Octobers Baby (11 page)

She collapsed into a chair. “I was a fool.”

“You won, though.”

“And came out too weak to go on. Drake, O Shing’s pet Tervola, Wu, is a demon. A genius. They almost overthrew me...”

“I’d heard. But you came back.”

“Drake, legions are fighting legions. Tervola are fighting Tervola. That’s never happened before. And Escalon... The Monitor was stronger than I thought. All I won was a desert. He even got the Tear of Mimizan out before the collapse. And a quarter of Shinsan is as lifeless as Escalon. I’m losing my grip. The Tervola are having second thoughts. They would’ve abandoned me already, except 1 managed a coup in the attack on Tatarian.” Once again, it seemed, he had joined a loser. “So you want the Gap as bride-price for their support?” She smiled weakly. “I don’t blame you. No more than the Tervola. We respect strength and ability. In your place, I’d wonder about me too.”

The Captal chuckled nervously. She had read his mind. “Can I sweeten the partnership?” So she was weak. Desperately so. “No Escalon. No conquest outright. Hegemony and disarmament. Suze-rainty without occupation...”

“A return to Empire?” she asked. “With Shinsan replacing Ilkazar?”

“Any rational man could see we need unity. The problem is questions of local sovereignty.”

“And how would you enforce my sovereignty?” The old man shrugged. “I’m not worried about the mules, just about loading the wagon. Agree in principle?” “All right. We’ll manage something. What about Kavelin?”

“The King’s sick. He’ll go soon. The scramble’s about to begin. The barons are forming parties. Breitbarth looks strong. El Murid and Volstokin are interested. Which means Itaskia and Altea and Anstokin... Well, you see the possibilities. I’m sending my winged men to watch my neighbors. I should send them farther afield, to where the real plotting will take place.” “And Carolan?”

“I don’t know. 1 want to protect her.” “So do I. But you’ll need support. She’s the tool you’ll have to use.”

“1 know. I know. A quandary. That’s why I asked you here. She insisted I talk to you.”

“Why not ask her what she wants? She’s got her feet onthe ground. She’s thought about it “Carolan wanted to be Queen So the Captal chose to betray his homeland for the sakes of a six-year-old and a woman who should have been his enemy.

SIX: The Mercenaries

I) A matter of discipline

“Looks just like army,” said Mocker, as he and Ragnarson descended the slope of the valley where Blackfang and Kildragon had established their training camp. The River Porthune was near, and beyond it, Kendel, northernmost of the Lesser Kingdoms.

They were a week behind Blackfang. It had taken Bragi that long to conclude his business and convince Uthe that he and Dahl dared return to Elana unaccompanied. He had finally explained the situation fully, trusting Uthe’s discretion. Even then Bragi had been forced to compose a long explanatory letter admonishing Elana and Bevold to cooperate with the Minister’s agents.

“Uhn.” Ragnarson grunted. “A baby one. Or an overgrown street gang.” He had been sour for days. First, Mocker had insisted on coming south. Bragi would rather he were in charge at home. Elana was unpredictable. Bevold had no imagination. And the two were sure to feud.

His last hope of evading the Kavelin committment had evaporated when Royalist rowdies, at the gate of Itaskia’s citadel, had murdered Duke Greyfells.

The shock waves were still rattling windows and walls. A quiet little war between Haroun’s partisans and those of El Murid, in the ghetto, was no cause for excitement. But an assassination...

Half of Itaskia had gone into shock. The other half had gone on a witchhunt.

“Look what Reskird’s recruited. Children.” Ragnar-son indicated a line of young swordsmen being drilled by a grizzled veteran.

“Self,” Mocker observed with a chuckle, “remember boy from icy northland, big as a horse, bald-chinned...”

“That was different. My father raised me right.”

“Hai!” Mocker cried. “‘Raised right,’ says he. As reever, arsonist, Her in ambush...”

Bragi was in no mood for banter. He didn’t argue. He continued surveying the encampment. The area occupied by Kildragon’s trainees pleased him. They had even put up a log stockade behind a good deep ditch.

But the Trolledyngjan camp was a despair. He had seen better among savages. This had come on recently, too. There had been no sloppiness when they had camped at his place.

“The families. We’ll have to do something, or there’ll be trouble. First time some girl gets caught in the puckerbushes with an Itaskian...”

“Self, am no expert... Hai! Such strange expression. Am, admittedly, expert in most things, being genius equal to girth, but even for genius of such breadth, self, all things not known. But don’t tell. Public thinks fat old reprobate infallible, omniscient, near divine in wisdom.”

“How about turning your omniscience to the point?”

Mocker did so, but Ragnarson paid little attention.

They entered the Trolledyngjan encampment. Ragnar-son’s nose rose. Trolledyngjans were notoriously undisci-plined and unfastidious, but this much filth meant deep trouble and a lack of leadership.

He heard angry voices. “May get to try your sug-gestion.”

“Uhn,” the fat man grunted. He, too, had been surveying the surly faces watching from tents and wagons. “Self, will keep hand to hilt.”

The voices proved to be those of Blackfang and a large, brutish young man, arguing amidst a mass of grumbling Trolledyngjans. With Mocker’s donkey in his wake, Bragi forced his mount into the press.

The onlookers moved reluctantly, with hard glares. How could Haaken have let it go this far?

Ragnarson thundered. “What the hell is this, Black-fang? A pigsty?” He studied the man facing his foster brother.

A brute. A young swine. But that was more in mind and manner than appearance. Not too bright, greedy, and a catspaw, Ragnarson guessed.

Blackfang saluted, replied, “A bit of difficulty explaining something, sir. Some folks think we ought to be raiding, not running off to some bird-in-the-bush Lesser Kingdom.”

“Eh? What kind of fool are you? You recruit suicides? Settle it. Thrash the lout, get this camp cleaned up, and report to my quarters.”

Blackfang’s antagonist could contain himself no longer. “Who’s this old swineherd muck-mouth, and where’s she get off giving orders to men?” Ragnarson wore Itaskian dress. “Are we slaves to every eunuch who rides in?...”

Ragnarson’s boot found his mouth. He looked up from the ground puzzledly, a finger feeling loosened teeth.

“Ten lashes,” Bragi said. “Special consideration so it won’t be said I spite the children of old enemies. But I’ll hang him next time.”

The man was about to spring. Discretion bit him. He frowned questioningly.

“Up, you,” Ragnarson ordered. “Which of Bjorn Thorfinson’s whelps are you?”

“Eh? Ragnar...”

“Ragnar? The gall of the man. But no matter. It’s an honorable name. Wear it with honor. There’s a saying, ‘Like father, like son.’ I hope it’s not true in your case. Blackfang, somewhere there’s a man with a purse full of gold. Someone who was poor when he left the north. Bring him when you report.”

He nudged his mount forward. Mocker followed, grinning hugely.

II) Child with the ways of a woman

Ragnarson had met the Trolledyngjans and Itaskians who were to be his staff. Though Kildragon had nominal control of the latter, a question of loyalties might arise. Most of the Itaskians were raw youths, but their officers and sergeants were obvious veterans, and almost as obviously the Minister’s hand-picked men, detached from regular service.

But the Trolledyngjans were the pressing problem. Their leaders were solid, experienced men who knew the lay of things. The young men had never seen a real war. They wanted to plunder the countryside, called wiser heads cowards for demurring. Their exposure to Itaskian military procedures had been sketchy. Wolf-strikes by coast-reevers gave the raiders no true picture of the capacity of the attacked.

“Reskird,” said Ragnarson, after a lot of useless talk, “clear your drill ground. Dig a trench down the middle, as wide and deep as you can in two hours. Arm your best men with shields and pikes. Scare up blunt arrows for the rest, and pad the tips. Blackfang will attack you in the Trolledyngjan fashion. We’ll give your youngsters some confidence and knock the cockiness out of Haaken’s.”

Kildragon, a dour man, replied, “Two birds, eh? Show them Itaskian firepower, they’ll lose interest in plunder. And we’ll build some mutual respect.”

“Right.” To the Trolledyngjan officers, Ragnarson said, “Push the Itaskians hard. Try to break them. Straight frontal attack, no tricks. See how they stand up...”

A racket approached. Blackfang stalked in, pushing a scared Trolledyngjan. “Here’s our gold man,” he growled. “Caught him trying to sneak into the hills.”

Ragnarson considered the youth, who had been one of Haaken’s bodyguards in Itaskia. “Took you long enough, and then you didn’t get the right one.”

“Eh? He had it when we caught him.”

“When did he get it? He was with us in Itaskia. Mocker?” The fat man nodded. “He ever give you any trouble before?”

“No.”

“Where’d you get it, Wulf?”

The soldier wouldn’t answer.

Blackfang drew back a fist.

“Self,” said Mocker, “being accustomed to use of brain instead of fist, would suggest is time for brainwork. Who does boy have for friends? Is friend rabble-rouser? Is friend?...”

“Don’t have no friends,” Blackfang interjected. “Just that girl Astrid he’s always sniffing round...”

“Ah?” said Mocker. “Girl? Is said, ‘Look for woman.’ Might same be sister of mouth-man in camp in morning? Saw same with boy on trek to Itaskia.”

“Bjorn had a daughter?” Ragnarson asked. Vague recollection of a face. Young. What was it the Star Rider had said? Beware of the girl who acts like a woman? “Get her.”

“Never thought about a woman,” Blackfang said, leaving.

He soon returned with a howling, kicking adolescent in tow and a group of sullen youths trailing. “Where’s her brother?” Ragnarson asked. “I want him here too.” Ragnar appeared almost instantly. “Wulf, you and Ragnar stand back, out of the way.” To Reskird, “If they move, cut them down. Girl, shut up.”

The girl had been alternating threats, pleas, and calls for help.

“Blackfang, watch the door. Kill anybody who sticks his head in.”

His officers stirred nervously. He was daring mutiny. “Sit down, girl,” said Ragnarson, offering his chair. “Mocker?”

The fat man grunted, began playing with an Itaskian gold piece taken from Wulf. The girl watched fearfully. Sometimes the coin seemed to vanish, but reappeared in his other hand. Over and over it turned. Droning, Bragi told his officers the tale of how her father, while young, r had betrayed his father to the Pretender’s followers.

The coin turned over, vanished, appeared. Ragnarson spoke of their mission in Kavelin. He talked till everyone was thoroughly bored.

Then Mocker took over whispering. He reminded the girl that she was weary, weary...

She had no chance. At last Mocker was satisfied. “Has been long time,” he said, “but is ready. Ask questions gently.”

“What’s your name?” Ragnarson asked.

“Astrid Bjornesdatter.”

“Are you rich, Astrid?”

“Yes.”

“Very rich?”

“Yes.”

“Have you been rich long?”

“No.”

“Did you get rich in Itaskia?”

“Yes.”

“A man gave you gold to do something?”

“Yes.”

“An old man? A thin man?”

“Yes. Yes.”

Ragnarson and Mocker exchanged glances. “Grey-fells.”

“Sorcery!” Wulf hissed. “It’s sorcery...” Kildragon’s blade touched his throat.

“Did the man want you to cause trouble? To keep your people from going to Kavelin?”

“Yes. Yes.”

“Satisfies me,” said Ragnarson. “You. Ragnar. Want to ask her anything?” The boy did, and showed unexpected intelligence. He followed Bragi’s lead and kept his questions simple. It took but a few to convince him that he had been used.

Wulf refused his opportunity. Ragnarson didn’t push. Let him keep his illusions.

“Well, gentlemen,” Bragi said, “you see a problem partially resolved. My friend will make the girl forget. But what about the men? This can happen again as long as we’ve got camp followers. I want them left here.”

After the gathering dispersed, Bragi told Kildragon, Blackfang, and the fat man, “Keep an eye on Ragnar and Wulf. I tried to plant a seed. If it takes root, they’ll handle our problem with the Trolledyngjans.”

III) News from Kavelin

The sham battle had been on an hour. The Trolledyngjans were getting trounced.

“My point’s been made,” said Ragnarson to a runner. “The Itaskians look good. Tell Blackfang to withdraw.” As the messenger departed, a dust-covered rider ap-proached from the direction of the Porthune. He was a tall, lean man, weathered, grim, who rode spear-straight. A soldier, Ragnarson thought. A man too proud to show weariness.

“Colonel Ragnarson?” the rider asked as he came up.

“Right.”

“Eanred Tarlson, Colonel, commanding the Queen’s Own Guard, Kavelin. I have a letter from Haroun bin Yousif.”

Ragnarson took the letter, sent a runner to prepare quarters. “Queen’s Own?”

“The King was dying when I left Vorgreberg.”

Ragnarson finished Haroun’s brief missive, which urged that he waste no time moving south. “You came alone? With trouble brewing?”

“No. I had a squadron when I left.”

“Uhm,” Ragnarson grunted. “Well, you’re here. Relax. Rest.”

“How soon can you move?” Tarlson demanded. “You’re desperately needed. The Queen had little but my regiment, and that likely to disappear if someone spreads the rumor that I’m dead.”

“The problem of succession, eh? The changeling and the foreign queen.”

Tarlson gave him an odd look. “Yes. How soon?”

“Not today. Tomorrow if it’s desperate. If I had mydruthers, not for weeks. The men are green, not used to working together.”