“Tell him I said he can come out and help. We should hear from his boss again soon, shouldn’t we, Babeltausque?”
“As you say. Some of them are important officers.”
The Depar girl engaged the one Inger thought might be called Tong Shand. Inger said, “Get them settled, then join Josiah, Nathan, and me. We need to decide what’s next.”
“As you will, Majesty.”
Damn. He was having serious moral difficulties.
She understood. He had delivered what might be the one tool she needed to turn completely nasty, at a moment when she had Kristen and her brat in grabbing range.
That move would alienate Babeltausque-and, possibly, Josiah and Nathan, too.
“Everyone, please handle your assignments.”
Inger took herself to the wall. She stared westward, toward the part of the kingdom least likely to support her if she seized this day.
The Kavelin disease stirred. Anything she did to aggrandize herself could succeed only after savage cost to the kingdom. It would mean a return to the situation of a year ago, when Kavelin had been ready to indulge in a suicidal frenzy.
She reflected briefly. Ozora Mundwiller would not suffer what she was tempted to try. Neither would Abaca Enigara. The Guild would stick a few spears in. And Bragi would be out there somewhere, unpredictable, with supremely dangerous allies.
Michael Trebilcock was with him, wherever. Aral Dantice had turned invisible but rumor had him nearby and watching.
So, layer dire practical considerations atop the Kavelin disease and one might even overcome one’s own worst nature.
…
Mist told her daughter, “This isn’t something I’m qualified to help you with, dear. I’ve never been in your situation. I’ve never even seen anything like it.” She would not devalue Eka’s trauma. Puppy love or not it had to be taken seriously. It could shape a girl who might torture the world later on, trivial as this might seem to a jaded adult right now. “Talk to your Aunt Nepanthe.” Hardly an expert herself, of course, but Nepanthe had had more than one man in her life. She had navigated some fierce emotional waters.
Mist added, “Don’t be angry. I do want to help. I just don’t know how. The only man… Only your father… I was just hopeless.”
Ekaterina delivered a tortured sigh worthy of a girl a little older and much more put upon by an indifferently cruel world. “I guess I understand.”
“I do know that you can’t force things to be what you want. The harder you try the worse they get.”
“I know that much, Mother.” Another millennial sigh. “So when will all this stuff be over? I’m sick of this place. I want to go home.”
Mist maintained her composure. She did not ask where Eka thought home might lie. “I can’t even guess anymore, dear. Our opponent might have accepted defeat.”
“He’s up to something. Scalza and I can both tell that.”
“That’s his nature. We’re as prepared as we can be.”
She saw Eka grasp the loophole, then choose to ignore it. “I’m just tired… No, I’m really depressed.”
“Here’s a thought. Just blue-skying. Did you ever tell Ethrian how you feel? Yes. I know. It’s dangerous. He might say what you don’t want to hear. But he might surprise you, too. And if the wound is waiting, putting it off won’t help.”
Eka’s response was instant outrage that gave way quickly to her dangerously grounded, deadly rational core.
Ekaterina set free a different species of sigh, the sort that eased tension before one commenced a risky venture. She went to where Ethrian was playing a sleepy game of shogi with Lord Kuo, whispered into his left ear. Puzzled, the boy excused himself. He let Eka lead him outside.
Dread rising, Mist whispered, “She’s too young.” Then started.
Michael Trebilcock was scarcely a yard away, one eyebrow raised. He shrugged. “I don’t know. The body may be. But it feels like there’s a very old soul inside.”
She nodded. She understood, though she did not agree. Eka could be unsettling to adults who expected her to be like others her age but half as bright and raised in ordinary family circumstances. “She’ll be all right, though. Nepanthe is a good mother.” Which was painful to say. “Can you do me a modest favor?”
“Within reason.”
“Keep an eye on Eka till she comes back.”
“Any special instructions?”
“No. You’ll know if something needs doing. Just be Michael You till it does. If.”
He bowed slightly. “All right.” He went out.
Mist turned back to her personal war, having realized that Eka was better liked than either of them had believed.
She leaned on the back of Scalza’s chair. He tended to be off-putting. Other than Ethrian people had to work at liking him. Ethrian liked everybody. Oh, and the Old Man. The Old Man considered Scalza a kindred soul. They both felt isolated but that isolation was self-induced. Scalza was young enough to be lured out. People here would care for him if he would let them.
…
Yasmid felt lost in space and time, and culturally, too. Maybe she was too old to adapt. She had been flexible when she was young. Look what she had survived…
Now she clung to Haroun, watched Sebil el Selib through the enhanced scrying system Lord Yuan had generously created, and waited while the child within her grew. The daughter within.
She knew. There were many months to go but she knew. And Haroun was not pleased, though he never admitted that. He hoped she was wrong.
Elwas was holding it together at home, better than she would have thought possible. He had harnessed Ibn Adim ed-Din al-Dimishqi, somehow. Jirbash and Habibullah added their own genius. Overall, the movement remained healthy. With no sound Yasmid could not determine how Elwas kept the reins on a people who now lacked their Lady and Disciple. That he did so was pleasure enough.
Old Lord Yuan had observed, “There did have to come a day when you and your father passed the mantle.”
She had been surprised the first time he spoke her language, then learned that he had been one of Varthlokkur’s teachers when the wizard was young. He had discovered a few truths about the mechanics of the world and time.
“True, but it isn’t something we face well.”
The old man offered a slight bow and moved on.
Her husband found nothing to encourage him when he took his occasional glance at history in the making in Al Rhemish.
That city remained chaotic. It looked like the Faithful meant to stay away till the insanity of factionalism devoured their enemies. Al-Souki and his ilk would move only after those idiots spent themselves, bringing welcome order.
Yasmid asked, “Can we just forget everything? Leave it to the next generation?”
She was not pleased by his answer, which was no answer. He was not yet ready to step away, though his struggle had been poisoning his soul for two generations. But he did not reject her suggestion, either.
…
Ragnarson tracked events in Kavelin when he could get a seat at a scrying bowl and help from somebody who knew how to work it. He strove to be nicer than was his nature. These folks knew him now. His strained smiles and schooled friendliness were suspect, but still they helped. The combination of close quarters and external threat had created a camaraderie unlikely to survive the threat’s conclusion for long.
Mist joined him as he followed developments in Vorgreberg with his oldest surviving friend. Bin Yousif was as animated as Bragi had seen him since their reunion.
Hunger for a killing was upon him.
Ragnarson grunted his acknowledgement of her presence. She said, “We’ll be sending you home soon. Lord Yuan has made a connection with a portal out there.”
“So you don’t need me to…”
“None of this went the way I expected. Nothing ever does conform to plan but this has been… unusual.”
She seemed distracted. She kept looking around, nervous about something.