Cook, Glen - An Ill Fate Marshalling

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FATAL FLAW

"You really are scared," Michael said, "aren't you?"

"Ragnorson's never quite rational about women," Prataxis replied. "And there

are so many women involved this time that I can't pretend to predict his

behavior.

"Nepanthe. Mist. Inger. Kristen. Sherilee. Each pulling Bragi in a different

direction, and each a danger. Nepanthe cost us Varthlokkur's help. Mist nearly

killed Bragi during the coup, then went away, taking that source of support.

Queen Inger has turned like a mad dog.

Kristen's scheming to have her son designated crown prince. And this-thing-

with Sherilee has him completely distracted at a time when every minute has to

be devoted to keeping the king dom on a steady course."

Michael nodded. "And now there's Yasmid, pulling him into the desert."

Prataxis dropped into a chair. "What are we going to do?"

Look for these TOR Books by Glen Cook

THE BLACK COMPANY

an ill fate marshalling

reap the east wind

shadows linger

the white rose

GLEN COOK

An Ill Fate Marshalling

TOR

A TOM DOHERTY ASSOCIATES BOOK

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this

book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely

coincidental.

thereof in any form.

First printing: January 1988 A TOR Book

Published by Tom Doherty Associates, Inc. 49 West 24th Street New York, NY

10010

ISBN: 0-812-53379-8 Can. No.: 0-812-53380-1

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

0987654321

Prologue;

Year 1013 After the Founding of the Empire of Hkazar: Castle Greyfells in

Duchy Greyfells, in Northern Itaskia

THE COLONEL STALKED through the quiet corridors, each step charged with the

nervous energy of a caged panther. Ser vants got out of his path, turned to

watch after he passed. His tension surrounded him with an aura of danger.

He reached the door of the chamber to which he had been summoned. He stared at

it, rose onto the balls of his feet, settled back. He was afraid of what might

lie on the other side. This was more than the portal to a room. It was a

doorway to tomorrow, and he didn't like the smell of it.

Something was afoot. He had come to the castle last evening, and had found it

infested with tension. The Duke was planning something. His people were

scared. All the recent Dukes had become involved in schemes that failed, and

each failure had brought violence down on the family and its retainers.

The Colonel steeled himself, knocked.

"Enter."

He stepped inside. Six men were seated along the sides of a long table. The

Duke himself sat at the table's head. He gestured, indicating the seat at the

table's foot. The Colonel sat down.

The Duke said, "Now I'll end the speculation. Our cousin Inger has received an

offer of marriage."

One of the others asked, "That's why all the whispers and night messengers?

Pardon me, Dane, but that seems a little. . . ."

"Let me expand. You'll see why it's a matter for the highest family councils.

"Our cousin nursed in a hospital during the siege of the City by Shinsan's

forces. She became romantically involved

with a patient. Rather a torrid affair, I gather, though she was

understandably reluctant to part with details. When the siege broke and the

war moved southward, she thought it was over. She heard nothing from the man.

The usual story. Used by a soldier who moved on.

"But four days ago she received a proposal of marriage from the man. She

thought it over, then came to me for advice.

"Gentlemen, the gods have smiled on the family at last. They've handed us a

golden opportunity. Our cousin's suitor is Bragi Ragnarson, Marshall of

Kavelin, who commanded the allied armies during the Great Eastern Wars." Dead

silence held the room for half a minute. The Colonel didn't even breath.

Ragnarson. Blood enemy of the Greyfells for a generation. Responsible for the

assassination of one Duke and the bloody abortion of half a dozen family

projects. Probably the man most hated by everyone in the room, saving himself.

He was just a soldier. He didn't hate anyone.

He began to sense the shape of the shadow and didn't like it. It was in the

tradition of Greyfells schemes.

The six all started talking at once. The Duke held up a hand. "Please?" He

waited. Then, "Gentlemen, if that news isn't enough to excite you, consider

this. Those fools down there are going to make him King. They couldn't find

anybody else willing to take the crown. Do you see? This is an opportunity not

only to avenge ourselves on an ancient enemy, it's a chance to steal the crown

of the richest and most strategically placed of the Lesser Kingdoms. A chance

for us to move our base out of Itaskia entirely and free ourselves of the

miserable nuisance of a perpetually inimi cal Crown. A chance to seize the

most important counter in the conflict between east and west. A chance to

recoup the greatness we've lost."

The Duke's excitement communicated itself to the men at the sides of the

table. The Colonel was less intrigued. Here was more Greyfells dirty work, and

he had a feeling he would be asked to carry part of the load. Why else was he

here?

The Duke said, "The simple, basic question is, should we let our cousin

accept?" He smiled. "Or, do we dare not let her? It would be a sin to ignore

an opportunity like this.

Eh?"

No one demurred. Someone said, "But we couldn't just let it go and hope."

"Of course not. Inger would be the lever. The foot in the door. The

distraction. Right now she just wants to see her leman again, but I imagine we

can get her to be the family's agent. For insurance, and to take charge of the

day-to-day details, I suggest we send the Colonel here."

The Colonel kept his features rigidly controlled. So there it was. And it

stunk. There were times when he wished he didn't owe this family a debt of

loyalty.

The Duke asked, "Can anyone propose a reason why we shouldn't pursue the

policy I'm suggesting?"

Heads shook. One man said, "Something as good as this, you needn't have

asked."

"I wanted unanimity of purpose going in. Carried, then? Pursue the

possibilities, at least till we see some insuperable stumbling block?"

Heads nodded.

"Good. Fine." The Duke's voice was silky with pleasure. "I thought you'd like

it. That's all for now. Let me look into it further. Let me see if there are

pitfalls. I'll keep you posted. You can go now." He leaned back. As everyone

neared the door, "Oh. Don't discuss this with anyone. Anyone at all. Colonel,

yes, I want you to stay."

The Colonel had risen but not left the table. He seated himself again. He

rested his forearms on the tabletop and stared at a point over the Duke's

right shoulder.

Once the door closed, the Duke said, "Actually, we're farther along than I

admitted. Babeltausque put me in touch with some old friends from the Pracchia

days. They've agreed to help." Babeltausque was a sorcerer in the family

employ. The Colonel loathed him.

"That's a strange face you've got there, Colonel. You don't approve?"

"No, My Lord. I don't trust the wizard."

"Perhaps not. They're a slimy, slippery breed. Neverthe less, we seem to have

adequate resources for the project. We have but to convert the woman and send

her on her way."

"I see."

"I really do get the feeling that you don't approve." "I'm sorry, My Lord. I

don't mean to appear negative." "Then you'll take the mission? You'll go to

Kavelin on our behalf? You'll be away for years." "I am yours to command, My

Lord." And how he wished he were not. But one had to pay one's dues. "Good.

Good. Make yourself free of the castle. I'll keep you posted on developments."

The Colonel rose, bowed slightly, left the room smartly. A soldier doesn't

ask, he told himself. A soldier obeys. And I, sadly, am a soldier in the

Duke's employ.

Year 1016 AFE; Rulers

BRAGI GROANED. Inger shook him again. "Come on, Your Kingship. Get up."

He cracked a lid. One glassless window stared back with a cold eye. "It's

still dark out."

"It just looks like it."

He grumbled as his feet hit the chilly floor. It was one of those ice-bottom

days, going to turn hellfire come after noon. He gathered the bearskin round

him and told himself there had to be a point to rising.

It was springtime in Kavelin. The days were hot and the nights were cold. The

weather was foul more often than not.

Bragi yawned, tried to rub the sleep from his eyes. "It raining? My head feels

like it's packed with wool."

"I wouldn't argue with that. Yes. One of your steady Kaveliner drizzles."

He said what everybody always said. "Be good for the farmers."

She completed the ritual. "We need it." She posed. "Not bad for an old broad,

eh?"

"Pretty good. For a wife." There was no heart in his jest.

Her too-small mouth fashioned a pout. "What do you mean, for a wife?"

His grin was as grey as he felt. "You know what they say. That old grass

always looks greener."

"You grazing in somebody else's pasture?"

"What?" He heaved himself to his feet, stumbled round looking for his

clothing.

"Last night was only the second time this month."

He gave it the light treatment. "I'm getting old."

Something inside cawed sarcastically. He was fooling himself, not her. A nasty

black chasm yawned at his feet. Trouble was, he did not know if it was waiting

for him to try

jumping over or if he was on the other side looking back. "Is it another

woman, Ragnarson?" There wasn't any kitten in her now. She was all bitch cat.

The habitual brittle smile had left her lips.

"No." For once he was telling the truth. He didn't have a single little round-

heel on the string. The soft curves, the warm mounds, the humid thighs did not

set the fires roaring these days. They seemed more a distraction than a reason

able interest. They irritated more than excited. Was it symptomatic of age?

Time was an implacable thief. Ragnarson's growing indifference worried him.

The de parture of the drive to collect scalps left a vacuum like the loss of

an old friend. "You're sure?"

"Absodamnlutely, as friend Mocker might have said." "I wish I had met him,"

she mused. "Haroun, too. Maybe I'd know you better by knowing them." "You

should've known them. . . ." "You're changing the subject."

"Honey, I haven't had no strange in so long I wouldn't know what to do.

Probably just stand there with my thumb in my ear till the lady cussed me

out."

Inger whipped a comb through her hair. Blonde rat's nests grabbed it. She was

wondering. He had come tagged with a reputation, but had not lived up to it.

Maybe he was too busy. Kavelin was his extramarital lover. She was a demanding

mistress.

He eyed this woman who was both his wife and Kavelin's Queen. She was the one

gift the wars had given him. Time had done well by her. She was a tall,

elegant woman of brittle beauty and even more brittle humor. She had the most

intriguing mouth he had ever seen. No matter her mood, her lips seemed on the

verge of a sarcastic smile. Something about her green eyes magnified that

foreshadow of laughter.

First glance said she was a lady. Second might suggest an earthy soul. She was

an enigma, an intriguing creature hiding inside a shell that betrayed a new

mystery each time it opened. Bragi thought her as perfect a Queen as a King

could ask. She had been born for the role.

That secret smile came out of hiding. "You just might be telling the truth."

"Of course I am."

"And you're disappointed, eh?"

He did not answer that one. She had a knack for caging him with questions he

did not want to answer. "Maybe you'd better check the baby."

"You're ducking the issue again."

"Damned right."

"All right. I'll let up. What's on for today?" She insisted on being a full

participant in royal affairs. He was new to the kinging business. Coping with

a strong-willed woman com plicated his task.

His circle of old comrades agreed. Some had strong opinions about Inger's

"interference."

She returned from the nursery. She carried their son Fulk. "He was sleeping

like a rock. Now he wants to be fed."

Bragi slipped an arm around her. He stared down at the infant. Babies were

still a wonder to him.

Fulk was his first by Inger, and her first ever. He was a lusty six-monther.

Bragi told Inger, "I'm having the whole mob in about Derel's message this

morning. After lunch I'm supposed to play Captures."

"In this weather?"

"They challenged. It's up to them to call it off." He began lacing his boots.

"They're good mudders."

"Aren't you a little old for it?"

"I don't know." Maybe he was past it. The reflexes were going. The muscles

could not take it the way they had. Maybe he was an old man with one hand

desperately clamped on an illusion of youth. He did not enjoy Captures much.

"What about you?"

"Terminal boredom. And it won't stop till the Thing adjourns. I feel like a

governess."

He forbore reminding her that she had demanded the right to entertain the

delegates' women.

Commencement for the spring session was a week away, but the wealthier members

were in town already, sampling Vorgreberg's social possibilities.

Bragi said, "I'm going to get something to eat." He was an informal King. He

had no patience with pomp and ceremo ny, and very little with the luxuries his

position afforded. His was a warriorly background. He strove to maintain a

spartan, soldierly self-image.

"Don't I get a kiss?"

"Thought you'd be kissed out."

"Never. Fulk too!"

He kissed the baby, left.

Maybe Fulk was the problem. He pondered it as he descended the stair. The

battle had begun during the name-choosing. He had lost that round.

It had been a difficult birth. Inger wanted no more children. He did, though

he did not consider himself a good father.

Too, Inger was worried about Fulk's patrimony. He was born of Ragnarson's

second marriage. Bragi had three older offspring, and a grandson named Bragi.

The latter might as well have been his own child. His father, Ragnarson's

firstborn, had perished at Palmisano.

The King's first family lived at his private house, outside Vorgreberg proper.

His son's widow managed the place and youngsters. He had not visited them in

weeks. "Have to get out there soon," he muttered. His inattention to his chil

dren was one of the few guilts he suffered.

He made a mental note to solicit a legal opinion from his secretary, Derel

Prataxis, as soon as the man returned from his mission.

Ragnarson had led a charmed life. He thought his luck overdue to change. It

was part of that fear of growing old. The edge was going. The reactions were

slowing. The instincts might not be trustworthy. His mortality was catch ing

up.

Maybe he could negotiate some succession understanding during the Thing's

session. They had not made the kingship hereditary when they had dragooned him

into it.

He approached the castle's main kitchen. Strong smells and a loud voice

emanated from its open door.

"Yeah. That's no lie. Yeah. Nine women in one day. You know what I mean. In

twenty-four hours. Yeah. I was a young man then. Fourteen days on a transport.

I never even saw a woman, let alone had one. Yeah. You don't believe me, but

it's the truth. Nine women in one day."

Ragnarson smiled. Someone had Josiah Gales cranked up. On purpose, no doubt.

He was a one-man show when he got going. He grew louder and louder, flinging

his arms around, dancing, stomping, rolling his eyes as he underscored every

statement physically.

Josiah Gales. Sergeant of infantry. Bowman supreme. Minor cog in the palace

machine. One of two hundred soldiers and skilled artisans Inger had brought as

dowry because her cadet line of Itaskia's Greyfells family had fallen into

genteel poverty.

He smiled again. They were still laughing up north, thinking themselves rid of

an unruly woman cheaply, while gaining a connection with a prized crown.

The unseen sergeant whooped on. "Fourteen days at sea. I was ready. How many

women you had in one day? I wasn't showing off. I was working. Yeah. That

seventh one. I still remember her. Yeah. Moaning and clawing. She's going,

'Oh! Oh! Gales! Gales! I can't take anymore.' Yeah. That's the truth. Nine

women in one day. In twenty-four hours. I was a young man then."

Gales repeated himself over and over. The more wound up he was, the more he

did so, mouthing every sentence at least once to everyone within hearing. His

audience seldom minded.

Bragi approached the duty cook. "Skrug. Any chicken left from last night? I

just want something to snack on."

The cook nodded. He jerked his chin in Gales' direction. "Nine women in one

day."

"I've heard this one before."

"What do you think?"

"He's consistent. He doesn't make it bigger when he retells it."

"You were at Simballawein when the Itaskians landed, weren't you?"

"It was Libiannin. I didn't run into Gales. I would've remembered him."

The cook laughed. "He does make an impression." He produced a tray of cold

chicken. "This do the job, Sire?"

"That's plenty. Let's sit over here and watch the show."

Gales had an audience of serving people come to town with the advisers and

assistants Bragi was to meet later that morning. For them the sergeant's

stories were fresh. They responded well. Gales undertook further flights of

whimsi cal autobiography.

"I've been all over this world," Gales declared. "I mean, everywhere. Yeah.

Itaskia. Hellin Daimiel. Simballawein.

Yeah. I've had every kind of woman there is. White women. Black women. Brown

women. Every kind there is. Yeah. That's no lie. I got five different women

right now. Right here in Vorgreberg. I've got one, she's fifty-eight years

old."

Someone catcalled. Everyone laughed. A passing palace guard leaned in the

doorway. "Hey! Gales! Fifty-eight? What's she do when she goes down? Gum you

to death?"

The group howled. Gales flung his arms into the air. He let out a great wail

of mirth. He stomped and shouted back, "Fifty-eight years old. Yeah. That's

right. I'm not lying."

"You didn't answer the question, Gales. What's she do?"

The sergeant went into contortions. He evaded answer ing.

Ragnarson dropped his chicken. He was laughing too hard to hang on.

"Low humor," the cook growled. "The lowest," Bragi agreed. "Straight out of

the gutter. So how come you can't wipe that grin off your face?" "If it was

anybody but Gales. . . ." The sergeant's audience trampled his protests. They

bur ied him in questions about his elderly friend. He reddened incredibly. He

bounced around, roaring with laughter, vain ly trying to regain control of the

group. "Tell us the truth, Gales," they insisted.

Bragi shook his head and murmured, "He's a wonder. He loves it. I couldn't

stand it." Soberly, the cook asked, "But what's he good for?" "A laugh." Bragi

stifled a chuckle. It was a sound question. Inger's dowry-men had proven

useful, but he often wondered what their presence signified. They were not

loyal to himself or Kavelin. And Inger remained an Itaskian at heart. That

might prove troublesome one day.

He munched chicken and watched Gales. His military adjutant came in.

As always, Dahl Haas looked freshly scrubbed and shaved. He belonged to that

strange fraternity who could walk through a coal mine in white and come out

spotless. "They're ready in the privy audience chamber, Sire." He stood as

rigid as a pike. His gaze darted to Gales. Disgust flickered across his face.

Bragi did not understand. Dahl's father had followed him for decades. The man

had been as earthy as Gales.

"Be there in a minute, Dahl. Ask them to be patient."

The soldier strode out as though he had a board nailed to his back. Second

generation, Ragnarson thought. The others were gone. Dahl was the last.

Palmisano had claimed many old friends, his only broth er, and his son Ragnar.

Kavelin was a hungry little bitch goddess of a kingdom, eager for sacrifices.

He sometimes wondered if it didn't demand too much, if he hadn't made the

biggest mistake of his life when he had allowed himself to be made King.

He was a soldier. Just a soldier. He had no business ruling.

Vorgreberg shivered with gentle excitement. It was not the great dread-

excitement foreshadowing dire events, it was the small, eager excitement that

courses before good things about to unfold.

There had been a messenger from the east. His tidings would touch the life of

every citizen.

The magnates of the mercantile houses sent boys to loiter by the gates of

Castle Krief. The youths had strict instruc tions to keep their ears open. The

traders were poised like runners in the blocks, awaiting the right word.

Kavelin, and especially Vorgreberg, had long reaped the benefits of being

astride the primary route connecting west and east. But for several years now

there had been little exchange of goods. Only the boldest smugglers dared the

watchful eyes of Shinsan's soldiers, who occupied the near east.

There had been two years of war, then three of peace occasionally interrupted

by furious border skirmishes. East erner and westerner perpetually faced one

another in the Savernake Gap, the only commercially viable pass through the

Mountains of M'Hand. Neither garrison permitted travellers past their

checkpoints.

Merchants on both sides of the mountains railed against the neverending,

knife-edged state of confrontation.

Rumor said King Bragi had sent another emissary to Lord Hsung, the Tervola

proconsul at Throyes. He was to try again to negotiate a resumption of trade.

The whisper had raised almost messianic hopes among the merchants. No heed was

paid the fact that past overtures had been rebuffed.

Warfare and occupation had shattered Ravelin's econo my. Though the kingdom

was primarily agrarian and resil ient, it had not yet come all the way back in

the three years since liberation. It needed resumption of trade desperately.

It needed a freshened capital flow.

The King's henchmen had gathered. Michael Trebilcock and Aral Dantice stood at

the foot of a long oak table in the gloomy meeting room, chatting in soft

voices. They had not visited in months.

The wizard Varthlokkur and his wife Nepanthe stood before the huge fireplace,

silent. The wizard seemed deeply troubled. He stared into the prancing flames

as though studying something much farther away.

Sir Gjerdrum Eanredson, the army's Chief of Staff, paced the parqueted floor,

smacking fist into palm repeatedly. He was as restless as a caged animal.

Cham Mundwiller, a Wesson magnate from Sedlmayr and King's spokesman in the

Thing, puffed on a pipe, a fashion recently introduced from far southern

kingdoms. He seemed engrossed in the arms of the former Krief dynasty hanging

over the dark wood of the chamber's eastern wall.

Mist, who had been princess of the enemy empire till she was deposed, sat near

the table's head. Exile had made of her a quiet, gentle woman. A knitting bag

lay open before her. Needles clicked at an inhuman pace. A small, two-headed,

four-handed imp manipulated them for her. Its legs dangled off the table's

side. One head or the other muttered constantly, apprising the other of

dropped stitches. Mist shushed them gently.

There were a dozen others. Their backgrounds ranged from sickeningly

respectable to outrageously shady. The King was not a man who selected friends

for appearance. He made use of the talent available.

Sir Gjerdrum mumbled as he stalked. "When the hell will he get here? He

dragged me all the way from Karlsbad."

Others had come farther. Mundwiller's Sedlmayr lay near Kavelin's far southern

border, at the knees of the

Kapenrung Mountains, in the shadow of Hammad al Nakir, beyond. Mist, now

Chatelaine of Maisak, had descended from her fortress eyre in the Savernake

Gap. Varthlokkur and Nepanthe had come from the gods knew where; proba bly

Fangdred, in the impenetrable knot of mountains known as The Dragon's Teeth.

And pale Michael looked like he'd just returned from a sojourn in shadow.

He had. He had.

Michael Trebilcock mastered the King's secret service. He was a man largely

unknown personally but his name was a whisper of dread.

The King's adjutant entered. "I just spoke with His Majesty. Stand by. He's on

his way."

Mundwiller harumphed, tapped his pipe out in the fire place, began repacking

it.

Ragnarson arrived. He surveyed the group. "Enough of us are here," he said.

Ragnarson was tall, blond, physically powerful. He had scars, and not all on

the flesh, to be seen. A few grey hairs peeped through the shag at his

temples. He looked five years younger than he was. Captures kept him fit.

He shook hands, exchanged greetings. There was no majestic aloofness in him.

King he was, but here just another of a group of old friends.

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摘要：

FATALFLAW"Youreallyarescared,"Michaelsaid,"aren'tyou?""Ragnorson'sneverquiterationalaboutwomen,"Prataxisreplied."AndtherearesomanywomeninvolvedthistimethatIcan'tpretendtopredicthisbehavior."Nepanthe.Mist.Inger.Kristen.Sherilee.EachpullingBragiinadifferentdirection,andeachadanger.NepanthecostusVarthl...

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