How anyone could actually know that never got explained. Varthlokkur’s participation was based on circumstantial evidence, Haroun’s on less. That there had been kidnappings at all remained uncertain. The Disciple’s medical team was missing, too. There were no actual witnesses.
Those left behind were determined to believe what they wanted to be true.
The chaos at Sebil el Selib beggared that at Al Rhemish. The Faithful were not accustomed to life without established leadership-though that might be as corrupt as any on the Royalist side.
Elwas al-Souki and his intimates did what they could, though they suffered continual sabotage by Adim al-Dimishqi’s clique. The latter saw a God-granted chance to push the Believers onto a more traditional path.
The situation was juice-dripping ripe for exploitation by Old Meddler.
…
Old Meddler was preoccupied. He had wind of a huge threat, possibly the worst in fifty generations. He had pushed too hard. The push-back had devoured his resources. He was weak. He had no friends. Without, he was close to blind.
Too much happened beyond his ken. There were a thousand places he could not look without spending hours and vast reserves of energy. There were some into which he could not look at all, however hard he tried. A thousand glittering spears were headed his way but he could make out the shimmering razor edges of only a few.
He could not recall when he had felt this uneasy. And malaise rested entirely on intuition, not on facts already determined.
He could not sit tight and let events unfold, improvising responses. He had to act. His character demanded preemption.
His only real choice was what direction to strike.
Once he started he would, ironically, operate through improvisation anyway.
It might turn grim. He lacked allies. His arsenal had been depleted. The Poles of Power were beyond his control. One had vanished completely, as though Fate itself had chosen to tamper.
All effort would be wasted, anyway, whatever the world looked like on the other side. Success would win neither reprieve nor parole. Death itself might be no escape.
Even so, it was time. Definitely time to go shove his hands into the pie. After all these ages he could do nothing less.
…
Ragnarson delayed his appearance before the Thing for as long as he dared. Days and days, till Michael warned him that Haida said the delegates were out of patience. The rumor accusing the castle of stalling out of greed had gained considerable momentum.
Haida Heltkler made friends easily. She moved amongst people comfortably, taking the popular pulse. She could be flirty when she wanted, which was no handicap amongst the unwashed.
That did not become a problem amongst the more frequently washed of the castle once Carrie Depar and Michael Trebilcock each took a moment to counsel Babeltausque. That gleam in his eye had best disappear. No telling which Babeltausque heard more clearly but he did take the message to heart. Haida was too ripe, anyway. And he was damned happy with Carrie. That was going far better than he had any right to expect.
Ragnarson’s main reason for stalling had been a hope that Babeltausque would discover a working transfer portal. A live one would provide the impact he wanted.
The sorcerer had one hell of a time finding one, though, despite knowing that it had to be out there somewhere. He found one at last, in Fiana’s tomb, fourth time he looked, when Ragnarson insisted that he try it yet again.
The Thing met in full, with numerous native and foreign observers crowding into every otherwise unclaimed space. That whole end of the world, kings and commons, wanted to watch history in the making. And history would be made. History happened where King Bragi went.
First order of business, declaration of a requirement for order, manners, and good behavior inside the Thing hall. Misbehavior would not be tolerated. Following his minute of stolen glory each transgressor, whatever his station, should expect harsh penalties, from the stocks to public whippings. Colonel Gales would enforce good manners at his own discretion.
Ragnarson expected to make examples. People did not believe you till you hit them hard enough.
Silence gathered quickly once Ragnarson moved past his grim prospects cautionary speech.
He leaned on the rostrum, surveyed the assembly. Inger and Kristen were with him, a step back and one to either side, Inger on the right. Neither was happy. Each had suffered abiding disappointments. Each felt humiliated and betrayed.
Neither Fulk nor the younger Bragi were present. Each woman still wondered if she could fully accept what Ragnarson meant to announce.
Neither saw any other choice. The legal monarch was back. No one else minded him asserting his rights. Popular sentiment was plain. Common folks were thrilled. He had screwed up, back when, but the kingdom had enjoyed unprecedented internal security before that, and ferocious chaos in his absence. Things could only get better.
Nostalgia always ground off the bloody, jagged edges and wafted away the bad smells. The old days were ever better times, ever sweeter than the hells folks were slogging through nowadays.
Even so, Ragnarson sensed resentment. The people here were sure he was wasting their time. But they wanted the measure of the new him. They were no longer stunned beyond calculation. They were about to start knitting conspiracies tailored to whatever strengths he betrayed.
He offered a brief, brisk, insincere apology for the delays. “What I’m going to show you was more cunningly hidden than I expected. But, before that, I want to deal with the succession, which has caused too much friction and confusion.”
That got their attention. Scores, possibly hundreds, had perished in those squabbles, rancor stirred by Dane of Greyfells and traditional prejudice. Though weary of the fighting the survivors all retained strong opinions.
“When it looked like I was gone for good this assembly designated my son Fulk to succeed me, a cynical choice pushed through in hopes that Inger would prove a weak regent, easily manipulated, while Fulk’s constitution would betray him quickly.”
That caused a stir. Some thought the Queen appeared stricken by the bald statement, though Dr. Wachtel’s prognoses certainly supported it.
“I confirm the will of the Thing. Fulk will be my successor, with his mother as Queen Regent.”
A buzz began. Elation. Disappointment. Wonder. Surprise that he would favor Fulk over his grandson. That emotional connection was stronger.
“However,” Ragnarson said, portentously. “Practically, though, I must face the fact that Fulk is sickly. He probably won’t enjoy a long, peaceful reign. An intercession of evil won’t be necessary to end the disappointments he may cause you who have black hearts. So, though I want Fulk and his mother to follow me, I also want my grandson, Bragi, and his mother to follow Fulk-even if Fulk produces his own son. And, Kristen, you will be patient. Michael has assured me that you will.” He paused to allow reflection, then, “I want this made law. The Queen will herd it through and Michael Trebilcock will enforce it.”
Ragnarson stood silent momentarily, then boomed, “The Crown will not tolerate any more squabbling amongst its subjects.”
He did not say how he might enforce his will with no income or army. He had no idea how he could. He was winging it again, but reminding them that Michael was out there, watching. Few Kaveliners did not dread Michael’s ire-though there were, in fact, few certain instances of that ire having been expressed directly.
Michael Trebilcock, the terror, was mostly perception.
Since the Great Eastern Wars perception had been enough. For most people, perception and truth were identical.
Trebilcock had arrived with Ragnarson but had disappeared right away. He was a spook now, rarely seen as he prowled the Thing. His eyes were hard. He was looking for something.
Which was Michael doing what Michael did, while hundreds sensed him watching, calculating, noting faces and names.