Mocker went along.
He had been given plunder money and he knew Throyes of old. He knew its gaming houses well.
It was in one of those that the Throyen Nine contacted him.
The emissary was fatter than he. Sweat rolled off him in rivers, and he smelled. Flies loved him. Yet men made way for him when he approached the table where Mocker, having an apparent run of luck, was amazing the house with his bets.
The man watched during three passes of the dice. Then he whispered, "I would speak with you, fat man."
"Hai! Is case of kettles calling pot black. Begone, ponderous interrupter of...."
"You want these people to check your dice?"
Mocker rattled the bones slowly, wondering if he could resubstitute without the fat man noticing.
"Come. We have to talk."
Mocker collected his winnings, apologized to the onlookers. The house didn't object, which was surprising. He was into it deep.
He did manage to switch dice before departing.
He followed the fat man outside and into an alley....
He grabbed the fatter man, laid a dagger across his throat. "Self, being old skulker of alleys, take steps first, before trap springs," he murmured. "Speak. Or second, redder mouth opens under first."
The bigger man didn't seem perturbed. "I speak for the Hidden Kingdom."
Mocker had wondered if the contact would ever come. He hadn't done much to please Lord Chin.
"Speak." He didn't relax.
"The message comes from the Pracchia. A directive. Dispose of the man named Ragnarson."
"And in case of possibility former adherent, self, has changed mind?"
"They have your son. You choose which dies."
"Pestilential pig!" He drew the blade across the fat man's throat.
But when he turned to flee he found someone blocking his path. The man threw dust into his face.
He collapsed.
Endlessly repetitive, droning voices told him what he had to do....
"Here he is," Haaken called. Several Kaveliners joined him in the alley. "The fat guy must be the one he left with. Poul, look out for the Watch. This other one looks like Mocker nailed him before he went down."
A soldier knelt beside Mocker. "He's alive, Colonel. Looks like he got knocked in the head."
"Check his purse."
"Empty."
"Funny. It's not like him to get caught this easy. Here. Blood. Looks like he hurt a couple more, but they got away." He stirred a third body with his foot. Mocker's sword still pierced its heart. "What the hell was he doing down an alley with somebody he didn't know? With that much money on him? And why the hell didn't they kill him?"
"Colonel...." Poul shouted too late.
The Watch identified the man with Mocker's blade in him as a notorious cutpurse. The fat man was an important magistrate. They took detailed depositions. Their mucking around enraged the managers of the gaming house. The police wanted to hold Mocker. Blackfang fumed and stormed and threatened to have Varthlokkur roast their tongues in their mouths. They finally released Mocker on condition that his deposition would be presented as soon as he recovered.
When Mocker came round he found Bragi, Varthlokkur, Nepanthe, and Haaken waiting over him.
"What happened?" Bragi demanded.
"Give him a chance," Nepanthe pleaded. "Can't you see... ?"
"All right. Get some of that soup down him."
Mocker took a few spoonfuls, desultorily, while trying to remember. Voices. Telling him he had to.... To what? Kill. Kill these men. Especially Bragi. And Varthlokkur, if he could.
He felt for his missing dagger.
The compulsion to strike was almost too much for him.
Varthlokkur eyed him suspiciously. He had been doing so since the island encounter. This would take cunning. He had to get himself and Nepanthe out alive.
He had to do it. For Ethrian.
His friend of more than twenty years, and his fa-ther.... Already the necessities gnawed his vitals like dragon chicks eating their ways out.
Varthlokkur was the illegitimate son of the last King of llkazar. He had killed his father, indirectly. It was the curse of the Golmune line. The sons slew the fathers.... Mocker had slain Varthlokkur once already, long ago, over Nepan-the.... But that spooky little man with the winged horse had revived him.
Mocker told his lies, and his mind strayed to his own son. Ethrian. Would he, too, someday, be responsible for the death of his father?
TWENTY-EIGHT: A Friendly Assassin
Marco brought the news to Ragnarson at Gog-Ahlan. Megelin had retreated to the Kapenrungs. The blood of half his followers stained the desert sands.
El Murid had suffered as bitterly. Nevertheless, he had ordered Badalamen to lead the ragged, war-weary victors into Ravelin.
Ragnarson increased the pace again.
As the army entered the Savernake Gap, Varthlokkur toid him, "We have a problem. Mocker. Something was done to him. He's lying,..."
"He's acting strange, yeah. Wouldn't you if Shinsan had had a hold of you?"
"Shinsan has had a hold of me. That's why I'm suspicious. Something happened in Throyes that he's not admitting."
"Maybe."
"I know what you're thinking. The spook-pusher is getting antsy about moving in on Nepanthe. Keep an eye on him anyway."
Later, after the army had passed Maisak and started eagerly downhill into its homeland, Varthlokkur returned. "Nepanthe is gone," he announced.
"What? Again?"
"Your fat friend did it this time."
"Take it from the beginning." Ragnarson sighed.
"He left her at Maisak."
"Why?"
"You tell me."
"I don't know."
"To remove her from risk?"
"Go away."
He didn't like it. Varthlokkur was right. Something had happened. Mocker had changed. The humor had gone out of him. He hadn't cracked a smile in weeks. And he avoided his friends as much as possible. He preferred remaining apart, brooding, walking with eyes downcast. He didn't eat much. He was a shadow of the man who had come to the Victory Day celebration.
Challenging him produced no answers. He simply denied, growing vehement when pressed. Haakenand Reskird no longer bothered.
Ragnarson watched constantly, hoping he could figure out how to help.
Kavelin greeted them as conquering heroes. The march lost impetus. Each morning's start had to be delayed till missing soldiers were retrieved from the girls of the countryside.
"I don't like it," said Haaken, the morning Bragi planned to reach Vorgreberg.
"What?" There had been no contact with Gjerdrum. Vorgreberg seemed unware of their approach.
"How many men have you seen?" Haaken's way was to let his listeners supply half the information he wanted to impart.
"I don't follow you."
"We've been back for three days. I haven't seen a man who wasn't too old to get around. When I ask, the people say they've gone west. So where are they? What happened to the garrison Gjerdrum was supposed to send to Karak Strabger?"
"You're right. Even the Nordmen are gone. Find Ragnar. And Trebilcock and Dantice. We'll ride ahead."
Varthlokkur joined them. They reached Vorgreberg in midafternoon. The city lay deserted. They found only a few poorly-armed old men guarding the gates. Squads of women drilled in the streets.
"What the hell?" Ragnarson exploded when first he encountered that phenomenon. "Come on." He spurred toward the girls.
Months in the field had done little to make him attractive. The girls scattered.
One recognized Ragnarson. "It's the Marshall!" She grabbed his stirrup. "Thank God. sir. Thank God you're back."