Free Octobers Baby by Glen Cook Page A

ornery enough to growl him down.”
    “Or get yourself thrown out,” Haaken observed. “But it won’t hurt to stop off. I’ll get my excuses in ahead of time. Moving that gang of mine is touchy. Can’t let them get our passes revoked. The Guild wouldn’t help.”
    “Good thinking. Mocker, you need to take care of anything there?”
    The fat man shrugged. “Self, always have business at Ministry of War. Ministry has evil habit. Late payment on contracts. No interest, no penalty. Owes guineas six hundred twelve, four and six, on salt pork supplied for winter maneuvers on Iwa Skolovdan border. But let poor old pig farmer be hour late delivering same. Hai! Skyfalling, maybe, self thinks when agent shows up threatening repossession of soul.” He laughed. “Can have same. Is already in hock to six devils. Take to Debtor’s Court, scoundrelest scoundrels of state collectors! See who wins case.” He flashed an obscene gesture at the Royal Palace.
     
    V) Secret master, silent partner
    The War Minister was a small man, wizened, who had been ancient when Bragi had met him years earlier. Now, within the plush vastness of his private office, he seemed so small and old as to be inhuman.
    “So,” said Ragnarson. “The heart of the web. Comfortable. Good to see my taxes well-spent.” Times past, because of their nature, their conferences had been held in less opulent surroundings.
    “Rank and privilege, as they say.” The old man extended his hand.
    Ragnarson frowned suspiciously. This was going too smoothly. He hadn’t been kept cooling his heels. “You’d think I had an appointment.”
    “In a sense. Make yourself comfortable. Brandy?”
    “Uhn.” Ragnarson sank into a chair that threatened to devour him. He was not a poor man, but brandy was beyond his means. “Looks like you got something on your mind too.”
    “Yes. But your business first. And pardon me for skipping the amenities. Time presses.”
    Ragnarson sketched recent events.
    “Oh, my,” said the. Minister, shaking his head. “Worse than I thought. Worse. And sure to get worse still. Dear me, dear me. But they wouldn’t listen. Told me to forgive and forget, not to hold grudges.”
    “What’re you talking about?”.
    “Greyfells. They brought him back. Inland Ministry. Wouldn’t listen to me. Even moved Customs to his control.”
    “What? No! I don’t believe it.” The Duke of Greyfells, as near an arch-traitor as was boasted by Itaskian history, back in favor? Astounding.
    But Greyfells was a bouncer. During the wars, while commander of Itaskian expeditionary forces and prime candidate for supreme commander of the allied armies, he had been in touch with El Murid, plotting treason. Only astonishing victories by Haroun’s Royalist guerrillas, with the aid of Trolledyngjan mercenaries and native auxiliaries, in Libiannin and Hellin Daimiel, had forced Greyfells to maintain his loyalty.
    Later, there had been plots to seize the Itaskian Crown. Greyfells, once, had been in the succession. Haroun, Mocker, and Ragnarson had ruined his schemes. One of the favors done the War Minister. Greyfells had renounced his place in the succession to evade the embarrassment of a treason trial.
    “Politicians!” Bragi snorted into his snifter. The Duke kept complicating his life, and Itaskia’s, and he was getting tired of it. How many times would the man reach for the throne?
    “My Lord the Duke has bounced back,” said the Minister. “My people at Interior think he’s in touch with his old accomplice. They’ve struck a devil’s bargain. El Murid to support Greyfells’ next power grab. And Greyfells to keep Itaskia out of the next war, and refuse passage to troops from our northern neighbors. You know what that means. Hellin Daimiel, Cardine, and Libiannin still haven’t recovered. Dunno Scuttari and the Lesser Kingdoms never were powerful. Sacuescu couldn’t keep a gang of old ladies from plundering the Auszura Littoral. El Murid would be at the