The Tyranny of the Night

by Glen Cook

  “And a witch to find.” A Praman witch, apparently.

  The resistance offered by the boat guards declined as the strongest succumbed. The most easily panicked launched their boats or ran away. Calzirans across the river shrieked at those on the north bank to bring the damned boats over.

  Else’s wrist began to ache. His amulet had lain dormant for so long that he had forgotten it. Almost.

  He dealt with a weak attack by a Calziran trio who appeared to consist of three generations of the same family, all injured in previous fighting. He dispatched them without emotion.

  “Good on you,” Bechter said. “Now you’re getting to work.”

  “Let’s just slash the rigging. I don’t think we’ll get much chance to start any more fires.”

  The pirates initiated a spirited effort to clear the Blendine Bridge. Lesser forces rushed the bridges above Krois and the Castella, too.

  “We have smoke down there,” Bechter said. “Not a good omen in a city.”

  Else eyed the smoke. Anna Mozilla’s house lay in that direction, though farther away.

  Else said, “There’s a crowd on the towpath by that dhow flying the red pennon.” They had damaged the majority of the beached craft now. “Would that mean they think there’s something to protect on board?”

  “I’d bet. Oh, for a company of Aparionese crossbowmen about now. We could rip that crowd apart without getting close.” The ship with the red pennon was one of a hundred larger craft that had not been hauled out of the water. Those were tied up downstream from the majority, side by side, in places forming ranks of as many as eight vessels. The shoreward ships were tied up to the flood wall where it ran along the river’s edge, making the bank a set of sheer stone faces stepping back from the water at intervals, providing a narrow towpath and landing, whatever the water level. The south bank was built up similarly starting at the foot of the Blendine Bridge and running upriver. The decision to build that way must have had something to do with the curve of the stream.

  Else told Bechter, “We can’t break through that mob. There’re too many of them. You distract them. I’ll go around. Gervase. You and Paludan stick with the sergeant.” The Bruglioni group had not scurried away, but they did make a point of hanging way back.

  “Around, Hecht? How?” Bechter was talking to the air. Else dodged between fishing craft. That put him out of sight. He shed mail and clothing, slipped down into the fetid brown river. The water was colder than he expected.

  Swimming while carrying weapons was not easy. But you learned how in the Sha-lug schools. A soldier had to be able to take the fight anywhere.

  He went under, swam with the current, surfaced behind the outermost ship in the first moored rank, then worked his way toward his target, a dingy coastal trader. One of the biggest Calziran ships, it was small compared to war galleys Else had seen crossing over from Dreanger.

  He rested against the dhow’s hull briefly, listened, heard only the creak of timbers and groan of strained rope.

  Boarding proved difficult. Even amidships, where the vessel had the lowest freeboard, the rail was too high to reach. There were no ready handholds, either.

  Else pushed his knife into the caulk and tar between strakes, above his head. He drove it deeper with palm blows, then relaxed, focused, surged. In a violent, one-handed pull-up he launched himself high enough to get his other hand over the gunwale. He let his sword fall, grabbed hold, and continued onward.

  He rolled over the rail, recovered his weapons, looked for opposition. No one came at him. Redfearn Bechter had everyone’s attention ashore.

  Else dashed aft, severed the after mooring lines, then scampered forward. The dhow’s stern began to swing out into the current.

  As Else cut a forward mooring line, he realized that he had not thought this out. He would not be able to steer the ship as it turned end for end, descending the Teragi.

  His amulet began to irritate him. It had not while he was in the water.

  Pirates started yelling. Some began clambering across me ships moored inshore. One more line to cut A Calziran with more courage than brains flung himself across the widening gap between the dhow and its nearest neighbor. He landed on loose rope, fell, broke something. Else heard bone snap. The pirate barked in pain.

  Three more heroes followed the first. One leapt and landed successfully. The next came down on the rail and, miraculously, balanced there, arms flailing, for as long as it took the third to fall short and snag his leg as he tried to avoid getting wet.

  Sergeant Bechter scattered the distracted pirates on shore. Then he and his men scattered themselves. The barricade on the Blendine Bridge was leaking desperate pirates. Else severed that final mooring line, then removed his unwanted shipmates. They were fishermen. They should be able to swim.

  The dhow finished its turn end for end. It smashed violently into the flank of a moored ship. Timbers groaned and snapped. Bits of rigging tumbled down. Else hustled around making sure his dhow did not become entangled with the other.

  The cycle repeated itself, less violently. Else was no sailor. How was he going to steer this thing? A ship had to have steerage way on in order to be steered. Meaning it had to be moving in relation to the water, not just moving.

  There was a more immediate problem, though. The sorceress. Starkden. Who had to know who he was. Because she had tried to kill him in Runch. Which made no sense if she was a true Praman fighter.

  The ship was not big enough to have decks and cabins and whatnot, except back aft where there was a platform on which the steersman could ply his trade. There was nothing to cover, anyway. The pirates had brought a lot of empty space they hoped to fill with booty.

  There was a sort of hovel under the steersman’s platform. Else found the woman hidden there, delirious. He dragged her into the light. She was a stranger. Nevertheless, he thought she seemed familiar.

  She was short, stout, unwrinkled, dark, dressed nothing like her pirates. And bald. Her clothing consisted of brightly dyed cotton like clothing favored by fortune-tellers.

  Why the shaved head? That had to mean something. He could not recall anyone in the soothsayer racket shaving, then wearing a wig to hide it. For wear a wig she did. Else found it while looking for something to use as a gag and bonds.

  It seemed like a good idea to get a sorceress thoroughly restrained while she was too groggy to disagree.

  A gaggle of pirates chased the ship along the riverbank. And several boats that had fled earlier had discovered courage enough to join the chase.

  Not good. He was alone, cold, and saddled with a dangerous prisoner, with enemies chasing him. Suppose he lured a few in, let them board, disarmed them, and made them work ship?

  Daring, yes, but overly optimistic.

  His wrist throbbed. The amulet was not responding to Starkden as it had Grade Drocker when the sorcerer tried to kill him. The pain was tolerable. The amulet was responding to presence rather than level of threat. It raised scarcely a tickle around Drocker, nowadays.

  The pursuit on shore ended when the pirate rabble collided with a band of militia armed with crossbows they had had little practice rearming. Incompetence battled incompetence. Those able to project their incompetence at longer range seized the advantage by default

  The pursuit on the river never closed in tight. Every Calziran wanted someone else to make the first move.

  The ship stopped spinning, drifted broadside to the current, bow indicating the south shore. Else recalled the little cargo and passenger boats he had seen on canals in Sonsa, propelled by one man who waggled a long oar back and forth behind the boat. Maybe the dhow’s big, ugly steering oar could be used the same way. After some experimentation he got the bow pointed downstream — within a point or two. The current pushed the dhow toward the north bank.

  It ran into a log boom, an accumulation of driftwood piled up against the upstream face of the ruins of some riverside structure harkening back to imperial times.

  Else scro
unged up an anchor stone, twenty pounds of rock with a hole through where a line could be bent, and was. He heaved the stone onto the driftwood mountain, hauled the line taut, tied it off, grabbed his dusky prize.

  Starkden was heavier than she looked, even stripped of jewelry and anything that might harbor some magical tool. Else strained under her weight as he battled treacherous footing. This had better be worth the trouble. He wanted to learn something before he killed her.

  He had no choice, there. She knew too much.

  22. The Connec, Duke Tormond Venture

  Having recognized that Duke Tormond would not change his mind, the Connecten factions began doing what they could to influence the course of his mission to Brothe.

  Yes. Tormond IV, Duke of Khaurene, lord of the Connec, the Great Vacillator, had decided to appeal to me Patriarch in person. So there could be no misunderstanding. So there would be no more random armies wandering into the End of Connec to get themselves massacred.

  The popular consensus was that Tormond was willfully naive. A face-to-face with the Patriarch would clarify nothing. Sublime wanted to loot the richest province in the Chaldarean world so he could finance a crusade to recover me Holy Lands.

  Brother Candle joined the Duke’s train. Also included were Michael Carhart, Bishop LeCroes, Tember Remak’s son, Tember Sihrt, and others the Brothen Patriarch was unlikely to welcome. Most tried to travel incognito, a waste of time. The Patriarch’s spies knew who was who.

  The instrumentalities of the Church could be as insidiously omnipresent as those of the Night. And were more likely to make someone’s life miserable. The wickedness of the Night was cruel but seldom personal.

  Sir Eardale Dunn declined the opportunity to visit Brothe, not because he opposed the mission — which he did-but because someone trustworthy and capable had to stay behind. Because of Count Raymone Garete. Sir Eardale suspected Count Raymone of intent to commit mischief.

  Tormond brought his sister. Isabeth would represent her husband. King Peter was a vigorous supporter of Connecten independence. He found having a buffer between Navaya and the rapacity of Arnhand comforting. And Peter had leverage. His wars of reconquest were important to Sublime. Sublime thought they reflected gloriously on his stewardship.

  Peter’s skilled professional soldiers were useful in keeping Sublime safe, too. The twenty-four men of the Patriarchal Guard were all Navayan veterans who had received their posts as rewards for service to the Faith.

  Then, too, there were powerful Direcian Principatés in the Collegium. Sublime depended on their support. His political fortunes would sink fast if he offended Peter.

  ***

  BROTHER CANDLE BEGAN TO WONDER. WERE THE INSTRUMENTALITIES of the Night determined to keep Tormond away from Brothe? The weather remained stubbornly awful. Bitterly cold rain fell for hours every day. Even the old Brothen military roads became difficult.

  And then there were sicknesses.

  Nothing fatal, of course. Just bouts of dysentery interspersed with flu and bad colds. “The Coughers’ Crusade,” Michael Carhart dubbed the mission. Brother Candle discharged a nostril load of snot and agreed.

  After a month on the road Duke Tormond was two weeks behind schedule. The party had not yet reached Ormienden when Tormond’s planners had expected to be in Firaldia, nearing Brothe.

  The Duke chose to pause at Viscesment. He would visit Immaculate while his disheartened companions recuperated. The weather improved dramatically immediately. Michael Carhart convinced local Devedian physicians to treat the sick. They conquered the ferocious dysentery.

  News of Sublime’s troubles with pirates reached Viscesment. Reports were confused and contradictory but their theme was clean the Church, the Benedocto family, and Sublime in particular, were under sustained attack.

  Brother Candle joined a deputation put together by Bishop LeCroes. The senior Chaldarean cleric in Khaurene, LeCroes was also related to Tormond. He told the Duke, “I saw Immaculate this morning, Your Lordship. He says Sublime’s Calzarin troubles are worse than we’re hearing. They might be enough to bring him down.”

  Brother Candle sensed wishful thinking at work. Though the wishful thinking could be true. It became more clear daily that Sublime, while powerful and driven by a huge dream, was highly unpopular.

  Bishop LeCroes went on. “The consensus at the Patriarchal Court — seconded by the Imperial envoy, Graf fon Wistricz — is that Sublime is best left to roast in his own juices. He can’t bother us if he’s up to his hips in Calzirans.”

  Brother Candle wondered about Hansel Blackboots’s role in all this. Had he provoked the Calzirans?

  All the mission’s opponents argued for discontinuing the embassy. Sublime had been neutralized. Just let it ride, they said. Let’s see how it shakes out before we get in any deeper.

  Arguments calculated to appeal to the Great Vacillator. And this situation begged for a hands-off attitude, from a Connecten point of view.

  The Duke would not change course.

  “He’s mad,” Michael Carhart insisted. “His mind has gone to rot.”

  Brother Candle wondered if that might not be true, literally. “You think somebody cast a glamour on his mind?” LeCroes said, “I’ve been wondering. Why is he decisive and determined?” Never mentioned, but recalled by the older men, was the fact that Tormond’s father had gone mad when younger than Tormond was now. The Old Duke had lapsed into occasional bouts of sanity, unpredictably, till the day he died. Most of the time his advisers had not been sure which state prevailed.

  “Something I noticed on the road,” Michael Carhart said. “Besides the fact that it’s cold and wet in the countryside. The things of the night are extremely interested in our little band.” Little band? With all the hangers-on and help, the “little band” numbered nearly three hundred. A small army. Or plague of locusts. Brother Candle had not noticed the night things. But he was insensitive to such. The Instrumentalities of the Night had to indulge in spectacularly blatant behavior before he noticed. Most people were like him. Especially city people. They just did not see what was happening around them.

  Michael Carhart, though, lived at the nether end of the scale, in the range reached by some sorcerers. He was aware of every little worm of darkness stirring around him.

  Bishop LeCroes asked, “Is that because of our mission? Or just because you’re too sensitive?” Chaldareans never ceased to be ambivalent about the Wells of Ihrian and the Instrumentalities of the Night.

  Did God create the Wells of Ihrian? Did the Wells give birth to God? That philosophical stumbling block — some would say congenital defect — strained both the Praman and Chaldarean faiths to their foundations, in the minds of those who studied the underpinnings of their religion.

  No faith seemed capable of withstanding rigorous, rational examination. But they did work down on the everyday level where ordinary men lived. What men believed to be true was true, locally.

  Belief sculpted the Instrumentalities of the Night. While the Instrumentalities of the Night molded belief. While Firaldia and the Episcopal heartland became ever more tame, remote countries slipped ever more into the sway of the Night.

  Michael Carhart said, “No. Not the mission. But Worldly things affect the Night. The Instrumentalities want to know what’s going on.”

  “Meaning?” Brother Candle asked.

  “They sense the patterns beginning to shape the future.” That sounded like occultist doubletalk. Brother Candle said, “That stuff takes care of itself. And shouldn’t be any concern to us.” Bishop LeCroes said, “It better concern you. If Michael Carhart senses a special interest from the Night, the Collegium will, too. And it’s your cult that Sublime finds so offensive.”

  “Every day I find myself compelled to remind me that Man isn’t a rational animal. I defer to your wisdom, Bishop.”

  LeCroes replied, “If there was any wisdom in this crowd we’d all be home cozily closeted with a warm brandy. We wouldn’t be traipsing around behind th
e Mad Duke of the Connec, hoping to keep him from doing any more damage to our cause. We’d still be in Khaurene. We know that nothing Tormond does in Brothe will matter. He’s being stubborn because he doesn’t like being pushed.”

  ***

  THE PAUSE AT VISCESMENT STRETCHED OUT. A FEW DAYS BECAME a few weeks. No one mentioned the passage of time to the Duke. Tormond seemed content to sit. Unfortunately, Immaculate was not eager to have him keep sitting. He was an expensive guest. Immaculate and his court lived one meal short of destitution, supported more by Johannes Blackboots, for political reasons, than by those whose philosophies he supposedly represented.

  The Duke finally got the hint. He assembled his traveling companions and told them they were about to resume traveling. The weather was favorable and everyone’s health had been restored. And he remained determined to sit down with Sublime.

  News of the massacre at Starplire arrived. “This changes nothing!” Tormond insisted. “Nothing! In fact, it provides a wonderful opportunity!”

  Brother Candle, standing with Michael Carhart and Tember Sihrt, murmured, “I can’t wait to find out what twist his genius takes now.”

  Tormond said, “Sublime is lord of a third of Firaldia, a quarter of Ormienden and numerous islands in the Mother Sea. But he has no real armed forces. When he wanted to tame us he hired mercenaries and begged for troops from Arnhand. The few soldiers he does have he has to post where the Emperor might try to assert his rights. His own Guard won’t do anything but protect him. They’re not numerous enough.”

  Brother Candle whispered, “The man isn’t unaware of the world after all.” Even seeing it askew, Tormond was considering the geopolitical situation.

  Bishop LeCroes asked, “I don’t think I got your point, Your Lordship.”

  “I haven’t made it yet, Bries. Contain your insubordination and sarcasm a moment and I will.”

  Well. Tormond might not be a semianimate lump after all. He might be a clever actor. Though there was little evidence to support that.