She asked, “Elwas, how strong is your faith today?”
“Shaken, Shining One. Badly shaken.”
“Stop giving me titles. Habibullah? How about you?”
“I am no fanatic but I am a Believer. My faith today is the same as it was yesterday. Why should it change?”
“Elwas. How widely known…”
“Only a handful know now. In a month the world will know.”
Habibullah said, “I’m confused. Why is the death of Magden Norath a tragedy for the Faith?”
“It isn’t. Him and Megelin having a secret meeting with the Star Rider is.”
Habibullah looked no less confused.
“Old Meddler, Habibullah. Behind half the evils of history. He was the angel who saved and educated my father. He wasn’t an emissary of God. My father did God’s work but he was set on that path by a devil who wanted a world filled with warfare and chaos.”
What Yasmid said was nothing new. El Murid’s enemies had made those claims for years. She watched Habibullah perform the mental acrobatics needed to avoid angry denial. He converted to sublime acceptance quickly. “God, in His Wisdom, used His Enemy to instigate the Disciple’s Great Work.”
“Exactly. And that will be dogma from now on. Elwas?”
“The logic is irrefutable. God has Written everything already.”
“Good. I want the imams and mullahs gathered for evening prayers with me. I’ll also want the Invincibles available to deal with those old men if they give me any grief. We’ll establish an official position before the rumors get crazy. Elwas, can I trot my father out?”
“Go see him. Make that judgment yourself.”
…
Yasmid was alone, except for Habibullah, whose proximity she seldom shook. Habibullah waited for her to face the most troubling aspect of the news.
Finally, softly, she asked, “Is there a chance that Norath’s killer really was…?”
She could not say the name.
“It must have been. It would have to be. Who else? Dramatic unity.”
“Excuse me?”
“That would be God having a chuckle at our expense. For even more drama He should’ve brought the assassin face to face with the King.”
“Oh. My.” Yes. If that was Haroun he must have come within yards of their son, with neither knowing.
“Habibullah, I feel too old and too tired. Find me a place to leave the world behind.”
“I feel that way myself, quite often. Then I remind myself that the only one who ever managed that is your father.”
Yasmid wanted to bark and snarl. But what point? Whatever she said, Habibullah would have an answer. And it would make much too much sense.
Chapter Nine:
Spring, Year 1017 AFE:
The Lesser Kingdoms
Inger stalked into the room where Babeltausque waited. Only a day had passed since his conversion. Already he insisted on seeing her. She hoped a quick response did not make her seem desperate. “You’re ready to go to work?”
“Majesty, first, I want to say that last night I enjoyed my best night of sleep since I came to this wretched kingdom. This morning I enjoyed my finest breakfast since we left Itaskia. I’m in an excellent mood. I’m eager to start work. So let’s review what you want me to do.”
“I want you to root through shadows. To turn out hidden secrets. To find things. To find people. Can you do all that?”
“Maybe. Tell me what you’re looking for.”
“All right. First and most criticaclass="underline" find Colonel Gales. Dead or alive. See Nathan Wolf. He’s done all the looking so far.”
“What else?”
“The treasury money. I’ll give you ten percent.”
“Most every minute I bless anew the fate that brought me to you.”
“Let’s hope you feel that way a year from now. Others I want found: General Liakopulos, Michael Trebilcock, and that bitch Kristen Gjerdrumsdottir.”
“The Duke had her killed.”
“He tried. He might think he was successful. But she’s still alive and scheming to make her brat king.”
Babeltausque did not argue. Dane of Greyfells had become the tenant of a dungeon cell because of his ineffable ability to believe anything he wanted to be true.
Inger said, “The money is the most important thing. Then Josiah Gales and any looming threats. Especially threats to you. You’ll become a target for folks who don’t like me. The rest you can deal with when you find time.”
Babeltausque said, “As you want it, so shall it be.”
“Sweet talk, sorcerer. But these are desperate times. Talk won’t help make us the people doing the grinning at the other end.”
“You’ve changed.”
“I have. You won’t find this Inger nearly as nice as the one you remember. This Inger can be quite bloodthirsty. What do you need to make what I want happen?”
The sorcerer opened and closed his mouth several times. Nothing came out.
“Tell me, Babeltausque.” Her tone suggested pain on the way if he did not buckle down now.
…
Dane, Duke of Greyfells, had a concussion. Its effects were exacerbated by his inability to accept his situation. He was Greyfells, the Duke, senior member of a noble family that, by God, deserved, by God, to rule Itaskia and several neighboring states. Only continuous, relentless evil conspiracy by lesser men kept the Greyfells line from claiming its rights.
He was not one to note what had been done to ease his confinement. He had a cot, topped by a mattress. Fresh straw covered the muck on the floor. He was not chained. He had a stool with a bucket underneath to manage his eliminations. But all he saw was an iron wall with welded straps and rivets that made escape hopeless.
Meals came regularly, through a slot three inches high and sixteen wide. The slops bucket left via its own little door, too small to pass a man.
Reality took days to dawn. He was completely at Inger’s mercy, and her mercy would be slight at its most generous.
Those who brought food and removed his wastes would not talk. Maybe they did not understand Itaskian. Maybe they were deaf. It was beyond his capacity to understand that most people hated him. Inger’s people thought she was being too soft.
He did see that if he was not heard, if no one listened, if no one understood, he would go nowhere ever again, but while he remained alive the Greyfells fortunes would remain out in the wind.
More than ever he cursed the idiot he had been when he decided that he could steal a crown for his family.
…
Josiah Gales strove ferociously to pull himself together. He could not begin to guess how long he had been like this. He wanted to assess his situation but his head would not clear.
Clever bastards. They did not feed him well. Teetering at the edge of starvation, he attacked whatever food they brought. Which was drugged. Always.
No one interrogated him. No one cared what he knew. No one explained why he was a captive.
He had been removed from the equation by a means less harsh than murder. He no longer signified. He might be turned loose later, or maybe retained as a bargaining chip.
Gales saw few of his captors. They did not talk. They did not acknowledge his existence, except that they fed him.
Drugged, it took Gales a while to fathom the rules of his new life.
If he said nothing and did nothing life proceeded with no inconvenience beyond being imprisoned and drugged. It went smoothest when he just quietly contemplated the stupidity that had brought him to this.
His captors evidently bore him no malice. They just wanted him out of the way.
…
An old man entered the apothecary shop in Old Registry Lane. He seemed almost too frail to manage the door.
A girl of fourteen was minding the shop. She was surprised to see him. He smiled a smile full of fine white teeth, shuffled forward. His body, like his teeth, was in excellent shape. Apparent infirmity was part of his disguise. “You’re looking especially nice this morning, Haida. You make me wish I was ten years younger.”
Haida flushed, flattered, flustered, but not offended. “I’ll see if Chames is in back.”