by Glen Cook
The Connec as a whole was deeply xenophobic.
Firm and absolute discipline had begun at the moment of first enlistment. The Brotherhood knew men. Amongst the low, crude sort who joined it was inevitable that there would be predators. The Brotherhood did not tolerate behaviors common in other camps. Bullying earned ten lashes in the first instance, followed by a severe caning and dismissal without pay if the bully did not learn right away. The one man caught forcing himself on one of the youngsters found himself face-to-face with the sorcerer before he could get his pants pulled up. Which interview proved fatal for the buggery enthusiast. Although his final breath followed pronunciation of his sentence by fully ten days.
A minor theft generated a severe caning.
The troops got the message, at least for the time being.
The column reached the Dechear River, below Mount Milaue. They spent a day crossing on the ferry there. The west fork of the main Inland Road from the north ran down the west bank of the Dechear. To the north and east that same Old Brothen military road marked the boundary between the New Brothen Empire and the states where some version of Arnhander was spoken. Farther north still, a branch of the road ran northeastward to Salpeno, seat of the Arnhander kings.
In the Connec, one branch of the ancient road ran westward, past most of the main cities of the Connec. Eventually it reached the Vierses River at Parliers. The Vierses, navigable from that point, ran northwestward, past Khaurene and on to the ocean.
Two days later the Patriarchal force left the road and turned south into rolling hills covered with vineyards. Before long, the little army settled on the estate of Bishop Serifs, overlooking Antieux.
The Bishop's manor was a vast sprawl resembling the old-time latifundia, mostly given over to vineyards. The manor house had a fine view of the tall walls of Antieux. That city clung to the flank of an ocher hillside within a loop of the River Job. Its fortifications were strong and in good repair and appeared to justify the confidence of its defenders, which the invaders had begun hearing about days ago.
Count Raymone Garete and the folk of Antieux, contemptuously disloyal to their bishop, openly told the invaders' scouts that they had stores enough put by to withstand a siege that would last all winter. They would be eating well, still, when the enemies of reason and sense outside their city were stewing their boots and eating mud because all the dogs, cats, and rats had been devoured.
Bishop Serifs came out of the manor while the invading force was setting up camp. He was livid over the damage to his vines.
Else was not far away when the bishop encountered Grade Drocker. He was not close enough to overhear their exchange. But the sorcerer had an immediate impact. The bishop gulped air, became pale, sputtered. The sorcerer stalked away. The bishop gradually regained his breath and went red again. He stormed back into the manor house.
Grade Drocker must have some real power behind him. The bishop was supposed to be one of the Patriarch's favorites.
Else settled his bunch where he could see the sorcerer's tent, the manor house, and still had a good view of Antieux. Else considered the city and concluded that its denizens were justified in their confidence. Those tall walls could withstand the attentions of this incompetent mob forever. Even if Grade Drocker chose to invest the full extent of his remaining sorcery.
The Patriarchal force had been in place four days. Those who had besieged the bishop were a problem no longer.
The force's only intercourse with Antieux was a regular exchange of insults. The Patriarchal soldiers were young and intemperate and would have gotten themselves badly hurt had anyone inside the city had the sense and smarts to exploit the fact that the besiegers were so inexperienced they still could not yet stay in step.
Of course, the folk of Antieux had no need. They could sit back and let winter drive the besiegers away. Count Raymone Garete, in fact, issued proclamations to that effect, confident that it would be possible to end the siege with the only casualties being the bishop's vineyards and the Brothers' pride.
Grade Drocker assembled his officers. He wanted their opinions before making any decisions. At Else's level no one saw the point. The man would do what he wanted. Why waste time on voices that would not be heard?
Else was now a brevet officer who held his position only because none of the Brotherhood soldiers wanted it. He did not rate a chair in the room Bishop Serifs provided so the meeting could be held safe from the drizzle outside. That room had been stripped of everything crude men might steal or sully. Else leaned against a cold, damp wall, out of the way in the rear, beside Pinkus Ghort. It was ironic. He had slipped right into the same role that he had played at home. He was God's company commander.
Ghort murmured, "Brother Drocker seems a tad disgruntled, don't you think?"
"I'd say." And almost completely incapacitated, too.
Rumor was right. That blast of silver shot had left Drocker damaged dramatically and permanently. Spots of raw bone could be seen on the left side of his face.
Ghort observed, "Man, he's totally fucked up. He looks like he spent about four hours on the wrong end of a toothless tiger."
Else had heard Drocker wore a mask most of the time. He wondered why the sorcerer had not done so today.
Drocker needed assistance seating himself at the high table. And he was angry. His voice was not weak when he said, in breathy, three-word bursts, "Bechter. Find Bishop… Serifs. And Principal … Doneto. They were … told to be here."
Ghort murmured, "I hope Drocker reams them two a new set of assholes. Them fuckers got us up to our tits in the shit and think they're too fucking good to show up when we're going to fix it?”
Else kept his expression blank. Ghort must have had wine for breakfast He had stated his opinion loudly.
Ghort was not so tipsy that he failed to recognize his gaffe. He shut up. He stayed shut up. For a while.
The bishop arrived. Else saw a sizable man showing obvious signs of prolonged and diligent dissolution. His fat face was florid, suggesting an old, long-term acquaintance with drink and a current case of apoplexy. There was somewhere else he would rather be.
He arrived full of bluster. That vanished under the force of one cold, grim look from Grade Drocker.
It had to be hard to whine while face-to-face with Drocker, soldiering on despite his injuries.
Drocker said, "There's a chair for you on the end, Bishop. Where is Principate Doneto?"
The legate arrived shortly, aboard a litter carried by his guards and a borrowed member of the bishop's household. The rest of Doneto's bodyguards had deserted him. Which did not bode well for Doneto if he got into another unfriendly situation.
Else feared Ghort might say something about the Principate, too. But it was obvious immediately that the legate was getting around the only way he could.
That ambush had injured him much worse than had been made public.
The bishop began to vent his displeasure, suggesting that Sublime himself would get an earful.
Drocker said, "You have attracted the attention of the Special Office, Serifs. Don't compel that office to take official notice. We're beholden to no one. Not even His Holiness. Do you understand?"
The bishop subsided into a bitter silence. Life, fate, and the universe itself were completely unfair.
"Excellent Now, let us see what can be done about the problem of heresy in the Connec. Bishop, I require you to deliver straightforward answers. No whining. No self-serving. No excuse-making. You will respond in simple, declarative sentences. If you fail to comply you will suffer the displeasure of the Special Office. Is this clear?"
Evidently not. Serifs rambled angrily.
Then he shrieked.
"Must not have been listening," Pinkus Ghort observed, unable to keep quiet. He chuckled. He had conceived a strong dislike for the bishop based on hearsay.
According to Connecten witnesses, only two people alive had any use for the bishop, the Patriarch and Serifs's pretty blond catamite.
Nevertheless, Serifs did have allies within the Church and the nobility, wherever there was concern about the Maysalean Heresy.
Else tried hard to hear the sorcerer's questions. Drocker had no energy, now. The bishop's answers were louder. Questions could be inferred from his responses.
Questioned closely, prodded judiciously, the bishop made it evident that the main reason the Connec was in critical spiritual straits was because its Brothen Episcopal spiritual shepherd was a bad character.
No surprise to anyone paying attention. The core of that problem was the Church's intransigent insistence that its people could do no wrong.
Drocker passed the questioning to one of the Brothers. He had reached his limits.
Else studied Drocker. The man should not be able to do much in the way of sorcery, crippled up and saturated with silver as he was.
Pinkus Ghort whispered, "There's something wrong with that Doneto guy. He's using opium, or something."
It did look that way. "Maybe he got addicted. He doesn't look like the sort who thrives on pain."
The meeting grew less interesting by the minute. Bishop Serifs enumerated steps already taken to combat the Maysalean Heresy. Ideas about what to try next consisted mainly of, "Let's kill them and steal all their stuff." Which view enjoyed considerable support. Potential perpetrators stood to profit.
Drocker returned to the discussion, "That approach will profit the Church, the Brotherhood, and us, only briefly. Meanwhile, Brothe informs me that Arnhand will be sending an army to assist us. That news, by the way, doesn't leave this room."
Enforce that, Else thought. That news would sweep the Connec. Because somebody here would have to pass it on to one special friend. Who would have to … And so forth.
Drocker could not be that dim. He wanted the news to get out.
Pinkus Ghort pinched Else's elbow. "Show's over. Time to wake up."
Else grunted, embarrassed. He and Ghort were nearest the door so were first to leave. Ten steps down the hall Ghort walked into Else, who had stopped suddenly. "What?" Ghort barked.
"Nothing. I had a thought."
"Sounds dangerous. Maybe even potentially lethal if it had anything to do with the Church."
"No." No. It had not been a thought at all. It had been a vision. A sighting. A pretty blond boy observing the exodus from behind a tapestry that masked a doorway. Bishop Serifs's catamite, no doubt. And a ringer for someone Else had known in another place and time. But probably not a ringer at all because the boy's reaction to seeing him had been shock followed by outright terror.
Else shook his head. It was impossible. The boy he remembered would be twenty years old by now.
Else on the hillside, amongst the vines. He stared down at Antieux but did not see it. He was thinking about that boy. That boy complicated matters.
Antlike comings and goings marked a postern gate on the river side of the city. People went down to the water, then climbed back to the gate. They had been doing so for generations. The path was paved.
Kids from the city were out swimming, in defiance of the besiegers. Else paid them no mind, though something told him he ought to.
What was the catamite's name? He had heard it mentioned. Serifs's relationship with the boy was another reason Connectens loathed their bishop.
A dozen men under a flag of truce left the main gate of Antieux.
Else returned to his company.
It took an hour for the deputation to reach the manor house. By then speculation and rumor were rife. The more thoughtful soldiers, having considered the height and thickness of Antieux's walls, hoped that those men meant to bend their knees to the Church. So there would be no need for fighting.
The lord whose demesne centered upon Antieux was Count Raymone Garete. Count Raymone was a stranger in his own land. He preferred the Duke's court at Khaurene. At Khaurene there were a thousand intrigues to entice a handsome young nobleman. Nevertheless, perchance, Count Raymone was home for the siege and now headed this delegation. He carried no weapons. His head was bare.
From confrontations in me east, Else understood this to mean that the Count intended to submit. Later, it came out that the leading men of Antieux had decided to yield to most of the Patriarch's demands. They would submit to the will of the Brothen Patriarchs. They would ban the Maysalean heresy and exile any Seekers After Light who refused to renounce their false doctrine. They would expel those Episcopal priests determined to maintain their allegiance to Immaculate II.
Bishop Serifs, stinking of brandy, rudely interrupted the Count before he could say more than a few words. "Just close your mouth, boy. I'll tell you what you're going to do." He produced a scroll. "These persons are to be arrested immediately and bound over for trial before a tribunal of Holy Father Church."
Coldly, Count Raymone responded, "The Church does not try laypersons. That is the logical and obvious corollary to the Church's insistence that secular courts have no right to try ecclesiastical persons."
That remark shattered Serifs's civility and self-control. He began raging about grievances so petty that everyone forced to witness his outburst was appalled.
Count Raymone interjected, "What does that have to do with the works of the Church? Or with its rights?"
Four of the men accompanying the Count were Episcopal priests. Three of those were supporters of Sublime V. Until today they had remained unswerving in their support of Serifs simply because Sublime had assigned him.
One priest said, "It isn't the peoples' responsibility to harvest your grapes, Bishop."
A second suggested, "Perhaps if you sent the boy to a proper orphanage those things wouldn't be written on the cathedral walls."
The people of Antieux put on airs about their main church. It was large and grand but not a true cathedral, yet they applauded that bit of Serifs's hubris. Even if most people who lived in Antieux were Seekers After Light or Episcopate who recognized Immaculate II as the True Patriarch.
Grade Drocker appeared at the peak of the bishop's diatribe. He was angry but did not interfere. He consulted Brotherhood henchmen who had seen the whole show. He sighed, glared, shook his head, but did not intervene.
He was content to let Sublime's pet idiot make a complete ass of himself. And Serifs piled up the reasons why he ought to be reduced to itinerant brother status and sent to convert the pagans of the Grand Marshes, such a mission being a common fate for truly bad priests.
Count Raymone said, "We came here to submit, in the name of peace, despite our experience of the Brothen Church and its people. Our efforts have been rejected and reviled. Hear me, all of you who serve the Adversary, and especially the usurper Honario Benedocto: Antieux rejects you completely and utterly. Let the Lord Our God look down upon this abomination of a bishop and understand why. Let him examine each of our hearts. Then let Him proclaim where the right of the matter lies."
Obliquely, Count Raymone had declared war. And had placed the outcome in the hands of God.
As Raymone and his companions returned to Antieux, a hundred minds were hard at work already trying to determine how best to guide the hand of God toward a favorable conclusion. Even Bishop Serifs himself did not fail to notice that all three pro-Brothen priests returned to the city.
Else Tage thought that God must spend a lot of time being amazed by the words men put into His mouth.
"They didn't mean it when they made their offer," Else told his troops. "They were pretending in hopes that we would go away. Raymone Garete's family are almost all heretics." He regurgitated the official position recently articulated by Grade Drocker. He intended to parrot the sorcerer as long as he remained caught in his current role.
He needed time to digest what the folk of Antieux had just tried to do.
No Sha-lug would have yielded an inch, religiously, in similar circumstances. But you would not expect unbelievers to do the same, simply because they were wrong.
Bo Biogna expressed a common sentiment. "Sounds like the smart thin
g to do, you ask me."
"Oh?"
"There ain't twenty guys in this crowd who give a fuck if they worship rocks or snakes down there, Cap. An' most of them is probably thieves like that fuckin' buzzard bishop."
Else nodded. What Bo said was, largely, true.
He glimpsed the pretty blond boy in a second-story window, watching Garete's party withdraw. Else studied him until he realized he was being watched.
"The idiot bishop's play toy," Pinkus Ghort said, following Else's gaze.
"Yeah."
"You up for some close-order training? My guys against yours?"
"If you keep your rat-face Berger away from my Pico and Justi."
"You afraid he'll hurt them?"
"No. I worry about what Just Plain Joe might do if he figures Berger is bullying them."
"Good point. I've never seen nobody as strong as that Joe. Now what the fuck is going on down there?"
A big clatter and uproar was developing beside the river.
"Ah, damn!" Else swore. "I knew this was going to happen. This is why I make my guys get their water on this side of the hill."
Water for the camp came up from the river. The manor's cisterns could not sustain an army. Not even a pathetic little mob like this.
Water carriers from the camp had gotten into it with city youths who were swimming. There were more of the latter than of the former. The situation was a nightmare that found a way to be born.
Younger soldiers camped farther downhill whooped and ran to help me water carriers. Ghort said, "Ah, shit. Here we go."
Else said, "Bo, go tell our guys I want them to fall in here, right now."
Ghort asked, "You're not going to get into this, are you?"
"No. I'll take them on a march so they don't get into it"
"I'd better get mine going, too. Or half of them will end up dead due to their own stupidity."
The situation developed too fast, and with a mad inevitability. More mercenaries raced downhill. More young men came out of the city. Their meeting became a big street brawl beneath the city wall. Count Raymone Garete was still on the far side of Antieux so was unable to stanch the stupidity of his city's youngsters. In the vineyards overlooking the town the Patriarch's authorized Brotherhood officers failed to take notice. They were all inside the manor house, pouting and avoiding the weather.
