Working God's Mischief

by Glen Cook

Four days later Tel Moussa received welcome company. Azim al-Adil ed-Din stopped in while on his way home from Dreanger. Young Az was popular with the garrison and had won a place in the old general’s heart.

  Young Az told Nassim, “I’ll stay tonight. I have dispatches for the kaif and those drones in Shamramdi.”

  “Five minutes is a blessing.”

  “I’ve brought two things for you, Uncle,” using that word as an endearment. “Gifts from my granduncle. Though we should review them in private.”

  “Let’s go up and watch the stars.”

  The sun had not yet set and the heat had not broken but Nassim did not mind. He needed more warmth these days. And the parapet could be as private as he liked.

  He settled in the shade, into a western-style wooden chair. It was hard to get up from the cross-legged position these days. The wood was hot. The polite young warrior awaited an invitation to settle, despite his status.

  Nassim observed, “These gifts must not be so large if you can carry them in your purse.”

  The boy folded his hands in his lap and stared at them for several seconds. “Before the gifts, the warning. The wicked sorcerer of al-Qarn survived the fighting. He eluded the hunters. He’s headed this way, but not openly. Indala offered a large bounty. Some who tried to catch him ended up dead. Nastily. But the prize is big. All the tribes will try to claim it.”

  “We heard rumors that he was headed north.”

  “It’s a fact. We don’t know why. The clerks he left behind say he blames you for Indala’s success.”

  “Which sounded painfully expensive. What good unification if no one survives to battle the true enemy? If the Sha-lug continue fighting…”

  “Which brings me to the gifts.” The boy produced a twist of long blond hair.

  Nassim stared, understood, refused.

  “You aren’t pleased?”

  “Truthfully? No. Gordimer was Marshall of the Sha-lug. You would have to be Sha-lug to understand what that means and what I feel. Better information concerning er-Rashal’s whereabouts would be a finer gift.”

  “Then my second gift won’t be welcome, either.”

  “Far from it if it’s what I expect.”

  “Yes?”

  “Indala never understood what it means to be Sha-lug.”

  “No one who isn’t Sha-lug does, apparently. The other gift would be the post of Marshall.”

  “As I feared. He had me stashed away so he could make me his puppet once he achieved his ambitions in Dreanger.”

  “And?”

  “I am content to be here. We have been enjoying some success. We expect more. I’ll stick with this little war until he relieves me.”

  Young Az admitted, “He won’t be pleased, though probably not surprised. I expect he’ll accept your decision.”

  “Sha-lug Marshalls aren’t chosen from outside. They’re elevated by the men they command.”

  In reality they were elected by senior officers and masters of the training schools, choosing from among themselves.

  “I won’t try to convince you, General. You have to be who you have to be. So. Now. How has it been, having Black Rogert back?”

  “Miserable. For everyone. Though it could be worse. He’s injured and the Brotherhood of War have sent men to keep him under control.” The subject occupied them, and kept Nassim from worrying about Indala’s reaction to his refusal. The Great Shake could be fierce when thwarted.

  * * *

  “The kid didn’t ride out happy,” Old Az said in the morning, beside the Mountain in the parapet. The general watched the dust raised by Young Az’s band move northeastward. “What did you do?”

  “I wouldn’t let Indala make me his tame Marshall.”

  “Ah. We did see that coming.”

  “It seemed obvious.”

  “You really won’t take the post?”

  “Not from Indala. It isn’t his to bestow.”

  Old Az chuckled. “I see. If the commanders of the battalions and masters of the schools call, Nassim Alizarin will be right there.”

  Nassim dissembled. “They’ve forgotten Nassim Alizarin. In any case, that call would place a wild strain on our loyalties.”

  The Master of Ghosts grunted. “Indeed.” Indala would go on thinking they should be his. The Sha-lug would expect them to be Sha-lug before all else, Dreangerean second, faithful to the kaif of al-Minphet third, and enemies of the invader always.

  Az said, “Princes don’t like to be refused.”

  “This one is more reasonable than most. And he loses nothing by leaving us here. We do stifle the worst excesses of yon festering boil on the Adversary’s arse.”

  He feared he was whistling in the dark, though. Indala might rid the world of every Sha-lug chieftain who refused to adapt to his new order.

  Nassim could not help wondering if he should not have given the offer more consideration.

  * * *

  The Mountain took to staying up to study the stars. The nighttime sky was like God Himself, vast and unchanging, and yet each time Nassim visited the parapet he saw something new. He was especially fond of shooting stars. There were a lot of those lately. They worried the more superstitious soldiers, who feared they portended great evils.

  There was no apocalypse promised in al-Prama but the end of the world did feature in the Chaldarean, Devedian, and Dainshau faiths. In this messed-up corner of the world everyone knew something about his neighbor’s beliefs, usually just enough to justify banging him over the head.

  For Dainshaus and Devedians the apocalypse was only a potential. It could be avoided by keeping the law. For Chaldareans, though, the fire was guaranteed. There was no other way the world could be cleansed sufficiently for the establishment of God’s Kingdom Eternal on Earth.

  Nassim counted stars till midnight, challenging himself to enumerate those he had not counted before. Finally, he fell asleep where he sat.

  He needed less sleep as he aged, but, still, late nights meant sleeping late. On days when he was not going on patrol himself he sometimes slept till noon.

  The roar of falcons was an eye-opener any time. By the third bark Nassim was in motion.

  There was no fourth roar.

  A Lucidian met him as he headed for the gallery above the gate. “It was that sorcerer, sir! But we think we got him.”

  Scowling, still wrestling sleep, Alizarin shambled into the vantage of the gallery. The stench of burnt firepowder left him gasping. This gas was much fouler than that of the Devedian powder. The crews of the two lighter falcons had finished cleaning their weapons, had checked them for cracks, and had reloaded. Now they stood around looking smug.

  Nassim asked, “That deeper roar. Was that our new friend from Haeti?”

  “It was, sir. You will be pleased with its work.”

  The desert sun had yet to hoist itself over the horizon. The light outside included a lot of nighttime indigo. But there was illumination enough to reveal a scatter of men and horses who, to their astonished disappointment, had heard Tel Moussa’s falcons speak.

  A Lucidian officer said, “The sentries were as alert as we could possibly hope, sir. The instant they knew something was wrong they let the sorcerer have it.”

  “Excellent.” He studied the world outside, saw dead men, dead animals, and a slope reverberating in its silence. Nothing moved. It felt like nothing dared. “Has anyone gone to pick up the pieces?”

  “Just waiting on permission to open the gate.”

  The Mountain grunted that permission. He wondered who his men had killed. Nobody with connections, he hoped. He was in bad enough odor already.

  Those dead men could not be er-Rashal and his cohorts. The Rascal would know better than to just walk up …

  Mohkam soon reported, “They were yards short of the gate when Yudeh fired. Mowfik says none of them spoke. They wouldn’t stop when they were challenged. Abd Ador on number one says he knew they were up to no good and if Yudeh hadn’t fired he would have. He’d
already decided. They all say there were six riders on six horses trailing two pack camels and two spare mounts. The camels bolted. They probably weren’t hurt. But there are blood trails. Gamel al-Iriki has his troop ready to go after them.”

  Nassim dreaded the answer but had to ask. “Who were they?” That drew surprised looks from everyone.

  “The Rascal and his gang. Didn’t they tell you?”

  “They did. But that isn’t possible. Er-Rashal wouldn’t just ride up and let himself be blasted.”

  Irked, Mohkam spat, “He didn’t let anything. Sir. We did it to him. He wasn’t expecting us to be alert and suspicious and he wasn’t expecting our falcons.”

  Nevertheless, Nassim refused to believe er-Rashal’s stupid move till he saw the dead for himself. Only then did he give up his high opinion of the Rascal’s caution and intelligence.

  He recognized two of the dead. They had crept around in er-Rashal’s shadow for decades. They affected shaven skulls like er-Rashal, too.

  The Mountain caught the hunters before they left. “Gamel, be careful. You’ll be stalking the most dangerous man alive.”

  Gamel was not convinced. He hailed from some village in the eastern reaches of the kaifate. He knew er-Rashal only through the renegade Sha-lug. He did not credit most of what he heard.

  Nassim said, “You don’t have to believe me. But, for the sake of the men with you, pretend it’s true. Go with God. We will shield you with our prayers and I will honor you in the highest if you place er-Rashal at my mercy.”

  Nassim watched his followers examine the dead, men and animals alike, looking for plunder or intelligence. They came up with nothing but the obvious. Horse meat would be on the menu till the carcasses went bad.

  The dead had not been living well. Maybe starvation had made er-Rashal incautious.

  Nassim climbed to the parapet to watch al-Iriki’s hunt.

  The chase soon split. One fugitive, leading two injured horses and a camel, fled toward Gherig, making no effort to go unnoticed. The pursuit overtook him quickly. The hunters, however, had to flee an Arnhander patrol. They returned with only one piece of good news. Nobody had gotten hurt.

  The others were less fortunate. They caught er-Rashal.

  Smoke and silent lightning marred the wasteland northeast of Tel Moussa. Then, after ten quiet minutes, it happened again, farther away.

  Four men survived. They brought the fallen in aboard mounts gone half mad. Gamel al-Iriki still lived, but barely. His left side had been charred till bits of burnt bone were visible. His face, though, remained unmarred. He ground out, “When the General speaks the fool fails to listen. That Rascal may not be the most dangerous man in the world but he was dangerous enough to kill Gamel al-Iriki. But al-Iriki will have his revenge. Al-Iriki killed his horse and his camel and hit him with poisoned darts.”

  That said, the overly bold officer closed his eyes.

  Nassim said, “We’ll need to follow up.”

  “Bone is on it,” Old Az said. “Poisoned arrows and javelins won’t be enough.”

  “No. They won’t. But he is on foot now, wounded, in country he doesn’t know. It could be as simple as waiting for him at the waterholes.”

  Al-Azer er-Selim loosed a long sigh. “I’ll go. I’ll be more careful than al-Iriki was.”

  “Do be. I can’t manage without you.”

  Bone and the rest of that old company sneered at that claim as they rode out seeking revenge for all that had been done to them.

  * * *

  On even the least demanding days some work details could not be let to slide. Most critical, the cisterns had to be kept topped up, and cleaned frequently so the water did not become foul. Mounts had to be tended, manure removed, and fodder stocks maintained. Goats and sheep had to be grazed and protected and kept ready to fly to safety should Gherig become aggressive.

  And, least desirable of all, graves had to be kept prepared. Hacking those out of the hardpan earth was a semi-punitive detail. The day the Rascal came Tel Moussa filled all its ready graves but one.

  Fallen horses did save many a goat and lamb from an early encounter with the butcher.

  14. Antieux: Instrumentality

  Brother Candle was not accustomed to petitioning the Good God for much but strength to stand firm in his faith. He found himself doing that with painful frequency, and as often tried to intercede for Kedle Richeut.

  The Connec east of Castreresone was afire, figuratively. Two minor Arnhander forces, of fewer than a hundred men each, were hanging on in hopes that Anne of Menand would send help. Kedle had driven both behind walls. Each day there was a story about another savage ambush that claimed Society brothers or Arnhander soldiers.

  And Socia smoldered with jealousy. Brother Candle strained to keep her focused on being a mother and master of Antieux.

  Bernardin Amberchelle encountered few challenges to Socia’s rule. The military class loved her. The people were accepting.

  It was a time of incipient prosperity. Military success made that possible.

  * * *

  Socia trapped the Perfect over a late evening meal, in a side chamber off the kitchen where each often ate in private. She had had a trying day. “Master, do I have the power to create law by fiat?”

  The old man’s spoon paused an inch from his mouth. “Excuse me?”

  “I want whining made punishable by flogging. And stupidity made a capital offense. The things these people want me to decide! They’re idiots! It’s ridiculous! They all act like spoiled four-year-olds.”

  Brother Candle said, “They throw tantrums?”

  “Why can’t they use a brain? Why can’t they take some responsibility for themselves?”

  The Perfect kept his own counsel.

  “Why are you looking at me like that? Oh. Oh, no you don’t! You aren’t turning this around on me!”

  Again the Perfect said nothing.

  “It’s different!”

  His smile said, of course it was. When Socia Rault whined, that was important. She was not some shopkeeper or artisan who just wanted a little respect.

  “God damn it! All right. You win. I might have to bare my back to the cat, too. But, even so…”

  “You will find, as you mature, that most people are weak. And lazy. Weak, lazy people whine and complain. Otherwise, they would have to take a risk to make things right. And the wrongs they suffer often don’t need righting because they exist only inside their minds.”

  Now Socia began to sulk.

  “It takes special strength to do the right thing and a good eye to recognize it.”

  “Life lessons. With you it’s always life lessons.”

  “That is my calling, girl. I am supposed to be a teacher.”

  “Yeah? Well, you take it too damned serious. Listen. You weren’t there for the petty assizes.” She regaled Brother Candle with tales of trivial petitions.

  He replied, “I see why Raymone was always off risking his neck. Why, though, do such matters get past the neighborhood magistrates? Ask. Strongly. Because those problems ought to be handled by parish priests and justices of the peace.”

  “Easy to see why priests dodge issues. They’d put themselves on record. That could haunt them down the road, if the Church ever has its way with Antieux. The justices probably don’t want to offend their neighbors so they pass everything on to me.”

  Brother Candle nodded. This whine did merit attention. He might drop a word to Bernardin. To be successful Socia needed her government to perform at every level.

  Yes. In this Bernardin’s special talents might be especially useful.

  Speaking of that particular devil …

  “Master. Look! There’s something wrong with Bernardin.”

  * * *

  The side chamber Brother Candle shared with Socia was not large. They had been alone till Bernardin appeared, though Kedle’s cousin Guillemette had been in and out, bringing drink and clearing dirty platters. In the scandal-ridden Connec, with its tr
aditions of romantic love and casual infidelity, even prigs did not lose sleep over a sixty-eight-year-old Maysalean Perfect being alone with their Countess.

  Bernardin did appear to be in a trance.

  He was not alone. A woman followed him. Or, on closer examination, a girl fifteen or sixteen but so stunning her youth was not instantly obvious.

  She was tall. She was slim. Her eyes were big and blue. Her mouth was wide and her lips puffier than most. In one hand she carried a metal bucket. In another she held a five-foot staff with a one-foot T-top. In a third hand she carried a quartzlike crystal a foot long and two inches thick. A dark green shadow stirred inside. And in her other hand she carried another bucket, this one made of wood.

  Brother Candle hardly noticed the extra hands. He could not rip his gaze away from that captivating face, surrounded by that cloud of wild blond curls, long enough to examine the semiprecious stone rosary she wore. She had a small spot just above her lip, on the right side. It was the most fascinating dot in the universe.

  Though he could not check he suspected that Socia was equally enthralled.

  Bernardin gobbled out noises to the effect of, “She has brought gifts.”

  Brother Candle grunted.

  Then, slowly, he reddened, betrayed by a response that had not troubled him in decades.

  He had an erection.

  The girl smiled, showing impossibly perfect teeth. She knew.

  Neither the Perfect nor the Countess challenged her presence. The demon—she had to be a devil, if not the Lord of Darkness Himself—settled her burdens on the supper table.

  Brother Candle finally tore his attention away.

  It shifted to the metal bucket, looming as large as a farm pond. Four whale-shaped fish a foot long swam lazily there. All four rolled over, revealing pus-yellow bellies, round mouths that seemed to be laughing, and bulging, side-mounted eyes. The demon grabbed Bernardin’s shirt, pulled him close. He panted like he had just run a mile.

  She removed his shirt. Bernardin shuddered as though she gave off epic static sparks. She took a fish from the pail and pressed it against his chest, then grabbed another and another till all four had attached themselves. They sank slowly into Amberchelle’s flesh.