Breath of God

As Hamnet sat up and yawned, one of the men who’d come in for breakfast walked over to him: a nondescript fellow, not too tall or too short, not too fat or too thin, not too young or too old, with features altogether un-memorable except for gray eyes of uncommon alertness. “You are Count Hamnet Thyssen,” he said. It was not a question.

Count Hamnet got to his feet. Here we go, he thought as he belted on his sword, which had lain beside him. “That’s right,” he said aloud. “I’m afraid you have the advantage of me, sir.” That sounded politer than Who the demon are you? even if it meant the same thing.

“I’m Kormak Bersi,” the man replied – a name as ordinary as his looks. “I have the honor to serve His Majesty.”

That was a polite phrase, too. It meant I’m an agent, though it sounded nicer. “Well, what Raumsdalian doesn’t?” Hamnet said. He pointed to the oatcakes and mug of beer Kormak was carrying. “Do you mind if I get myself some breakfast, too? Then we can talk, if talk is what you’ve got in mind.”

“By all means, Your Grace, feed yourself,” Kormak said. “And talk is the only thing I have in mind, believe me. I’m a peaceable man.”

“That’s nice,” Hamnet said. “But whenever somebody says, ‘Believe me,’ I usually take it as a sign I shouldn’t. I hope that doesn’t offend you . . too much.”

Kormak Bersi’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Not. . too much, Your Grace.” He had a blade on his hip, and looked to be in good shape. Count Hamnet thought he could take him if he had to, but didn’t want it to come to blood. He stepped over a couple of Bizogots who kept snoring away despite the noise and got a breakfast like the one the Emperor’s man had bought. Kormak sat down at a small table. “Will this do?”

“As well as anywhere.” Hamnet perched on a stool across from him. “Well? What’s on your mind?” He tore off a chunk of oatcake, put it in his mouth, and deliberately began to chew.

Kormak also ate and drank a little before answering. Then, steepling his fingers in front of him, he said, “A bit of a surprise, discovering you back in Raumsdalia.”

“Life is full of surprises,” Hamnet said stolidly. He had to fight a scowl as he raised his mug to his lips. The surprises he’d got lately weren’t pleasant ones.

“What do you suppose Sigvat II will think of your return?” Kormak Bersi asked, as if it mattered no more than the price of a jug of wine.

“I hope he’ll think I wouldn’t come back unless it was important,” Hamnet replied. “You know about the Rulers?”

“I’m familiar with what you said last year,” Kormak answered, which was no surprise at all. “And some, ah, wild rumors have also come down from the Bizogot country more recently.”

“I’ll bet they have. Most of what you’ve heard is less than what’s really going on.”

“Oh? How do you know what I’ve heard?”

“Have you heard that the Rulers have already conquered most of the steppe?” Hamnet demanded. “Have you heard they’ve smashed the Leaping Lynxes? They’re that far south, and getting closer.”

“I don’t believe it!” Kormak Bersi exclaimed. “You’re making that up so you can watch me jump and shout like a man a wasp just stung.”

“By God, servant of His Majesty” – Hamnet laced what should have been a proud title with scorn -”I am not. Some of these Bizogots lying here in the taproom are Leaping Lynxes. They’re what’s left of the Leaping Lynxes now, or what’s left that’s still free.” He switched to the Bizogot tongue: “Marcomer! Are you awake there?”

“Afraid I am,” Marcomer answered glumly. “Why? What do you want? Who’s that sour-looking fellow with you? I don’t know enough Raumsdalian to follow the two of you going back and forth, jabber, jabber, jabber.”

“His name’s Kormak Bersi, or that’s what he says, anyway,” Hamnet replied, drawing a glare from Kormak and proving the imperial agent understood the Bizogots’ language. Hamnet went on, “He serves Sigvat II. He doesn’t believe you’re from the Leaping Lynxes. He doesn’t believe what happened to them, either.”

“Well, he’s a bloody fool if he doesn’t,” Marcomer said, ambling over to join them.

“Watch your mouth, you.” Kormak not only understood the Bizogot tongue, he spoke it well – and arrogantly.

“Oh, go bugger a weasel,” Marcomer said. “What the demon do you think you can do to me that the God-cursed Rulers haven’t already done?”

“What did they do?” Kormak Bersi demanded. “So far, I’ve heard nothing but noise. What really happened?”

“Most of the noise is your own jaws flapping, seems like. Raumsdalians like to hear themselves talk, don’t they?” the Bizogot said. If he was trying to a

Kormak Bersi didn’t seem any angrier, which proved he’d got caught up in Marcomer’s tale. “His Majesty must hear of this, and quickly,” the imperial agent said. “Our officers up in the forest need to know of it, too.”

“If they don’t know already, it isn’t because we haven’t spread the word,” Hamnet Thyssen said. “Of course, they may not want to listen. We can’t do anything about that.”

“When do Raumsdalians ever listen to Bizogots?” Marcomer sounded more resigned than bitter.

“I’m no Bizogot,” Count Hamnet reminded him. “Neither is Ulric Skakki. . . and neither is Audun Gilli.” The last name tasted like bad fish in his mouth; he spat it out as fast as he could, and wiped his lips with the back of his sleeve afterwards.

“If what I hear is true. .” Kormak Bersi began, and then stopped in alarm, for Marcomer’s growl sound much like an angry dire wolf’s. The Raumsdalian agent had nerve, for after gathering himself he repeated, “If this is true, it changes the nature of the orders I have.”

“What kind of orders are those?” Hamnet asked. “Lock me up, lose the key, and God forbid you should pay attention to anything that comes out of my mouth?”

“Something like that.” Kormak could sound almost as dry as Ulric Skakki. “But I may have to think twice.”

“That would be nice. Most people have trouble enough thinking once,” Count Hamnet said.

“Your precious Emperor must, if he doesn’t believe the things he’s heard about the Rulers,” Marcomer said.

Kormak looked at him – looked through him, really. “You will find it a good policy not to speak ill of His Majesty,” he said, his voice as chilly as if blown on the Breath of God.

“Why? If somebody’s an idiot, how’s he going to find out he’s an idiot unless somebody else tells him so?” Bizogots didn’t waste a lot of respect on their clan chiefs. To Marcomer, Sigvat II was nothing but a jarl writ large.

To Kormak Bersi, the idea that the Emperor might be an idiot wasn’t far from blasphemous. “His Majesty is not an idiot,” he said stiffly. “His Majesty ca

“Why not?” Now Marcomer sounded honestly puzzled. “Isn’t that like saying he can’t shit? Everybody’s an idiot now and again, on one thing or another. Over women, usually, or over men if you’re a woman, but other stuff, too.”

“His Majesty is not an idiot,” Kormak repeated in tones more gelid than ever. “Anyone who says otherwise will be very, very sorry.”

By Marcomer’s expression, he thought the threat was idiotic, too. Hamnet Thyssen kicked him under the table to keep him from saying so. Hamnet also thought the threat was idiotic, or at least juvenile, but he knew the agent could enforce it. Marcomer glowered but, for a wonder, took the hint.

Ulric Skakki came down then, looking indecently – and that was probably just the right word – pleased with himself. He stopped and gri