by Glen Cook
Rodrigo’s drinking buddies did not seem interested in getting on out of the Madhur Plaza. They stopped at Basbanes’s Fountain and stalled around until Rodrigo’s bodyguards insisted that Rodrigo get moving.
Shagot muttered, “I think I’ll just go pound on that old priest till his balls fall off.” Svavar touched his arm. “There’s some excitement starting.” The Bruglioni crew surrendered to the romance of their own stupidity. They rushed the party in the plaza.
As Shagot intuited, the drunken new friends were not drunk at all. But their level of alertness had dropped because no attack had come when expected at the fountain. On the other hand, Rodrigo’s guards were sharply alert because of the pretend drunks’ obvious stalls.
When the Bruglioni thugs rushed out, the Cologni bodyguards shoved knives into the backs of the pretend drunks. The rush arrived. Blades flashed. Several men went down, one a Cologni bodyguard. Then came a surprise second rush consisting of another half-dozen men who swooped in from the far side of the square. A great clangor ensued.
Both Gildeo and Acato Bruglioni thought well of themselves as duelists. They had reputations to support their confidence. Their confidence was misplaced. “These guys are fucking professionals,” Shagot said. The new bunch were very good, though not good enough to avoid injuries of their own.
The speed and fury of the mess left the Bruglioni thugs and Rodrigo’s bodyguards no chance to flee.
Shagot nodded to himself as the winners collected their prize — Rodrigo Cologni — and then their wounded. Those included the backstabbed companion drunks, who were still alive but unlikely to remain that way if they did not get some skilled care soon. “Four of them are hurt bad. Two more have lesser wounds. As soon as they’re out of sight, start tracking them. We need to find out who they are and where they’re headed.”
Svavar nodded unhappily. He was not feeling particularly bloodthirsty now. Which was, probably, why Grim was giving him this job while he stayed here.
Svavar knew Grim would have no trouble finding him later. Grim always knew where he was.
***
THE BRUGLIONI WERE TRYING TO PULL THEMSELVES Together, to limp back to the family fortress, when Shagot strolled up. At this point, no one had yet been killed. But none of the Bruglioni or Cologni were in shape to fight on, either. Shagot cut a couple of throats, just to get everybody focused. One of those belonged to Acato Bruglioni, who had not been badly hurt before. His skill as a duelist did him no good whatsoever.
Shagot told the rest, “I want to know what this was all about.” He asked pointed questions, with a sword’s tip encouraging quick responses. He killed Saldi Serena when that young man tried to run.
Shagot learned that the setup had been what he guessed. He and Svavar were supposed to take the frame for murdering a man expected to support the Patriarch in the Collegium.
“And who stopped you?”
“That’s what doesn’t make no sense,” Gildeo Bruglioni confessed. “Those were the Patriarch’s wolves. The Brotherhood of War. They wouldn’t have no reason to kidnap Rodrigo Cologni. He’s on their side. But those were the orders they had.”
“Really?” Shagot set his undermind to work on that, and the fact that the Brotherhood attackers had been entirely familiar with what was supposed to be happening. “This is what you’re going to do. Assuming you want to survive. Finish off those Cologni. Then start hiking. Fast as you can.”
Reluctantly, Gildeo Bruglioni turned on Rodrigo’s wounded bodyguards, none of whom were able to resist.
Gildeo finished, turned, discovered that Shagot had slain the rest of the Bruglioni crew. His mouth opened but nothing came out.
Shagot killed Gildeo with a single stroke that took the man’s head right off. Then Shagot jogged off after his brother. How long would it be before people moved in to loot the dead? Shagot wondered if he ought not to have done so himself.
How big a stink would come from tonight’s evils? A huge one, surely, once the evidence was examined. Shagot grinned. This was fun. Rodrigo Cologni’s captors were headed toward the Teragi River and the Castella dollas Pontellas, which made sense if they were Brotherhood of War.
Shagot stopped trying to overtake his brother. He ranged out in front of his quarry instead. Those men moved slowly, avoiding notice. Shagot knew little about the Brotherhood of War. They were some kind of fighting priests, which sounded like a bad joke, considering the Chaldarean priests of his experience.
He ambushed the party from the side, after letting their point man pass the unnaturally impenetrable shadow in which he crouched. A shadow he did not recognize as unusual, only as handy.
Much happened around Shagot that he failed to notice.
He attacked with an ancient bronze sword in one hand and the demon’s head in the other. He thought he was jumping in amongst priests like Sylvie Obilade. It seemed he could see in the dark tonight, a talent of considerable utility.
He had no trouble dropping the first four surprised and previously injured kidnappers he encountered. Then the point man returned and Shagot learned the truth about the fighting priests of the Brotherhood of War.
Shagot’s opponent was like none he had faced since those far days when he and Erief practiced against one another. Only the fact that the darkness was no handicap gave Shagot any edge.
He kept dancing away, seizing fleeting chances to strike at the others. He had a chop at Rodrigo Cologni’s hamstring when he noticed the old man trying to slip away.
Then Shagot found himself with his back to a wall. The best of three attackers was directly in front of him. Another unwounded man came at him from his right while an injured but capable fighter occupied him on his left, trying to get past the scowling demon’s head. All three were wary, cautious, professionals. Shagot would have been calling for the Choosers of the Slain had he not seen his brother behind his attackers.
It was not easy, even so. Shagot suffered several wounds, including one that would have been permanently crippling had he not been touched by the gods.
Svavar fared worse. The Old Ones had placed less of a blessing on him. He suffered slash wounds to both arms and stab wounds to his stomach and chest. They were serious but needed not be fatal if handled quickly.
Shagot performed some hasty first aid, collected the dead — making sure everyone but his brother belonged to that select category — in a heap out of sight of passersby, then settled next to Svavar, shoulder to shoulder, so that his own Great Sky Fortress blessing would rub off.
Shagot the Bastard might be a festering mold on human thing but he did love his little brother.
Shagot soon felt sleep trying to take control. He could not let that happen. He had hours of must-do ahead of him, still. “Little brother. Can you get up and stumble home now?” Svavar grunted. He could do that. For Shagot’s sake. Thanks to Shagot. But he could not do much more, if Shagot wanted something else.
“Good. So do that, then.”
Svavar murmured, “We moved our stuff to the backup place.”
“That’s right! I’m having trouble keeping my eyes open and my brain working. Go there and lay low. I’ll wrap this shit up.”
“Grim...”
“Go on. Can you carry something? Can you take this totem stuff for me?”
“What’re you going to do?”
“I’m going to go have a friendly chat with that asshole priest. And make sure we get paid. Take this stuff and get moving.” Shagot hugged his brother before the younger man trudged away, carrying a thirty-pound load and a hundredweight of pain, picking his way through an unfamiliar city in the dark, his destination a flat he had visited only once before.
***
THE BRONZE SWORD WAS THE ONLY ITEM OF POWER THAT SHAGOT RETAINED. It still cut dead flesh like slicing softened butter. He completed his first task in three minutes. Then he set about systematically relieving the dead of any coins they had been carrying when misfortune overtook them.
The Brothers were not rich men bu
t amongst them they did carry as broad a variety of coin as could be imagined. Shagot failed to recognize the origins of most.
No matter. Merchants would know them. And would weigh them, too. They trusted no one. And trusted those with big names and big reputations least of all.
Plundering done, Shagot slung his sack of heads over one shoulder, then retraced his route to the Madhur Plaza. The sack was actually a shirt taken off the largest of the dead Brothers. Shagot’s wounds ached terribly. He worried about Asgrimmur, hoped the gods had sense enough to protect his brother. His mission was doomed without Asgrimmur’s help.
He returned to the Mahdur Plaza. the massacre in the square had been discovered. the bodies had been plundered. Now the righteous folk, with torches and lanterns, were out tut-tutting and recalling the good old days when there was order in Brothe and things like this just did not happen where the right sort of people had to look at it.
Such was human nature.
Shagot headed for the Bruglioni citadel. He might be able to get there before the bad news arrived.
***
THE APPOINTED TRADESMEN’S GATE WAS AJAR AND UNGUARDED. SHAGOT moved through the Bruglioni back court to Father Obilade’s quarters. the priest’s door opened instantly. Sylvie Obilade and another waited behind it. An unfamiliar voice demanded, “What the hell took you so...?” the speaker realized that Shagot was alone. And that Shagot was Shagot. He gawked. Father Obilade gawked. the first man dropped a hand to the hilt of a dueling sword but did not draw. Shagot offered him a warning shake of the head.
“You owe me some money, old man.” Shagot produced the head of Rodrigo Cologni.
“Sweet Aaron! Blessed Kelam!” Father Obilade made signs meant to ward off the evil eye and the Instrumentalities of the Night. “Did you have to...?”
“You wouldn’t just take my word, would you? You’re Brothen. Easy there, fellow.” the other man, pale as death now, had begun to ease away. “Stand still. I’m not happy tonight.”
Shagot dumped his sack.
Both witnesses swore. They looked at one another in horror. the man with the sword gasped, “That’s Strauther Arnot! And Junger Trilling! They’re two of the top men from the Castella. What have you done? You killed eight of them?” There were eight heads in addition to that of Rodriog Cologni.
“My brother helped.”
“Eight of them. Brotherhood veterans. Just the two of you. What have I conjured?”
Shagot thought this might be Paludan Bruglioni. He said, “We had to kill them. They were taking off with the target.”
“What have you done?” the priest whimpered, to himself rather than Shagot.
Shagot sneered. “You’ve been asking yourselves a question ever since you realized that this was me. You may not like the answer. Let’s get comfortable and wait. You. Give me that pig-sticker. You don’t want to do something stupid and get yourself killed. You the boss Bruglioni? Not gonna say? It don’t matter. Let’s you and this smelly old woman go sit by that fig tree. Where I can keep an eye on you.”
Shagot drew the ancient sword. It seemed to radiate darkness. With that in hand, Shagot felt renewed. He would not fall asleep while the sword was drawn. He would feel no pain. With that blade in hand he felt as though he could slice through time itself.
The man who might be Paludan Bruglioni considered the old sword with contempt. But Father Obilade’s eyes went wide. He whimpered, then commenced a swiftly cadenced, stammering appeal to his god for shelter from the malice of the Instrumentalities of the Night.
It took longer than Shagot expected for news from Madhur Plaza to arrive. It was almost dawn. Evil, seductive sleep was doing its best to overwhelm the old sword’s magic.
Sleep’s insidious appeal ended when a small, lean, slightly shaggy man burst in, gasping, “There you are, Paludan! Terrible news! Terrible news! Acato, Gildeo, Faluda, Pygnus, the others... they’re all gone! Lost! In the Madhur Plaza! Murdered! Along with all of Rodrigo Cologni’s bodyguards.”
The messenger was so excited that he continued to throw up words until, while straining for breath, he noticed Shagot and the heads. “Shit!”
“Indeed,” Shagot said. He felt like a god. They were almost trivial, these southerners. “Slide over there with the others.”
The newcomer considered the heads. “Oh, Blessed Kelam and the Fathers of the Church! That’s Strauther Arnot! Secretary of the Special Office. What’s going on, Paludan?”
Shagot surmised that this must be the deadly clever Gervase Saluda, Paludan Bruglioni’s good friend from his youth, from a time when Paludan had slipped away at night to run with a gang of orphans and runaways. That legend was, likely, pure artifice. But Gervase’s reputation might be deserved.
Shagot suggested, “Keep your hands where I can see them. Unless you think that set of heads is one short and yours would complete it.”
“He’s soultaken,” Father Obilade whined. “Don’t defy him. He can’t be defeated. That old sword... It was forged back when the tyranny of the night ruled the world complete.”
“Thank you,” Shagot told him. “What the crone says is true. And this is true, too. The men you sent to murder my brother and me failed. They murdered Rodrigo Cologni’s bodyguards instead. These eight showed up while they were at it. They killed everybody but Cologni. They took him away with them. My brother and I pursued them. We had a contract with the Bruglioni. They refused to cooperate. So we took their heads, thinking we might earn a bonus by fulfilling the Bruglioni revenge for you.” Shagot used a toe to propel a head toward Paludan Bruglioni. It rolled over on its nose and changed course toward Gervase Saluda.
“What have you done?” Paludan’s plea was feeble and rhetorical. “What demon rules your soul?” Father Obilade asked. “What ancient horror have you hauled into the modern age, into the heartland of the Episcopal faith?” Shagot said, “You owe me two hundred gold ducats. Plus a bonus for avenging your dead.” Paludan Bruglioni surrendered to the will of the night “Obilade. Get the money the man wants. Don’t get into any mischief along the way. You understand me?”
The priest bowed. “Yes, sir.” Shagot understood, too. “Excellent. And hurry. Because if that money doesn’t get here fast, with no treachery, people will die.” Once Father Obilade was gone, Shagot kicked another head and said, “These Brotherhood people knew exactly what was supposed to happen in the Madhur Plaza. How could that be?”
“What have you done?” Paludan whined again. I have shaken Brothe’s foundation stones, Shagot thought.
Never in all his life had he had so much impact upon others. Not even at the height of the sturlanger raids on the coasts of the Isle of Eights had so many people who had no idea who he was suffered so much because of his actions. “I’m just trying to make a living,” Shagot replied. “I don’t think that requires me to be sacrificed to some local half-wit’s ambition.” Father Obilade returned. He brought more than three hundred ducats in gold coins bearing the likenesses of dead Patriarchs. Shagot checked a few to make sure they were real. “Good. Good. I hope you gentlemen don’t resent the lesson in fair play.” He crooked a finger at the old priest. “Closer, Father. Closer.”
When the old man was close enough, Shagot leaned in to whisper, “These guys know what really happened, Padre. You’d better hike up your skirt and run.” In a voice that carried, he continued, “Thanks, everyone. Try not to be such a bunch of weasels, eh?”
Shagot got out of there before sleep could hammer him down.
Touched by the favor of the night, he managed to rejoin his brother before he collapsed.
Once sleep came, though, it would not withdraw until Svavar neared a state of panic. Could his brother possibly survive?
20. Khaurene, in the End of Connec
Winter in the Connec was a season of worry. For those who tried to come to grips with what Arnhanders called the Black Mountain Massacre. Because the invaders insisted that that disaster was in no way their fault.
Well-meaning pil
grims had entered the Connec to help harried Episcopal coreligionists protect themselves from the predations of heretics who roasted babies and sacrificed virgins. Unless that went the other way around.
“That about sum up your position?” Count Raymone Garete flung at the obnoxious, insulting deformed hunchback of an envoy from Salpeno, Father Austen Rinpoché. “You couldn’t invent something more ridiculous? You could’ve accused us of having sexual congress with goats. Fool. Our intransigent apostasy and heresy is why there’s an active Episcopal church on every other comer in Khaurene. It’s why there are more real cathedrals in the End of Connec than there are in all of your piss-drinking Pail of Arnhand. We built those cathedrals, of course, so we’d have somewhere to snuggle with our goats.”
Duke Tormond tried to restrain the young noble. But Count Raymone was beyond restraint. Following his triumph over Baron Algres, Raymone’s voice would be loud in the councils of the Connec. “You’re speechless? A priest? Talk to me, priest. Name one Episcopal in the End of Connec who has suffered at the hands of the Seekers After Light.”
Gleefully, Father Rinpoché retorted, “Bishop Serifs of Antieux.” Silence. More silence.
Someone said, “Sweet Aaron on a jackass, the fool is serious.”
Count Raymone sneered, “The priest isn’t a fool. He’s a league beyond. He’s a complete idiot.”
Even the Great Vacillator, Duke Tormond, stared at Father Rinpoché like he thought the man was a half-wit reveling in his debility. “Are you serious, Father? That man was a thief. He abused his office. He was indifferent to the rights of others. He was a perjurer, a pederast, and a sodomite. There’s no end to the catalog of his crimes. Absent the protection of Sublime he would’ve been hung years ago. I did feel some sympathy for your mission until now. But we all know rats who deserve higher honors than Bishop Serifs.”
Count Raymone snapped, “Serifs was such a waste that Principaté Bronte Doneto — the Patriarch’s own cousin — had him thrown off a cliff after they failed to rob and murder the people of Antieux.”
