from Itaskia, where I was once a merchant sailor.” And he told of grim sea battles with corsairs out of the Isles, with no quarter given nor taken. Frita listened with half an ear. The feud of Itaskia’s shipping magnates with the Red Brotherhood was a fixture of modern history.

The second visitor began his tale, “I once joined an expedition to the Black Forest, and there I heard this tale.” And he spun an amusing yarn about a toothless dragon who had terrible problems finding sufficiently delicate meals. The smaller children loved it.

Frita had heard it before. He hated to declare an old story the winner.

But, to his surprise, the Watcher volunteered a tale. He hadn’t bothered for months.

He stood, the better to fix his audience’s attention, and used his hands’ freely while speaking. He had trouble moving his left arm. Frita had seen it bare. He had taken a deep wound in the past.

“Long ago and far away,” the Watcher began, in the storyteller’s fashion, “in a time when elves still walked the earth, there was a great elf-king. Mical-gilad was his name, and his passion, conquest. He was a mighty warrior, undefeated in battle or joust. He and his twelve paladins were champions of the world till the events whereof I speak.”

Frita frowned, leaned back. A story new to him. A pity its teller had little feel for the art.

“One day a knight appeared at the gates of the elf-king’s castle. His shield bore an unknown coat of arms. His horse was twice as big as life and black as coal. The gate guards refused him passage. He laughed at them. The gates collapsed.”

Yes, Frita thought, it would make a tale in the mouth of a competent teller. The Watcher described the elf-king’s encoun-ter with He Who Laughs, after the stranger had slain his twelve champions. He then fought the king himself, who overcame him by trickery, but couldn’t kill him because of the unbreachable spells on his armor.