The Tyranny of the Night

by Glen Cook

  Else asked Ghort, “Who is this handsome stranger, Pinkus?” Doneto showed a flash of irritation, then a moment of amusement. Else said, “But I do know who you are. Anybody who got out of the Connec will know that. And that includes all those Brotherhood types who ran away to Brothe. And everyone who knows about our stay in Plemenza. Hansel can trip us up anytime he wants. Remember, I’m supposed to be an imperial spy, now.”

  Doneto scowled. “I suppose you’re right. So here’s what I’m thinking now. Because of the disaster that hit the Bruglioni they’re desperate for competent help. If Inigo Arniena tells Paludan Bruglioni that he can give him a couple of his best men...”

  Else nodded and smiled but also rolled his eyes. “This is getting hard to follow. I’ll be writing reports and sending them to me keeping track of what I’ve been doing and offering suggestions on how I can influence me to behave in ways that I’ll find more useful toward accomplishing my goals where spying on me is concerned.”

  Doneto smiled thinly. “There’s a country folksong about a man who was his own uncle and brother-in-law. Hecht, I want to seize this opportunity before people have time to think. Come with me. There’s somebody I need you to meet.”

  Else went, reluctantly. “You’re the boss.” He had hoped to ease into the Brothen scene gradually, quietly. But if he could get inside one of the Five Families...

  Bronte Doneto led him to a shadowed corner. There they found an old man in a wheeled chair, alertly watching the Principaté’s guests. Doneto said, “Piper Hecht, this is Salny Sayag. And his son, Rogoz. They represent the Arniena family. You might have run into Rogoz before. He worked in your line for a while, in the north.”

  Else considered the younger man who stood behind the wheeled chair. “I don’t think so. Not that I recall, anyway.” He offered his hand. “Have you seen me before, Rogoz?”

  “No.”

  Rogoz was definite. And a man of few words. His grip was firm and confident. His coloring and appearance were not local. He was darker and uglier than was common in Firaldia. Else asked, “You aren’t Brothen either, are you?”

  “My father came over from Obrizok.”

  “I don’t know Obrizok.”

  “It’s a town in Creveldia. Creveldia is famous for its horses. He was an exile. This isn’t the time for personal histories. Collect your possessions.”

  Else sighed. He was glad he was used to living on his own.

  The Plemenzan captivity had been his longest settled passage in the past ten years. “Where’re you headed?” Pinkus Ghort wanted to know. “New job. The Principaté wants me on it right now.” He shrugged. “I’ll see you on the streets.”

  “Don’t smack me too hard.”

  “Take care of Bo and Joe. Keep Bo out of the brothels. He’ll catch his death.”

  Else feared he would miss Pinkus Ghort as much as he did Bone and the others from the Andelesqueluzan adventure. Which now seemed like a story he had heard a long time ago instead of something he had lived himself.

  ***

  THE SAYAGS EXITED BRONTE DONETO’S ESTABLISHMENT through a tradesmen’s postern. Rogoz Sayag pushed his father’s chair. A blanket covered the elder Sayag’s lower body. It might have concealed tools or weapons. Two armed men joined them outside the gate. Rogoz Sayag explained, “Brothe is a dangerous city. There are a lot of hungry people on the streets.”

  Else carried everything he wanted to take along. He was accustomed to carrying his whole life and fortune on his back. Like he was some nomadic desert tortoise.

  Else talked and pretended not to examine his companions or the surrounding city. It took the efforts of both Sayags and their escorts to generate enough return chin noise to qualify as a conversation.

  At one point, Else protested, “I need to know something about this city. I’ve never been here before.”

  “I understand,” Rogoz replied. “But you aren’t going to be part of our house. You don’t need to know anything about us.”

  Else understood. Rogoz did not want him picking up anything he might pass along when he moved on to the Bruglioni citadel. “On the other hand, if I don’t know anything about the Arniena, after supposedly having been with them for several months, the Bruglioni will wonder why.”

  Salny Sayag agreed. “Talk to him, Rogoz. All of you, talk to him. Don’t hold back. Fill in the details. Let him take something with him when he goes. You. Doneto man. The one thing you aren’t going to tell anyone is that the Arniena have an understanding with Principaté Doneto.”

  “Of course not.”

  ***

  ELSE SPENT NINE DAYS WITH THE ARNIENA FAMILY, LEARNING what they were willing to be let known, and about the Mother City. They gave him work to do. It was not overwhelming. He had several opportunities to go out and get the feel of the city.

  The essence of Brothe was elusive. It seemed to be more than one city. In one sense it was almost parochial, with the intense focus of the native-born on family politics, petty feuding, and Colors. On the other hand, Brothe was cosmopolitan in the extreme. It swarmed with foreigners. Else heard dozens of unfamiliar languages. People from all across the world came to immerse themselves in the recollections of what once was the heart of the civilized world.

  The glories of yesterday lay in ruins, some looted for building stone, overgrown, haunted by the poor and fugitives or, some said, by a thousand lingering recollections of the Instrumentalities of the Night. There were great sorcerers in Brothe everybody knew. And not just the tame Principatés of the Collegium.

  Foreigners came seeking their fortunes. Many of them had been villains in their own climes. And Brothe boasted a vigorous religion and pilgrim industry. Else found that amazing. Thousands came every month just to see the Church’s central physical institutions, and in hopes of glimpsing the Patriarch.

  During his stay with the Arniena, Else participated in two minor adventures with Rogoz Sayag and other family retainers. Salny Sayag said the orders came from Don Inigo Arniena himself. Don Inigo was the family chieftain. Neither mission amounted to much. Punishing a servant who had stolen from the Arniena. Avenging an insult flung at one of the don’s granddaughters by a gang of street kids who had been stupid enough to open their mouths outside their hideout.

  Those jobs did give Else a chance to be seen in the company of other Arniena goons. “This all you do?” Else asked Rogoz. “Don Inigo isn’t big on squabbling. Unlike everyone else in Brothe.”

  “Uhm?”

  “It seems the more chaotic things get, the more some people use that to cover their own mischief. Which only makes the chaos worse. The don would rather do it the sneaky, sinister way.”

  Else went along and showed he could be part of the team. He needed only be mildly evasive about his past. Rogoz Sayag was not eager to reveal his own background. Possibly Rogoz had not spent much time in the countries where he was supposed to have learned his trade. In lands where he might have crossed paths with a freelancer from Duarnenia, that little state on the eastern shore of the Shallow Sea.

  Few mercenaries talked about their pasts. Somewhere behind them, in most cases, were people with grudges. Bad choices made at an early age were why freelancers left home in the first place.

  While public order in Brothe deteriorated, the broader, world situation lent the Patriarch no comfort, either. Calziran pirates grew more numerous and bolder by the day. A sort of mob madness had taken possession of them. Their worst raids fell on Church or Benedocto family holdings, always within the bounds of the Episcopal States. There was hardly a rumor of piracy along the coasts of Alameddine. That kingdom, beholden to the Grail Empire, lay between Calzir and the Episcopal States. Nor did raiders appear anywhere else protected by the Grail Emperor or the mercantile republics.

  Even dimwits who cared little about distant events began to think there was a conspiracy. Johannes Blackboots must be behind it all.

  In Brothe everything was part of a plot. In Brothe nothing was what it seemed, or even what it purpo
rted to be. Whatever went wrong did so because of an inimical conspiracy.

  Else suspected that any plot involving Praman pirates would be orchestrated from al-Qarn rather than the Grail Empire.

  Anything that distracted Sublime from a crusade into me Holy Lands would be a good thing, from the Dreangerean point of view. Any delay moved the man that many weeks, months, or years closer to his blessed elevation into the Chaldarean heaven. Whereupon the beleaguered and long-suffering Collegium would, undoubtedly, replace him with someone less controversial, bellicose, and ambitious.

  On Else’s ninth day with the Arniena, Rogoz Sayag appeared as he was teaching three Arniena boys exercises that would improve their stamina against the day they got involved in a duel. “Remember. When two fighters of equal skill meet, the one whose strength lasts longest will be the survivor.” He used “survivor” rather man “victor” deliberately.

  “Good lesson for them to learn, Hecht.” Sayag got it.

  “When they’re young they think only the other guy is mortal. These boys listen, though. That’s good.” Rogoz said, “You’ve done this before. They do pay attention.”

  “They’re good kids. The main thing I want to get through to them is that half the people who get into duels lose.”

  “Definitely a difficult lesson. My father wants you. The Don has arranged a meeting with Paludan Bruglioni.” Else grunted. “Soon?”

  “Tonight, I think. Not thrilled?”

  “Not only am I old enough to know that half the people who get into duels lose, I’m old enough to know that, no matter how good you are, there’s always somebody better.” Else told the Arniena boys to knock off for the day.

  “I’m not sure I follow all of that but I’ll take your word for it.”

  Salny Sayag suggested, “Take a chair, Hecht.” Else no longer found that western affectation awkward. The old man said, “I’ve talked you up to Paludan Bruglioni. He’ll put on a show of reluctance but he’s eager to take on someone like you. Which should work out well for you. All you have to do is look like you’re what he wants you to be.”

  Else grunted, then said, “There’s been a couple things bothering me. One is, why would a family the size of the Bruglioni need to bring in outside help? They lost a couple of important sons but I can’t see that weakening them to the point where...”

  “But it did. You’re correct. There’re a lot of Bruglionis. And every Bruglioni gets away from Brothe as soon as he can. Paludan is a difficult man. He’s consumed by hatred. He keeps it hidden most of the time, though. His brother, and their father, were also miserable souls.”

  That sounded like a good emotional handle.

  Sayag continued, “Last century there was a fad where the Brothen rich considered themselves too good to soil their own hands with war or commerce. The more hirelings a family had, the higher its status. The Bruglioni took that too much to heart. They never really got over it. After a parade of uninspired chieftains, they’ve pretty much lost their ability to do anything useful themselves.”

  “I see.” He did not.

  “The Bruglioni who died in Madhur Plaza were their best young men. Only their reputation for savagery and brutality protects them now. But the wolves smell weakness. The vultures are circling. Paludan’s hired swords have all deserted. The Brotherhood of War has him marked. They’re convinced that he was behind the killing of their men the night he lost his sons. A Bruglioni servant says he saw the missing heads inside the Bruglioni citadel the next day. And rumor says Paludan himself tortured Father Obilade to death. Sylvie Obilade being the Bruglioni household priest and Paludan’s personal confessor, but also a spy. He arranged the ambush in the plaza. Not expecting a bloodbath.”

  “I see. Convolution in the Brothen tradition. And Paludan Bruglioni isn’t a good employer.”

  “Correct. Don Inigo and I both cautioned him to restrain himself in your case. First, because he needs you desperately. Second, because we consider you more a loan than a pass along, his to do with as he pleases.”

  “Really?” Now what? He had met Inigo Arniena only in passing. The Don was a wizened little character vain enough to dye his hair black. Yet he enjoyed a joke, even at his own expense. He was less formal and stuffy than Salny Sayag.

  Else could see no reason for Don Inigo to extend special protection to a passing rogue he meant to plant on an enemy as part of a larger scheme.

  “The Don asked me to see if you won’t make that a literal truth.”

  “You’re going to have to be more direct.”

  “Long ago, when they were boys, Freido Bruglioni, Paludan’s father, disrespected Don Draco Arniena in a way that Paludan doesn’t know Don Inigo knows about. Don Inigo also knows the Bruglioni consider it a great joke. I’m not privy to the details myself. I do know that Don Draco swore to avenge the insult Don Inigo promised his father on his deathbed that he would finish it. Last summer, when Don Inigo’s heart almost betrayed him, he settled on a scheme where the Arniena vote in the Collegium would undercut the Bruglioni at some critical point. Meantime, publicly, Don Inigo remains Paludan’s staunch ally.”

  “I think I begin to see.”

  “No doubt already being in a similar position on behalf of the Benedocto.”

  “Not them. Bronte Doneto.”

  “Who is an extension of the Patriarch, if you ask most people. No matter. The Don doesn’t want much from you that you won’t do anyway.”

  “So. This was why it was so easy for Principaté Doneto arrange to slide me in through the Bruglioni back door?”

  “Yes.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Any information you can acquire that will give the Don a chance to do the Bruglioni a bigger hurt in the public eye,”

  “Bigger?”

  “Bigger than backstabbing them in a vote in the Collegium. Best would be to discover something that would make the mob want to tear them apart.”

  “What a city. Of course. Since my Principaté tells me that you don’t expect to reveal yourselves any time soon. Because until Rodrigo Cologni is replaced the Arniena vote isn’t crucial.”

  “The Patriarch will have to move quickly, just to forestall the idea that he might have been behind the murder.”

  “I thought the murderer was supposed to be a huge blond foreigner. If he wasn’t a Bruglioni.”

  “Either way, somebody killed a whole troop of Brotherhood veterans to get to Rodrigo Cologni. That’s a hard sell, Hecht. God Himself wouldn’t be interested enough to work that hard.” Else shrugged. “It seems nothing is unlikely here.”

  “It’s just bigger and more complex than what you’re used to. I was lost when I first got here. But it’s just people being people, only with a lot more enthusiasm. Well, that’s settled Let’s get you ready to go.”

  ***

  ELSE WAS AMUSED. HERE HE WAS, ENTERING THE GREAT REARING ugly limestone Bruglioni stronghold through the front gate. Rogoz left him there. “You want me to wait, Hecht?”

  “Be a waste of your time, wouldn’t it? I can find my way home.”

  “Take care, then. Some of these Bruglioni are creepy people.” Sayag did not mind the Bruglioni sentry overhearing. “You get used to creepy people.” Rogoz sneered and went away.

  Else followed the sentry into the Bruglioni citadel. That man turned him over to a nervous, skinny, short, shaggy little man who told him, “My name is Polo. I’m supposed to assist you as long as you’re here. You shouldn’t ever forget that I work for Paludan Bruglioni. You’ll see him in a minute.”

  Else considered his surroundings. Seedy described it in one quick, all-encapsulating word. No effort was being made to keep the place up. It felt creepy, as though the last fugitive tendrils of the night had not been harried out of this one corner of Brothe.

  “Is the Don a sorcerer?” Polo squeaked in surprise. “He’s not?”

  “No. If you mean Paludan. But that isn’t it. Nobody calls him the Don. Much as he’d love that.”

  “Re
ally? Why not?” Polo looked around for something lurking in the shadows. “You aren’t Brothen, are you?”

  “Not even Firaldian. Why?”

  “Don is a title of respect. Given only to those who earn it. From here,” smacking his chest over his heart. “To the one who leads. By those who follow. Do you understand that?”

  “Yes.” A similar tradition existed among the tribesmen of Peqaa and other remote regions of the Realm of Truth. Polo meant that the Bruglioni household did not consider Paludan Bruglioni a man who deserved to be called Don. “I do. Do I need to make a special effort with my appearance?”

  “Nobody would notice. You’re just another tradesman. One who uses a sword instead of a trowel or a hammer.” This half-ghostly Polo was nursing a grudge against his employers.

  What Else had learned about the Bruglioni while serving the Arniena had not impressed him. But he had not drawn as bleak a picture as Polo and the Bruglioni headquarters suggested.

  Was Polo some sort of provocateur?

  This was no life a man ought to live, every waking moment spent wrestling paranoia about the motives of everyone around you. Yet paranoia was bedrock beneath this mission. He could not survive without it.

  Later, Else said, “Tell me something, Polo. You said Paludan Bruglioni isn’t a sorcerer. Is anyone else? I feel the darkness. Like there’s an aspect of the Instrumentalities close to us.”

  “Others have said the same, sir. Possibly because the Bruglioni are so devoutly determined to have nothing to do with dark powers. They try to ignore their existence. Divino Bruglioni had to leave home when he chose the path that led him to become a member of the Collegium. They say they refuse to surrender to the Will of the Night.”