Ragnarson lifted a hand.
A tall, wide swath of canvas swept aside. Babeltausque clomped onto the floor of the Thing leading a tired-looking donkey and cart. The animal looked like it had mange. The cart carried a tall black box which, at first glimpse, resembled a one-hole outhouse. It produced a faint hum and random tweets. The tweets followed crackling sparks like those snapping between your fingertips and cold metal on a dry winter day.
Some onlookers knew it was no shitter, though it could scare the crap out of someone of questionable courage. It was a Dread Empire transfer portal and it was alive. There was, in fact, something wrong with it. It should not crackle and hum while on standby.
No one, including Ragnarson, actually understood that.
Ragnarson explained, “This was concealed inside Queen Fiana’s mausoleum, masked by one that we deactivated before.” He tried to sound more distressed than he really was. He was willing to exploit his own pain and vulnerability.
He experienced a tweak in time with a tweet. He was becoming an apprentice Greyfells, cynical and pragmatic. He wanted to look back but feared what he would see reflected in the faces of the women.
Babeltausque worked his cart round so that the donkey faced back the way that it had come. Four garrison soldiers lifted the portal down, settling it where all the delegates could see it, a dark, oily, interstellar black thing that the gaze either fell into and lost focus or slipped off and did likewise, partly why it had been so hard to find.
Ragnarson made random comments during the unloading. He wanted the onlookers distracted while the soldiers grunted and strained.
The portal seemed heavier than it should be.
A bear of a man in black armor emerged from the black, oily face. A twin came after, followed immediately by two more. Three of the four garrison soldiers demonstrated the better part of valor. The fourth fainted.
Yet another pair of giants emerged. Heart pounding, near panic, Ragnarson nevertheless did note that the Imperial Lifeguards were not arriving with their weapons bared.
He noted, as well, Babeltausque drifting away, eyes huge, leading donkey and cart at a glacial pace, stricken by this ugly turn of events, no doubt desperate for something to do and failing to think of a thing.
Had Mist’s gang chosen to infiltrate when their portal was in exactly the worst possible location for their purpose?
The Empress herself stepped into the Thing hall. No doubting who she was. Most delegates remembered her from her exile. Her visual impact remained immense. The rising panic peaked. The screams and curses of men clambering over one another to win first escape eased up immediately.
Why, in the names of all devils and gods above and below, had that woman chosen to step into the heart of this kingdom at this moment?
Ragnarson did not doubt her move was as calculated as a public beheading. She wanted to be seen with Varthlokkur, who emerged from the portal behind her.
Those two approached Ragnarson.
Inger quietly told Josiah Gales to do nothing, an instruction he supported wholeheartedly. He signed, “Steady on!” to Nathan Wolf and Babeltausque. Both relaxed. They were not expected to commit suicide.
Mist came as near as the layout permitted. “Bragi, you’re needed.”
The wizard nodded. “It could be just hours, now.”
Mist asked, “Where is Trebilcock?”
Ragnarson did not trust his tongue. He shook his head. He did not know. Around somewhere, probably in disguise.
He had seen Haida Heltkler moments ago, making eyes at Bight Mundwiller, but not now. Like Michael, she was out there listening.
That kid had a cooler head than he did, he feared.
He did croak, “He’ll turn up.” Or he might do something weird that nobody would notice right away. Or something that everyone would notice, and regret forever. Something they could tell their grandchildren thirty years from now.
Mist said, “Come. We have no time. We can collect Trebilcock later, if need be.”
“You’re shitting me, right? I got stuff to do here. And I don’t think I care much about what you got yourself into out there.”
Varthlokkur said, “We need you. We expect your help. We will take you back with us.”
The Thing hall had gone silent. Those few delegates still moving did so slowly, randomly, like their minds had shut down.
Mist had come prepared, no doubt about that. Bragi would be going where she wanted him to go. And he had all too terrifying a notion where that might be, though not why. What could he possibly contribute? His whole experience with the Star Rider was a single glimpse, years ago. What could he actually do but get himself dead along with the rest of them?
However much they believed, and were committed, it would not be enough. He was not prepared to die for their fantasy.
Haroun was right. Old Meddler was weather. You lived with it, and you hoped you survived it. You hoped that it did not single you out.
How his attitude had shifted after just a brief romance with freedom!
“It’s nice to be needed. But I can’t imagine how I can help you die any less ugly than you’re going to if you keep this up.”
Babeltausque had not been overcome by the spell dulling the delegates. He turned loose of his donkey, straightened up, headed for the portal.
Had he decided it was time to die?
Ragnarson began to turn away, but not before Babeltausque’s baby fluff, equally unaffected, latched onto him, whispering urgently, trying to get him to stop.
For the ten thousandth time in his life Ragnarson was amazed by the surprises the human animal could spring.
The child really did care. And the little pervert cared right back. He was trying to explain. But he did not stop moving.
Mist and Varthlokkur both reached up as though to beckon Bragi down to the Thing hall floor.
Michael Trebilcock appeared, approaching. Michael, who could be intimidated by so little, was unaffected by the calming and clearly meant to intercede. “Perfect,” Mist said, clearly enough to be heard by everyone.
Babeltausque and his friend, of a single mind now, kept on toward the transfer portal. Trebilcock shifted his course, heading there, too. Break that damned thing and this villainy would die unborn.
There might be a lot of flash and burn afterward, though.
The invaders did not seem especially concerned.
Ragnarson could not imagine what Babeltausque hoped to accomplish. No way he would get past Mist’s lifeguards.
The girl darted left, then forward. The sorcerer shot a spell through the space vacated by the bodyguard who moved to intercept her.
Clever, but a second lifeguard deflected the spell with his body. It knocked him down but he grabbed at the fat man as he collapsed. His effort shoved Babeltausque right into the portal.
Carrie Depar dove after him.
Mist cursed. Varthlokkur laughed.
Ragnarson figured those two would be dealt with in the Karkha Tower, or wherever they emerged. They had just plain jumped into deep shit.
He stepped down. His mind had begun to fog, too, though as yet less completely than most-though some remained unaffected. He forced his head round enough to follow Michael in his muffed attack. Trebilcock ended up getting tossed into the portal at a gesture from Mist.
She spoke to the men helping the lifeguard who had gone down. One boomed back, his tone not at all pleasant.
Another grabbed Ragnarson and dragged. He went, heels skidding.
…
Nepanthe dropped to her knees beside Bragi. He had the pale, sick look of a man with a ferocious hangover. He made sounds that probably were not efforts to communicate. He made no sense. Elsewhere, others treated other arrivals. Eka and Ethrian were fascinated by a girl only slightly older than Eka. Nepanthe needed a moment to recognize her. She did not look the same in person. She had come through better, physically and mentally, than any of the adults. She was unnaturally calm for someone suddenly snatched into an improbable situation.