All Darkness Met Read Online Free Page B

ambassador from Altea asked, “Authority on what?”
    Ragnarson grinned, punched Mocker’s arm. “Everything.”
    Mocker had never been one to remain embarrassed long. Especially by public acclaim. He had forever been his own greatest booster. But here, because he had a predisposition to expect it, he suspected he was being mocked. He flashed his friend a look of appeal.
    Which, despite years of separation, Ragnarson read. Softly, he replied, “No. I didn’t bring you here for that. This’s a homecoming. A debut. Here’s an audience. Take them.”
    The wicked old grin seared the fat man’s face. He turned tothe crowd, fearing them no more. They would be his toys.
    Boldly, insolently, he examined the people nearest the dais. Themerry mayhem in his eyes sparkled so that each of them
    recognized it. Most perked to a higher level of gaiety ere he
    spoke a word.
    He founded the speech on the passage from the epic, and spoke with such joy, such laughter edging his voice, that hardly anyone resented being roasted.
    The years had taught him something. He was no longer indiscreet. Though his tongue rolled inspiredly, in a high, mad babble that made the chandeliers rattle with the responding laughter, he retained sufficient command of his inspiration that, while he accused men of every dark deed under the sun, he never indicted anyone for something whispered to be true.
    In the Siluro quarter, where dwelt the quiet little men who performed the drudgework of civil service and the mercantile establishments, there were a few secrets about the mighty.
    He finished with a prophecy not unlike that of the poet. Punctuation, hellfire and brimstone.
    And envoi, “Choice is clear. Recant. Renounce high living. Shed sybaritic ways. Place all burden of sin on one able to bear up under curse of same.” He paused to meet eyes, including those of the sleek blonde twice. Then, softly, seriously, “Self, would volunteer for job.”
    Bragi slapped his back. People who remembered Mocker now, from the war, came to greet him and, if possible, swap a few lies about the old days. Others, including that svelte blonde, came to praise his performance.
    Mocker was disappointed by the blonde. There was a message in her eyes, and nothing he could do.
    “Oh, my,” he muttered. “That this obesity should live to see day....” But he wasn’t distraught. This was his happiest eveningin a decade. He wallowed in it, savoring every instant.
    But he didn’t stop observing. He soon concluded that there were skunks in paradise. The millennium hadn’t arrived.
    Three hard men in fighting leathers stood in the shadows behind the dais. He knew them as well as he knew Ragnarson. Haaken Blackfang, Bragi’s foster brother, a bear of a man, a deadly fighter, bigger than his brother. Reskird Kildragon, another relic of the old days, and another grim fighter, who sprang like a wolf when Bragi commanded. And Rolf Preshka, that steel-eyed Iwa Skolovdan whose enmity meant certain death, whose devotion to Bragi’s wife bordered on the morbid, and should have been a danger to her husband-except that Preshka was almost as devoted to him.
    And, yes, there were more of the old comrades, in the out-of-the-ways, the shadows and alcoves of balconies and doors. Turran of Ravenkrak, Nepanthe’s brother, white of hair now but none the less deadly. And their brother Valther, impetuous with blade and heart, possessed of a mind as convolute as that of a god. Jarl Ahring. Dahl Haas. Thorn Altenkirk. They were all there, the old, cold ones who had survived, who had been the real heroes of the civil war. And among them were a few new faces, men he knew would be as devoted to their commander-otherwise they would be on the dance floor with the peacocks.
    All was not well.
    He had known that since climbing to the dais. Two of the occupants of seats of honor were envoys from Hammad al Nakir. From their oldest enemy, El Murid. From that hungry giant of a nation directly south of Kavelin,