“Lord, they don’t love anyone here. Kavelin keeps right on heading downhill, taking everyone with it.”
“So it seems. Answer my question. Any hope?”
“She asked me to poll the soldiers to see if any would come work for her. Her Wessons are walking away, mainly because she can’t pay them. Her Nordmen become less supportive by the day, too. She’ll have lost all support outside Vorgreberg soon. Each town, each village, each lord, and each guild that deserts reduces her income further.”
“So the enterprise is doomed from both directions. And still she won’t let me in.”
“She remains adamant, My Lord. She will not trust you.”
Greyfells remained quiet. His frame went rigid momentarily. Recovering, he asked, “Why, Josiah?” His voice had gone plaintive.
“She has a touch of the illness that ruled Ragnarson, the Krief, and Fiana. She fears what you will do to Kavelin if you get control.”
Greyfells tittered, startling Gales. His normal laugh was an all-out, full-bodied roar. Now the Duke ended up wracked by deep, sobbing coughs. Gales feared for the man’s life, briefly.
“Sorry you had to see that, Josiah. No. Never mind. I’ll be all right. I’ve survived all this before. Go ahead. Poll the men. Tell them I’ll let them go if that’s what they want. Might as well let her not pay them as not pay them myself.” He contrived a small, controlled laugh. “Take her an honest answer.”
…
“About eighty men are willing to come over, Highness,” Gales reported. “That’s all?”
“Some wouldn’t give a straight answer. They thought the Duke was testing them. Others said that since they wouldn’t get paid either place they’d as soon stay put and save the walk. Most everyone said they intend to head home after the weather turns and the rivers go down.”
“And you told Dane what?”
“I answered the questions he asked. I volunteered nothing.” “What will he do?”
“He talked about doing the same as his soldiers. About cutting his losses and heading home.”
“But?”
“He will, likely, make one more try, doing what you expected. He’ll come in disguise with soldiers who want to switch allegiance. They’ll actually be men willing to stick with him.”
“I see. Will he expect me to expect him?”
“I couldn’t say. My mind can’t encompass so much complexity.”
Later, Inger asked, “Did you see Babeltausque out there?”
“No. Why?”
“He’s been keeping his head down. That’s curious. He could be useful here. He might be able to find my missing treasury.”
“He’s the Duke’s man.”
“You think he wants to be? I don’t. He’s been with the family through several Dukes, each one worse than the last. I can see him being loyal to the family but having an abiding distaste for its heads.”
“I’ll talk to him.”
…
Kristen’s flight from Kavelin took seven weeks. The Royal party crept from one Aral Dantice acquaintance to another, often enduring cold nights in the forest between times of warmth and decent food. Dantice was determined to proceed with caution, concealing the identities of his companions.
Kristen considered his precautions a waste. The party was too big and too burdened with women and children to be anything but what it was. But she was seeing it from the inside.
Dantice told her, “Only folks I trust with my life see you. I tell them nothing because they might be questioned someday.”
“Where are we headed?”
“A safe place. If I don’t talk about it no one will hear about it.”
“Aral, I appreciate everything. You’ve gone way out of your way. You’ve practically given up your regular life. I don’t understand why.”
Dantice avoided a straight answer. “The travel will be over soon. So will the cold and the hunger. You’ll be safe. No one will know where you are. You’ll be ready when Kavelin is ready.”
“What about my father-in-law? What about the true king?”
“He still lives. We know that. We also know they’ve stashed him where he won’t be able to escape.”
Kristen noted his “we” but did not question it. Aral Dantice was much too useful to be challenged.
He said, “This shouldn’t last long. Kavelin should be eager to proclaim Bragi by next fall. By then even the Marena Dimura and Nordmen should be sick of the chaos.”
“All right. We’re in your hands. Be gentle.”
The party reached an encampment deep in the mountains of southern Tamerice. It differed little from the one where Credence Abaca died. This one was not Marena Dimura, though. The forest people were scarce in Tamerice. The camp had been created by Royalist refugees from Hammad al Nakir as a base for raids across the Kapenrungs. Refugees had gathered there during the Great Eastern Wars.
Dantice told her, “You and the children should stay out of sight if strangers turn up. Let Dahl and Sherilee deal with them.”
Kristen thought Sherilee would attract any man who came within a mile.
Aral said, “I’ll give you letters saying you belong here and are under my protection.”
…
“Aral is gone,” Sherilee said. The suffering of the journey had wakened her resilience. She was now the optimist of the band. “Next time we see him he’ll tell us it’s time to head home to Vorgreberg.”
“I hope so,” Dahl said. “I wasn’t made for this life.”
Kristen snapped, “No one is. It’s a life that comes looking for you.” Sherilee said, “This is a nice place. It must have belonged to one of the high muckety mucks.”
The structure, partially log, partially stone, was large and had potential for being made comfortable. There were stores in the camp, tools, and even weapons. Dahl said, “Let’s don’t touch anything we don’t need to. We don’t want any smugglers upset because we got into their stuff.”
“Smugglers?”
“Smugglers. It’s what Aral does. Remember? This is a way station on the route into the desert. We’ll see plenty of travelers once the weather gets better.”
“Then we’d better get the kids educated about what to do when strangers come.”
That proved to be no problem. The first travelers were not inclined to socialize, either. Some never showed their faces.
That was both a comfort and discouraging. No discourse meant no news from outside.
…
There had been innumerable dislocations in city life the past ten years. No Vorgreberger knew all his neighbors anymore. The situation suited spies and criminals and anyone else who wanted to go unnoticed.
Espionage was a thriving industry. Crime was less lucrative, other than for smugglers. Smuggling was just commerce where the Crown failed to extort any taxes. Gang crime had fallen on hard times. Some invisible force saved the body politic the added friction.
Dark tales circulated in the underworld. They insisted that dire forces were at work. Things came in the night to collect those who preyed on their fellows.
It was true: evil men did disappear.
Crimes of passion remained common. What could be done to curb those?
There was an apothecary shop in Old Registry Lane. It had been there for decades. An elderly fellow had run it till recently. He had been a permanent grouch. When his son took over people noted that the younger chemist was less cranky.
He was about fifty. He may have been a soldier once. He had a bad right knee. He dragged that leg sometimes. He was slow with his customers but was tolerated because he dispensed good advice. He would help those who could not afford a physician. He was more of a talker and gossip and was curious about everything.
His most popular foible was that he sometimes extended credit.
Some said he was the official apothecary to the palace, provided old Wachtel with the specifics he used to keep the Royals hale and hearty- whoever they might be this year.
The popular jest was, Castle Krief had been built around Dr. Wachtel. The ancient physician was a national hero.