As Turran left, he sent his brother a look of mute appeal. But Valther was busy tickling a toe.
Damned Tervola! Let them frown behind their devil masks! She was her own woman.
Never a word was said, but, next morning, she realized everyone knew, from the mighty to the spearmen.
When the Escalonian dawn painted her pavilion with bloody rays, her unicorn was gone.
Before she could be challenged, she unleashed the assault on Tatarian, following a suggestion a helpful Valther had whispered deep in the night.
The city that had held so long collapsed in hours.
The Tervola were impressed.
v) Their heads meet, and they spark wickedness
The defense of Escalon had collapsed. Tatarian lay in ruins. Mist, though still unable to claim victory over O Shing, eyed Matayanga.
It was time the Captal decided.
Mist had come to visit often. His infatuation had grown to the proportions of the great romances. Yet he prided himself on being a hard-nosed realist. He considered facts and acted accordingly, no matter the pain.
But he had a blind spot. The child from Vorgreberg.
They had given her the name Carolan, but the nickname Kiki had attached itself. Shoptaw and Burla, her constant companions, preferred the latter. She was a bright-eyed, golden-haired imp, all giggles and bounce. She was happy, carefree, yet capable of seriousness when discussing her destiny, which the Captal had never hidden.
The old man could not have loved her more. Everyone loved her... And spoiled her. Even Mist.
The winged man brought Kiki. The Captal smiled. He no longer worried about himself, he worried about Kiki. Should he subject a child not yet six to the torments of a play for Kavelin's throne?
"It's about Aunt Mist, isn't it Papa Drake?" she asked, eyes disconcertingly big.
"Yes. The thing in Escalon's done. We've got to decide about Kavelin."
She placed her hands on his.
"We've got to figure what's best for you."
"I thought you wanted ..."
"What I want isn't important. I've got Maisak. I've got Shoptaw and Burla. And you." The winged man stirred embarrassedly. The Captal reddened. He had begun to understand the costs of Vorgreberg. "But you.. .got to do what's best."
"Why don't you talk to Aunt Mist?"
"I know what she wants."
"Talk to her anyway. She's a nice lady." Carolan had her determined face on. "But sometimes she's spooky."
The Captal laughed. "She's that. I'll see if she's got time to visit."
She was there in hours.
The Captal generally greeted her with some small flattery. This time she looked terrible.
"What's happened?" he asked.
She collapsed into a chair. "I was a fool."
"You won, though."
"And came out too weak to go on. Drake, O Shing's pet Tervola, Wu, is a demon. A genius. They almost overthrew me..."
"I'd heard. But you came back."
"Drake, legions are fighting legions. Tervola are fighting Tervola. That's never happened before. And Escalon... The Monitor was stronger than I thought. All I won was a desert. He even got the Tear of Mimizan out before the collapse. And a quarter of Shinsan is as lifeless as Escalon. I'm losing my grip. The Tervola are having second thoughts. They would've abandoned me already, except 1 managed a coup in the attack on Tatarian." Once again, it seemed, he had joined a loser. "So you want the Gap as bride-price for their support?" She smiled weakly. "I don't blame you. No more than the Tervola. We respect strength and ability. In your place, I'd wonder about me too."
The Captal chuckled nervously. She had read his mind. "Can I sweeten the partnership?" So she was weak. Desperately so. "No Escalon. No conquest outright. Hegemony and disarmament. Suzerainty without occupation..."
"A return to Empire?" she asked. "With Shinsan replacing Ilkazar?"
"Any rational man could see we need unity. The problem is questions of local sovereignty."
"And how would you enforce my sovereignty?" The old man shrugged. "I'm not worried about the mules, just about loading the wagon. Agree in principle?" "All right. We'll manage something. What about Kavelin?"
"The King's sick. He'll go soon. The scramble's about to begin. The barons are forming parties. Breitbarth looks strong. El Murid and Volstokin are interested. Which means Itaskia and Altea and Anstokin... Well, you see the possibilities. I'm sending my winged men to watch my neighbors. I should send them farther afield, to where the real plotting will take place." "And Carolan?"
"I don't know. 1 want to protect her." "So do I. But you'll need support. She's the tool you'll have to use."
"1 know. I know. A quandary. That's why I asked you here. She insisted I talk to you."
"Why not ask her what she wants? She's got her feet on the ground. She's thought about it " Carolan wanted to be Queen So the Captal chose to betray his homeland for the sakes of a six-year-old and a woman who should have been his enemy.
SIX: The Mercenaries
i) A matter of discipline
"Looks just like army," said Mocker, as he and Ragnarson descended the slope of the valley where Blackfang and Kildragon had established their training camp. The River Porthune was near, and beyond it, Kendel, northernmost of the Lesser Kingdoms.
They were a week behind Blackfang. It had taken Bragi that long to conclude his business and convince Uthe that he and Dahl dared return to Elana unaccompanied. He had finally explained the situation fully, trusting Uthe's discretion. Even then Bragi had been forced to compose a long explanatory letter admonishing Elana and Bevold to cooperate with the Minister's agents.
"Uhn." Ragnarson grunted. "A baby one. Or an overgrown street gang." He had been sour for days. First, Mocker had insisted on coming south. Bragi would rather he were in charge at home. Elana was unpredictable. Bevold had no imagination. And the two were sure to feud.
His last hope of evading the Kavelin committment had evaporated when Royalist rowdies, at the gate of Itaskia's citadel, had murdered Duke Greyfells.
The shock waves were still rattling windows and walls. A quiet little war between Haroun's partisans and those of El Murid, in the ghetto, was no cause for excitement. But an assassination...
Half of Itaskia had gone into shock. The other half had gone on a witchhunt.
"Look what Reskird's recruited. Children." Ragnar-son indicated a line of young swordsmen being drilled by a grizzled veteran.
"Self," Mocker observed with a chuckle, "remember boy from icy northland, big as a horse, bald-chinned ..."
"That was different. My father raised me right."
"Hai!" Mocker cried. "'Raised right,' says he. As reever, arsonist, Her in ambush..."
Bragi was in no mood for banter. He didn't argue. He continued surveying the encampment. The area occupied by Kildragon's trainees pleased him. They had even put up a log stockade behind a good deep ditch.
But the Trolledyngjan camp was a despair. He had seen better among savages. This had come on recently, too. There had been no sloppiness when they had camped at his place.
"The families. We'll have to do something, or there'll be trouble. First time some girl gets caught in the puckerbushes with an Itaskian..."
"Self, am no expert... Hai! Such strange expression. Am, admittedly, expert in most things, being genius equal to girth, but even for genius of such breadth, self, all things not known. But don't tell. Public thinks fat old reprobate infallible, omniscient, near divine in wisdom."
"How about turning your omniscience to the point?"
Mocker did so, but Ragnarson paid little attention.
They entered the Trolledyngjan encampment. Ragnar-son's nose rose. Trolledyngjans were notoriously undisciplined and unfastidious, but this much filth meant deep trouble and a lack of leadership.
He heard angry voices. "May get to try your suggestion."