The apothecary would not discuss the connection. The favor of the doctor might be charity. A story that gained traction supposed that the chemist was Wachtel’s son by a married patient.
No one really cared. The apothecary was not colorful. He was just there.
Strangers visited frequently. They brought medicinal ingredients from far places or wanted concoctions crafted for some distant consumer. None of this attracted any but the most minor notice. It was unremarkable.
…
“I think it’s time,” Queen Inger told Colonel Gales.
Gales blanched.
“I’m sorry, Josiah. I no longer have a choice. So I insist that you make one of your own.”
“Your Majesty?”
“You know. You see the reports. You can add two and two. I won’t be able to hold on here without Dane’s men. In two months they’ll be the only real soldiers left.”
The old regiments were dissolving. Whom they had supported before no longer mattered. Kristen had vanished, the gods knew where. The intelligence system was falling apart faster than the army.
Inger continued, “Kristen’s friends can’t pay soldiers, either. And I won’t be able to pay the palace staff much longer.”
“I understand.” He had seen the estimates. The Queen’s friends had stopped making donatives.
“Before long Dane will be able to ride in and take it all, Josiah. I won’t be able to stop him. I need to make a move or kiss it all goodbye.”
“You could reconcile with your cousin.”
“No.”
For Dane of Greyfells reconciliation would mean him taking over.
Gales slumped. She was right.
“Josiah, I won’t let Fulk become my cousin’s puppet.”
“Yes, Majesty.”
“Any men willing should come now. Admit that I can’t pay them right away but that they will eat well.” Unlike her native soldiers, the Itaskians did not have families to support. “And I want Babeltausque.”
“As you wish.” Gales did not doubt that the sorcerer would come. Greyfells would insist.
His moment of choice was, indeed, approaching. It had been inevitable for some time. He could no longer delay the reckoning. Each pole of his loyalty expected him to betray the other. Neither really trusted him. He saw no way to avoid making an enemy. Neither would the friendship of either be enduring.
He ought to desert them both. Let the snakes devour each other. He could not do that.
His betrayal, however he bestowed it, would not define the future. Neither would rule in Castle Krief by the end of the year.
Gales believed Kavelin’s northern neighbors could not resist temptation, however much they had suffered themselves during the Great Eastern Wars.
The horrors had begun to be forgotten the way a woman forgets childbirth’s pain.
Josiah Gales had mentioned the threat to Inger and the Duke. Neither wanted to listen.
“I have chores, Majesty, and things to do if I’m going to travel.” He was sick of travel. He wished he knew some other way of life. “I’ll be back tonight.”
“I want you on the road to Damhorst tomorrow.”
Gales sighed. “As you command.”
Gales was a frugal man. He had been paid well back when soldiers received regular pay. He decided to spend some of his savings getting drunk.
…
The warlords of Anstokin and Volstokin were less tempted than Colonel Gales feared. Both kings did feel the urge. Kavelin lay sprawled like a naked virgin tied to a mattress of silver. But lurking in the shadows above those splayed enticements was a hideous guardian, a monstrous infant inside a transparent pinkish magical excuse for a placenta. A horror renowned for its evil deeds during the Great Eastern Wars.
The Unborn turned up whenever either king’s fantasies progressed to the assembling of troops. It needed do no more, so far.
Manifestation of the Unborn was not just a promise of terror. It was a clear announcement that a greater horror still had an interest.
Thus was peace assured amongst the bellicose Lesser Kingdoms. And the absence of war inflicted prosperity.
…
Josiah Gales was out of practice with ardent spirits. Handling large quantities was not a skill much admired in senior military men. Wine with dinner, small beer with breakfast, the occasional brandywine of an evening whilst relaxing with his fellows, those were his norms. Some children imbibed more in a day. His most recent falling-down-sick romance with alcohol happened the day they buried Dane’s assassinated granduncle.
People connected to Kavelin had been involved somehow. Gales was not sure why he ended up at the Twisted Wrench. Probably because the place was a haunt for garrison troops off duty. Even if he was recognized his presence ought not to be resented.
He staked out a shadowy corner and brushed off those who tried to socialize. By not talking he would not betray his accent. Without thinking about it, though, he slipped into a character he once played undercover.
He became the quirky Sergeant Gales. That meant a shift in the set of his shoulders, in the way he held his head, a more expansive set of gestures even while being sullenly unsocial, and a lower class accent when he did have to speak.
The tavern never became crowded. The owner longed for the time when Bragi was king and there were soldiers everywhere.
There was a lot of nostalgia in the Twisted Wrench. And a lot of resentment, too.
Inger had gotten her chance. She had wasted it.
The blame was not all hers, though. The other Itaskian gang enjoyed a fouler reputation. Some folks, in fact, believed the Queen would have done a decent job if her cousin had not been undercutting.
Kristen executed a brilliant strategic maneuver by sliding out of the light when she did. She had taken no blame, only sympathy, with her. The death of Credence Abaca, which had thrilled Inger so back when, now looked like a curse. It, too, conspired to make those still visible look bad.
The Marena Dimura were no longer in a state of insurrection. They had become invisible. They could not now be blamed for all the ills of the kingdom.
Gales was well up the early slope of alcohol consumption. He was pleased to be learning so much. It might be too late to use the information to any advantage but he now had his finger on the pulse of the kingdom.
He should have made expeditions like this before. The knowledge could have kept Inger in much better odor.
It had not occurred to anyone to care what ordinary people thought. Their attitudes did not matter in Itaskia. But this was Kavelin. The monarchs here had been listening for decades. Inger might have, too. She had a mild case of the Kavelin fever.
Josiah Gales had a slight case of that disease himself. He signaled for a refill, then began to brood on that.
Then he began to worry about the time. He should have been back by now. Inger would give him bloody hell when he turned up drunk.
And now he could not leave.
Men he knew had come and gone, none paying him any heed because he timed his piss runs to avoid being noticed. The strategy had worked till an entire squad of archers stumbled in. The Wrench was not their first stop of the evening. Gales wondered how they could afford so much drink. Their pay was in arrears.
The archers settled where Gales would have to pass on his way to the jakes. And they would not move on.
The ache in the Colonel’s bladder reached a point where he had to make a decision. He chose to piss on the floor, sitting where he was, not a choice he would have made when sober.
He got urine all over himself. What made it to the floor drained through gaps in the floorboards. The odor did not stand out amongst the other stinks of the Wrench.
Then a shaggy mass of a man materialized. He headed a trio of thoroughly drenched gentlemen. In fluent drunkenese, he bellowed, “Holy fuckin’ shit! Will ya lookit! Sarge Gales, you ole cocksucker! How da fuck are you? Hey! You look like shit, man. You been eatin’ right? You got pushed out too, huh? Guess you’re lookin’ good enough for dat. Hey! Tell dese jack-offs ’bout dat time. You know. Durin’ da El Murid Wars when you got off a dat ship in Hellin Daimiel or wherever da fuck. Wit’ all da women. You guys gotta hear dis. Funniest fuckin’ story I ever heard.”