Working God's Mischief

by Glen Cook

  “Then there was the War Between the Gods. The Old Gods against the Raneul. The Shining Ones won but the Raneul weren’t destroyed. Some moved in here and became Shining Ones themselves. The rest are around somewhere. Likewise, a whole raft of missing original Old Ones. And, after that, there’s still the Trickster matter.”

  Asgrimmur drew a long, deep breath, released it in a long, loud sigh.

  “Knowing all that, then, you no doubt know that the missing Instrumentalities are to be found in Eucereme.”

  “I don’t know that name. It isn’t one Iron Eyes ever used.”

  “We talk about the Nine Worlds but the only ones we’ve dealt with are this one, the middle world, and that of the Aelen Kofer. Your missing gods and goddesses are probably hiding in the world of the Raneul, where they won’t have to deal with Godslayers.”

  That was an answer, of a sort, but not one that satisfied, there being a normal human inclination to expect secret meanings, motives, and movers.

  Heris said, “Double Great, this is all interesting as hell but how about we finish the job we’ve got?”

  “Good idea. But first let’s make sure it doesn’t finish us. Asgrimmur. About the Trickster.”

  “What about him?”

  “He is in there, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “How does that work? I thought he’d been thrown out of the Realm of the Gods because of tricks he played on the other Old Ones.”

  “I don’t know. He probably talked his way back in once the All-Father went down.”

  “Double Great. However he got here, he’s here. Deal with that.”

  “I’m trying. I think it might be useful to know why he came back.”

  “He came back because he thought he could score with the Gray Walker out of the way. You want to poke and pry and figure things out, see if the Trickster didn’t set Ordnan up somehow. But do it on your own time.”

  Cloven Februaren looked at Hecht. “I think the success with Kharoulke has gone to her head.”

  Hecht did not smile. He was tired and worried and wanted out of this suburb of the Pit. “Let’s finish up so we can get out and go home.”

  “You, too? All right. I blame it on Grade Drocker, her father. But don’t worry about outside. Time goes slower out there. They aren’t missing you, yet.”

  So now the old man was poking him with a stick.

  Hecht refused to play.

  Still arguing, Heris and Februaren, with Ferris Renfrow behind, made another round of everything up front, looking for possible problems.

  “Asgrimmur?” Heris called. “You ready?”

  “Sorry. Woolgathering, I guess.”

  He had gone thoughtful the moment Heris suggested that the Trickster might have had something to do with the Gray Walker’s misfortunes.

  Hecht watched closely as the ascendant established a dialog with the last two Old Ones. He wished there were a way to gauge how potent the ghosts within the man really were.

  3. Lucidia: Tel Moussa

  For a month frenetic preparations alternated with boredom at the watch fortress atop Tel Moussa. The Mountain, General Nassim Alizarin, had grown thoroughly frustrated. God Himself must be testing him.

  His patience was gone. His faith had grown weak.

  Alizarin spent his days in the parapet of the highest tower, enduring the hot winds off the Idiam. His men had installed a canopy to provide shade while their old general wrestled his ghosts and conscience.

  Nassim Alizarin had been a great champion and commander of the Sha-lug, the mighty slave soldiers of Dreanger. None had stood higher save the Marshall, Gordimer the Lion. Then, for no reason ever made clear, Gordimer had permitted the murder of Nassim’s son Hagid. Nassim rebelled. So he was here, now, a tool of Dreanger’s enemies.

  Alizarin now understood that the Marshall’s part in the murder had consisted of omission and indifference. Lost in the distractions that came with power, Gordimer had become an unwitting puppet of the sorcerer er-Rashal al-Dhulquarnen.

  The Rascal had ordered Hagid killed. That debt had yet to be repaid.

  Meantime, the Mountain served the kaifs of Qasr al-Zed. He had hoped to gather other disgruntled Sha-lug to oust Gordimer and er-Rashal.

  As an ally of Qasr al-Zed, Alizarin had been effective; as an agent for change in Dreanger, not so much.

  His current task was to control traffic between Lucidia and the Holy Lands so the crusaders would gain no clear picture of what was developing in the Realm of Peace.

  Indala al-Sul Halaladin, with most of the might of Qasr al-Zed, had launched the Grand Campaign into Dreanger, to unite the kaifate of al-Minphet with that of Qasr al-Zed so he could turn their combined strength against the infidel in the Holy Lands.

  Indala had suffered severe losses while achieving dramatic successes. He had captured al-Qarn. He had taken possession of Kaif Kaseem al-Bakr. He controlled most of the shrines of al-Minphet. But he had not yet humbled Gordimer the Lion, nor had he eliminated er-Rashal al-Dhulquarnen. The Marshall was maneuvering west of the River Shirne, trying to initiate an encounter that would honor his particular advantages.

  That dance had been on for weeks. Indala would not be drawn. He meant to temporize till Gordimer’s forces melted away, an eventuality, Nassim suspected, that might hamstring Indala first. His followers were farther from home.

  Whoever else abandoned him, Gordimer would retain the finely honed professional Sha-lug.

  Nassim never stopped wrestling his conscience. He feared that he was in the wrong, now. Worse, he suspected that Indala wanted to make him a puppet Marshall.

  Why could not the kaifates join forces against the infidel without savaging one another first?

  * * *

  “What is it, Mohkam?” Nassim did not turn to see who had joined him. The night was afire with stars.

  “You saw the rider arrive, General?”

  “I did.”

  “He brought news from our friends in Vantrad. Black Rogert is moving.”

  “Finally. What do we have to look forward to?”

  “His party numbers more than four hundred.”

  “All armed men?”

  “Twenty-four knights, mostly Brotherhood of War. Their squires, their serjents, their servants, and so forth. The rest are mercenary foot recruited from pilgrims who came to see Unbeliever holy sites. There are some wives and children, too,” said Mohkam.

  “Where would Rogert find money to hire mercenaries? They’d want their pay up front because he’s cheated hired swords and Gisela Frakier before. The Brotherhood of War wouldn’t finance him. They’re probably along to keep him in check, not to help him.”

  Gisela Frakier were Praman tribesmen allied with the Arnhander invaders, usually because their traditional tribal enemies were not.

  “The money flows from the same spring as the nomination to return to Gherig. Queen Clothilde.”

  Clothilde, queen of Vantrad, related to Black Rogert and, possibly, his lover, was a woman as foul as he.

  King Beresmond of Vantrad was fourteen years younger than Clothilde, who held him in complete contempt. He suffered from several afflictions, not the least of which was his spouse. He was not a strong personality.

  Beresmond was nominal sovereign of the Crusader States. Very nominal, of late. Several counts and princes had taken advantage of his weakness even as du Tancret played the viper in his nest.

  Nassim considered the boy king’s great weaknesses his niceness and trusting nature.

  Any man less nice and trusting would have had some throats cut.

  “Why did I ask? Who else would give him money? Dare I hope that she is coming with him?”

  “Her moral decline hasn’t reached that depth. But don’t be surprised to hear that the Queen will make a progress through the Crusader States, with a stop at Gherig.”

  “Do we know Rogert’s itinerary?”

  “No,” Mohkam admitted. “But the road will define the way.”

  Before Nas
sim stopped trade countless caravans had moved between Lucidia and Dreanger, some so huge they required a thousand guards. Every year thousands of pilgrims took to the roads, and not just the Faithful. The Holy Lands had been Chaldarean, Devedian, and Dainshaukin before the Praman Conquest.

  When last he was lord of Gherig, Rogert du Tancret had shown no reluctance to attack the caravans. He had slain thousands, including diplomats and fellow Chaldareans. He took their goods and treasure and saved only those who could be ransomed or would fetch a good price on the slave block.

  On one occasion he had captured and mistreated females from Indala’s own household.

  Rogert bragged about having masterminded an expedition into the Peqaa wastes to profane the holiest holies associated with the Founding Family. He brayed that he would do so again and next time would expunge everything having to do with the origins of the Faith.

  Rogert du Tancret was, to most Pramans, the Adversary incarnate.

  Nassim asked, “Again, anything useful concerning his itinerary?”

  “As I said. He has to follow the roads, from water to water.”

  * * *

  Few secrets survived long in the Holy Lands. Whatever anyone did, it would be seen and talked about by people who had nothing invested. Most natives saw not only the crusaders but the Faithful as invaders, adventurers, and oppressors. They helped when compelled, or paid, but opted out of the struggles otherwise.

  News of Black Rogert’s return spread faster than the plague. Du Tancret was an object of universal loathing.

  No one passed the word when small bands of Lucidians slipped through the wilderness, leading heavily laden camels. Not to the crusaders or Brotherhood of War.

  * * *

  Rogert du Tancret believed himself safe in the shade of the protective umbrella of the Crusader States. His party constituted a small army. He had riders out front and trailing. That was necessary even in peacetime. But his flankers were not out as far as they ought to have been.

  Du Tancret had a remarkable sense for personal danger. He had been accused of having one foot inside the Night, on its darkest side.

  He had been uneasy for hours.

  Two hundred screaming Lucidians swarmed from amongst tumbled boulders, following arrows and long lances. Once the lances broke, sabers came out. But these attackers were not interested in a stand-up fight. They wanted to do all the damage they could, quickly, especially among the knights. Then they would flee.

  Their pursuers chased them into a defile where they turned and fought but fell back under pressure from du Tancret’s followers.

  Then Nassim Alizarin’s falcons ripped swaths through the invaders.

  Black Rogert reined his people in. His enemies would try to lead him into further traps. He would not fall for that again. He abandoned his dead and some of his wounded and resumed travel.

  * * *

  Nassim asked, “Did anyone even get close?”

  Several men claimed to have seen their arrows strike Black Rogert’s shield. None had gotten near enough to ply lance or saber. Mohkam said, “And it wasn’t like anybody made an effort to protect him.”

  Al-Azer er-Selim grumbled, “They love him no more than we do. He is truly beloved of the Night.”

  Nassim asked al-Azer, his Master of Ghosts, “What did you try?”

  “I concentrated on his horse. It didn’t respond.”

  Old Bone snarled, “He’s the Adversary’s little brother.”

  Not a new proposal. Du Tancret obviously enjoyed unnatural luck.

  Mohkam said, “The men report killing seventeen and wounding thirty. After factoring for exaggeration. The truth could be more optimistic.”

  Nassim growled, “Not as good as I’d hoped.”

  “They didn’t panic.”

  “And I was expecting that.” Had the Crusaders taken to their heels there would have been a grand slaughter.

  Nassim said, “Send a patrol back. Tell them to look for a casualty in good enough shape to be questioned.”

  Al-Azer observed, “Let’s count ourselves lucky that Black Rogert doesn’t waste time burying his dead.”

  “Which will win him more enemies.”

  Nassim paced the crusaders, right or left, wherever he could raise the most dust. He launched nuisance attacks. He resisted calls to poison the wells along the way. He did not want the enmity of locals who depended on those same sources of water.

  The crusaders reached Gherig having suffered fewer losses than the Mountain had hoped to gift them.

  * * *

  Nassim returned to Tel Moussa. There had been news from Dreanger. A huge battle had been shaping up in the desert west of the Shirne, near a village called Patel.

  That news was a week old. Nothing further had been heard.

  4. Alten Weinberg: Empress Apparent

  Helspeth Ege, Empress Apparent of the New Brothen Empire, placed herself in front of a full-length mirror. She wore nothing but smallclothes. “Hilda. Am I homely?” She knew she was not plump enough but, otherwise, could not judge what she saw before her.

  “That’s hardly a fair question.”

  “Why?”

  “There’s no way the Empress can count on my answer being truthful.”

  Helspeth scowled. Hilda Daedel had been her principal lady-in-waiting for ages. They had become friends, as much as they dared. Hilda was familiar with Helspeth’s insecurities and obsessions. Lack of confidence in her looks was high on the list.

  “Don’t go all philosophical on me. I just need an honest answer.”

  “But when I tell you you’re drop-dead gorgeous, instead of believing me you’ll accuse me of telling you what I think you want to hear. If I say you’re plain you’ll accuse me of—”

  “Hilda! Why must you be exasperating?”

  “I? Hilda Daedel? Of Averange? Exasperating? Maybe because…”

  “Let’s stop this.”

  “Right behind you, Helspeth.”

  “Hilda, I’m terrified. When the news breaks…”

  “You’ll have Captain Drear and the Braunsknechts behind you. All of the Braunsknechts. They’re yours, now. You’ll have the Commander of the Righteous when he gets here. Not to mention Ferris Renfrow. And, if the old men do try to brush you aside, the only legitimate successor they could put up is your crazy old Aunt Aneis. She doesn’t know what century it is.”

  “They might think that’s good.”

  “Enough. Your problem isn’t vulnerability. You have too much time on your hands. You use it to fuss, worry, and obsess.”

  Helspeth would not see what the mirror reflected. She was not a great beauty but she was a slim young brunette more attractive than most women her age.

  “I don’t want to be Empress, Hilda.”

  “The last Ege who asked for the job was your father. And, from what my father says, he didn’t develop a taste for it till he’d had the job ten years.”

  “Why are undergarments always so heavy and rough?”

  Lady Hilda was accustomed to Helspeth’s darting attention. “Because they need washing more often. If you saw what the washerwomen do to keep them clean you’d understand. You’d probably wonder why they aren’t made of iron.”

  “Must you always be literal and reasonable?”

  “Someone has to bring balance…”

  “Damn you! I need…”

  “No. You don’t. Still, I could develop a fierce case of emotional dependence and go home to plague my husband.”

  “Hilda?”

  “I’m thinking about having another child.”

  “Stop it.”

  “Lady va Kelgerberg could take over. She knows the ins and outs.”

  “Damn it, stop!”

  Lady Hilda shifted approach but did not stop. She meant to conquer Helspeth’s mood. “What will you do about the Commander of the Righteous once you’re officially Empress? He’ll be yours to do with as you please.”

  “You go too far.”

  “The Comman
der. The Righteous. Katrin’s crusade. You need to think about them.”

  “I will. I have been.”

  “And?”

  “Hilda, I’m a virgin. I’m going to die a virgin.”

  “You’re talking crazier than ever, now. Your value on the marriage market is about to soar.”

  That was true. She knew it. But she meant what she said. The pressure to wed would be relentless. The old men would want to see an heir.

  “Where are they, Hilda?”

  This time Lady Hilda lost the intellectual trail. “They? They who, Helspeth?”

  “Renfrow. The Commander of the Righteous. Why aren’t they here to help me?”

  “They’ll be here. But right now they’re in Firaldia, dealing with the consequences of a huge Imperial triumph.”

  Helspeth continued to worry and fuss.

  She was suffering imposter insecurity. Helspeth Ege could not possibly deserve the position that God, fate, or the Instrumentalities of the Night were putting into her hands.

  “I’m terrified, Hilda. It’s easy to be a great emperor when you only have to do it in your head. But now it’s going to be real.”

  Where were they?

  She felt more exposed, more vulnerable, than even she had when her sister had driven her into internal exile, hoping she would do the convenient thing and die.

  5. The Connec: Antieux

  Count Raymone Garete was an able war leader and a deft administrator, and he had a gift for convincing others of his righteousness. He had been excommunicated several times by several Patriarchs. Excommunication was a potent threat. It terrified Episcopal Chaldareans. Count Raymone, though, made light of such tribulations. Those excommunications had come from Patriarchs considered illegitimate by Connectens so why should they carry any weight?

  His latest, however, had been issued by Serenity, legitimately Patriarch via massive bribery. As a man, Bronte Doneto, Serenity bore the Connec and Antieux that abiding grudge. The sole weakness to Serenity’s writ was that he had been run out of office.

  Even so, the exiled Serenity had influence and friends. Anne of Menand was especially supportive. The armed might of Arnhand stood behind Anne.

  “For the moment,” Raymone told Socia as they lay together. “We need but bide our time. There will be changes when Anselin gets home.”