A Path to Coldness of Heart

Chapter Twenty-Seven:

Winter, Year 1018 AFE:

Spiraling In

" I didn’t get much sleep last night,” Ragnarson announced. “My own fault. I wanted to catch up on the real story around here.” He sat at the same table he had used for small conferences before he went out east. Inger used it for her own meetings. This morning’s gathering was the biggest there since soon after Ragnarson’s disappearance. The Queen and her main henchmen were present. So were Aral Dantice, Michael Trebilcock, Ozora Mundwiller, and Kristen Gjerdrumsdottir. The tension was less than expected despite Bragi’s prior assertion that the meeting would continue till he was satisfied that their conflicts had been resolved.

He tipped a thumb at a corner. Fulk and the younger Bragi were playing with blocks brought in by Babeltausque’s girlfriend. The children had no trouble getting along-though Carrie allowed them no opportunity to test anyone’s patience.

The newcomers had no interest in the girlfriend. She was furniture, easy to look at but otherwise just there. The Queen’s faction, though, considered her an amazement. Carrie Depar was much more than an opportunistic baby hooker. Babeltausque enjoyed their reluctant admiration for his pretty.

There was, however, almost a clang of meeting steel when he crossed gazes with Michael Trebilcock.

Trebilcock felt Babeltausque’s attraction to Haida Heltkler. He did not want Haida abused any more than she had been already.

There was quiet lethality in looks Josiah Gales laid on Michael Trebilcock, too. Gales knew the likely source of the maladies he suffered because of his captivity.

Similar looks ran Aral’s way from Babeltausque. He was sure that the men who tried to kill him had been sent by Dantice-if not that ironhearted old Mundwiller woman, whose accent, when she spoke at all, exactly matched that of the would-be killers.

Kristen and Inger, too, often exchanged less than loving looks. Ragnarson knew he had to keep all those conflicts subdued. He dared show neither favoritism nor tolerance. Like that kid wrangling the boys. She tolerated nothing. She had paddled Fulk for launching a sulk, crushing it before it became a tantrum. Fulk had been stunned. Usually he got away with everything because he was sickly.

“So I’m tired,” Ragnarson said. “With me that means impatient and cranky, too, so let’s see if we can’t get through this and start looking toward tomorrow. By which I mean Kavelin’s tomorrow, not yours or mine or the literal morning after.”

None of these people, nor anyone in town for the Thingmeet, had yet challenged his right to stroll in and take over-though as yet he had garnered not one royal honorific.

“This may be faint praise, Inger,” he said. “But I think you did as well as you could once you worked up the gumption to arrest Dane. I hear of no harm done since then.”

People stirred uncomfortably. Ozora Mundwiller had a thought but chose to reserve it.

“Kristen, you slipping away after Colonel Abaca passed looks like the best thing you could have done, too. You being away and Inger arresting the Duke let the Marena Dimura back off and just posture while they took advantage of the summer.”

There had been a change, down in the bedrock of Ragnarson’s soul, more profound than he knew. It had quickened when he stepped through the barrier separating the hidden temple from the kingdom that had conquered his heart so long ago.

His rage at what Kavelin had cost him had evaporated. He was indifferent to the chance that the cannibal state would keep feeding on his heart and soul. “I hear talk about a Kavelin disease. I’m a true sufferer. And it infected you all once the Duke was out of the way. Not so?”

Babeltausque said, “The catalyst was a child named Phyletia Plens. None of us ever met Phyletia but her death touched us way more than the Duke’s removal did. It gave us a whole new perspective, maybe because it was inconsequential in a strategic or statistical sense. It shouldn’t have influenced us. Children die. But sometimes something is so ugly that it grabs you by the throat and won’t let go. It jerks you around till your whole life looks different.”

Inger, Josiah Gales, and Nathan Wolf bobbed their heads in agreement, Wolf and Inger slightly red.

Ragnarson conceded, “That was one of the darker situations I ever heard of, and I saw some pretty disgusting stuff when I was young.”

“What wormed into us wasn’t just the crime’s ugliness but the triviality of what drove that priest.”

The sorcerer stumbled, his throat tightening. Ragnarson caught the subtle encouragement the Depar girl flashed him as well as the suspicion implicit in the arch of Michael’s eyebrows. Babeltausque’s secret reputation might not quite fit the actuality but, clearly, even the sorcerer himself feared that it could.

Ragnarson said, “The year is almost over. I want its conflicts and bad feelings put behind. I want us to put our heads together and come up with something we can take to the Thing.”

Ozora Mundwiller grumbled, “And quickly. Delegates already think the Thingmeet is just a device Inger can use to get some money coming into Vorgreberg.”

Ragnarson nodded. “My mother said that no good deed goes unpunished. For sure no good deed is seen that way by everybody. You can be a saint who is called a saint of all saints by the saints themselves and somebody will be convinced that you’re up to no good.”

“That would be a somebody who can’t live with himself.” Josiah Gales, looking like he had fallen asleep, chin on his chest, added, “Those with wicked hearts make their claims to divert attention from the reek of evil coming off of them.”

Silence followed. Everyone eyed the Colonel. Ragnarson figured he was paraphrasing somebody. Gales did not go on, nor did he give credit.

Michael said, “That’s true. But it doesn’t matter. That kind aren’t a problem now and they won’t be if they’re given no fuel for the fires they want to set.”

“We’ll find a way.”

Everyone looked at Ragnarson. That made no sense. He added, “You wanted to engineer unity by showing off a transfer gate.” He looked at his wife. “A good idea, only some Nordmen obstructionist will claim that it was left over from the occupation or when Mist was here.”

Gales said, “That point did not elude us. It wouldn’t stand up, though. Everyone knows that Varthlokkur has been underfoot. The Unborn has been around a lot, too, and easterners have been seen by people definitely not part of our cabal.”

Nathan Wolf offered his first comment. “Most people want an excuse to get along. Today’s divisions mostly start right here, with us.”

Gales grunted agreement. The sorcerer did the same.

Ragnarson said, “You’re right.” He waited. Nobody else had a comment. He looked Inger in the eye. She looked back without flinching.

Memories were in the air, not all nostalgic. Sherilee was on both their minds. Ragnarson did understand that his liaison had hurt Inger.

He had not thought that way before. He got caught in the moment… Which was not unusual. People did not think ahead and did not worry about consequences. But now he had positioned himself so that thinking that way was expected. His role demanded it. Making bad personal choices promised bad choices made as a ruler-and had that not shown itself clearly in the east already?

“Understand this. The Bragi Ragnarson you see here isn’t the Bragi Ragnarson who roared off through the Savernake Gap. That Bragi’s ordeal forged a better man-I hope.”

Ozora Mundwiller proclaimed, “Here comes the part you won’t like.”

Ragnarson scowled. She was not intimidated. He was half her age and a man besides. She had spent the night with him, observing, chiding, once threatening to paddle his behind if he kept on being immature.

“The most excellent lady from Sedlmayr is correct. This won’t be popular but it will help you stop wondering about my relationship with Shinsan.”

Inger said, “Do talk about that, husband. The Thing will bring it up, I promise.”

Everyone wondered how he and Michael could materialize so suddenly. Michael might have been close by all along, yes, but they all knew that he had not been.

“Both… Varthlokkur and Shinsan have joined forces. Haroun bin Yousif and the Disciple are with them, too, believe it or not. They have combined to battle the world’s oldest fiend. The prospects don’t excite me but I may choose to get in on that, too.”

Michael gestured a demand for quiet. “Yes. Him. The first step on that path is that we no longer mention him directly. We don’t name anything commonly associated with him, either. There are spells floating around that warn him whenever people start talking about him.”

Ragnarson said, “Michael may choose to participate, too.”

Inger announced, “I don’t understand. Why?” The others nodded.

Even the sorcerer’s girlfriend seemed curious.

“I’m not sure I get it all myself. You’d need to be Mist or Varthlokkur to do that, I guess. It’s like the Kavelin disease, only for the whole wide world. On the surface it does seem like a good idea to get shot of the mind behind the world’s pain.”

Michael volunteered, “We’re like soldiers on the line. We’re letting the generals do the fine thinking. Maybe we’ll fight. They hope we will. They’ve conveyed their reasoning. We can do our part without grasping the nuance. No one can make a case that this enemy is good for the world.”

Ragnarson and Trebilcock understood a fraction of what Mist and Varthlokkur were up to-which was an order of magnitude more than anyone else did. The Star Rider was not just weather, he was weather that happened somewhere else. He was not really real to most people.

Ragnarson stipulated that. “I don’t expect conviction from you if we get caught up in this, just that you give us the benefit of the doubt during the struggle.” He sounded like he was leaning toward getting involved.

Michael gave him no chance to clarify. “We’ll probably participate because it will require the combined efforts of a lot of people-most of whom spend their lives at each other’s throats because of him.”

Ragnarson added, “If his victims gang up… It wouldn’t mean an end to conflict. I’m not naive enough to think that. But persistent aberrations like Hammad al Nakir, grotesqueries like the Great Eastern Wars and Shinsan’s massively destructive conflicts with Matayanga and Escalon, that will all be a lot less likely. That old villain won’t be shuffling from faction to faction, stirring the cauldron. He won’t be pushing Magden Norath and Greyfells types in where things would stay peaceful otherwise.”

Inger said, “You can only put some of what happened off on other people.”

“Too true. I paid in pain, misery, and loss, and I’m still paying.”

Trebilcock said, “You meant to whip up support by making Shinsan a boogerman. Well, Shinsan has been up to mischief involving Kavelin, but nothing wicked. The Empress wanted…” He could not explain just what Mist had in mind. That could be nostalgia at work instead of Kavelin being a cog in the machinery meant to silence the tyranny of the Star Rider. Her invisible engine remained perfectly hidden inside her own mind. Her progress toward assembling its parts remained obscure.

Ragnarson thought he knew all the people and parts but he could not get them to sift down into a recognizable pattern.

He did see that she had stripped the villain of resources-if you called people he used resources, like timber and ore.

Old Meddler must still be whining about the loss of Magden Norath.

“Bragi!”

He started. Inger was barking. “What?”

“You stopped talking in the middle of telling us how Shinsan has become our beloved friend. Where did you go?”

Sarcasm? He had not seen that side of his wife before. “The land of confusion. Boggled by the awesome scope of my ignorance.” He paused, chose his words. “I don’t trust anybody much anymore. Not even me. Maybe especially not me. But I do trust Mist, on this, as far as I trust anybody.”

Michael grumbled, “You’re saying the same stuff over, pretty much.”

“I’m out of practice saying things out loud.”

“He was in solitary confinement.”

“Hell, I wasn’t even conscious for a long time. Luck and a good turn I did earlier are the only reason my bones aren’t scattered across that hillside, too.”

He went away again, to that day and the last angry hour of his embarrassment, when men ran at the critical instant, the moment when a touch of stubborn would have claimed the day. For half his captivity his purpose had been to get back here so he could inflict deep and abiding pain on those who had abandoned him.

He was not over that yet. The rage remained but he had a harness on it now. It no longer obsessed him. And, he realized, he no longer recalled exactly who he had scheduled for the headsman’s ax. Anger had become habit.

Inger demanded his attention again. “You haven’t made clear what you hope to accomplish personally, nor have you given us any convincing reason why we should put up with you trying to do it here.”

There it was, on the table, not bluntly, but insistence that he make a case for his right to stroll in and take charge.

The suggestion that he had lost that right caught him on the wrong foot-despite his having spent months wanting to make war on his own people. But that had been a lust for draconian vengeance, not an assertion of a right to rule. Not even his enemies could argue that he was not king. Could they?

He said it. “I am the King.”

And Michael said, “There it is. The gauntlet thrown down, without forethought, in an unfavorable venue. Majesty.” The latter spoken with an edge.

“Huh?”

Oh.

Babeltausque suddenly wore a bland, inane, innocent expression.

Not good, that.

Bragi had trotted right into a diminutive version of his disaster in the east. Once again he had moved without thinking, never really considering the chance that these people would not accept him.

Well, yes, he had thought about it, some, but not seriously. He did have that blind spot. Why would they resist? He was the King.

But it was clear that Inger’s men would resist if she wanted that. They could make this as unhappy a day as the one on that hill.

Castle Krief ’s dungeon would not be as comfy as the Karkha Tower.

Babeltausque, Gales, and Wolf awaited their cue from Inger. Even the babysitter seemed ready to act. And her potential was entirely unknown.

Michael did not look ready to sacrifice himself. The others, Kristen included, showed little interest in anything but watching. Which was exceedingly irksome.

He tried to remain calm. “I didn’t come here looking for a fight.”

Inger said, “Of course you didn’t. It never occurred to you that anyone would do anything but jump when you barked.”

He was perplexed. Maybe Inger was not articulating clearly.

She continued, “I’ll take a passive approach. I’ll give you your head. A dole out the rope strategy. Will you embarrass yourself?”

She was less frightened and rattled than she had been. She had a plan. She would let him strangle himself. He had shown that he could.

Would her thugs try to nudge him off the precipice?

She said, “I paid attention back when I was your new bed bunny.”

That hurt. He had not thought of her as a toy, ever. He never thought that about any woman he loved.

He nearly broke a smile. Some of his lovers might not agree. Women saw things through different eyes.

Inger said, “So I will defer, publicly. I’ll be the dutiful wife. I won’t make your road any rockier. I’ll help where I can and I’ll remain blind in the matter of that…girl. Your mistress. Purported.”

Kristen hissed. There was no readiness to forgive in her.

Inger said, “I had nothing to do with what happened.”

Ragnarson nodded. “I know. I got to interview the assassin, courtesy of Varthlokkur and the Unborn.”

Kristen hissed again.

“I’ve made my peace with that, as much as I can.” He had made arrangements to bring Sherilee to Vorgreberg. She would lie not far from Fiana and Elana… Where their ghosts might meet?

Inger’s henchmen were more relaxed now. Wolf seemed mildly disappointed.

Inger said, “Let’s stay focused on the Thingmeet. You can explain Shinsan’s plans then.”

“No. Mist wants to be remembered as the one who saved the world from its worst ever plague. We can’t just shout out and let him know it’s coming.”

Babeltausque asked, “Will her feelings be hurt if you don’t convince us?”

“I think that if what it takes to win is her having to look like the bad guy lurking in the weeds she’ll put on the ugliest mask she can find, then sing weird songs while she prances and postures… Michael?”

Trebilcock was laughing. “Sorry. I was imagining her putting her dignity aside far enough to dance where somebody might actually see her.”

“Villain. You have a filthy mind.”

“Hey. She is a good-looking woman.”

Ragnarson grinned himself once the image got inside his head. “She would be a vision, wouldn’t she?”

…

Ekaterina asked, “Do you have a dancing girl outfit, Mother?” deliberately provocative.

Mist glowered.

In her most naive voice Nepanthe said, “You’d look good. Not like me. Twenty years ago, maybe. Now I’m all doughy.”

Lord Yuan was past being interested in women in scanty attire. “Ladies, can we focus?”

Mist turned away from spying on Ragnarson, irked but also arching the back of her vanity like a cat inclined toward more petting. She was disappointed, though Ragnarson had achieved more than she had expected. He could have concerned himself more with her mission and less with her physical form, however.

Even so… No. Good as it felt, the effect would fade. “Lord Yuan?”

“The instrument favored by that one is now in frequent play.”

“You said it isn’t worth tracking, yet you have been keeping watch?”

“Yes. I have men underemployed because of the peace. It keeps them occupied. The old devil did get busy. For a while he was up to something involving the man who killed the king of Hammad al Nakir.” He checked the proximity of the desert people. “Once he finished…”

“He headed east. Scalza has been tracking his mount, which has been giving him trouble. It acts like it’s coming down with something.” Louder, she asked, “Anyone know if horses get arthritis?”

Swami Phogedatvitsu responded, “Probably. Most domesticated animals do if they live long enough.”

Snide Scalza asked, “Does that mean people are domesticated?”

“A strong argument can be made for just that, youngster.”

Ekaterina flashed a ha-ha! face from where she hovered over Ethrian.

Mist grumbled, “Worry about that some other time. What is the villain up to right now? Anyone know? Where is he headed?”

Scalza said, “He’s already there, Mother. He was headed eastnortheast, avoiding towns and cities. He’s missing now, but there’s no obvious destination out there. It must be somewhere hidden.”

“Show me on a map. Varthlokkur has a whole raft of those things around here somewhere.”

He had scores. It took just minutes to root out one of a scale small enough to show the world from the ocean in the west to the barren shores of the east. It was particularly detailed where the Dread Empire was concerned. Mist was not pleased.

A dozen people crowded round, Ethrian and the Old Man among them. The latter indicated an archipelago off the eastern coast. “Ehelebe.”

Ethrian added, “Nawami.”

“Nawami,” the Old Man agreed. “That way,” indicating the nothing beyond the eastern edge of the map. “Yesterday. Long time.”

“Where is Sahmaman?”

The specialists attached to them crackled with excitement.

Lord Yuan had to be the killjoy. “Intriguing matters but not what we should concentrate on right now.”

Scalza wiggled his butt and waggled his elbows enough to win some space. He deployed a straight edge, adjusted its lie. “I’m resisting the temptation to mark this out with a pen. The target started here, in the desert. He flew along this line. He’s somewhere around here, now, in the steppe in the east of the upper Roe basin. There’s a town about here. He probably spent a night there.”

Impressed, his mother asked, “He’s definitely not moving now?”

“No. He has disappeared. Wherever he got to, we can’t watch him there. Maybe it’s where he goes when he isn’t making trouble. I can’t even find the horse, now, so I’m going to look for boundaries.”

The Old Man’s eyes bugged. His face reddened. Was he choking? Explosively, he blurted, “Wacht Musfliet!” He staggered to the shogi table, assisted the last few steps by his mental coach.

The others strove not to distress him by pressing for details.

Mist demanded, “Where the hell has Varthlokkur gotten to?”

The wizard was home. He had not left since he brought the Disciple in. He had kept Radeachar close, too, once the monster finished scouting in Hammad al Nakir. But Varthlokkur was not in evidence. He did not like the crowds in the Wind Tower.

No one knew where he was. Mist said, “Someone find him. Eka. Someone is you. I expect you know every hiding place in this rock pile.”

That caught Ekaterina off guard. She seemed fearful that her mother had penetrated some deep secret. Then she turned bland. “As you wish. No guarantee I can find him if he doesn’t want to be found, though.”

Mist smiled, nodded. “Anyone know what Wacht Mustflit means?” She hashed the pronunciation. No one noticed, nor did anyone do anything but shake heads.

There were plenty to shake. The Wind Tower was packed with a crowd that now included translators added to help Yasmid and her father get by. The one assigned to the Disciple grumbled plenty because he had so much nothing to do. Today’s Disciple was not entrancing. When he spoke at all he preached, without passion or energy, in a mumble. He believed that minions of the Evil One had imprisoned him in the antechamber of Hell.

The mental experts said opium had damaged his mind too much. He would never recover.

“The Place.”

Mist looked at Ethrian, who stood over the shogi board, shivering without Eka there to support him or to intercede. He spoke declaratively, though, in a tight voice. Everyone nearby shut up, hoping for more.

“Ethrian? I didn’t hear you clearly through the noise.”

“The Place of the Iron Statues. Wacht Musfliet is its name in…” Ethrian stopped, perplexed. In what language?

The Old Man made gurgling noises. He agreed but added nothing.

Ethrian went on, “That is a name. It does not mean Place of the Iron Statues. It means Stronghold Lonely. Or Fortress of Solitude.”

All right. Mist understood. “Thank you, Ethrian. We should find that useful.” Though how she did not at that moment see.

Nepanthe practically pounced on her son, drowning him in hugs of happy approval.

Mist felt the air move. Varthlokkur was beside her. “I arrived in time to hear him.”

“Good. Where is Eka?”

The question puzzled him.

“I sent her to find you.”

“She’s still looking, then. I didn’t see her.” He pushed up for a better look at the map. “Good work, Scalza.”

“Scary good work,” Mist opined. The truth of her children had begun to leak through their clever masks.

Mist had carried them inside her for nine months. She could not harm them, however they threatened. Well, she could do no physical harm. Injury of the emotional sort she had inflicted already.

Varthlokkur considered the map as if entranced. His face went through changes, as though illuminated by lanterns shaken by a vigorous wind. He started, muttered, “Whoa. That was…” He recalled that he had an audience. “Sorry. I had an attack of the reminiscences.”

Mist eased forward a foot, more directly into his line of sight. “And?”

“I’ve been there. A long time ago. I was someone else at the time. Probably Eldred the Wanderer…though that doesn’t feel quite right. It was after the Fall.”

Mist waggled fingers at her mental specialists. This might rate a closer look.

The wizard mused, “That may have been when I first met Nepanthe.”

A patent impossibility, though no one challenged him. That would have been centuries before she was born. Still, it was no secret that Varthlokkur had discovered Nepanthe in prophetic visions ages before she was entered into the lists of the world.

The idea that he might have been in thrall to Old Meddler once did nothing to comfort anyone now, himself included.

Mist asked, “Can you recall anything else about that?”

“Things are in there, a little rowdy, a little shy, rambling around just outside the firelight. I’ll try to lure them in.”

“Have these two help.” She indicated her specialists. “And don’t waste time. I’m sure that the old devil being there isn’t good.”

“Probably not. But let’s don’t focus on the past so much that we miss what’s happening now.”

Ethrian had to be pried loose from his mother and probed while his mind remained connected to realities beyond the usual. Likewise, the Old Man required a closer look. He showed signs of having had memories broach, too.

She wished she had additional reliable mental experts. And she dared never forget that her empire was managed by fractious, powerful aristocrats who did not appreciate the fact that she was female.

…

Ekaterina took the opportunity of being unsupervised to snatch a few minutes with Radeachar. Her friendship for that thing was nothing like her feelings for Ethrian. This was rooted in empathy. The Unborn was far more of an outsider than she was-though her status in that realm had more substance in her own mind than in the quotidian world. The feedback she got suggested an unlikely family pet-as she imagined the devotion of a dog might be.

She had not interacted with an actual dog in years. There were none in Fangdred. The supply situation would not support the luxury of unproductive mouths.

So. Radeachar was, by an order of magnitude, the most alien entity she had ever encountered, yet she was comfortable around it. Even Varthlokkur sometimes got the creeps. Never Ekaterina.

Him. She should give Radeachar that. Radeachar would have been “he” had he been produced by a normal pregnancy and regular infancy.

Radeachar liked being near her. It was a cunning monster, though. It understood that she could not be seen being close or she would suffer. She was too young to sustain the emotional burden of being a great dread.

Too, the thing could not become as devoted as it might prefer. Its abiding obligation was to the Empire Destroyer. Varthlokkur had preserved it-him!-when the rest of the world just wanted the demonspawn to burn.

Was she under some compulsion to attach emotionally to crippled cousins?

When you zeroed in on strict fact, she and Radeachar were related. Her grandfather was his father, so he would be her uncle if she had her facts straight.

Sudden laughter ripped free.

A glow of pleasure illuminated Radeachar. He was pleased that she was cheerful even though he did not understand.

She brushed her fingertips across the membrane separating the bizarre embryo from the world, then kissed it, too. “Thank you. I feel much better, now.” Maybe because she had been reminded that her own situation was far from as awful as it could be.

More pleasure radiant from Radeachar.

She returned to the crowded workroom in the Wind Tower prepared to apologize because she had been unable to find Varthlokkur, discovered that her mission had been unnecessary. The wizard had found his way back on his own.

“Where have you been?” her mother demanded. Like she had some right.

Ekaterina accepted no such claim but offered only an insidiously insubordinate counter-challenge. “I took a long journey to a far place, Empress. A philosophical pilgrimage. An expedition of epiphanic conceptual discovery.”

“Wait for it,” Scalza sneered, loud enough for half the crowd to hear. “We’re in for some vintage Eka.” He seemed eager to see how his mother handled that.

“You’re gonna get your turn, Worm. And you’re gonna love it. Did you realize that Radeachar is our uncle? He’s Mother’s little brother.”

Mist gawked. That was true but it had not occurred to her, ever.

A melodic tinkle of amusement escaped Ekaterina. Something odd, there, though. It started out light but quickly became creepy. “He never needs changing so she still won’t have to learn how to deal with babies. She’ll never have to get her fingers dirty.”

Her tone left all her audience disturbed.

…

Mist realized that Ekaterina’s remarks would make no sense even to her if she thought about them, but, still, they served up a steaming dollop of emotional truth. Not once had she gotten her hands soiled serving the needs of her infant children. It had been a rare and remarkable hour when circumstance or deliberation found her in the same room with either or both before they could walk and talk. But that reflected of her own earliest years-and most of the years that followed. She did not remember her mother. Her father had been a huge, grim, infrequently suffered manifestation more fearful than any kami or demon. She had anticipated his rare visits with massive anxiety.

These whiners endured a childhood far more family-intimate than hers had been.

Ekaterina’s remarks appeared to amuse Varthlokkur and Scalza while baffling everyone else. Those closest to being in the know, Lords Kuo and Yuan, were indifferent.

They did not care if the blood of Tuan Hoa filled the monster’s veins, if blood the thing even had. There was no sign that it ever took sustenance in tangible form. They had noticed that. It did not eat; neither did it shit.

That was scary once a Tervola reflected on the implications. It troubled Mist now that it occurred to her.

Eka had gotten a reaction big enough to encourage her to go on being absurd. “So not only is Radeachar our uncle, he’s probably ahead of us in Shinsan’s succession. He should be king of Kavelin, too. He has the blood-right. Queen Fiana was his mother. Uncle Bragi only got the job later, by being elected.”

Mist snapped, “Eka, stop being ridiculous.”

“I know. Nobody would want him, despite his claims. He isn’t pretty enough and he doesn’t have good social skills.” Scalza grinned broadly, enjoying the vintage Eka. “But his legal claim is solid.”

Varthlokkur settled a hand on the girl’s shoulder, startling her. “Eka, the law, in most cases, isn’t what’s in compendiums. It’s what the man with the most swords says it is on any given day.”

Eka countered with a demoniac grin. “Oh, I know, Uncle. I’m just making old people squirm.” Another amused tinkle, without the dire finish. She headed for her cousin, frown hatching because he was engaged in an actual conversation without her there to monitor, manage, and protect.

Mist suspected it was time to watch that girl more closely. She herself had started getting into mischief at that age.

On the up side, no one was out to eliminate Eka because her existence was inconvenient, nor did the world include anyone Eka favored for death.

Hell, practically everybody she knew was here, now, and considered her a weird, shy mascot or queer little sister.

No time for all that. Varthlokkur was at the map, muttering with Scalza. The Star Rider remained conspicuously invisible in a region that the Winterstorm, attenuated by distance, could barely touch.

Mist joined them. Lord Yuan, too, caught some etheric cue and came to the map.

Varthlokkur said, “He’s gone to ground in the Place of the Iron Statues. My recollections of that are vague but I think they’re good enough for me to fashion a baseline strategy.”

Scalza said, “I’ll bet the Old Man went there lots of times.”

“We’ll see what he has to offer.”

Mist asked, “Are we involved in something that you’ll tell us about?”

He smiled. “Suppose I pose the identical question to you?”

Mist forced a smile. “I am striving to move ahead vigorously while not catching the devil’s eye. I want him to overlook me till I stab him in the back.”

“While he’s concentrating on me.”

“Stipulated. You haven’t kept a low profile.”

“All part of the plan, which continues to evolve. Lord Yuan, I have a special need for your assistance.”

“Again.”

“It’s the curse of being the best. Here is my current thinking.”

The wizard’s strategy was based on his estimation of Old Meddler’s character as profiled by the mental specialists. Their assessment rested on what they had learned from Ethrian, the Disciple, and the Old Man, the latter in the main. The Old Man was entirely vindictive toward his one-time comrade.

Varthlokkur admitted, “He keeps doing the unexpected. He may be grinning from ear to ear because I’m about to strut into a big swamp full of crocodiles.”

Mist checked the Old Man. If that one got a hold on reality often enough… Old Meddler had lost his allegiance the night that her father died and had worsened his odor with his unhappy actions on that eastern island.

The Old Man did not hate his erstwhile ally. He just wanted an end to his own and the world’s torment.

Varthlokkur beckoned the specialist handling the Old Man. “Couple of things. First, get him into a shogi game with the boy. They feed off each other. Once they’re engaged try to find out if he ever revolted before. Details don’t matter, just the yes or no. Then feed his antagonism. Find out anything about the Place of the Iron Statues. I need to know how to get in.”

The specialist glanced at his employer, who nodded graciously. “I’ll get on that right away, sir,” without asking if Varthlokkur wanted anything else. “Is speed essential?”

“It certainly would be useful.” Varthlokkur turned to Mist. “This a good man.”

“Those who aren’t good men don’t get to work for the Empress.” She watched her daughter. Eka had heard. She moved closer to Ethrian, presumably to prepare him. Lord Kuo gestured with two fingers of his left hand. He would work on his friend.

After a second look at Wen-chin, Varthlokkur asked, “What’s become of Shih-ka’i? He hasn’t been around much.”

“He has responsibilities elsewhere, including covering for me while I’m involved in this.” Which was absolute truth but not whole truth. Nor did the wizard accept it as whole truth. He took a cynical attitude toward such claims. And, of course, his cynicism was justified. Mist added, “He isn’t as enthusiastic about this as I am so I’m letting him do what he can to free me to indulge my passion.”

“That makes sense.”

She observed, “I expect you’ve prepared for a raid by the old villain.”

“Yes. But I’m afraid that won’t be good enough. I can’t trust anyone but Radeachar to do what needs doing without jumping into the process.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that, if I give you an assignment you would probably decide you saw a better way and would try to use it, which would abort the process. I have to be two places at once to make what I want to do succeed. I haven’t figured out how, yet, let alone how to manage supposed helpers.”

“You could always attempt the absurd.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning you could explain what you’re trying to do so people understand why it’s important that they don’t innovate. I know obsessive secretiveness is the norm for our kind, usually with good reason. But survival imperatives should trump old habits, shouldn’t they?”

“Possibly.”

“Particularly when these others are being asked to share the risks.”

“It’s hard to find the needful capacity for trust.”

Mist asked, “How much time do we have? Any guesses?”

“Anywhere from a few days to forever. I think he’ll try to end the threat I represent directly and forcefully. I don’t think he’ll waste time. He has to believe he’s vulnerable and can’t afford to be subtle. He operates inside a cloud of ignorance. I’m counting on that to make him vulnerable.”

He surveyed his surroundings, added, “He doesn’t know about these people and can’t possibly be prepared to deal with every secret they might give up. But he does know about the Winterstorm and I expect that he’s given that lots of thought.”

“Two days might be enough, just barely, to drag in an arbitratordirector to manage the crisis. I’m thinking Bragi even though he doesn’t like either one of us much right now and is probably convinced that he has weaseled out of his turn in the barrel.”

She watched him swell with resistance.

“Exactly. And you can expect plenty of attitude from him if either of us comes out ahead because of this.”

The wizard took nearly a minute. “I am repelled to the point where I suspect that you have identified a workable design.”

“It needs only persist for as long as it takes to succeed or be flayed.”

She expected the latter to be the more likely outcome. Once reason placed her eyeball to eyeball with that she just got more obstinate. There would be a grand showdown. Potential hurdles rolled off the duck’s back of her determination.

What had become of that Poles of Power project meant to identify them and locate them? She had handed that off to Kuo Wen-chin, had she not? Then she had not followed up. Wait. No. She had not given that to Wen-chin. She had not given it to anybody. She had gone and forgotten the whole damned thing herself. It was too late to work that angle. The crisis was just around the corner, beyond her ability to delay.

Old Meddler would operate from inside a miasma of ignorance but would know that survival was table stakes. Weak, he would shun cat and mouse diversions. He would attack with ferocity and vigor.

She peered hard at the Old Man, then Ethrian. Could they really provide the tools she needed?

Doubt declared otherwise.

Doom was on its way.