Octobers Baby (8 page)

That country, rugged, waterless badlands in which small bands of horsemen would be difficult to find, was suited to Haroun’s style. It was the same country in which the last Royalists had held out after El Murid’s ascension to power.

Haroun’s goal was obvious. He wanted a springboard fora Royalist Restoration. Which explained the presence of El Murid’s raiders here. They wanted to spoil the scheme. The western states, long plagued by El Murid and weary of supporting rowdy colonies of Royalist refugees, would, if Haroun could manage it, gleefully support a fiat.

Haroun’s letter continued. Bragi read it out of a sense of debt to Rolf, but he had made up his mind. Haroun would not drag him in this time. Yesterday’s action, and his wounded leg, were all the adventure he wanted. Haroun could find another catspaw.

Haroun always talked fine and promised the moon, but seldom came near delivering.

The only crown Bragi felt likely to win, if he went to Kavelin, was the kind delivered with a mace.

IV) Knives in passing

Another dawn. Behind them the Trolledyngjan women were striking camp. Bragi, Mocker, Haaken, and Blackfang’s staff, were already under way. Uthe Haas, and Dahl, rode with Bragi, ostensibly to help with his business in Itaskia, but, he suspected, more as Elana’s watchers. He had not had the strength to argue. His wound and another evening of drinking had washed the vinegar out of him.

“Why don’t you just ride along till we meet up with Reskird?” Blackfang asked. “He’ll want to swap a few lies, too. Been years since we’ve all been together.”

Reskird Kildragon was in the hills somewhere south of the Silverbind, near Octylya, training bowmen for service in Kavelin. These were prosperous times in Itaskia. Kildragon had been able to recruit few veterans. The youngsters he had assembled were all raw, with the customary, bullheaded Itaskian predilection for using their weapons their own ways. Bragi didn’t envy Reskird his job.

“I’ll think about it.” He wanted to say, “No,” but he would hear about that all the way to Itaskia. And if he indulged his emotions and agreed, he would hear about it from Uthe. “Ought to ride ready. Might be ambushed.”

The ambush didn’t come till after he had wearied of staying alert. The least likely place, he thought, was Itaskia itself. El Murid’s men would be too obvious there.

He overlooked the national prosperity that had eased suspicions. He was telling Dahl an exaggerated tale as they, Uthe, Mocker, Haaken, and two others entered Itaskia’s North Gate. The city watch had insisted that the main party remain outside, Trolledyngjans and alcohol having a reputation for not mixing.

“It was here that business with the rats started,” said Ragnarson. “When Greyfalls tried to take over. I was over there, Mocker was up Wall that way, and Haroun was on that roof over there...”

Someone was watching from the same spot Haroun had occupied then, a dark-skinned man who vanished the instant Bragi spotted him. “Watch it,” said Ragnarson. “We’ve got friends here.”

“We’ll be all right on King’s,” Haaken replied.

“Damned rules. Laws,” Ragnarson growled. “Don’t know if I want to see the Minister this bad.” He slapped his thigh where, till the gate guards had compelled him to check it, his sword had hung. The only personal weapons allowed were blades shorter than eight inches. “Wasn’t this way in the old days.”

“There was more killing then, too,” Uthe observed.

“Fallacy,” Mocker interjected. “Same number ca-davers in gutter mornings, now as then. Holes just smaller. Self, if decide man wants murdered, will dispose of same. Can exterminate with hands, ropes, rocks, bludgeons...”

“Maybe,” Uthe replied, “but it’s inconvenient, not being able just to grab a sword and stick him.”

They crossed Wall Street and entered King’s, a busy artery sweeping grandly to the heart of the city and kingdom with identical names. Bragi had convinced his companions that they should take rooms near the Royal Palace, where he had business.

In New Haymarket Square in New Town, only a few hundred yards from North Gate, the blow fell.

Two men, dusky and hawk-nosed, exploded from a throng watching a puppet show, hurled themselves at Ragnarson and Mocker with daggers and screams.

The dagger thrust at Ragnarson slid over the mail beneath his sleeve as he threw up an arm, then slashed up his chest and along his jaw. His beard kept the gash from being nasty. He brought his right hand across to strike back. His horse, spo. oked, reared and neighed wildly, dumping him. As he went down he saw Mocker doing the same, heard the screams and squeals of panicky on-lookers. Then his head hit cobblestones.

Mocker had a moment more to react. He threw himself, robes flying, off his donkey. His attacker plunged his dagger into an empty saddle. As the assassin bounced back, Dahl Haas kicked him in the temple.

Mocker came up off the pavement shrieking, “Murder!

Watch! Help! Help!” He plumped his considerable weight atop the man Dahl had kicked, began strangling him. “Murder! Dastardest dastard attacks poor old mendicant in middle of street in middle of day... What kind city this where even poor traveler is prey for assassin? Help!” Which only spurred bystanders to flee before they themselves were butchered or nabbed as material witnesses.

Several city watchmen turned up with amazing alacrity-as everywhere, they were wont to appear only after the dust settled and there was little danger to themselves-but were unable to get through the dis-persing crowd.

Haaken, Uthe, and Blackfang’s bodyguards piled onto the man who had attacked Ragnarson. Dahl tried to control the horses while complaining that his foot hurt.

The police finally sorted things out. A half-dozen bolder onlookers, who had hung on for the denouement, supported Blackfang’s story. Despite an obvious desire to arrest everyone, the officers settled for two battered would-be assassins and Haaken’s promise to file a complaint.

Mocker and Dahl then brought Ragnarson around. “Damn!” Bragi growled. “I’m going to start sleeping in a helmet, way my head’s getting smacked anymore.” He struggled to his feet, cursing the pain. Dahl and Mocker hoisted him into his saddle. “One thing. I’m going to see the Minister while I’m still hurting. That’ll keep me ornery enough to growl him down.”

“Or get yourself thrown out,” Haaken observed. “But it won’t hurt to stop off. I’ll get my excuses in ahead of time. Moving that gang of mine is touchy. Can’t let them get our passes revoked. The Guild wouldn’t help.”

“Good thinking. Mocker, you need to take care of anything there?”

The fat man shrugged. “Self, always have business at Ministry of War. Ministry has evil habit. Late payment on contracts. No interest, no penalty. Owes guineas six hundred twelve, four and six, on salt pork supplied for winter maneuvers on Iwa Skolovdan border. But let poor old pig farmer be hour late delivering same. Hai! Skyfalling, maybe, self thinks when agent shows up threatening repossession of soul.” He laughed. “Can have same. Is already in hock to six devils. Take to Debtor’s Court, scoundrelest scoundrels of state collectors! See who wins case.” He flashed an obscene gesture at the Royal Palace.

V) Secret master, silent partner

The War Minister was a small man, wizened, who had been ancient when Bragi had met him years earlier. Now, within the plush vastness of his private office, he seemed so small and old as to be inhuman.

“So,” said Ragnarson. “The heart of the web. Comfortable. Good to see my taxes well-spent.” Times past, because of their nature, their conferences had been held in less opulent surroundings.

“Rank and privilege, as they say.” The old man extended his hand.

Ragnarson frowned suspiciously. This was going too smoothly. He hadn’t been kept cooling his heels. “You’d think I had an appointment.”

“In a sense. Make yourself comfortable. Brandy?”

“Uhn.” Ragnarson sank into a chair that threatened to devour him. He was not a poor man, but brandy was beyond his means. “Looks like you got something on your mind too.”

“Yes. But your business first. And pardon me for skipping the amenities. Time presses.”

Ragnarson sketched recent events.

“Oh, my,” said the. Minister, shaking his head. “Worse than I thought. Worse. And sure to get worse still. Dear me, dear me. But they wouldn’t listen. Told me to forgive and forget, not to hold grudges.”

“What’re you talking about?”.

“Greyfells. They brought him back. Inland Ministry. Wouldn’t listen to me. Even moved Customs to his control.”

“What? No! I don’t believe it.” The Duke of Greyfells, as near an arch-traitor as was boasted by Itaskian history, back in favor? Astounding.

But Greyfells was a bouncer. During the wars, while commander of Itaskian expeditionary forces and prime candidate for supreme commander of the allied armies, he had been in touch with El Murid, plotting treason. Only astonishing victories by Haroun’s Royalist guerrillas, with the aid of Trolledyngjan mercenaries and native auxiliaries, in Libiannin and Hellin Daimiel, had forced Greyfells to maintain his loyalty.

Later, there had been plots to seize the Itaskian Crown. Greyfells, once, had been in the succession. Haroun, Mocker, and Ragnarson had ruined his schemes. One of the favors done the War Minister. Greyfells had renounced his place in the succession to evade the embarrassment of a treason trial.

“Politicians!” Bragi snorted into his snifter. The Duke kept complicating his life, and Itaskia’s, and he was getting tired of it. How many times would the man reach for the throne?

“My Lord the Duke has bounced back,” said the Minister. “My people at Interior think he’s in touch with his old accomplice. They’ve struck a devil’s bargain. El Murid to support Greyfells’ next power grab. And Greyfells to keep Itaskia out of the next war, and refuse passage to troops from our northern neighbors. You know what that means. Hellin Daimiel, Cardine, and Libiannin still haven’t recovered. Dunno Scuttari and the Lesser Kingdoms never were powerful. Sacuescu couldn’t keep a gang of old ladies from plundering the Auszura Littoral. El Murid would be at the Porthune and gates of Octylya in a month. There’ll be a catastrophe if Greyfells has his way. And he probably will. He grows more golden-tongued with the years. The King no longer hears his critics.”

“Then my days are numbered,” said Ragnarson. His dreams were smoke if Greyfells was back. Inland oversaw the management of Royal Grants even when their original issuance was under the purvue of War. Greyfells would find an excuse to revoke his charter.

“True,” said the Minister. “He’s working on it. The raid demonstrates it. That, which came to my attention only yesterday, was meant to rid Greyfells of a pain in the neck, and El Murid’s side of a potential thorn.”

“Politics don’t interest me,” said Ragnarson. “That’s a well-known fact. All I ever wanted from politicians was for them to leave me alone.”

“But there’s your friend, the Royalist, and your talent for warfare. Your friend’s a threat to El Murid. That makes you a threat.”

“I’m just one man...”

“And not that important from where I sit. But important in some minds. And in the mind is reality. It’s no objective thing. You pose a threat if only because they think you do. You aren’t the sort who won’t fight back.”

“No. Where do you stand?”

“I always stand opposite Greyfells. And this time, behind your friend. This isn’t to leave this room. The Ministry has been making available certain aid. Funds for which we aren’t accountable, and weapons. This may have to stop. But I’ll remain behind your friend. His success would delay war, maybe prevent it...”

The Minister’s secretary appeared. “Your Lordship, there’s a gentleman who insists on seeing this gentleman.” His nose wrinkled. Ragnarson glanced down to see if he had forgotten to shake the horse manure off his boots.

Blackfang rolled in. “Bragi, one of my lads says they raided your place again. My people caught them. Got most of them. What you want to do?”

For a long time Ragnarson said nothing. Guards came to drag Blackfang away, but the Minister shooed them off. Finally, Bragi said, “I’ll let you know in a minute. Wait outside.” After Blackfang and the secretary departed, he asked, “What would happen if Greyfells were assassinated?”

The Minister frowned thoughtfully behind steepled fingers. “They’d want heads. Yours if they connected you. His son would take his place.”

“If both were to go?”

“He has four sons. Peas from a pod. Chips from the block. But it’d buy a few months. And get the kingdomturned upside down. How many people at your place? Better think about them.” “I am.”

“Something could be arranged... If I could get them to safety?...”

“You’d have a corpse. I hate to lose the place, but it looks like I’m damned no matter what.”

“Keeping it could be fixed. Yourgrant runs to the river. That puts it in a military zone. I could take it over till this blows away. I’ll have to put troops in anyway, if you and your eastern friend leave a forty-mile gap unpatrolled. If I don’t, I’ll have the north woods thick with bandits from Prost Kamenets, and trade with Iwa Skolovda cut off. But getting you, and your eastern friend, off the hook would take some doing. You might have to stay away for years.”

“I think,” said Ragnarson, “I’ll have to do that anyway. To get help reaching Greyfells.” He was on the edge of decision. He knew where to buy the knife, but the price would be playing Haroun’s game in Kavelin.

“We’ll meet tomorrow, then. Where’re you staying?” “King’s Cross, but I may move. We had some trouble in New Haymarket. Greyfells might try to have us arrested.”

“Uhm. Charge would only have to stick till something regretable happened in the dungeons. He’s foxy. All right. Wansettle Newkirk, ten in the morning. You know it?”

“I can find it.”

“Good luck then.”

Ragnarson rose, shook the Minister’s hand, joined Blackfang. He remained uncommunicative the rest of the day.

FIVE: Their Wickedness Spans the Earth

I) But the evil know no joy