Glen Cook - An Ill Fate Marshalling

„Ah. Put that together and it sounds like a blow by the Guild against one of its own."

„What? Oh. I see. High Crag is west, and it overlooks the sea. No. I think my stab in the dark hit closer to the mark. He remembers his father. Or creator, if you will. The memory fits what's known of Norath."

„Why Liakopulos?"

„1 don't know. Usually you ask who would benefit. In this case I can't think of a soul. The General has no enemies."

„Somebody was willing to make a big investment in getting rid of him."

„The obvious conclusion would be Shinsan. But they're trying to get along. They're flashing the hand of friendship. And assassination isn't their style."

„Somebody trying to frame them? Somebody who doesn't want peace?"

Varthlokkur shrugged. „I couldn't name a soul who would be ahead by maintaining a state of tension."

„Matayanga. Michael's rebel friends in Throyes."

„I doubt it. Too much risk in the backlash if they got found out. And he did come from the west, not the east."

Ragnarson shook his head. „I'm getting groggy. I can't get anything to add up. Liakopulos just isn't that important. Valuable to me because he's a genius at training soldiers, but that don't especially make him a threat to anybody else. ... I can't go on with this now. It's been a brutal day. Let me sleep on it."

„I'll have this taken back to Wachtel, then have Radeachar find its brothers and master. Check with me tomorrow."

Radeachar was the wizard's name for his creature. In the tongue of his youth it meant The One Who Serves. In the days when Ilkazar had been great, Radeachar had been the title given wizards who served with the Imperial armies.

„All right. Damn! It's going to take five minutes to get this old carcass of mine moving."

As Ragnarson turned to leave, a shadow in the courtyard gateway withdrew. The silent observer had remained unno­ ticed even by the wizard's servitor. He vanished into the Palace halls.

Ragnarson took a couple of steps, paused. „Oh. I been meaning to ask you. The name, or title, or whatever you want to call it, of The Deliverer mean anything to you?"

Varthlokkur started as if stung. Stiffly upright, he faced the King. „No. Where did you hear that?"

„Around. If it don't mean anything, how come you're acting like. ..."

„How I act is my concern, Ragnarson. Never forget that. Forget only that you ever heard that name. Do not speak it again ever, anywhere near me or mine."

„Well, excuse me, your cranky-assed wizardness. But I got a job to do around here and anything that might affect Kavelin is damned well my business. And you and seven gods aren't going to tell me different when I think there's something I got to do."

„The thing you mentioned, whatever it might be, has nothing to do with you or Kavelin. Expunge it from your mind. Go, now. I have nothing more to say."

Bemused, Ragnarson forced his weary legs to carry him toward the kitchens. What the hell was with the wizard these days? The old grouch knew a damned sight more than he wanted to let on.

Concern began to fade. His stomach nagged. It was a hollow pit demanding something more before the body was permitted its rest.

He was trudging down a poorly lighted hallway, still frowning and slithering around thoughts about Varthlokkur's weirdnesses, when something crinkled be­ neath his foot. By night the castle was lighted only by a few fat-fueled lamps. One could barely see. One of his little economies.

The odd sound registered late. Bragi stopped, turned back, spotted the wrinkled piece of paper. Penstrokes marked it. Paper was a scarce commodity. It did not get wasted. Someone must have lost it. He picked it up and carried it to the nearest lamp.

Someone had written names in a terrible hand. Bragi could scarcely decipher some. The author's spelling wanted something, too.

LICOPOLUS with a check mark behind it, and the mark scratched out. ENREDSON. ABACA. DANTICE. TRIBILCOK. In another grouping, as if set aside, were the names Varthlokkur, Mist, and others of his supporters. The names of the three soldiers all had stars in front of them.

He leaned against the wall, sleep forgotten. He smoothed and folded the paper and slipped it into a pocket inside his jacket.

His three top soldiers first. Why? And why was his own name not on the list?

He thought about taking the paper back to Varthlokkur, decided it could wait. He resumed his stalk of the kitchens, muttering, „Bet the old spook-pusher doesn't find anything. The man running them was right here in the castle."

Something began nagging him. It took him a minute to recognize the crabbing of his survival instinct. That note! It could indict him as easily as the next guy. It could have been left for him to find.

He got it out, opened it again, stared, started to stick it into the nearest torch. Then he had an idea. He tore out the names Trebilcock and Varthlokkur and burned the rest. He would let Michael and the wizard follow up on their fragments.

The cooks had nothing but more cold chicken. He sat in a brooding silence, eating slowly.

Somewhere in the halls, approaching, a voice. „She said, ‘Oh, Gales, you can loan me a crown. You got a good job.' I said ‘Shit.' Yeah. I ain't lying. They know you got one penny... . She said, ‘Gales, loan me a crown.' I said, ‘Ain't this some shit.' Yeah. Young woman, too. Fine looking woman. ‘Gales, you got a good job.' I said, ‘Ain't this a bitch.'"

The sergeant stalked by the doorway. Accompanying him was a young Guardsman wearing the look of a man hard pressed to keep from laughing at someone.

„Yeah," Ragnarson murmured. „Ain't this a bitch."

Year 1016 AFE; Victory Ball

The musicians made their instruments tinkle and whine and moan. Couples swept across the floor of the great hall, dancing. Ragnarson ignored both music and dancers. Derel Prataxis had come home, and had dashed from his quarters to the Victory Day festivities as soon as he had freshened up. Every chance he could, Ragnarson murmured with his emissary.

„He's absolutely sincere," Prataxis said of Lord Hsung. „He wants peace and friendship. He has that way about him. Meaning every word he says. Tomorrow he may say the opposite, and with the same fervent sincerity. It's a rare talent. It pulls you in and makes you one of his intimates. It makes you feel like he's letting you in on big things. It works so well he can trap you even when you know what's happening."

„I knew a man who did that with women," Bragi mur­ mured. „They bought it even when they knew what he was after."

Ragnarson had briefed the wizened scholar about the strange things that had happened in his absence, finally asking, „You hear anything over there about somebody called The Deliverer?"

„I heard a whisper. Nothing more. Something that has the Tervola gritting their teeth and shivering. But nothing even a little concrete. Associated with the far east. Of Shinsan. I believe."

„Curious. How might it involve Varthlokkur?"

„You'd have to ask him."

„I did. He wouldn't talk about it."

Prataxis was more intrigued by Varthlokkur's inability to locate the master of Liakopulos's attackers. The matters of Mist, Dantice, and Trebilcock he dismissed as predictable restlessnesses. He was even more interested in the contactwith Yasmid's agent, which Bragi shared with him despite Habibullah's admonition.

„That's interesting. Because Hsung has a plan which meets the spirit of his orders but also forwards Shinsan's ancient urge toward western dominion."

Bragi held up a finger. He made a brief show of interest in the celebration. Inger was out mingling with Kavelin's noblest Nordmen ladies. She awarded him one of her remarkable smiles. He winked back. „Okay, Derel."