There was water in the ditch. It was cold and rank.
A voice grumbled. Another, closer, said, “Nah. I think I missed.”
Babeltausque slithered forward, quietly as he could. The ditch would debouch into a wet weather creek just ahead. That passed through a culvert under the road. He should fit. Holed up, he could plan his counterattack.
He listened to them grumble as they searched. He did not recognize their voices. They did not know the terrain. They did not have a light by which to find his obvious trail.
This must be political. They must want to strip Inger of her most dangerous ally.
Babeltausque’s heartbeat settled some. He plied his sorcerer’s skills. He did not counterattack but, rather, marked the men with little spells that would betray them later, hoping they could be traced back to whoever sent them.
He waited for them to give up. That took another miserable half hour. He had time to reflect. He had become so predictable that enemies were able to set an ambush. That had to change. Then he thought about the geography between Castle Krief and Mist’s old mansion. There were other culverts. There was an abandoned well. There were several cesspools, including a dried up pit behind Mist’s mansion. There were improved springs, cisterns, and fish ponds. Few of those had been examined by treasure hunters. People figured that a Rebsamen don like Derel Prataxis would not hide anything in unpleasant places.
Babeltausque suspected that he and Nathan would be getting wet and filthy soon.
Tonight, though… Tonight was for Carrie.
The fire had returned.
…
Babeltausque inched toward the stairway down to his beloved. How bored was she? How much would she whine about being cooped up here with nothing to do but wait till he felt the need?
He had only a moment to realize that he was not alone. An exotic beauty emerged from broken wainscoting and rose in front of him, bits of broken wood sliding off her.
She was more surprised than he. That allowed him a running start. He hit the night with arms and legs flailing.
This was the first time he had seen that woman but he knew who she was.
He was too focused on covering ground to notice the Unborn descending behind him.
Chapter Nineteen:
Year 1017 AFE:
Chaos in Peace
M ist shoved the broken woodwork aside, duck-walked a step, rose to find herself face to face with a chubby man in black. He smelled like swamp water. He squeaked and ran. She followed, hoping to keep him from reporting her presence. That hope died when she stepped outside.
The Unborn came down from the night as though it had been waiting just for her.
Reason suggested that it must have been tracking the man now in such enthusiastic flight.
The Unborn settled at eye level, a dozen feet away. It was unafraid.
Mist wondered if it was capable of fear.
It shot upward, then whipped away toward Vorgreberg.
Mist’s lifeguard stepped out in time to watch it dwindle. “Is there a problem, Illustrious?”
“I don’t think so. Though there was a man here when I left the portal. He ran away. We should have time to poke around.”
Wait! Here that man came, a pale witch light burning over his left shoulder.
“Illustrious?”
“He doesn’t seem belligerent.”
The pudgy fellow approached till he was three yards away. His light grew stronger. Mist’s bodyguard stepped out to her left, watching the man’s right hand.
Mist asked, “What are you doing?”
“Waiting.”
“For what?”
He faced Vorgreberg. “It won’t be long.” The Unborn reappeared. “Not long at all.” He turned back. “I am Babeltausque, a wizard. Mouse size, relatively speaking.”
The Unborn closed fast. It was not alone. Varthlokkur dangled beneath it.
“Illustrious! Get behind me.”
“There is no point. Either we are in no danger or it is too late to protect ourselves. You. Sorcerer. What is he doing here?”
“Helping find an ugly and elusive child-killer.”
“Tell me.”
He was still talking when the Unborn deposited the Empire Destroyer beside him. Mist felt tension rise in her companion.
Varthlokkur smiled. “You were the ghost in the graveyard, too.”
So. The squatters had talked. And so had the Unborn. “I’m told you’re hunting an especially horrible villain.”
“A clever or lucky one. My skills at divining the past have been inadequate, though he made no deliberate effort to hide from my sort.”
An outsider might have suspected that there was more than verbal communication going on. Both were deceitful in appearance. Both were ages older than they looked, though not necessarily wiser.
“I’m willing to contribute,” Mist said. “This young man told me a great deal. He lied a lot, too, but I’ll forgive him. He was protecting his principal.”
“Oh?”
“I have a daughter.”
Mist wondered what she was doing.
Both wizards were calculating, too.
She had to buy time. Varthlokkur had identified her only other entrance into Kavelin. She needed to get more set up quickly. Just in case.
She repeated herself. “I have children, too. I might be able to help.” That knocked Varthlokkur off balance.
Her lifeguard had sense enough to keep his mouth shut. The chubby man was horrified, though.
Varthlokkur said, “My colleague believes that you must be the darkness distilled. His attitude will improve if you give us a means to prove that the child-killer isn’t him.”
Mist eyed the pudgy man. He had a creepy quality. Most western sorcerers did. They were all twisted somehow.
A chill touched her. She had lost friends who were weird western wizards. Another chill. No one she knew ever died a natural death.
Varthlokkur asked, “Are you all right?”
“I think too much. Comes of having too much time on my hands. Tell me about your killer.”
The wizard did so, adding, “I came up empty when I tried to divine the dump. The killer kept his features hidden. And he was lucky.”
“How so?”
“Ley lines intersect near the site. Their resonances interfere with the scrying.”
“You can get around that.”
Her bodyguard made a sound that was not a word.
“Of course. I have an empire to manage. I have the Old Man to reclaim. There’s no time for hobbies.”
“Your suggestion?”
“Track the girl, not the killer. You know who she was. You know where she lived. Go back to when she was safe. Follow her forward.”
Varthlokkur offered a nod of respect. “That’s sure to travel some ugly road.”
“No doubt. You westerners tolerate…” She stopped. She did not know that her own people were less wicked. “I should go.”
“Any luck with the Old Man?”
“No. How about you with the Deliverer?”
“Ethrian. His mother’s optimism seems justified but the process will take longer than she hopes.”
“Let me know what works.”
“Does Old Meddler know?”
“I don’t know. What do you think?”
“I think not. Not yet. Will you free Ragnarson?”
“I haven’t decided.”
“Kavelin has begun to recover. Him being here might do more harm than good.”
“I must go.” She dared not say that they had made a huge mistake.
Inger would know that Bragi lived before sunrise. All Kavelin would know within days. It might no longer matter if she sent him home. The possibility would alter the political climate anyway.
The chubby man looked bland and indifferent and small. He understood what he had overheard.
Almost idly, he told Varthlokkur, “Two men tried to kill me on my way out here. I didn’t recognize them. They were Wessons. They didn’t have unusual accents and they didn’t say anything that explained why. I marked them with tracer spells.”
Varthlokkur said, “You’re good at that, aren’t you.”
“Everybody has to be good at something.”