The Tyranny of the Night

by Glen Cook

  “Renfrow?” Else asked.

  “Ferris Renfrow is the man trying to enlist you. He’s one of Johannes’s favorites. Baseborn but one of the most powerful men in the Grail Empire despite that.”

  Else joined Pinkus Ghort, Just Plain Joe, and Bo Biogna. They were working on a cheese and a salami and did not have much mouth to spare. Biogna did ask, “You feeling better now, Piper”

  “Some. I don’t think they drugged me this time. I’m hungry. Give me some of that cheese.” In the nature of things, the salami would be mostly pork. “And give me one of those sausages you’re trying to hide, Pinkus.” That would be pork, too. But it would be juicy and tasty and about the only thing he would miss when this captivity came to an end.

  Scowling, Ghort asked, “What was all that with the Principaté?”

  “I was holding him up. The Imperials want to recruit me for a campaign to establish the Emperor’s rights in cities that are supposed to belong to him. Bo. Joe. Did you guys tell them something to make me look good? They seem to think they can trust me with my own battalion.”

  “Shit.” Ghort did not sound happy. “And I was thinking about giving you another sausage.”

  “What?”

  “I’m jealous. They didn’t offer me nothing that good. And I did every bit as good a job as you did.”

  “Better. I’ve only got three of my guys still in one piece. And the only one of them worth two dead flies is a mule.”

  “But a real special mule,” Bo Biogna said. “Hey!” Joe growled. “Don’t go making fun.”

  Ghort said, “Calm down, Joe. We all know that Pig Iron is the best man.”

  Else asked, “So what did they want from you, Pinkus?” He wondered if Ghort would tell the same story twice.

  “Mainly, to stick with the Principaté and report back what the Church is up to. Same thing they probably asked everybody to do.”

  “They didn’t ask me,” Joe said. “They never asked me much of anything, neither time.”

  “Me, neither,” Biogna grumbled. “Story of my life. I’d a done it. Double pay. An’ I got no use for neither side, so let me get fuckin’ rich sellin’ them both out to each other.”

  Else told him, “They probably realized that, Bo. You were probably too eager.”

  “Yeah. I ain’t so bright sometimes.” During the day all of the captives enjoyed a few minutes with the inquisitors. Six of the first twelve men to go did not return. Imperial people came for their possessions. As always, those refused to talk.

  “Something’s going on,” Ghort declared, compelled to state the obvious.

  Else grunted. “And they haven’t pulled in you, me, Bo, Joe, or the Principaté yet.”

  “Don’t forget Pig Iron.”

  “I haven’t. But they have. You notice, they never question him.”

  “We ought to complain.”

  “You go first.”

  Just Plain Joe was the next soldier taken. He wad back ten minutes later, grinning from ear to ear. “I done it, Pipe. I guv ’em nine kinds a hell on account of they don’t respect Pig Iron the way they do the rest of the troops.”

  “Good for you, Joe,” Ghort said. “I’m gonna do that myself. Pipe, I figure we’re about to get out of here. That’s the only way all this makes sense. The guys not coming back are the ones going over to Johannes.”

  Only Bronte Doneto himself remained to be called again when Else was taken for the last time.

  ***

  ELSE TWITCHED AND SHRUGGED, UNCOMFORTABLE AND ITCHY in badly fitted formal clothing. He wore it in order to escort Bronte Doneto to an audience with the Grail Emperor.

  Pinkus Ghort kept reminding him, “I told you so.”

  Principaté Doneto was not pleased. Ghort and Else were his only supporting cast. He felt he deserved an entourage. He was a Prince of the Church. He was a cousin of the Patriarch. He had Patriarchs among his ancestors, despite Church policies concerning clerical celibacy.

  “We should’ve brought Pig Iron,” Ghort said. “We could’ve dressed him as ugly as us, no problem.” Else scratched and fidgeted. “Pig Iron would’ve been more comfortable than I am. And wouldn’t feel half as ridiculous.” Doneto grinned, but that flash of polished teeth vanished immediately. The Prince of the Church took over. The Principaté scowled, impatient with this familiar humor.

  The Counts of Plemenza had been wealthy. Recollections of that wealth remained, though the Truncella themselves were out of the Dimmel Palace and lived on only in circumstances so reduced that they could afford staffs of fewer than forty servants.

  The antechamber where the three waited boasted silk-upholstered furniture, oil portraits of past Truncella greats, busts that appeared to have survived from antiquity, and a tapestry from the last century portraying a confrontation between Chaldarean crusaders and Praman warriors.

  Noting Else’s interest, the Principaté reported, “That would be the Battle of the Well of Remembrance. I had an ancestor die in that battle.”

  “Ah!” A closer examination of the banners portrayed helped.

  Sha-lug remembered it as the Battle of the Four Armies, an abomination in which Praman fought Praman, with the Arnhanders aiding the weaker side. At the time the Kaifate of Qasr al-Zed and the Kaifate of al-Minphet were struggling for control of the eastern approaches to the Wells of Ihrian. The Lucidians had help from the Crusader states. The Sha-lug were supported by swarms of Ishoti tribal auxiliaries out of Peqaa.

  The battle did not take place near the Well of Remembrance. The westerners named it for the Well because both sides were hurrying to grab it before the other could get there. An unplanned encounter battle took place on the eastern edge of the Plain of Judgment. Thanks to the insanely fanatic Ishoti the situation devolved into chaos. Each side brought more and more swords up to support those already engaged. The epic slaughter swept back and forth until the mercurial Ishoti suddenly lost their taste for blood and ran away.

  The battle, by whatever name, was the bloodiest of the long contest for control of the Holy Lands. And the least decisive. It changed nothing.

  A year later the Sha-lug and crusaders joined forces to evict the Lucidians from those few territories they had captured after the Battle of the Four Armies.

  In the Holy Lands alliances were as fluid as imagination, treachery, and shortsightedness could write them. Pinkus Ghort said, “Pipe’s folks were still pagan when that cluster fuck went down.” A majordomo type materialized. “His Imperial Majesty will see you now.” He bowed slightly to the Principaté. “Show time.” Ghort began to adjust his clothing. He and Else followed the Principaté, two steps behind, flanked out to either side. The audience hall was unimpressive. It was a room fifteen feet by twenty-something. The only furniture was one heavy wooden chair. That was occupied by a dark, ugly little man. He was dressed as though he planned to ride to the hunt once he got this unpleasant chore out of the way. This was Hansel, Johannes Blackboots, the Grail Emperor, Elector of Kretien, and terror of Sublime V’s cohorts.

  The Emperor wore black boots. Of course.

  Else pegged him immediately as a man determined to live up to the reputation awarded him by rumor. He liked being the Ferocious Little Hans.

  At least twenty people crowded the room, mostly men with shields and spears. They lined the walls. A handful of unarmed people surrounded the Emperor. Three of those appeared to be Johannes’s children. Two were attractive young women. The third was a thin, pallid boy. The men posed nearest Johannes would be his closest advisers.

  Those deserved close study. Particularly the one who was not Ferris Renfrow. But Else could not concentrate. His attention had been arrested by the woman who must be the Emperor’s younger daughter, Helspeth.

  Strangely, the impact seemed mutual and electric.

  Else forced himself to focus. Critical things could happen. A prince of the Church was engaged with the most powerful lord in the west. The future might be shaped here. That ugly little man, Johannes Ege, troubled men as s
elf-confident as Sublime V. Else’s next few years would find him — he hoped — intimately involved in the affairs of the Church and all these men.

  His attention stole back to Helspeth.

  Helspeth was young enough to get away with considering him frankly.

  Helspeth Ege was taller than her father by a hand. She was thin by prevailing standards, in Firaldia and Dreanger both. The most desirable women were expected to be more substantial, more rounded. Helspeth was too slight even by the standards of her own people. In the Grail Empire, particularly in the north, women were supposed to have hips and muscles, possibly so they could give birth while pulling a plow.

  Helspeth’s features suggested exotic ancestry. Her eyes were large and dark. Her hair was almost an oriental black. It fell straight, in a single heavy braid that hung down past her waist. Her mouth was wide and her lips prominent, almost puffy. Her nose, though, was small and pointed. She looked like she might have freckles. The light was not good enough to say for sure, nor to reveal the exact color of her eyes.

  Except for the ugly, she seemed very much her father’s daughter. Which meant that her older sister Katrin must take after her mother.

  Other than being tall and slim, the sisters shared little in appearance. Katrin’s hair was blond almost to the point of being white. Her eyes were small, narrow, and appeared to be an icy blue. That hinted at a mean streak. Her mouth was a severe slash, almost lipless and definitely colorless. At a glance, Else guessed that Katrin Ege did not like the world very much and suspected that on close acquaintance that feeling might be reflected right back. Katrin’s clothing suggested an austere, inflexible personality. It was of a quality consistent with her station but plain, White, and a very pale, washed-out, misty sort of bluish-green. She could pass as one of the more exotic strains of Episcopal nuns.

  Katrin’s gaze swept across Else once, like a moving beam of winter. Then it went away. And stayed away.

  Not so Helspeth’s interest. Helspeth kept trying to concentrate on her father but her gaze refused to shun Else for long.

  He noted, further, that the younger sister was more blessed with breasts. Seemed to be, anyway. Imperial style did not contrive to flatter women in that arena.

  Else could not work out why the girl had such an impact. And she was, really, just a girl. And he was a married man with familial obligations.

  And Helspeth Ege was the daughter of an emperor.

  The atmosphere in this realm of Unbelievers must have stricken him with a brain fever. He had no business even noticing the woman except as an accoutrement of the Grail Emperor’s court.

  Bronte Doneto’s interview with Emperor Johannes went as those things could be expected to. Platitudes were exchanged. Not one forthright word was spoken.

  Doneto nearly lost control when he learned that the Patriarch had not yet committed to his ransom. “Sublime agrees in principal,” Johannes said. “But he just doesn’t want to turn loose any money. If he does, his effort to force the Connec to bend the knee will be crippled. Which is the point of the exercise from where I sit.”

  Hansel ended the diplomatic hot air just that simply. He continued, “I had you brought up from the underworld because my agents tell me Sublime is ready to face reality. That he’s pulling the ransom together. Which isn’t going as well as he hoped. Most Devedian moneylenders won’t do business with a man who says he wants to exterminate them. Odd. Plus, a lot of people in Brothe aren’t eager to have you back.”

  Else concentrated. Personalities and conflicts were of paramount interest. If Collegium members could be bribed, say, it might be possible to avoid war altogether.

  The Sha-lug sang the glories of war and worked hard at preparing themselves for it, but, because they knew it intimately, they were not at all averse to pursuing alternatives.

  Bronte Doneto said, “Any man who achieves any stature through his own efforts accumulates enemies. Envy is the most common human failing. You must be familiar with this yourself.”

  “Indeed I am. You could say that the envy of the Church is at the root of my conflict with the Patriarch.”

  The Grail Emperor was having fun. He had Sublime V by the short hairs. “So I’m bringing you upstairs, as my guest, until those who love you buy your vote back.”

  Doneto held his tongue. With obvious difficulty.

  Else studied Johannes and his advisers. The Emperor was more than just short and ugly. His frame was twisted slightly. He had a small hump. It was easy to see why someone might not take him seriously. Possibly the other Imperial Electors had counted on his deformities to get him out of the way sooner than later.

  Hansel’s features were more pronouncedly oriental that Helspeth’s. One of the invading tribes that pulled the Old Empire down must have camped near the Ege family tree.

  Johannes had made himself the most powerful Grail Emperor yet. If an equally powerful personality had not resided in Brothe, the Empire might have engulfed the hundred states of Firaldia. The Patriarchy might have become an extension of the Grail Emperor’s power.

  Interesting times. Two mighty men. Both wanted to be lord of the world, king of kings. Excellent for the sons of al-Prama — until one subdued the other. While they fought, men like Indala al-Sul Halaladin and Gordimer the Lion might purge the Holy Lands of crusader states.

  Which would fire the contest between the kaifates of Qasr al-Zed and al-Minphet. And waken the inscrutable ambitions of the Rhûn emperors. And, at a remove, there was Tsistimed the Golden and the Hu’n-tai At, the doom now breaking against the far borders of the Ghargarlicean Empire.

  The man with Johannes who was not Ferris Renfrow was unfamiliar. Else studied him. The man might have been decoration for all the interest he showed.

  Helspeth was eyeballing him again, her interest so frank that Else suspected Ferris Renfrow had rehearsed her as a distraction. Pinkus Ghort’s sudden touch startled Else. “Wake up! We’re leaving.” What? Had he become that distracted? Apparently so. And the Principaté was not pleased.

  ***

  BRONTE DONETO MOVED TO AN APARTMENT ON THE FOURTH floor of the Dimmel Palace. His imprisonment was no less real, however. He was given three servants, all of whom could be trusted to report to Ferris Renfrow. He was allowed td keep Pinkus Ghort and Else as bodyguards, though they remained unarmed. They could not leave the apartment except for religious services in a small secondary chapel. Where they saw only the same people they had seen every day since the ambush.

  Of those who came to Plemenza with Doneto, nine took service with the Grail Emperor. Two succumbed to ill health. So, besides Ghort, Else, Bo, and Joe, only three men chose to stick with the Principaté. Two were the last survivors of Doneto’s original lifeguard. The other, Gitto Boratto, a Vangelin, was obviously a spy.

  The Patriarch continued to procrastinate. His reluctance to pay had no limit. Crucial tasks of the Church remained untended because of deadlocks in the Collegium.

  ***

  “WAKE UP, PIPE!” GHORT SHOUTED ONE MORNING, LONG BEFORE Else’s shift with the Principaté. “We’re moving out. The ransom money finally showed up.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. Himself says so.”

  And well past time. It was spring outside. Else grumbled, “At least we got through the winter without freezing.” Ghort chuckled. He knew perfectly well that Else was sick of Bronte Doneto and even more sick of Pinkus Ghort. Ghort prophesied, “You may not have to strangle me after all.” Else suspected that, for all he complained about everyone he ever met, Pinkus Ghort had no nerves to be rubbed raw by interminable proximity.

  “Maybe. But don’t push your luck. What happened? Why the sudden turnaround?”

  “Pirates.”

  “What? You want me to brain you? What’s with the cryptic answer?”

  “I mean it. Pirates from Calzir are all over the place, suddenly. Raiding both coasts. I’m sure there’s a story. But all I’ve heard is, the raiders are picking on the Church and the Benedocto fami
ly holdings.”

  Piracy was an old-time favorite sport of Calzir’s Pramans. At times buccaneering offered better prospects than any more mundane career. At least until the appearance of the Firaldian mercantile republics. Those ferocious capitalists were less forgiving than feeble counts and dukes and kings. The men they sent to scour out the pirates’ home villages and harbors were deadly, cruel, and thorough.

  Else said as much. “They couldn’t be that stupid. Could they?”

  “Why ask me? All I know is, we’re getting out of here. You want to argue about it, take it up with the Principaté. Or the Patriarch next time you see him. Or those lunatic Calzirans.”

  “All right. All right. I’m just amazed at humanity’s boundless capacity for making stupid choices.” How could the Calzirans have grown so contemptuous of reality? Sublime was looking for excuses to preach a crusade. Did they believe that Sonsa, Dateon, and Aparion would look away? Hell. Maybe they did. The Devedian uprisings, fomented by the Brotherhood of War and Patriarchal agitators, might have made the republics withdraw protection from areas not their direct dependents.

  Else asked, “Do you know where the raids were? Only Patriarchal States got hit?”

  Ghort shrugged. “They didn’t call me into any councils, Pipe. They told me to wake your ass up and get ready to hike. And hike for real, because we ain’t getting our horses back. So, if you don’t mind, get shaking. I’ll get Pig Iron and the boys stirring.”

  ***

  THEY MADE A PATHETIC LITTLE BAND LEAVING PLEMENZA. The anonymous Braunsknechts captain watched from the gateway, as though to make sure they really went away.

  There were seven of them. The Principaté, Else, and Ghort. Bo Biogna and Just Plain Joe. Plus Bergos Delmareal and Gadjeu Tifft. The spy who had intended to stick with Doneto, Gitto Boratto, was too sick to travel. Which was a genuine coincidence. Boratto came down with the runs the afternoon before the ransom arrived. Bo thought Boratto’s troubles were due to a rich diet that was his reward for spying.

  So Delmareal and Tifft were reliable. Delmareal was an exile from one of the smaller Chaldarean kingdoms in Direcia, absorbed by Navaya shortly after Peter became king. Delmareal had no inclination to go home.