Free All Darkness Met by Glen Cook Page B

he thought necessary. Even when he made life difficult, Bragi bore him no ill will. But when bin Yousif stopped conforming to his own nature....
    There hadn’t been a serious protest in a year. And Valther said there had been no terrorist incursions for several. Nor had many bands of Royalist partisans passed through Kavelin bound for the camps. Nor had Customs reported the capture of any guerrilla contraband.
    It was spooky.
    Ragnarson wasn’t pleased when people changed character inexplicably.
    “Derel. Any word from Karak Strabger?”
    “None, sir.”
    “Something’s wrong up there. I’d better....”
    “Gjerdrum can handle it, sir.”
    Ragnarson’s right hand fluttered about nervously. “I suppose. I wish he’d write more often.”
    “I used to hear the same from his mother when he was at the university.”
    “It’d risk letters falling into unfriendly hands anyway.” The Queen’s condition had to remain secret. For the good of the state, for his own good-if he didn’t want his wife planning to cut his throat.
    Bragi didn’t know how to manage it, but the news absolutely had to be kept from Elana.
    Rumors striking alarmingly near the truth ran the streets already.
    He massaged his forehead, crushed his eyelids with the heels of his hands. “This last contribution from Breidenbach. You done the figures yet?”
    “It looks good. There’s enough, but it’ll be risky.”
    “Damned. There’s got to be an honest, legal way to increase revenues.”
    In the past, when he had been on the other end, Bragi’s favorite gripes had been government and taxes. Taxes especially. He had seen them as a gigantic protection racket. Pay off or have soldiers on your front porch.
    “By increasing the flow of trade.”
    Economics weren’t his forte, but Ragnarson asked anyway. “How do we manage that?”
    “Lower the transit tax.” Prataxis grinned.
    “Oh, go to hell. The more you talk, the more I get confused. If
    I had the men I’d do it the Trolledyngjan way. Go steal it from the nearest foreigner who couldn’t defend himself.”
    Prataxis’s reply was forestalled by a knock.
    “Enter,” Ragnarson growled.
    Jarl Ahring stepped in. His face was drawn.
    Premonition gripped Ragnarson. “What is it? What’s happened, Jarl?”
    Ahring gulped several false starts before babbling, “At your house. Somebody.... Assassins.”
    “But.... What...?” He didn’t understand. Assassins? Why would...? Maybe robbers? There was no reason for anyone to attack his home.
    “Your son.... Gundar.... He came to the barracks. He was hysterical. He said everybody was dead. Then he said Haaken told him to have me find you. I sent twenty men over, then came here.”
    “You checked it out?”
    “No. I came straight here.”
    “Let’s go.”
    “I brought you a horse.”
    “Good.” Ragnarson strapped on the sword that was never out of reach, followed Ahring at a run. And then at a wild gallop through deserted streets.
    A quarter mile short of home Ragnarson shouted, “Hold up!” A patch of white in the park had caught his eye.
    The man was on the verge of dying, but he recognized Ragnarson. Surprise shown through agony. He tried to use a dagger.
    Bragi took it away, studied him. Soon he was dead. “Loss of blood,” Ragnarson observed. “Somebody cut him bad.” He handed the knife to Ahring.
    “Harish kill-dagger.”
    “Yeah. Come on.”
    The news was spreading. Lean, sallow Michael Trebilcock had arrived already, and Valther and his wife, Mist, showed up as Bragi did. Their house stood just up the lane. Neighbors clogged the yard. Ahring’s troops were keeping them out of the house.
    Bragi took the dagger from Ahring, passed it to Valther’s wife. “It is consecrated?”
    That tall, incredibly beautiful woman closed her oval eyes.
    She moaned suddenly, hurled the blade away. A soldier recovered it.
    Mist took two deep breaths, said, “Yes. To your name. But not in Al Rhemish.”
    “Ah?” Ragnarson wasn’t