The Tyranny of the Night iotn-1

by Glen Cook

  4. Andoray, with the Old Folks of Skogafjordur

  The old farts, who had not gone sturlanger since the Father was a pup, did not have the stones for busybodying. Shagot the Bastard and his little brother, Svavar, would not suffer that from their mother. They would not tolerate the unflattering nicknames, either. Their real names were Grimur and Asgrimmur. They had been bullies all their lives. They never fit in, except in Erief s warrior cult. When Erief died their niche went with him. The old folks decided to send them after the fugitives. Because of those two there would be no more loot, no more rapes, no more wars to unite the clans under one Andorayan king. Nor would the brothers receive honors for their parts in creating this new and remarkable kingdom.

  Grimur and Asgrimmur were too thick to understand that their neighbors just wanted them gone.

  Pulla, Briga, Trygg, Herva, and Vidris concluded that the missionaries were not guilty of murder. Because those fools really believed the nonsense they preached. Which left them incapable of raising a hand against a fellow human being — even one who needed it.

  Shagot, Svavar, and their friends were excited. The brothers appointed shipmates Hallgrim, Finnboga, and twins Sigurdur and Sigurjon Thorkalssons, to join them in their race to kill them some southern lilies.

  Vidgis was a great-aunt of the Thorkalsson twins. She spoke to them privately before they departed.

  It was not yet dawn when the sturlanger avengers began the long climb around the flank of Mount Hekla. They crossed the ever-expanding Langjokull glacier, then descended to the inland road the fugitives would follow to get back to their own country.

  The old folks watched the troublemakers go. There would be peace for a while.

  Most of the old folks did not care who had killed Erief Erealsson. Not while the far more intriguing question of why the Choosers of the Slain would appear remained unanswered.

  The arguments were heated. The parties separated according to individual attitudes about the unification of Andoray. A lot of people wanted every island and fjord to continue as its own little principality. The religious question languished.

  Freedom or unification. It was the question of the age in Andoray. Anyone tall enough to walk had an opinion, almost always informed by ignorance. Opponents called Erief a tool of Gludnir of Friesland, who styled himself King of Andoray,

  too. That made no sense. Gludnir and Erief had been bitter foes forever. And a united Andoray could easily overawe the Frieslanders. But sense and reason seldom inform political discourse. Particularly when the growth of ice up north tried to factor itself in. Erief s partisans insisted that only a united Andoray could survive the advance of the ice.

  Erief's enemies insisted the ice thing was pure hogwash.

  The old folks drank a lot before the women put their heads together and concluded that Erief's murderer must be Kjarval Firstar, Eyjolfsdottir, with whom Erief had cohabited, against her will, since his return from plundering the nether coasts of Santerin, Scat, and Wole. During which expedition Kjarval's father, Eyjolf, took a fatal arrow in the eye. And died begging his captain to take his only daughter as his concubine.

  There was a substantial dearth of witnesses to Eyjolf's dying wish. Even Erief's staunchest allies did not believe that story.

  Trygg proposed that Erief's assassin served a certain foreign king, not to be named, who dwelt in Mognhagn in Friesland.

  The debate warmed as the ale flowed. But some people fell asleep, the ale ran out, and then nobody was interested anymore.

  No one cracked the puzzle of the brazen appearance of the Choosers of the Slain. Dread had had time to mature. That was mythic stuff. Skogafjordur folk were accustomed to the mythic staying safely and comfortably tucked away inside the myths.

  Singer Briga was last to fade. He stared into the dying fire. He kept thinking he had become one of those characters named in passing in a saga, filling some role completely unlike the real Briga.

  He had seen it happen. He was ancient enough to have known many of the people featured in the more familiar sagas. He had helped create several larger-than-life reputations. Exaggerate a little here, overlook something there. There was no absolute Truth or absolute Reality, anyway. Truth was whatever the majority on hand agreed that it was. Real Truth was egalitarian and democratic and not at all compelled to correspond to the world in any useful way. Truth had no respect whatsoever for Right, What's Best, or Needs Must. Real Truth was a dangerous beast in need of caging in even the quietest of times.

  Ask any prince or priest.

  Truth was the First Traitor.

  Half a step short of discovering Final Truth, Briga tumbled into the realm of alcoholic dream.

  5. Antieux, in the End of Connec

  Serifs's secretary was too hasty in showing Bronte Doneto into the personal audience of the Bishop of Antieux. The Patriarchal legate saw a long-haired, blond, probable preadolescent hurriedly leave the skirts of the Bishop's robe and run. Doneto noted the tenting in the Bishop's lap. So the rumors were true. The Lord had blessed Serifs in that regard.

  The Bishop seemed more angry than embarrassed. He glared at his secretary. He would have glared at Doneto but did not know the legate so did not know his standing in Brothe. But Doneto was from Brothe, sent by Sublime himself. That established the pecking order.

  Both men pretended that there had been nothing to see. Doneto failed to show Serifs all the courtesies due his station. Which might mean that he was a member of the Collegium and Serifs's senior.

  But Serifs considered it deliberate, a sign that Sublime was not satisfied with his progress at extinguishing the Maysalean Heresy.

  The legate said so right away. "We serve a straightforward prelate, Bishop. He instructed me to be direct." The legate did not speak the Connecten dialect. He used ecclesiastical Brothen. "He directed you to stamp out this heresy. Instead of positive reports he keeps hearing complaints from Antieux, Khaurene, Castreresone, and so forth, all accusing you of abusing your office for your own enrichment."

  The Bishop was not pleased. These stubborn Connectens … Sublime V was overconfident of his own security and power.

  Serifs answered carefully in the ecclesiastical tongue. "His Holiness is welcome to deal with these people himself. From Count Raymone down to the lowliest shopkeeper they disdain my efforts. They refuse to see a problem. They ignore bulletins posted in the churches. The priests provide sacraments to those heretics who ask. They bury heretics in holy ground. Parish priests, especially in the countryside, will not condemn the heretics. Most tell their parishioners they can ignore anything coming out of Brothe because the true Patriarch is Immaculate II, at Viscesment. If I'm to get anywhere, that man has to be dealt with. And not just by swapping Writs of Anathema and Excommunication."

  "His Holiness armed you with the authority to confiscate the properties of heretics. He expected you to show enough vigor to underwrite the Church's efforts here. Yet you send appeal after appeal for more funds."

  "Duke Tormond overruled me. He says the Church has no power to confiscate anything. His lieutenant here, Count Raymone — whom I suspect of heretical sympathies — had my men whipped when they tried to execute their duties."

  Bishop Serifs hoped to divert Doneto from questions about the disposition of properties that he had seized.

  The legate did not visit the matter. "You explained to the Duke that by defying the Patriarch he risks his immortal soul?"

  "Of course. And he told me he isn't defying the Patriarch, he's protecting the Connec from the predations of Firaldian thieves. He may be another who questions His Holiness's right to speak for God."

  "I'm wondering if a strain of that hasn't insinuated itself here." Accusation edged the legate's voice. His disdainful expression made it clear that he did not approve of the way Serifs lived. Nor did he care about the obstacles life and a stubborn land placed in the Bishop's path.

  Results. Sublime was interested only in results.

  "I have an idea," Serifs said, congr
atulating himself on his own cunning. "Go into Antieux yourself and see how things really are. Disguise yourself as a merchant. Visit low places. Listen to what's being said when no one thinks Brothe is listening. Then we'll formulate a strategy based on your new appreciation of the Connecten reality."

  The Bishop restrained a smile. The legate was exasperated. Again, Brothe cared only about results.

  To his surprise, Doneto agreed. "You may have a point I'll come back tomorrow. After that there'll be no more excuses."

  "Absolutely."

  Serifs watched the legate go. The door was not yet fully closed when he snapped his fingers at the shadows to his left.

  Armand, pretty Armand, came forth, licking his lips. No words had to be exchanged. Serifs slid down in his seat. Armand crawled up under his robe. In a moment the Bishop felt soft lips nursing and gentle fingers stroking. He closed his eyes and tried to fathom why Sublime was so determined to impose Brothe's control on the End of Connec.

  It had to be the revenues. There could be no other answer. Sublime needed money to stave off the Grail Emperor while he sent crusaders to recapture the Wells of Ihrrian and to liberate Calzir. The revenues were the only possible answer.

  The Connec was the richest land claimed by the Church. It had been two centuries since war had stained it, back when Duke Tormond's ancestor Volsard recaptured Terliaga from Meridian, a Praman kingdom of Direcia and former seat of the western Kaifate. After that triumph the Reconquest proceeded inexorably. A third of Direcia was back in the hands of Chaldareans of the Episcopal rite. Given the ambitions of kings like Peter of Navaya, the entire region would be reclaimed. Then the Reconquest would move on to reclaim the southern shore of the Mother Sea.

  All that, Serifs thought dreamily, was Sublime's goal.

  The Bishop slipped a hand under his robe to tease Armand's hair, to encourage him in his efforts.

  6. Al-Qarn, in Dreanger of the Kaifate of al-Minphet

  From the north al-Qarn appeared to stand in the deep desert. Its strange, dirty bistre wall rose from the bitter earth left by Gordimer's paranoia. The barren, unoccupied ground was the same color as the wall. It was a breeding place of flies. Garbage and night soils ended up there every morning. No human habitation, not even a nomad's tent for a night, was allowed within a mile of the wall.

  Years ago an astrologer told Gordimer he would be brought low by an enemy from the north. The Lion had taken that to mean an army.

  The astrologer could not be faulted. There was no other direction whence such an army could come. For six hundred miles westward the coastal cities owed allegiance to the Kaif of al-Minphet and were content. The nomad tribes of the desert and mountains sometimes acted up, but they were a threat to one another, not to Gordimer or the Kaifate.

  South of Dreanger the many petty kingdoms all acknowledged the Kaif — despite the fact that the majority were some variety of Chaldarean who refused to accept the Brothen Patriarch as the head of their Church. They considered him a pompous upstart. Luckily, he was comfortably far away.

  Else strode toward the Northern Gate, as alone as a beggar seeking his fortune. He had sent the Andesqueluzan mummies ahead while he dealt with the barge master who had brought him south from the island of Raine. The Lion's own warships were not permitted to proceed upriver from Raine.

  Two log booms spanned the Shirne, above and below al-Qarn. Cargos destined for the upper Shirne had to be transshipped several times.

  Dust devils danced across the barren. Else worried. Some evil spirits could come out in the daytime. If the Lion feared him enough, he might have er-Rashal al-Dhulquarnen set something diabolic on him.

  Else knew that Gordimer feared him but did not know why. Unless another soothsayer had filled the Lion's head with absurd ravings.

  Gordimer was addicted to his augurs.

  Else knew his life and performance were beyond reproach, back to his earliest days in the Vibrant Sapling school. He did nothing less than what was expected.

  He was not perfect. No one is. Perfection is reserved for the God Who Is the One True God.

  Else entertained a suspicion that many of the gods of the infidels were real, too, they were just less than the God of gods.

  Al-Qarn's North Wall spanned Gordimer's Waste in a line as straight as a razor's slash. Windmills surmounted it at intervals, which made it unique amongst all the city walls in the world.

  The windmills were there to pump water.

  The top of the wall was an aqueduct. It carried water from the Shirne to reservoirs in the highest part of the city. Which, at Gordimer's insistence, were kept filled and free of settled mud.

  Gordimer's Waste left Else wondering if all Dreanger might not end up barren because of that man.

  Right now, a hundred seventy miles south of al-Qarn, the last forest in Dreanger was being clear-cut to provide timber for construction of a vast new war fleet Gordimer had decreed the expansion because he feared the ambitions of the Patriarch of Brothe, the Emperor of Rh?n and the fleets of the mercantile republics of Dateon, Aparion, and Sonsa. An invading army would need ships to reach Dreanger.

  Else entered the city. Behind the wall differed from Gordimer's Waste like day differed from night. Every inch of al-Qarn was vibrant and busy, humming with life. Some claimed a million souls dwelt in al-Qarn. That was an exaggeration, but it delighted Else.

  Al-Qarn was home. To Else and all Sha-lug. Al-Qarn's great mission was to produce the Sha-lug who protected the Kaifate and who were — in their own eyes — the chief defenders of the Realm of Peace and al-Prama, the Faith.

  Else climbed the long flights of broad steps that took him up to the Palace of the Kings, no longer aptly named because there had been no kings in Dreanger for centuries. The name seemed the more unusual because God did not accept the competition for affection presented by kings. There were no kings anywhere inside the Realm of Peace. Only strongmen who arrogated the powers of kings.

  Else's Vibrant Sapling school was one of seven that turned young slaves into polished Sha-lug. Before Gordimer there had been more. Gordimer compelled the surviving schools to watch one another, in a competition that perverted the original competition for excellence between schools.

  The midday call to prayer came before Else entered. He abased himself, going through the motions. In al-Qarn everyone did. Even visiting infidels. There were spies everywhere. Transgressions were punished swiftly and brutally.

  Gordimer the Lion had no respect for his Kaif, the captain of the religious ship, and held the man hostage, but he was a fanatic devotee of the Written. Despite the circumstances of his birth.

  The record of his purchase survived. The slavers claimed Gordimer was a Cledian from the Promptean coast. But his name, his coloring, and his build suggested Arnhander ancestors. The Lion himself claimed descent from the Holy Family. Which Else thought must be a loyalty test. If you could swallow that obvious untruth, and never dispute it, you could survive in Gordimer's world.

  But you never knew who might report to him. It might be someone with a grudge.

  Everyone in direct contact with Gordimer spied for him, one way or another. He expected answers when he asked questions. He was feared universally. And respected by many because the culture honored strongmen. Only a strongman kept the dogs of war and civil unrest at heel.

  Dreanger was rich. For millennia it exported grains and cotton and imported gold, silver, and luxuries. Its neighbors were less wealthy but the peace provided by the Kaif's suzerainty was treasure enough for most War profited only the few.

  Else rose from stone worn by the tread of a hundred million sandals. He strode into the cool shade behind the structure's immense, square outer pillars. In passing, he noted that artisans were still removing or rewriting inscriptions that had come down from those fabulous ages predating Gordimer's ascension to power.

  Posterity would know the tiniest details of Gordimer's life — those he did not keep secret — until the next ego-driven strongman decided to rewr
ite history. In which case Gordimer the Lion would be remembered only in the annals of his enemies.

  "Captain Tage?"

  Else paused. His eyes had not completed the transition from intense noon sunlight to interior gloom. "Yes."

  "Will you follow me?"

  The speaker wore simple clothing of a style recollecting that of the pagan priests of antiquity, a white cotton jacket with skirts that hung to the knee. This was the uniform of Gordimer's court wizards and augurs. This youngster would be a novice, not yet officially apprenticed. He would be a pure-blooded indigene, descended from the priestly caste of pagan times. Some of whom, if rumors could be credited, still followed the old ways in secret.

  Though Else was supposed to report to Gordimer the moment he arrived, he could not refuse this summons. Er-Rashal al-Dhulquarnen, called Rashal the Rascal by some, was as dangerous as Gordimer the Lion. Possibly more so. Er-Rashal's connections with the Instrumentalities of the Night made him powerful in his own right.

  Er-Rashal was the nearest thing to an actual friend that Gordimer had in this world.

  The Court sorcerer met Elsein a room not far from Gordimer's private audience. If Else were asked to pick the wizard out of a hundred strangers he would have chosen er-Rashal because the man fit the description of the wicked sorcerer in every old story and fairy tale told in this end of the world. He was a tall, dark man with heavy lips, a hooked nose, and a shaven skull. His eyes were dark and cold. His body was big and powerful. He looked two decades younger than his fifty years.

  Er-Rashal chose to look like that specifically because everyone, noble and common, was raised on those stories. He wanted to be feared.

  "Lord Rashal," Else said. "The Lion insisted that I see him as soon as I get here."

  "He's aware of your arrival." The wizard's voice boomed. "You know him. It will be an hour before he gets around to you. I've told the guards you'll be here with me if they don't find you outside the audience door."