There were, as ever, those who lurked within the castle wal s, eavesdropping. Word that the old king was alive got out via a maid whose politics were those of indifference.
King Bragi’s survival was not al she reported. Treasure hunting enjoyed a surge in popularity. That ended when the Queen’s men began harassing the hunters. One stubborn band gave up only after the Queen’s sorcerer demonstrated a wil ingness to boil them inside their own skins.
...
Varthlokkur fol owed Mist’s suggestion.
Phyletia Plens had lived a life of constant sorrow. Little good ever happened to her. Because he had suffered the childhood that he had, Varthlokkur felt al of her pain.
Sad Phyletia had not been strong. Not like the son of the woman burned in Ilkazar. Phyletia did not fight back.
The one time she found the wil to take charge of her destiny she ran off with the man who became her death.
Varthlokkur’s new line of investigation did not take him where he expected. It exonerated the butcher Arnulf Black, in part. Again. He had used Phyletia but had not been involved in what happened to her later. Likewise, the apothecary Chames, whose behavior was so odd and shrouded and deceptive that he needed interrogation out of sheer curiosity.
The true vil ain was known to the neighborhood as a good man. He was a priest at the only church. Phyletia Plens was one of dozens of children who had found refuge in his rectory. Most had survived. Many remained in the neighborhood. Interviewed, most refused to talk.
Varthlokkur fol owed the Plens story minute by minute til he found the night when the priest lost control, hurt her badly, and had to be rid of her in a hurry. Other children might wonder about the noise.
Varthlokkur had Radeachar col ect the priest, then let Inger know what he had learned.
Father Ather Kendo confessed to fourteen murders.
Thirteen involved the torture deaths of girls between eleven and thirteen. The other had been a boy who stuck his nose in, wrong place, wrong time, and saw something he should not have. Of surviving victims there were scores.
Father Kendo died forty hours after his capture, in fire, screaming, by popular demand. But first they nailed him to a sign blessing those victims whose names he remembered.
The interrogations of the priest and his surviving victims produced the names of a dozen adults whose crimes against children were only slightly less obscene.
...
Dahl Haas said, “Something has changed in Vorgreberg…”
A Mundwil er youth interrupted. “Remarkable news! King Bragi is alive! He’s a prisoner in Shinsan. But they’re going to send him back.”
The first part was not news. The rest? Neither Dahl nor Kristen knew how to take that.
Dahl said, “Sounds like they want us to think he’l be their puppet.”
“They wouldn’t send him back if they didn’t see an advantage.”
Their nipping at the news did not last. Ozora summoned them.
The old woman said, “Fortune has played a prank. Just when we’re headed toward the end of the harvest, with the weather turning, when neither we nor the Queen can do much, we get this news.”
Ozora paused. Neither Kristen nor Dahl had any response.
“Al right. Tel me what’s going to happen.” Kristen said, “I couldn’t guess. Bragi being alive wil touch every Kaveliner—and our neighbors, as wel . The response is beyond me. I’m out of touch.”
Dahl nodded. “I expect nostalgia. People longing for the good old days. But these days are pretty good, despite us and Inger. Yeah, we have a civil war going. Technical y. But nobody has kil ed anybody since…” He stopped. The last known casualty had been Sherilee.
Ozora agreed. “Al true. How wil the news affect Inger? And Varthlokkur?”
Dahl said, “I couldn’t guess about Inger. She’s unpredictable.”
Kristen said, “Let’s just sit tight. Somebody could be blowing smoke.”
Dahl added, “Maybe the news wil get Inger to do something dumb.”
Ozora said, “Then passivity remains our strategy. You two try to stay invisible.”
Later, in private, Kristen said, “Ozora has begun to regret having taken us in.”
“She’s afraid your father-in-law wil come back al blood and thunder and slavering after revenge.”
They made love for a long time.
Afterward, Kristen asked, “Revenge on who?”
“Interesting question. Once upon a time the answer might have been Kavelin, for having failed him. But, assuming Mist wouldn’t send a crazy man back, nobody, now.
Anybody he’d have a real beef with is out of play. By now, he must realize that he failed Kavelin, not the other way around.”
...
It was raining, a late autumn drizzle that seemed colder than it was. Inger sat in her coach, shivering despite being buried in a mound of comforters. Josiah Gales, sharing, shook constantly. She raised a window cover, leaned out to see if any progress had been made. She saw only the droopy misery of her driver and team. “I should have waited in the castle.”
Gales nodded. “It waited this long. A few days more means nothing.” Inger ground her teeth. Josiah was like this al the time now. Always with the sharp word. Wachtel said he was in constant pain. She thought that he had had plenty of time to get better.
She would not tolerate this much longer.
A lie to herself. Josiah was al she had. Sickly Josiah and sickly Fulk.
And maybe Nathan Wolf. So pathetic.
Babeltausque opened the door. “I was right! We found it!
Uh… I think we found it. We’re dragging it out now.”
“I want to see this. Umbrel a, Colonel.” Gales dug one out of the stuff piled on the seat opposite.
He handed it to the sorcerer. He would not leave the coach himself.
Babeltausque was too short and too wide to keep Inger sheltered. She took the umbrel a. Out of earshot of Gales, Babeltausque murmured, “I think the Colonel is sicker than he pretends.”
Startled, she said, “Oh?”
“He picked up something ugly while he was a captive.
Wachtel doesn’t know how to fight it.”
“Do you?”
“No. I don’t do serious healing.”
They neared a half-acre farm pond that had not featured on the sorcerer’s original list. It lay a mile from the nearest city gate. Though not a cesspool it was nasty enough. Cattle and hogs watered there. Neither species was shy about evacuating while drinking. The pond had been in place for decades. Its bottom consisted of several feet of noisome mud. “Is he dying?” Inger asked.
“I don’t know. He is getting weaker. Varthlokkur might be able to turn that around.”
The wizard had not returned to the Dragon’s Teeth. That made everyone nervous.
“Would he help?”
“I don’t know. You’l have to ask. He is the one who can. Try making a deal. Ah! Here it comes.”
Nathan and several soldiers had been dragging the pond by casting grappling hooks. Now they were working something that kept getting away. Inger expected their optimism to be wasted. That could be anything.
Nathan went into the cold water, retrieved something. He swished the mud off, headed for his sovereign.
“It’s a chest.” He held up a plain box four inches high, six wide, and sixteen long. It stank. So did Wolf. “It might be teak.”
It was. Inger said, “We’re in the right place. There should be a little ceremonial scepter in there.”
Wolf fumbled the simple latch. “Sorry. My fingers are so cold they won’t work right.”
