Reap the East Wind by Glen Cook Read Free Book Online Page B

among the two dozen or so people she knew only by sight.
    Sir Gjerdrum kissed her hand while clicking his heels. They had developed an innocent flirtation when he was younger and less world-wise. He played their old game half-hearted court with a weak suggestion. “Let me treat you to dinner after the little one comes.”
    Nepanthe raised an eyebrow. What had become of the indefatigably cheerful Gjerdrum of years gone by? Had he been crushed between the millstones of duty? Or was this just a mood?
    She glanced around the room. Her friends had all aged, had all grown tired of their responsibilities. Nothing dulls the enthusiasm like the inability to make visible progress, she thought.
    She was not unique, then. The same despair-inducing nemesis breathed down the necks of all her friends.
    “Where’s the King?” she asked. She and Varthlokkur hadn’t seen Bragi yet, though they had reached Vorgreberg the previous afternoon.
    “I don’t know,” Gjerdrum mumbled. “You’d think he’d be on time, wouldn’t you? After calling us here... He dragged me in all the way from Karlsbad.”
    Varthlokkur moved to the room’s huge fireplace and stared into the prancing flames. He looked troubled. Nepanthe joined him. She wondered why he was so moody lately.
    The gathering fell under a pall. Only Michael and Aral remained immune. They chattered like best friends who hadn’t seen one another for years.
    Mist took a seat near the head of the huge table which filled half the room. Nepanthe studied her. Exile had made of a once savage conspirator a quiet, gentle woman. A knitting bag lay open before her. A small, two-headed, four-armed demon manipulated her needles at an incredible pace. Its legs dangled off the table’s side. Occasionally one head would curse the other for making it drop a stitch. Mist would shush gently.
    The door opened. A splendidly attired young officer entered. Nepanthe remembered him as Dahl Haas, the son of a mercenary who had followed King Bragi into Kavelin during the civil war. For an instant she wondered if Dahl had had babies who would follow Bragi in their turn.
    “Stand by,” Haas said. “He’s on his way.”
    Nepanthe moved nearer the door. The King pushed through. His gaze met hers. He winced slightly, then enfolded her in a gentle, uncertain hug. “How are you?” he asked. And, “I’m sorry I couldn’t see you last night. This wart of a kingdom don’t give me time to catch my breath. Hello, Varthlokkur.”
    King Bragi was a tall, powerfully built man. He wore the scars of nearly three decades of soldiering. Nepanthe noted grey in the shag at his temples. Time was gnawing at him too.
    He whispered, “I’ll try to put on a private supper tonight. You’ll want to see Fulk.” Fulk was his six-month-old son, whom she had never seen.
    “How is Inger?”
    He gave her an odd look. Her tone must have betrayed her thoughts. She could not get used to his having remarried. His first wife, Elana, who had died during the war, had been her best friend. “Fine. Full of pepper. And Fulk is just like his mother.” He moved away, shaking hands, exchanging greetings. Finally finished, he said, “I hope this thing hasn’t gotten anybody fired up... I see it hasn’t. Just a roll call, anyway, so to speak. I won’t really need you for a few days yet. For now, let me just say that we’ve had word from Derel.”
    He explained that his personal secretary, Derel Prataxis, was in Throyes, east of the Mountains of M’Hand, negotiating with Lord Hsung, the commander of Shinsan’s army of occupation there. In the three years since the cessation of hostilities not one trade caravan had crossed the mountains. The easterners had kept the one commercially viable pass, the Savernake Gap, locked up tight. Now Prataxis reported a dramatic shift in attitude. He expected the negotiations to be brief and their outcome to be favorable.
    The discussion was prosaic and dull, and Nepanthe didn’t pay much attention