by Glen Cook
“Commander?”
“Yes, Majesty?”
“You’re daydreaming again. Not the best way to assure the affection of your sovereign.”
“I beg your pardon, Majesty. I became entangled in the impossibilities. Twenty-five years ago I was a boy, living no better than most peasants, on the pagan frontier. Now I’m come to this.”
“You’ll come to immortality if you liberate the Holy Lands.”
Yes. Well. That would make an especially interesting legend once the full facts were rooted out by the historians.
Helspeth rounded on the Archbishop. “You’ve heard things I didn’t expect you to hear. You will not repeat them to anyone.”
“As Your Majesty commands.” Brion bowed but not as deeply as he ought. Plainly, he did not consider the occupant of the Grail Throne more exalted than an archbishop.
Everyone noted that. Brion noted them noting it. He reddened, became flustered again.
Helspeth let him off. “Brion, begin arranging the coronation. Keeping in mind what we’ve discussed. Low key. Inexpensive. We’ve had too many coronations lately.”
The Archbishop delivered a deeper and, possibly, more sincere bow. “I understand. Though the Ege successors have set a standard … No. Not my place.”
He wanted to criticize the children of Johannes for their parsimony. Lothar had not enjoyed a major coronation. Katrin’s had been more gaudy but she had restrained the extravagance where she could.
“No. Definitely not your place. Your job is to administer the oath and put the crown on my head.” Helspeth faced Hecht. “No trip to Brothe for me, though the Patriarch is welcome here.”
That was, inelegantly, a message to Brion. His status could be adjusted if he steered a course at variance with that set by the Grail Throne.
Helspeth meant to catch him in the notched stick occupied by pro-Patriarchal clerics during the reigns of Johannes and Lothar.
The Archbishop developed a tic. His right eye looked like it was attempting an incompetent wink. He could not stop it despite vigorous rubbing.
Helspeth said, “Brion. Your eye. Is something wrong?”
The Archbishop stared at something remote, that only he could see.
“My God!” the Empress swore. “He’s having a stroke! Captain Drear. Find me a healer.”
Hecht suspected he knew the real nature of Brion’s affliction.
Lila. Playing around. Or trying to look out for him.
Graf fon Rhejm said, “I don’t think that’s it, Helspeth. I think there’s something in here with us. And he can see it.”
The Empress grew paler. Hecht could not reassure her. Nobody needed to know his daughter could slide in and eavesdrop.
If that was it.
He saw nothing himself.
The something might not be Lila. Nor the Ninth Unknown. That old man would not resist a practical joke once his presence was suspected.
Graf fon Rhejm said, “I’m beginning to sense it, too. Helspeth, let’s take this up after you have Renfrow exorcise the room. The time-critical issues have been covered.”
“I don’t think Renfrow owns the right skills, Uncle Albert.”
“Then find someone who does.” Fon Rhejm headed for the exit.
Lady Hilda fussed around Helspeth, trying to get her to leave, too.
“Hilda! Stop it! If an inimical spirit was after me, I’d be had. Anyway, what good will running to another room do?”
“I’d feel better.”
“Commander!”
Helspeth’s shout got his attention, and that of the Archbishop, and stopped the Graf fon Rhejm at the door.
“Uh … Majesty?”
“You’re daydreaming again. We have a problem.”
“I don’t see anything. But I’m to Night things like a deaf man to a song.”
The Graf said, “I don’t feel it, now.”
The Archbishop, despite his tic, pulled himself together.
Hecht came up with a more disturbing suspicion.
One of the Old Ones had been eavesdropping.
* * *
The Commander of the Righteous assembled his staff. He surveyed faces. These men were not as excited as once they had been. But they were attentive and professional. And ardently tired.
“Some of it was no surprise.” He settled his behind against a tall stool. His wounds from that last assassination attempt were reminding him that he was still mortal and that they still needed further healing—however little they had bothered him recently.
“We’ll have the same backing we did when Katrin was Empress. Plus.” He scanned faces again. Could they keep their mouths shut? “None of you have given me reason to mistrust your discretion. So far. I need that to continue. What I’m about to tell you can’t leave this room. If it does, I’ll know exactly how and who. All right, then. Empress Katrin willed the incomes from her properties to us for as long as it takes to liberate the Holy Lands.”
That caused some chatter. Hecht let it simmer. He answered no questions. “Now, the final point. So we’ll have more pull with the knightly and noble classes, Katrin also assigned me her title as lord of Eathered and Arnmigal. Her mother’s family will back that.”
Titus Consent said, “I see an assassination attempt hours after we’re declared successful.”
Hecht nodded. “I wouldn’t be surprised. On the other hand, we’ll have some outstanding, if slippery, associates working with us. They’ll let us know if treachery is afoot.”
Carava de Bos said, “You and Titus keep talking about some stud new folks coming on board. Who? When do we get to meet them?”
“It shouldn’t be long.”
Just fifteen minutes, in fact. A messenger from the sentries at the street door reported arrivals who insisted they had an appointment with the Commander of the Righteous. They looked important and were impatient. What to do?
The messenger was both terrified and starry-eyed. Hecht told him, “Bring them up.”
Five Shining Ones entered the meeting room: Hourlr and Hourli, Sheaf and her daughter Aldi, and Eavijne. Eavijne looked lost, Sheaf and Aldi as though they wanted to vamp the world. Hourli told Hecht, “The others will be here soon. They haven’t yet seen all the wonders.”
“And Vrislakis and those?”
“Djordjevice the Foul is no more. Your Heris is doom itself. The rest will be undone soon.”
“Excellent!” Hecht considered these five. They had done well making themselves look human—but not the sort who faded into a crowd. They were beautiful, radiating power and a weird and dynamic tension between lust and dread. The men began selecting goddesses for slavering devotion.
Hecht was not immune. “Hourli, you see what’s happening?”
“See it and smell it. They don’t do it on purpose. It takes a conscious effort to control.” Her eyes rolled up. Her face became an indeterminate shimmer.
The sensual charge in the air declined to a level not unusual for a room full of younger men suddenly exposed to a clutch of attractive women.
Hourlr had fun watching.
Hecht told Hourli, “We’ll never get anything done if you can’t keep those fires banked.”
“They understand in here.” Hourli knocked herself in the forehead. “But it’s been ages since they’ve been able to run wild. Nobody knows them. Nobody fears them anymore. They don’t yet understand in here, or here.” She tapped herself over her heart, then her crotch. “But don’t despair. They’re working through it. Now they’re all excited about helping you.”
That sent a chill down Hecht’s spine.
Hourli touched his shoulder. “I wish you would trust us.”
He smiled, weakly. He was not yet entirely convinced that he dared believe they existed.
“Tell us what you want done. Work will keep us out of mischief.”
He sometimes fell asleep worrying that. How could a mortal manage indentured gods? He had a list of chores, of use but not especially imaginative.
&nbs
p; Hourli whispered, “Interesting game you have going with your Empress. Is the object to see who goes mad from self-denial first?”
Hecht nearly panicked. But only he had heard.
His staff were still distracted by hormonal hangovers.
Hecht said, “Gentlemen, these people get immediate access to me. Unless I’m sleeping. More will show up eventually. You’ll know them when you see them.”
* * *
The others turned up next afternoon, during Hecht’s meeting with Archbishop Brion. Brion pressed the usual Brothen Episcopal agenda. His heart was not in his bullying, though. He knew he was wasting his breath.
He understood more soon after Titus leaned through the doorway to announce, “Three ladies to see you, Commander. The ones you told us to expect.”
Hecht felt their presence before they came in, as did the Archbishop, who nearly whimpered when he saw them. They had no special look, though. They had taken the semblance of middle-aged tradesmen’s wives.
Wife had done an especially fine job making herself into a dowager milliner. But there was no stopping the feeling of Night coming off her.
“Greetings,” Hecht said. “I see you’ve been eating well.”
All three were less tenuous than they had been.
Wife considered the Archbishop. “This one is sensitive.”
Brion croaked, “Demons! Commander … are you trafficking with demons?”
“Instrumentalities. Which the Church does, too, when it’s convenient. This lady became a national saint in Andoray a century ago.” In the thinnest disguise.
Brion’s tic returned, with a palsy added. He had some historical training. He worked out the identity of the milliner’s wife.
She offered him a benevolent smile.
He nearly melted in terror.
All Shining Ones had their dark sides. Each figured in some tale where wickedness got done to mortals or denizens of the other worlds. It was no great matter that the Instrumentalities might be responding to bad deeds done them with deeds more wicked. The deeper truth was that the Shining Ones decided what deserved divine retribution.
Viciously senseless divine behavior was central to all religions birthed in the Holy Lands. The God of the Dainshaukin was especially irrational and cruel.
Those Instrumentalities seemed starved for the fear of mortals.
Some mortals now offered fear back.
Piper Hecht did not feel good, thinking that.
He asked Brion, “Do you know the old northern gods the Church pushed aside?”
Brion croaked, “Yes. Some.”
“Despite Church doctrine, the Shining Ones existed. Now they’re the Old Ones to people up north. And they’re still around.” Hecht gestured at Wife and the Choosers. “They’re indentured to the Righteous. They’ll help liberate the Holy Lands. And you, my friend, will keep that to yourself. While being the best damned Archbishop you can. Understand?”
The Choosers moved out of Hecht’s sight. They showed Brion something that served up another helping of terror. He babbled assurances that no one would hear a word from him.
“I do hope that’s true,” Hecht told him. “For your sake, I do.”
* * *
The last visitor had gone. Hecht could relax with some routine administrative work. He told Consent, “When you’re young you daydream about being a famous warlord. But once you’re there you find out that mostly you do political stuff.”
Consent shrugged. “Not something I’ll ever have to worry about. You needed something?”
“Not exactly. Lila was here today. I didn’t see her. She brought mail. There’s something for you from Noë.”
After an instant of excitement, Titus grumped, “She’s probably knocked up again. I don’t know how she manages.”
“You really need me to explain?”
Flicker of a grin. “Maybe. How the hell does Anna keep from getting pregnant?”
“My guess is, she can’t. Or maybe she just doesn’t want to. Noë doesn’t seem to have any problems having babies.”
“No kidding.”
“I did mean intellectual reservations.”
“Not that, either. I’m lucky I don’t see her more than I do. She’d be dropping one every ten months.” Consent reddened slightly. Despite years around coarse men he could not lay his private affairs out in common view.
Carava de Bos came in. “One of your new friends wants to see you, Boss.”
“I’m going to regret saying they could drop in any time. All right.”
De Bos stepped aside. Hourli pushed past. De Bos shuddered. Hecht wondered how he responded to Eavijne, Sheaf, or Aldi.
The goddess announced, “We found your missing king, Commander.”
16. Tel Moussa: Misfortune
Nassim Alizarin was enjoying a chilled pomegranate. Azim al-Adil had sent a dozen from Shamramdi. A warrior came to his cell. “Arnhanders are approaching bearing a palm branch, General.”
“What?” The Mountain could not have been more surprised had Old Az come back from his hunt with the Rascal chopped up and stuffed into bags, though the real surprise there would be that er-Selim had not instantly burned the fragments in a dozen scattered fires before the meat had cooled.
The Master of Ghosts was not inclined to take chances.
“What I said, General. A party has come from Gherig. Twenty-five knights. They stopped just outside falcon range. Their banners are Brotherhood of War. Black Rogert isn’t with them.”
“To the parapet, then. And have my advisers join me.”
* * *
Nassim leaned out, looked down. Twenty-five men exactly, formed neatly, armed, but not looking for a fight. A fight would not go their way. If they wanted to gain the Mountain’s attention they had found the perfect means. He would not be able to control his curiosity. The situation suggested so many possibilities, some potentially positive. “Heads together, here. Anybody. What does this mean? Are they trying to lure us out?”
Bone suggested, “They want to talk.”
“Why?”
“They have something on their minds.”
“Bone!”
Bone pointed. “The pennon on the lance of the man beside the herald with the palm frond proclaims him a Master of the Commandery.”
“The scarlet pennon with the white-accented blue stripe down the middle?”
“Exactly.” With a touch of exasperation.
“We haven’t seen one of those since the Battle of the Four Armies.”
“We have not. They’re rare. There are only four. One in Brothe. The senior one, in Runch. The second most senior, in Vantrad. And the one in the Brotherhood fortress in the harbor at Triamolin.”
“Not much chance we’ll see either of the first two.”
“Nor either of the others.”
“Bone? You saying this is a trick?”
“Those banners and pennons, and the devices on the shields, aren’t ones we’re used to seeing.”
“So they’re the new people at Gherig. Let’s go see what they want.”
“It was me, I’d let them broil in their armor a while, then hit them.”
Nassim chuckled. It took Bone a while to work up a case of bloodlust, then longer to let it go.
It took a while to get downstairs, get armed up and mounted, then get out the gate. A brace of falcons rolled out behind Nassim and Bone. They took positions where they could snipe at the outlanders at long range. Their support would give the Mountain and Bone a running start.
The falcons crews did not sneak. Neither did they make a show.
The Mountain wished his Master of Ghosts were beside him. But Az was still hunting er-Rashal. Nassim had begun to worry.
Bone remarked, “This might be a bad idea. Two of the men in the front rank are Special Office.”
“Sorcerers?”
“Possibly.”
“Let’s hope this is an honest effort to talk, then.”
“I’ve been hoping that since they
showed up.”
Nassim grew more comfortable as he moved closer. None of the westerners wore helmets. Most had eased the fit of their armor so air could circulate a little.
It was miserably warm for men newly arrived from cooler climes.
Nassim halted ten feet from the two out front of the westerners. “I am Nassim Alizarin, sometimes called the Mountain. I hold this fortress in the name of the Great Shake Indala al-Sul Halaladin and the God Who Is God.” He did not include his father’s name or a place of origin when identifying himself. If these Arnhanders knew the east they would understand that they faced Sha-lug.
“Madouc of Hoeles, Brotherhood of War.” The man in charge spoke the Lucidian dialect with little accent. “Master of the Commandery in Gherig on behalf of the Brotherhood, the God Who Is the One True God, and all His saints.”
Nassim saw no emotion in the crusader’s cold gray eyes. He might have come to buy sheep.
Nassim must have betrayed his surprise. The Brotherhood warrior inclined his head. “The Council in Runch have decreed the founding of a new Commandery at Gherig. I have been directed to be its Master. I wanted to introduce myself. I wanted to make it known that there will be changes. And I wanted to offer you an opportunity to evacuate your tower with your lives and possessions intact.”
“A generous gesture. So much so that I find myself compelled to respond in kind. I extend the identical offer to you and the folk of Gherig, good till the rising of the new moon.”
The Arnhander smiled.
Bone whispered, “We’ve seen this man before.”
“Yes. On Artecipea. He was the Captain-General’s chief lifeguard. Possibly as cover for something more sinister.”
The outlander heard, understood, and appeared puzzled. He did not recall having seen them before. But they had been minor players at Arn Bedu.
The westerner said, “Though never hidden to the attentive eye, Indala’s strategy has become manifest. The Brotherhood of War will not allow him to succeed.”
Clearly, the man not only meant what he said, he believed it and wanted to save those who must perish if Indala persisted.
