„It's General Liakopulos. Somebody tried to kill him."

„Tried? He's all right?" Kavelin's army was the founda­ tion of Ragnarson's power. Liakopulos was one of his most important officers.

„He's in bad shape, Sire. I left him with Doctor Wachtel. Doc said he didn't know if he'd make it. That was three hours ago."

„Let's ride, then. Who did it? A brawl?" The General frequented rough dives. He had been warned, but warnings did no good.

„No, Sire. Assassins." Haas kicked his mount into a trot beside his King. „He was riding outside the palace. They ambushed him in the park. He got one of them, but they cut him up pretty bad. Gales found him and brought him in."

„Who was the dead man?" Wind streamed past Bragi's ear. It bore a smell of rain.

„Nobody recognized him. There wasn't anything on him to identify him."

„Harish?"

„No. He was fair. Possibly from the north."

„Find Trebilcock when we get back."

„He was with the General when I left, Sire." Haas kicked his mount again. The animal had been pushed hard for a long time. Bragi recognized its fatigue and eased the pace. Dahl added, „He seemed to take it personal. Like it was an attack on him."

„Good." Bragi eased the pace even more. It had been a long day for his animal, too.

And this long day was not over yet. Not for him.

5

Year 1016 AFE; Mystery Attackers

Ragnarson pushed into the room where General Liakopulos lay. The Guildsman was as pale as bone china. „How is he?"

Doctor Wachtel, a grisled old man who had been Royal Physician forever, replied, „He's resting."

„Will he make it?"

„It could go either way. He lost a lot of blood. The wounds aren't that bad. Nothing vital injured. But when you've been cut so many times... ."

„This the dead man?"

„The assassin? Yes."

Ragnarson lifted the linen covering. He saw an unprepos­ sessing young man of medium height, slightly overweight. He tried to imagine the man on his feet, moving around. He reminded himself that they looked smaller and meeker when they were dead. „Where's Trebilcock?"

„The General came to an hour ago. He described his assailants. He'd cut the other two. Michael went looking for wounded men."

„Uhm. You talk to Varthlokkur about this?"

The doorway sentries stirred. Wachtel shrugged. „He may know. I haven't told him. Didn't see any need."

„Maybe he could give you a hand."

The old man scowled. „Am I incompetent?" He was the best physician in Kavelin, and jealous of his reputation.

„Guards. One of you get the wizard. He's in the brown guest suite." To Wachtel, Ragnarson added, „Who better to question our friend?" He indicated the dead man.

„Uhm." Wachtel put a world of disgust into his grunt. He and the wizard had collaborated before. He had a profound loathing for sorcery in every form, though he grudgingly admitted that Varthlokkur was a master of life magicks, and occasionally offered hope when his own science failed him.

He did not protest much. He was a truly good man, incapable of a spiteful or wicked act. If there had been no other hope for Liakopulos, he would have summoned the wizard himself.

It would not have occurred to him, though, to yield the corpse to the sorcerer. He only concerned himself with the living.

He was quite civil when a sleep-fuddled Varthlokkur arrived. He quickly accounted the locations, depths, and severity of his patient's wounds. He controlled his scowl as Varthlokkur ran his hands over the General, making anoth­ er examination.

„You've done all you can? Hot broth, and so forth? Herbs for the pain?"

Wachtel nodded.

„He ought to recover. Might have trouble using the one arm, and there'll be scars. No point me getting involved."

Wachtel's scowl lapsed into a somber smile. He turned it on Ragnarson.

„Check this one," Bragi told the wizard. „This's the man Liakopulos killed."

„One of the assassins?" Varthlokkur peeled back a lid and stared into an eye.

„Presumably." Of the room in general, Ragnarson asked, „There couldn't be any mistake, could there?"

„The General identified him while he was conscious," Wachtel replied.

Varthlokkur looked at Bragi, said nothing. Ragnarson's skin felt crawly. „The Unborn?" he suggested softly.

The wizard nodded. „That's the easiest way. Down in one of the closed courts where we won't disturb anybody."

„Guards. One of you find your sergeant. Tell him I need four men and a stretcher."

Four Guardsmen came. One was Slugbait. He gave Ragnarson a big grin and rattled a pocket filled with coins before assuming a more businesslike manner. He was a soldier here, not a Captures captain. He and his compan­ ions rolled the corpse onto the stretcher and awaited in­ structions.

„The back exercise court," Ragnarson told them. „Just take him down and leave him."

Their eyes went to Varthlokkur, slid away. The color left their faces. They had guessed what would happen.

„Did anyone interrogate Gales?" Bragi asked.

„Trebilcock," Wachtel replied. „I didn't pay attention. Varthlokkur. Does his breathing seem easier?"

The wizard bent over the General. „I think so. He's definitely past the worst. He'll make it."

Ragnarson and the wizard followed the stretcher-bearers. Bragi said, „I saw Mist tonight. I'd stumbled across a couple things I was curious about. She answered my questions, but she was evasive."

„And?"

„She's involved in some scheme to get her throne back. She claims a group of Tervola approached her, but nothing would come of it. She's in deeper than she'll admit."

„And?"

„You're not contributing much."

„What do you want me to say?"

„Your best guess about her. Is she really involved? Can she do anything if she is? What would the consequences be, from my viewpoint? Both if she pulled it off and if she lost out."

„Is she involved? Of course. Once you attain a throne, you don't give it up without a fight. She felt constrained while Valther was alive. Now she doesn't. Consider her viewpoint. There's nothing here for her since Palmisano. There once was there. Her need for a feeling of self-worth will make her grasp for what's hers by right."

„She's vulnerable, though. Through her children."

„Aren't we all?" Varthlokkur sounded sour. „They're hostages to fortune."

„Can she make a comeback?"

„I wouldn't know. I don't know what's going on in Shinsan. I don't want to. I want to ignore them, and have them ignore me."

„But they won't."

„Of course not. Which brings us to consequences. My feeling is, it won't really matter if she wins or loses. Shinsan is Shinsan, and always was and will be. When the moment comes, it won't matter who rules there. You and Kavelin have earned special attention. Be it tomorrow, or a hundred years from tomorrow, a blow will fall. I think it'll be a while coming. They have to recover from a devastating couple of decades. They have to survive external threats. They have to preserve their new frontiers. They'll be hopping like the one-legged whore the day the fleet came in."

Ragnarson chuckled and looked at the wizard askance. That was not a Varthlokkur metaphor.

„Excuse me. You mentioned Mist. That reminded me of Visigodred, which made me think of his apprentice, Marco. I heard Marco say something of the sort once."

Visigodred was a mutual acquaintance, an Itaskian wiz­ ard who had helped during the Great Eastern Wars. He was a long-time friend of Mist. His apprentice, a foul-mouthed dwarf named Marco, had perished at Palmisano.

„Marco. That's funny. Every damned conversation today leads to somebody who died at Palmisano."