either side, Inger on the right. Neither was happy. Each had suffered abiding disappointments. Each felt humiliated and betrayed.
Neither Fulk nor the younger Bragi were present. Each woman stil wondered if she could ful y accept what Ragnarson meant to announce.
Neither saw any other choice. The legal monarch was back.
No one else minded him asserting his rights. Popular sentiment was plain. Common folks were thril ed. He had screwed up, back when, but the kingdom had enjoyed unprecedented internal security before that, and ferocious chaos in his absence. Things could only get better.
Nostalgia always ground off the bloody, jagged edges and wafted away the bad smel s. The old days were ever better times, ever sweeter than the hel s folks were slogging through nowadays.
Even so, Ragnarson sensed resentment. The people here were sure he was wasting their time. But they wanted the measure of the new him. They were no longer stunned beyond calculation. They were about to start knitting conspiracies tailored to whatever strengths he betrayed.
He offered a brief, brisk, insincere apology for the delays.
“What I’m going to show you was more cunningly hidden than I expected. But, before that, I want to deal with the succession, which has caused too much friction and confusion.”
That got their attention. Scores, possibly hundreds, had perished in those squabbles, rancor stirred by Dane of Greyfel s and traditional prejudice. Though weary of the fighting the survivors al retained strong opinions.
“When it looked like I was gone for good this assembly designated my son Fulk to succeed me, a cynical choice pushed through in hopes that Inger would prove a weak regent, easily manipulated, while Fulk’s constitution would betray him quickly.”
That caused a stir. Some thought the Queen appeared stricken by the bald statement, though Dr. Wachtel’s prognoses certainly supported it.
“I confirm the wil of the Thing. Fulk wil be my successor, with his mother as Queen Regent.”
A buzz began. Elation. Disappointment. Wonder. Surprise that he would favor Fulk over his grandson. That emotional connection was stronger.
“However,” Ragnarson said, portentously. “Practical y, though, I must face the fact that Fulk is sickly. He probably won’t enjoy a long, peaceful reign. An intercession of evil won’t be necessary to end the disappointments he may cause you who have black hearts. So, though I want Fulk and his mother to fol ow me, I also want my grandson, Bragi, and his mother to fol ow Fulk—even if Fulk produces his own son. And, Kristen, you wil be patient. Michael has assured me that you wil .” He paused to al ow reflection, then, “I want this made law. The Queen wil herd it through and Michael Trebilcock wil enforce it.” Ragnarson stood silent momentarily, then boomed, “The Crown wil not tolerate any more squabbling amongst its subjects.”
He did not say how he might enforce his wil with no income or army. He had no idea how he could. He was winging it again, but reminding them that Michael was out there, watching. Few Kaveliners did not dread Michael’s ire—
though there were, in fact, few certain instances of that ire having been expressed directly.
Michael Trebilcock, the terror, was mostly perception.
Since the Great Eastern Wars perception had been enough. For most people, perception and truth were identical.
Trebilcock had arrived with Ragnarson but had disappeared right away. He was a spook now, rarely seen as he prowled the Thing. His eyes were hard. He was looking for something.
Which was Michael doing what Michael did, while hundreds sensed him watching, calculating, noting faces and names.
Ragnarson lifted a hand.
A tal , wide swath of canvas swept aside. Babeltausque clomped onto the floor of the Thing leading a tired- looking donkey and cart. The animal looked like it had mange. The cart carried a tal black box which, at first glimpse, resembled a one-hole outhouse. It produced a faint hum and random tweets. The tweets fol owed crackling sparks like those snapping between your fingertips and cold metal on a dry winter day.
Some onlookers knew it was no shitter, though it could scare the crap out of someone of questionable courage. It was a Dread Empire transfer portal and it was alive. There was, in fact, something wrong with it. It should not crackle and hum while on standby.
No one, including Ragnarson, actual y understood that.
Ragnarson explained, “This was concealed inside Queen Fiana’s mausoleum, masked by one that we deactivated before.” He tried to sound more distressed than he real y was. He was wil ing to exploit his own pain and vulnerability.
He experienced a tweak in time with a tweet. He was becoming an apprentice Greyfel s, cynical and pragmatic.
He wanted to look back but feared what he would see reflected in the faces of the women.
Babeltausque worked his cart round so that the donkey faced back the way that it had come. Four garrison soldiers lifted the portal down, settling it where al the delegates could see it, a dark, oily, interstel ar black thing that the gaze either fel into and lost focus or slipped off and did likewise, partly why it had been so hard to find.
Ragnarson made random comments during the unloading.
He wanted the onlookers distracted while the soldiers grunted and strained.
The portal seemed heavier than it should be.
A bear of a man in black armor emerged from the black, oily face. A twin came after, fol owed immediately by two more. Three of the four garrison soldiers demonstrated the better part of valor. The fourth fainted.
Yet another pair of giants emerged. Heart pounding, near panic, Ragnarson nevertheless did note that the Imperial Lifeguards were not arriving with their weapons bared.
He noted, as wel , Babeltausque drifting away, eyes huge, leading donkey and cart at a glacial pace, stricken by this ugly turn of events, no doubt desperate for something to do and failing to think of a thing.
Had Mist’s gang chosen to infiltrate when their portal was in exactly the worst possible location for their purpose?
The Empress herself stepped into the Thing hal . No doubting who she was. Most delegates remembered her from her exile. Her visual impact remained immense. The rising panic peaked. The screams and curses of men clambering over one another to win first escape eased up immediately.
Why, in the names of al devils and gods above and below, had that woman chosen to step into the heart of this kingdom at this moment?
Ragnarson did not doubt her move was as calculated as a public beheading. She wanted to be seen with Varthlokkur, who emerged from the portal behind her.
Those two approached Ragnarson.
Inger quietly told Josiah Gales to do nothing, an instruction he supported wholeheartedly. He signed, “Steady on!” to Nathan Wolf and Babeltausque. Both relaxed. They were not expected to commit suicide.
Mist came as near as the layout permitted. “Bragi, you’re needed.”
The wizard nodded. “It could be just hours, now.” Mist asked, “Where is Trebilcock?”
Ragnarson did not trust his tongue. He shook his head. He did not know. Around somewhere, probably in disguise.
He had seen Haida Heltkler moments ago, making eyes at Bight Mundwil er, but not now. Like Michael, she was out there listening.
That kid had a cooler head than he did, he feared.
He did croak, “He’l turn up.” Or he might do something weird that nobody would notice right away. Or something that everyone would notice, and regret forever. Something they could tel their grandchildren thirty years from now.
Mist said, “Come. We have no time. We can col ect Trebilcock later, if need be.”
“You’re shitting me, right? I got stuff to do here. And I don’t think I care much about what you got yourself into out there.” Varthlokkur said, “We need you. We expect your help. We wil take you back with us.”
The Thing hal had gone silent. Those few delegates stil moving did so slowly, randomly, like their minds had shut down.
