The Tyranny of the Night

by Glen Cook

  The world could be confusing when the only truth available was the certainty that people would lie to you. “Time to see the man,” Polo announced. Else narrowed his focus. He became Piper Hecht, wanderer from the farthest marches of the Chaldarean world, an experienced soldier eager to find service in one of the great houses of Brothe.

  ***

  ELSE MADE A STRONG EFFORT TO SOUND HONEST. “THIS WASN’T my idea. Don Inigo convinced me. He says he owes you, that you’ve suffered cruel reverses, and he wants to help. Also, he said that I have a better chance of getting ahead with the Bruglioni than with the Arniena.” Rogoz Sayag had advised him to appeal to the natural Bruglioni arrogance. Paludan Bruglioni muttered, “That makes sense.” Paludan Bruglioni was a handsome, darkly complexioned man with a heavy black mustache. He had begun to lose his hair. He was heavy without being fat. His eyes seemed lifeless, though that could be due to the emotional beating he had taken lately. His head was egg-shaped, with the thin end down. His ears lay close. His overall appearance suggested a man in his middle fifties.

  Paludan Bruglioni was a decade younger. The lamplight did not betray the floridity caused by prolonged, excessive drinking, or the scars left by the pustules from a disease picked up in Brothe’s sporting houses. He had a reputation for vanity and, supposedly, wore a mask when he went out.

  By lamplight he was a handsome, wealthy gentleman who was slightly tipsy. He might be in a bad mood for no immediately obvious reason.

  “You’re saying you want to step into my nephew Saldi’s boots as a favor to Inigo Arniena?”

  “The Don was good to me. He took me in when my prospects seemed bleak and he couldn’t afford to pay what I’m worth. By sending me here he feels he’s doing favors for you and me both.”

  Paludan scowled. Was there any chance that the man was as shallow and dull as he appeared?

  Bruglioni glanced at the two men there with him, neither of whom had been introduced. One, though, had to be an uncle or older first cousin. He looked like an older Paludan. The other was pale, had graying ginger hair and a pallid, lantern-jawed death’s-head face more ravaged than Paludan’s.

  Neither man spoke.

  Else assumed the death’s-head to be Gervase Saluda, Paludan’s lifelong friend and reputed right hand.

  Else said, “I would’ve been happy where I was. Don Inigo is the sort of master men in my line dream about. But I had higher ambitions when I left Tusnet. In Duarnenia the future is fixed. Sooner or later, you’ll die in the Grand Marshes. Slowly and in great pain if the Sheard get hold of you. The pagans proclaim the tyranny of the night in the daytime. They celebrate their surrender to the will of the night.”

  Paludan smiled. Death’s-head consulted something in front of him. “You were with Grade Drocker and the Brotherhood during the Church’s adventure in the Connec last year?”

  “Yes. I was on my way to Brothe when I encountered a Brotherhood band recruiting mercenaries near Ralli.”

  “Where they quarry the marble.”

  “Yes. A Brotherhood captain named Veld Arnvolker was in charge. I’d accumulated some traveling companions on the road, mostly boys and runaways. They thought they wanted to be soldiers. It would be all romance and adventure. The Brotherhood offered good training, good pay, and what looked like a chance to show them the truth without them having to get killed finding it out. So when the kids wanted to sign on, I went-along.”

  “And it was all too good to be true”

  “Yes. Because fate jumped in right away.”

  “It’ll do that. Especially if things start going good.”

  “We got sent to the Connec. Idiot orders from the Patriarch and a brain-dead local bishop got my kids all killed. Only a few of us got out alive. Mostly Brotherhood guys, of course. You’d figure, wouldn’t you? And the bigwigs, naturally.

  “That’s how life works.”

  “It does. But it’s not right. Anyway, there I was, on my own again. For a whole damned month before I even heard that Grade Drocker, who was supposed to be in charge — You know, I never saw that asshole once. Him and his Brotherhood buddies ran downriver, grabbed a ship and escaped by sea. Leaving the rest of us to look out for ourselves.”

  The skull-faced man said, “Several survivors of the Connecten adventure were involved the night we lost Gildeo, Acato, Saldi, and me others. Did you know that?”

  “No. I don’t know much about that. Just rumors. I never knew for sure which Brothers made it back. I don’t want anything to do with those people. One exposure was enough.”

  “Why wouldn’t you be interested in the incident? If you wanted to work here?”

  “I didn’t want to. Not then. And it didn’t affect the Arniena until Don Inigo saw the Bruglioni in tough circumstances and decided to show his regard for them.”

  Paludan asked, “You admit you’re a mercenary? That what you’re interested in is personal advancement?”

  “Sure. Why wouldn’t I? The way I’ll get ahead is to be dedicated and loyal and do the best job I can. Don Inigo had my complete devotion. The Bruglioni will get it if you hire me. If Don Inigo had released me I might have left Brothe. Vondera Koterba is recruiting in Alameddine. He’s offering particularly good terms. But Don Inigo asked me to come here. So here I am. I’ll serve you till you release me or send me elsewhere.”

  What Else said encapsulated me supposed philosophy of the mercenary brotherhood in Firaldia. But it was just talk. Mercenaries and employers alike acknowledged the ideals only when it was convenient.

  It was not a time when large, permanent bands, captained by famous professionals, contracted as units. The last notorious company ended with the destruction of Adolf Black’s regiment in the Black Mountain Massacre.

  “Why should we trust you?”

  “You shouldn’t. I’m no different than any other prospective employee. You have to ask yourself, how can I hurt you?” According to Pinkus Ghort and others who had soldiered in Firaldia, Else understood that he had to conduct this interview on the paranoid edge. Firaldians who hired people to fight for them were often naive. Many fighters for hire were naive, too. And no one trusted anyone. Fortunes, loyalties, allegiances, all shifted quickly in modern Firaldia. Treachery was a fact of life. For some, it was a way of life. Insofar as Else Tage could see, the Firaldian Peninsula was where insanity went to retire. Nothing there made sense except at the most shallow level.

  Paludan Bruglioni said, “Gervase?”

  “Inigo Arniena and Salny Sayag recommend him so highly, you’d almost have to suspect them of wanting to get rid of him.” The third man said, “The Arniena have been having trouble meeting financial obligations because of the pirate raids.” Paludan grunted. “Those have hurt everybody.”

  “Them worse than anybody but the Benedocto. They aren’t getting their rents or fees.”

  “Is that true, Hecht? Are they trying to reduce their expenses?”

  “I don’t know. There was talk that things aren’t going well. But nothing concrete. Oh. There was something about selling an island. In the Vieran Sea. To the Sonsans. The Scoveletti family, I think. There’s some kind of marital connection.”

  That got some attention. “Sogyal?” Paludan asked. “They’re considering turning loose of Sogyal? Ha-ha!”

  Rogoz had said that a mention of selling that island might seal the deal. Else did not know why. “I don’t know. They didn’t talk about it when I was around. I overheard by accident I think it’s a big secret that’s supposed to stay secret even after the deal is done. There’s a lot of worry about Dateon and Aparion finding out too soon.”

  “Ha! Sogyal. Those fools never have understood how valuable that island is.”

  Paludan Bruglioni launched a long, rambling tale of treachery, marriages of convenience, more treachery, dowries, and even more treachery, that put a particularly well-located and easily defended island into the hands of the Arniena halfway through the previous century. Sogyal was so strategically located that the Patriarch
, both Emperors, all three mercantile republics, and several lesser kings and dukes had tried to buy it. The Arniena would not sell. Their intransigence had led to unsuccessful attempts to take the island by force as Dateon and Aparion strove toward supremacy on the Vieran Sea.

  Else just nodded, tried to look wise, and observed, “All Firaldian stories are long on treachery.”

  “This’s wonderful news,” Paludan said. “We can profit from knowing this. Gervase, Hecht looks like the man we want. Work out the details and get him set up. Let him have Polo permanently.”

  ***

  ELSE SPENT A DAY ROAMING THE BRUGLIONI CITADEL. NOTHING was off limits. “You don’t want to go down there, though,” Polo told Else when he considered a descent into the cellars.

  “Thought I could go anywhere.”

  “You can. I’m just hoping you won’t.”

  “Why not? What’s down there?”

  “Dirt and cobwebs and bad smells. Maybe a haunt or two. Nothing you’d want to find. Then a long climb back up.”

  “You’re sure about that, Polo?”

  “There’re childhood fears, too. The boogerman lives down there.”

  “The boogerman is real, Polo. If you’re in the wrong place, at the wrong time, and you’re not ready for the boogerman, you can find yourself in a world of trouble. It happens all the time where I come from.”

  “This is Brothe, sir. This city exists because the Instrumentalities of the Night are real. You don’t have to convince Brothens.” Else did descend the long stair. The Bruglioni cellars could have come straight put of a spooky story. They had cobwebs, vermin, slime in places, puddles of seepage, and an impressive range of unpleasant odors.

  And a few minor, unhappy spirits, hidden in the reservoirs of darkness. Else soon understood Polo’s reluctance to face the return climb. Polo puffed and told him, “In olden times the whole city had cellars under it. Still does, actually. Some way down deeper than this. Every ten or fifteen years there’s a cave-in somewhere when part of the underground collapses because of what all has been piled on top since.”

  “Bet some interesting antiquities turn up when that happens.”

  “The antiquities were all looted in antiquity. They never find anything but dead people. Some of them old-timers but mostly ones that haven’t been dead long at all.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning there’s a class of Brothen who use the old catacombs. For shelter. And to hide bodies they don’t want to turn up in the Teragi or an alley somewhere. Any loot down there will be something stolen in the last few days that is cooling off.”

  First glimpse of another side of the city, Else thought. A side that was always there, in every city, though always more so where the state was weaker. A side that had to exist so that there would be men to condemn to the galleys or the mines.

  ***

  PALUDAN BRUGLIONI SUMMONED ELSE TO AN EVENING MEETING four days after his arrival. Bruglioni’s quarters were austere enough for a monk.

  Several Bruglioni youngsters, with bodyguards, were there to meet the new man, whose as yet ill-defined duties included teaching them how not to end up like their kinsmen in the Mahdur Plaza. The bodyguards did not look comfortable. Only a glance was needed to see that they were not what they pretended.

  Paludan and Gervase Saluda made no introductions. The senior Bruglioni asked, “Have you been using your time wisely, Hecht?”

  “That’s a subjective question, but I think so. I’ve been getting to know this place and the people who make it work.”

  “I’ve seem him,” one of the young Bruglioni sneered. “Always with the cooks and servants. There’s a valuable pastime for a warrior.”

  “If you’d known your staff you might have recognized Father Obilade’s inconsistent behavior beforehand. In which case, those who perished in the Madhur Plaza wouldn’t have been there in the first place. The man you discount, overlook, or take for granted will be the man who brings you down.”

  “Be quiet,” Paludan told his youngsters. “You’re here to learn, nothing more.” The rage that drove him was close to the surface tonight.

  The kid who had mouthed off was not yet sixteen. Dugo Bruglioni was a grandson of Soneral Bruglioni and the son of the oldest Bruglioni slain in the Madhur Plaza. Dugo bullied the staff. And did not do much else. The help dared not fight back. Jobs were scarce and precious. Paludan continued, “I don’t want to hear anybody talk. Hecht. How well do you know the city?”

  “Not well at all, sir. The Arniena gave me no chance to explore. My role in their scheme was defense and instruction.”

  “Learn your way around. Without attracting attention.”

  “Yes, sir.” He was being told to go live his secret dreams, with pay.

  “You worked with the Brotherhood in the Connec. Did you develop a passion for their ways?”

  “None whatsoever. They’re arrogant, self-important fools. They deserved what they got though they were executing orders from the Patriarch. Which got modified every five minutes by the Bishop of Antieux. Serifs was such an idiot that nobody who didn’t know him will believe the truth. I hear Principaté Doneto had him thrown off a cliff because he was such a miserable excuse for a priest.”

  “I’ve heard that rumor myself,” Gervase said. “But it isn’t true. Bishop Serifs did die in a fall, but while trying to escape from a Braunsknechts officer after he’d been captured by the Emperor’s men. His death really was an accident.”

  “Really?” Else said. “That is interesting.”

  “Rumors make everything more exciting.”

  Paludan asked, “So you have no love for the Brotherhood of War?”

  “None. As an organization. There were individuals I found likable. Why?”

  “The Brotherhood murdered six Bruglioni. Including my only sons, Acato and Gildeo. And several nephews, one of them the family’s hope for the future. If I fall down dead right now, Dugo will take over. And would ignore you and Gervase. And would put the family down the shitter in a year. Unless one of our country cousins has sense enough to cut his throat.”

  Else said, “It may not fit the Bruglioni way but I have a suggestion.”

  Paludan brightened dramatically. He did entertain genuine worries about the Bruglioni future. “Tell me.”

  “Change the rules. Call in the best Bruglioni who’ve left the city.” Paludan grunted, gave Else a dark look.

  Else said, “See who’s doing the job out there. Bring them back where their competence can do the most good.”

  Paludan and Gervase stared at Else like he was a genius talking with the mouth of a fool. Because there was a tacit understanding that Bruglioni who left the city freed themselves from their Brothen obligations.

  Paludan said, “That has possibilities, Hecht. I’ll consider it.” With condescension. “Tell us how to avenge ourselves on the Brotherhood.”

  “What? Revenge? The men responsible are dead.”

  Paludan scowled at Else, possibly wondering why he was ignorant one moment and well informed the next. Was he not supposed to know? What about the heads? How about what the priest went through before he fell into the Teragi a half mile upstream from Castella dollas Pontellas? Everyone in the Bruglioni citadel knew all that. Which meant the details would be common knowledge outside the citadel, too.

  Else said, “In your place, I’d worry more about protecting myself from the Brotherhood.”

  “That’s a good point, Paludan,” Gervase said. “We don’t want to get into a war with them.” Else suggested, “Give them the men who did the killing. Say they exceeded their orders.”

  “That’s what they did do. They were just supposed to grab Rodrigo Cologni. So my boys could rescue Rodrigo from them. But the Brotherhood turned up. And Obilade’s patsies had minds of their own. They were like supernatural monsters. Anyway, I couldn’t give them up if I wanted. Obilade was the only one who knew how to get in touch.”

  Gervase said, “We’re not going to have any choice
about bringing family in from the country, Paludan. We need more people here with a stake in keeping family secrets.”

  Paludan whined, “What happened? Ten minutes ago I was busting with plans. I was going to make Sublime ache. Now I’m facing a potential siege. I’m surrounded by people I can’t trust.”

  Gordimer the Lion’s predecessor had used similar words to describe his own situation before his fall. Else said, “Don’t change your goals. Just change your plans to reflect your strengths and weaknesses.”

  Gervase observed, “We have more weaknesses than strengths. We haven’t kept our swords sharp.”

  Else said, “To plan, we need to know what our adversaries might be thinking. We need to know who our potential adversaries are. We need an honest assessment of our own strength. And firmly established goals.”

  “Meaning?”

  “We need to find out what the Brotherhood, the Cologni, the Patriarch, and the Collegium are up to. We need to know how they see the Bruglioni. You have an uncle in the Collegium. He has friends. The Bruglioni have a tradition of being major players on the Brothen stage. You have vast resources. Get them cataloged. Imagine what can be done with them.”

  Else sensed that Paludan had received no training for the position he held. He was faking it and hoping for the best.

  Paludan said, “Gervase, follow up on what Hecht’ s saying. Real life seems to be closing in. Dugo, boys, come with me.” Paludan rose.

  Dugo protested, “We were going out to...”

  “Be quiet. Weren’t you listening? People who have a grudge against us are probably planning to do something about it. I don’t want you out where they can get you. Come along.”

  Dugo pouted. It looked like he would have to survive a harsh, close call before he started listening.

  ***

  GERVASE SALUDA SAID, “IF MY CHIN KEEPS HITTING MY CHEST IT’S BECAUSE I just witnessed the longest run of intelligent, responsible thinking ever seen from Paludan Bruglioni.”