"The rumors started maybe three years ago. Jan Praeder claimed he had been invited to join the plot. To replace a member who had died. He said he looked into it, didn't like what he saw, and refused. He didn't say much, though, before he was posted to Simballawein, to replace Colonel Therodoxos, supposedly the member who had died. There was no mystery about Therodoxos's passing. He was killed when he interrupted a gang rape. Killed most of them before they finished him. Butthere were a lot of questions when Praeder died. He was supposedly poisoned by a jealous husband two weeks after arriving."
"Strong circumstantial evidence," said Ragnarson.
"Yes. Circumstance two: there have been eleven deaths in the Citadel since Praeder went down. That's a lot even for old men. Those guys are tough old geezers. Hawkwind is up in his eighties now. Lauder is right behind him. And they're as mean as ever. They go on like they're immortal. The others usually do too.
"The name, the Nine, I guess, comes from the fact that that would make a majority in Council. To grab control you'd have to have nine conspirators at Councilor level. Balfour was a prime suspect because he was close, despite his youth, and because he was so damned impatient with the traditional mysteries."
"That I can understand." Ragnarson observed. "That was always hokey to me. But I only made the Third Circle. Maybe there's more to it later. I'm supposed to be a general now. Maybe I could go find out."
"You'd start where you left off. You don't short-cut the Seven Steps. Your Guild rank wouldn't mean much inside the Order."
"Why not? Why would they promote me, then?"
"The same reason you don't turn them down. It makes people think you've got the Guild behind you. They want your success to reflect on High Crag.
"I'll never get into the Citadel myself. I can't master the Mysteries of the Sixth Circle. Oh, well. The organizational table is top-heavy anyway."
"Valther? Mist? What do you think?"
Valther shrugged.
His wife replied, "Colonel Oryon sounds honest. He may even sympathize a little. He has stretched his conscience today." She flashed a smile that could melt hearts of bronze. Oryon responded.
She was, simply, inarguably, the most beautiful woman in the world. Before her fall from power in Shinsan she had spent ages engineering her perfection.
"What action will you take, Colonel?" Ragnarson asked.
"I don't know. If I inform High Crag, I'll either start worse rumors or warn the conspiracy-depending on who gets my letter. I'll have to investigate myself, when I get back."
"Well, I've done what I could. Wish we could lay hands on Balfour. Valther. I've given you a whole list of things. Got anything yet?"
"No. I sent a couple men to that inn just before we came over. Told them to grab the next bunch of riders."
"Mist. We need your help. First, locate Nepanthe. Then see if you can call in Visigodred and Zindahjira, and get Varthlokkur cracking."
For an instant the woman's cold beauty gave way to pique. "You can't trust a woman? You don't think I can handle...."
"No. Because you don't want to be involved in this sort of thing anymore. And because I don't think one wizard will be enough. Not when we're toe to toe with Shinsan.... Ah. Derel. Well?"
"It's not there."
"It's got to be."
"You find it then. I took the place apart."
"Hey, cool off. I believe you. Mist?"
"Someone took it."
Ragnarson snorted. He needed an expert to tell him that? "Another job for you, Valther."
"I know. Find out who. When am I going to get some sleep?"
"Any time I'm in bed, you steal all you want. I won't be there to raise hell. Mist can help you. Can't you? At least to find out where the mask is now?"
"Yes."
"All right. Derel, I've got two more jobs for you, then I'll leave you alone. One I think you'll like. First, scare up Haaken. Have him meet meat the cemetery. It's time I saw what he did for Elana." He spoke with a throat suddenly tight. "Then write Gjerdrum. Tell him to quit farting around and get his ass back here." He signed a blank piece of paper. "That do you?"
Prataxis's smile was wicked. "Perfect, sir. Absolutely perfect. Oh. I couldn't find Trebilcock."
"Probably whoring around. He runs with a strange crowd. He'll turn up." But Ragnarson was worried. Too many people were out of sight. Michael might have found something and been silenced.
"I'll look for him too," Mist offered.
"You want to find me someone, find Haroun. Valther, you be home later?"
"I imagine."
"Okay. I'll be out to see how the house is coming. And to talk to Gundar."
"What?"
"I told you to take the house apart to find this Tear of Mimizan, didn't I?"
"Yes."
"Well?"
"Haven't made any headway. My people are all in the field."
"Uhm." Valther was going to have to show more initiative. "Borrow them from Ahring. Or Haaken."
"All right. All right."
"You needn't destroy the house," said Mist. "I'll find it if it's there. I know it well...." Her eyes clouded as she remembered a cruel past, when she had been mistress in Shinsan and warring with the Monitor of Escalon.
She must be getting restless, Ragnarson thought. Being a housewife isn't what she thought. She might need watching too.
This was getting touchy. The people he knew he could trust were being stripped away. Those who, potentially, could help most he didn't dare trust. Wizards. Witches. Mercenaries. People whose prime loyalties were to themselves.
And somebody wanted him dead. He didn't doubt for an instant that the false Harish Cultists' primary mission had been to murder him.
"Enough. There're a thousand things we can discuss. But not now. I'm going to the cemetery. Derel?"
"I'll have a horse readied."
"Someday you'll be rewarded."
"Thank you, sir."
To the others, "Sorry I ran you all over. I'm getting desperate, trying to make sense out of things. I feel like a fly in a spider web, and can't make out the spider."
He strapped on his new sword, donned a heavy coat. The nights were still chilly. He left ahead of his guests.
The cemetery lay on a hill north of Vorgreberg, beginning about a mile beyond the city gates. It was large, having served the city since its founding. All Vorgreberg's dead were buried there. Rich or poor, honored or despised, they lay in the same ground. There were divisions, family areas, parts set off for different religions, ethnic groups, and paupers put down at city expense, but all bodies ended up there somewhere. There were graves in the tens of thousands, mostly marked by simplewooden wands, but some in vast and ornate mausoleums like that of the family Krief, Kavelin's Kings. It was there that, before long, Fiana would be laid to rest.
The sun was on the horizon. A chill wind had come up. Ragnarson entered the open gate. Time and weather seemed appropriate.
"Bigger than I remembered." He had forgotten to ask where Elana lay. He spied gravediggers working in the paupers' section, asked them.
It was near the top of the hill. Haaken had gone all out.
The three new graves were easily spotted. There were no markers yet. Ragnarson decided to keep them simple. Ornateness didn't suit Elana.
He didn't see the leg till he tripped. He felt around.
He had found his missing Commander of the Palace Guard.
Preshka had been dead for hours. At least since morning. Ragnarson rose. His anger was indescribable.
There were flowers under Rolf, wild flowers, the kind Elana had loved. It must have taken him hours to gather them. The season was early.... Someone had cut him down on his way to respect the dead.
Ragnarson tripped again.
He found another corpse.
This one he didn't recognize.
He scrambled around in the gloaming, searching amongst the headstones and decorative bushes.