"Good. There's more to be said and asked, but later. I want you to rest now. That's an order. I want you fresh after the council. If I stay on..." She came to him, took his hands in hers, turned them palms up, studied them, then looked him in the eye. "I'd be in these hands. Be gentle."
iii) Confrontations
Ragnarson had the feeling that a long time had passed. He lay drifting on the edge of sleep, his conscience telling him he should be up and busy, but instead he continued wondering how much meaning he dared attach to the Queen's final words.
Came a knock. "Enter," he grumbled, rising to a sitting position. A lone candle illuminated his room.
Gjerdrum stuck his head in. "Sorry to wake you, Colonel. We've caught a vagrant. Hard to understand him, but I think he says he knows you."
"Eh? Fat man? Dark?"
"Looks like he used to be fat. But he's sick now. I'd say he's had a rough time for a couple months."
"Where is he? Let me get my pants on. How's the chances of me getting something new to wear?"
Gjerdrum glanced at the near-rags he was donning. "I'll try to find something."
"The Queen. How'd her council go?" "Still on."
"Lead away. Where's he at?" "Dungeon. We thought that'd be safest." It was Mocker. Mocker in pathetic shape. He snoozed on a straw-strewn floor.
"Open up," he told the turnkey. "Quietly. Don't wake him."
There had to be a trick. He could not welcome Mocker without one. He hunkered down and tickled the fat man's ear. He had grown an ugly, scraggly beard. This Ragnarson tweaked gently. "Wake up, darling," he said in a squeaky falsetto.
Mocker smiled, placed one hand over Ragnarson's. He frowned in consternation—then bounced up ready for a fight.
Bragi roared, rocked back on his heels. "Got you!" "Hai!" Mocker groaned in a weak imitation of his former self. "Greatest of great spies risks life and limb of very self-important self, endures months of incarceration, debilitation, and torture at behest of friend, weary unto death and on edge of pneumonia, with Volstokiners hordes pursuing, treks thirty miles godforsaken country after redoubtedly—redoubtably?—singlehandedly slaying arch-shaghun of Volstokin advisers, shaghun-general direct from councils at Al Rhemish, thereby saving bacon of ingrate associates Preshka and Kildragon, and am welcomed to saved city by dungeon-chucking natives too ignorant to recognize renowned self, there to be set upon by hairy Trolledyngjan of dubious masculinity and questionable morals. Woe! In whole universe is no justice. Very demons of despair pursue self through vale of tears called life..."
Ragnarson got lost in the twists and turns. "Rolf's here? In Kavelin?" If Rolf had joined Reskird, Elana might have too.
"Said same, no? Preshka, Rolf. Iwa Skolovdan. Former Guild Captain. Age thirty-six. Nineteen years service. Began with Lauder's Company..."
"All right. All right. Give me the part about the shaghun again."
Mocker regained his verve while he detailed his escape.
"Come on," said Ragnarson. "We'll clean you up and have the Royal physician look you over." On the way, Ragnarson bombarded his friend with questions. Each answer pleased him more than the last.
"Gjerdrum," he said, as they neared his room, "scare up the physician. Then have all officers assemble in the officers' mess. Have them bring maps of the area where Vodicka's camped. And I want my Marena Dimura there. Then meet me at the council chamber. How do I get there?"
"But you can't..."
"Watch me. I could care less about being respectful to a gang of lard-assed Nordmen hypocrites. Tell me."
Reluctantly, the youth gave directions.
"Carry out your orders. Wait. What the hell time is it, anyway?"
"Around midnight."
Ragnarson groaned. He had wasted eight hours sleeping.
Two palace guards blocked the council chamber door. "Announce me," he told the senior.
"Sorry, sir. Lord Lindwedel left instructions that they weren't to be disturbed for any reason."
"Eh? Why? What if something happened?"
The soldier shrugged. "I got the idea they were going to have it out with Her Majesty."
"Ah." The old snake had found out about Eanred.
"You'd better get out of the way." His cold determination made the younger guard gulp.
"No, sir," the senior said. "Not till my orders change." His knuckles whitened on the haft of his short ceremonial pike.
Bragi hit him with a left jab. His helmet clanged off the wall. Ragnarson snatched his pike, knocked the second soldier's feet from beneath him, rattled the first's brains again, then hit the door. It was neither locked nor barred. He crashed through.
Just in time.
Seven old Nordmen surrounded the Queen like lean gray wolves a terrified fawn. She had been weeping, was about to sign a document. The triumph on the ministers' faces, before they turned, told Ragnarson he had guessed right. They had bullied her into abdicating.
He took three swift steps, smashed the pike head down on the document. Hurling ministers aside, Bragi seized the document, flung it into a nearby fireplace.
Lindwedel shouted, "Guards!"
"Keep your mouth shut, you old vulture!" Ragnarson growled, drawing his sword. "Or I'll cut you a new one about four inches lower." He backed to the door, locked and barred it.
He wished he had a few Trolledyngjans along. He would have to hurry instead...
"You men get over against that wall." He moved to the Queen's side. She appeared uncertain whether to be grateful or angry. He scowled at a minister edging toward the door.
"If I were younger, I'd..."
"You'd get your ass killed. Haven't met a Nordmen yet who could butcher a chicken without help. Let's get this settled civilly. We'll let the lady make up her mind on her own."
Their glares promised trouble. There would soon be plots to eliminate the foreigner who defended the foreign Queen.
"Why'd you bust in?" the Queen whispered.
"Friend of mine just arrived," he replied softly. "From Vodicka's camp. Wanted you to know what he said. When I got trouble outside, I figured these old buzzards were up to something."
"What was so important?"
"Vodicka's shaghun is dead, Vodicka has gone insane, and his army has been decimated by sickness. H is men are deserting. My associate Kildragon has placed a force west of them as an anvil against which I can hammer them. I'll begin tightening the noose in the morning."
"You're pushing too hard. Killing yourself. You've got to rest sometime."
"You rest between wars," he muttered. Then, "We can't ease off. There're still too many variables. And Shinsan's vultures are perched on the crags of the Kapenrungs."
"You won't wait for your man Blackfang?"
"No. But he'll be here soon. I don't intend getting in a fight anyway, just to maneuver Vodicka into a bad position."
"The numbers don't look good."
"Numbers aren't important. Still want to run away? To quit when we've got a glimmer of hope?"
"I don't know. I wasn't made for this. Intrigue. War."
"I promise you, if it's within my power, that I won't go till I can leave you with the quietest country in the Lesser Kingdoms. If I have to leave rebels hanging like apples from every tree."
"But you're a mercenary. And have a family and home, 1 hear."
Did she sound just the least disappointed? "I have no home while the Greyfells party retains any power. The appointment?"
"They'll never agree."
"Bet?" He turned to the Ministers. "Her Majesty wishes your confirmation of my appointment as Marshal of Ravelin."
Some turned red and sputtered. Lord Lindwedel croaked, "Never! No base-born foreigner..."
"Then we'll hang you and appoint some new Ministers."
The door rattled as someone tried it. The Ministers perked up.
Ragnarson could force his will here, he knew, but how would he keep them from reneging?