The Tyranny of the Night

by Glen Cook

  Else had not, either, but he knew whose ship it was. It belonged to Gordimer the Lion. Among the gawkers at the galley’s midships rail, staring at the sailors staring back, had been one er-Rashel al-Dhulquarnen from the Dreangerean court.

  Two hours later a second galley appeared, smaller, older, shabbier, and much noisier. It belonged to the Brotherhood of War. It was looking for a strange warship roaming the archipelago.

  Else remained unperturbed when Nahlik indicated the direction the other warship had gone. Er-Rashal could take care of himself. “That would be an interesting fight,” Mallin said. “Those two ships.”

  “It sure would.”

  ***

  THE SUN WAS BARELY UP WHEN THE SHIP TIED UP AT RUNCH. Else hired a boy off the dock to help move his knightly gear. He followed the boy to a great stone building that housed the local factors of the Three Families of the Sonsan Republic. He presented himself as Aelford daSkees and explained his needs to a clerk who looked like a gnome left over from some creation myth.

  The gnome said, “We don’t have anything going out today or tomorrow. Should’ve gotten here yesterday. We sent a full cargo out then. Times are slow. The Dreangereans are cracking down on cotton smuggling and there isn’t much kuf coming out of Lucidia.” Kuf being Lucidian for narcotic hemp leaves. “We have wars and rumors of wars. Wars are always bad for business.”

  Else was surprised to hear a Sonsan say that. He thought merchants always prospered when there was fighting. “They’re a little hard on families, too.”

  “I suppose.” The gnome did not apologize to the daSkees dead. He listened to no one but himself. “Yes. Here. Vivia Infanti expects to be fully loaded by the day after tomorrow. Would you want a private cabin, shared quarters, or just to sleep on deck?”

  “On deck. The Holy Lands didn’t make me rich.”

  “They never do. Not the fighters. Will you take your own food? Or will you share the sailors’ mess?”

  “Which would be cheaper? I still have a long way to travel after I get to Sonsa.”

  “Bringing your own food appears marginally cheaper up front But then you have to manage your own cooking. Or you have to hire the ship’s cook to do it for you.”

  “I’ll eat with the crew.”

  “Are you bringing the boy?”

  “I’m traveling alone. I hired the boy to help with my gear.”

  The gnome glanced at the pile. “Hardly worth dragging around, is it? You’re looking at fourteen Sonsan silver scutti. Or any equivalent weight in other mintages.”

  Else suspected he was being overcharged. He glared at the old man. Which was water off a duck’s back. The gnome said, “Or you can walk. Though you would’ve been better off doing that while you were still on the mainland.” Else produced his sack of miscellaneous coinage, struck at a dozen different mints in as many lands. Near as he could tell, the gnome made no effort to cheat him. Unless he lied when he said Gordimer had begun debasing Dreanger s coinage recently. Debasing the coinage was in character for the Lion. The gnome asked, “Do you want to stay here while you wait for Infant?? Or will you room somewhere else? Any seaman’s flop will be cheaper but they won’t provide meals and you’ll probably be robbed in your sleep.”

  “How much will staying here hurt me?”

  The gnome named a figure that Else found reasonable.

  The gnome explained, “Our charter from the Brotherhood of War obliges us to house and feed crusaders at at-cost rates.”

  “Oh. Of course I’ll stay here.” Else had nighted over in sailors’ hostels before. He would do so again if he had to. But he was willing to forgo the pleasure.

  The gnome retreated into the shadows. His employers did not seem inclined to invest much in lighting. He returned with a great man-brute trailing behind. “Goydar will show you where to bunk.”

  Else gave the boy his pay, then followed the huge man, who carried everything. The big fellow never said a word. He carried a little extra soft weight, like a eunuch. Might he be a fugitive from some eastern court with tongue and testicles removed?

  ***

  ELSE HAD A ROOM TO HIMSELF, THOUGH IT WAS ONLY FOUR FEET wide and not tall enough for him to stand up. He stowed his gear under the narrow cot.

  Seldom in his life had he enjoyed this much personal luxury. As a boy and single man he had been crowded into a barracks or tent. As a married man he shared a one-room hovel with a woman and two children, both daughters. It was part of being Sha-lug. You were never alone.

  Alone actually made him uncomfortable.

  He was going to be alone a lot from now on.

  He searched the room for spy holes, then decided to skip his religious obeisances anyway. Who knew what sorcery might be at work in this foreign place? Every shadow might conceal some wicked spirit of the night.

  He began rehearsing his recollections of Chaldarean religious rituals.

  He was bound to get something wrong. He hoped the excuse*of having spent years overseas, in the company of rough, impious men, would get him by when he moved farther west. He did think that westerners were more casual than Pramans.

  His first trial came at dinner, which he took in a communal hall resembling a military mess but with food placed on the tables. It was not a meal taken on a set schedule. Sonsan workers came and went as they liked, as did guests. Quite a few men awaited transport eastward or west. At Else’s table was a Direcian veteran, Enio Scolora, headed home after two decades spent fighting the Unbeliever. He wanted to share every incident with fellow warrior daSkees. Scolora would sail aboard Vivia Infanti, too. Else dreaded the moment when he would have to talk about some personality they should both know. However, it did not take long to discover that keeping his own mouth shut while grunting occasionally would keep Scolora chattering indefinitely.

  The real danger proved to be the meal itself. The main course was a massive roast. The diners all agreed that it was a huge treat Mutton and more mutton garnished with mutton was the customary fare. Which would have been perfectly acceptable to Else.

  Enio Scolora carved himself a chunk big enough to choke a tiger. “Ha! Confusion to our enemies. What kind of menace can they be if they can’t stuff themselves with a good roast piggie once in a while?”

  Another old soldier said, “This is where we separate out the Joskers and the Deves, all right.” He snickered. Which blew snot onto the table. He wiped that away, smearing it on his leg.

  Else knew what he meant by Deves. Devedians belonged to an old minority religion that had arisen in the Holy Lands before the modern contenders. Devedian dietary law resembled that of al-Prama. The Devedian prophets had schismed away from the ancestral Dainshaukin creed three centuries before the Chaldarean Founders — all of whom had considered themselves devout Deves — first discovered their voice. Deves were less numerous than Chaldareans and al-Pramans but remained influential.

  “Not to mention the Dainshaus who started everything,”

  Else said. “Joskers? I must’ve been living in a hole like some anchorite. I don’t know that one.”

  “That’s what we called the Kaif’s men. It sounds a little like the Peqaad for ‘Freaks from Qasr.’” Arnhanders tended to drop the al-Zed when they talked about the eastern Kaifate. Which they called by the name of its older core kingdom, Lucidia, most of the time.

  Else took a piece of pork. There was no choice. And he had a dispensation from the Kaif of al-Minphet personally, set forth because it had been clear from the beginning that he would have to break religious laws if he was going to pass as one of the enemy.

  “This isn’t bad.” Eyes turned his way. “After the gruel and crud you get served in Triamolin.” The real Aelford daSkees had served that minor coastal city-state before being summoned home.

  “Good old maggoty hardtack straight out of the barrel, with meat so foul a vulture wouldn’t touch it,” Scolora said. “It’s the romantic soldier’s life for me.” The exigencies of life in the field were universal. Else said, “You have
to keep your livestock on the hoof until you need it.”

  “You guys never did that I never saw such a piss-poor excuse for a bunch of soldiers as you guys when you came in before the Battle of the Well of Days.”

  Else pretended to look around for eavesdroppers. “You didn’t hear this from me. Prince Aderble is an idiot. Literally. He doesn’t care about anything but his own vices. The priests use him as a figurehead while they line their purses. Your real reaction should be amazement that we got there in time for the fight-He was retailing nothing that was not common knowledge. Triamolin’s company had been devoured by Indala al-Sul Halaladin. The rest of the crusader force had not fared much better. Which led to the inevitable question.

  “How did you survive the Well of Days?”

  “I was clever enough to be laid up recovering from a poisoned arrow I took in a skirmish with bandits from Dreanger.” He had a scar he could show if necessary.

  “There is a God.”

  “You wouldn’t think much of Him if you ever took one of those arrows. They stings a bit.”

  “Where you from?” Scolora asked. “Originally.”

  “LaTriobe. In Tramaine. I know. You never heard of it. I’ve been in the Holy Lands since I was fifteen. Why?”

  “You’ve got a funny accent.”

  “I talk Peqaad or Melhaic most of the time.”

  The old soldier made a sudden warning gesture. The table fell silent. The rest of the hall had done so already.

  Two members of the Brotherhood of War had entered the mess. One was a grizzled, scarred fellow in his fifties. The other was under thirty. Both were lean, hard men, very clean and well-groomed. They looked enough alike to be family, though the Brothers took vows of chastity when they took orders.

  The older man said, “Continue your conversation.” He took a seat at Else’s table. The younger man did the same.

  Both wore Brotherhood black with a red hourglass and crossed white swords embroidered over their hearts, on their overshirts. The same symbol was repeated on their backs, much larger.

  “Are you traveling?” Else asked. No one else seemed inclined to speak, let alone make introductions.

  Most crusaders did not like the Brothers. They were fanatics, much too humorless, grim, and in a hurry to get to Heaven. Good to have on your side when you were in deep shit and needed somebody to save your ass, though.

  Trenchers arrived for the newcomers. The older man said, “We’re bound for Dateon. Sometime tonight.” His stare was piercing. It reminded Else of Gordimer at his most intense. “You were talking about your adventures in the Holy Lands.”

  “I didn’t have many. My father sent my uncle and me to Triamolin because his uncle told him that young men could make their names and fortunes there. He didn’t understand the reality.”

  The younger Brother grunted, swallowed a chunk of pork he had not yet chewed. “The Carpets are a waste of flesh as warriors or nobles.”

  The elder said, “Except for Ansel, who founded the Triamolin state.”

  “A pity the Patriarch back then didn’t check the Carpet offspring out before he put a crown on the old man’s head.”

  The elder Brother let that slide. He addressed Else. “So you finally had enough, eh? You could become part of something with real meaning, here. The Brotherhood of War always has room for men who want to do the Lord’s work.”

  Else did not observe that, to his recollection, the Chaldarean god was a pacifist. “That isn’t it. I’ve been called home. I’m the last daSkees. The rest died when the Duke of Harmonachy invaded Tramaine. His Grolsacher mercenaries killed anybody who got in their way when they were running away from Themes.”

  “You said an uncle went east with you?”

  “Reafer. Yes. Dysentery got him.”

  “It’s a harsh world. Disease claims more good men than the efforts of any enemy.”

  That was true on the other side, too, where the medical and surgical arts were more advanced and ideas about prevention and containment of disease were more practical. Else grunted agreement. He continued to down bites of pork mechanically.

  The younger brother observed, “You aren’t afraid of us. The rest of these are.”

  “No. Should I be? Are you demons wearing the skins of men?”

  “They all think we’re sorcerers.”

  This was news to Else. He knew of the Brotherhood of War only as a band of ferocious warriors. “And? Have you turned on your own kind?”

  Gentle gasps told him that a few of his companions did harbor some such suspicion.

  “There are weeds in the gardens of the Lord. We face an age of renewed crusade. The steel must be tempered. We face formidable enemies in Indala al-Sul Halaladin and Gordimer the Lion. The battalions of the Lord will have no place in them for doubters or the faint of heart.”

  Some things were the same on both sides, Else reflected. “How about the worn out and exhausted who don’t have anything left to give to kings and warlords who care more about their own glory and fortunes than they do about reclaiming the Wells of Ihrian7”

  “God and the Patriarch willing, that won’t be a problem, next crusade.”

  “Enough,” the old brother said. “He hasn’t seen the Holy Lands yet,” he told Else.

  Apparently, the younger man had said something he should not have. Would extraordinary measures be taken to arm a new crusade with competent, motivated, true-believer commanders? That was not good. Arnhanders were formidable fighters. Only the pettiness and incompetence of their captains assured the failure of their efforts.

  ***

  ELSE STARED AT THE CEILING IN THE DARK. THE PORK CHURNED in his guts. Somewhere nearby someone used a woman with great vigor, with her enthusiastic participation. He paid little attention.

  He had collected important intelligence already. The next crusade might be better organized and led. And the new Brothen Patriarch expected to pick and choose his commanders.

  Else’s thoughts drifted to the company he had taken to Andesqueluz. They should be home, now. He hoped they had been well rewarded.

  He drifted on to the puzzle of the slain bogon.

  Who conjured it? No friend, certainly. Someone who did not want the mummies to reach er-Rashal? That made sense. Assuming those brittle old sticks could be put to major sorcerous use.

  In theory, the mysterious enemy could be any sorcerer aware of what er-Rashal was planning. Which, certainly, was nothing urgent. Or he would not be cruising the Mother Sea just to check on one spy’s progress.

  That deserved reflection, too.

  There was a soft tap at his door. He did not respond. That would be another house whore offering her services. Or maybe a boy, since he had refused two women already.

  ***

  NAHLIK SAT DRINKING WINE ACROSS FROM ELSE. ELSE CONfined himself to coffee. It would take him a while to wean himself from dietary law.

  Nahlik had succeed a long time ago.

  Two more men shared their table in a sailors’ dive known as the Rusted Lantern. Mallin had come in with Nahlik. The other man was a stranger. He had been there when Else arrived, unconscious in a pool of his own vomit. Customers took what seats they could, though that settled them in the company of strangers.

  Mallin said, “We’d better talk before they throw this one out so they can fill the seat with a paying customer.”

  Else grunted. “Nahlik, you were on the mark when you said don’t take anything embarrassing ashore. Somebody went through my stuff last night. While I was at supper.”

  “Probably just looking for something to steal,” Mallin said. “But you’d a’ heard about it if you had anything that didn’t fit.” Nahlik said, “You were followed here. By that scrawny, stringy-haired character bellying up over there. He’s too busy getting himself on the outside of a few quarts of wine to keep a close watch on you.”

  Else quickly related what he had heard last night and what that might mean in terms of the character of the new Patriarch. Mallin opined,
“He’s just coming in overconfident. They all are at first. Then they find out how powerless they really are.”

  “This one has a different feel, even from here.” Nahlik said, “We don’t know you anymore.”

  A big, sturdily built brute was talking to the stringy-haired character. Neither looked at Else but he knew they were talking about him.

  Turning so it looked like he was talking to Mallin, Nahlik asked, “You know what ship you’re taking?”

  “Vivia Infanti.”

  “We’ll get your stuff aboard. Mallin, take hold of the drunk. We’ll walk him out like he’s our friend.”

  They barely got the drunk off his stool before a boy materialized, armed with a filthy rag and a bowl of dirty water. He made a dispirited effort to clean up the vomit.

  “Do a good job I’ll give you a copper for your own,” Else whispered.

  The boy discovered reserves of enthusiasm. Else slipped him a coin. “I need more coffee. No! I don’t want your sister, your mother, or you. I just want more coffee.”

  A newcomer started to settle opposite Else. The big man who had been talking to the skinny one pushed him aside. “Go away,” he said. He took the stool himself.

  Else studied his coffee and waited for another cup to arrive. He felt the big man staring at him.

  He appeared to be alone. His behavior had attracted no attention despite its rude and provocative nature. Else said, “That was inexcusably rude.” It was clear the big man meant to become violent. Else trumped him. The man started to speak but gasped in surprise instead. “Don’t pick a fight with a man who has one hand under the table. If you take a breath I don’t like I’ll ruin your knee. If you move at all I’ll ruin your kneecap. Nod if you understand.”

  The man nodded. He showed no fear, just pain and confusion. He was not accustomed to being on the downhill end of the pain/terror equation.

  Else’s fresh coffee arrived. He paid using one hand. Then he told his new friend, “You were going to explain what you’re doing. And why. You were going to do that because you don’t want to live the rest of your life with only one good leg.”

  The big man was careful not to move.