„Knives, Sire. They don't like knives, the gentlemen of the Estates."
How can such a small mouth stretch into such a big grin? Ragnarson wondered. „My Lord Baron? Are you ready?"
The Nordmen reddened, sputtered, looked for support from his peers. Any he may have seen existed only in his own imagination. He drew himself up, said, „That's hardly the way gentlemen... ."
„What gentlemen?" Bragi asked. „This mess came up because you won't accept Colonel Abaca as a gentleman. Why expect him to change now?" Not wanting to pour it on too heavy, Ragnarson added, „One of the bases of the law, Baron, is that we all have to face the consequences of our actions. Birth doesn't grant you immunity anymore. It only allows you limited privilege. In return, you're supposed to protect and guide the people of your fief. It's all set forth in the traditional oath of fealty, which goes all the way back to Jan Iron-Hand. You yourself swore that oath three times. Before the old King. Before Queen Fiana. Then before me. All I've ever asked of the Estates is that their lords fulfill that oath."
He thought he was getting through. The Baron had begun to squirm. „Let's drop the whole business, shall we? Send your family back to their quarters. Wait for your boy. I'll have Doctor Wachtel attend him. Credence, confine your self to barracks for the night. I'll have more to say to you later. Derel, let's put some life back in this party."
When they were out of earshot of the Baron, Ragnarson asked, „How did I do?"
„Pretty good," Prataxis replied. The scholar had indulged in his own form of intimidation. He had written down every word spoken. The Nordmen had an almost superstitious fear of the magical recall of his notes. „Do you know him? Is he likely to hold a grudge?"
„I don't think so. He's just impulsive. He survived the civil war. I haven't had to hang him since. That's about the best you can expect from the Estates. Take a couple notes. Have the old noose hung out. The one we used on Lord Lindwedel, Sir Andybur, and the Captal. As a gentle re minder. And ask Varthlokkur to have the Unborn show himself. That should do it."
Ragnarson paused to obtain wine for Prataxis and beer for himself. „It's so damned depressing sometimes. Here I am, the third consecutive monarch to bust his ass to make this a good country to live in. And if you get more than a bowshot from Vorgreberg's gates, you're up to your ears in the same old hardheaded, completely irrational bullshit the old Krief met head-on when he was crowned."
„This is a feudal state, Sire. Rigidity is one of that form's characteristics. And it's a positive characteristic, consider ing the forces which act to create feudal societies. The structure has a place for every man, with his responsibilities and privileges clearly defined. The weakness of the form is its inflexible response to novel ideas. It's been rocked by too many of those during our lifetimes, dating back to the Scourge of God, who did not fade from the field at harvest time. Now it wants to make like a turtle and pull its head in till the worst blows over. Only the storm won't go away. So the mossbacks strike back. Civil strife is one result."
„You trying to tell me something?"
„Change will be slow and painful in a kingdom like Ravelin. You can push too hard. Reaction will be like a recurrent boil. You lanced ours once, by winning the civil war. Now it's rising again."
„And there's nothing I can do about it?"
„To pursue the medical analogy, use poultices to keep the swelling to a minimum and the pain short-lived."
„For instance me a poultice."
„A conciliatory message, in private, might help with the Baron. You don't want him thinking you humiliated him maliciously. Press the lifesaving point, and agree with his prejudices without saying so in so many words. These illiterates have a great awe of the magic of reading and writing. He'll be tremendously impressed because you took time to do a letter."
Ragnarson whistled silently. „I wanted to humiliate him. I wanted to hang him out to dry. Sometimes the Estates make me want to cry like a baby. Yes. Write me up one of your classic little notes. I'll rewrite it in my own hand and have Dahl sneak it over."
He bumped into someone. Hard. Wine splashed against his side. He looked down.
His daughter-in-law's friend looked up at him. She did a quick, flustered, apologetic curtsey. „I'm sorry, Your Majes ty. That was clumsy of me." Her voice was high. It con tained a tiny squeak. It wasn't her normal voice. He had heard that at the place in Lieneke Lane. She was nervous. And the fright was alive in her eyes.
„My apology, Miss. It was my fault. I wasn't watching where I was going."
He walked away wondering. Was she afraid of the man? In awe of his Crown? Or afraid of herself?
Damn you, Kristen. You've got a big mouth.
Derel was chattering again. He told himself to pay atten tion. When Prataxis ran down, he said, „Send out the word for Michael to get in touch. We need to talk."
7
Year 1016 AFE; Decisions
Ragnarson sat with one leg sprawled across a small, square table. His eyes were closed. He was daydreaming.
To his left sat Varthlokkur. The sorcerer's tongue-tip protruded from the corner of his mouth. Slowly, he forced a quill to produce a drawing. „The memories are clear enough," he told Prataxis, opposite him. „But I'm no artist."
The drawing betrayed that. It was of a man's face. But of whom?
„Maybe charcoals, that you could erase," Prataxis sug gested.
„Better would be an artist who could work from my descriptions."
The two were toying with an illustrated history of the Fall. Varthlokkur was the last living participant. The major extant record of the epoch, The Wizards of Ilkazar, con sisted of impassioned anti-Empire propaganda. Whenever his path crossed that of the sorcerer, conservator Prataxis teased forth memories and committed them to paper. The Fall was western history's crucial crossroad. Prataxis be lieved the perpetuation of old lies to be a sin.
Ilkazar's last king had slain Varthlokkur's mother. Varthlokkur had crushed the Empire in revenge.
„I can't capture the real feel of the man," the wizard grumbled. „Wish I could impress a thought directly onto the paper."
Ragnarson snorted like an old boar hog being wakened by a pig farmer. „Why not? I hear tell a good sorcerer can think pictures into one of those seeing bowls. So think your memories of those old-time wizards and kings. Let an artist draw what he sees." He sniffled, sneezed, searched for a handkerchief. There had been another rainy day game of
Captures, a rematch with the Panthers, that had been long and savage and had left him with a murderous cold. The Panthers had won, five-four, on a disputed goal. The judges themselves were still arguing.
Varthlokkur and Prataxis exchanged looks. Derel said, „Wouldn't it work?"
„Maybe," Varthlokkur grumped. He awarded the King a foul look. His was the ire of a professional being taught to suck eggs by a layman.
The door opened. Dahl Haas stepped inside. From a rigid attention, he announced, „Sir Gjerdrum Eanredson, Your Majesty." A slight scowl crossed his face. He was not pleased with his King's inelegant sprawl. „Herd him in, Dahl."
Sir Gjerdrum took the remaining chair. His handsome Wesson face looked perplexed.
Ragnarson sat up. „That's all, Dahl. Look around to see if we're getting any unusual attention."
Haas withdrew, clearly piqued because he had not been invited to stay.