The Swordbearer - Glen Cook Read online

  “Opportunists?” Mulenex howled. “You dare denounce opportunists when just last month your cousin seized the Red livings in Dharsyn and had three Red Brothers put to death? Shame!”

  Scanga replied, “That isn’t relevant here.”

  Arnd Tetrault shouted, “Sit down, fat man. You come into my domain and you’ll get the same. I hang thieves no matter who they are.”

  Shifting his ground, Mulenex snapped, “You’re obscuring the issue here.... “The mood of the council jelled. He made no headway. Who was and who was not obscuring issues was obvious. Even more obvious was Mulenex’s increasing unpopularity. The others shouted him down.

  Tetrault’s voice broke through the uproar. “Let’s impale the pig. He’s tied us up for the past three days.”

  Gathrid doubted that Mulenex alone was responsible. Some mechanism in the group unconscious had tripped and, suddenly, the Red Magister had been elected to bear all their sins.

  Mulenex turned bright red. He roared. He fumed. He howled and threatened. And every twist of showmanship only dug the hole deeper.

  Gathrid suffered a dismaying insight. The debate had a foregone conclusion. The parties were toying with one another, playing for a position of vantage. His intervention, his anger and indignation, were not germane.

  Mulenex was stubborn. He invested an hour in verbal attack and grudging retreat before he yielded to the inevitable. By then Gathrid knew he wanted war as much as did his adversaries. He was simply looking for a payoff in return for abandoning his negative stance.

  He got in the last word. He thrust an indicting finger Gathrid’s way. “I warn you,” he cried, voice dramatically atremble. “If we take up this instrument, it will turn in our hands. As well grasp an adder.”

  Rogala nodded as if conceding the argument.

  The Emperor’s representative rose. The uproar declined. “My Lords. Magisters. Envoys of principalities great and small. The thing is decided. We march. As it was agreed in treaty, I’ll command in the field. Now I want to propose a temporary mechanism whereby we can smooth the functioning of the Alliance, in the face of an implacable, malignant force totally indifferent to our customary squabbles and differences. Till we agree that the eastern peril has abated, let us all acknowledge the supremacy of the Imperium and unite behind the Emperor’s standard as though we were Anderleans of old. Let’s show this Ventimiglian pestilence a single face crimson with righteous wrath.”

  Snickers and incredulous whispers fluttered about the assembly. It was a transparent ploy. The Emperor would never yield a single ounce of power acquired.

  Gathrid suspected the man’s suggestion was offered at the command of his liege, that he had no real hope for the proposal.

  “Anderle is dead,” Rogala countered, startling everyone. “Your empire is a political fiction, a specter that won’t lay still in its grave — though you people seem to find it a useful ghost. Ventimiglia is no fantasy and no spook. Anyone here fool enough to believe Ahlert is going to be satisfied with Gudermuth? Step up here. I’ll kill you so the rest of us can get on with our job.”

  “Here’s a reality for you, buffoon,” growled the King of Calcaterra, one Arnd Tetrault, a cousin of Kargus Scanga, the King of Malmberget. “The morning dispatch from our agent in Gudermuth says that besides himself, his Toal, Nieroda, and his sorcerer-generals, Ahlert now has him a witch-woman who can manipulate the moon-magic. A renegade Gudermuther, at that, and a strong one, though supposedly she isn’t yet trained. That puts two elemental powers inside Ahlert’s purview. What do we have to face that? The feckless support of Suchara? These shiftless Orders? I’d sooner trust Ahlert than the likes of Mulenex or Ellebracht. The Mindak comes out and tells you what he wants.”

  Ellebracht was, apparently, the Blue representative. Gathrid recalled having heard the name. A relative of the Emperor, closely allied with Klutho Misplaer and Honsa Eldracher.

  Mulenex rose to protest. His peers shouted him down. Their language was brutal and offensive.

  A Gudermuther woman turned renegade? Gathrid thought, appalled. After what Ahlert had done? Impossible. “Who is she?” he demanded. He pictured some gap-toothed crone. Some peasant malcontent eager to requite Gudermuth’s nobility for fancied slights.

  “The Ventimiglians refer to her as the Witch of Kacalief.”

  Witch of Kacalief? He reeled. That said so much.... Anyeck. Had to be.... Who else could it be? The Mindak had taken several prisoners there, but only his sister would fit the charges. He caressed the Sword, eager for its comfort. His sister.... It would be Anyeck’s style. She had the black streak. She could turn her back on her past.

  Her problem was wanting. Wanting too much. And being unable to see any reason not to do whatever she wanted getting. Rules were mere vexations, perhaps applicable to lesser souls, but to be ignored by her. A desertion to the enemy would be a logical escalation of past selfishnesses. He wondered that he had not expected this from the beginning.

  Yet how could she, so quickly, forget what had been done to her family?

  He did not doubt that she could. She had little concept of yesterday, and not much more of tomorrow. She existed entirely in the now, incapable of discerning a connection between current events and future consequences.

  The youth concealed his shock. He did not want these people to know who he was, whence he sprang. It was grim work. He succeeded only because the Sword’s touch calmed him, because Rogala captured attention by demanding that the Brotherhood smash this witch instantly. The dwarf was quick to make the connection, based on what Gathrid had told him of his home life.

  He spoke with a great passion. Gathrid assumed he was covering for him. Had he been less self-involved at the moment, he might have wondered at Rogala’s fervor.

  “The great Eldracher is on the scene,” Mulenex countered. “Let him handle her.”

  This once the assembly went with the Red Magister. Rogala shrugged at the decision.

  The die was cast. Gathrid had what he wanted. The Alliance would enter Gudermuth. And what had his effort profited him? He had nudged a host in the direction of his only living relative. He wore a sad smile. Plauen would have been amused by the irony. Poor dead Plauen, whose candle had been extinguished by the Mindak’s whirlwind.

  Rogala said, “Time to talk terms, gentlemen. Suchara has her needs. She won’t let Daubendiek serve for free.”

  There was no debate. The council backed Kimach Faulstich unanimously. He responded, “We’re not stumbling into that trap, Rogala. You won’t do us the way you did Anderle.”

  “So be it,” the dwarf said. He stalked out of the assembly. After a moment of indecision, Gathrid followed.

  What was the dwarf doing, walking out now? There were things to be said, questions to be asked, decisions to be made....

  “It’s not our problem,” Rogala said. “We needed a war. War there’ll be. That’s sufficient.”

  The youth had a thousand questions banging around inside his head, but Rogala clammed up when he tried to ask them.

  “Be patient. They’ll get back to us. They’ll want to make sure Daubendiek doesn’t go over to the other side.”

  Gathrid shook his head. Theis did not understand. He and the dwarf seemed to exist in two different realities, so contradictory were their ways of thinking.

  An hour earlier Gathrid would have scoffed at the suggestion he might serve the enemy. Now he was not sure. He shared Anyeck’s fallible blood. He might become as feckless as Aarant had been.

  “We’ll stay here till the army moves out,” Rogala told him. “We need the rest. And the free meals. Don’t wander off. Don’t trust anybody, no matter what they say. Don’t ever think you’re safe. Gerdes Mulenex wasn’t the only viper in that snakepit.”

  Once they reached their tent, Rogala produced pen and ink. “Let’s review. We’ve walked into a complicated setup. Let’s see who’s who here.” He scribbled quickly, producing a list with four columns. “The four major factions I detected,” he expla
ined. “One revolves around Kimach Faulstich, our gracious host.” His voice dripped sarcasm. He did not think much of the hospitality extended them.

  “Yeah,” Gathrid agreed. “This is his council, really. Half the assembly were his relatives. Bathon of Bochantin. Forsten of Tornatore. Doslak of Fiefenbruch. Danzer of Arana. All cadets of the House of Faulstich. Forsten and Danzer have Scanga wives, though, and they say Danzer is ruled by his.”

  “Scanga heads my second faction. Him and the guy who shot off his mouth about the witch.”

  “Tetrault. Arnd Tetrault. He has a reputation as a hothead and troublemaker. Kargus has only been King for a couple of years. He’s been trying to break the old cycle of constant skirmishing over rich cities and counties. Tetrault has been more harm than help.”

  Rogala silenced him. “I don’t need to know all that. Two more. The Empire and the Brotherhood. The Blue faction of the Brotherhood sides with the Emperor. Part sides with Mulenex. Part looked like it didn’t want anything to do with anybody.”

  “The spokesman for the Blues was Bogdan Ellebracht. He’s related to Emperor Elgar, and he’s tight with Misplaer and Eldracher. I can’t tell you much about the Yellow, Green or White Orders, except that they claim to be what the Brotherhood was really all about when it was founded.”

  “Son, you’re proving a favorite point of mine.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That everybody knows more about everything than they think they know. I have a pretty good picture of the lineups now. Motives.... They’re still a little shadowy. The trouble with trying to map them is, most people don’t really know what they want themselves.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Think about it. Even when you think you know why you’re doing something, is that always the real reason? Is that the reason you admit? No. Not very often. Here. What about the old man? The Imperial soldier. I have a feeling the Empire is going to become very important before we’re done.”

  “I didn’t hear anybody say who he is. He’s not the Emperor, though. Elgar is supposed to be so fat he can’t get out of the palace.”

  “Make a guess.”

  Gathrid drew a blank. He could not recall Plauen having talked much about the modern Empire, except to label it a weakling, lost in fantasies of its past, battling for life in a hostile age, constantly stalked by hostile intrigues.

  “The ones to watch are him and Mulenex,” the dwarf mused. “Mulenex is ambitious, but only in a small-minded, predictable way. Dangerous only if you don’t keep one eye on your back. The other, though... I couldn’t read him at all.”

  Rogala’s head jerked up. “What’s that?” His ears almost wriggled. He whispered, “Get the Sword.”

  “What is it?”

  Rogala tapped his ear.

  Then Gathrid heard the stealthy feet, too. The tent was surrounded. Men were closing in.

  Someone cut a rope. The tent began to topple. Gathrid swept Daubendiek round in wild strokes that ripped fabric away, negating the trap. He attacked out of the ruin. Two lives fed the Great Sword. Other attackers fled.

  “Short and sweet,” Rogala said. “That’s the way I like it. You’re learning, boy. Got any idea who sent them?”

  “In broad daylight.” The sun stood directly overhead. “No. They didn’t know. What should I do? Where are you?” Rogala had disappeared. The youth saw flickers of hairiness between tents as the dwarf dogged the fleeing assassins.

  Ignoring bystanders, Gathrid dragged the bodies together, then attacked the apparently vain task of restoring the tent. He kept a wary eye out for would-be plunderers. He wanted to examine those corpses before anyone else touched them.

  I’m starting to think like Theis, he thought. Always suspicious.

  The jangle of panoplies approached. He turned toward the sound. And smiled puzzledly. The Emperor’s man had come visiting.

  He would have expected Mulenex first.

  The crowd evaporated. Gathrid turned to the bodies. He doubted they would tell him anything, but a search had to be made.

  His doubts were well-founded. Each man carried gold minted in Bilgoraj, but that told him only that they had been paid exceedingly well, not who their paymaster was. Only a fool would have paid them in self-damning coin.

  “Trouble, son?” the Imperial officer asked.

  Gathrid glanced up, looked around. Imperial soldiers surrounded him, facing outward. Protecting him? Or?... “Only for these two.” He was becoming accustomed to his role. “Rogues from Torun, disguised as soldiers.”

  “What happened?”

  Gathrid sketched the story.

  “So. It’s begun. They’re after the blade already. Rather sudden, eh?”

  “They were here on retainer,” Gathrid said, retrieving snatches of their memories. “They expected to be used in an assassination attempt, but not this one. As to what they expected to accomplish with me... I don’t know.” They had not known that themselves. Their leader may have, but he was one of those who had gotten away. “Could it be they were sent to get Rogala out of the way so somebody could talk to me alone?” He locked gazes with the old soldier, could not tell if he had hit the mark. The man had a face of stone.

  He did not believe his suggestion. His had been a random bolt loosed to see what might flush from the brush.

  “I know whom you represent,” Gathrid said. “But your identity has escaped me so far.”

  “Yedon Hildreth. Count Cuneo. Commander of the Guards Oldani and Chief of the Imperial General Staff.”

  “Ah. I should have guessed, shouldn’t I? The former mercenary. Battle of Avenevoli, and so forth. You’re a Count now? You’ve done well for yourself. Yes, I should have guessed.” Yedon Hildreth was the most widely known Imperial soldier, and a man with a hard reputation. Gathrid was astonished by his own temerity. The Sword was making him bold. “Yes. Who else would the Emperor have sent?”

  “The Imperium rewards those who serve it with trust.” Hildreth showed the same humor as during Mulenex’s discomfiture. Gathrid had an unpleasant suspicion the man was divining his thoughts.

  Hildreth’s reputation made him appear capable of the maneuver Gathrid had suggested. But he would not fling assassins into the breeze, the way Gerdes Mulenex might. He would be careful and cunning. He would do nothing that could be laid at the Emperor’s door. He was said to be Elgar’s, heart and soul, and a devout advocate of Imperial resurrection. He was believed by many to be Elgar’s chosen successor.

  The Imperial crown did not pass down patrilineally. Since time immemorial Emperors had chosen their successors from among their most able subjects, usually with the consensus of the people of Sartain. When the latter did not accept the choice, the Imperial capital would rock with civil strife till some strongman elected himself and squelched the rioting.

  “Now we know who I am,” Hildreth said. He chuckled as if at a weak joke. “So tell me, who are you? What are you?”

  “Sir?”

  “Look at the situation from another viewpoint, son. You came out of a land under Ventimiglian dominion. You bear a blade that should have stayed buried. We don’t have the slightest guarantee that you’re not an agent of Ahlert. That little show at the border could have been staged.”

  “But.... “On second reflection, Gathrid saw Hildreth’s point. They did have nothing but his word. His and Rogala’s, and for ages Rogala’s had been worth nothing.

  Hildreth continued, “I accept you at face value, proof or no. But does that make any difference? Not really. Your show in council only betrayed your essential ignorance of what’s really going on west of Gudermuth. Obviously, you see politics only at its most primitive level. You dared chastise Kings and mock princes of the Brotherhood without knowing what you were talking about. That worries me.”

  “Sir?”

  “It makes me wonder how wise you are, son. About whether or not you’re in the dwarf’s thrall. Are you another Grellner? Another Tureck Aarant?”

  “I’m wha
t you see, Count. Becoming Swordbearer wasn’t my idea. Rogala didn’t like it much either. In fact, he was more disappointed by the Sword’s choice than I was. Yes, I’m naive. I wasn’t trained for this. I didn’t plan to take up the Great Sword.”

  “Neither did Tureck Aarant.”

  “I repudiate the paths of Grellner and Aarant, Count. Yes, I know the old tales. My path will remain honorable.” A small weakness, a touch of his fear, leaked through as he added, “If Suchara wills it.”

  “That’s the catch, isn’t it?”

  “It looks like it from here.”

  “You’re a likable sort, it seems. I’ll give you that. A word, then. To you. To Rogala. To Suchara herself if she can be bothered. The Imperium won’t let itself be ruined again.”

  Gathrid smiled. He forbore observing that Anderle had no power to threaten. He said only, “Let’s not become enemies over possibilities, Count. We all have too many realities to face right now. Don’t worry about Daubendiek.”

  “But I have to, son. The thing has a cruel history.”

  Gathrid hoped he concealed his feelings as he remarked, “So it does. I hope it’s less so this time.”

  “And the Empire?”

  “A dream that slumbers. I don’t believe it’ll waken in my lifetime. I don’t really care either way. Gudermuth is my main concern.” The youth congratulated himself for having fashioned a sound noncommittal answer.

  “Good enough. For now.” Hildreth stared piercingly, then led his retainers back toward the center of camp.

  Rogala appeared a moment after the Count departed. “Well done, lad. You’re learning fast.”

  “I thought... “

  “I turned back.”

  “Why didn’t you?... “

  “Wanted to watch you handle yourself. You did fine. Get some sleep. We’ll have to be on our toes tonight. They’ll try again. Once isn’t enough to convince that sort. Here. Let me take care of this mess. That’s what an esquire is for.”