No doubt. Wolf was not a companionable sort even with the curse off. And nobody went drinking with the court wizard.
“Which men frequent the place regularly?”
“I put it off limits after Gales disappeared. Only my agents go there. They scare off the regulars. It’l stay off limits til Gales turns up.”
“That’s good.” Easier to grind away at the purses of those who depended on the tavern for a living. “That wil have them thinking about how to get the old clientele back.”
“Tonight for sure?”
“Yes. The Queen is starved for results.”
“I’l be in the forecourt come sundown.” Wolf departed looking thoughtful.
Babeltausque had not felt this excited in years.
...
Young Bragi said it for everyone when he observed, “This camp is the most boringest place in the world.” Dahl Haas, seated beside Kristen, holding her right hand, said, “Look at that. The boy is healthy enough to complain about stil being alive.”
Bragi was too young to understand death in any personal sense.
Kristen worried. Even the adults had begun to share the boy’s disdain for danger from Vorgreberg. They were wishful thinking, confident that Inger’s regime would col apse soon. It might have done so already. It took ages for news to get here from that far away.
The others thought Inger’s triumph over her cousin only made her own fal more certain.
Dahl and Sherilee remained committed to the plan, with the latter not so quietly beginning to waver.
Kristen knew she needed only to cling to her strategy. Inger would build her own funeral pyre. The Estates had abandoned her completely, now. No Nordmen remained in Vorgreberg. It was every man for himself with them now.
Nor did even a cadre of most of her army units remain. Not that pro-Bragi regiments had weathered recent months any better.
Kristen was convinced that soon Kavelin’s people would beg the grandson of their greatest king to ascend the throne of the blessed Kriefs.
Dahl told her, “Your Bragi makes me uncomfortable, love.
He’s not ready.”
“I know, Dahl. I promise, it wil be a long regency. You’l get to show him how to be a man.”
Dahl was the kind of man Kristen wanted her son to become.
The shockwave of the news about Magden Norath slammed through the smugglers’ pass, astounding the Unbeliever, the Faithful, and the Royalists of Hammad al Nakir alike.
Kristen col ected her refugees. “The news about Norath is huge. But does it real y mean anything to us?” Dahl said, “He was in the wickedness with Greyfel s.”
“Also out of the picture, now.”
The others had nothing to say. The children’s attitudes made it clear that they did not care. Politics meant little to them.
Sherilee was indifferent, too. She was interested in nothing but the lover who waxed ever more fantastical in her imagination.
Kristen scowled at her. The dim blonde was making the elder Bragi over into a god, raising her dirty old man a notch higher every day. Even the kids thought Auntie Sherilee was a loony.
Nothing came of Kristen’s gathering. The consensus, though, was that they were too isolated to understand the ful impact of Norath’s death.
Dahl Haas had the last word. “We’l go on sitting tight and stewing til we hear from Aral.”
Kristen scowled. She had hoped Dahl would be more optimistic.
She did not enjoy their situation more than any of the others. This camp was the last way station before you stepped off the edge of the world.
She did understand the need to sit stil .
...
The man was Louis Strass this time. He was forty-three years old and a veteran of numerous wars. He had begun service as a longbow archer two days before his sixteenth birthday. Today he was a master of the arbalest as wel as the long, short, and saddle bows. He could teach the manufacture and operations of bow-based bal istae for use as light artil ery.
He was a master. He was a survivor. Twenty-seven years had devoured and turned to shit al il usions of honor or right and wrong that had blinded him as a recruit. He was his world. He was his universe. Nothing else was real.
Nothing else had any enduring value.
He had serious doubts about himself.
He entered a camp in the Tamerice Kapenrungs afoot, leading two mules, pursuing the il usion that he could win a new life by executing one simple mission.
He was too cynical to sel himself that for long.
Nothing good could come of this. There was no guarantee that asshole Greyfel s would come across with the bounty.
So why go on? Because he did not know what else to do?
Because he was no longer just the hunter, he was the hunt as wel ?
He had been out of touch for months, searching. Now, another sketchy mountain camp. He might learn something here but did not plan to hold his breath. He had come up with nothing at half a dozen others.
He arrived early on a day when the weather was fine and traffic was substantial. He was not welcomed but he was accepted. No one cared who he was. He had money. He bought drink and a meal, then a bath. Some thought him overly chatty but did not find his queries obvious or offensive. Some people just stored it up while they were out there alone.
The smuggling season was in ful swing. Caravans were moving through the pass. Those who lived off the men in motion were active, too, operating taverns and brothels in tents.
The traveler found what he wanted among the parasites.
But first he discovered that the world had tipped over while he was out of touch.
The death of Magden Norath inspired awe but was of no personal import. The capture of the Duke of Greyfel s was critical, though. That bastard was now the habitue of Inger’s dungeon. He would pay no debts contracted before disaster swal owed him.
What to do about the changed situation? It was an iron-bound certainty that Inger would welcome the results that Greyfel s had wanted, but…
Do it on spec?
It was a conundrum. He had faced few hard choices in a lifetime spent as a life taker. There was no in- between in a choice where he would give death or withhold it.
Ah! Of course. Offer a sample. Kil the mother of the pretender, then visit Vorgreberg. Direct travel would not take long. Greyfel s could be exhumed to provide a reference.
He had a course. Now he had to pursue it or abort it.
He relaxed. He drank and ate and recuperated.
Visitors who made extended stays at the camp noticed one another. They were a nervous breed.
Questions began to be asked about Louis Strass.
He made natural y nervous people more nervous. His eyes were like the mouths of graves.
He would have liked more time to recuperate but needs must ever rules.
He and his mules departed, fol owing the uphil trace. He slipped into the forest and doubled back as soon as he could do so without being seen.
He positioned himself between granite boulders overlooking the place where his targets stayed. Al preparations had been made. He needed only watch and wait.
He saw several men with the look of professional soldiers.
At least one was out prowling al the time. They were more alert than seemed reasonable.
