Meddler.
Hours burned gathered into days of despair. What the hel had happened? Who had happened? Varthlokkur was not plausible. Had some incredibly clever Tervola matured unnoticed while developing the skil s to root out the Star Rider’s hidden treasures? That reeked, too, but not as badly as the possibility that the bitch Tervola Mist might be responsible.
No. None of that was credible. Those were not people who could resist the temptation to use what had been hidden here. Tervola were dark of heart by definition, nor could Varthlokkur possibly be as goodygoody as he wanted the world to think.
Al men did evil when they saw a chance to get away with it.
The Star Rider was a stubborn old beast. Yet another thirty hours of daylight and lamplight went into his search before he surrendered to the fact that every filthy tidbit was gone.
The fortress had been stripped.
He had to get back west. Time was fleeing. “Enemy never rests,” he reminded himself, over and over. “Water sleeps, but enemy never rests.” He was not ready to spend the time necessary to look back and find out who had done this and what al they had done. That could cost another week.
Meantime, leakage from the smal freight portals had begun to weaken the Horn.
He could not destroy those. He needed them—unless he wanted to return to the Place and start over, which would take ages because he had conscripted the best iron statues and most tractable demons already.
Perhaps the universe itself was out to thwart him.
The hours fled on. He should have launched his attack long since, crushing resistance instantly using weapons which even Varthlokkur’s weird sorcery could not withstand. He should have passed through the final fire by now, and be headed back to the Place for a long rest, not stil be out here with a stomach gone sour.
By grace of the Horn he learned that his missing treasures were not lost forever. They were out there, in the waters of the strait, thrown there by whoever had robbed him.
The Horn brought several relics ashore. That was a waste.
Anything that had been unbroken when it went in had been damaged by the brine and battered by surf and current.
Everything had been in the water a long time, not just days.
His weakening had begun even before the Deliverer crisis commenced.
“Only one option left. The other islands.” A feeble hope, there. Little of value had been cached elsewhere. There had been no clear need for the redundancy.
His remaining demon hauled him hither and yon, from barren outcrop to empty sand pile. Each cache was as pristine as could be hoped. His enemy had either not known about them or had been unable to reach the lesser islands. His mischief had been incomplete.
Sadly, what he recovered was useless now—though, sweet miracle, he did discover copies of Magden Norath’s research records. Those would be invaluable later.
He would make time for those after he finished. He would go to ground for a generation or two, maybe three, letting his fields lie fal ow. New generations would produce ambitious men wil ing to disdain the lessons of history. And he could rest up and get ready to leap back into the game.
He had done it a hundred times before.
But first he had to push through this.
He realigned his strategy to fit the tools available and what he suspected about the people ranged against him. He brooded over the role of the Dread Empire. He had no concrete evidence but felt certain that Shinsan’s ruling class were actively working against him. Too much cleverness had gone to make him stumble.
His nature compel ed him to waste time rehashing every little episode of the past year, looking to tie unrelated events into one cunning campaign, but his grand capacity for conspiracy theory could not pound some events hard enough to make them fit a unified hypothesis.
If it was al connected, he lacked some critical piece of evidence.
He had no time to winkle it out. He had to strike.
As it stood, his enemies—with everyone entangled in the year’s events—appeared to be victims of plain old- fashioned “Shit happens.”
He announced, “It’s time. We begin.”
His pitiful army raised no cheers.
...
Breathless, Josiah Gales said, “It won’t take a sel to convince them that Shinsan might be a problem.” Inger nodded numbly. That was pure understatement. The spel suppressing emotion in the Thing hal was fading.
Chaos was breeding, though the delegates no longer wanted to flee.
Kristen Gjerdrumsdottir stepped past, vaulted the rail, rushed the transfer portal, flung herself at the last Imperial lifeguard. She was half his size but her momentum knocked him sideways.
Dahl Haas shrieked at her to show some goddamned sense! He got there two steps behind her, hammered the man’s helmet with the butt of his belt knife, cracked the nonmetal ic material. The blow stunned the man. Several Thing members piled on. Class and ethnicity were not factors.
“Stop!” Inger’s bel ow pierced the excitement. “Let him get up.” The easterner grasped what was expected. He rose slowly, looked around careful y. He had been disarmed.
Half his armor had been torn away. He would enjoy a fine crop of bruises if he survived.
Inger said, “That’s enough, people. Josiah, take charge of him. We’l hear an exchange proposal soon.” Its nature and details should be revelatory.
The Empress was interested only in Bragi and Michael.
She might not know who Babeltausque or the Depar girl were.
Delegates eased away from the captive, awed and wary alike. The easterner submitted. He knew he needed only be patient.
Inger announced, “Stay away from the gateway. It might take you somewhere you real y don’t want to go.” The portal tweeted and crackled. It now canted slightly. The angle was visual y disconcerting.
“Josiah, once you have him safe, see if you can’t come up with a way to communicate if they don’t contact us.” Gales inclined his head. He did little talking anymore. Dr.
Wachtel said he was in continuous pain and did not want to take it out on anyone.
Maybe she could exchange the lifeguard for treatment for Josiah. They were good at fixing people in the Dread Empire. Bragi should not have survived. And look what that woman had done for herself… Flash of jealousy. To look that good at her unnatural age!
The gate stil hummed. Could she shove Kristen and Haas through, then work a deal to keep them over there?
Probably should not try, sweet as that sounded. Bragi would not approve. And he would be back.
“Josiah, don’t take him far. I need you handy.” On reflection, if she had to trade she would ask for Babeltausque back.
Though Bragi might argue, the sorcerer was invaluable.
“Gentlemen, the interruption is over. Take your seats.” She had to milk this while it was fresh.
Chapter Twenty-Nine:
Other than an exotic half-breed girl-child, whose beauty nearly unmanned him, no one paid attention to Babeltausque or Carrie. Most were too busy, even when al they did was look over one another’s shoulders. The couple tried their best to stay smal and unnoticed, day after day.
The exotic took it on herself to see that they touched nothing in what she cal ed the Wind Tower, a place Babeltausque felt should exist only in fairy tales.
