As Nepanthe left the tower, shawl tightened about her neck and head against the worsening snow, she examined, and marveled at, the changed state of her mind. Though she still feared, her being, like a magnet being drawn, was orienting itself toward one lodestone. Saltimbanco. No, Mocker. But what was the difference? A rose is a rose. Funny. She could almost feel her fears evaporating. She wanted to sing. It was icy cold. A wind had begun driving the already fallen snow (escaping be a grim, miserable undertaking), but she didn't feel it, didn't care. Her sexual fears had already begun to appear foolish-it hadn't been bad at all-yet thoughts of future encounters still disturbed her.
Nepanthe was last to reach the Lower Armories. She found her brothers waiting impatiently. No one criticized her lateness. After offering belated well-wishes for her marriage, Luxos demanded everyone's attention.
"These are Ridyeh's things. What I could recover," he said, indicating a clutter on the table. "A gold coin bin Yousif spent after a meeting with an old man at an Itaskian tavern. Given him by that old man. The mercenaries outside are being paid in the same mintage. Turran?"
Turran examined the coin. "Ilkazar. Scarce these days."
"Thousands are being spent."
"Somebody found the Treasure of llkazar?"
"Don't forget, an old man's the source. What old man might know where to find that treasure?"
"Varthlokkur!" Turran snarled.
"Brilliant deduction!" said Nepanthe. "What'd I tell you six months ago?"
"Okay, I apologize. I didn't think he wanted you that bad. That means we've got real trouble. We'll have to fight sorcery and soldiers both."
"I have more," Luxos said. "Concerning who gave that spy list to bin Yousif. I found this paper in Ridyeh's pocket. The river water almost ruined it. But two names are clear: Bragi Ragnarson and Mocker. Meaningless? Rumor has it that bin Yousif operated with men of those names during the El Murid Wars. And one of them was in Itaskia at the time, and was seen talking with the same old man. Where are they now? What're they doing? I think they're here. In Ravenkrak."
Nepanthe racked her mind for a diversion.
Offering the paper, Luxos said, "There's another readable line."
Turran frowned over ink badly run, read, "'... short and fat. Ragnarson is blond, tall...' That's all?"
They were at the marches of discovery. Nepanthe knew she had to warn her husband.... The thought startled her. Her declaration to Mocker, a half hour earlier, of a shift of allegiance, had lacked conviction. In the meantime it had matured and grown firm. She rose. To Turran's inquiring glance, she replied, "Bathroom," and left them bent over Ridyeh's effects like ghouls over an open grave.
"Does this mean anything?" she heard Turran ask. And, as she drew almost beyond hearing, Valther replied.
"The only fat man here is Saltimbanco..."
Which precipitated a brief silence. Nepanthe started to run-and collided with a breathless soldier. "Milady!" he gasped. "They're striking camp. Looks like they're pulling out."
Turran's strategy had been vindicated. "Thank you. I'll tell my brothers. Return to your station." She pretended to return toward the blue glow of the meeting room. She stopped when the soldier passed out of sight. She had no intention of telling Turran that he had won. Let him stew awhile, arguing, while she and Mocker got away. Anyway, she had a feeling his victory might not be what it seemed.
Diminished by distance, she heard Turran's anguished, "But we couldn't have married our sister to an enemy!"
"We did!" Valther retorted. "I'd swear, now that I think about, nobody else could've gotten to the lists. Not and have gotten them to bin Yousif. Maybe we can hold his merry hanging after all."
"Damn!" Turran roared. Metal rattled as he smote the table. "Well, that's one. What about the other?"
"Grimnason," Valther said sadly.
"What? No! He's been our best man."
"A hunch."
"Ridyeh said blond."
"Hair can be dyed. It doesn't matter anyway. We're inundated by enemies, inside and out. We've been outmaneuvered all the way down the line. Which figures with a fox like Varthlokkur. So, after four hundred years, Ravenkrak falls, unvanquished by arms. Treachery's victim, as we always knew she would be. Hail the Empire."
Nepanthe had heard all she wanted. She ran.
Nepanthe rushed into the courtyard, looked around wildly, through the blinding snow barely discerned Ragnarson atop the wall. In a moment she was at his side, breathless. "Bragi, my brothers..."
"I know." He didn't turn. His gaze was fixed in the direction of bin Yousif's encampment. His expression was one of weariness and sorrow. "Mocker told me you wanted to leave. I don't know if we can, now. By stalling I may have cut all our throats. Haroun won't be happy. He isn't a forgiving man."
"You don't understand," she said. "The game's over. They know. Luxos brought proof. You've got to get out right now."
Ragnarson's shoulders slumped. He sighed. Turning, he replied, "Thank you, Lady. You'd better get your things. Don't bring more than you can carry. Clothes and food. My men are packing already. Can you make it down the mountain in this?"
"I guess so," she replied. "Be careful. They'll do something pretty soon." She left for the Bell Tower.
Ragnarson stood there for a while, staring down the mountain. One by one, as they were ready, his staff came to him. Rolf Preshka, Reskird Kildragon, Haaken on a litter borne by those two, Elana, and a handful of favored soldiers. Finally, he asked, "Where're Mocker and Nepanthe?"
No one knew.
"I don't like leaving the men," Kildragon complained.
In his new, tired voice, Ragnarson replied, "I loathe it. But would you rather be dead?"
Preshka observed, "We're not leaving any of our old people. Lif. Haas. Chotty..." He did the roll of old accomplices.
"Nevertheless," Reskird protested, "there's our reputation. .."
"Shut up!"
A figure plunged through the drifts in the court, shouted from the foot of the wall, "Captain, they're coming over the rear wall!"
Stunned, Ragnarson could ask only, "Who?"
"Bin Yousif's men, I think."
"How many?"
"Only a few so far, but more all the time."
"Right. Thank you. Rolf, send everybody back there. That'll distract them till we're out. Hurry."
Preshka departed.
"Elana, what about the costumes?"
"I hid them in the gatehouse."
"Good. Where the hell are Mocker and Nepanthe?"
"This must be them." Two dark shapes staggered from the direction of the Bell Tower. From beyond them came muted sounds of combat.
"May the Gods Above, or the Gods Below, or any
Powers here present, cast down, disperse, and render unto destruction the agents of destruction, the Storm Kings of Ravenkrak," Nepanthe said on arriving. "I prayed that at the beginning. Now it's being answered, and I wish I could take it back."
"All right, down to the gatehouse," Ragnarson ordered. Moments later, Kildragon held the guard at sword point while Elana recovered white robes sewn from bedsheets. Preshka returned and claimed his as Ragnarson ordered the gate opened.
A scream, above the growing clamor of battle (from the sound of it, the defense had the upper hand), echoed through the courtyard. Luxos burst from the door to the Lower Armories. "Move out!" Ragnarson growled. Though he had little doubt of the outcome of a duel with Luxos, having practiced with the man, he paused to engage while the others won free.
Ragnarson had learned his fencing in a less than chivalrous school. For him survival meant a lot more than fair play and an honorable death. As Luxos lunged, Bra-gi swept a hand through the icicles hanging from the tunnel-like gate, hurling them into his assailant's face. He followed up with a groin kick that propelled Luxos back amidst his brothers. Bragi fled only two steps behind his companions.