An Ill Fate Marshalling

6

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 contact with 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."

„Hsung has made Throyes the complete vassal state while pretending otherwise. His notion is, he can send Throyens out to do Shinsan's work, then disavow them when the protests start."

„So?"

„So he's going to send them marching down the eastern littoral of Hammad al Nakir. The Throyens have claimed the territory for ages, same as Hammad al Nakir claims Throyes. Hsung wants control south as far as Souk el Arba. Farther, if the Throyens can manage."

„Michael told me. He thought Hsung wanted ports for coastal raids on Matayanga."

„A good secondary reason. And a good mask. But the Throyen staff" is more porous than Hsung's.

„The truth is, he wants access to the passes through Jebal al Alf Dhulquarneni. The one near Throyes, and Sebil el Selib both. Did Michael tell you Hsung had ambassadors in Sebil el Selib and al Rhemish both? Both delegations offering alliances?"

„Michael isn't well-informed about Hammad al Nakir. I did know Hsung had agents in Sebil el Selib." Bragi shifted his attention to the festivities without bothering to concen­ trate on them. Derel's news filled a few gaps.

„Clever," he said. „He can pull it off in broad daylight and we can't squawk. He'd just claim he was meeting his treaty obligations. If we try to stop him, we're the aggres­ sors."

„Exactly."

„What can we do?"

„Several things. We can let it run its course and hope it fails by itself. We can ignore the opprobrium and launch a pre-emptive attack if the Matayangan situation deteriorates. Or we can play Hsung's own game. We don't have the resources, but we have the minds."

„Those first two choices aren't squat. Tell me what you mean about having the minds."

„You have some very intelligent and byzantine associates. Take Michael. He can be devious. He can be merciless. He's more intelligent than he pretends. And the people he's recruited are the best. Your greatest strength, though, is possession of a legitimate pretender to Shinsan's throne. That should be exploited. Then you consider Hsung's disadvantages. He has to garrison the whole Roe Basin. Western Army is down to five legions. The best are at Gog-Ahlan, guarding the Gap, and in Throyes. One is at Argon. There's another at Necremnos. The fifth is scattered among the smaller cities."

„That's still thirty thousand of the best soldiers there are, Derel."

„Sure. A lot to you. But not so many when you consider the population of the Roe Basin. What they become then is a symbol of the power of Shinsan, not the power itself. They'd disappear in a general uprising."

„They'd do a lot of damage."

„Certainly. But they'd be overwhelmed anyway."

„I've been on Michael not to roil things up. Now you're saying I should stir the pot."

„Hsung won't back off poking at you. Don't let him get away with it. Poke right back."

„Then he hollers foul."

„Don't involve your own people. Not directly. There'll be nothing he can do. He operates under constraints, too. He has a peace-loving image to maintain. That means put­ ting up with provocations. What it boils down to is, you play their game, only nastier. Because of the trouble with Matayanga, they're in a tighter spot than we are."

„When you back off and look at it, Derel, it all seems kind of pointless. What difference will it make a hundred years from now?"

„Maybe none. Some of my colleagues subscribe to a futility theory of history. Even so, there are turning points.

They're usually invisible except in retrospect. One of the great moments in Ravelin's history took place in Itaskia. We're still feeling the consequences."

Ragnarson grinned. „You're zigging when I'm zagging, Derel. You lost me that time."

„The day you left your homestead to complain about a little trouble you'd had. You'd barely heard of Kavelin. Six months later you were leading Fiana's army. Now you're King."

„By that reasoning, Haaken and I changed history by running out of Trolledyngja instead of fighting the Pre­ tender."

„Absolutely. You'd be twenty-five years dead if you'd stayed. Other men would be alive. The El Murid Wars would have had a different shape. Something different could have happened in Freyland. Duke Greyfells might have become Itaskia's King. Kavelin's civil war could have gone the other way. There might have been no Great Eastern Wars at all."

Prataxis's talk made Ragnarson nervous. It made not only life but history itself sound fragile. He had been taught differently as a boy. Trolledyngjans were determined believ­ ers in fate. „We're getting away from the point."

„No, we're not. Not from mine. I want you to understand that, every time you make a move, you're shaping tomor­ row. You shape it even when you don't do anything. Your best chance to shape this the way you want it is to stay aggressive. There'll be more ramifications. Some might be exploitable."

„Okay. I get the message. I'll get out there and keep the cauldron boiling. We don't want your thesis getting dull."

„Sire!..."

Bragi grinned. „I couldn't resist. You take yourself too serious sometimes." Ragnarson rose, surveyed the gather­ ing. Hundreds had come. This was the biggest turnout since the war. Most of the Thing and their women. All of his own clique, except Michael and Mist and Varthlokkur, who avoided all functions. Many of the old Nordmen nobility, who now called themselves the Estates because they con­ trolled the largest landholdings. Influential members of the merchant class. Representatives of the silent, seldom-seen, and absolutely essential Siluro civil servant class. Credence Abaca and a clutch of Marena Dimura chieftains who formed a human stockade in a corner. They reminded Ragnarson of cattle in winter, standing nose to nose, their tails turned to the wind. Drink might bring them into the exchange of thought these functions sometimes precipi­ tated.

He looked for Trebilcock. Michael still had not shown, and had not been seen since the attempt on Liakopulos's life. Ragnarson had begun to worry. He wanted to talk to the man.

They were still arriving. The hall was getting crowded. If all the invitations were accepted, he would have trouble packing people in.

Mist arrived, escorted by Aral Dantice. The effect of her was like a numbing gas spreading from the doorway. Men stopped talking. They stared in awe or hunger. Women stared in awe, envy, and outright hatred. The woman's impact was incredible. Even the musicians faltered.

And how well she carried off her act of being unaware of the effect she produced!

Behind Mist and Aral were Kristen and several friends. His daughter-in-law had been free with the secondary invitations, he saw. Each of her guests was unattached and lovely.

That startled him. He dropped back into his seat. „Derel, I just noticed something." „Sire?"

Bragi folded his hands under his chin. Thoughtfully, he said, „There are a lot of unattached women these days. Good-looking women. That's unnatural." „Adopt the marriage laws of Hammad al Nakir." „What?"

„Let a man have more than one wife." „Gods! One is trouble enough." He glanced round the room. He saw a lot of unmarried younger women. Most were the daughters of guests. Each had a huntress's gleam in her eyes.

„The war claimed a lot of young men," Prataxis ob­ served. „Kavelin's single females probably outnumber sin­ gle males five to one."

„What am I doing married?"

„Definitely a tactical mistake, Sire. Michael appears to be prospering. But it's a game with few survivors. The huntress knows how to net her prey."

„It's something I never really thought about. An imbal­ ance like that is going to have effects."

„Absolutely. It'll strain the traditional mores. What you have to do is make the girls having illegitimate children all have boy babies. After a while there would be husbands to go around, though they'd be a little young."

Bragi gave Derel a sour look. That was a Prataxis joke.

„It's not a problem unique to Kavelin. One way or another, one place or another, the west has been at war since the Scourge of God broke out of Hammad al Nakir. We're into our second generation of sexual imbalance. One more and the die-hard guardians of the old morality will be gone. Changes in female attitudes will accelerate... ."

„I've got a question, Derel."

„Sire?"

„Do you have a lecture for every topic?"

Prataxis looked bewildered, then a little hurt.

„Just joking. Every time I notice something, you already know about it. And you go on forever about how it happened and why, how and why it works, what it means... ."

„I'm a don of the Rebsamen," Prataxis replied stiffly. „I was taught to observe and reason. There's nothing mystical about that. You do it yourself, though on a less premedi­ tated level. That's why you make correct decisions more often than not."

„I didn't mean any offense, Derel." Why was the man so damned humorless and touchy? He had asked to come live among the barbarians... . No. Derel would object to the wording. Insufficiently precise. He would prefer something encompassing self-righteous ignorance.

„Father?"

He glanced down. His daughter-in-law stood at the foot of the dais supporting the party thrones. „Kristen! You found something to wear. And I thought you weren't going to make it."

„Liar. You knew I'd be here if I had to come mother naked. These are my friends." She indicated the girls still with her. „It's okay, isn't it?"

„The more the merrier. I'd rather look at them than bald old men with beards. But maybe you should show a little respect for your King in front of people." He smiled. Kristen's girlfriends had performed their deep curtsies immediately.

„Oh. Yes." Flustered, she bent a leg.

„Good enough. Now. Who are all these beautiful ladies?"

Kristen pointed. „Anya. Tilda. Julie. And Sherilee. You met Julie and Sherilee before."

The girls nodded shyly. Except the tiny blonde. She looked him in the eye. But her hands were white and shaking. She clasped them and continued looking at him. That look did not read invitation, but neither did it contain disgust.

„Enjoy yourselves, ladies. Kristen, would you honor an old man with a dance?"

The request surprised her, but only momentarily. „Not that old, I think." She glanced at the blonde. „All right. If it's a Royal command."

His smile declined to a ghost. „It is." He left the dais, caught Inger's puzzled look from the corner of his eye. He wasn't a dancer.

He quickly proved it. He could not follow the steps. „Ah, hell," he gasped. „I just wanted to talk, anyway. Come over here and taste this fizzy wine Cham brought from Delhagen. He tells me it'll become a big export item."

„Talk?" Kristen's eyes sparkled more than did the wine.

„You said something to that Sherilee."

„I? Father!"

„She's young enough to be my daughter."

„I thought men liked women young and fresh. The Krief was fifty years older than Queen Fiana."

„I'm a married man. A king. Whatever. That's a trap I don't need to get into."

„Sounds like you're convincing you."

He grinned half-heartedly, glanced across the hall. The girl was watching through breaks in the crowd. Her timor­ ous look made her more appealing. „So I've got to convince me first. So what? Honest, Kristen. Don't push it. It's too much temptation. I don't know about her, but / couldn't handle it."

Kristen's amusement faded. „You're serious, aren't you?"

„Yeah. Really. I can tell just by looking at her, and from what I know about her, and about how I work inside, that I'd fall like a rock. I'd make a complete fool of myself. That's fun once in a while, but I don't have the time now. I can't handle two mistresses at once. My main lady is headed for some hard times, I think."

She asked her question with a raised eyebrow.

„Kavelin."

„Oh. You think there's going to be trouble?"

„Maybe. I'm trying to head it off. You'll get a feel of it tonight. Listen to what people are talking about. The big subjects this year aren't crop yields and mine production."

„Does it have anything to do with General Liakopulos?"

„It may. Sic her on Michael, why don't you?"

„She's not interested in Michael."

„Damn you. What did you have to say that for? Excuse me." He glanced at Sherilee again. So tiny. Like a toy. And every curve and line of her a match for a fantasy-lover's template. He shook his head viciously. „Damn me, too." He left Kristen looking bemused.

Inger joined him on the dais. Her perpetual mocking smile had shrunk to a minimum. „What was that about?" She did not like Kristen. They were both mothers of candidates for Kavelin's throne.

„Household allowances. She wants a separate tutor for Ainjar and Bragi. She tried her jolly-the-old-man-along approach."

„Grasping little witch. It never fails. The commons... ."

„Inger?"

„Hmm?"

„Hold my hand."

She reached over. Her smile returned. He squeezed once, gently, reassuring himself. „Inger. Don't take this as a shot. But you're holding the hand of a common foot soldier who did a lot of grasping. And you married him."

„What do you mean?"

„I don't think it makes much difference who our parents were. We all take what we can get. Switch a Marena Dimura baby with a Nordmen child and when they're adults they'll act like the people who raised them. Blood doesn't have anything to do with it. Be quiet, Derel."

He and Prataxis had had the blood versus environment argument before. Derel was perfectly willing to take either side. Argument was a game with the scholar.

Inger said, „I try to believe in what you're doing, but it's hard. The most you can make out of a peasant is a peasant in pretty clothes."

„What about his children? It's the children that interest me. And the peasant himself, for that matter." Before she could reply, he added, „I'm indifferent to the quality of a man's speech and table manners, dear. It's what's up here that counts with me." He tapped his temple. „And how well he does his job."

„Like Abaca?" Her sarcasm was thick. She loathed Cre­ dence Abaca.

„Exactly. He has a foul mouth, abominable habits, and the best tactical mind I've ever seen. Ever. Given time, I think we can housebreak him."

„He doesn't even have the qualities of a peasant. Those disgusting people eat insects... ."

„Dear, if blood counts for that much, you and me, we're headed for a heap of trouble."

Her eyes narrowed. Her fighting smile vanished. She leaned forward. A string of blondeness fell over her left eye. „What do you mean?"

„You've got the Greyfells blood. The Greyfells have been traitors, treachers, murderers, and rebels since my grandfa­ ther was a pup. If blood tells, then I'd better have you watched by my fifty most faithful men."

Her face lost expression. The color drained away. She surged to her feet. Crimson replaced her pallor. She sput­ tered in anger.

„Sit down, darling. I was just trying to show you the hole in your argument."

„I don't think that was a very nice way."

„Maybe not. But I think you'll have to concede."

She looked at him hard. „I suppose. If I don't, I might end up sharing my life with your cronies from the Captures team. The Baroness Kartye wants to see me. I'll be back."

„You didn't change her mind," Prataxis said.

„I know. We open the Thing tomorrow. Anything you want to tell them?"

„The discussions were fruitful. The legion in the Gap will allow passage of traders beginning two weeks from tomor­ row. Transport and sale of weapons won't be permitted. Caravaneers will be allowed customary defensive arms. Western caravans won't be allowed east of Throyes. Deal­ ings with Argon, Necremnos, and their tributaries have to be handled through Throyen intermediaries. And we're advised that trade with Matayanga is contingent on the daily military situation."

„Don't sound all that unreasonable to me."

„There'll be squawkers. It's weighted toward the Throyens."

„In this country somebody is always crying about some­ thing. Their caravans will be in the race to get through the Gap anyway."

„Anyone who can afford to assemble a caravan has one put together already. They'll trample each other when I say the magic words."

„Then I wasted a lot of people's time, having them hang around to talk to you."

„There are thoughts to be aired. Viewpoints to share."

„They weren't sharing anything with anybody last week."

„Let me make them mad. They'll say what they're think­ ing."

„I don't... ."

Women screamed near Abaca's Marena Dimura group. Men shouted angrily. Ragnarson heard steel meet steel.

He flung himself off his throne. „Get the hell out of my way!" he roared as he pushed through the crowd. Taller than most of his guests, he saw the surge as the Guards moved in. Good. They had been on their toes. He had not expected to get through the evening without at least one fracas. „Will you get the hell out of my road?" he snarled at a heavy old matron. She promptly threatened a faint.

The Guards had the men separated when he got there. One was Credence Abaca. The other was a young gentleman of the Estates, the son of a baron in town for the Thingmeet. The Baron himself was shoving through the crowd.

Abaca and the youth both shouted accusations. „Shut up!" Ragnarson snapped. „You first." He indicated the younger man.

„He made improper advances to my sister." The young noble was sullen and defensive. It was an attitude increas­ ingly common to his class.

„Credence?"

„I asked her to dance, sir." Abaca had regained his aplomb. Perhaps he had not lost it. He was a tactician in more than the military sense. He was a master manipulator and could be as heartless as a spider. There was no apology in his manner.

„That's all?"

„On my honor, Sire."

„You have no honor, you. ..."

„Shut your mouth, boy," Ragnarson snapped. „You're in up to your ears now." He looked for the woman in question. Her father had driven her away from the confrontation. The man wore a thin smile of anticipation. Ragnarson wondered if it hadn't been Abaca who had been maneuvered this time. The Estates remained mortally offended because a Marena Dimura had been appointed second in command of the army. Only the most trustworthy Nordmen were permitted to participate professionally.

Ragnarson turned to the youth. „You dared draw a blade in the Palace? Against one of my officers?"

The Nordmen would not keep his mouth shut. „Some­ body has to teach these... these... animals their place. I challenge!"

„You don't have a right to challenge," Ragnarson told him.

„I'll accept anyway," Abaca said. He was a small, lean, olive man. He had big black mustachios and deep lines in his face. His dark little pupils were flakes of obsidian.

„Credence!" Bragi said. „That's enough." Abaca stepped back, relaxed. He had superb self-control. „Good." Bragi faced the youth. „Son, you committed a felony. The Estates are allowed their weapons in the Palace, but you don't have a right to use them." He indicated the Marena Dimura group. Only Abaca was armed. „That's an honor, not a right. You abused it. You forfeited your right of challenge when you broke the law. It's a capital offense. I could have you hung." The youth blanched. „But it would be a shame to do that. The real crimes here are stupidity, arrogance, and a bad choice of parents. Sergeant Wortel," he snapped at the Guardsman nearest Abaca.

„Sire?"

„Take the boy outside. Give him twenty lashes. Just hard enough to make him think next time his mouth threatens to override his common sense."

„Yes, Sire." Wortel was pleased and did not hide it. An older man of Wesson stock, he had grown up to the crack of Nordmen whips.

Ragnarson ignored the departure. The youth did a lot of yelling and threatening. When he realized that he would actually get the whipping, he became silent, pale, and scared.

Bragi faced the young man's father.

There was a new order and a new law. The Estates no longer rode roughshod over the land. Nothing had to be said. The Nordmen knew they had to pay when their old habits got the best of them.

Nevertheless, Ragnarson wanted to make a point. He asked, „Would you rather have him dead?"

The Baron croaked, „Dead?"

„He'd be dead now if I'd let them fight."

The Baron sneered. „A Marena Dimura kill him? That's ridiculous."

„Lie to yourself if you like. Baron, I considered your son's age. He's not old enough to know better. I did what I had to to save him." A cry echoed in the courtyard. Murder flared in the Baron's eye. „I'd let you fight Credence, though. I figure you put the boy up to this, so it's really your battle. Credence. Choose your weapons."

„Knives, Sire. They don't like knives, the gentlemen of the Estates."

How can such a small mouth stretch into such a big grin? Ragnarson wondered. „My Lord Baron? Are you ready?"

The Nordmen reddened, sputtered, looked for support from his peers. Any he may have seen existed only in his own imagination. He drew himself up, said, „That's hardly the way gentlemen... ."

„What gentlemen?" Bragi asked. „This mess came up because you won't accept Colonel Abaca as a gentleman. Why expect him to change now?" Not wanting to pour it on too heavy, Ragnarson added, „One of the bases of the law, Baron, is that we all have to face the consequences of our actions. Birth doesn't grant you immunity anymore. It only allows you limited privilege. In return, you're supposed to protect and guide the people of your fief. It's all set forth in the traditional oath of fealty, which goes all the way back to Jan Iron-Hand. You yourself swore that oath three times. Before the old King. Before Queen Fiana. Then before me. All I've ever asked of the Estates is that their lords fulfill that oath."

He thought he was getting through. The Baron had begun to squirm. „Let's drop the whole business, shall we? Send your family back to their quarters. Wait for your boy. I'll have Doctor Wachtel attend him. Credence, confine your­ self to barracks for the night. I'll have more to say to you later. Derel, let's put some life back in this party."

When they were out of earshot of the Baron, Ragnarson asked, „How did I do?"

„Pretty good," Prataxis replied. The scholar had indulged in his own form of intimidation. He had written down every word spoken. The Nordmen had an almost superstitious fear of the magical recall of his notes. „Do you know him? Is he likely to hold a grudge?"

„I don't think so. He's just impulsive. He survived the civil war. I haven't had to hang him since. That's about the best you can expect from the Estates. Take a couple notes. Have the old noose hung out. The one we used on Lord Lindwedel, Sir Andybur, and the Captal. As a gentle re­ minder. And ask Varthlokkur to have the Unborn show himself. That should do it."

Ragnarson paused to obtain wine for Prataxis and beer for himself. „It's so damned depressing sometimes. Here I am, the third consecutive monarch to bust his ass to make this a good country to live in. And if you get more than a bowshot from Vorgreberg's gates, you're up to your ears in the same old hardheaded, completely irrational bullshit the old Krief met head-on when he was crowned."

„This is a feudal state, Sire. Rigidity is one of that form's characteristics. And it's a positive characteristic, consider­ ing the forces which act to create feudal societies. The structure has a place for every man, with his responsibilities and privileges clearly defined. The weakness of the form is its inflexible response to novel ideas. It's been rocked by too many of those during our lifetimes, dating back to the Scourge of God, who did not fade from the field at harvest time. Now it wants to make like a turtle and pull its head in till the worst blows over. Only the storm won't go away. So the mossbacks strike back. Civil strife is one result."

„You trying to tell me something?"

„Change will be slow and painful in a kingdom like Ravelin. You can push too hard. Reaction will be like a recurrent boil. You lanced ours once, by winning the civil war. Now it's rising again."

„And there's nothing I can do about it?"

„To pursue the medical analogy, use poultices to keep the swelling to a minimum and the pain short-lived."

„For instance me a poultice."

„A conciliatory message, in private, might help with the Baron. You don't want him thinking you humiliated him maliciously. Press the lifesaving point, and agree with his prejudices without saying so in so many words. These illiterates have a great awe of the magic of reading and writing. He'll be tremendously impressed because you took time to do a letter."

Ragnarson whistled silently. „I wanted to humiliate him. I wanted to hang him out to dry. Sometimes the Estates make me want to cry like a baby. Yes. Write me up one of your classic little notes. I'll rewrite it in my own hand and have Dahl sneak it over."

He bumped into someone. Hard. Wine splashed against his side. He looked down.

His daughter-in-law's friend looked up at him. She did a quick, flustered, apologetic curtsey. „I'm sorry, Your Majes­ ty. That was clumsy of me." Her voice was high. It con­ tained a tiny squeak. It wasn't her normal voice. He had heard that at the place in Lieneke Lane. She was nervous. And the fright was alive in her eyes.

„My apology, Miss. It was my fault. I wasn't watching where I was going."

He walked away wondering. Was she afraid of the man? In awe of his Crown? Or afraid of herself?

Damn you, Kristen. You've got a big mouth.

Derel was chattering again. He told himself to pay atten­ tion. When Prataxis ran down, he said, „Send out the word for Michael to get in touch. We need to talk."